Lucky 8's

Time.com reports that the best wedding date ever is 07 July 2007, a.k.a. 7/7/7. Not only are Tony Parker and Eva Longoria tying the knot on this day, so are Wolfgang Puck and fiancee Gelila Assefa and ten thousand other regular "Joes" who are marrying their ideal and regular "Janes."

As for me, on 7/7/7 (a Saturday, as LUCK would have it), I would be doing my usual:

1. Convince myself to go to the gym
2. Go pick up the laundry
3. Celebrate my personal holiday called, "It's Pasta Day, Today!"
4. Take a siesta
5. Go home to Quezon City and spend the weekend with the folks who are mourning the gradual loss of their aging brood.

But, I'll plan for something special on 8/8/8. That oughtta be an auspicious day - because (1) it's gonna be a Friday, and (2) my Chinese ancestors bet a whole darned lot on triple 8's (which, when pronounced in Cantonese is "fa, fa, fa," a homonym to the words "luck, luck, luck" in the same language), and succeeded in whatever they've done that had been associated with this "most lucky of numbers." Surely, there'd be something good goin' for me on that day, too.

The OTHER Paris

I was talking to a friend last night after a long day at work. Listen in on our short conversation:


SET: Me and J smoking outside a Starbucks cafe somewhere in Makati, while inhaling carbon dioxide spewed into the air by passing vehicles.

Me: Girl, Paris sure looks great from this point of view.
J: No way! Did you see that latest picture of Paris?
Me: Yeah! I was just googling and daydreaming about it earlier.
J: You were googling about Paris??? Why? Paris is all over the news these days! No need to google about it anymore, sweetie.
Me: Paris is in the news? Oh, you mean about the President's anti-immigration stance?
J: No! About the jail term!
Me: Sarkozy's in jail???? Oh my god!
J: Who the hell's Sarkozy?! I'm talking about Paris!
Me: Me, too! But why would they jail Sarkozy because of his views on immigration?
J: (burning herself with her cigarette ash.) S#@%!
Me: (burning my tongue on my hot coffee) S#@%!
Me: Arggh! Who cares about Sarkozy anyway? I STILL want Paris.
J: (raises her perfectly shaped eyebrow) Are you turning lesbo on me, Kim?



Gawd, what a mixed up conversation that was! Ahahaha!

And, I have nothing against people of the third-sex, but I most certainly am NOT a lesbian.

And, I STILL want Paris (France). *** Sigh. *** Don't you just love love love Fridays?

21st Century Taboo (Adobo-Style)

MSN UK recently listed ten 21st century taboos in an opinion article (read it here), and asked its readers which one(s) they’re guilty of. Ticking some of them off one by one, I’d say:

1. I have never given a beggar money – not because I’m a Scrooge, but because crime syndicates rampantly use the “Help-me-I’m-poor” ploys and some greedy lazy parents criminally use their kids in the “Help-me-I’m-young-AND-poor” gambits here in Metro Manila. I have, however, once given a poor tattered-looking boy my packed sandwich when he had approached my car that was, at that time, stuck in traffic. That wasn’t taboo, Mr. MSN. That was… uhm, me sticking to my no-carbo diet.
2. I am a deeeeee-voe-ted Princess Diana fan. I have an altar dedicated to her in my closet [because I don’t want anyone to see it :-)]. Never would I ever malign her name. Shame on those who would!
3. I like gentlemen. Opening doors for women is not a taboo. It’s common courtesy. Heck, I’D open a door for another woman, if (a) she’s older than me and (b) she’s overburdened with ten million things in her arms. Kill me with a spoon whydontcha, if you disagree.
4. Lennon’s “Imagine” is a classic. It is an idealistic piece of shmooze, and is number 23 on my computer’s digital music player list. I’ve also got “Hey Jude” on my song list… What can I say? I’m a quasi-Beatle-Fan reincarnate.
5. I am an advocate of non-fat milk. Whenever I drink it, I feel like I didn’t gain an ounce. It doesn’t mean I’ve actually lost weight, but I feel like I did. Therefore, I am a staunch advocate of non-fat milk.

With regards to the five other taboos listed - I gotta admit I have absolutely no idea what the guy was talking about anymore, since they’re too “British” for me to relate to, but here are some that people of my culture and in my society would most probably consider taboo in the 21st century:
a. Wearing t-shirts over your bikinis on the beach.

Why’d you buy a bikini in the first darned place, honey?

b. Singing “Thriller” at your favourite karaoke bar.

