Cut the fat, cut the fat

People had been telling me that one reason that I like pink is because I could be pregnant. I'm sorry, but I am not. Have I really gained that much wait that some are speculating that I could be expecting? I do hope not, because all those hours spent on the court playing badminton would be a terrible waste of time.

Okay, I'll admit that way back when I was still single I had a slender body. I guess, you can blame it flat out to my laziness. After giving birth, I never tried to exercise, never even dared to do a single crunch to get that fat belly off. Add to that the increased appetite, which I have maintained since the pregnancy days. My body now belies that I still don't eat vegetables. So if someone, who hadn't seen me for years, comments that I have grown a bit bigger horizontally, I just shrugs it off with an answer, "Oh, that's because I just gave birth!" (Three years ago, that is.)

Though now that I am burning some fats in court, I'm really not sure whether I'm loosing them significantly, my pant size is still the same. Blame it to my son's new nanny? She's a great cook. Maybe I should spend more hours playing and sweat some more.

One thing I would like to leave though, for all to remember: Never, ever, ask a woman if she is pregnant unless you see a baby popping out of her vagina.

I found there was only one way to look thin, hang out with fat people. – Rodney Dangerfield

The New Kid on the Block

Did you know the boy band New Kids on the Block way back in the late 1980s? They were the cute young boys who danced and sang their way to the hearts of teenage girls, similar to the Backstreet Boys of the 90s. Do you know their songs Hangin' Tough, Cover Girl, or Step by Step? If you do, well, I bet you're one of those screaming girls and swooning over their good looks. But I really am sorry because I'm not going to talk about them.

What I'm going to talk about is what it felt like being a new kid in town, a neophyte – dipping a tenderfoot. Why? Because we got a new colleague in our group and it's the first thing that popped in my mind as I was brushing my teeth after my long lunch. We all had gone through that phase, unless of course, you stayed as a hermit in your own home, home-schooled and never worked a day in your life.

I'm not going to tell you about going to school for the first time, because, well, when you entered Nursery, everybody was a newbie. And for the life of me, I can't remember a single memory of that supposed to be memorable day. First school day as a first grader? Nope, all my classmates were the same as the one I had during my Prep year, or should we say K2 as what they call it now. Same thing for my freshman year in high school, in fact, I’ve been hanging around with these kids since we were toddlers. But let me tell you a story about this new kid back in our freshman year.

First day of entering the coolest crowd, high school, we were so excited and couldn't wait to take the plunge and enter the world of boys and girls. We were this close-knit gang of around forty girls and boys who've been together for 6 years at the least. We knew we'd still be sorted in one section, the honor class that is. Yes, we're that arrogant and proud; we were the alumni of the school. All first years were gathered in one corner of the gymnasium, one by one, a name was called to join the group in the middle to know which section they belong to. In the midst of the new faces, one stood out, well, one thing was because he was tall. He's got the face of angel, probably an exaggeration that time, but he had a clear fair skin, bright brown eyes, healthy brownish hair, a very pointed nose, small lips. The epitome of an Adonis, except that he wasn't dark only tall and handsome – a real mestizo. Saying that the girls around me giggled and swooned in delight was an understatement, me included of course. One by one our names were called and got a bit disappointed that only quite a handful of new names joined ours, they were already nearing the end of the alphabet and yet Mr. Pogi still sat in one corner, waiting. Then all of a sudden a new name was called and he stood up and joined our crowd. Oh, you could hear the silent gasps from the boys and excited goshes of the girls! We now have the new crush ng bayan in our midst. So the first thing we did when we got to our new classroom, the new fellows would have to speak in front and introduce themselves. We all waited with bated breath for him to speak and when he did, all our dreams came crumbling down. And so I went back to eyeing the guy who had been my crush for three years, at the least. I wonder now what would have Mr. Pogi felt that time, like some top-grade piece of meat dangling in front of a hungry pack of wolves? Did he spoke offensively intending to turn us all off?

Here's a personal one, really now. My Dad was a branch manager in one of the government banks, the Philippine government that is. One day he went home and casually told me to join him to Puerto Princesa in Palawan. I thought to myself, is this man joking or what? I just started my Junior year in high school a couple of weeks before, and here he was smiling and telling me to leave my friends of fourteen years. I was adamant, and so I told him, I can’t leave my friends, I love my school – I was having the best time of my life – and I don't know how to make new friends anymore. I pleaded that they leave me under my grandmother's care and in less that two years I'll be off to college anyway. But my pleas went to deaf ears and so I braved the whole new world. It was hard coming from a place where almost everyone knows you and going to a new place where you know no one. At the first few days it was kind of fun because you could do stupid stuffs not caring if somebody saw you and would spread the news around, but my Dad's shadow started catching up on me, and so I must keep on my toes. My Mom made me choose which school I'd go to, enter a private school ran by nuns or a laboratory high school of the state college. Though I went to private school in the past, I was quite apprehensive of a school handled by nuns (they were kind of strict, priests are a bit cooler), and besides they said that the laboratory high school only selects the best students and population is very small, kind of an elite group. So, my Mom and I went to enroll and got the shock of our life when they asked us 60 pesos for my school fees. The principal explained one by one where these fees would go to, like the school paper, some books and a few miscellaneous fees, when she saw that we were open-mouthed. My Mom just laughed and said it's all right, we could pay for it, after all the years of paying at least a thousand for one school year.

