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Our office cleaner is a guy. He was hired because he told me this story about his meager pay as a guard and how he needs extra income in order to support his son through college. I cannot say no to things like this. So with no room for misgivings, I gave him the job.
He's been working for us for three months now and so far, he is good at it though I continue to wonder why he never sweeps the floor. I remember telling him on day two, after noticing that he didn't sweep the floor, that he should do so before mopping. He said yes but I've yet to see him do it.
Last month I found out that he rinses the rag for wiping tables in the same pail that he uses for mopping, and with the same water at that! Que horror! I immediately got him a basin the next day and told him to use that "exlusively" for washing the rag. He said yes but with barely disguised puzzlement. He looked like I just forbade him to mix coffee and milk together.
When he mops, and there are all these computer cables and wires lying on the floor, he would push them with the mop so they get dragged to whatever direction he leads them to. Which sometimes causes some wires or plugs to get pulled out from their outlets. I never called his attention about this because he might start thinking of me as this hawk that watches his every move. I am not and I don't. I just always happen to see him doing these things by accident. What unfortunate accidents on my part because they really get to me.
I remember this conversation I had with my landlady. She said that one reason why she will never get an "ayi" ( a local term for female domestic help) is because her OC-ness will get the better of her, and she will always fuss over the ayi to do things right -- or her way. She will find fault in everything she does if it doesn't conform to her own approach so in the end no work will ever get done, and everyone is unhappy. That hit the nail on the head as far as my own reluctance to get an ayi is concerned.
I am forever complaining about backaches and stress from the never-ending household chores and planning to hire someone to do the job. But never did. Truth is I think I'll feel doubly stressed if I got someone who uses the same rag to wipe the entire house, never once rinsing it, or if I found out that she washes the mop on the kitchen sink -- something I saw our office-neighbor ayi doing! It doesn't help, too, that I am the type who feels bad after reproving someone for a wrongdoing, and worse if I had to do it again. Alas, I am a victim of my own fastidiousness and politeness which are likely to confine me to a lifetime of household drudgeries and... well, backaches.
With our office cleaner, I try to avoid any chance of witnessing more misses by not watching him work while I can. For a guy he is actually doing a great job. I also appreciate that he is a conscientious worker who does not go around wasting soaps, cleaners and water like most hired helps do. Most importantly, I always put in mind that this job helps augment his income. I cannot take that away from him just because I am finicky, and without the nerve to play the part of the authoritative employer.
By the way, each time after he cleans my table and keyboard, I always go back to my desk with the Internet Explorer's Help Menu on display. Always. I guess that, also, is a talent.
I'm sharing this "bloggish email" -- as she fondly calls it -- from a dear friend in the US who wrote it during one blah day at work. I like its straightforward and unembellished tone. I know the piece ends almost abruptly, but then it's an email, not some formal essay. I love the "Manila nostalgia" part best. She allowed me to publish this on the condition that she is not named so she shall only be known as "She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." Hee Hee. Thanks, Bee! (OK, don't fret. I think there's only like three of us who know you by that name!)
Enjoy reading as much as I did. I'm sure those of you also living far from home will find yourselves agreeing with what she wrote.
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Blah.....This day has been blah since it started. My eyes are puffy complemented by dark circles, the winning combination to achieve that 28 Days Later look, ugh! And today's my boss' birthday too! Her office is trashed in every fashion: caution tape on her main office door, turquoise and orange streamers serve as curtain to our connecting doorway, balloons all over, a balloon safari guy with a bubble saying, "Relax, it's your birthday" written with a sharpie and a streamer garland on her corkboard. Her birthday marks the end of a week-long March birthday bashes filled with sugar. And that's why we opted to serve breakfast instead of cake. I don't think I can look at another birthday cake anymore and not feel sick! I'm proud of my nice (read: trashy) handiwork though, hehe. I am the only one in this company who actually trashes people's offices for their birthdays.=) And now we've defaulted to "homemade" birthday cards -- I create them! It's fun though, I just create simple big cards for everyone to sign. =) Saves time. Saves money. People seem to like it. =)
I so want to go to the lounge and take my lunch like I usually do. Spend an hour watching a rerun of Monk, Project Runway or catching giant bobblehead Giada on the Food Channel. An hour of relaxation and entertainment helps the listless mind on a particularly blah day. But for some annoyingly odd reason I feel guilty taking my lunch while my boss is working away! On any other day, I'd be totally fine. I don't think I should treat her for lunch anymore since we already brought breakfast for her and the office. I also gave her a bunch of flowers already and I decorated (read: trashed) her office, not to mention, the homemade birthday card! Bottom line is: I ALREADY SPENT A LOT. The regular food delivery guy came and went and she didn't get her lunch!
Oh well, I'm eating. I need that full hour to make this day go faster. I'll change into my workout clothes 15 miinutes to 5 pm take a few gulps of my Formula 50 Vitamin Water and head straight for my weight class. Yes, despite the hell of an aftermath last week, I'm going back for more. A different teacher though so we'll see. We're having sushi for dinner tonight, which, I'm thinking twice about now. I might eat a heavier meal than sushi tonight, hehe.
[got ready to leave my office and my boss exclaims to no one in particular, "Oh we're sooo cray today!"]
Now I'm eating at my desk, bye bye Monk or Project runway or Giada. I'm beyond caring if my boss gets a good whiff of my delicious pork giniling menudo, ha! Mmm-mmm! Having lived here for almost 10 years, it's natural to think I've completely let go of my Filipino palate. On the contrary, I've even enhanced it! Enhanced not just my palate but culinary skills as a whole. It's just like how my relatioinship with my mom has gotten closer because we're far apart, hihi. Manila is still my anchor. Everything about me is rooted in the Philippines and living here just made me realize how I love my heritage (shucks.). I know, I know, the country as a whole is almost a joke but if you really dissect it, the joke is the politics. Everything else is just lovely. Except for the degradation of everything lovely. HA! Haaaaay, I can't wait to hit the beaches when I go home in 2009! Please, please, please, just don't let me jinx myself on this!
