Sunday, July 31, 2005
A.D.I.D.A.S.
All Day I Dreamed About...
Sweet N' Tart
It's a hole in the wall on Mott Street in Chinatown, where we've spent many happy lunches and dinners. Their specialties are clear soup with noodles and dumplings, and great taro desserts and shakes. I was craving their food since this morning but I got caught up in cleaning the house.
Hoping to find the ring I gave my sweetheart for our anniversary last year (the cat is currently being blamed for its disappearance), I grabbed the MagLite and went searching underneath dusty appliances in the hopes of catching its golden promise. Instead I found twelve cat toys, balls and avocado pits underneath the oven and dishwasher, and four matchbooks, a bolt and nut, broken glass, pens, several years' worth of dust bunnies, and a nickel from 1972 underneath the refrigerator. By the time I was done, I reeked of kitchen debris and was coated in dust. I vacuumed and mopped with Murphy's Oil, cleaned the living room, fed Tulip, and jumped into the shower. I was famished.
I could have ordered with my eyes closed. On the Q I played Free Cell on my Treo and salivated over the thought of my supper: steamed Chinese brocolli, turnip cake, and a plate of shrimp dumplings. I walked eagerly to Mott St. only to find Sweet N' Tart's doors and windows boarded up, and the signage ripped out! Aside from hunger I felt a deep sadness as I walked along Mott in search of the bigger Sweet N' Tart restaurant, but to no avail. I dragged my feet as I walked away from Mott and onto Canal, quietly saying goodbye to the bamboo rice and Shanghai dumplings that my sweetheart loves. And like an idiot I prayed that the posted sign (in Chinese characters) said they are only under renovation.
Nonetheless the reality was dinner had to be had by my lonesome, and there were several options. I grabbed three pounds of raw peanuts to boil for our road trip next wekeend. Mmmmm...nilagang mani. I also bought two watermelons that I can chill and eat for breakfast tomorrow. I made a left on Baxter and walked into our favorite Vietnamese restaurant Pho Na Trang (87 Baxter St), and was greeted by our usual waiter, who happened to have spent a couple of years in Manila. "Kamusta? Kangkong? Lumpia? Halo-halo? Masarap!", he exclaimed with a strong Vietnamese accent. I sat down and plopped my merchandise on the seat across mine.
It was time to order, and as I knew the menu well I said it one breath, "Spring roll, friend squid, and hollow vegetable (kangkong)," to which the waiter said, "That's a lot of food!" I smiled and dismissed his concern by saying "Yes, so I have a lot of leftovers for tomorrow." He looked at me as if to say "Suit yourself." The food arrived and I remember thinking that it takes thirty minutes for the stomach to tell the brain that it's full, and in order to finish all this food I will have to consume it in under thirty minutes. There were two large plates of squid and vegetables and five spring rolls, and in twenty-seven minutes all that remained was half a spring roll. The table across me couldn't believe their eyes.
Never underestimate the power of a compulsive eater scorned.
We'll miss you, Sweet N' Tart. Farewell.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
A Long Walk Goodnight
The evening was pleasant compared to the roasting of the past week. The streets were empty except for the few who, like myself, were taking their dogs out for their evening walks. I walked slow and let the beast take her time sniffing each and every lampost and hydrant, being careful not to make too much noise as we passed her pal's house and get him started. There is only one modern style house on the block, and she sticks out among the earth tone brownstones, more so today that her sprinklers are on to water their plants and cool the concrete sidewalk in front of it.
The old man with the cane is sitting on his stoop again, and for the first time I greeted him "Good evening." I thought about how I'm not a stranger in this place anymore. If I walk a few blocks I am bound to bump into someone I know - a fellow pet owner, a client or a friend - I've lost the anonymity I used to cherish. I thought about the Hispanic man I see standing on 7th street each morning reading his paper, who says "Good morning, Miss," everyday when I roll by on my bicycle. "No bike today?" he said one day when I got a flat tire and was instead carrying my rear wheel to work. I gues I'm not as invisible as I'd like to believe.