My first day, I started after lunch time, the driver drove me to my new school, like some rich, bitchy kid (actually I was terrified to my bones and didn’t want to leave the car) I alighted a few paces from the high school building. I'm not wearing the school uniform so I stood out; every one had their eyes on me, I asked softly where's the room for the third years and they pointed it to me. I entered the room with students milling around waiting for the teacher. I guess I had this unadulterated fear in my eyes when I looked for a place to sit, when this girl from the back raised her arms and motioned for me to come over. I let out some air and breathe freely. Soon almost everyone was surrounding me and asking questions, like where I came from, they assumed I'm from Manila – they asked me if I know such and such – I corrected and said I am from Mindoro and they started firing the same questions but of different names. I just shook my head for each name, and thought why do these kids think that I ought to know every gawd dumb soul from that place. Now I knew what it was like to be a top-grade piece of meat dangling in front of a hungry pack of wolves.

So much for the long story, I would like to receive with great pleasure our new member Ate Glow. Welcome to the crazy gang. We are loud and fun but will be there to help. For TFC subscribers, all together now: Kung gusto mong makipag-chikahan o wala lang, mag-LDD libreng tawag ka!

To err is but human

The human race is a flawed creation. Nothing is perfect, the characteristics, the very nature is riddled with faults – minute or evident – that we have to live with. Even Jesus Christ as a man had his own shortcomings, which was far from the divine.

Where am I going with all these? It is all because I am currently reading a new book, which my husband bought for me for the very first time since we've known each other. I am reading Philip Roth's The Human Stain, which was made into a film starring Anthony Hopkins and Nicole Kidman, which I never got to watch.

I can't tell you the plot because I have only read up to the end of the first chapter, a very long one actually, 74 pages in all its glory and consider that its size isn't your normal paperback issue. I met four major characters and each one has their own little secret. What really excites me is the way it was written. Passages are brilliant that at times I went over through them again and again and gape in awe of its magnificence.

Let us meet Coleman Silk, an arrogant seventy-one year-old man, the dean of a college that ostracized him for a racist comment he had unknowingly uttered. Silk is carrying out a secret affair with a thirty-four year-old cleaning woman named, Faunia Farley. Beautiful and uneducated – one who once belong to the bourgeois class, whose life began crumbling down after her parents' divorce, who was fondled by her step-father the very day he first arrived, who ran away when she was fourteen and married at twenty to a Vietnam veteran farmer who regularly beat her up, and whose two kids had dies on a fire. Her ex-husband is Les Farley, who was still after her believing that their kids' death was caused by Faunia’s negligence. Les is a man who was trained to kill and knew nothing else. And lastly, we had the narrator, Nate Zuckerman, whose prostate had been removed because of cancer – which had left him incontinent.

So what is the human stain? Is it fundamental in our nature? I believe so, though we were shaped into different molds – with different intrinsic qualities. We've all got weaknesses, deficiencies or imperfections that we all have to try to overcome while facing moral dilemmas that could mold us into a more unique creation. The question is, would you suffer and would it result to your destruction?

The age of a woman doesn't mean a thing

If you asked me six months ago what's my favorite color, I would have answered, without batting an eyelash, that it's blue. For me, there's something regal in that color – an air of assertiveness, of power, greater knowledge, flexibility, and not something so sissies.

But today, I'm beginning to like pink – baby pink. Ouch! Something like an oxymoron for blue, isn't it? Pink is for sissies. It's too feminine, something for the meek – unimposing. But what can I say? I like it! Why? I don't know, I just started liking teen stuff, and most of them are pink. Could it be because I have a son and not a daughter and I wanted to buy stuff for pretty young girls?

I have two great theories, though. Firstly, this is the time wherein I could afford to buy all these cute stuff that I couldn't afford when I was still on my teens. Here's another one. You may call it my unconscious rebellion – defiance against the onslaught of time. With just a few more stretches, I would finish the first three decades of this life's journey. Yes, in the words of Jennifer Garner in the movie 13 Going 30, I am thirty, flirty and thriving – yet I still don't know what to do with my life. Why fret when people who were in their 40s still don't?

One of my very best friends said that the 30s today is the new 20s. So I guess I could say that I just got over my adolescent years. If the 30s today is the new 20s, then you could say that I flirted early (maagang lumandi). At such a young age that I am today, I have a son who will turn 3 in two months. My mom when she was at this stage already got two kids. Times indeed had changed. Maybe when my son's time comes it will be all together different.

From this moment on, if someone asks me how old I am, I'll answer the same way Mary Schmich, a journalist who also writes the "Brenda Starr" comic strip, does.

Like many women my age, I am 28 years old.

Come on baby, make me sweat

Isa akong lampa – I am such a lame duck. When it comes to flying balls, I am some kind of dyslexic – in short, I can't see it. More often that not, I didn't hit the ball or worst, it hits me. That is why I never had a sport to speak off, or brag about. I tried bowling, but that involves calculation of some kind to hit the target, and I'm not that good at it either. If there are ten pins left standing, I wouldn't have a problem but two, three or four? Man, I wouldn't know where to release that damn heavy ball!