My sister has this habit of sharing what she's reading or watching on the spot, regardless of what I'm doing or if my mood is up for listening. Like recently, she was watching this horror film from her desktop:
Sister: Look! look! The ghost is wearing red and she's running after the female lead.
Doris (seriously reading something on the net, and not removing the eyes from the pc): Uhm.
Moments later.
Sister: Now everyone thinks she's nuts. They think she's seeing things.
Doris: ...
Sister: She's taking the subway now and the ghost in red appears again.
Doris: (stares at her and her monitor with a blank expression and switches back to own monitor)
Sister: (continues talking which I don't hear anymore)
That is how it's like every day.
I love my sister.
We coexist peacefully.
Because saying "Counter Closed" is boring.
Otherwise translated as Unauthorized Persons, Strictly No Admittance to the Warehouse.
Of course I never regarded John Legend and Martin Luther King along the same lines, looks included. But when I opened today's MSN homepage, I thought it was John that I saw, and it turned out to be MLK.
My eyes see the strangest resemblances and similiarities which translate to queerness. Come to think of it, there's more Eddie Murphy features in MLK, no?
There are days that I get terribly tired of all the self-centeredness around me, all I want to do is just shut myself off from the rest of the world. Today is one of those days.
I realize that I'm not the good listener (or the saint) that the whole world thinks me to be. I guess I'm just always too polite to show disinterest or to outrightly brush someone off. I've mastered the art of listening so well that I can usually react with "Is that so" or "That's so bad" at the right moment even if my mind has wandered off elsewhere, and I've no freaking idea what the other person is talking about.
What disappoints me the most are these people whom we call friends who suddenly remember to write or call when they're having problems or are in their "self-absorbed" moments. When everything's all right, they're forever so busy they never have time to write an e-mail, even just to say hi. Then there are those that I don't even consider friends who come running to me for favors and help like I owe it to them. Which always makes me feel tempted to say "I don't want to help you because we are not friends to begin with. If you want to use me, please consider employing some style and a little subtlety. Also, sudden flattery and friendliness will only make me leery which decreases the already small chance of me making your problem my problem."
I should partly blame myself for always being so generous with my time and "ears" that everyone seems to think that all I do is sit here waiting to hear their stories or do them favors. Well for the record, I don't. Now if you think this is about you, then it probably is in which case I hope you do something about it. If you're not the subject in question yet insist that you are, feel free to charge it to vanity. It is the kind of conceit that I can still take. And please forget the chutzpah of confronting me if you're the star (or one of the stars) of this post because I just said that I am a polite person so there's no way I'd humiliate another by confirming the worst about himself. There's still this thing called instrospection so use it instead.
I go here when I'm strapped for cash.
Hamburg for the humbugs?
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Forgiven but not forgotten.
Three years ago, I could have fooled myself into believing that within me lay the fountain of youth when I was thought to be my younger brother's younger sister. He is seven years younger than I am.
Like a cruel joke, I was mistaken for his mother barely three years after.
And just yesterday, this promo girl for some children's product asked if I have kids at home. That's her way of saying " you look like a mother so I will sell you these things that might interest your kids."
One time my cousin joked that since there seems to be no chance for her little daughter to be the flower girl on my wedding (meaning I'll never get married anyway), she'll just reserve the bridesmaid post for me when the little girl grows up and gets married.
All these epiphanies about how old I already am scare me. I do not really worry much about looking old ( but I did when they thought I was my brother's mother!), and hardly about my single-blessedness. I worry about letting each year pass by without getting anything done -- not even the very simple task of reading all the books that I've bought. My age has become directly proportional to my laziness. And the only thing I'm good at is to harp on it; just like the way I deal with my weight.
Clearly, I am having the pre-birthday blues which I have every year. Next year, I will just copy this whole piece and post it on this same blog a few days before my birthday.
On a lighter side, I go here (The Guardian called it a decent alternative to Hallmark schmaltz) when I need some dose of funnies. Please do not send me any e-card unless it is from them. I am done with sentimental stuff. Now make me laugh.
Quote of the day:
"Sometimes I've been caricatured as this emasculating wife. Do you think anybody could emasculate Barack Obama?" - Michelle Obama
I got a new haircut today, and I look like John Travolta in Hairspray -- only older, uglier and without the bangs.
... and it's not the hairdresser's fault.
I don't know what to do now.
On my way to lunch this afternoon, I was approached by this girl from a TV channel. She asked if I was willing to be interviewed for their New Year's special.
What should I do, I asked. You only need to answer a few questions, like what books you read last year, she said. But all the books I read last year were English. None was Chinese, I told her. Oh! Have you read Cat in the Bag, then? You can talk about it, she said excitedly. No, I replied. It's OK. You can just say a few lines of New Year's wishes, she offered hopefully. Sorry but I am quite shy about being on TV, I said at last.
I wondered later why I didn't just tell her from the start that I wasn't going to do it.
And the truthful reason wasn't so much about my fear of being on TV but more because there's no way I was going to appear on TV looking like someone who had the mumps and edema twice magnified.Yes, I am vain that way. No, my inferiority complex and low self-esteem work like that.
On a totally unrelated note, I can't wait for winter to be over because I smell unwashed hair everywhere I go. I'm starting to have breathing problems.
1. Footless socks
It doesn't need to be Prada which inspired this interest (but if it's for free, why not?), though I have serious doubts about finding them even if I wanted to, because they're sold out everywhere. I wish H&M would produce them. And yes, I am big on socks lately. Don't ask me why because I have nothing to say except I dont know.
2. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath by Sylvia Plath (edited by Karen V. Kukil)
I am crazy about Sylvia Plath's writings — most especially her personal letters and journals — in the same way that she was crazy about death and dying. I think I am too, about dying, sometimes. But that's beside the point.
3. DVD copy of Chungking Express
I've been wanting to see this forever, but it's also taking me forever to find a copy. I can't find any here. I think Hong Kong is the place. But my brother wasn't able to get one, either. Maybe it's just him and his laziness.
4. D&G's Light Blue scent
The brother got this for mom last Christmas. I loved it so much I kept making calls home, reminding her that if she didn't like the scent, she could always have it transported back here. She did — like it I mean.
Update: I just found out that this is the favorite scent of almost everyone I know. Because I don't like to smell like everyone else, I change my mind about loving it.
5. Wedge boots
Because I like to look tall, and not worry about getting my heels stuck in the escalator, or fear for my ankles (cankles to be honest) when I'm making that mad dash towards the bus.
6. New pair of specs
Sure, I can continue using my age-old Miss Tapia (pun quite intended) glasses till they fall apart because I only wear them at home, and very rarely at that. But as the term "old maid" is meant to be a self-fulfilling prophecy, the most I can do — and hope — is to not look the part.
7. Magic frock
I need it to do super, super wonders for a non-super size number. In short, I must fit into a size 4 without any unsightly bulge, and be able to breathe properly. Vanity sizing it is!
OMG, I almost died laughing at this hilarious signboard. Good thing, it's now changed to The Dongda Proctology Hospital. Read the related article, which is about Beijing's preparation and cleanup drive (on public manners like not spitting in public places and proper English translation of signs and billboards, among others) for the coming Olympics, in full here.
If you're too lazy, here's another one:
"Some translations are trickier, like describing pullet, which is a hen less than a year old but appears on some menus as Sexually Inexperienced Chicken."
Now try to make sense out of this. It almost sounds like a sexual harassment invitation; or an act of indecency that you're supposed to like because it's a "pleasant surprise."
A better translation of the sign above might be, "Find something new and be pleasantly surprised."
I want to volunteer and be an English police. I need more laughter and amusement in my otherwise monotonous daily life.
I want this Anya Hindmarch bag, before everyone in the street starts carrying one.
It's stylish, not so expensive, and most importantly, eco-friendly.
I want it. I want it. I want it.
When they first made a limited edition of this,mainly to raise environmental awareness, they didn't expect the overwhelming response that it got. Hindmarch says of the tote-craze, "It's gone ballistic."
It has. The bags are now sold out in the UK. There are no plans of producing more of these bags as of now.
Good news is they will launch it in the US and some parts of South East Asia ( yay, Shanghai is included) middle of this year. Stocks are up for grabs by way of pre-order due to the limited availability.
I already signed up in their website to receive updates. I hope I stand a chance. My dreams for the next two months will all be about Anya and her plastic bag-NOT! I hope I'm not going to be waiting for Godot.
Melanie Griffith must stop wearing things that reveal her legs in such sad, sorry state.
She's barely 50.
I am scared. Must take care of the knees too, from this day on.
I am feeling confused right now because I am not getting my magazine subscriptions the way I expected. What I'm saying is one day I get Time Europe, the next it's Time International and then some days it's Time Asia. This is really not much of a problem except that I usually ( almost always to be precise) miss the special issues.
I love special issues. I usually find myself buying magazines that I don't read whenever there's SPECIAL ISSUE largely printed on the cover. It's a weakness or sickness, whatever you want to call it. But I digress.
Foreign magazine subscription here is hard to come by, and they charge really ridiculous,over the top fees that would make you just forget it. So imagine my delight a year back, when I saw an ad in an expat forum offering reasonably low subscription rates. I jumped at it of course, with no second thoughts.
Now there's a price to pay for things you get for less, so aside from having to guess which issue I'm getting each time, I also have to deal with their questionable provenance. One time, I flipped through a page and something that looked like coffee stain met my disgust. And I'm not even going to talk in detail about this other time when I came across something mucous-like that got dried. Ick!
It looks like my "dealer" obtains my magazines from airports, coffee shops and hotels. And I mean the "take away in stealth, while no one's looking" kind of obtainment. I am quite sure because in one of them, there was a sticker of an airline's name on it.
Those are some reasons to justify why my reading backlog looks this way. 
But what I really want to say is, to my understanding friends whose e-mails I have not yet answered, I have not forgotten and will not ignore them. Even these magazines have not taken precedence over your mails.
I read a lot of online news and blogs ( which translate to only one word: gossip) though. But that is another story.
Quote of the day:
"If you don't wear lipstick, I can't talk to you. You need to have lips. They are very important for getting men."
- Isabella Blow,1958-2007
I am not about to start a fashion blog but I just have to share this. I recently discovered this new shoe store which originates from Canada. The first time I visited, it was instantly a case of love at first sight. Their shoe and bag collections ( there is also a small selection of accessories to boot) are literally the kinds that my taste ( read: either plain or quirky) would approve of. This new find has turned me into a compulsive shopper where the urge to sweep the store clean each time I visit is never lost. Truth be told, I just came back with a shoe and bag purchase and I'm already predicting a sleepless night later fantasizing about this lovely clutch and this. Plus these ankle-strap stilettos. And I don't know if it's the effect of spring and the coming summer but I'm currently so obsessing over yellow flats (anything yellow actually), wedges and espradrilles, all of which the store carries aplenty with different beautiful designs.
Oh dear Aldo, you had me at hello but I have to stop loving you in order to not burn a huge hole in my pocket or outdo Babs on her hallway shoe exhibit hehe
Jenna Fischer shares the same birthday with me - same day, same year! She's Jim Halpert's love interest in The Office. I am crazy about Halpert. So I'm thinking, if Fischer decides that she's had enough of being Pam Beesly and I audition for the part, my chances of getting the role are actually far from slim.
