This is my major impetus to blog

C and Uncivil, thank you for looking for me. I feel the love across the Pacific Lake that separates me from you.

Work's been a beeyatch. I'm having fun, for sure, but it's just been toxic, you know? A girl needs to just sit in front of her TV and watch pirated copies of popular American boob-tube prime time shows after being in front of a lousy laptop 10-11 hours everyday. That said, I CANNOT FRIGGIN' BELIEVE MY LAST POST WAS IN AUGUST. :(

But I'm back (or at least I'm trying to be), because I have a new toy that's motivating me to blog like hell. Check it out, world!

This is my desk at work (teehee, you can even see the brand of cigarettes I smoke. The roll of tissue paper is to wipe the desk in the morning, NOT for use in the toilet, mind you!)...


This is my laptop (badly taken but you've seen laptops a-plenty already, I'm sure, so you know what one looks like)...



I was gonna take more pictures, but my batteries ran out, and my friend who sold me this camera has not given me new ones yet, as he had promised (If you're reading this, Ganns, consider this a shout out!) Not just that, but I accidentally deleted other ones that I've taken of my officemates and of myself, because I had stupidly tweaked the folders of the camera's memory card after I plugged and played it on my computer. There were a few hours of panic, coz I couldn't get the darned camera to save the pictures anymore. But thank god for Ganns, he showed me how NOT to screw up my new camera after he finished his meetings that day.

So, expect more blogging to come from my l'il corner, world. This little camera, whom I've named Bubba, is gonna get abused a lot in the next few days (that is, as soon as Ganns gives me the batteries that he's promised me at the onset of our transaction). :)

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.

Tagged (again)!

Wooohoo! A break from work! Internet’s down, so I finally found time to compose an entry for mineistheearth. There’s plenty to say after more than a week’s absence online, so this is the perfect time to say them. Besides, my boss can’t blame me. I HAVE to do something while I’m here in his office, don’t I?


INSTRUCTIONS: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot, like so.

1) Pointless Drivel
2) Shelli’s Sentiments
3) Curiosity Killer
4) Chrissy
5) Kim

Next select five people to tag: (if you haven’t done it already)
1) Winky
2) Raymond
3) Leigh
4) Ganns
5) Idjea


What were you doing 10 years ago?
I was about to start my freshman year at the Ateneo de Manila University. Come June 1997, I learned how to struggle graciously with a couple of subjects: Filipino 1 and PE (Fitness Walking)! I was never good at physical activities, but at least the gym workouts now are helping me compensate.


What were you doing 1 year ago?
I was starting my new job. :-)


Five snacks you enjoy
1) Nagaraya regular or adobo-flavoured crunchy peanuts
2) Canned peaches in syrup
3) Chocolate wafers
4) Ham with mayo on wheat bread and a glass of milk
5) Oreos and a glass of milk


Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
1) Smooth (Santana feat. Rob Thomas)
2) Love Moves in Mysterious Ways (Julia Fordham)
3) Again (Janet Jackson)
4) Sana Maulit Muli (Gary Valenciano)
5) You Oughta Know (Alanis Morissette)
Note: I've memorised other songs, but these are the top five that I feel I can blog about without blushing.


Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1) Spruce up my folks’ home in Quezon City and purchase the title to my family’s ancestral home in Paco, Manila

2) Upgrade and buy up everything on my list of “I Wants”

3) Go on a trip around the world with someone special

4) Put up my own business – preferably something related to food and/or clothes

5) After accomplishing items 1-4, I’d start a pension fund, which would be, at most, 20% of my remaining net worth, and then I'd contribute the rest to charities that would benefit Filipino street children.


Five bad habits:
1) I smoke.
2) I crave for chocolate way too much.
3) I blog at work, something I really shouldn’t be doing.
4) I gossip. Kindly. :-)
5) I drink coffee as if it’s water.


Five things you like doing:
1) Travelling
2) Writing – hence, the blog. D'oh!
3) Reading Nora Roberts novels – my guilty pleasure
4) Singing in the shower
5) Having Wednesday or Friday night drinks with my Maddoggers!


Five things you would never wear again:
1) Anything with a floral pattern printed on it – these clothing items should be banned from the face of the earth, forever!

2) Butterfly clips to tie back my hair. They are soooooo ten years ago, man.

3) Fitted pants. My thighs have already revolted and won against these things.

4) Stockings without garter clips holding them up on my legs during a job interview - I did this only once in my life, when I had an interview for an internship position at J. Walter Thompson (one of the world’s largest ad agencies). The stockings started rolling down my legs as I descended a staircase, on my way down to the ladies’ powder room to re-touch my make-up. Due to highly strung nerves, I accidentally ripped the bloody hose as I pulled them up. I had to go bare-legged during the interview. It was just my luck that I forgot to shave my legs that day, too. *sigh*

5) Runny mascara during a job interview – After I took off the torn hose (please see #4), I was already sweating cats and dogs inside the very hot restroom. I checked myself in the mirror and simultaneously wiped dripping sweat off of my brow. Horrifyingly, a straight black line appeared from one end of my right brow to the other end of left brow, as soon as I put my hand down from my face.
Note: I still got the job at J. Walter Thompson, despite items 4-5.