Way back in college, I was taking a nap at the Chess Plaza, which was very near a basketball court, and a ball hit me on the head! Am I lucky or what? I'm not even part of the game, yet the ball wanted to go my way. Speaking of chess, I can play that game. My Dad taught me and brother how to play chess when we were young. I never got to beat any of them, though. Me and my very best friends since my kinder years even played it during our lunch breaks. Yes, we were the geeky lot – spending time in the library during vacant periods and playing chess at lunchtimes.

My husband started playing badminton a little more than six months ago. He'd been egging me on to join him – to give it a try. And so I gave in, mid-February of this year, I finally said yes, warily. I went with him, but there's this fear running through my veins – pumping in my chest. I sat down beside the court, and told them that I'll watch them first – that I don't know how to play, so I must watch first. Oh, God they are good! They hit that shuttlecock like some repulsive little fly. I can't play like that! Not in a million years.

They then egged me on to join the game, assured me that it's easy – that they'll teach me. So I learned – something new – as I have never coaxed myself into learning something new for the past few years. My sweat started to trickle down the side of my cheeks; I felt the wetness on my back. Oh my, for the first time in the past three years I actually sweated – I have excreted perspiration! Not all because of the scorching heat of the sun, but because I exerted my body – burned some energy or fats.

After I started playing two months ago, I've been sweating it out every weekend. I'm not what one might call an *addict*, but I do get cranky whenever I missed a scheduled game. I'm still not very good at it, but I'm trying – my very best. A couple of weeks ago my husband told me, "I'm not sure what really happened, last week your performance took you two steps forward but this week, you took three steps back." I wanted to smash him like some repulsive little fly!

I still get hit by the shuttlecock though, but at least it doesn't hurt as much as a fast moving ball.

Writing is an exploration

I have already completed Roald Dahl's two books, which I bought less than three weeks ago. For my standard in reading, I'd say it took me awhile to finish them. Not that the books are a bore, it was the other way around, actually – twenty-four short stories of different topics and unconventional twists – it just so happened that a lot of crappy things got in the way. I have already mentioned five of the stories in here, but I guess I'll share you one more story. The Great Automatic Grammatizator, was set in a time where computers were just starting – back when they are as huge as building.

On to the plot: A young computer genius wanted to be a writer, but his stories weren't accepted for publication in any magazines. And so he had drafted a new computer design and presented it to his boss, it is a new computer that will write stories following the formulas the readers would love. His boss agreed and so his dream came into fruition, and behind a publishing company they just put up, they chuck out stories the editors couldn’t resist. The machine was later modified to write novels and because of greed, their own publishing company started to buy out real authors to never write again but instead allow the great machine to write novels under their name. Towards the end, the story shifted in first-person, as a struggling writer listens to his nine hungry children cry and tries to resist the lure of the "golden contract" seating next to him. 'Give us strength, Oh Lord,' he prays for all true artists, 'to let our children starve.'

Wonderfully written and subtle jokes could be found. One reason I like this story very much, is because it tackles a lot of issues, technology, ghost writers, and writing itself. Though much has advanced in terms of technology since this story was written, we still don't have such an intelligent application that could write on its own. Unless, they have kept it from us all this time – imagine picking-up the latest novel my John Grisham, not knowing that he didn't actually wrote it. Or right after the seventh Harry Potter book comes out, they would announce that there'll be another set in the works for this series – wouldn't you ask yourself, will Jo still be writing that one? Technology still can't match the brilliance of a working mind. Though we now have the spell checkers and grammar checking add-ons in our word processors, nothing beats the old-age editor with a keen eye.

A word is a bud attempting to become a twig. How can one not dream while writing? It is the pen which dreams. The blank page gives the right to dream. – Gaston Bachelard

When did I discover the love for the written word? Blame it to my parents who love books, we have our very own library in our basement. I was the kid who knows nothing about playing jack stones and Chinese garter, but you could find me in a corner reading something. I shared this passion with my very best friends; I remember those days when we would rush to the school library during breaks to take out the latest Sweet Valley High. Yes, during my high school days, I immersed myself to romances, Sweet Dreams, Mills and Boons. But for someone who started with romance novels, I had completely veered away from them when I entered my college years, and hasn't looked back since.

I admire people who can write – more so those who could write so much with just so little words. I don't write well, and I'm not sure if I'm getting better. Though, let me tell you a secret, I enjoy seeing essay parts in our tests. During my grade school and high school years, I joined the school paper, but I didn't do any literary works. Whenever there's a need to do research work, that's when my juices start flowing. (Oh, please! Don’t be such a perv and think of other things.)

And so I write, as a way out from the pressures of reality and as avenue to hone my creativity. It kept my brain at work – it brings me to a place where I can be myself, create a world I wanted. I am now on a personal quest for self-betterment, hoping to accomplish more for my soul.

Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go. – E.L Doctorow

The brain is a wonderful organ

The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office. – Robert Frost

Let's continue onto the analysis of the quotes given to us by our boss. The one above isn't given to us, obviously. But this one was:

A little learning is a dangerous thing, but a lot of ignorance is just as bad. – Bob Edwards

I admire intelligent people – no, you don't need to rival the genius that was Einstein or be a member of the elite MENSA group. I love people of substance. I wouldn't mind little conversations about the simplicity of one's mundane life, anything that will keep me to my wits would be very much welcomed. Tell me what you think of the confounding international affairs and I'll share to you my ideals. My mind seem to be working a hundreds miles per hour that my body can't keep up with. I guess that's the reason why I called this ranting, musings of a cluttered mind.