Many thanks to all the people who remembered and greeted. And to that one person who patiently peppered me with nearly a hundred missed calls while I was asleep, you are truly the highlight of my birthday.
And this one too.
This morning at the pastry shop, while me, my dad, and younger sis were getting the cake:
Store clerk: So what age do I get for the candles?
Me: 33 (Then points to sister).
Surprised mirth was all over my dad's face while sister was speechless with incredulous shock.
It is now an official fact that I will forever be in denial when it comes to my age. It will never be just a number.
Last Tuesday, I had a taste of what it's like to be a carnival attraction.
I took up this one-day job as co-facilitator for a summer camp of grade schoolers from the neighboring Shandong province. I was informed that there will only be seven to ten students and my job was only (ONLY being the operative word here) to accompany them on tour of the famous Zhou Zhuang Water Village in Kunshan and engage them in simple English conversations. Until that day came and nothing was like what I was told.
First, the kids must have been Gremlins incarnate that caught the rain because the supposed 7-10 headcount rose to a startling 80! Then I thought my very light make-up of powder and lipstick made me look the part of a geisha compared to all the teachers who wore none, and who seemed appalled that I took care to make myself appear presentable. They spent the entire day casting stealthy glances my way, and their obvious discomfort over my presence made me feel like a scientific experiment gone wrong that everyone feared and wanted to keep at bay.
When I was introduced to the kids, whose ages range from 9-12, as "the English teacher," they appeared so terrified it wouldn't have been surprising if they all performed aspersion on me right that very moment. But since they're most likely non-Catholics, I imagined them reciting Buddhist incantations to ward off an evil spirit instead. It was only when their teachers revealed that I spoke both Mandarin and English that their wary and aloof eyes lit up followed by huge sighs of relief. ( I found out later they knew and spoke very little English.)
After that, I turned to a specimen that they examined and stared at with curious wonder. I was bombarded with questions like "Lao shi (teacher),why isn't your hair blonde," "Why don't you have blue eyes" and "Are you a Chinese or an American" -- all because I kew English. So I found myself repeating explanations about my family roots just to show them the facts on what makes me essentially Chinese in terms of genealogical makeup. I have never said so much about myself in my whole deleted years of existence.
Later in the day, I was in for another shock. Like I said earlier, my understanding of my job was to converse with the kids in English. So imagine my surprise when I was called in by one of the teachers who asked me to organize an activity for the kids where they could utilize and practice their English skills. Err...nobody told me that it was part of my job or that day's activities for that matter so I was practically unprepared. My mind raced quickly and rewinded back to my childhood days hoping to recall any classroom activity that we've had. But nothing came up, not one!
The teacher, seeing my obvious distress and inability to deliver, came to my rescue ( but not without a trace of annoyance) and suggested that I sing with them instead. The song: If You're Happy And You Know It Clap Your Hands. The bad news: I didn't know the complete lines to that song. It's a good thing there's this boy who knew it, and in the guise of testing him, I asked him to sing the song in whole while I mentally memorized the lines. It's a relief the kids enjoyed it. The next activity, where I taught them simple English words and phrases also turned out well.
The rest of the day was thankfully not marred by any more disaster on my part though I knew I've left an ugly impression among the teachers. This was confirmed when the principal approached me with this comment: "The teachers are all wondering why the school coordinator sent us a young girl." In normal circumstances, being referred to as "young" or "youthful" would induce me into a sky-high stupor of self-adulation but not in this case. Clearly, they're saying I'm a "disappointment" and not the right person for the job. Not that I disagree ( hehe) but still, nobody jumps in glee at a negative feedback so it made me feel a little bad.
My saving grace for that day was the kids. They showed a great degree of fondness for me, and welcomed my presence for which I was very grateful and touched. Because of them, I didn't mind for the first time about being badly burned, and sticky from the sun's scorching heat. I even learned what "prickly heat" is in Mandarin from them.
So would I still do this if given the chance? Absolutely yes. But without the teachers who remind me of dementors.
ADDENDUM
That one experience made me realize that before accepting job offers of any nature the next time, I'll have to make sure my resume carries the following caveats:
IS PREMATURELY SENILE BEYOND CURE -can't remember things that are more than a day's old so anything that requires memory recollection is largely discouraged and at best, avoided.
CHRONIC STAGE FRIGHT SUFFERER - shouldn't be made to talk, do speeches or even stand in front of a crowd of more than ten people - kids from age 10 and up included. Otherwise, would start to exhibit strange behaviors such as slurred speech and sudden hearing loss brought about by the deafening sound of one's rapid heartbeat. In most cases, would go as far as faking one's own death to save oneself from foreseen disgrace and embarrassment.
HAS THE CREATIVITY OF A LEFT-BRAINED ( THOUGH NEITHER LEFT OR RIGHT-BRAINED) - Does not know the meaning of creative, artistic and anything related to innovation. Would rather be the table or chair in a role-play than the actor who acts as though he were the table and the chair. Has a great degree of aversion to group activities particularly those that require brainstorming. If forced to do any of the above activities, would always be wrongfully accused of being uncooperative,unhelpful and lazy.
And I still wonder why I've always had difficulty finding jobs...
Whoever wrote this sign did not have any intention to be insensitive or politically incorrect. S/he was merely lost in translation.
What it really says: Exclusive for the disabled.
In other news.
Due to the recent cut (MI:3 because some scenes painted an ugly image of Shanghai e.g. an old woman hanging her laundry outside the streets) and ban (Pirates of the Caribbean for showing cannibalism) on some major Hollywood films, I was fraught with fear of the possibility that I was going to watch an altered version of Superman Returns when I got to the cinema yesterday and saw this.
It all looked to me like Superman Returns ...to Hairdressing.
