Before moving back home—before motherhood—my street survival skills were way up there. Give me rush hour, a jeep with one empty seat and a throng of people fighting for that one slot, and chances are I would end up doing the victory dance. Running after jeepneys, clambering up moving buses, squeezing into crowded trains—these served as my daily agility test of sorts. I may have sucked at physical education, but I did find practical uses for the simulated sprints and the jumping jacks.
Home provided little challenge to the inner agile me. Barring a parade, a procession or a funeral, traffic is usually five minutes, max. The ride home takes 15 minutes, eight if the husband is really, really hungry, in which case he morphs into Mario Andretti. Downtown is a crowd of people, not vehicles.
All that changed two weeks ago, though. A big supermarket had just opened, promising the attendance of a minor star. A senator was also in town for the state college’s commencement exercises. And, the husband had some place else to go so I—-who was born to ride, not drive--was left with some me time.
For once, there were no tricycles at the terminal. They were choked somewhere, and the two or three that were able to squeeze past were no match for the huge wave of people scrambling for rides. Something in me clicked, and fortysomething me assumed my street savviness of two decades ago.
My first attempt was almost a success. It was a success, actually, except I realized I was boxing out someone’s grandma. The second attempt was a cinch, and I rode on with a sense of smugness. Just as I was nearing third base, my bubble burst. The tricycle made a left turn, and I ended up someplace else. Obviously, in my excitement to practice my box-out powers, I misread the sign and took the wrong tricycle.
Alas, I may (still) have the agility of a twentysomething, but my vision is 20 plus 20.
Showing posts with label Aaaarrrghhh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Aaaarrrghhh. Show all posts
April 13, 2012
September 17, 2009
Vanity Fair
Ever since I fell asleep during yet another attempt to tame my hair and woke up with an ugly burn on my forehead, I have totally shunned beauty parlors. Make that parlors run by gays who can talk up a storm and categorize things and people into "chaka" and "bongga."
Last Friday, though, I put traumatic (beauty) experience aside. Friend A was getting married and there was a collective thought bubble if the gang could get me to go the extra mile. Me, whose idea of makeup is a thin film of sheer lipstick. Me, who signed up for elective woodworking and electrical wiring in high school and NOT cosmetology.
But while I could do away with dressing for the occasion, I could never resist a challenge. With Excruciatingly Thin (and Fashionista) Sister, I ventured into the path less traveled and came face to face with TWO nightmares: one who immediately went for my eyebrows and another who undid my ponytail, surveyed my hair and pronounced the dreaded "C" word.
Twenty or so minutes of facial assault--during which I thought up every possible way of exacting revenge--Nightmare One finally got out of harm's way and left me with my mirror image.
Only, it wasn't me.
Because Real Me doesn't have Bella Flores' eyebrows. And Real Me has frizzy, untamed hair. And Real Me would never make an appointment for a (re)bonding moment with Nightmares One and Two.
Last Friday, though, I put traumatic (beauty) experience aside. Friend A was getting married and there was a collective thought bubble if the gang could get me to go the extra mile. Me, whose idea of makeup is a thin film of sheer lipstick. Me, who signed up for elective woodworking and electrical wiring in high school and NOT cosmetology.
But while I could do away with dressing for the occasion, I could never resist a challenge. With Excruciatingly Thin (and Fashionista) Sister, I ventured into the path less traveled and came face to face with TWO nightmares: one who immediately went for my eyebrows and another who undid my ponytail, surveyed my hair and pronounced the dreaded "C" word.
Twenty or so minutes of facial assault--during which I thought up every possible way of exacting revenge--Nightmare One finally got out of harm's way and left me with my mirror image.
Only, it wasn't me.
Because Real Me doesn't have Bella Flores' eyebrows. And Real Me has frizzy, untamed hair. And Real Me would never make an appointment for a (re)bonding moment with Nightmares One and Two.
November 3, 2008
November 1
The last time I spent an hour or so at the cemetery must have been five or six years ago. Two of my aunts were then in the thick of a raging battle, and the tug-o-war for the "loyalties" of those who remained in neutral was just too much. Since then, my November 1 "tradition" included everything but a visit to what passed for an extended family mausoleum.