And so meeting people as obtuse as my dear 'amo' (whom we fondly call Dexter), clouds my mind – like gathering crap in its sluggish motion. I'm not sure if I should blame it to position, power or clout, but have they really stopped thinking? I could swear profanities to high heavens for all the consternations I have had all because of his incompetence, but still I said a silent prayer for a little lesson I have just learned. I am just thankful that I have colleagues of substance that made my work worthwhile.

Worry is like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do but doesn't get you anywhere.

Hah! I hate worrywarts; they are such a nuisance – like a stiff stick up in your arse. There's one S/A in our team that fits this part, we call her Dee Dee. Yes, they're both from the Cartoon Network; we even got the Powerpuff Girls. Anyways, I digress… let's go back to little Miss Bundle-of-Nerves, she too isn't the smartest in the lot, I guess you can blame it to that. A little nit-picking doesn't hurt at all, actually. But phleasez, spare us a sampling of your ineptness!

I'm not trying to be such an impertinent prick nor claiming to be a Miss-Know-it-All, but being in this line of work, where logic is the most important thing, I could be a little unforgiving. Memories of my first year in college came rushing back to me now. I had gained new friends then, there were five of us in the group, it was the end of our very first term and we were waiting for our grades. We all got our class cards and compared, well two of us passed in our first programming course, the other three didn't and had to take it again the following term. They actually failed that course twice and at the end what they said stuck to my mind since, 'Logic, can I buy that?' Out of frustration, two shifted course and took Lia-Comm, instead, and the other one went to take BS Math with specialization in Computer Applications, ironic isn't it?

Work is a necessary evil to be avoided

We, me and my colleagues at work, got a surprise when our project leader went around passing a piece of paper. She said it came from the bigger boss. We read it when she left, and were shocked what was written on it. It's a collection of quotes – work related of course. I stood up and asked loudly, 'What's this? Words to live by?' Everyone laughed and read through their favorites. I guess now, I can forget about that old motto: What is beauty if the brain is empty?

Got me thinking, why on earth would our 'amo' give us such a list? Have we turned into such dunderheads that such quotes need to wake up what was left in our miniscule brains? I'll go through some of them and try to analyze where they could be used the best.

Mistakes are a fact of life. It is the response to the error that counts. – Nikki Giovanni

This is good actually. For example, the operator calls you up at around 11 at night saying that there's an error encountered in the end-of-day processing. You curse to high heavens while you are on your way back to the office. You called up your boss saying that you need access to the production machine. She'll give it to you then ask you what happened. You'll answer… I'll check, I'll check.

You came to the dark office, signed-on and scratched your head seeing that it was the program you just changed that caused the error. Damn! You said to yourself, I should have checked if the user keyed-in anything stupid. And so you typed in the necessary codes to rectify the error. Your boss calls you up and asks again, 'So what happened, huh?' You answered, shit happens and you did not consider that the users could be such a knucklehead. So you changed everything to work around such stupid data and asked the operator to retry.

Here's another example: You got a call saying that they can't restore data. So you checked the error, operator got no authority. You told the operator to cancel the job and wait for your instruction. After getting the right authority, you called back to the operator to re-do option 2 to restore. But to the shock of your life, you saw in the log, as it rolled in front of your very eyes, that the back-up was cleared. The bonehead pressed option 1 instead of 2!

The moment you stop learning, you stop leading. – Rick Warren

Okay, this one is best for my bwakanginang saksakan ng bobong amo. Ayoko ng ulit-ulitin pa, sumasakit na ang dibdib ko – ayokong maging dalahira.

In case you want to know who said the quote I used for a title, it was Mark Twain. I’m pretty sure that quote wasn't included on the list our boss gave us.

Independent Women

Galloping gargoyles! Roald Dahl wrote such strong women – of great personalities – quite unusual for a guy. I’ll tackle to short stories this time, The Way up to Heaven and other is Mrs. Bixby and the Colonel's Coat. Click on to the links to read the stories yourself or if you're too lazy to read, get the gist here below.

In the 'The Way up to Heaven', Mrs. Forster has a terrible fear of being late and it was cruelly used by her husband to put her into a state of panic. When Mrs. Forster was scheduled for a flight to Paris, her husband suggested that they drop him off at his club on the way. Knowing this will make her late, she protested in vain. As their car was about to leave, Mr. Foster ran back to the house on the pretense of picking up a gift he forgot for his daughter. But Mrs. Foster discovered the box lodged between the seat cushions and ran up to the house to tell him that she has the gift... and suddenly she paused and listened. She stayed outside their door frozen for 10 seconds, straining to hear something. She then turned and ran back to the car, telling the driver that they're too late and her husband would have to find another ride. She spent the next six weeks with her grandchildren and wrote Mr. Foster letters. When she flew back home, there's no one to meet her at the airport, and upon entering the house she noticed a curious odor. Satisfied, she enters her husband's study and calls the elevator repairman.