I walked over to the next block which was darker and quieter, and her loveliness decided to drag me into the street as she was ready for her rituals. The oil-burning lamppost lit our way as I stood there staring at its flame, like a reluctant candle standing wearily on someone's grave on all souls' day, counting the days I'll spend in silence until you come home.
Friday, July 29, 2005
No Smiles Yet
Meet Tulip. In this picture she isn't very happy but she seems to be saying "Kiss the godfather." She has become quite adept at suckling milk from a bottle and screaming when she is hungry. I take her to work everyday in my backpack carrier on my bike and back home so that she can be fed overnight. She likes bike rides and being burped. She kinda looks like a rat right now but people say she is cute. Her ears wiggle like she is flying when she is drinking milk.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Introducing Tulip
In the middle of appointments, a sweaty construction worker brought a box to our front desk and said he'd found a kitten in the garbage can. I took one look and found a tiny little creature, with its eyes barely open, swimming in a pool of dry cat food kibble. The kitten was no more than a week and a half old, and could hardly see or walk, much less eat anything more than her mother's milk. I thanked the guy for his help, and at the point I took the kitten in, I became bound to it until it is able to fend for itself.
I quickly heated some kitten milk replacer and put it in a nursing bottle to feed her, and she gladly suckled until she was satisfied. I made her pee and poop (kittens this young have to be stimulated to go to the bathroom by wiping their genitals with a warm and wet cloth or cotton ball), and pretty soon I had it down to a science. I took some advice from our expert kitty-raiser, and realizing that nobody else was going to bottlefeed this baby every two hours, I knew that I had to take it home.
The dog was more than happy to have a new playmate, but the cat immediately made it clear that he wanted no part of the 4 ounce screaming fuzzball. He's always been sensitive to changes, and his stern hisses and growls are evidence of how we absolutely cannot keep the kitty. But the household has to c0pe with a few changes for a couple of weeks, until little Tulip is able to eat on her own. Only then can I find her the great and happy home she truly deserves.
Welcome to the world, Tulip!
Monday, July 25, 2005
The Q Train
If I had the time, I would ride trains all day and just breathe in the life that's in them.
When I first moved to New York, I missed the language so much that I would purposely sit beside old Filipino ladies just to eavesdrop on their conversations. They would usually be gossiping about so-and-so's daughter, and I would just close my eyes and imagine that I was home, pretending to be part of their conversation. I would then become very tempted to talk to them but would stop myself, learning early on that in this city, most people do not want to be bothered.
I've also spent a lot of time watching Chinese families commuting from Sunset Park to Canal Street on the Q, the yuppies from the Slope heading off into the city, and the various personalities you would meet on any subway line. They say that you learn a lot about a neighborhood by the people on the trains that stop there. On the Q you will find quite a spectrum of personalities, the flavor of the East, and so much more.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Fateful Finds
At an antique store in New Paltz, upstate New York, there were two books on the shelves which were meant for me to find. One was a book from 1936 called "Marriage Hygiene" which contained several articles on how to sustain a healthy marriage such as "The Biological and Mental Advantages of a Youthful Marriage for Women," and "The Complications of Mixed Marriages." It was a slowly deteriorating book which was carefully contained in an acid- free case, and I was very tempted to buy it, but knew that it would only fall apart in my home. Besides, I have to control my addiction (or non-addiction?) to books that goes back to my childhood. But that's another story.
The second find was the fateful one. I found my boss' college textbook that he used in Manila, where he got his education. (My two bosses are caucasian men who, like many Americans in the seventies and eighties, decided to pursue their education in the Philippines, being an English-speaking country.) I knew it was his Manila textbook because it was not actually a book, but a photocopy of an actual book, cut to size and bound in the classic Manila-esque "hardbound" style, with stiffboards and faux leather, and the title of the book embossed in gold letters on the cover, and the book owner's name on the lower right corner. In the Philippines, the only way to get textbooks is to photocopy them from a library and have them bound for personal use. Buying your own copy from the US is both very expensive and unheard of.