Good thing the movie wasn't anything like it and Brandon Routh was Superman in every sense of the word.
They say that two sure-fire barometers of an individual's personal hygiene (or lack thereof) are his/her feet, and the bathroom. In my personal experience, one's bathroom habits also tell a lot.
I have this new workmate who's your typical girl with all the trimmings of vanity and poise: feminine skirts, holds her spoon with the pinkie raised high enough to touch her nose, and strappy sandals that show off her clean, manicured toenails. So my impression of her was fairly okay until the bathroom frights began.
Let's put it this way. For some obscure reason which could be an aversion to the flush handle, she's not particularly fond of flushing. The few times that she did, she never tried hard enough, and always left little remembrances of her toilet activities as if to say, –let's call her A – A was here! So for the past two months that she's been with the company,her almost daily reliefs have become my sources of disbelief. Now I wonder, knowing that we are the only two members of the office distaff, and also the only two people using the female washroom on our floor at night, does she not care at all that I have been ( and will always be for as long as she stays with the company, unless I quit ) an unwilling witness to her poor toilet manners? Does she not worry that word of her lack of hygiene would reach the rest of the office population? Because a direct confrontation would be embarrassing, I am very much tempted to resort to a subtler approach by posting this inside all cubicles:
PLEASE FLUSH AFTER USE,
OR BATTLE A LIFELONG CASE OF IRRITABLE BOWEL SYNDROME.
But of course, this is again some wishful thinking that'll never see reality.
Meanwhile, I have developed a certain kind of wariness when it comes to shaking hands with people, even those who are impeccably-dressed and appear neat and clean to a fault. After all, you can never tell what those hands went through behind the bathroom doors. Thanks to my new officemate, my mistrust on this world and its people has gone one notch higher.
Thanks to Christine's relentless yet effective persuasion, I have recently renewed my long dormant relationship with the tube and revived my interest in watching Koreanovelas. This has not only turned to an addiction of magnifying proportion that I sometimes fake illness to skip coming to work in order to follow the next episode of a series, I've also become affected with a serious case of Korean-food obsession. You know how those dining table scenes are never dispensed with and are shown with such regularity you're almost sure not one meal is missed out during the whole life span of the series? And each meal is always such a mouth-watering food fest and visual feast where the sight of the staple kimchi along with other assortment of meat and vegetables are enough sinful enticements for the food whore in me. There is also something about their stainless steel chopsticks and usually white-colored dinner-wares that virtually immortalize the food into manna from heaven. Or maybe it's just me and one of my many quirks.
The situation now is whenever I come across any scene where there's eating involved, I start having cravings which need to be satisfied immediately or else I'll go crazy thinking about it the whole day, and the people around me go crazy hearing me crave for it. The other day I was so desperate for kimchi but couldn't find any in the stores nearby so I ended up buying a pack of fermented vegetable of another variety. And for many weekends now, my poor brother and sister have had to painstakingly put up with me by going to the same Korean barbecue restaurant, and ordering the same food each time!
I know I have to take a break from all this Korean madness and give myself including the people around me a break. But knowing that the cure for my cravings is to always satisfy them till I reach the point of revulsion, I can only say that I am still quite far from it. It might probably help though if I order something new this Sunday! Teehee! Now I hope I don't get dooced for writing that bit about having malingered to be a couch potato or else where would I get the money for my next set of dvds. Or food cravings for that matter.
I have for quite some time now been trying to lose some unwanted weight which has taken its own comfortable residence in my already thick and unsightly tummy; causing the slow disappearance of that thing called waistline. In a place where women are thin as sticks with not a trace of fat or flab in their bodies, I am what the kinder people here would consider un-skinny, the less(er) kind would call shapeless, and the more brutal and merciless ones would say fat. Add to that the not-so-comforting fact of being told too frequently by store clerks - after quick once-overs at my bloatedness - that I should be wearing a size far bigger than what I asked for, and my self-esteem readily takes its plunge into an all-time low.
The other cons of my present state of semi-plumpness? I avoid shopping like the plague because nothing fits, and the ones that do make me look like a balloon. And then there are the temptations that I need to fight off everyday like the inviting smells of the omnipresent street food; that tempting dessert of the day the waiter recommends; and the craving that wouldn't go away till I give in by promising myself just one piece, and then end up devouring one whole bag of whatever it is. Not to mention of course its blow to my self confidence especially if every mirror is but a mortifying reflection of my appalling shape and form.
I have been told that regular exercise (something I've never done, and which I thought I'd never have to do in this lifetime),and not food deprivation holds the key to my problem. But in as much as I love to complain about its severity, it seems that my bloatedness has not yet really reached that alarming rate, overwhelming enough for me to panic, because I still continue to find ways to bail out of planned workouts and gym enrollments. BAH!!!!! Do I really want to wait when it's already too late??? Darn, summer is also coming and I can't forever wrap myself in winter/spring clothes to hide those horrible bulges.
Then I remember how people used to say that I can always eat like a glutton, and never gain a single pound. And I start feeling ten times more frustrated and depressed than I already am...
Only 13 posts since I started this blog nine months ago. And I thought I had an opinion for almost everything, and that I am always brimming with things and ideas to write. Where have they gone to?
As the year draws to an end, I make this breakable New Year's resolution to be less a lurker and more an active blogger; to be unapalogetic about what snarky comments or views I may have and be less guarded about my opinions for fear of offending people. I will write MORE about anything and everything that interests and disinterests me. A tall order but definitely worth the attempt.
Anyway, happy new year everyone. Be safe and merry :-)
This is a funny article about funny names.
Is it just the works of our overly rich imagination and creativity or are we suffering from a dearth of proper names for people that there are actually those who go by the names of "auditorium" and "satellite"?
I hope we won't be stealing the names of animals next and start naming people as "carabao," "coyote" or "gerbil."