This story goes to the perfect murder list alongside Lamb to the Slaughter, which I have already cited in my previous blog. Have I mentioned that Mr. and Mrs. Forster is an old couple? Get them stuck in an elevator and don't inform anyone – that's another way to kill someone, isn't it? Who's to blame Mrs. Foster? Her husband had been mean to her. Lesson learned, if your partner has a pet peeve don't aggravate it by doing things intentionally to cause much irritation.

The second story is quite different from the two stories I have previously mentioned, The Way up to Heaven and Lamb to the Slaughter, wherein this time it was the husband who won over the wife. In 'Mrs. Bixby and the Colonel's Coat', Mrs. Bixby led a duplicitous life, escapes from her boring dentist husband once a month supposedly to spend some time with her aunt but really meets up with her lover, the Colonel. When the Colonel gives her an expensive mink coat as a parting gift for he has ended their relationship, she then realizes that she has to prevent her husband from knowing who it came from. She devised a scheme, so she went to a pawnshop and borrowed $50 against the coat, receiving a blank pawn ticket in return. She then lied to her husband saying that she found the ticket in a cab and he excitedly explained how they go about claiming it. Since she did not want to be recognized by the pawnbroker, she let him go to the pawnshop to collect it. When Mrs. Bixby went to his clinic to get the coat, he gave her a little fur necklace instead. She feigned joy, of course, and went out of the office fumingly mad at the pawnbroker who switched the item. But everything changed when she passed by her husband's young assistant secretary, Miss Pulteney... wearing the beautiful black mink coat that the Colonel had given to Mrs. Bixby.

Right back at yah! No wonder Mr. Bixby stays at his clinic late at night, I guess he's working on Miss Pulteney, and I'm pretty sure he isn't drilling her teeth. Mrs. Bixby couldn't confront his husband, could she? Because she wasn't supposed to know what's the item behind the blank ticket. And raising the issue, if ever, would get her into more trouble for an ended affair could surface.

Meeting Known Strangers

I know the title is kind of an oxymoron, you know like a deafening silence, but such contradictions do happen in life. This is again triggered by another story from Roald Dahl. I'm beginning to like this guy's works!

Isn't it odd that whenever we see a familiar face, all the memories – good and bad – and the emotions tied to it comes flashing before our very eyes? Like an old picture of your high school days, you can't help but smile and reminisce those carefree hours you spent at the Botanical garden checking out cute guys preparing for their CAT. Or opening your jewelry box and finding your very first earring and then remembering the day you got your ears pierced. I know of one who only got her ears pierced when she was already in her college years. Her mom was so scared and even accompanied her to the doctor… anyway, I digress.

Getting back to the Dahl story, this man at a not-so-young age of fifty, whom we shall call Claude, was riding the train on his way to work, and all of a sudden his morning grind was interrupted by a man who sat opposite him. Claude was quite perplexed with the arrogant man in front of him, because he saw something on the stranger's look that was such an overbearing pride. He couldn't seem to shake off the man's face from his mind, he looked familiar Claude said to himself. Looking in further, he came to realize that indeed that man was familiar, for that face belonged to his distant past – a past he would gladly forget.

Claude then remembered the year he almost wanted to kill himself all because of this man sitting in front of him. They belong to the same boarding school together, though this man was his senior. Kingston, let's call the other guy, had been a bullying git to Claude for years. He became Kingston's personal slave, waxed his shoes, tended his laundry, cleaned his room and ran all kinds of errands for him. As if that wasn’t enough, Claude would get a fair amount of beatings from Kingston if things weren't done properly.

If you've had that kind of cognizance, that kind of past, what would you have done, now that you are once again face to face with that bile of a human being? Claude was like everyone else, he so wanted to take his vengeance. But being a respectable man that he is, he never resorted to physical assault. He thought of introducing himself to the man loudly, so that the people on the train could overhear them. He would then talk about how awful Kingston was to him during their school days, and with that he would be able to shame the man inside the train full of people. He could mar the man's dignity.

And so Claude extended his arm and said to other man, "Hi, I'm Claude Knipe, I was at Repton 1935."

The other man replied, "Carole Cleaver, Eton, 1940."

Nye! Mali pala!

Hating and Seething

Bloody hell! I'm here at the office on a Sunday afternoon in the sweltering heat of an un-airconditioned floor, doing the project implementation from HELL! I am fuming mad and tiredly irritated. Friday night I had already stayed up late until almost midnight , the following day, I went back to the office and stayed there from 2pm until almost 8 pm.

BWAKANGINANGYAN! Naiinis na talaga ako sa amo kong saksakan ng bobo. I can't seem to find the excuse kung bakit nabubuhay pa s'ya sa mundong ito. Hindi ko rin alam kung dahil saksakan s'ya ng tamad o wala lang talagang kayang pumasok na ano mang impormasyon sa kukute (thick head) n'ya.

By the way, programmer po pala ako (sa mga hindi nakaka-alam) dito sa isang malaking banko sa Singapore, na hindi ko alam ang dahilan kung bakit kinuha itong aking bobsing amo bilang empleyado nila. Magaling lang mag-salita, ma-boka ika nga. Parang politician, magaling mag-sales talk, wala namang alam. Nasabi ko na bang bobo s'ya?