This year, I broke my self-imposed moratorium and trudged the almost forgotten path. Ma needed company, and since the two aunts weren't home, there was little chance of my ears being bombarded with the "hush-hush latest." After a few tricky turns--during which I realized that it wasn't such a maze after all--I finally found the almost-empty mausoleum.
For something like ten minutes it was peace and quiet and all things in between. And then, cousins and aunts (wives of uncles, actually), started trickling in, and so did the litany of who-did-whats, who-paid-for-this', and to-whom-it-may-concerns.
By the time I left an hour later, my head was throbbing. And it wasn't from jostling my way past the then already surging crowd. Lesson learned? Pay your respects, but not on November 1.
This year, I broke my self-imposed moratorium and trudged the almost forgotten path. Ma needed company, and since the two aunts weren't home, there was little chance of my ears being bombarded with the "hush-hush latest." After a few tricky turns--during which I realized that it wasn't such a maze after all--I finally found the almost-empty mausoleum.
For something like ten minutes it was peace and quiet and all things in between. And then, cousins and aunts (wives of uncles, actually), started trickling in, and so did the litany of who-did-whats, who-paid-for-this', and to-whom-it-may-concerns.
By the time I left an hour later, my head was throbbing. And it wasn't from jostling my way past the then already surging crowd. Lesson learned? Pay your respects, but not on November 1.
July 10, 2008
Not So High-Tech
You would think, from the millions and millions the government spends on computers, that we would be one tech-savvy bureaucracy, right?
Wrong. Not in our case, at least. There are computers, alright. Internet-capable PCs, sleek laptops, high-end thingamajigs. The thing is, they are rarely ever used to make things a lot less complicated for you and me.
Following the paper trail is still an exercise in patience as one is shunted from one office to another. Almost everything is manual: you look for something and the clerk riffles through logbooks that have obviously seen better days. You follow up action on a request, and your paper is retrieved--after much finger pointing--from a pile of virtually untouched documents. You need something, and you are made to wait, wait and wait. Sometimes for nothing.
Where are the computers in the middle of all these? Busy, of course. With Text Twist and Solitaire and Friendster. The older, on-the-wings-of-retirement set are too jaded to learn something new. The younger ones are clueless on the ways of government. Those in between? As usual, we are caught in the middle.
And so, in this day and age of high-speed connectivity, the wheels of the bureaucracy turn on their own slow, agonizing pace.
Wrong. Not in our case, at least. There are computers, alright. Internet-capable PCs, sleek laptops, high-end thingamajigs. The thing is, they are rarely ever used to make things a lot less complicated for you and me.
Following the paper trail is still an exercise in patience as one is shunted from one office to another. Almost everything is manual: you look for something and the clerk riffles through logbooks that have obviously seen better days. You follow up action on a request, and your paper is retrieved--after much finger pointing--from a pile of virtually untouched documents. You need something, and you are made to wait, wait and wait. Sometimes for nothing.
Where are the computers in the middle of all these? Busy, of course. With Text Twist and Solitaire and Friendster. The older, on-the-wings-of-retirement set are too jaded to learn something new. The younger ones are clueless on the ways of government. Those in between? As usual, we are caught in the middle.
And so, in this day and age of high-speed connectivity, the wheels of the bureaucracy turn on their own slow, agonizing pace.
June 19, 2008
A Day in the Life
Last night, when I checked my receipts from the supermarket, I realized that the cashier must have scanned the wrong code. Either that, or one of the items I bought might have been on sale without me knowing it.
It wasn't really a major purchase, but I wanted to make sure just the same. When I went to the same cashier today, she gave me this look, shook her head and started entering and re-entering numbers. After a lifetime of punching, re-punching and coming up with the same numbers, she mumbled something about an error. Finally, she reached for the phone.
Because the hubby is waiting, and because I knew the one thing he has no patience for is, well, waiting, I asked if it was going to take long. Yes, she said, because the supervisor is still in some other station.
Can't I just pay the balance and get it over with? I asked. It was, after all, the logical thing to do. Again, the look and a snooty reply:
"Sana kasi maam hindi nyo na lang binalik, tutal hindi naman kayo ang lugi."