Oh I remember, we already have Tiger Woods.
I suspect that them people called coworkers are waiting for the heaping pile of pending work to grow roots before they start realizing that they've got work to do — NO — that they were, to begin with, hired and paid to WORK! It's either that or there's a conspiracy going on that I'm unaware of where I'm supposed to be the only one working while their sole duty is to give meaning to the words slack and shirk. That would have been perfectly OK with me if their paychecks go to my bank account every month (I'll make sure to add that clause on my next contract renewal).
Well I could choose to join them (since I can't beat them) if I wanted to but the compulsive worker in me is keeping me. Don't be mistaken. I do not intend to go on a self-glorifying recitation about how much of an ideal and perfect employee I am that my boss should be thankful to every known God for bringing me into existence. Like most everybody, I whine too when there's work to do, and whine more on busy days. In spite of that, I still have enough responsiblity to always make sure that whatever needs to be done is finished at the end of the day. Ironically, there's the rub. My ZERO EVERYTHING syndrome gets so bad that I end up doing other people's work because I can't bear to see the database full and crowded with the same and already ancient-old pending tasks everyday - lying there untouched, rotting and waiting for their deaths. All that while the freeloaders with elephant-thick skins surf, play games and sleep. Bleech!
Sometimes I wish I were like those so-called evil people in the office - the ones who'd tell on you at the slightest chance that they get, the ones who can tell you straight in the face to go to hell for not doing your share of work, the ones who are capable of giving insults of the sharpest and most humiliating magnitude that you would have to use up all your leave credits to recover from the shock and trauma.
Unfortunately, I am not cut for such wickedness (or bravery) so I contain all my anger in seething silence. In between, I engage in fanciful illusions like wishing they'd turn to actual hyenas from laughing too much because of frequent visits to those joke sites or that they get the pink slip at a time when they need a job most ( they don't know the value of having one anyway!).
I now understand why some people wish for and take immense pleasure in others' misery. It's because there are just those who deserve it. The term schadenfreude has never sounded so right and positive.
This is a sign seen in one of the metro stations in Shanghai. I've never encountered something as literally translated as this one, and an outcome as absurd and hilarious! How on earth are the non-Chinese reading commuters supposed to decipher such instructions more cryptic than the Egyptian hieroglyphics?!
Can anybody guess what the one in English means?
Here's the loose translation of the translation:
GIVE WAY TO ALIGHTING PASSENGERS. PLEASE OBSERVE ORDER.
The city has a team of grammar-police volunteers -mostly college students - who prowl the metropolis in random search of wrong English grammars found in billboards, restaurant menus and everything else that catches their eyes. These "police" then submit everything they've gathered to a certain government office that's responsible for the "repair." But the problem is it takes quite a long time for the said government office to take action so the unsightly and mortifying translations continue to remain in display and draw the attention and confusion of the perplexed public.
But let's admit it. These things also make good sources of comic relief and mind bogglers. Signs like "Beware of slippy" in a public washroom can make you forget about the real danger of slipping on the wet floor. Instead, you fear that a creature named slippy might be inhabiting one of the toilet bowls inside the cubicles. A warning along the subway tracks that says "Jumping off the platform is prohibited" makes you think hard what are not prohibited - -probably treading down or crossing to the other side while a train speeds near?
E.B. White said that English usage is sometimes more than mere taste, judgment and education -- sometimes it's sheer luck, like getting across the street.
Amen to that.
Cliches.They are like clothes worn to threadbare conditions, commercial ditties played ad nauseam, films not only with predictable endings but bad plots and actors, letters that begin with "first of all", giving toasters and tea sets as wedding gifts, the omnipresence of the words rant and rave in virtually all blogs (I'm beginning to suspect that it's one of the cardinal rules of blogging that I wasn't informed of!) , and the hobbyists who have badminton in their list of favorite activities ( this is until such time somebody announces that the next IN thing in the sports bandwagon is playing badminton without the rackets).
I am on a self-imposed mission to avoid cliches at all costs because they make me sick. Cliches are the very reasons why I believe that imitation is not the best form of flattery and that familiarity breeds contempt. So I assure that you shall not see the words rant and rave (separate or together) in my blog or in any of my writings - missives included. That I have given toasters as wedding presents is a thing of the past that I rue to this day and have no desire of repeating. Instead, I shall start sending cochleas as wedding gifts which the wives (yes, I am partial to my own gender) can use on their husbands if they suddenly suffer from hearing-impairment during arguments, and most especially when there's a ball game on tv. I also admit to having played badminton at least twice in my life but thankfully, those were the times when most of its followers were truly passionate about the sport, I not included.
But I am only human so on days when my defenses are low or when my sympathetic instincts are strong, I just might find myself sitting on a popcorn movie, even crying buckets of tears over it. There would also be those times when I just might be guilty of injecting "basically" in all of my sentences never mind if such practice is basically wrong and more often than not superfluous.
Now that is what you call irony. And irony is what I'd choose over cliche at any given time.
There are some questions in this world, that for all their seeming simplicity, command a greater degree of brain-racking in search of the correct and proper answers than getting asked what the capital of Vanuatu is.
Two oft-encountered cases in point:
"Di ba magaling ka mag ( Aren't you good in/at)________[fill with something that you're supposed to or obviously excel in like computers, walking on one foot or licking your elbows]?
Huh?
How should one answer a question like that?
A "yes" is totally out of the question since you grew up being taught by your parents and teachers to always deny and hide from praises and compliments no matter how true they are because admitting your own strengths and boosting your self-esteem are very grave sins, worse than breaking the ten commandments.
So would it work better if as an attempt at exaggerrated humility, you offer a horrified look and shake your head in vehement denial and threaten to sue the person for slander?