Dumating ako sa opisina alas-nueve bente, alam kong dumating s'ya eksanto alas-nueve kasi yun ang naka-sulat sa logbook ng guard. Binuksan ko ang email ko at nakitang may sulat mula sa operator na may error sa implementation namin, pinadala ang sulat alas-otso trenta, in short pagdating ni bobong amo, nakita n'ya agad yung email na yun. Aba! Simula nung dumating s'ya hanggang pagbasa ko ng kopya ng email, hindi pa rin n'ya alam and dahilan ng error!

Que barbaridad! Twenty-five minutes na s'yang nakatunga-nga sa monitor n'ya, page-up ang page-down sa joblog ng operator, hindi pa rin nakita ang dahilan kung bakit walang objects na na-restore. Isang check sa save-file at sa joblog ay nakita ko agad (hindi naman ako nagyayabang, kita agad yun ng kung sino man, bukod syempre sa amo ko). So walang authority, tinanong ako ano daw dapat ang gawin – obvious ba? Eh 'di humingi ng authority. Eh bakit, tanong n'ya, bakit nagkaganun? Anong naging dahilan – ewan ko. Pinagbigyan ko at hinanap ang maaring naging dahilan, pero hindi ko makita ang magical thing na nangyari. Sa kaka-utos n'ya sa operator ng kung anu-ano, may napindot tuloy itong operator, pag-hindi rin ba naman TAN-G.A., ibang option ang ginawa at nabura ang save-file. Sus ginoo! Halos pakiramdam ko gumunaw ang mundo. Yung save-file na yun ay pinadala from development machine to production machine for five hours! Opo, limang agonizing hours. Ibig sabaw-sabihin, kailangan naming ulitin yun.

Pero ito pa ring bobo kong amo ang tagal magdesisyon, wala yatang bayag, inabot ng alas-dose hindi n'ya pa rin alam kung ano ang gagawin. Heniway, nagawan ng pamamaraan na maipadala yung save-file sa mabilis na way. Restore ulit kami, pero ngayon na ayos na ang authority, eto na naman… meron na naman daw objects na hindi na-restore… Sus! Gusto ko na talagang mag-walk-out. Paliwanag na naman si ako kung bakit… ang tagal, ang tagal bago rumehistro sa kakapurit na kukute n'ya.

Eto ako ngayon, alas-nueve na ng gabi, wala pa ring nagyayari. Gawa ng request, takbo paroon at parito para mag-submit ng request. Hintay na lang ulit... ewan ko na lang kung may lakas pa ako mamaya para mag-check kung successful nga ang implementation. Pero para sa aking over-all appraisal, hinde - hinde s'ya successful - dahil dapat walang sabit na kung ano man para ma-consider s'ya as a success.

==Update==
It’s 1:30 in the morning, sana matapos na itong parusang ito… we're just checking and confirming that all the objects went right. Ayoko na! Suko na ako! Kailangan pa naming bumalik Monday morning ng maaga sa office for the connectivity testing.

==Another update== We went home at 2:30. I'm dog-gone tired.

Discovering The Boy Who Lived

Two years ago I was not Harry Potter crazy. I even laughed at the news that people were queuing up at midnight awaiting for the release of the fifth installment, Order of the Phoenix. I was astounded at the kind of security the author and her publishers had placed so that the story would not leak out before everything went out to press. Some said that the books were anti-Christian – not good for the kids – yet I did not gave in and grabbed a copy though it had piqued my curiosity, it was a kid’s book after all.

The first movie came out amidst the media frenzy. I did not pay too much attention to it, as I was more interested with the other movie being released that same year, Fellowship of the Ring. I did not even watched it in the theaters, I only got to see it when the DVD came out and I borrowed it from a friend. Philosopher's Stone was alright; it was a kid’s adventure, mixed with a whole lot of magic. The next year came and so did the second movie, Chamber of Secrets. I've seen it in the theaters this time, and came into inclusion that, okay, this is a battle between good and evil, that Voldemort is after Harry's ass, but still it did not grabbed my utmost interest. I guess you can blame it to the Two Towers.

Then the third movie came out, Prisoner of Azkaban. I don't know, blame it to Cuaron for making this third installment a total deviation from the first two, but something was stirred in me. I guess it was because I sensed that there was something that was left out in the film. It got me thinking that there has got to be more background stories going on and were left out because of the medium. Movies can't have everything that was written in the book!

And so my journey into the Potter world began. I went to a bookstore, took the first book Philosopher's Stone and paid for it. Four days later, I went back to the same bookstore and picked the second one. This cycle went on until I finished the fifth book. After finishing the Prisoner of Azkaban, the third one, it dawned on me that I was right; there really is something going on that the movies left out. And so, after the first pass of reading the five books, I did another and another and another… Don't ask me how many times – I can't answer that.

Why do fans love the books so much? Why did it compelled me to read them over and over again? There is some kind of magic going on in there, pardon the pun. They are not merely children's books, each installment grows with the reader, it's an adventure kids and adults could both enjoy. It is a journey of self-discovery, from being an almost non-existent boy to someone everyone depends on. Harry is living our dream – from obscurity to prominence.

Aside from the wonderful characters, the series is riddled with clues, hidden allusions – people keep on guessing what will happen. Readers are kept on their toes – it was important to keep you wits with you in reading every word, as you might miss something that is crucial to what is going to happen next. That is why in re-reading, you discover something new – could be a clue or just a red herring but still it is something new.

