Mrs. C walked up to me as I was on my way out to lunch last Monday. She was a delicate, retirement-anxious supervisor who worked in the department next to mine in PLDT a decade back. Seeing her after all these years was an odd surprise. The fact that she still remembers me was an even bigger wonder -- until she said with a raised eyebrow: “Oh, I can never forget what you did to me in Cavite.”
Suddenly, I felt a dark wave overwhelm me. It surged in a downward spiral that flushed me back to February 1990. I was fresh out of college, attending a company workshop in Puerto Azul. I was boisterously flirting with Cutie-from-the-other-department while 300 co-slaves faked listening to a speaker drone on about corporate loyalty crap no one would remember in 10 years. In an exaggerated pa-tweetums motion, I crossed my legs, only to sense my heavily heeled shoe fly up into space. All Cutie-from- the-other-department and I could do was watch it ricochet from my foot **swoosh** … to a wall **bog** … to the ceiling **blagabog** … to the chandelier **plink** … to the table behind us **ARAAAY!**.
At its maximum velocity, my shoe hit poor Mrs. C right smack in the middle of her forehead, shattering her reading glasses and knocking her off her chair. The seminar was interrupted as half the room rushed to her aid, thinking she was shot! The other half thought she was having a heart attack! How could I have forgotten her dazed, glassy-eyed look and my shoe print between her eyebrows? I lived the next 15 minutes in slooooow motion. Mrs. C thought it was a sick joke and I did it on purpose! (After all this time, deep down, I feel she still thinks so.)
Man, assorted renditions of that moment entertained the division for weeks! Not to mention branded me for years -- Oh, so you’re the airhead from ManCon with the homicidal shoe! **stiffle snort snicker**
It took this long for me to regain a semblance of professional dignity … and for Mrs. C to talk to me again. If I haven’t said it enough these last 12 years, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry po talaga Mrs. C.
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7.29.2002
WAYS TO GET ME TO WHACK YOU ON THE HEAD
[The emotion is lost in translation -- sorry, non-Tagalog-speaking folks.]
“You’re a cool chick …” Chick? Chick?! Ano ‘ko leghorn?!
”Mahangin ba sa labas?” Hindi ka lang antipatiko. Unoriginal ka pa …
”Gusto niyo hong bagoong? With your green mango … shake?” Gusto kong ibang waiter…
”Oh, I don’t do anything sinful. Magagalit kasi si Lord eh.” Eh, bakit ka nagsisinungaling? Gaga …
“Tumataba ka.” You know that’s the universal password for a crippling arnis-judo-kendo beating, right?
”Bakit ako na-busted? Guwapo naman ako, di ba? I guess she just doesn’t deserve me…” Tama na ang marijuana -- nagdedeliryo ka na …
”Grabe! Ang ganda-ganda ng gift ko sa ‘yo! (a Ming vase knock-off and plastic flowers). Gamitin mo, ha?” Oh, sure! ‘Pag kinonvert ko nang kabaret yung bahay ko …
“Ang lapad ng forehead ng anak mo -- para siyang may hydrocephalus, ‘no?” Dahling, my children need well-dimensioned skulls to house our highly-developed brains. But you don’t have a brain, so you couldn’t possibly have known that …
”Alam mo, kamukha mo si Angelina Jolie. Hindi nga …” (Okay kung totoo – kaso hindi talaga, eh) Ulul! I’m not letting you shove your tongue down my esophagus. Nor will I let any of your other extremities near my body crevices. So, manigas ka! Aaay, ‘wag nga pala …
This Week's Entry: ”Good morning, I’m from A-Company-That-Sells-Useless-Crap-to-Idiots. Are you Miss Donna?” No. ”Este, Miss Rhona?” No. ”Ah, Bona pala.” **maintains eye contact** ”I mean, Nona.” **cracks knuckles** ”Sonia ba?” **delivers patented death whack** (To her lifeless remains) It's M-O-N-A. You were a baaaaad salesperson.
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7.23.2002
THE LORD OF MY THING
The love of my life is so excited to see “The Two Towers” this December. He enjoyed "The Fellowship of the Rings" so much -- the wait for the second installment is driving him nuts! When we saw the trailer yesterday, he kept asking me why Gandalf was alive and why he looked like Saruman, why Gollum called the ring “my precious” yada yada, yada yada.
“Dear, why don’t you just read the damn book? That way, you don’t need to rib me in the middle of the movie to ask what the characters’ names are again and why elves are so tall.”
My husband -- the poster boy for the statistical average PBA-watching, PDI-reading, politics-talking, 4x4-driving, noon-time-show-watching, Assumpta-da-Rossi-lusting, mall-going, text-crazed Filipino male – looks at me with his droopy eyes. He then deliberately glares at my old three-in-one hardbound copy of “The Lord of the Rings” series -- all ten billion pages of it.