It wasn't a cheap find, but I shelled out the cash for a photocopied book (that my boss probably threw out decades ago) because it was a historical item. To me it was a fragment of time captured in a worthless item, and I felt it was my duty to preserve it for posterity, and reflect on how it made its way onto my hands.
Three years ago I embarked on this great American journey, and fate found me sitting on a couch before a stranger who was actually able to pronounce my school's name right. Surprised, I asked him if he was familiar with my school, at which point he pointed to a diploma behind him, which was the exact same diploma I had. At that point I was considered hired, and countless people believe that my walking into that office that day was fate.
So is finding that piece of history. Now, if he'll only feel the same way I do, that book would make a really great gift.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
The Perfect Addition
Our new receptionist is a happy and chatty gay boy, and our current receptionist's "new girllllfriend." According to the rest of the staff, he is the perfect addition to complete our team. My boss, the ever-hairy Florida boy who is both frighteningly homophobic and bigoted, has started cringing and and acting very uncomfortable everytime he hears the new guy's gentle and high-pitched voice. And I, ever the undercover lesbian just watching everyone else make their politically-incorrect gender biased comments and racial slurs, found comfort in the new diversity of our staff. That is, until I saw this conversation unfold before my eyes:
Client: I'm going to Thailand for vacation.
Me: Where in Thailand?
Client: Bangkok.
Me: Oh, you're gonna have so much fun!
Client: I wanted to go to Cambodia, but my mom picked Thailand.
New Guy: Cambodia? Are you going to pull an Angelina Jolie and adopt a baby?
Client: Of course not.
New Guy: Why not? I heard they make good babies from that part of the world.
Client: What do you mean?
New Guy: Aside from being well-mannered, they will wash your clothes too!
*Uneasy laughter from the group*
Me: (smirking) That is so messed up.
New Guy: (brief silence) Oh did I offend you? Are you Thai?
Where do I begin?
Friday, July 22, 2005
The Chase
Today, at 8:30 in the morning, I found myself chasing a client through 5th Avenue, a dog in a carrier on my shoulder, after this woman attempted to abandon her dog at our facility. She ran fast, and I was pretty sure that I would lose her, until she got to her car and realized that I was not going to let her leave without her dog. She screamed and cursed at me while I got her to take her dog back, after which she decided to chase me back to the hospital, trying to grab my clothes and hurling invectives at my panicked and running self. The reason switched off and the survival mode switched on. I was running for my life, not knowing if this lady picked up a rock along the way and was getting ready to throw it at me, and all I could think of was locking her out of the hospital until she calmed down. Alas, my exhausted self didn't run fast enough and by the time I was closing the door on her, she had managed to get a foot and an arm in, and so I just decided to let her in.
At this point she started cursing at everybody and demanding everybody's names. She demanded to talk to the boss and sat her ass on the coffee station, cursing me out and telling me that I was a maniac and that I wanted to kill her dog. I was catching my breath and was red in the face as I asked her to leave the facilty -- but she would not, saying that she did not want to talk to me anymore because I was a psycho and a maniac. I was tired and decided to take a break from her dementia, and as I turned my back and walked away, she ran off again -- this time successfully abandoning her dog.
Aside from the fact that this commotion totally ruined any chances of a peaceful week-ender for myself, it also raised some questions that I've decided to ask people around me:
1. Have you ever chased anybody for anything?
and
2. Have you ever been chased by anybody?
Today was a first for me for both questions, and because I was in a state of panic and in an adrenaline rush, I must have acted in a way that is quite unusual for my personality. I'm glad nobody was hurt, but I'm gladder that I learned how I am at wit's end. So...have you ever ran for your life?
Thursday, July 21, 2005
What does the acronym PHILIPPINES stand for?*
Anybody who has this image of America as being a cold country with pine trees and snow-capped mountains should spend a summer day in New York City. Being hot, sweaty and miserable on a day like this is a sure way to change a person's impression of the so-called Land of the Free. (Enter Osang with her definition of sex: "Sex is another word for....freethom!" Ukinana, ang chaka!)
