Waxing Poetic, Waxing Inebriated

This here is a snapshot of my favorite joint in town called Burby’s.

If you don’t already know where that is, I won’t tell you. You might flock there en masse and we’ll never get a good table. And that’s primarily why I love it so much. They’re never really full even on Saturday nights. It’s not too high class, unlike some places where people show up to gawk and be gawked at. You can wear a t-shirt you’ve owned since high school and not feel alienated. So it’s like drinking in your own living room but at the same time you’re still out.

Not only do they have the best chicken fingers, they also serve a dark lager called Black and Tan that comes in a TALL (and I mean tall) glass. That kids, along with a side of blue flaming Devil’s Advocate will get the job done faster than you can read that sign hoisted above your head.

Oh yes! The sign. And I’m not talking about that Ace of Base song we all danced to at one point. I consider it a perk: a bar with an odd (and most likely inadvertent) sense of humor. If the conversation goes wry, it’s there to crack me up. And when I’m too intoxicated to catch the irony, I just look up at their wrought iron chandelier and stare. The only letdown is that they’re closed on Sundays. My theory is that that’s when they turn the place into a chapel and celebrate mass.

I mean how else would you explain “God is good” in the watering hole?

 

The Winnings

Considering my luck reeks unmistakably of a two-week-old sandwich, I am elated. I have never been handed a prize just for typing someone’s name before. Anyhow, I finally got around to claiming these here Ayala Museum complimentary tickets yesterday. I won them at Jessica Zafra’s blog.

There was a sheet of paper at the Information Counter where she listed the winners’ names in her precision handwriting. I signed right next to mine. That I think was part of the prize.

The cosmos relented. I can no longer claim that I have never won a raffle in my life. Time to think up a new drinking session anecdote.

 

**Cue Theme Song**

The story behind the longest running in-joke is this:

One Saturday night about a year  ago, we were sitting in a van on the NAIA parking lot. My best friend was to pick up a client who had just flown in from the US and I for the lack of better things to do that weekend decided to tag along.

So the client arrives, a rather portly African-American lady who we were forewarned had a reputation of being a no-nonsense sort of person. Taking care not offend her sensibilities, I sat quietly in the back seat with my other friend.

On the drive to the hotel, my best friend being the perfect hostess makes small talk. Asks her how her flight was, tells her about Manila and all that good stuff. About half an hour later, the lady turns to the back seat and asks, “Are these your daughters?”

I held myself back mid-snort.

Mind you my best friend and I were literally born hours apart from each other. It must have been really dark inside that van. It’s either that or…

It didn’t help that our entire circle of friends already referred to her as Mama Bear.  It also didn’t help that I told everyone that story. Now even her older sister jokingly refers to her (rather explicitly and in public) as Mama, much to her chagrin.

In order to make up for unapologetically stoking the flames, I made this little video. I discovered this song while going through my obsessive Cass Elliot hunt. I thought it only befits this whole snafu of being mistaken for everyone’s mother.

**Just as a footnote, the great Mama Cass also sang a song called Jane The Insane Dog Lady which I thought was hilarious.

 

In Search Of A Humdinger Life

Exhibit A. The Human Circadian Biological Clock

Courtesy of Wikipedia

The other day, while sitting on the toilet, I felt a drop of water fall on my right knee. I thought I was imagining things so I ignored it.

Two seconds later, another drop.

And then another.

Lazily, I looked up and realized that the drops were coming straight out of the bulb socket.

I had the light on.

First grade science teaches us this simple equation: electricity + water = bad news. Instead of panicking I sat back and thought Wish the bathroom would blow up so I don’t have to go to work.

That’s not a good sign. I’ve complained about going to work before. Who doesn’t? But praying for injury due to explosive infrastructural damage tells me I need to get a new life.

You’re wondering what this has to do with Exhibit A. It illustrates what my job has deprived me of for the past four years. I have forgotten how it feels like to have a day start with morning and end with night. On my way to work, I see people going home and I wish I had their lives. I get to the office, I run into some unmentionables and think of all the creative ways I can end theirs.

Then I put on a wry smile all to conceal the fact that I’m two stupid questions away from setting the place on fire.

Everyday I ask myself: how much are you willing to put up with for that paycheck?

When you can’t wait for your bladder to fill up just to get a two-minute escape from your desk, I’m guessing you already know the answer to that question.

 

Irony In A Bottle

Over the weekend my roommates and I decided to go for an all-girls Sunday Slowdown (viz. a nepenthean tradition involving booze and semi-sleazy conversations about life in general). Normally Sunday Slowdown would involve a male attendee or attendees even depending on the day. On this occasion however our usual suspect found himself with a group of Celts in another alcoholic soiree and then got sick. Our guess is that his constitution simply couldn’t hold up against the big Kahunas of ale-chugging.

Whilst in the convenience store, the roomies beelined for the freezer and found themselves confronted with an impertinent little tag hanging on the neck of our poison of choice (see illustration below).

They gave one pause… and then grabbed ten of the little suckers.

You would think that my initial reaction would be an outburst of feminist rhetoric. They can’t be serious! What were they thinking placing such a strident symbol of misogyny on their product? In this day and age no less. Did the Gilbey’s marketing execs hire some cigar smoker from the 30’s to come up with this idea?

Then I realized I was holding a bottle of special dry gin with natural green tea extract infused with the crisp taste of citrus and the zest of ginger (best enjoyed with friends while making potpourri).

No self-respecting man will ever be caught dead with it. I shall reserve my rage for a more worthwhile cause. In the meantime, us girls enjoyed downing our ice-cold metrosexual beverage.

To add an extra pinch, I left the label on the entire time.