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.

 

Inane Conversations: Metro Manila Flood

While watching news coverage of Typhoon Ondoy:

Post-It Queen: They keep calling for amphibians to rescue residents. What are those exactly? Google it.

The Walking Herbicide: I think it’s a cross between a boat and a truck.

Post-It Queen: It looks expensive. We have that?

The Walking Herbicide: It looks like a holdover from World War II. We definitely have those. Along with our collection of tora-tora planes.

Five minutes later, we watch as CNN gave a special report on the worst flooding Manila has seen in 40 years. Wow! Fifteen minutes of fame!

Also tried accessing the PAG-ASA website. This is what I got:

Mukhang pati PAG-ASA nawalan ng pag-asa sa baha.

 

The Zinger

It is true. My chronic singlehood  is a topic that has been trod out ad nauseam. But this anecdote was mentioned in a recent drinking session and I realized it never made it to my florilegium so here it is.

Some years ago I had the pleasure of having lunch with acquaintances whom I haven’t seen in close to a decade. It was generally a pleasant experience catching up with these people. We may not have a lot in common but it amused me to see how much they’ve changed over the years.  My only complaint is that these things almost always evolve into a flagellation. It may not be the case for everyone. But for those of you who have in one way or the other deviated from societal precepts (that is: grow up, graduate, get married, have babies, work your ass off, get rich and die), it is inevitable that your dignity will get the raw end of that whip.

This was no exception.

Among the parties involved was an old friend who incidentally was going through her ‘blushing bride’ phase. And that means that from moment you sit down, the entire conversation for the next three and half hours will revolve around her. And the dress. And the cake. And the invitations. And the bridal doodads. And, of course, the long list of fortuitous events that led her to that one guy who filled her heart with joy. She was relentless.

Let me inject this as a caveat before I give you the wrong idea, I am not anti-marriage. For the most part I try to be a live and let live kind of a person. Whatever floats your boat, do it. While I don’t see myself walking down the aisle, she made it known (in true Stepford fashion) that it made her the most fortunate woman alive. So up to that point, I was genuinely happy for her.

The mirth, of course, lasted only until the 45-minute mark where she had to come up for air and finally acknowledge my presence. The first thing she asked me was whether or not I had a boyfriend. Thinking nothing of it, I answered honestly. “No”, I said. “I’m single.”

Little did I know that those three words would give bride-zilla enough ammunition to unceremoniously slice my head off with, “OH MY GOD! You’re missing half of your life!!”. The last syllable resonated deeply at the back of my head. Her facial contortions resembled that of someone who had just found a maggot-infested corpse. Sheer and utter horror.

Yes. If you’re single and you live alone and you go home to a cat, you couldn’t possibly be anything else other than pathetic. I didn’t tell her about the cat. I was afraid she might get up and fling herself off the side of the building.

After that I said nothing although my left eyebrow went into a 30-degree angle. When that happens, it says enough. Please! By all means, malign my existence in public. Somehow the fact that she knew nothing  did not stop her from becoming an expert on what the other half of my life should consist of. Here’s a thought: write a book about it.  Take a dip into the 11-billion-dollar self-help industry. Seeing as there are a lot of us poor souls out there, you will no doubt find your way to the top of the New York Times Bestseller’s crap shoot. Then you can be rich and famous and the next time we have lunch, there will be more facets of my life you can hurl thinly veiled insults at.

But until that happens, I will go and revel in my freedom.

 

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#$@!

 

Pecha De Peligro

I am now of the opinion that destitution is a highly effective motivational tool. An invisible force that eradicates sheer laziness and drives you to do things you wouldn’t normally do.

Case in point:

Last Friday after work, I took a jeep. Then the MRT. Then a 15 minute walk to the LRT station and then a trike to complete the final leg of a tedious commute home. The ordeal took almost two hours, travel time that would otherwise be sliced to a mere 20 minutes had I hailed a cab right outside my office building.

The second I got home, I cooked. (Wait…What’s that sound? Is that the collective noise of apocalyptic naysayers shifting nervously in their seats? She’s in the kitchen!! The end is nigh!!)

Gingerly, I ingested my hard knock meal. Then I washed the dishes that were piled up on the kitchen sink. After that, I got rigged to go out and run some errands. When I got home, I tidied up the apartment. I started speculating over whether doing the laundry is still feasible. I took a rain check. My joints were beginning to give way to gravity.

After 9 hours of rigmarole in the office, chores and a pathetic financial state, the one consolation I have left lies in the fact that I am free to collapse on the couch and take a well-earned breather.

What do I find?

Explain to me how this is fair.