Let’s face it. That Michael Jackson song really fits Michael Jackson’s vocal range and Michael Jackson’s alone. Your “hoohoos” and “heehees” would never sound like Jackson’s. Give it up. Try singing something by Ne-Yo now. I hear his song “Irreplaceable” is quite a hit. Especially if you’re drunk.

c. Begging.

Right now, I believe they call this act “Selling.”

d. Playing with real marbles and real Barbie dolls.

PS3’s and laptops, according to the general up-to-date consensus from ten-year-old kids and kids-at-heart, are way cooler than boring old games like these. Besides, ancient things like marbles are no longer being manufactured, and Barbie dolls are for older women and gay men who collect such things as memorabilia of their once-upon-a-time youth.

e. Eating with your hands.

One word? Ewww.

f. Using hairspray

Like, oh my gosh! Haven’t you ever heard of, like, CFCs?
Or is it CCFs?
I, like, could never get that dangerous thingamajig’s name straight. But, like, my gosh!
Haven’t you heard of them, like, at all???

g. Consuming meat.
See letter “f.”

h. Speaking only one language.
Yes, I understand you’re a true-blue Filipino, man. I know exactly how you feel. But, you just GOTTA learn how to speak English well, man. You just GOTTA. Please understand: “piss” and “peace” DO NOT RHYME, man. They just don’t, you know what I mean?

i. Getting married at the church where your parents got married in.
This was soooooooooo ten minutes ago – that tradition died together with Mandy Moore in the movie “A Walk To Remember.”

j. Getting married.
Period.

Allergic to Love

To Tina Turner, my heartfelt thanks. When I first heard her sing “huwaaaaat’s love got tah do / got tah do with it,” my four-year-old brain immediately connected with the lyric, and it became a strong testament to my then sponge-like absorption of things new: “What’s Love Got To Do With It” was the very first song I sang in one of my countless recitals as a kid. I even kept the Tina outfit I wore (no wig back then – too gauche, my voice teacher thought), in memoriam of that particularly embarrassing three-and-a-half minute worth of fame, an experience among numerous others, which I would not care to repeat in future lives.

Now, twenty years later, I think that Tina said the most brilliant thing and sang the most heartfelt song ever. Ember Anne blogged about something similar on her own site (which, weirdly and eeringly, sounds like my own life story being told – by another person whom I’ve never met before) and it got me thinking about two things: (1) what, indeed, does love got tah do with anything, and (2) am I allergic to relationships?

I have girlfriends who have/had bad relationships. Their stories range from coping with temperamental/jealous/unfaithful boyfriends/husbands, to living with woman-beating s#%* heads, to giving their hearts to lying, cheating men who are in “wedded bliss” with other women. Because I love these lady friends who trust me enough to tell their stories to, their influence and their lessons have a profound effect on me.

Because of them, I think I’m afraid to take risks and let myself go.

Add to that the fact that I read blogs by women like Girlie Monkey and Mindy in Minneapolis – and I think, if svelte smooth sexy women like them (at least that’s how I perceive them to be) have trouble in the dating world, what more for me???

I try to forget about the horrible experiences(sssssss) I’ve had with the opposite sex back when I was a teen, but it’s not easy especially when I see a piece of monay (a big round-shaped piece of bread). I laugh now at the awful nicknames given to me by the boys back then, but…

Sometimes they’re still objects of my nightmares, you know?

And then, I read blogs like:

• Chrissy’s Life on Manitoulin, where a poor character named “hubby” is awoken at two o’clock in the morning to save a rain-soaked cat (he was smart enough to just roll back to sleep, though);
• Jimmy’s UncivilOne, where he captures images from websites his ex-wife likes and pastes them onto his own blog (awwwww, how shuweet);
• Curiosity Killer’s custom-made site, where she talks about her extraordinary life in Hong Kong (I’ve never come across a “love”-related issue/angst yet in her blog, so please DON’T correct me if I’m wrong);
• Ganns Deen’s personal site, where he posts songs of praise and love, and shares stories about his life-made-in-heaven with wife "C," son "N1," car Gigi, and soon-to-be daughter "N2"; and,
• PJ’s Tech Shark blog, where words like “halubshu” and “mahal” dedicated to a woman named Conne abound.

So, in answer to my own concerns…
(1) What’s love got tah to do with it, Tina? ANS: Everything.
(2) Am I allergic to relationships? ANS: Yes. But I try and “cure” myself of this allergy through daily doses of bullet-points one to five, mentioned above. Thanks to them, hope remains.

