No, We’re Not All Like That

I say this for the benefit of those who don’t know or haven’t noticed, I am weird.

And I started showing signs of it when I was really young too. For instance, my dad gave me a Barbie on my eighth birthday. It scared the living daylights out of me. I kept imagining the thing would crawl out of its box and choke me to death in the middle of the night. I surrounded myself with my anatomically proportionate stuffed animals (for protection of course) and with great effort fell asleep. The next day, I ran outside and climbed a duhat tree and stayed up there until my tongue turned purple. Barbie never saw the light of day. I don’t even remember what happened to it.

I think I must’ve forgotten to read the the distaff handbook on unlocking the secrets to effeminacy. Not that I’m willing to dish out the effort but if placed in a lineup with other girls, I will stand out as a real head scratcher.

For one, I must be the only female left on the planet who’s not obsessed with bags and shoes. Unlike most women, I keep one bag that I use until disintegration and the same goes with the five pairs of shoes I own, none of which I could wear to any formal gathering. If given the choice between high-heeled pumps and a pair of good ol’ high-cut Chuck Taylors…well, you’ve probably already guessed my answer to that.

I rarely put on make-up because whenever I do, it feels like I’m plastering my face with a handful of lard. Also it’s way too time-consuming and I don’t really know how to put it on anyway so I don’t bother. All I use is lip balm. That’s it.

And make-up gives me acne. Which leads me to another odd thing. I have resolved to naming every single one of my pimples “Max” from hereon until the day they grow tired of infesting my face.

Occasionally though I go on what I call ‘vanity runs’. Every other month, I spend a considerable amount of money on lotions, moisturizers, facial wash, et cetera, all to fulfill the minimum requirement to not be referred to as Sir by random strangers.

Yes, I still like to keep clean and I get mesmerized by what conditioners can do to tame the coup d’état my hair stages on a daily basis. As long as I know I don’t walk around resembling a full-fledged mountain gorilla, I’m fine. Although in the past I have been known to show up at work looking like I just got hit by a bus but wouldn’t you after only having had four hours of sleep?

When in a mall I make a beeline for the nearest bookstore. I have dismissed beauty magazines as destructive literature. And yes, I will say this: shopping at Beauty Bar is not what I would consider a productive way to spend my time.

Hair salons give me the willies. I especially dread the moment the hairdresser would ask me, ganito ba talaga buhok mo? DUH!! I can honestly say I’d rather go to the dentist.

Also I eat like a longshoreman. I’m not very fond of light beer. When out with a bunch of guys I don’t really know, they usually start off by ordering a round of San Miguel Light. I always immediately turn to the waiter and go, “Boss, isang Red Horse.” I enjoy watching their eyebrows do somersaults whenever I say that. I apologize for the audible popping of machismo balloons bursting across the table but Red Horse tastes like caramel, so there. Good thing I have a solid circle of male friends who don’t seem to be bothered by my behavior.

I’m a little bit of rock and roll. I’m not really the sappy type. I hardly ever cry. I consider overly “kikay”, helpless damsels in distress an affront to the feminist movement.

And one last thing, my hatred for the color pink is firm and absolute.

If after reading all this you’re thinking, “Maybe she’s a lesbian?” I can see how you can make that mistake. I have nothing against them but I can assure you I’m straight. This is simply to illustrate the point that not all girls fit the mold. Some of us fell out of the sky and landed face first in a vat full of who-gives-a-flying-rat’s-ass.

And with that she lights a cigarette. The end.

 

The Queue

In my aversion for Erap and his imminent plans for candidacy, I swallowed my political indifference and got myself registered. I am not proud of the fact that I’m a 27-year-old first-time voter but there never was compulsion to make the effort. Until now that is. Thank you Erap for making a better citizen out of me. If only for that, you have done a good thing. There maybe a million things wrong with this country but it doesn’t deserve to be internationally humiliated by having an ex-convict/reject for president (again). Not that I think my vote will tip the scales but whatever the outcome, at least I did what I could to keep this aberration from happening. Then again, there’s always Siberia.

Moving on…

The COMELEC registration nightmare was admittedly self-inflicted. I procrastinated to no end and was rightfully punished. We all know that being a Filipino citizen is synonymous to being a veteran of government-induced waiting. If you haven’t gone through it at some point in your adult life, it only means that A) you are a pampered offspring of some rich and powerful individual or B) you’ve been living under a rock. But let me just state this for those who are unaware: that was without a doubt the longest line I have ever had to suffer through…ever!

In the twelve hours or so I spent accomplishing this incredible test of fortitude, it dawned on me that all that was a tangible metaphor for life. You stand for hours in the sweltering heat waiting for your name to be called. You’re tired. You’re bored. Along the way, you make small talk with complete strangers just so you can find someone to commiserate with.