Scorching hot and disgustingly humid, it's either I've become aclimated to the colder seasons or it really is horrendously hotter here than my everdearest EDSA on a sunny day. Add a fired up oven to a hot kitchen at dinner time and just consider yourself roasted and ready to die. I used to use my AC in Quezon City only about 5 days a year. Never did I imagine I would use the AC more in the East Coast than in the tropics!
Anyway, the day ended well with this voice mail on my phone from Mr. Blackman:
"Brooklyn's best driver, this is Brooklyn's best instructor. Call me."
Haha!
*P.H.I.L.I.P.P.I.N.E.S. - Pumping Hot, I Like It. Please, Please, I Need Erotic Sex!
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Tiny Puncture Wounds
There is a sort of gyrating pain one gets when insulted by a sharp object. Like cat bites, most deep puncture wounds on fingers create this numbing, throbbing sensation that seem to radiate throughout all the nerve endings of one's hand. This is how I felt today, and I accidentally stabbed my thumb hard with an 18G hypodermic needle. Mom always said to be careful with sharp objects.
I can just imagine the pain of drilling a hole through your finger, as what my boss did to himself during an orthopedic procedure. He was attempting to pass a Securos suture into the femur to replace the anterior cruciate by means of drilling a hole through it, and he went right through the bone and into his finger. As he was in the middle of a sterile procedure, he had no recourse but to finish the hour long procedure and deal with the pain later. He said that he is still hurting from that incident, almost two years later.
But that's just the injury of the day. No biggie.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Master Fried Sardines and 3210
I lived in a college dormitory for three years, and the room was a 16 x 16 foot box shared by (I kid you not) four women on two bunk beds. The bunk beds were placed at an L-formation, and a long desk lined the other side of the room, each occupant having about three feet wide of desk space and a fiberglass chair. We each had a closet that was 8 feet tall and 2 feet wide, and because it could hardly fit anything, we used the rungs of the bunkbed ladders as hangers for our jeans. We ran nylon ropes across the ceiling above our beds to serve as clotheslines to hang our towels and delicates, stored our shoes under our beds, and even managed to sneak in a 5 cubic foot refrigerator, an electric range, and a rice cooker -- all of which were illegal to have at the dorm due to electricity consumption concerns. For three years, I lived with three other girls (and at one point even four!), sharing food, personal space and various odors, paying the equivalent of $3/month.
When my mother dropped me off at the dormitory before my freshman year, we passed by the bathroom on the way to my room, and upon seeing it she begged me to reconsider my decision to live there. Our floor had 40 students in 10 rooms, and we all shared a communal bathroom that had four toilets and four shower cubicles, two of which would often be out of order. In the morning a line would form in the bathroom, and sleepy bed-headed women would drag themselves foot by foot as they waited for their turn to shower. I would have already been done showering at 6:30 AM, and would have been smoking a cigarette in the stairwell, flicking ashes out through the jalousie windows.
Our room was 3210, and I shared it with three interesting women to whom I owe most of my university experience. At lunch we would rush home from our classes and cook rice, then we'd all split a tiny can of Master Fried Sardines, which contained four sardines at most. We would "chase" the rice with Maggi Hot Chili Seasoning or a soy sauce + lemon condiment to maximize the meal, and then we would take turns washing the dishes secretly in our near-disgusting communal bathroom. Cooking was prohibited as it was a fire hazard, so we would have to take extra precautions not to be seen washing pots and pans.
On weekends or hooky days, we would catch an early bus to the city (about 2 hours away) and catch three movies plus lunch, after which we would ride another bus home, content with a full stomach and a bad headache from the movie marathon. Nights would be filled with chatter and song, and one night we even made a recording of all our crazy love songs (I wonder where that tape went?). We drank beer and played pusoy dos (a local variation of poker), we used M&Ms as poker chips and penalized the losing player by making her drink a tall glass of water. We had "pictorial sessions" where we made up a theme and dressed up accordingly, and shot several rolls of film of each other's photos in various poses (this collection I actually own!).