And now I await for the sixth book; the 100-days countdown has started. Many questions will be answered and new ones will come up. I can't wait to discover if my theory is right!
Now you know, why do I have Harry's image on my wallpaper PC and mobile phone, HP screensaver both again on my PC and phone, Double Trouble for my ring tone and Hedwig's Theme for my SMS ringer, and a POA calendar on my desk. Yes, I am Harry Potter crazy until the final book arrives, or maybe until the 7th movie is released.

A Little Short Short

Birthday ng husband ko kahapon, nag-dinner kami sa Bobby Rubinos (for those uninitiated, it's a good place for ribs in Singapore). Napadaan kami sa Insomia nung pauwi na kami. Ang Insomia po ay disco house na paboritong puntahan ng mga pinoy dito sa 'Gapor. Hindi ko alam kung bakit, dahil siguro kadalasan pinoy ang bandang tumutugtog dito, maraming puti, wala masyadong pana, maaliwalas ang amoy ng mga tao. Masarap mag-night out sa Chijmes, maraming choices on western food and mostly western people ang pumupunta 'dun.

Anyway, napadaan lang po kami, hindi naman kami pumasok, napasilip ako sa loob at may isang kwentong lumaro sa aking isipan. Heto at basahin n'yo.

Hada

Madilim ang paligid pero nababanaagan ko ang mga mukha na umaaligid sa aking tabi sa bawat kindat ng mga ilaw. Dama ko ang bawat lagabog ng tugtogin sa aking dibdib, kaaya-aya sa pandinig na nag-udyok sa akin na sabayan ang indayog ng mga tao sa gitna ng dance floor.

Kanina pa ako naka-upo dito, sa tabi ng barrista, unti-unti kong iniinom ang isang basong vodka na aking in-order.

Mayamaya lamang ay may lumapit sa aking lalaki. Tipong matipuno ang pangangatawan, parang si Bruce Willis na may mukhang Harrison Ford at may ilong tulad ng si Brad Pitt, in short Caucasian s'ya.

'Do you come here often?' tanong n'ya sa akin, syempre medyo malakas dahil sa ingay sa aming paligid.

'If you think thrice a week is often enough, then I guess yes,' sagot ko naman na may sabay na ngiti.

'Are you with anyone?' tanong n'ya ulit.

Luminga-linga ako, sabay kibit ng balikat ay sinabing, 'No, I came here on my own.'

Medyo napangiti s'ya, ang ganda ng kanyang mga ngipin pang-Close-up commercial. 'Would you like to dance with me, then?' sabi n'ya.

Tumango ako at tumayo sa aking kina-uupuan.

Sumayaw nga kami, okay naman ang indak n'ya, nababagay sa laki ng katawan niya. Panay naman ang indayog ko, giniling ko ng husto ang pwet ko. Napahawak nga ako sa pantalon ko na hipster – puti ito at may konting palamuti sa kanang paa – natakot kasi ako baka bumagsak. Nakakahiya! Buti na lang at naka t-back ako. Ang tube ko na labas pusod, medyo umuurong na rin sa bilis ng aking pag-galaw. Lintek naman na sapatos ito! Ang sakit na ng paa ko, pero sige pa rin ang hataw ko.

Bumalik kami sa bar nung mapagod s’ya. Ibinili n'ya ako ng bagong drinks. Kwento ng konti kung ano trabaho n'ya dito sa Singapore, tapos sayaw ulit kami.

Lumalalim na ang gabi, alam ko 'yon dahil hindi ko kinalilimutang magnakaw ng tingin sa aking relos. Lumapit s'ya sa akin ng konti at bumulong.

Sinagot ko lang siya ng ngiti at sabay tungo ng aking ulo. Kinawayan ko yung isa kong kaibigang babae sa dulo ng bar at hinawakan ko ang kamay ni pogi at inakay siya palabas ng bar.

Habang pasakay na ako sa kotse n'ya napag-isip-isp ko, ang kikitain ko ngayong gabi ay sapat na para sa susunod kong trip sa Tiger Airways dito sa Singapore. Salamat at may maiuuwi na naman akong pang-tuition ng kaisa-isa kong anak at may pang-gastos na naman ang walanghiya kong asawa.

Buti na lang at nakita ko itong si pogi, akala ko ay zero ako ngayong gabi.

Marami akong nakikitang pinay na ganito dito sa Singapore. Malungkot mang isipin, pero ganyan talaga ang buhay, may mga taong hanggang ganun lang ang pananaw sa sarili. Whore in my country? Might as well whore myself away in a foreign land, where no one knows me.
Ayan, nag-Tagalog na po ako. Okay ba? Obvious ba na hindi ako masyado fluent sa mother-tongue ko?

Tattoos and a Desperate Housewife

I just finished reading one Roald Dalh short story. It's titled Sign. It was about how one man got a tattoo on his back and lost it. Here's the clincher question: What would you do if you found out that the work of art etched on your very skin was worth millions?