OR
Should you acknowledge the statement as a fact (for lack of choice) but still not without a trace of expected modesty so a casual and coy reply such as "hindi naman" ( not really) is most proper and befitting?
To begin with, those kind of questions should never be asked the way they're asked because they're not like "what is your favorite color" that one has a ready answer to! Besides, why ask something that you already know? Better to offer a statement ( I hear you're good in numbers) or nothing at all. Save the other person the agony of having to pretend humility by resorting to poor acting.
---------
"OK ka lang ba?" ( Are you OK?)
The typical scenario is you're with a group of friends, chatting and gossiping over cups and cups of coffee. While everyone talks animatedly about Katie Holmes' pregnancy or that common friend who committed suicide by downing cartons of expired milk, you sit there and listen quietly because it's one of those days when you're more in a listening than talking mood. Suddenly, here comes this somebody who abruptly disrupts the ongoing discussion and asks in a voice loud enough for the whole cafe to hear: OK ka lang ba?
So what to say? If you say yes, a follow-up question comes next, the most famous and likely being "you sure?" tailed by supporting facts for them to not believe you such as "you look pale" or "you're not yourself today." And you're tempted to explain that you simply forgot to apply blush that day or ask if they need you to take an oath or put your claim of being really fine in writing and have it notarized.
If you say no, you could expect different concerned faces looking at you with a barrage of "why what's wrong" and "do you want to talk about it" flowing in.
For some silly and illogical reason, people tend to equate silence and quietness with trouble or something not right. Why? Were we designed to talk 24 hours non-stop as a sign of health and well-being?
Though I know that people only mean well when they show concern, I think it is also important that one learns how to tell a problematic face from one that simply looks problematic even in a happy situation. Or that when one doesn't talk much, it doesn't mean something's wrong with him/her. These simple knowledge would save a lot of unnecessary concern and false alarms.
Oh by the way, the capital of Vanuatu is Port Vila. I had to look it up so that if ever I get asked any one of those two difficult, aforementioned questions again, I will simply say, "I don't know but you can ask me what the capital of Vanuatu is. I know the answer to that."
I got this meme ( I like to pronounce it as "me-me" even if "meem" is the correct way to say it!) during one of my bloghops and I'm answering it here because 1.) I'm bored and 2.) I believe I'm important enough to interest people to read trivias about myself! =Þ
Sometimes I wonder why we send people these quizzes when I believe most of them couldn't even care less. Heck,do they even read it? But I do read other people's answers because...well I love reading and I read anything and everything. And there are really those whose answers are really interesting. 'Nuff said. I'll start now. For those who share my present state of vanity, I would love to see your answers too. Babs (see, I'm so certain that she will come lurking around my blog!), what are you waiting for????
20 Random Facts About Myself
1. I would never be caught dead wearing stirrup pants, shoes with tassels, and sandals with stockings!!!!!!!!!!!!
2. I somehow judge a person's grammatical proficiency by the way s/he uses "who" and "whom."
3. I am currently obsessed with plimsolls.
4. I do not like Math, and Math doesn't like me too.
5. I have a love-hate relationship with myself though the hate part usually predominates.
6. When the car I'm riding goes too fast, I always have this bizarre thought of expecting someone to suddenly come out of nowhere and get run over.
7. I cannot write but I do not admit it so I blame it on a mythical case of permanent writer's block.
8. Two of my greatest fears in life are to lose my memory, and eyesight.
9. Sometimes I feel I'm unlucky in many ways because I usually find myself sitting beside the guy with halitosis in the bus; get my atm card swallowed by the machine when I'm down to my last cent; and find my contact lens washed down by running water on days when I cannot and should not wear my ugly glasses.
10. I have an über low tolerance for dense people, long lines, and anything that requires waiting.
11. I get into an impulse-buying rage at the sight of glossy magazines and books.
12. I have two left feet.
13. I lean more towards passive-aggressive than direct resistance or confrontation.
14. With the exception of alcohol, I drink everything like a fish.
15. I've no fondness for reality tv shows and have never watched one.
16. I've always had this irrational fear of falling or slipping especially in public places like the moviehouse.
17. I've just recently learned that earworm is what you call a music or song that keeps playing in your head even long after you've heard it.
18. I pretend that I don't speak and understand the Chinese language here in China when I encounter rude and unaccommodating people for the satisfaction of giving them a hard time.
19. I'd rather you kill me than make me do anything artistic, sports and culinary stuff.
20. I do not and will never like Burberry's check design.
The driver of the bus that I took yesterday morning was a crazed lunatic (forgive me for the redundancy because it is the only way I know to describe what a freak he was). All throughout the thirty-minute ride that my life depended on his dementia-induced driving (he was going in zigzag directions and rushing on to green lights probably because he'd turn ten times more deranged if he stopped at red), I clutched on to my bag like dear life ( fearing more for it than my dear life actually), worried that it will slip from my grip. If that really happened and the car crashed, I picture a crowd of people gathered around the scene of the accident with my dear tote bag making the headlines:
BUS ACCIDENT KILLS BAG'S UGLY SECRETS,
WOUNDED SHAMED OWNER'S PRIDE AND GOOD REPUTATION
And then it would go on to describe the following horrible and shocking finds:
1.) an empty plastic bag from Kentucky the purpose of which still baffles the media ( well don't they know that in the country where I came from, it's normal to collect grocery bags, restaurant bags and shopping bags and all other kinds of plastic bags because we use them to deposit refuse? We even hoard the fancier shopping bags for future use to show off that we've got stuff from these popular, expensive stores).
2.) a cellphone where the wallpaper reveals the owner's chagrined attempt at striking a Gisele Bundchen pose.
3.) a dog-eared notebook with notes like "check (for the 15th time) how to identify a participle," "don't forget to get a copy and "forget to return" the October issue of City Guide magazine at Starbucks without ordering -- avoid the Raffles outlet, was there last month," " look up the conversion of Celsius to Fahrenheit (nobody should know this!)" and "find out if ending my sentences with a preposition would make me a criminal."