We had fights, quite a few of them, and sometimes we would not speak to each other for months (something that is very hard to do when you only have a 4 ft diameter of space to yourself at a given time). But more than that we had many many happy moments when life was simple, we were all single, on an allowance, and couldn't care less about the world outside Room 3210.
But one day we all grew up and moved out. Two graduated and I left the dorm to get my own place in the mountains of Mt. Makiling. I'm only regularly in touch with one of them right now, and this post is actually for her, as she might actually (and finally) come and visit soon. This is for you, Jen. See you in New York one day.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Ice Bwaka
We picked up a box of Sweety Green Bean Ice Bar from the Hong Kong Supermarket, and I had one while sitting on the stoop with the wife and kids. It tasted vaguely of Ice Buko, the famous Manila street treat, homemade popsicles made with milk, coconut shreds, and mungbeans. And then I proceeded to tell the story of the ice buko man who used to peddle the cool refreshing snack along the scorching hot asphalt streets of Teacher's Village in Quezon City.
He would yell "Ice buko!" with such force and gusto that it sounded like "Ice bwakaaaa!!" in increasing and then decreasing volume as he came closer then farther away from the house on Mabuhay Street. Often, we would not know exactly where he was and we would have to run up and down several blocks to find him. And when we did, we couldn't wave at him to come towards us, so instead we would run towards him, calling him Manong (older brother) to get his attention -- because he was completely blind.
Manong Ice Buko Man would walk each street of Teacher's Village and Barangay Central to sell popsicles that were stashed strategically in the big styrofoam cooler that he carried on his back. He said that his wife organized his money daily according to each denomination so that, even if you had to announce to him (on your honor) what bill you were paying him with, he would always give you the correct change.
We loved Ice Bwaka Man and we loved chasing him around the village for a taste of his prized coconut popsicles.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Gentrified
or, a less politically-correct definition would be: when white people move into black neighborhoods, as what many realtors are attempting to do to many communities in the city.
When I asked a co-worker how long it would take me to take a car service (which is like a cab but you call for them and they pick you up) from my work to Crown Heights, he hoped I was not going there by myself. I said that I was, but that I was getting picked up in the evening. He added that he hoped whoever was picking me up was in an armored car. Talk about a "scared white boy in a black neighborhood (Everclear, Father of Mine)," but it wasn't far from the truth. In the eighties these neighborhoods had really bad reputations, which is why I've often heard caucasian acquaintances say they wouldn't walk those streets unless they had a deathwish.
Of course, I didn't really feel that way as I rode all the way to Avenue D. Sure, I must have seen at the most two white folk but it wasn't scary as I thought it would be. But that was in the daytime, and assessing a community's gentrification wasn't my mission. My driving class was.
And so there I was, sitting through five hours of lectures and videos as required by the Department of Motor Vehicles. Four other students were there, including one young punk who was insisting that pot couldn't possibly influence driving abilities (causing the instructor to waste more of our precious time proving him wrong). The videos could not have been made later than the seventies, as I could tell from the hairstyles and car models used in the scenes. They reminded me of the porn flick "Taboo," and "Little Girls Blue," which were hidden in (but regularly viewed from) the TV cabinet at Mabuhay Street.
In the middle of the class, we took a break and I walked along Avenue D looking for a place to eat. I passed by a few Chinese restaurants, plus the closed deli where I'd hoped to grab a salami and Swiss on wheat, so I decided to go for the full ghetto experience and try Kennedy Fried Chicken, a KFC spin-off chain popular in NY, because KFC is supposed to taste like garbage in this country (in Manila I always thought it was heavenly, hot and crispy, mashed potatoes and my favorite potato salad in the world!). I didn't think I had enough time for chicken so I had a burger and fries which weren't excellent, but good enough if only they had some mustard. The servers were surprised that I decided to eat in, and stared blankly as I said "please" and "thank you." Apparently I was a cultural anomaly in this 'hood, but I didn't care. Outside the joint half a dozen kids were arguing over a heaping scoop of Breyer's Cookies n' Cream ice cream, and I was sad that I didn't have enough time to check out the discount store across the street as I was already late on my way back to class.