“Oh, right."
Sidebar: I need to find a TLOTR comics version for the man I married.
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7.22.2002
TWO DUDES
As did many young males before him, my son has succumbed to the temptation of habitually burning his parents’ hard-earned money in video arcades. Whenever Carlo’s urges strike, my husband or I prefer to stand in the arcade periphery to watch him – just in case some mall-urban-legend-type maniac tries anything on my child or in case my son starts beating up on some smaller kid. Yes, my young one is endowed with his mother’s legendary disposition.
At Time Zone in Greenbelt last Sunday, I was watching Carlo play this Mission Shoot-the-Slime-Covered-Aliens Game thing-ie from a comfortable distance when two large men approached my son from behind. They were wearing walking shorts and plain white shirts, showing off muscular bodies that stood out in a roomful of ten-year-olds. One had red hair and the other had a tattoo of something that slithered from his wrist up his biceps. One was wearing loud gold jewelry (ugh) and the other had Converse hi-cuts on. They looked very suspicious to me as they were pushing thirty and it didn’t look right for them to be hanging out at a video arcade.
The most horrible thoughts flooded my head. Pedophiles! Kidnappers!
As my legs brought me closer to where my son stood shooting aliens with a green gun, I overheard the suspicious characters in an animated discourse – “Dude, I can soo kick your ass in this game.” “Asa ka pa, pare! [Dream on, dude!]” The two were jumping up and down as if they were holding their pee and standing very closely to Carlo, because they were actually excitedly waiting their turn.
I was torn between relief and awe.
<< I have seen how Beavis and Butthead would look like as thirty-year-olds. **shudder** I am scarred for life.
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7.19.2002
ENEMWAH
After a fifteen-year silence, I had lunch with an old “friend” weeks ago. She and I had a friends-competitors relationship back when we were teenagers and in high school. Back then we did anything and everything to make the other feel like a lesser being. We were bad – but we were young girls, so it was okay. It’s funny how in a decade and a half, people can be soo different but never really change.
I came to our Friday lunch in casuals and was shocked to find her made-up, donning a suit and studded in evening jewelry – like a matron! Over salad, she went over her resume with me – trying very hard to convince me how successful she was. Over the main course, our conversation stalled at stories about her headhunters, her trips to Europe and her insufferable in-laws. The last straw came when she went on about how we should take it on ourselves to “cure” another high school friend of her homosexuality – like it was a disease.
Even if I have outdone her in many ways, it was easy for me to hold back on brandishing what I have accomplished in my life. Her flagrant display rooted in self-doubt was revolting and sad. I felt proud and relieved that I’ve evolved to a higher life form.
We are having dinner again tonight with nine other old friends. If she talks again about how bishops should be given government posts and about how finance is the world’s most exciting job, God help me – higher life form or not -- I cannot be held liable for shoving her imitation Gucci’s down or up any of her body crevices …
Definition: enemwah. e-nee-mwa. noun. a person I look upon with contempt for insulting or just plain irritating habits, manner or disposition; but still have to beso-beso [kiss] on social occasions.
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7.18.2002
EXCUSE
I wish my recent on-line absence was because ...
... My bar-resto in Malate had its opening week.
... The cast party for my last musical gave me a week-long hang-over.
... I was out of the country doing photography work for National Geographic.
... I was finishing a screenplay. Ron (who I also call kid by his "Happy Days" name, Richie) was on my back about deadlines.
... The E! channel was interviewing me for the "True Hollywood Stories" -- about my hush-hush affairs with Keanu Reeves and Brad Pitt.
But no -- I just got the flu, 'kay? 'Sat in bed for a week, producing nothing but phlegm and snot and a big deep dent on my mattress.
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7.11.2002
PREVIEW
My two-and-a-half-year-old son and I were having a lesson on numbers:
“Diego, where is number one?”
“Six.” He gave me the card with the number six.
“No, sweetie. One. Give mommy number one.”
“Six.” He was pointing to the number six card again.
“Okay. Give me the number six.” “One.” He gave me the number one card and laughed -- mockingly.
Could this be a foretaste of standoffs to come?
<< Diego is also very intimate with his stuffed pig. Let's hope this is not indicative of his future taste in women.
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7.10.2002
CORPORATE SLAVE LOG 009: THE MERGING OF GREECE AND TROY – THE ILIAD REWRITTEN
So the gods convened in Olympus and decided to merge Troy and Greece into one great cost-effective nation. The first decision that needed to be made -- who will rule it? Athena didn’t want to rule the two nations because she didn’t like the Trojans – they were too stupid. Aphrodite didn’t want to rule either because she didn’t like the Greeks – they were too ugly. Hera couldn’t care less – because she had a head hunter waiting to give her another country to rule.