What???? I was almost tempted to deliver a performance worthy of a best-actress nomination. Or launch into a monologue about character and virtue and stuff that usually creep into sermons and preachings and political speeches. The thing is, why bother? And why waste (precious) energy?
So I gave her an imitation Bella Flores arching of the eyebrows, irritated her some more by drumming my fingers on the counter, clucking my tongue and tapping my foot; and recited "thou shalt not kill" over and over until the supervisor arrived.
It wasn't really a major purchase, but I wanted to make sure just the same. When I went to the same cashier today, she gave me this look, shook her head and started entering and re-entering numbers. After a lifetime of punching, re-punching and coming up with the same numbers, she mumbled something about an error. Finally, she reached for the phone.
Because the hubby is waiting, and because I knew the one thing he has no patience for is, well, waiting, I asked if it was going to take long. Yes, she said, because the supervisor is still in some other station.
Can't I just pay the balance and get it over with? I asked. It was, after all, the logical thing to do. Again, the look and a snooty reply:
"Sana kasi maam hindi nyo na lang binalik, tutal hindi naman kayo ang lugi."
What???? I was almost tempted to deliver a performance worthy of a best-actress nomination. Or launch into a monologue about character and virtue and stuff that usually creep into sermons and preachings and political speeches. The thing is, why bother? And why waste (precious) energy?
So I gave her an imitation Bella Flores arching of the eyebrows, irritated her some more by drumming my fingers on the counter, clucking my tongue and tapping my foot; and recited "thou shalt not kill" over and over until the supervisor arrived.
February 17, 2008
Not Quite Political
The state of the nation does not interest me. Make that the political state of the nation. I so dislike it when politicians deliver verbose speeches, when TV stations make superstars out of ordinary bureaucrats turned star witnesses. I don't like it one bit when lawmakers try so hard to put sense into otherwise senseless rhetorics.
In other words, I don't like what it happening in the corridors of power ... again.
Not when there are more important things to do. Like plant trees. Or humor the children. Or stop global warming. Or fight AIDS. Or save the tamaraw from extinction.
As it is, precious hours are wasted on circuitous questions that only serve to muddle and befuddle. I am not even sure if the askers of questions really want answers, or if they just want to hear themselves ask.
I don't know about you, but three "people power" revolutions--and countless coup attempts in between--have left me politically jaded. As I sit through the recent hullabaloo, I feel like an audience in one of those Sunday showbiz shows: lost in a show of hams.
Come to think of it, today's politics is becoming increasingly so much like show business: entertaining at times, but so very, very far-fetched. So not of this world.
In other words, I don't like what it happening in the corridors of power ... again.
Not when there are more important things to do. Like plant trees. Or humor the children. Or stop global warming. Or fight AIDS. Or save the tamaraw from extinction.
As it is, precious hours are wasted on circuitous questions that only serve to muddle and befuddle. I am not even sure if the askers of questions really want answers, or if they just want to hear themselves ask.
I don't know about you, but three "people power" revolutions--and countless coup attempts in between--have left me politically jaded. As I sit through the recent hullabaloo, I feel like an audience in one of those Sunday showbiz shows: lost in a show of hams.
Come to think of it, today's politics is becoming increasingly so much like show business: entertaining at times, but so very, very far-fetched. So not of this world.
January 23, 2008
Caught in the Middle
For the longest time, I thought that being in the middle is safest position in the universe. Boring, perhaps, if you like weaving in and out of two extremes. But safe nonetheless. And convenient.
Now I'm not so sure. Two women I know are engaged in a tug-o-war, the winner of which might just bag the guy. The "war" has reached pathetic proportions, what with catfights and unpleasant encounters and gossip galore.
And where I am through all the high drama? Hopelessly caught in the middle. Stuck, actually. In their war, the two are forcing everyone to take sides. As if theirs is the only story unfolding this very minute. I cannot--and will not--budge, and I have told them that a million times.
Still, it gets awfully irritating, especially when I have the (mis)fortune of working with the two of them. Now I realize that being in the middle can get pretty uncomfortable, too.
Now I'm not so sure. Two women I know are engaged in a tug-o-war, the winner of which might just bag the guy. The "war" has reached pathetic proportions, what with catfights and unpleasant encounters and gossip galore.