Five favorite toys:
1) My PDA
2) My car
3) My office laptop – which I bring home to watch DVD’s on
4) My gym’s ab machine
5) My sister’s mobile phone, since mine sucks.

Burned!

A trip down to the town of San Juan in Batangas was exactly what the doctor ordered for me this past weekend. Expect another "Fun in the Sun" entry to be posted here soon (insert: I just love love love the fact that I live two to three hours away from a good beach - north, south, east, or west.)

However, the prescribed "drug" I took this weekend turned out to be addictive, waaaay too addictive... Today, I look as if I deliberately boiled myself alive. Head first. From my hairline down to my underarms, I'm an Oompa-Loompa personified. Oi vey.

The Dances That I’ll Never Dance Again

I love to dance.

By myself.

And, in private.

My moves are never ever to be seen in public. They’ve been known to stop traffic and cause horrendous appalling accidents that could have been avoided in the first place. But I’m game with trying new things at least once in my life. So, when my gym trainer suggested that I try out the aerobic classes they were offering to all gym members, I thought, “Sure, why the heck not? How bad could it be?”

Well, I found out a few days ago exactly how bad it CAN be. It can be stupendously horrible, atrociously bad, and hideously awful. First off, the aerobics instructor was a man - one who is more girly-girl than I am. Jesus, he has an hour-glass figure and a flexible frame. He has shaved legs, too, to boot! Second, he was very very good, but had a soft soft voice. I stood at the back of the class and struggled to hear his instructions. To my mortification, I found myself with a pair of tangled legs, two lead arms, a dreadful rhythm, and THE sweatiest body to hit that dance floor EVER.

As I went through the class, I distinctly heard him instruct us to do the “mambo,” the “cha-cha-cha,” and the “boogie” several times during the exercise routine. My gawd, I have not had any training whatsoever in dance (except the ballet, when I was five years old), so I ended up massacring all three dance steps. My brain and my hips swayed in opposite directions; my two left feet brought me crashing into other students; and, my stiff hands stubbornly clutched at my waist.

I checked my watch – I’ve only been in the class for 20 minutes and I decided I’ve had enough. The instructor has ordered us to pair up... Pair up?! No friggin’ way. I’d much rather take my individual humiliation and drown myself in a Jacuzzi. Moral lesson learnt: I’ll stick to fantasizing about Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing, Mikhail Baryshnikov in White Nights, Channing Tatum in Step Up, and Marques Houston in You Got Served. No more dreaming about dancing like the stars.

But, I’ll still hippity-hop my way around my 30-sqm condo to the sound of Jojo’s Too Little Too Late any darned time I want to, thank you very much.

Dear God

Thank you for not making me a young mommy. Below is the reason why I think you made me choose not to have kids surrounding me 24 x 7 x 365. They’ll probably drive me to drink too early too soon. But, lawdy, I just gotta love ‘em. And, thank you, for creating such wickedly funny people (teachers, most probably) who post these things on the Net, too.




And, God, please don't hate me, but I sooooooo agree with these following prayers:


Indeed, why DID you create siblings, particularly sisters, in the first place? I could have been much much happier as a single child.

Nevertheless, I acknowledge that you are omniscient and omnipotent. Elliot summed up my sentiments quite well, to tell you the truth:


Amen.

Stuck

Dedicated to Conne and PJ. Thanks for the ride yesterday. Also dedicated to our office building’s administrator/manager. May you rot eternally in your own edifice.

Yesterday afternoon, I decided to hitch a ride with my friends, Conne and PJ, to my condo because rains started to pour down in the middle of the sweltering humidity we’ve been experiencing recently in this part of the world. Conne and I packed up our laptops and boarded the elevator that would take us down from the fourth level of our office building to the ground floor, where PJ was waiting. Ten seconds into the ride, the elevator car’s lights abruptly shut off, throwing us into pitch black darkness. Simultaneously, we heard an ominous thump and felt the car’s floor bump heavily against our feet. We mentally screamed: we’re stuck.

I swear, it was the longest minute of my life. Conne started wheezing (ladylike-ly, of course), and whipped out her mobile phone so we would have some semblance of light inside the 50-year-old elevator carriage. I silently prayed that there would be a button on the control panel that would signify “EMERGENCY. "A prayer was essential because some naughty building tenants had been scraping the labels off of the elevators’ buttons. Thankfully, though, there it was – a bedazzling yellow button with a black bell drawn on it. I pressed on it. Nothing. I pressed it again, harder. Still nothing. We mentally screamed: we’re stuck.

And I could not find my blasted mobile phone inside my personal black hole (i.e., my bag). So, I shouted for help. Conne breathed even more heavily (but ladylike-ly, of course). I shouted louder, and thought, “Is this it??? My end has come in the form of a 1x3x7-foot elevator cab, with dirty white walls that had badly scrawled curse words drawn on them?” I mentally screamed: I don’t even have a bloody boyfriend who’ll miss having me around!