The evening ended with more gruesome car wreck scenes and heart-wrenching interviews of family members of drunk-driving fatalities, plus some more of the dramatic lecture by the great Mr. Blackman. At the end of the evening, he scheduled my road test, which I'm supposed to take in a now very gentrified Brooklyn neighborhood called Red Hook, next month. Let's see how that goes.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Beautiful Driving
Mr. Blackman, who has given me nine hours of instruction in the hopes of teaching me how to drive, congratulated me today on my "beautiful driving." I was pleased, as I had made a conscious effort to really learn only two lessons before. This afternoon, driving around the Slope, Boerum Hill, Bed-Stuy and even the Eastern Parkway, I actually believed in my heart that I could drive.
This, of course, is after many many years in passenger's seats, backseats and public transport. Two attempts at learning come to mind. One was in Ligayen, Pangasinan, on an intersection and driving our Tamaraw FX, when I froze and coerced my "teacher" to take the wheel as I got into the passenger's seat. Another one was in a dying 1976 Mitsubishi Lancer (pawis steering, man!) on an elevated entryway into Vinzon's hall in the old University, when I wouldn't let go of the brake pedal and again made a (now spurned) ex-lover take the wheel back and save me from having a nervous breakdown.
Nothing can match my sister's luck though, and this is why at almost forty, she still is a "driven woman." One day in the early- to mid-eighties, she was being taught how to drive by a staff driver of ours. She so happened to hit the statue of the virgin mary (specifically, the Mary Help of Christians statue) which was at the corner of Iran and Jamaica streets in Better Living. Traumatized by that mishap, she never drove again!
Friday, July 08, 2005
Maamo Street
I remember that the flowers you gave me stained my hands. The tiny yellow petals fell on the shiny ceramic tile floors of my humble home in Maamo Street. The floor was cool, which is why you passed out on it with your head resting on my school bag when you had too much scotch with your father one Sunday afternoon. The floor was cold when the side of my arms touched it, when I was struggling to stay on the cushions so we could "nap," that first time when I was terrified of being near you.
You would scream in the shower because I didn't have hot water. Your voice would echo throughout the room, and the upstairs neighbors even dropped a note into my laundry area to tell you how they were such big fans.
Sometimes my memory betrays me, because it brings back all these images from a past I cannot bring back. Most of the time I take comfort in it and feel blessed to have such detailed pictures in my head. Like you walking towards the blue gate in your white polo and khaki shorts, a bag of tomatoes in one hand and two cups of gulaman in the other. In the sun you looked like an angel, in that street of tricycles and vendors, you looked displaced. But in my arms that stormy afternoon in Maamo, where I buried my face in your neck and prayed for some sort of sign or even salvation, you were mine, and mine after all.
Trains
My "Archives" folder has a lot of history, including this photo which was taken on the MRT from GMA Kamuning to Ayala in 2002. I loved this photo so much that I used it for an entry in my old blog, which was actually a letter to a great friend. Check it out here.
It is true that as we get older we weed through our acquaintances and trim the insignificant ones until we are left with those we consider to be true friends. I've never considered myself to be one who loves company, but I am quite fortunate to have a few true friends whom I cherish (and miss terribly!). These are my Coron buddies:
What shall we bring to our reunion? We are making a list here.
Still a Sucker for Neruda
I was very happy to find this again after many years. I've always thought it was musical, and that the language just flowed beautifully from my mouth as I read it aloud. It had so much power, even in its quietness and serenity. Aromas, light, metals...near the fire of the impalpable ash. I love the strength of the words disguised in subtle imagery. Enjoy!