And where I am through all the high drama? Hopelessly caught in the middle. Stuck, actually. In their war, the two are forcing everyone to take sides. As if theirs is the only story unfolding this very minute. I cannot--and will not--budge, and I have told them that a million times.
Still, it gets awfully irritating, especially when I have the (mis)fortune of working with the two of them. Now I realize that being in the middle can get pretty uncomfortable, too.
January 4, 2008
Ah, the Inefficiency!
I am generally a very patient person. Too patient, in fact. Or so my friends say. I can wait for my turn, I can wait for the light to go green, I can weather long, snaking queues. But I can't, for the life of me, tolerate inefficiency. I can wait, wait and wait for as long as I get results.
And so off I was this morning to this particular office with every intention of getting results. I had been told to come back on the first working day of January. Since it's already the third, I figured I'd be out of there in no time.
Wrong. The first person I approached--the head of office on whose desk I saw my office's documents last year--gave me a blank stare and pointed me elsewhere. He continued to chomp on his Skyflakes.
The person "elsewhere" riffled through a tattered logbook then pointed me somewhere else. Four tables and four equally blank stares later, they told me that perhaps it's still with this other office, who showed me proof that the darn thing was received by the first office on December 5!
Miss Tattered Logbook leafed through the pages once again, as if the documents would materialize right before her, sensing that I wasn't being Miss Congeniality anymore. By then, I had already wasted two hours. I went back to the chief, who had the nerve to tell me that he couldn't possibly keep track of all the documents flowing in and out of his territory.
Thirty minutes after my dour exit, a staff from that office showed up with the document. It was, she said, on the chief's desk all along. True enough, it still had a hint of Skyflakes sticking on it.
Talk about "gross" inefficiency!
And so off I was this morning to this particular office with every intention of getting results. I had been told to come back on the first working day of January. Since it's already the third, I figured I'd be out of there in no time.
Wrong. The first person I approached--the head of office on whose desk I saw my office's documents last year--gave me a blank stare and pointed me elsewhere. He continued to chomp on his Skyflakes.
The person "elsewhere" riffled through a tattered logbook then pointed me somewhere else. Four tables and four equally blank stares later, they told me that perhaps it's still with this other office, who showed me proof that the darn thing was received by the first office on December 5!
Miss Tattered Logbook leafed through the pages once again, as if the documents would materialize right before her, sensing that I wasn't being Miss Congeniality anymore. By then, I had already wasted two hours. I went back to the chief, who had the nerve to tell me that he couldn't possibly keep track of all the documents flowing in and out of his territory.
Thirty minutes after my dour exit, a staff from that office showed up with the document. It was, she said, on the chief's desk all along. True enough, it still had a hint of Skyflakes sticking on it.
Talk about "gross" inefficiency!
December 12, 2007
A is for Attitude
A colleague told me that one of the bosses thinks I have an attitude problem. And what is The (Minor) Boss's legal basis? I asked. After all, my Mom still has this medal stashed somewhere: a medal that proudly proclaims that I was--ahem--third in conduct in the CM Kindergarten Class of '73.
As it turned out, The Boss was irritated because I "snubbed" him. He was calling me, he told the colleague, and I obviously heard him but I walked on. I do remember being in the corridor and hearing someone shouting "hoy" behind me. And since I thought "Hoy" couldn't possibly be me, I went about my business without bothering to look where--or from whom--that demanding "hoy" was coming from.
Now it can be told: I have an attitude problem because I have a name. And it's not "Hoy."
As it turned out, The Boss was irritated because I "snubbed" him. He was calling me, he told the colleague, and I obviously heard him but I walked on. I do remember being in the corridor and hearing someone shouting "hoy" behind me. And since I thought "Hoy" couldn't possibly be me, I went about my business without bothering to look where--or from whom--that demanding "hoy" was coming from.
Now it can be told: I have an attitude problem because I have a name. And it's not "Hoy."
December 8, 2007
Virused
First it was me. And then it was my PC. As I wheezed and sneezed, the monitor sparked, fizzled and just plain conked out. We were hit by a virus--my PC and I.