The gods appointed Paris, a regional think tank, who sat on his ass most of the day, to make the fateful selection. It was Olympians’ way of washing their hands of the ugly mess that was likely to follow. So Paris chose Athena and went back to his goat farm and sat on his ass again.
But a peaceful merging was not in the stars. Athena sent her prettiest ambassador Helen to talk to the Trojans about how Troy is no longer – and how the Trojans were expected to shed their color and become Greeks. Helen descended from Greece to update the Trojan masses in a much-anticipated forum. She received only one instruction from her goddess: “Lie through your perfectly capped teeth.”
The Greek generals Achilles, Odysseus and Agamemnon soon came to Troy in their dark suits and their wooden horse, expecting the gates of Troy to open with trumpets heralding their arrival. To their ire, only Hector met them in front of the gates of the city and declared that Troy will remain as long as he can stand to defend it. Achilles then tied Hector to his chariot and dragged his lifeless carcass around the city walls. So much for the defender of the people …
In the next few days, Achilles, Odysseus and Agamemnon conducted their operations audit and due diligence work. They met with the lawyers on how to effect the merger as seamlessly as possible. In the meantime, the Trojans lined up behind the good laser printer and prepared their updated resumes in multiple copies. Sparta was beginning to sound like a nice place to move to ...
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7.08.2002
RAIN CHILD
The unforgiving rain Metro Manila endured over the weekend brought back many pleasant memories of my childhood.
Many of my birthdays as a child were celebrated in the middle of legendary tropical typhoons, hissing wind, daylong blackouts and rain that pounded our roof like hail. It was in my parents’ attempt to make up for cancelled rained-out celebrations that my birthdays became truly special. It was in weather like yesterday that my mom’s champorado [chocolate porridge] and tuyo [dried fish] tasted their best. My brother once amazed us with his magical feats -- made dramatic against the glow of a gas-lamp and of a child's innocence. The paper boats my siblings and I crafted only found true challenge in a violent torrent of drain water. Playing in the rain became most fun when our parents relinquished their right to warn us of pneumonia and got wet with us. Old clothes became the wardrobe for elaborate shows my sisters and I staged before they were donated to flood victims. Books also seemed to be more fascinating to the younger me when read against the rhythm of a downpour.
So in the tradition of my childhood, my husband, my children and I stayed in bed yesterday, cuddling in half-sleep and singing Barney tunes until mid-day -- intentionally forgetting the day’s chores and responsibilities -- oblivious to the harsh rain that seemed to have drowned out the world around us.
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7.05.2002
SINGLE? NO, DOUBLE.
By some strange design of Fate, I got to see “Single” yesterday – that’s ABC-5’s reality programming experiment, documenting three single Filipino men and their attempt to find their soulmates, or at the very least, hot dates.
Highlights of one single guy’s week ...
…tells Girl #1 over the phone that he truly likes her. Girl #1 does not believe him.
…takes out Girl #2 for a fancy shmancy dinner. Girl #2 has a nice time (obviously because she has no idea Girl #1 exists) and is impressed with guy's car.
It hit me that I’ve been out of the dating game for a while, as watching 30 minutes of a 25-year old boy’s courtship techniques left me nauseated – amused but nauseated. I pity the 20-something girls who would actually fall for all that BS …
I can’t imagine being my unmarried best friend who still has to deal the intricacies of 30-something courtship. I certainly do not have the friggin' patience for it. Good thing I'm "double" now.
<< The show producers lent Mr. Single Guy a Jaguar for his dates. It’s a show rooted in reality after all.
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7.04.2002
ANDROGYNE
I’m not an iron bitch. I like salons and spas. I like it if men walk to the “danger side” when we cross the street together. I shun spectator sports. I own an eyelash curler. I have nice Catholic-girls-school handwriting. I can sew. I smell really nice. I have soft hands.
I also busted some poor idiot’s balls off at work today -- so I just HAD to repeat that to myself.
<< Except for the super powers and the flying, I am this Powerpuff Girl.
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7.03.2002
KAPITANA PLANETA
For years, I have not thrown office paper refuse in the trash.
I’ve kept sleek bins for them by my desk. The regular-sized papers are picked up by janitorial and the odd-sized ones (junk mail, receipts, etcetera) I personally shred in what I prefer to call the “point-of-no-return” shredder (as it literally makes rice-size confetti out of anything you thrown in). Our facilities people can sell them to recycling shops -- so zero paper waste. It’s my smug little way of keeping more trees alive for my children to enjoy.
The system has been working gloriously – until I accidentally shredded my car’s registration stickers. **sobs like Halle Berry on Oscar night**
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