If given a chance, and if I could muster the courage to face the imposing needle, I wonder what kind of tattoo will choose to have and where to put it? I like butterflies, hmmm… how about that? On my back below my spine? How about in front, slightly below my hipbone? Let's go wild for once, so if for example it was Da Vinci who made that tattoo on my skin and by chance a gallery owner saw it and offered money for it. Would I sell it? It's a tattoo… it can't leave my body right? But he offered me a million dollars, would I be willing to part with a few square inches of my skin? There's a skin-grafting technology, he said. I wouldn't… I couldn't… not even if my life depended on it. They have to kill me first, and then they can take that piece of skin.
You might ask, so what did the old man do? The gallery owner told him that he owns a posh hotel and that the old man will be taken cared off 'til the very last day of his life. The old man agreed and went with the buyer. A few weeks later the skin was on display and none heard of that old man once more – for the gallery owner doesn't own any hotel at all.

Here's another story of a desperate housewife, which could be included in the plot of the famous TV series. It's again a Roald Dahl creation, Lamb to the Slaughter. It is a story of a Bree-like housewife (you know who I mean, if you watch the show that is). Okay, so there is this pregnant housewife, waiting for her husband on a regular Thursday afternoon. She did not cook dinner because every Thursday her husband brings her out for some fancy cuisine. So he got the same time as usual, drank his glass of whisky while she knitted and waited for him so they can get going. But this time the police officer husband took his time drinking and had another shot. He looked tired so the wife said that maybe they don’t have to go out this time and she'll whip something up for them. He then hesitated and poured out everything to her – something that has been bothering him for sometime. He wanted to divorce her and promised to support her and the unborn child. What did the wife do?

She pretended like she didn't hear him and stood up and said, "I'll get the dinner." She took a frozen leg of lamb from the freezer and swung it to her husband’s head, whom had his back turned from her. When she realized that she had killed him, she put the meat on the oven, put on some make up and went to the grocery shop to buy some potatoes. She went back home humming a little tune, smiling and called out, "How are you darling?" She then saw her husband lying down and felt rather in shock and cried her heart out. Moments later she called her husband's colleagues and so the investigation began. They went looking for the weapon, a heavy blunt instrument, and most probably a large piece of metal, but found none. Some officers stayed for a while and noticed that the oven was still on, and being the hospitable wife, she offered her husband's friends to eat dinner – and they obliged.

I guess the case would never be solved then. Because like what the officers said, "Old story – find the murder weapon and you got the man."

Lessons learned, anything can be used to kill someone and when you just told your wife you're going to divorce her – never ever turn your back on her.

Thirst for Flowing Words

There are only 103 days left and the sixth Harry Potter book will be released. I can't wait to get my hands on that hard bound book! I went to a bookstore and saw a poster saying that I can re-order the Half-Blood Prince and get a chance to join a raffle draw. I did not gave in though, because I want to be one of those people lining up at midnight of July 16th.

I haven't read a book for three weeks now, so I bought a couple of Roald Dahl books to quench my thirst for stories. No, not those children's books, you twit! Yes, Dahl wrote stories for kids but he had also written some for the adults. The guy once said that if you are going to get anywhere in life you have to read a lot of books. These books are a compilation of short stories and I guess the catch phrase on the back got my utmost attention.

How would you get rid of a murder weapon without causing suspicion?

Of Taxes and Death

They said that there are two things in this world you can't escape from – death and taxes, though I know of at least one country where everything is tax-free. No wonder life insurance companies will stay with us forever.

I filed our taxes last night, my husband's and mine – e-filling, of course. I was then again astounded at the efficiency of the Singapore government. I remember those times back when I was working in Manila, filing taxes was such a burden. You have to fill up three copies of the tax form, wherein you have to fill in every detail every single gawd-damn year. I had to use a typewriter then with carbon papers, because my hand-writing was scratchy. Lucky me, our HR department collected the tax forms and submitted them in batch, but I pity those who had to line-up in a BIR office.

Here in Singapore, you have a choice whether you want to do it the electronic way or by post. You receive the tax form months before the dateline, which is 15th of April. This form already got your details right, your E-PIN is there, though now they were changed to SINGPASS. All you need to write is your income, if your employer was enrolled in some way, you don't have to do that, too. Place the completed form in the envelope they have sent with the form, go to the nearest MRT station where you can find a SingPost box, drop it there and viola! You have already filed your taxes. If you're like me, who opts to use the net, you can all do it in less than five minutes.

With that kind of service, I can say that I'm a happy taxpayer. I know that my S$600 tax for one year did not go to waste. Hey! Don’t go scrambling to grab your calculator to do the maths, that's not the exact figure I'm paying.

I take the bus and MRT to go to work, and this morning I've seen a news flash over at the Channel News Asia aired in TV Mobile, which is a common thing in the buses here in Singapore. The Pope was given the last rites, it said. The most revered human being on earth is dying, though the Vatican denies it. Not that I'm wishing for him to die, he's an old man for Chrisssake! But I’m pretty sure he's gonna snuff it any time soon. What excites me now is that we're going to have a new pope soon. I wonder who it is going to be. Will he be as compassionate as his predecessor? Will he create a stir in the religious community? What will be his opinion on the war against terrorism?

We go to wakes to see the face of the dead one last time and think of how fleeting life is. Reflection only happens when death becomes suddenly all familiar. The Pope is a famous man, though I haven't met him personally, he was something personal to me. He was the embodiment of a Church I truly believe in. I'm not a religious Catholic, but I try my best to be at peace with God.

There was a prophesy that this pope we have right now is the last pope – when he dies, a great war will break loose and hell comes to earth. I can't wait to watch this prophesy to be proven wrong.