Something is rotten in the state of Hotel Mulia

The Hotel Mulia is seriously fancy. It has gold plated everything and whenever I am in it I feel that at any minute someone might stop me, and hiss, 'Excuse me. Get out'. 

So for a treat, Julian and I decided to go for a couples massage in their spa. However, upon arrival, we were led upstairs, not to a spa but to a hotel room. This made us nervous that there had been mixed messages and we were about to be offered some plus plus. These fears were not assuaged when the therapist asked us to choose the oil, and kept hinting salaciously, 'INTIMACY???' while waving some putrid scent in my face. I responded 'NO NO. STRESS. I CHOOSE STRESS. NO TOUCHING!'.

We changed into our robes in the bathroom while mouthing silently at each other 'ZOMG WHAT IS HAPPENING SO MUCH REGRET ALREADY'. We braced ourselves and met our fate. 

My fate was, as always, to be required to stand there naked while the other person is fully clothed (and at least this time the other person was my husband, not my friend). I then lay down on the weird table where the hole for the head did not in anyway match the shape of my face. Then the massage began and it was once again brutal and my entire body seized with pain, while I had to suppress the sudden urge to burst out laughing.

I could hear Julian's therapist sniffing constantly, which was grim to hear, and even though I could not see or hear Julian I could feel his awkwardness and discomfort. He later told me that the therapist had a runny nose which she kept wiping on the towel that was covering his body. He said it was like being massaged by an inexperienced rhinoceros suffering sinusitis. 

My therapist had one long errant fingernail that would every now and then viciously scratch across my body. 

The room was freezing. 

And why were we in a hotel room? 

Why was any of this happening???

Sad, sniffing regret permeated the room. After the 'massages' were finished, the therapists sort of stood about, shamefaced and it was unclear about expected behaviour - were we to redress in front of them? Why were they milling? I turned around to put my robe on and suddenly my therapist vanished, never to be seen again, while Julian's, the sniffer, kept hinting at the need for a tip. Tip for what?

At least it was not like the time my friend's sister went to get one and the therapist started aggressively massaging her breasts saying 'You like this? NICE?'. Of course she felt like screaming but felt too polite and instead just murmured noncommittally and stared into the corner of the room, pretending none of it was happening. 

But still. The whole thing was wrong. And weird. But importantly, hilarious. 

More Freedman, less sense.

Mia Freedman posted a follow up of sorts to her horrendous Birthzilla article. The follow-up was an improvement, and addressed how her grief is intertwined with her viewpoint. It also seemed to shift the focus to freebirthers, and women who have had their pregnancy classified high risk but refused medical intervention. It was still obviously flawed but definitely an improvement.

However her comments like the one I have put below highlight my ongoing concern (also quite funny that that my tabs include google searches for 'i am mr darcy onesie' and 'taking screenshot'):

I just feel like banging my head against the wall, how is a women taking control and choice in birth -and, to be perfectly clear -over her own body- classified as some sort of wackadoodle quest for a 'birth experience'? Women who choose non-interventionist births usually do so because they understand the risks associated with interventions. Freebirthing is extremely rare. Again the whole thing is inferring a false binarism, natural vs medical, bad vs good which is both unhelpful and ignorant.

And. Then. Freedman. Posted. This.

I just can't even. The (simplified) logic seems to be as follows - women cannot even have a sip of wine or a slurp of raw egg during pregnancy but once in labour they can be pumped full of narcotics and it will not affect the foetus. Bitch please. 

How is the choice of a woman to not use pain relief during an induction evidence of a quest for 'birthing experience' which places the foetus at risk? Miranda Kerr received medical care during her pregnancy, and she definitely did not free-birth. I thought the 'birthzilla' label was for women who judged the way other women gave birth - pot, meet kettle. So women who had medical interventionist births can judge women who did not, but the latter cannot question the former. What the feckles.

As I have stated before, the birthing woman should know well before the birthing process of the risks involved in birthing interventions including pain relief. Labour can and should be an informed process, even though as people sneer it does not always go to plan, well it does not always go to shit either. In the end, the labouring woman can choose pain relief -even if she knows her foetus might be affected - because she needs it. I believe that most women are capable of making rational choices regarding their health. Why doesn't Freedman? Why does she feel her grief legitimates her scorn? 

Furthermore, as a critical postmodernist and a WANKER, I dislike the use of the term 'natural' as it is usually used in a dimorphic sense - because what is natural (or biological) is also socially constructed (and cultural). It is perfectly natural to bleed to death. Sexism is natural. The urge to throw the baby out the window is natural. Or is it? 

Natural and scientific knowledge are interconnected and with all experiences, including the birth, at times people have to sit with uncertainty and cannot control the outcome. This does not mean that people should not critically analyse the information they receive. This does not mean they should blindly accept what doctors, midwives, naturopaths, doulas, their mothers and friends have to say on the subject, but neither does it mean that all discussion should be shut down. This does not mean that the range of experiences in birth cannot be discussed because it is boring, shitful women's business and everyone used to die 100 years ago so shut up women why don't you just SHUT UP!