If You Forget Me
(Pablo Neruda)
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
Perception
When my driving instructor asked me for business advice, I knew I had made a good impression. He asked, "Can you give me some tips on how to handle my money?" and I, amused at his deduction that my opinion mattered, was more than eager to give my two cents' worth. He had picked me up from work several times before for my one hour classes, and I would be in my usual work garb - jeans and a beat up t-shirt, and for some reason he concluded that I knew my way around the financial world. "I wish I had your money," he said today, after I told him I couldn't make it to his 5-hour lecture tomorrow as I was going upstate. Perhaps it was my reserved demeanor, or my seemingly educated stance or language, that fooled him. I don't know. Now I'm beginning to feel that what my best friend told me ten years ago was right: that no matter how hard I tried or how I dressed, even if I dirtied myself up, removed my jewelry, and spoke in my vernacular, I could never in my life pass off as poor.
Even if I am. At least by New York standards, when my peers in their thirties are buying homes and have flourishing careers. Two years into the American workforce, I may be earning a tad bit more than your average Bob at the Stop N' Shop, but with my education and skills, I should be earning more. But when are we ever satisfied anyway? I should just be thankful.
To make a long story short, I gave my instructor sound business advice. Never mix business with pleasure. Make your clients pay you by check or credit card, and don't carry a lot of cash in your wallet. Make use of documentation as it is your best friend. Use your credit card for business purchases, and be a good bookkeeper. Give yourself an allowance and stick by it. Blah blah blah. With all that said, I folded my $1 green Chinatown umbrella, donned my free drug-company-sponsored raincoat, and got out of the Camry where I was finally learning to drive.
Uhhhhmmm...Me, drive? What a terrifying thought! :o)
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Like Battery Acid
My eyes are burning like someone poured acid in them. They've been like this for a couple of days now. I've been tired and I've been longing for a day of sleep. Just one waking morning when there is nothing to do, nothing on the schedule, nobody waiting, and absolutely nothing on my mind.
When I leave this crazy city I will spend a month in my beloved Coron, on my own or with a select group of friends who will take turns joining me for extended weekends. I will sleep on a bamboo bed in a cot at L&M Lodge or some other crappy lodging place where the floor is made of bamboo strips and where the smell and sound of the sea seep through the gaps in between them.
In the morning, Puding's boat will take me out into the Bay, where we will make stops in between islands for me to jump off and explore the depths of the ocean floor. We will stop for lunch and I will grill my squid on his grill, after which I will take my bag of fish innards and feed the colorful blue and yellow fish out by the reef.
In the afternoons I will sip my tea on the deck of Sea Breeze Hotel, my feet resting against railings where their boat docks. I will listen to the wind chimes in the background with the breeze in my face, the sun's wrath on my cheeks, and the salt on my lips. Only then will I wonder why I ever moved so far away.
The Tragedy that is Iced Tea
Why is it so difficult to find homemade, unsweetened iced tea? You'd think that it would be more convenient and economical for restaurants to carry it instead of using sweet iced tea mixes. This hot afternoon, I called up several restaurants on 5th avenue, but nobody seemed to have it. Finally, Daisy's Diner said they did carry homemade unsweetened iced tea. And so off I went, buying two tall glasses of my much-coveted iced tea, only to find out they were from a mix and very very sweet!
Sigh. Such is the tragedy of iced tea. It comes at a point in my life when sugar just does not become me. In any case, who wants to spend $2 on iced tea anyway? I should just make my own.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Cat Bite and Caffeine Bite
A cat named Succhi got me today. He was half-sedated, and we were being careless and trying to intubate him anyway. My finger was bleeding so bad I had to wrap it tight with gauze and tape.
Anyway, I was so sleepy this afternoon that I decided to try the Dunkin' Donuts Iced Latte that everyone at work has been crazy about. Of course, as always with any coffee product (ice cream included), I just felt jittery, nauseous, and still f*in sleepy!