While I was left "postless" for more than a month, the world went on its usual dizzying whirl. The terrible two discovered "High Thchool Muthical" and has been driving me crazy with her imaginary conversations with Gabriella. The uncle was laid to rest with the entire city watching: the funeral, believe it or not, coincided with the "Pantomina sa Tinampo," a slow, super slow streetdance that dragged on for hours. Needless to say, the funeral music was drowned out by the pantomina that blared from speakers positioned all over the main streets. The display windows have shed off their halloween adornments and have since been taken over by the cheery greens, reds and golds of the season. The Manila Pen siege--or whatever it was--is a thing of the past.
Through all these, I realized that it is more frustrating not to be able to go blog-hopping than to be unable to blog. And that it is equally frustrating to know that SNHS Batch 84 chatted well into the wee hours while suddenly-unconnected me was, well, left hanging. Twice. When I opened my inbox and saw that there were 258 legit mail to be read, I knew that there would be a lot of catching up to do.
Thankfully, I am halfway there. Although I have to say that this virus thing is really a bummer. Now, if I can only have my old files back...
While I was left "postless" for more than a month, the world went on its usual dizzying whirl. The terrible two discovered "High Thchool Muthical" and has been driving me crazy with her imaginary conversations with Gabriella. The uncle was laid to rest with the entire city watching: the funeral, believe it or not, coincided with the "Pantomina sa Tinampo," a slow, super slow streetdance that dragged on for hours. Needless to say, the funeral music was drowned out by the pantomina that blared from speakers positioned all over the main streets. The display windows have shed off their halloween adornments and have since been taken over by the cheery greens, reds and golds of the season. The Manila Pen siege--or whatever it was--is a thing of the past.
Through all these, I realized that it is more frustrating not to be able to go blog-hopping than to be unable to blog. And that it is equally frustrating to know that SNHS Batch 84 chatted well into the wee hours while suddenly-unconnected me was, well, left hanging. Twice. When I opened my inbox and saw that there were 258 legit mail to be read, I knew that there would be a lot of catching up to do.
Thankfully, I am halfway there. Although I have to say that this virus thing is really a bummer. Now, if I can only have my old files back...
October 1, 2007
Me, Myself and I
There's this one character who is so into herself she thinks the whole world revolves around her. To say that she is self-centered is an understatement. She loves hearing herself talk, and in most cases it's always about me, myself and I. As in "I" alone did this. Oh, "I" have this wonderful, wonderful idea. "Yours truly" thought up the whole thing.
Once, Ms. MMI was asked to comment on/edit/correct a manuscript. The manuscript came back virtually untouched, except for the part where the members of the team were listed. Across her name, alongside her official designation, Ms. MMI added a "few" more titles: chief of this and that, chair of this and that, head of this and that...Obviously, the other members of the team were just, well, members. Ms. MMI had to be a member and a star.
Ms. MMI just can't resist hogging the "limelight." In one training sponsored by her well-staffed office, she put on a one-woman-show of sorts. She emceed, she led the opening prayer, she conducted the national anthem, she introduced the guest speaker (mercifully,it wasn't her), she did the closing remarks and she acted as the facilitator and lecturer. Ironically, the training was about empowering and motivating the staff.
Recently, Ms. MMI raised hell because some little usherette forgot to pin a corsage on her. She shed (crocodile)tears and went up to the usherette's boss, moaning about how insulted she was and how, given her stature, she should have been given that darn corsage. To her credit, Ms. MMI can really do a Vilma Santos if she wanted to. To cut an unbelievable story short, memos were issued, program designs were written and a whole bunch of "experts" were flown in to lecture on workplace ethics. And all because of one frigging, cheap corsage!
For all her self-centeredness, Ms. MMI might as well borrow this monologue thought up by a colleague from a long time ago:
"Okay, enough about me. Let's talk about you. So, what do you think of me?"
Once, Ms. MMI was asked to comment on/edit/correct a manuscript. The manuscript came back virtually untouched, except for the part where the members of the team were listed. Across her name, alongside her official designation, Ms. MMI added a "few" more titles: chief of this and that, chair of this and that, head of this and that...Obviously, the other members of the team were just, well, members. Ms. MMI had to be a member and a star.