Freedman's messages are inconsistent, and they are bullshit. And I am going to hit her where it hurts: I don't think Caitlin Moran would approve*. 

*I haven't finished her book though, maybe this shit is drawn from Moran. Only time will tell. 

Only women bleed

On account of Mia Freedman invoking Caitlin Moran in the name of feminism every five seconds, I felt I really had better read Moran's book. It is funny indeed, and once finished perhaps I shall review it. But I probs won't, because who can be feckled? Anyway, I was laughing at this:

The blood on the sheets is depressing – not dramatic, and red, like a murder, but brown, and tedious, like an accident. It looks like I am rusty inside, and am now breaking. In an effort to avoid handwashing stains out every morning, I take to stuffing huge bundles of loo roll in my knickers, along with the useless sanitary towel, and lying very, very still all night. Sometimes, there are huge bloodclots, that look like raw liver. I presume this is the lining of my womb, coming off in inch-thick slices, and that this is just how visceral menstruation is. It all adds to a dreary sense that something terribly wrong is going on, but that it is against the rules of the game to ever mention it. Frequently, I think about all the women through history, who’ve had to deal with this ferocious bullshit with just rags and cold water.

No wonder women have been oppressed by men for so long, I think, scouring my pants with a nail-brush and coal-tar soap, in the bathroom. Getting dried blood out of cotton is a bitch. We were all too busy scrubbing to agitate for the vote until the twin-tub was invented.  - Caitlin Moran, How to be a Woman

So incredibly funny. I remember that panic over periods, which actually never really stops --  I have been thinking about menstruation about 38373 times a day recently because I still haven't had a period, over one year after the birth of my first child. WHEN WILL IT COME? WILL IT JUST RUSH OUT ALL OVER MY PANTS? DEATH DISASTER DOOOOOOOM. 

Then this morning I read this fabulous article, and was particularly delighted by this passage:

Ours is a culture where everything to do with our menstruating selves is kept secret. From the earliest age girls are taught how to ensure that it's all done secretly and odourlessly and far, far away from men. We're expected to plug it up privately and get on with the job. And when it's all over wer're supposed to carry on as always, lest anyone discover the sins and smells of our femaleness. 

Furious agreement, and I started to think - why? Why is it still a shameful secret? It is 2012. We should be wearing rocket packs and we should not feel bad about menstruating. Are the two linked?


Recently we were watching New Girl and Jess whispered to her housemate's new girlfriend, 'there are tampons hidden all over the house' and I chuckled and explained to my husband that when you have your period, you must be organised. Toilet trips are strategic, made only to the toilet stall you know has the sanitary bin, tampon/ pad hidden in your sleeve (because you can't take your bag, then everyone would know). Multiple sets of tight underpants to keep the pad close to your body. In teenage years, I felt embarrassed by the mere rustle of the pad wrapper. At the time I spelt woman like 'womyn' and I still thought periods were the worst sort of biological trap. I longed for the red tent celebration but felt too ashamed to ever mention it, even to my closest friends - I don't think I even said the word period until I was about 19. I have two sisters, I went to an all girls school, and periods were discussed only when some poor wretch had blood on the back of her skirt and probably changed schools to avoid the shame of it.

And I actually did have a PE teacher who advised me in year 9 to 'plug it up' when I tried to get out of swimming. No wonder I then went round the corner of the Tuckshop, bashed at my ankle with the handrail until it was red and then limped back to defiantly announce my injury precluded me from participating. For serious.

So anyway, I was rejoicing in reading about menstruation but I did think the article  somewhat entrenched in biological essentialism, and so I scrolled down to the comments for some academic critique:

Fucking Dale Bloom! His inane commentary is ever present on The Conversation and he is a definite contender for BaBa's inept political commentary of the week. Of course he would go the whole 'feminist conspiracy' angle - yes, a feminist did write the article - but no, his comment does not make sense. 

Thanks for keeping it real, Robert Corr. You've cracked the code. 

SIGHSIGHSIGH.

I don't really know why but it made me think of that line in Bridget Jones's Diary:

As Tom never tired of telling me, in a sepulchral voice, laying his hand on my arm and staring into my eyes with an alarming look, 'only women bleed'. 

p.s. amazing photos of women having their periods without 'plugging it up'. 

Georgetown, Penang: hot and tasty

We recently revisited Georgetown, Penang. It was excellence. When we arrived at the airport, the taxi lady said to me, 'You are very beautiful' and I glowed, and shouted back hotly 'SOAREYOU'. Her flattery was probably a skilled move to distract me from our taxi, which was a vehicular deathtrap. You can sham me anytime, Penang.  