Suddenly, the lights came back on. We heard a whirring sound (the elevator motor, I presumed), and praised whatever god there may be, for it seemed as if our ordeal with the small, bad, elevator was over. Another sixty seconds later, the doors chug-a-chugged opened. Hallelu - - wait - - where are we? On the seventh freakin’ floor. Never mind, never mind. We found a staircase and started our descent. We mentally screamed: we’re free.

While waiting for us inside his car, PJ fumed. We had made him late for his next appointment. We screamed: we got stuck.

Survivor: Metro Manila

I’m twenty-six years old. Never married. Single. Smart. Employed. Chubby. Funny. Thrifty. Extroverted. Intelligent… no wait, I said that already. Laid-back. Short. Friendly (I suppose the clue to this one was the previous description “extroverted.” Duh.). But I’ve never really been independent.

I’m not like Chrissy or Curiosity Killer who have travelled extensively and worked vigorously in various parts of the globe. My life’s simple – but not idiotic or boring, contrary to what Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie seem to think of the lives of the world’s regular Joes and Janes. Recently, however, I’ve made a move to change all that: I moved out of my parents’ comfortable home in Quezon City and into a semi-expensive flat (read: scrimping and saving are absolutely necessary for an ordinary yuppie to be able to afford this room on a monthly basis) in Makati City.

Ours is a conservative society: normally, a child does not move out of his/her parents’ house here in the Philippines, unless s/he is getting married already or earning more than the parents do. Sometimes, people who’ve moved out of their respective parents’ homes in their college years or during their early early adulthood even move back into the parents’ nest once they do tie the knot. Causes: simple. Money’s hard to come by. Blue-collar work, and sometimes, even white-collared ones here basically do not support a middle-income lifestyle. Relying on mom and pop is sooo much more convenient than the alternative.

However, I consciously chose the alternative last September – and, so far, I can say that it’s been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. On my own, I’ve learned to survive. “Grocery Shopping 101” is a course that’s proved to be extremely valuable. Key lesson learnt: “detergent” is quite different from “dishwashing liquid.” The former is normally in granule form, and is, therefore, difficult to use to wash china with (even if they were hand-me-downs, china is still china is still china.) “Cooking for One” was also an important course. Key lesson learnt: one kilo of ground pork does not equal one serving. “Cutlery” covered some pretty interesting lessons, too. Here, my key lesson was that dull knives are way more dangerous than sharp ones. Why? I have no idea. But I’ve got the evidence of this fact bleeding on my laptop.

(Insert ‘bathroom-break’: got to go stop the bleeding. Note to self: include ‘band-aids’ in the grocery list for tomorrow.)

“Cooking 104” was exciting though. Many lessons learnt there. One, don’t just leave defrosted marinated meat inside the refrigerator for three straight days. They’ll give you intense indigestion that’ll send you straight to the hospital when you cook and eat them on the fourth day. Two, green eggs, albeit their emotional significance to you and Mr. Schmidt, are not good for you. Again, you’ll save another trip to the doctor’s if you simply throw them out. Three, store-bought pasta cannot be boiled until the water completely evaporates. That would only result in a ruined pan and, more importantly, a starving stomach, which would have to be assuaged with your umpteenth burger from McDonald’s this week. Four, look at bottle labels before you grab whatever’s inside those said bottles and use it on a dish/beverage. For instance, black vinegar used in adobo tastes grandiosely gross, and two teaspoons of salt instead of sugar in your morning instant coffee is just pure unpleasantness. I could go on and on, but I fear that I’ll just make you (1) get off your chair in disgust, or (2) barf.

Being on my own was not a hunky-dory-peachy-keen experience. Hoo boy, I haven’t even written about “Bathroom Cleaning 4.1” yet. :-) But, there’s still time to experiment, learn, enjoy, and survive in this rented condo unit. My lease ends in June, and I’m already begging my landlord to not kick me out yet. Seriously, I did not mean to set off the fire alarm on my second night. I love it here. Life is good.

What's In A Name?

Just finished reading PJ's blog on the unfortunate names of some of our friends and acquaintances. Then, I started remembering: my former High School teacher, Miss Filipinas D. Lavandera (in English - Miss Philippines The Clothes-washer); the meaning of "maricon" in Spanish ("gay;" sorry, Conne); my sister's college classmate, Juan Paulo Pedro (John Paul Peter - "Pedro" is his real last name); a good friend named James Dean; a beloved friend's kid who's called "Santino," (Little Santi) after his grandfather who's named Santiago (nickname, Santi... Santino is often mistaken to be named after a mob crewmember from Francis Ford Coppola's 'The Godfather' movies); etc.

And where did I get my name? "Kimberly" is supposed to be of English-origin, meaning, "From the wood of the royal forest; or, from the royal fortress meadow." My given name in Chinese, Ya Ying, means "strong warrior." Warriors are often mentioned in English mythological and historical stories. The "Ying" in my Chinese name is the same character used to call "England" in the Chinese language, "Ying Kuo." My Chinese surname, "Huang," means "yellow" - a colour associated with royalty in Chinese historical times.

Eerie? Yes, abso-bloody-lutely. So, what's your name again?