You go through Kübler-Ross’s five stages of grief:

1. Denial – It couldn’t possibly be this long!

2. Anger - Stupid government can’t even get their act together! Are these people allergic to efficiency?

3. Bargaining – Oh please God, just let it move two feet. I promise I will never procrastinate again!

4. Depression - What’s the point of all this? This country is beyond help either way.

5. Acceptance – Screw it, I’ll just wait…

When it’s finally your turn, it takes five minutes and it’s all over. Then you drag your sorry carcass home.

After all is said and done, I know the Chinese have it worse. That makes me feel a little better. So that’s that. Next year I vote.

 

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.

 

The Shredding Of Ampalaya

I could think of a million ways I was better off as a 12-year-old. For starters, at that age, I knew exactly what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I had a goal, clear as day, free of any disillusions. I wanted to be a writer. I was good at it too, or at least that’s what my teachers told me. They always made me “Author of the Week” which would come with a corresponding cut-out of an apple or a pencil with my name written across. I remember owning a large collection of these citations proudly displayed as my bedroom wall regalia.

To merit the title, a student has to write the best 10-minute essay on a given topic such as “Which do you think make better pets – cats or dogs?” It was the highlight of my week. I didn’t care much for math or geometry. I always looked forward to Tuesdays when we have our English classes and I’m allowed back into my comfort zone. By the time I was in the sixth grade, I was the associate editor of the school newspaper. They even printed my picture next to my column.

Then I graduated and went on to high school. Needless to say, it was a middling experience and a far cry from the red carpet treatment I got in grade school. When before I brought my A game, here I was nothing. A clean slate. A freshman of no academic importance. Whatever skills I had nurtured were gradually wrung dry by rejection after rejection from the school newspaper.

In my junior year, I reluctantly decided to try again. On the board was written the topic on which we hopefuls were to expound. The instructions were to write an editorial on the following: “What do you think of the Tamagotchi?”

For the benefit of those unfamiliar with 90s haute couture, a Tamagotchi was a digital pet housed in a small, egg-shaped computer with buttons that allowed the owner to care for the confounded pixelized animal.  The teachers who came up with the topic were apparently on the look out for staff writers who will defend this collossal waste of money. Or at least point out its pros and cons.

I, on the other hand, after satisfactorily cracking my knuckles, wrote a highly acidic critique of the Japanese contraption. It was a fad, bordering on kitsch. It had no economic benefit and if you as a parent would so much as rely on it to teach your child the value of responsibility, you need to rethink a few things.

In the end, I didn’t land the coveted role of a bottom-feeding staff writer. Just as well since I failed to read the memo on how to curry favor with the judges. Later I heard that they couldn’t take me in because I was too opinionated. That was the beginning of the end for me.

So before I conclude my diatribe, I leave you with a few things in need of clarification. For one, I need to be clued in on the true definition of an editorial. Considering my career letdown, I might have missed the point. Is it not an article written specifically to voice the opinions of the editor? Then how in God’s green earth could a piece get too opinionated? Two, if there are any advantages to owning a Tamagotchi,  I would like to know. After a decade, they continue to elude me.

On the off chance I be posited the topic again, I’d probably write the same thing. You would think, especially now that I’ve grown more unapologetic and have armed myself with a wider range of adjectives. I couldn’t care less if that was what switched the light off on my potential. In my mind I will wear my opinions where I want them and the Tamagotchi can kiss my A#$@!

 

When Things Go KABLOOEY…

Can’t imagine how THAT was like.

Possibly similar to being trapped in an enclosed space for 18 hours seated next to an overweight man with irritable bowel syndrome. If the flatulence doesn’t get you, something else will. You are guaranteed never to have another dull moment…Ever.

Or maybe it’s like being stuffed in an empty beer barrel and thrown down the Niagara Falls. The operative word here being “empty”. The greatest of cosmic jokes do not allow the luxury of getting shitfaced on the way down to your doom.

Or is it like flailing haplessly 10 storeys up while waiting to be dropped into a giant vat filled with garbage juice?

Hmmm…Can’t really decide which picture makes the best fit.

You’re wondering what I’m drivelling about. The point of this entry is anyone’s guess. I learned that the best way to rant is to make it as vague as possible lest some idiot takes your words and twists them out of proportion. And I don’t want to have to explain myself.

Also, remaining in a state of indistinction gives you the freedom to plug in whatever mishaps you’ve got going on and still have this whole thing make sense.

Well I’m glad I got mine over and done with. Otherwise, 18 hours with Mr. Fart-A-Lot will begin looking  like a very attractive alternative.

Mondays suck! The defense rests.