Georgetown is a great long weekend option from Jakarta, as you can get a not-too-long direct flight,  and it feels like a real change, with tasty tasty food and prettah buildings and naice atmosphere.

Squinting will not stop the sunscreen from melting into Julian's eyes, while Theodore has the glassy eyed stare of an infant who would rather be in bed, but is instead forced onto the mean streets by selfish parents.  

I absolutely INSISTED I be allowed to take this photo. Why?

Makes my heart sing. Had to take this photo by stealth. The folksy juice-in-jam-jar-everything-is-recycled-mishmash thinly veiled a precious, hipster fuckwittery: NO PHOTOS. NO SMILES. NO SERVICE.

FAMIRY PORTRAIT

Lots of cool street art

Unlike in Jakarta, we could actually WALK around Georgetown, and our bodies, so disused to physical exertion, pretty much melted in the heat. Luckily there were many magnificent cafes we could recuperate in (i.e share one iced coffee near an aircon vent).

I think what Theodore is trying to say 'IT IS HOT AND SUDDENLY I FUCKING HATE THIS'. Which is EXACTLY how we all felt at the Butterfly Farm. 

Stupidly delicious lunch at the Spice Farm. I want to eat that always, in every moment of my life. 

Proper etiquette.

The ol' 'pretend the menu is a story book' trick at Tek Sen. About a minute after this photo was taken he suddenly and viciously vomited all over me. Fair play, Theodore. Fairplay.

At a crossroads. DEEP MAN. 

At Ananda Bahwan which was across from our apartment. YES BEST!

Pappadum high.

Edited to add:  I really want to recommend where we stayed, China Tiger. We always try to stay in apartments rather than hotels because I find it makes it much more of a holiday if you have a bit of space for the baby to roam about in and also don't have to worry so much about said baby shrieking. Plus you are supporting small business which can help alleviate the guilt of all those carbon miles you used to get there in the first place. Etc etc. Anyway, China Tiger was BEST. It was on the expensive side for just the three of us but done up so beautifully and so perfectly situated it was definitely worth it. 


Also Georgetown is HOT, so much hotter than Jakarta so we really needed this cool oasis to lounge about during the non-eating hours. Actually this is not true because we would bring back food to the apartment so technically all hours were eating hours.  

Behold:

Edited Edited to add: Didn't realise that instead of pressing save, I was pressing publish. Haha, I OWN THE INTERNET.

Tim: Korean Prince of Ballad

I just knew the Korean Prince of Ballad would be some dude named Tim. 

Handsome girl face

I am often asked if Theodore is a boy or a girl, and I affirm the former but the asker will shake their head vigorously, and tell me, "No. He has girl face, handsome girl face."

Clearly, I do as well:

Because breastfeeding beyond infancy is worse than rape, incest and gore

I read this article. And. It is OUTRAGEOUSLY bad. I thought it would be funny and satirical but dude has not a clue:

Tywin Lannister, father of Tyrion (the antihero dwarf played by Peter Dinklage), is one of the unheralded dads of “Game of Thrones.” He’s fiercely loyal to his children and apt to say things like, “Family is all that lives on.” 

I was guffawing at the absurdity of Tywin Lannister being seen as an 'unheralded dad' when I read on to this:

Young Robin Arryn’s breast-feeding was voted “Most WTF Moment in GOT” at Fanpop, and it’s easy to see why. There’s something unnerving about breast-feeding to begin with. Oh sure, it’s beautiful and natural and it saves money on formula, but it’s a fundamental repurposing of a woman’s body: What was once A is now B (and maybe a little bit of A if the kid’s asleep). The hijacking that starts in pregnancy continues until — well, for Robin, it appears to have gone on way past my wife’s rule: “If he’s old enough to ask for it, he’s too old for it.

CUE FURIOUS FIST SHAKING. The author is clearly the unthinking posterboy for the capitalist heteropatriarchy. Seriously, otherwise how could someone write sincerely that breastfeeding is the 'fundamental repurposing' of breasts? That it is 'unnerving' and 'saves money on formula'? Artificial milk being, obviously, the reassuring biological norm. Thus the author trots out the pseudo-feminist rhetoric where the baby is the creepy bodysnatcher who seeks to desexualise the mother and prevent the father from his rightful 'A'. Especially if the baby can speak - because breastfeeding transforms into a perverse, sexual act when communication is involved.

Moreover, on a poll where the other options include 'Twincest', 'Ned Stark Loses His Head' and 'Everything The Mountain Does', the winner was 'Robin Arryn Loves Milk'. Even though in most cultures other than our demented, misogynistic farce of one the normal weaning age range is TWO to SEVEN. Clearly, breast-feeding beyond infancy is worse than incest, execution and mass murderers.

THIS ARTICLE HAS UNLEASHED THE DRAGON. RAAAAGGGGEEEEEEE.