"Mommy, do you have to go on your business trip?" my five-year old son's eyes looked at me for an answer I could not give.
"I'm so sorry, hijo; Mommy has to go. A lot of people are counting on me to be there. My trip is really, really very important." I tried to sound convincing, even if in my mind, a personal battle raged.
Do I really have to go? The U.S. headquarters is filled with many able-bodied people with the same skills as me.
But they wouldn't have asked for my help, if they could handle the problem themselves, now would they?
I could let the junior girls handle this. I'm sure Volta or Krystala would appreciate the chance to travel out of the country.
Sigh.
I shook the voices out of my head and enveloped my son in a tight embrace.
"Now, anak, if there's an emergency," I kissed my son's forehead, "you can call me at the Hall of Justice. I left the trunkline number on the fridge. Make sure you talk to the Wonder Twins, okay? Don't talk to the monkey -- he never gives me my messages." I reached for the jewelry box on my dresser and held the smooth black rock within -- it felt heavier than it was. "Tito Ding will drop by later to take you and yaya to school. I'll fly back as soon as the job's done."
The sight of my son on my bed with this head down, his spirit defeated, drained me of the strength I needed to do my job. It's a wonder how I managed to put that rock in my mouth, shout "Darna!" and fly out the window. (Fiction)
PERMALINK
|
EMAIL ME
|
3.25.2005
SNOW QUEEN
The day a grown woman, born and raised in a tropical country, gets to go skiing is one for the books. So it was for me on one of my business trips to Sweden. Having gone through a rigorous technical training week, a few geniuses in my Business Engineering class decided it would be fun to take an impromptu ski trip. It so happened I was the only black-haired never-been-on-a-snowy-mountain-top south-east-asian in the group.
I should have smelled trouble early on. Before we left, I saw a TV report on a dead snowboarder found with his feet in the air and his head in the snow. An even worse omen was the pink skiing outfit a Swedish friend lent me to use. At 5'9", she was the shortest Swede I knew; but since I'm 5 feet flat, her clothes were still a bit ... hell, you do the math. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror on my hotel door for hours -- that didn't change the fact that I looked like a huge pink gasul tank.
During the road trip, the guys promised me our destination was a quiet place for locals, not frequented by foreigners. Translated: if I fell on my face, people there will not ridicule me in a language I could understand. A few hours later, we reached Lill-Babs' Krogg -- a small out-of-the-way skiing lodge in Järvsö owned by a Swedish singer from the 1960s known for her outrageously high heels.
The first thing that struck me as I stood on that hill was how painful my lungs were. Apparently, the air had zero humidity and was at minus 10C. My lungs were used to near 100 percent humidity and 30 degree weather. But I had to push aside the stabbing pain in my chest to make room for the joy of sliding down a hillside on a pair of wooden planks I was going to feel in a few hours. I have reached the point of no return -- I was going to ski or die trying!
The next day, I arrived on the slopes in time for the beginners' class I signed up for. In keeping with the trip's theme of shaming me, I learned that the only people in that part of the country who didn't know how to ski still wore diapers. I was the only novice taller than three feet. To make matters worse, skiing came naturally to these children -- they didn't even use their little sticks! I hung onto my ski poles like they were glued to my hands, while I watched these Swedish kids zoom down the slopes like Olympic midgets.
When I finally mustered enough courage to go up the hill, I breathed in the gorgeous view around me and I began to appreciate what I was about to do -- it was an experience perhaps many of my countrymen will never share. I looked down on the slopes and understood the feeling of peace that makes skiing a passion for many. Of course, that was before I actually started moving down the slope. I would slide for a few seconds, my eyes staring at a point below where I want to end up; then I would fall on my back and I would be looking at the sky, praying I would stop before I crash into the trees at the base of the hill. Donning my mother's persistence, my father's pride, and my Pinoy resilience like a badge, I climbed that hill over and over again for about three dozen times. I was lying on my arse when I reached the bottom, every single time.