Ms. MMI just can't resist hogging the "limelight." In one training sponsored by her well-staffed office, she put on a one-woman-show of sorts. She emceed, she led the opening prayer, she conducted the national anthem, she introduced the guest speaker (mercifully,it wasn't her), she did the closing remarks and she acted as the facilitator and lecturer. Ironically, the training was about empowering and motivating the staff.
Recently, Ms. MMI raised hell because some little usherette forgot to pin a corsage on her. She shed (crocodile)tears and went up to the usherette's boss, moaning about how insulted she was and how, given her stature, she should have been given that darn corsage. To her credit, Ms. MMI can really do a Vilma Santos if she wanted to. To cut an unbelievable story short, memos were issued, program designs were written and a whole bunch of "experts" were flown in to lecture on workplace ethics. And all because of one frigging, cheap corsage!
For all her self-centeredness, Ms. MMI might as well borrow this monologue thought up by a colleague from a long time ago:
"Okay, enough about me. Let's talk about you. So, what do you think of me?"
June 18, 2007
Customer Complaint
I am rarely crabby. My friends can vouch for that. Oh, I would complain about politics and showbiz and about my pesky officemate E. I would whine about clogged toilet bowls and people who don't know their biodegradables from their non-biodegradables. I would object to careless, if callous remarks. But to rant about something for three days in a row? So very not me, definitely. Unless we're talking coffee.
And we are.
At the grocery over the weekend, I grabbed a big bag of instant coffee that had "new and improved" or something to that effect proudly bannered on the package. The tag alone was enough to conjure--where did I get the phrase?--coffee-clouded dreams. In my mind I pictured myself out on the garden chair, waiting for sunrise and warming up with a steaming, heavenly mugful.
Alas, "new and improved" is relative. One sip, and I thought how do you improve something that is already perfect as it is? I mean, this is the same coffee that serves as official pasalubong to an equally coffee-loving sister in NY. And now, it's no longer distinct from the nicely packaged but otherwise unremarkable "stateside" instants. Boo hoo.
The blah-ness of it all urged me to e-mail customer service. No, I did not rant. The "new and improved" version is much too weak to make me raise hell. I did tell the company that the coffee is much too sweet. Adding water makes it taste more like sweetened caffeine-spiked water.
I know, of course, that coming up with something new and improved takes months of experimenting, of brewing this and mixing that, of research and stuff. I imagine test tubes and flasks and supermarket kiosks with blindfolded housewives choosing between Brand X and Brand Y.
My mind and my tastebuds scream for the old "original," though. I have already raided the grocery for the old stock. Pretty soon, I know that I'll have to do my version of the Brand X and Brand Y debacle.
Better yet, I'll go back to brewed. In which case, I'll have to go to the store for a new and improved coffee maker.
And we are.
At the grocery over the weekend, I grabbed a big bag of instant coffee that had "new and improved" or something to that effect proudly bannered on the package. The tag alone was enough to conjure--where did I get the phrase?--coffee-clouded dreams. In my mind I pictured myself out on the garden chair, waiting for sunrise and warming up with a steaming, heavenly mugful.
Alas, "new and improved" is relative. One sip, and I thought how do you improve something that is already perfect as it is? I mean, this is the same coffee that serves as official pasalubong to an equally coffee-loving sister in NY. And now, it's no longer distinct from the nicely packaged but otherwise unremarkable "stateside" instants. Boo hoo.
The blah-ness of it all urged me to e-mail customer service. No, I did not rant. The "new and improved" version is much too weak to make me raise hell. I did tell the company that the coffee is much too sweet. Adding water makes it taste more like sweetened caffeine-spiked water.
I know, of course, that coming up with something new and improved takes months of experimenting, of brewing this and mixing that, of research and stuff. I imagine test tubes and flasks and supermarket kiosks with blindfolded housewives choosing between Brand X and Brand Y.
My mind and my tastebuds scream for the old "original," though. I have already raided the grocery for the old stock. Pretty soon, I know that I'll have to do my version of the Brand X and Brand Y debacle.
Better yet, I'll go back to brewed. In which case, I'll have to go to the store for a new and improved coffee maker.
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