I wonder now what is it in coffee that is just so toxic to me. I drink tons of tea, and tea is supposed to have more caffeine than coffee, but I never have any reactions. But a few sips of coffee has, without fail, always made me regretful. If only it didn't taste so good. Maybe that's a good thing, otherwise I'd surely be hooked.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Sleep Awaits
This is a photo of me in bed, squinting from the bedside lamp's halogen glare. I thought the orange and blue lighting of this photo looked nice on my phone, so this MMS post will serve as a test of how Blogger handles photos when sent through a mobile device. By the way, Blogger did not post my MMS photo, I had to upload it manually myself! The dark circles under my eyes are hereditary. My mom has really bad ones and my sister is on Hylexin for them. I thought mine went away when I moved here, but this photo does not do that premise justice. 
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Man & Wife
Anyone who's on Friendster knows that finding old acquaintances online can be a really happy or disturbing experience. An old high school classmate of mine invited me to be her friend last week, so I logged on to view her profile. I discovered that she had married out of college and now had three kids and lived in Texas. Her friends list included many familiar faces, most of whom were married with kids and had their wedding photo as their default photo. I was surprised but then reminded myself that the wedding dress and dashing groom are supposed to be a young girl's be-all, right? That same evening I told this story to another old friend over the phone, who accused me of being jealous of their lives. It isn't jealousy at all, just some introspection. If I had not been enlightened by tragedy and near-misses a decade ago, would I define my existence by my man and my fitting perfectly into society's dictates? I really don't think so.
Flat tire on the road to a better place
Hurray for Blogger's new photo upload utility! No more need for image hosting services like Photobucket, Blogger now allows you to email and post images directly from your computer to your blog without linking to an external server! It's about time!
This photo was taken from my bus stop on 5th avenue, when I got a flat tire last Friday. At first I was being paranoid and was convinced that someone at work deflated or punctured my tire, but my suspicions soon went away. It turns out that my inner tube did have a puncture, so I purchased a patch kit at my local bike store, did my first patch job, and lugged the dirty wheel back to work.
Of course, as my luck would have it, my quick release nut fell off somewhere along 6th avenue as i was walking back to work, and so I had to go back to the bike store and purchase a new quick release assembly for 20 bucks. I tried not to think about how much I would have gotten that piece at Cartimar, and instead focused on how I happily have my wheels back. Hurray for blogger, bicycles and Bedbug!!!
Seltzer & Fartzler
She thinks I should bottle my farts and make seltzer with them. She thinks my farts rip leather upholstery. I happen to believe that her farts can clear rooms, pickle vegetables, and used as weapons of mass destruction.
These are the realizations we made today, the Saturday of the Fourth of July Weekend, where we are truly, happeningly, fantastically doing nothing. My kind of life with my kind of girl.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Bloggerville
Psyched and excited to (finally) discover that my favorite couple Click and Crash have actually been blogging for a while now. Why didn't I know this? Or did I just miss the press release? Oh my God, knowledge of that fact would have saved me many boring nights wondering what my friends are up to.
Alitaptap
I worked a double shift today to cover a co-worker on his birthday. I got home late and walked the dog, only to notice that a firefly managed to make its way into our street, and was flying around the trees in front of the house. I've always known that fireflies can only thrive in the cleanest air, so I pretty much concluded that this firefly couldn't have possibly be born in Brooklyn, and especially not on my street, which intersects with the busy and polluted Flatbush Avenue. I figured it must have come from the woods somewhere upstate or in Jersey, got stuck in someone's trunk or moving truck, and found its way to Park Slope where it will blink a couple more times before its untimely demise.
But I digress. The reason I mentioned the firefly was that it reminded me of my years in the mountains of Makiling, in Laguna, Philippines. I lived a hermit's life in a hut that leaned on the wall of someone's house. At night, the fireflies would come out and I would follow them, fascinated by the light they made. I used to write stories about fireflies and forests and bridges when I was younger (and then I grew up and just started writing about my lovers, which wasn't always better).
My first e-mail address was firefly@laguna.net, but only because my then ISP said alitaptap@laguna.net was too long. Before the internet there were only long quiet nights with only the silence and the thought, and nothing much in between.