4.) an eyeliner sharpened to its very last, "unsharp" and tiny end that one wonders if it's really used to draw the brows of a person, or more as a pencil for a sketch pad or coloring book.
The remaining other articles are either too personal or too disgusting to mention. But you're free to think of a decapitated lipstick as one among them.
The next time I come across that same fast and furious driver, I will gladly and patiently wait for the next bus to come. Better to delay my travel for some minutes or even an eternity, than risk my life and good name under his reckless driving. There's a more glamorous and better way to die, or become popular, or both.
The "Skype Hype" has been around for some time and before I even got the chance to try (read: take advantage of) it, the telcos recently imposed a strict ban on the use of this inexpensive VoIP service because it's hurting their profits since phone calls have declined by great proportions over the past months.
Now that's what I get from this chronic bad habit of always putting things off. I wonder what else I've missed (or am missing) by delaying that trip to the spa that's in my calendar for months or that article about Shanghai that I've been planning to write for ages, among other things.
It doesn't help either that I always have a convenient excuse for every little procrastination that I make and it can get as serious and convincing as "it rained torrent that day and I had no umbrella" to things as lame and ridiculous as " the horoscope warned that Sunday is not a good day to write." Old habits die hard - - so true!!
There's this site which allows you to send in your own designed postcard and on it, write any one of your deepest, darkest secrets that you want share - in anonymity of course. This week's entries range from funny, romantic, sad, "ewwww-y" to disturbing and sometimes frightening. Here are some of my favorites:
I don't doubt the authenticity of some of the contributions but I also believe that a lot of them were made up hehe. Maybe one of these days I'll also mail in my own secret.
What's it about? SECRET!
* A MAKEOVER -- this is what I think my blog site urgently needs right now. It just reeks of a kind of dullness that I myself can't stand whenever I visit so how can I expect others to love it? But there's a big problem. For someone who doesn't have a place in the creative department and whose ideas are bland and boring at best, how do I begin? Or should I start by updating my recent reading list ( In case anyone cares to know,my last book was Love in the time of Cholera and I'm currently finishing Umberto Eco's How to Travel with a Salmon and Other Essays.)? Nah, I believe there's a better day for this and it's not today.
* Speaking of mood, I am presently -- for the past four hours and seventeen minutes to be exact -- in a very restless state. It always happens whenever I suffer from information overload coupled with my perennial struggle to improve my retentive memory. The frustration heightens with the fact and knowledge that my memory will always be what it is -- poor!
I read a lot today - about Hugh Hefner; Jorn Barger who's the man behind the term "weblog" and the misconception that Rolling Stones' Hunter Thompson was the one who coined the word "gonzo." But my memory has a very short expiration date so ask me about them say a week from now and all I'd probably remember is that I did read about them without offering further details. Very distressing to be in my shoes, really!
* I came across this question in a forum and I've been trying to figure out the correct answer.
How do you say "Pang ilang presidente ng Pilipinas si GMA" in English?
My take: How many presidents preceded GMA?
The correct form: What number president is GMA?
* Just want to share a new word I learned today; the definitions of which were taken from Dictionary.com:
fillip (n)
1. A snap or light blow made by pressing a fingertip against the thumb and suddenly releasing it.
2. An embellishment that excites or stimulates
I am more fascinated with the first meaning because I've always thought that "snap" was the best word for it.
* Vivienne Westwood has an ongoing fashion exhibit which I want to see. One of those on display is the famous pair of shoes that Naomi Campbell tripped on while doing the ramp. I've to find ways to convince my brother to go with me. Surely, he wouldn't be crazy about checking out a roomful of women's clothes for free so what more for a fee?
Enough of these crazy,desultory thoughts that only the Arftul Dodger is forever used to and tolerant of. I wonder if he misses my emails. I miss his in case he wants to know ( even after he called me the HP SPOILERMONGER PAR EXCELLENCE!) and wants to do something about it.
Sharing this poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay. I am so loving it now, I wonder why!?!?!
THE PHILOSOPHER
When I first accepted my present job after being told that it requires taking the graveyard shift, two things immediately came to mind: the abnormal disruption of my body clock would definitely turn me to an old woman after a few months, and my nearly non-existent social life would eventually die a natural death.
Today, exactly thirty work nights after, I am thankful that the face that stares back at me in the mirror hasn't grown old or beyond recognition with a dreaded and dreadful zombie-like look. The guy who sells our daily omelette breakfast confirmed this when he thought that I was my younger brother's younger sister. This is of course based on the premise that my brother looks his age of many years my junior! And yet another girl I know thought that I was only 22! Well,it could only be that they're telling the truth or badly wanted to strengthen our seller-customer relationship, and I'm just a plain sucker for false flatteries.
As for my life outside work, it has become most bizarre and deprived! How does it sound if I say that the news is already old news by the time --- which is during Saturdays--- I get to read the papers (not unless I read inside the bus on my way home and risk straining my already bad eyesight and still end up geting all the news wrong!)? Or that lunch has become a forgotten meal because the lunch hour happens to be my sleeping time. In short, save for dinner,bath and the regular laundry, sleeping remains my only activity after work. And even if work starts at 12 midnight, I am forced to be in the office as early as 930 just to catch the last bus. If not, I'd have to declare bankruptcy by taking the cab every day which really costs a lot.
In all fairness, working at night also has its perks like not having to dress much with care because even if you do, nobody will be there to admire your new pants or fancy earrings anyway;not needing to wait in line for a meal in restaurants because you're most likely the only customer at 3 in the morning and there's always a seat inside the bus going home because people coming to work take the ones going opposite. Lastly, you get to watch the sun rise...
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