On the drive back to Stockholm, I remember resting my sore back side, my throbbing ankles, my wobbly knees and my chafed ego in the van, and thinking: "Snowboarding could be FUUUN." (Non-Fiction)
PERMALINK
|
EMAIL ME
|
3.20.2005
THE INTERVIEW
My interview was scheduled for 9am at the IBM Tower in Libis. For it, I wore my dark blue Anne Taylor power suit and a pair of black Coach pumps with a matching stewardess purse -- a confidence-boosting combination that always made me feel I could accomplish the impossible.
After years as a PR assistant for a small media outfit, an Account Manager position for the local affiliate of the biggest public relations company in the world is the one thing I covet more than anything. More than a new iPod. More than a red Jaguar convertible. More than a high-end Blackberry.
Two women were waiting in the conference room when I got there. Mrs. Arcilla was the HR Manager who I had met at two previous interviews. The other was a tall and somber-looking woman, Mrs. Castillo, the Account Management Division Vice-President, who was to decide on my future in this company. Or absence therof.
Pleasantries dispensed, Mrs. Arcilla jumped to the business at hand. "Okay, Bea, tell us, what is your greatest accomplishment so far?"
As I began my response to a question that all job hunters rehearse for, my eyes made contact with Mrs. Castillo's. They glared back at me, brows askew, strained. Either she does not like me or she is badly constipated.
Twenty minutes went by without Mrs. Castillo saying a word. By then, I had produced my weight in sweat and lost all hope in getting this job.
Mrs. Arcilla barked yet another question off an index card on her right hand, "How do you handle an uncomfortable or inappropriate question from the press received at a press conference? Or if you've never experienced that, just tell us how you are at managing awkward situations."
"Now I remember you." Mrs. Castillo finally jumped to life, snapping her fingers. "You're Susie Hocson's daughter!"
She knows my mom? Sweet! "Yes, I am, Ma'm. How do you know my mother?"
"I went to college with her!" Mrs. Castillo smiled. "She was one of my closest friends back then."
"Wow. Really?" I managed. I am sooo getting this job!
"In fact, I just remembered meeting you before..."
I will be the boss' pet even before I get hired!
"...It was at a children's birthday party thrown by one of our mutual friends. You were only 15 years old or so, at the time ..."
I made an impact on her, even then! It doesn't get better than this!
"... And I remembered you so well because ...
Of my sunny disposition? My radiant personality? My contagious enthusiasm?
" ... I heard you call my four-year old son a 'little sh*t'. Or was it 'little f*ck' -- I can't remember." Having dealt her blow, Mrs. Castillo leaned back on her chair and locked her fingers in front of her. "I do remember I haven't spoken to your mother since."
"Okay, so..." the HR lady finally broke the uncomfortable silence that seemed to have lasted as long as the last Jennifer Lopez movie. "My last question..." Mrs. Arcilla nervously flipped her index cards, and tried to muster some composure. "Oh, there it is. So, Bea, how are you at managing awkward situations?" (Fiction)
PERMALINK
|
EMAIL ME
|
3.15.2005
"SHOWBIZ"
My boss' nostrils flare when she's angry. And as I entered her room, she had just put down her mobile phone and I could see one could easily putt a golfball through her nasal cavity.
"Mr. Lopez called to tell me he had been waiting at the penthouse boardroom for twenty minutes now. He said he received no advise that I requested our meeting this afternoon to be rescheduled."
What the ... "I called his office three times, Ma'm. I spoke thrice to the woman who answered his landline, Ma'm. Sally."
"Well, his entire staff are all busy filing ..."
What? Their nails?
"... documents in boxes to prepare for their office move. And he was not informed ..."
... that he has a bunch of retards working for him?
"... of my request. This is unacceptable! Where on earth is your professionalism?"
The same place your sense of fairness is. You don't want to give me his cellphone number and his staff didn't tell him! "I'm sorry about the mix-up, Ma'm. I should have called several more times until they confirmed."
"Effort is not equivalent to effectiveness, Carol."
Yeah? Well green blouse plus brown pants doesn't add up either; but it never stopped you.
"Just ... just fetch me a cup of chamomile tea. I need to get rid of all this negative energy."
"Yes, Ma'm." I turned to rush to the pantry, letting a ball of saliva well in middle of my tongue. I know just what my boss' tea needs to help her get her mojo back. (Fiction)
PERMALINK
|
EMAIL ME
|