A Nightmare Come True

On one of our sojourns to the Ice Vodka Bar in Greenbelt 3 on an early Friday evening, three of my friends and I reacquainted ourselves with Liza, one of the bar waitresses, and dunked our collective angst in booze and cigarette smoke. We were, once again, taking horrible advantage of the bar’s PhP395+ (roughly around US$8.78+) drink-all-you-can vodkatinis, which are headily combined with a salmon pizza that’s good for one’s supper. You oughtta tell by now that my MadDoggerz and I spend plenty of time and money on this awesome promo package that the bar offers its patrons during its lean hours, 1800H to 2100H.

However, it was on this fateful Friday that I heard one of the weirdest songs I’ve ever heard. Ne-Yo sang his hit tune “Irreplaceable,” which he had originally written for Beyoncé. When the song’s Intro beats started blaring from the bar’s humongous speakers, everyone on the dance floor started their usual bump and grind, but instead of the normal “To the left / to the left” lyric, Ne-Yo sang:

“To the right / to the right
Everything you own in a box to the right
In the closet / Yeah, that’s my stuff
So, if I bought it / Bitch, don’t touch…”

It was already 2200H when Ne-Yo assertively screamed these words through my fuzzy brains (I wouldn’t blame me for being a wee bit buzzed by this time – I’d started on the vodka drinks at 1800H, for cryin’ out loud). So, I then happily pointed out to my friends that Ne-Yo f***ed up his own lyric, resolutely sang my own completely indecipherable words in time with the song’s beat, and purposefully struggled off of my bar stool to dance drunkenly in front of two very sexy guys.

I was told that no more than two minutes passed when my companions (read: ex-friends) forcibly pushed me out of the bar door, hailed the first cab they saw, and dumped me with the poor, hapless taxi driver. I distinctly remember waving goodbye to the two aforementioned hotties, but I don’t think they waved back. I also think I ruined a pair of good fuck-me shoes that night, but I don’t remember where I’d put them now.

…

Come to think of it, I don’t even remember if all these things really happened to me on this supposed Friday night. Gawd, I hope not, coz I just blogged about it to the whole wide world.

Monday Mlues

The fourth of June started out badly for me. I had an hour’s travel time, from Quezon City to Makati, waiting for me as soon as I woke up at 0530. Breakfast wasn’t exactly the best that it could be, although my dad (who’s cooked breakfast for us since time immemorial) did his damnedest to get the organic rice cooked on time. It was the first time he’s ever handled organic rice, and albeit his good intentions, his results were an absolute disaster. From here on end, my bad day blues, henceforth known as “Monday Mlues” starting pouring. Mlue #1: a busted breakfast.

The trip to Makati City was as bad as expected, especially on Monday. A twenty-minute build-up in a small minute part of the gawd-forsaken highway called the Epifanio Delos Santos Avenue, or EDSA for short (which really stands for “Every Day Superdupersloooooow, Aw-c’mon-i-did-not-swerve-across-that-lane-i-swear-mister-officer”) was hellish, as usual, but what was particularly surprising was that there was another thirty-minute disaster on Buendia Avenue. What should have been a mere five-minute ride to our final destination became a half-hour nerve-racking Mlue #2: the tempestuous trip.

As soon as I stepped into the office, I cannot friggin’ believe what happened next. My cute sandals’ straps broke off! Mlue #3: shoddy shitty shoes.

My desk was also being attacked by a zillion tiny little buggers that grew from the overflowing trash can our office maintenance personnel forgot to take out last Friday. Mlue #4: icky icky insects.

Then I received an e-mail entitled, “Di ta guae yong khee.” At first, I thought, “well that’s a weird e-mail subject,” so I read it. It was one of those supposedly funny stories people e-mail to each other, telling the experience of a Filipino college student who tried to help his classmate take care of the latter’s ailing father in the hospital. His classmate was Filipino-Chinese, whose family spoke fluent Fookien (a Chinese dialect from the Fujian province of China). As he tended the old man, the Filipino student suddenly heard the patient repeatedly gasp, “Di ta guae yong khee! Di ta guae yong khee!” Then, the old man just died. The stupid author was trying to be morbidly funny, but his humour sure as hell didn’t pass muster with me. Number one, “di ta guae yong khee” is a horrible Anglicized translation of “You’re stepping on my oxygen.” Number two, the author kept on repeating that his classmate was “intsik,” that the classmate’s family was “intsik,” and that he did not understand the “intsik” language. The term “intsik” is a derogatory term locals here use to refer to their fellow mix-blooded Filipino-Chinese nationals. And, number three, even if this story is false, pray tell, why the hell is a story about manslaughter funny??? Mlue #5: black-and-blue bigotry.

I just wanted to say: Mondays suck.

Big time.

And, so do Thursdays. I oughtta have a “Thursday Thumpers” entry, but I better get through with this Tuesday first before “Tuesday Chuvaness” occurs.