Exploits of a City Dweller

As mentioned a few months back, I am spending the holidays up in the frigid highlands. So far it’s been a nice break accentuated by the fact that I don’t have to clean poop (all roads lead back to my cat, don’t they?). The ignominious task has fallen squarely on the shoulders of the Post-It Queen who is having a grand ol’ time confronting one of her greatest fears: the dreaded litter box. Cue the Twilight Zone theme song, we’re having a ball!

I took advantage of the free WiFi in a restaurant in Session Road to throw in an entry before the year ends. I am very fastidious with my writing rituals and the hubbub is proving to be a big thinking impediment. So pardon me if I come across completely tangential.

Since this was intended to be a year-ender, I was hoping to enumerate some of the lessons imbibed in 2008. But considering my creative foibles, I will save that for later. Instead I will leave you with one of my great discoveries of late: Beer and Chocolate Cake…Try it! It’s fantastic! 

Happy New Year, folks! Lately I’ve been feeling strangely optimistic that 2009 will turn out to be far more interesting. Let’s hope I’m right.

Janeane, I know what you mean!! That hilarious bit about the shit being a tangible metaphor for life has suddenly turned into a nightmarish reality for me. Except I’m not talking about dogs but a cat who has single-pawedly imprisoned me in an endless cycle of poopy scooping. Chimney, who I am hereby dubbing Warden Lard-ass, has me handcuffed and gagged on a no-parole sentence to do his bidding and cleaning the mounds of joy he manages to excrete on a daily basis. Just let me know when to start donning a black-and-white striped shirt with the letter P emblazoned on the back and I’ll hop to.

In the meantime, Warden Lard-ass continues to grow a Friskies belly whilst ravaging my once peaceful and stench-free living quarters. That’s one other thing. The fact that only his belly is bloated and his face remains thin to a point where he has assumed the shape of a lightbulb remains a mystery to me. Maybe he should get dewormed.

In any case, I’m including this short clip to give me something to commiserate with. We inmates gotta stick together.

At first I thought it was the battery. But after tinkering with it for while, the blue LCD light only heaved for a split second before dying again. Eventually I came to terms with the fact that my scotch-taped (oh yes!), antediluvian, 512 megabyte MP3 player purchased in the Neolithic era has finally bitten the dust.

(Cue fat lady to sing Amazing Grace)

Why have I not replaced it sooner you might ask? Why not get one of those IPods with insane storage capacities that sell like a hotcakes these days? Easy. I am a quasi-Luddite who avoids jumping on the bandwagon like I would a plague. I found comfort in knowing that what I had was a simple, brainless piece of obsolete technology I can operate even when in a coma. It was mouldy and ailing and could only hold so many songs but it was reliable protection against all that insipid Muzak. And to some extent, it was also a form of rebellion against the fad.

Thus I, its less-than-devastated widow, am left aurally exposed to the elements faced during the daily commute. Impeccable timing too. This in the middle of the most financially crippling holiday of the year: Christmas.

So unless there really is an overweight bearded man in the North Pole, I will henceforth be humming to myself while walking home from work.

I have this favorite pair of black pants that I chanced upon while meandering around the mall a few years ago. It was one of those finds that you know would never occur again in this lifetime or the next. The material was comfortable and it fit and fell in all the right angles. The fact that it was black (my favorite color) was flattering as many of you may or may not know,  it has a way of bending light and deceiving people into thinking you’ve lost weight.

So one day, as mishaps would have it, I wore it to a tree planting activity in La Salle Canlubang. After the main event, we decided to explore the campus before driving back to the city. As I was admiring the imposing edifice that was their main building, it happened. Without warning, my foot lost traction and I found myself doing an awkward little air dance before landing knee first on a freshly painted speed bump.

Of course…Because these things can only happen to me. Only I can be the target of cosmic misfortune. At that, I stood up gingerly to find a nice coating of yellow all over my hands and pant legs. Perfect.

In my defense, there were no “wet paint” signs anywhere in the vicinity. Only an empty mineral bottle to mark where I assumed the workers had left off. To this day, I remain oddly suspicious that it had been a calculated ploy to penalize anyone from the Blue camp foolish enough to set foot on Green soil. Up goes the white flag. I was there to plant trees, dammit!! The infiltration was for a good cause. But that’s just me being bitter.

After trying all the tricks of the trade to get the paint stains off, I gave them up for dead. My most prized piece of clothing rested in peace in the dark recesses of my closet.  Sort of like cryogenically preserving a diseased pet in anticipation of technology that might someday revive it. Also, I didn’t have the heart to cut them up or use them as an improvised mop.

Fast forward three years. I was standing outside Megamall last weekend with some friends from work. We were discussing how to survive the company Christmas party. This year’s theme was “Glam Rock” and only at gunpoint were we to don a mohawk and tight shimmering leather. Somehow the tragedy of my black pants (may they rest in peace) sneaked into the conversation. One of my friends suggested I use a fabric pen to shade over the stained portion. Brilliant!

I spent all of the next morning resuscitating them with a Pilot Permawash pen.  Before long they were as good as when I bought them. Happy, happy, joy, joy! For the first time in ages, I took them out for a test drive.

I got on the MRT and headed for the nearest House of Minis and got myself a celebratory porterhouse steak, well done with a generous blanket of gravy. 

I didn’t even mind the hordes of Twilight-toting teenagers teetering around me. All is well again.

Here’s something I picked out of the spam that circulated the office email. Talk about honesty. At least the owners of this establishment can never be blamed for not giving their customers ample warning.

So to the people who sued McDonalds and won, try getting litigious over this: