As I write this, you’re lying in a hospital bed thousands of miles away. Oblivious to the world. Breathing not on your own, but through tubes attached to your body. I am trying to reach you. To hold your hand and talk to you, to let you know, for all that it’s worth, that in spite of how things are between us now, I still care about you.
Please hold on. Please hang in there.
You are needed. You are loved.
I’ve always been obsessive-compulsive when it comes to toilets…or restrooms…or washrooms… However you call it, it’s there for one natural purpose–for when people need to take a leak or dump. Aesthetic purposes such as grooming or the like come secondary.
When I say obsessive-compulsive, I mean OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE. Every time I enter a public toilet, I automatically fold my pants up so that their bottoms don’t touch the floor, regardless of how clean the floor appears to be. I never touch any part of the cubicle, walls, doorknobs, flush levers, etc. without a tissue. I’d rather not heed nature’s call than use a toilet that I find “inconvenient” (my fancy term for eeekky). I could climb six flights of stairs if I knew there’s a better toilet there. If I see anyone come out from the toilet without washing their hands, they’re marred for life, as far as I’m concerned. I could go on and on about my freakiness but that would be beside the point.
The need for toilets to be always clean is beyond emphasis. To me, it should be an unspoken rule. My being OC about it is up to a point that I would make it my crusade to make cleanliness in the toilet–most especially public toilets–a law. Breaking this law will be punishable by incarceration in a stinky toilet with the lawbreaker’s head forever stuck in the toilet bowl.
I really don’t understand why many people don’t feel it absolutely necessary to wash their hands after using the toilet. I mean, c’mon! You wipe your ass or your pee using your hands. Unless you have some mechanical device with you all the time to do the wiping for you, don’t you think you should spare a couple of minutes soaping and drying your hands?
Last Saturday, after watching Angels and Demons with JJ and while waiting for my turn in the restroom, I did a random survey. Yeah sure, a toilet survey in the toilet by the toilet freak.
My findings were alarming. Out of probably less than 15 people who used the toilet while I was there, none as in nil, zilch, zero cared to wash their hands after using the toilet!!! And most of them, after coming out from the cubicle, went infront of the mirror and either touched their hair or their faces, or put on lipstick with their fingers! Seriously.
I yakked and yakked about this alarmingly repulsive discovery to JJ that he had to virtually stitch my mouth shut. As he gently took my hand and led me away from the restrooms, I stopped dead on my tracks and pulled my hand away from his. And with a crazed look on my face, I asked in a hushed yet frantic voice, “How ’bout you, did you wash your hands?”
His only answer before he dragged me away: “DUH!! What the f#@k do you think??”
It’s raining outside. I’m sitting in the dark, lost in my own thoughts as Coldplay soothes me in the background with “Fix You.” Apt, indeed. Just the song and lyrics I want to hear. It’s been a while since I sat down and listened to my head thinking.
I used to find it hard to think without feeling each thought. Right now, I’m doing exactly that. Letting thoughts pour in, free-flowing. Unfiltered. Unhindered. Raw. I should do this more often.
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Five weeks ago, the father of my kids, in one of our routine calls, cheerily called me “Hey, mahal!” Sweet. Except that he had never called me that before–ever. Except that we had long parted ways.
Two weeks ago, he finally told me he’s planning on getting married next year. Finally. My immediate response was, “What’s her name?” He answered with a chuckle and said, “Don’t worry, you and I and the kids are still going to Disneyland.”
Yipee.
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Leaving is never easy. Especially if it involves friends that you had shared so much of your life with. I decided to leave some friends behind. It’s something that I should have done ages ago, when my gut instinct had told me that the friendship is not worth staying on for anymore. But I had chosen to look the other way and thought that maybe time could heal all wounds. That maybe, we still could salvage what we used to have. That maybe all the hypocrisy would eventually stop. Was I so wrong.
I’ve been crossing my fingers for too long, I think I fractured them.
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Speaking of friends, a very dear friend whom I haven’t seen for almost twelve years now came knocking on my gate last Sunday. Years may have drawn lines on the faces of everybody that I know–but not on Ted’s face. He looked almost exactly as I had remembered him. He’s got a little tummy bulge now, though. But well, among our friends, who doesn’t?
We talked and caught up with each other’s lives. It’s amazing how conversations with dear friends could seemingly just pick up from where they left off years and years ago.
About to board the plane, he texted me, “I’m missing you already.” That was the sweetest thing that he had said/texted to me in almost 12 years. :) It feels good to have great friends.
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It’s been a little over three months since the son of one of my best friends died. I have no idea how things are within her, really. I don’t want to ask. Even if I do, I wouldn’t know how. I don’t even want to talk about how painful things might have been for her. I simply couldn’t imagine. All I know is that she is definitely one of the strongest women I have ever known.
I’ve always admired her integrity, her intelligence, and her focus. Now, I admire her more for her resilience and strength. It’s something that I could only wish for myself.
If I haven’t been with her a lot lately, it’s because I believe she needs all the time to be with herself and her family at this point. Truth is, what happened three months ago was a vicarious experience that had affected me as a mother, more than I would ever care to admit.
********************************
On a much lighter note, my sister and I were watching a video on YouTube just this evening. As cheesy as it may sound, I had a good laugh watching the Katrina Halili-Hayden Kho video.
It wasn’t funny ha-ha. It’s a mere testament to how stupid people sometimes get.
It’s Saturday morning, and since I’m the only one in the mighty training team who’s on the graveyard shift, I am alone in the office right now wondering if I’d be visited by the now famous resident ghost next door.
Last night was painfully hectic. Hectic because I had to squeeze in two days worth of missed items in one shift. Painful because five people, on five separate instances, in five different ways, told me that I am fat. Well, not really in those exact words, though. I know, I know…weight is such an annoying and boring issue for many. I’ve always considered it vanity when one worries too much about his or her weight. BUT, that’s because I have NEVER been worried about my weight before. The only thing that I had worried about in college before was how to have a chest that would not make my neurotic boyfriend then go ballistic when some moron would stare at it.
BUT NOW…
Well, if you had been 43 kilograms virtually your entire life and had only worn either XS or S sized clothes since forever, you’d be a tad worried too if one day, people you know will suddenly stop right in their tracks and exclaim “you’re fat! What happened?” as if they just discovered that you have another arm growing right out of your ears.
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As soon as I got off from work, I turned to JJ for much needed consolation, as always. Because he probably didn’t want to risk being mauled and verbally harassed by a troubled vain woman, he said in such a manner that would kill any diabetic within hearing distance that “to me, you still look great, huggy bee. You’re still hot.” And he just scored free movie tickets for saying that.
I made remarkable discoveries, though. I discovered the many ways that one can tell people they’re fat. These were how such message was delivered to me by the people I bumped into at work last night:
from somebody whose face I couldn’t put a name to:
“Hey, you look…chunky now.”
My response: “uh..thanks?”
from two former trainees who had kept on pushing each other, undecided on who’s gonna be the messenger who will tell me the foreboding news:
Messenger 1: “Ms. Balot, he said you gained weight (pointing to Messenger 2 as Messenger two immediately ducked out of my sight).
My response: ***dagger look then a saccharine smile
from my good friend Py:
“You’re fat! What happened?”
My response: ***an inhuman wail
from a random person whose social relationship with me never goes beyond “Hello, Ms. Balot”:
“Hello Ms. Balot….”
My response: “Oh shut up, I know what you’re gonna say!”
From a cleaning person I was in the elevator with going down from the cellulite-conscious floor:
“Ma’am, may laman ka na.”
My response: “thanks.” Then I wondered how I could stash her mangled body before the elevator opened.
I have just been released from the hospital. No, not a mental institution, thank you. I had cystitis. For the simple-minded person with zero medical knowledge, it sounds inauspicious. Well, it depends on which side of the coin you are on. If you’re not the patient, you’d casually say, “drink lots of water and you’ll be fine!” If you’re the doctor, you’d say, “it’s an infection of the lower urinary system. Antibiotics will cure it.” But if you’re the patient, you’d say, “screw you and just let me pee without pain!”
Yes, cystitis may not be as severe as pyelonephritis (inflammation of the kidney) which had sent me virtually crawling, on my hands and knees like a four-wheel drive, to the hospital many times before, but it is almost as painful. It makes peeing a very horrific thought. I had the urge to pee every five minutes–with nothing coming out except a drop or two. Peeing was like having my entire pelvis explode at every drop of what seemed to be burning gasoline trickling drop by drop from my urethra. The pain was FUCKING EXCRUCIATING–it brought out the French in me.
I had to leave work midshift last Monday. A colleague offered to drive me to the hospital but I told him that my boyfriend was picking me up. Thankfully, The Boyfriend arrived in a few minutes asking me if I was OK. I was short of biting his head off in response to his question as I told him to let the taxi wait while I went to the bathroom to pee–for the 6th time in 15 minutes.
The wait in the emergency room was excruciating–literally and figuratively. Four people who called themselves Doctors approached me one after the other and introduced themselves to me, asked me a bunch of questions, and told me the same thing after I answered all their questions: “just lie down and relax, ma’am”. Four doctors, same questions. Four times, same line. Four times, I had to restrain myself from kicking a doctor in the groin mainly for telling me to relax when I obviously couldn’t and would rather strap a bedpan in between my legs so that I could pee anywhere anytime.
I had a feeling that the doctors had wanted me to drop dead first before they would finally transport me to my room and drug me to sleep. Since I obviously didn’t do that, a nurse approached me (I was gearing for a major kick to his balls should he tell me again to lie down and relax) and asked me who among the doctors on his list did I want to attend to me. WTF!!! Four freakin’ doctors and none of them was supposed to attend to me after all?
I picked a Dr. Belisario on the list–simply because his surname sounded more doctor-ish than all the others on the list. His daily visits made me realize that I should have been a doctor. I would’ve been filthy rich by now. I would only visit my patients once a day, chat with my patients for about three minutes, poke them here and there then speak medical gibberish, and then off I’d go with their life savings. Good business.
Or I should have built a hospital. Accept people who are sick, dying, or sick of dying, have pretty nurses with very clean fingernails pop overpriced medicines in the patients’ mouths, feed them fancy-sliced food, and then charge them P3,000 a day for their confinement in my fine hospital. Marco Polo would have a run for its money.
All in all, most of my holy week was spent in the hospital. And the only time it was close to being holy was when I exclaimed “Holy shit!” at the sight of the hospital bill sans the medical insurance.
P.S. I believe it was the bill who cured me. Not the meds.
It’s 4:05 in the wee morning…and I’m the only one awake in the house right now. It feels great–being alone and awake at this hour in the comfort of my own room, instead of being holed up in my cubicle in the office as I am supposed to be right now.
I am hungry. I could eat a horse. With a rhino for dessert.
I wish I hadn’t promised myself to write at least three blog entries a week. The pressure is just too much for my tiny head. Not that I have a whole population of readers out there who are waiting with bated breaths for my next entry, though. But me pressuring myself–and I rarely pressure myself– is equivalent to a thousand nostrils breathing down my neck. And yes, I do have a tiny head–literally. And no, I don’t see the relevance of mentioning it in this blog. Just thought I’d blab for a while and hopefully, the throbbing ache in my head would suddenly ignite that elusive light bulb.
For four nights in a row last week, I only got an average of two and a half hours of sleep. That’s ten hours out of the forty hours of sleep that I should have had. I wish I had that ability to sleep like the proverbial log. I wish I could just switch myself off and sleep like an overdosed junkie. I wish I could just close my eyes and dream about chasing butterflies and rainbows, instead of alien invasions and fancy dinners with Obama and Oprah, ending with a goblin swallowing Obama’s head while Oprah gives away her Favorite Things.
But no, I sleep with my ears wide open. It’s a curse. I hear every heavy footstep outside my door, I hear the clanking of glass from the kitchen, the vvvrrroooohm of vehicles passing by. Darn, I even hear myself breathing! All these, when I’m desperately trying to get into a deep, deep slumber–the kind of sleep when all hell could break loose and I’d still be happily snoring my ass off.
Here are my current envy when it comes to sleeping the world away. I wish I could sleep like them–well…not really LIKE like them. I sleep with more poise–at least I’d like to think that I do:
These are two of the four dogs in the house. The white one is aptly named Bastard and the black one is Britney. Go figure. Just like the dysfunctional family they live with, these dogs are as neurotic as canines can be. But they sleep so well you’d think they’re dead.
In a few minutes, I’ll try to get me some overdue sleep. Otherwise, there’ll be a raving lunatic screaming for sleeeeeeeeppp pretty soon.
And oh, the picture here is of Britney sleeping normally. She loves sleeping in a basin of tap water–after eating her own poop.
How could someone that you just fired for grossly malingering and under-performing come back to you one day and ask you to endorse him back to the company, in another department?
Is it just me or are there really people whose faces are made of 12-inch thick cement blocks?
I almost died today. I swear, my eyes popped out as my face contorted into a pained and hideous-looking mask that one can only see in some old Twilight Zone episodes.
I lost my blog!!@#$#%#!!!!
When I clicked on my site today, all I saw was one post. ONE POST and THAT’S IT! No Recent Posts, no Comments, no Archives, NO NOTHING. Not even a Log-in link for me to click and log in to my account! With fingers shaking like a spastic, I YMed JJ and clicked on all applicable icons to express my horror of losing my blog entirely. He merely said, “calm down. wait…” After a minute or two, he said, “I’m in your admin page now. What browser are you using?” “Explorer,” I said lamely.
So IT IS my browser. My new blog theme is not Internet Explorer-friendly. Darn. And I almost had a heart attack. So what’s with lay-outs and IE? I have encountered several websites that posted notes that say “Better viewed using Firefox.” Fine. So I’ll be posting a similar notice after all, because I am not going back to my old layout and I certainly don’t have the luxury of looking for other layouts at this point.
I could not imagine losing my blog. It would be like losing a limb. Worse than losing a limb. You can replace a limb with artificial ones and it still would (almost) function the same as the real one. You lose a blog–you lose certain periods of your life. And unless you warp back into those moments with the same emotion, the same thoughts, you can never rewrite your posts and come up with the same spice, the same rawness.
I guess it’s high time for back-up files. I never want to lose my blog (or my limbs).
In the meantime, I’ll check my blood pressure.
It’s one of those nights again when I want to update my blog but sleep wins over. I am not a fan of posting memes but this one I gotta do! This has been going around Facebook for quite some time now–or so I heard. I still have to get bitten by the Facebook bug.
This is for couples and about couples. Being one half of a couple, I figured it’s worth sleeping ten minutes later than I should. And then, I thought, how about reeling him into this so that my beloved (three) readers could get a glimpse of the man behind the initials? After exercising the classic woman’s power of persuasion, I was able to cajole him (not without force, one might say) into pounding onto the keyboard his answers to the following questions which he later (surprisingly) posted on his friendster blog. So here’s to Facebook glory…
What are your middle names?
-His is Sarcasm, mine is Diva. But in instances when we decide to live like normal human beings, his middle name becomes Garde and mine Decinan.
How long have you been together?
–almost two years…give or take a few days in between when we debated on whether our anniversary falls on the 18th or the 26th.
How long did you know each other before you started dating?
–He had set his eyes on me in May 2007 but decided he just gotta have me so we started hanging out a month after.
Who asked whom out?
–We debate a lot–even on this issue. But here’s the story:
I was looking for a place to stay. He drew me a sketch of some place. But decided to accompany me anyway. We searched for a place for days–like Mary and Joseph–and always ended up having dinner after by sheer necessity. Then I remember one night when someone said, “hey, let’s have dinner.” And then someone replying, “are you asking me out on a date?” And someone retorting “no way!”. And the other replying, “ok fine. let’s have dinner.”
I just can’t figure who said which.
How old are each of you?
-He is old 33. My age is a secret only a privileged few knows.
Whose siblings do you see the most?
-together? HIS.
Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
–being a couple in a traditional, idealistic society. No further comment.
Did you go to the same school?
–nope. otherwise, we would have been each other’s bad influence, being both delinquent students then.
Are you from the same home town?
–no. he’s a manila boy who moved to the province. I am a little town girl.
Who is smarter?
–he is. but i am more driven and obsessive-compulsive when it comes to things that I really set my heart on. I am the better writer; he is the better speaker.
Who is the most sensitive?
–we both are. we both cry at sad movies. hahahaaha!
Where do you eat out most as a couple?
–we are fickle-minded eaters. we often go all the way to a certain restaurant only to decide there and then that we want to go someplace else…so we hop on to another restaurant…then another…until we end up eating in some joint that serves bad food.
Where is the farthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
–we’re planning on going somewhere far. always planning.
Who has the craziest exes?
–well, he doesn’t have an ex who had threatened to commit suicide should the relationship end but is now very much alive still even after the relationship indeed ended. but then again, he did have an ex who….(EDITED to protect the identities of the people involved). So it’s a draw.
Who has the worst temper?
–he spits out a litany of cuss words when he gets really pissed. I, on the other hand, just walks out. So it’s him, hands down.
Who does the cooking?
–he does, because he has an evil plan of making me fat. I only bake so I bake him delicious cakes. because I, too, have an evil plan. mwahahaha!
Who is the neat-freak?
–I am. he’s a slob. he picks crackers and stuff on the floor when he drops some and eats them just to disgust me!
Who is more stubborn?
–he’s infuriatingly stubbon. I am frustratingly stubborn. Together, we’d give birth to a stone.
Who hogs the bed?
–I do. I want all the space I can get for my propeller body to move around.
Where was your first date?
–if i can remember WHEN, the WHERE would be easy.
Who is more jealous?
–the one who asks questions but never believes the answers.
How long did it take to get serious?
–JJ and I will discuss this in private.
Who eats more?
—he does! he eats off my plate, chews on the bones of my chicken, drinks my water…and even when he knows I’m already full and about to burst, he still stuffs my mouth with more food. asshole.
Who does the laundry?
–sometimes he does. he once took my laundry to the laundry shop and insisted on a same-day RUSH job and paid for it. He went back to claim my laundry 3 days after. That’s his idea of same-day. That’s his idea of rush.
Who’s better with the computer?
–He’s the tech. I’m the tech trainer. Go figure.
I never got any flowers this Valentine’s day. And I couldn’t be any more relieved!
It’s not that I don’t like flowers, I do. I love long-stemmed roses. They could come in bunches or in solo, it doesn’t matter. I’d still swoon. After all, I’m a normal, true-blooded female.
But give me those roses on Valentine’s Day and I’d surely go “This is so predictable, but thank you.” That’s where my normalcy as a true-blooded female stops, and where my tact evaporates. At one point in the past, I used to get a whole bunch of Valentine flowers every so often. And every so often, I’d get swept away…for five days…or until the flowers started to wither and die. And there was no back-up memory of something remarkable or romantic or sweet to relive that initial reaction I got when those flowers were given. In the end, those pretty flowers became no different than those unwanted, dirty, crumpled pieces of paper and trash. They all ended up in the rubbish bin.
JJ got me all figured out. Out of the blue, on Valentine eve, he said:
“I’m not giving you any flowers tomorrow.”
“Huh? Well…that’s perfectly fine,” I answered.
“I’m just setting your expectations,” he said.
“You’re not exactly the flower-giving type,” I said.
“Hey, I gave you a rose on Valentine’s Day last year!”
“Yeah, freshly picked from a desk in your office. “
“The fact that I was holding a single rose at 5:00AM…on a jeepney…on Valentine’s Day–that was HUUUGE!”
“Don’t be cliché. No flowers,” I said.
“Good. We should both wear red tomorrow then.” If looks could kill, he would’ve been dead by now.
Indeed, I got no flowers the following day. It would’ve been totally embarrassing and uncomfortable for me, anyway, walking around with a bunch of flowers like those google-eyed teenagers we met in the streets.
I got much more than ten times the worth of flowers, though. I got an entire evening of how I truly wanted my Valentine’s Day to be–a special yet casual day without the usual trappings and plastic-wrapped flowers and fancy restaurants; no calorie-laden promises that were not meant to last post-valentine, no diabetic proclamations of V-Day magnified feelings…just two people feeling the moment, without the frills…without the cliché–and with lots of food! 
We started the day with food and ended it with food–and still more food in between. In between thoughts of more food to eat next, I said:
“I’m not gonna eat forever. I feel fat already.” To which he replied:
“Then that makes us a perfect couple–a couple of fat people.”
And I had to virtually kick him in the ass to keep him from letting me have a bite of his KFC Zinger. I was already bloated and if i took one more bite of anything, i knew I would surely pass out.
I guess there is a need for me to retract what I had said in the previous paragraphs. I guess I would rather have flowers for Valentine’s Day and then have no memory of anything else sweet or romantic after they turn brown and die, than not have flowers but have a memory of some sweet and romantic…and grossly unhealthy FAT couple walking around holding hands.
But nah! I had a perfect Valentine last night. I’ll worry about the calories later.
I suck at numbers and name-face association, but when it comes to memorizing numbers and dates, I’m the maaan! I am fond of making lists, too. This is my version of Aiai’s My 25. My list of random thoughts, facts, nuggets, that gives a glimpse of the me underneath the skin.
Last week, JJ’s bum was transformed into a water dispenser. Solid food goes into his tummy and comes out as H20. Simply put, he had diarrhea. What’s not simple about it was the fact that doctors were not able to pinpoint the exact cause of it–whether it was bacterial or viral. So, they strapped him down with the usual thingamajigs that hospitals hook up to their patients. A straightjacket was one.
I had spent my post-shift hours at the hospital since my schedule for the entire week had made it virtually impossible for me to commute from home in Digos to the office without having my tongue permanently hanging out by the end of the week. Fatigue from work and my everyday desire to jump onto the nearest bed for a long nap overtook my strong aversion to hospitals as I slept, ate, bathed, and got dressed at the hospital for almost five days, except for those couple of days that I just had to be home for a few hours lest my kids would post pictures of me on poles declaring me Missing.
As doctors came and went, more lab tests were prescribed, as vampire nurses sucked more blood. They were all probably baffled why the patient seemed to be getting healthier and spunkier whilst a concrete diagnosis remained elusive, and in spite of him having a big juicer for an ass. All that was missing was a healthy tan.
JJ had his own diagnosis, though. It’s Penong’s. It’s where we had dinner before his stomach raged a nuclear war against him. We both had chicken barbecue. I could very well say that he’s got a steel-walled stomach that he can eat barbed wires for dinner and recycled toilet paper for dessert and still give out a happy burp. But man, this chicken got him real bad. So bad that he ended up screaming human rights violation as a doctor stuck his finger up his ass while a nurse gawked.
After his moral carnage, JJ’s ration was brought in by the same hospital attendant who, after bringing in the ration three times a day for almost five days already, still asked him if he was ‘JJ’–every time.
For his much needed moral boost:
And another one for bum disposal later...
With this kind of hospital food everyday for five days, doctors need not wonder why visitors break hospital visitation rules by having a par-tay.
hospital parties: the next cool thing
Or perhaps hospital staff should worry about having their perfectly recuperating patients transform into someone else who looks like….
THIS:
severe diarrhea causes mutation
It’s 2009!!!!
So what does this year have in store for me? In spite of the fact that I would grab the nearest crystal ball if it gave even just a hint of what 2009 has up its sleeves for me, I’d rather not know. It would be better, though, if there is something to look forward to… **hint hint hint**
I just had the most delicious, mouth-watering, and juiciest roast turkey a while ago. For a moment, I was in blind denial of the cellulites that have managed to successfully creep up my upper arms as I merrily dove into the heap of turkey skin and morsels that found their way onto my plate. The damn bird was so yummy that an entire fire brigade with a giant hose couldn’t have successfully driven me away from it.
My brother’s psycho dog gave me the look from under the table. I gnarled back at it, “what’s your problem?!” Psycho dog just rolled its huge eyes and mouthed, “C’mon, man, that poor bird deserves some dignity!” So I grudgingly resolved not to get a fourth serving of the poor bird. I was so full, anyway, I thought I was delirious. I began to reminisce.
I had my first crush at 12. It was a life-changing experience for me. It was the first time I wore a dress. For a boy. Yes, I, who used to throw a fit when made to wear anything resembling female clothing, had worn a freakin’ dress and heels to impress a boy. It was a painful, subhuman experience. I had felt like a drag queen. But when the subject of my demented affection briefly looked at me and said, “Hey you! You look pretty,” my heart skipped a beat and I died. Every ounce of my blood rushed up to only one part of my body–the face. A toothy grin involuntarily crept onto my face and didn’t go away. After all, I was sure I was dead and frolicking in a dress and heels in the clouds in heavenly bliss.
I had my first boyfriend at 18. It was peer pressure–as in, my peers were pressured to get me a boyfriend. The boyfriend lasted for only a couple of months. Another followed after almost a year. He was a prize catch. Everybody drooled over him while I got the gloating rights. Then he became unbearably sweet that I gained 10 pounds just by listening to his sweet talk. I had to rush his expiration date for fear of acquiring diabetes.
I broke my heart for the very first time at 26 after a seven-year haul with someone I had thought was the love of my life. I was in a state of advanced dementia then…so smitten, swooning as if my brain was injected with rainbow bubbles. But of course, the bubbles burst. I had spent so long exorcising him from my system, my heart was beaten to a pulp.
It took a while before I got back on my wobbly feet again. The process incurred a couple of broken hearts–not mine anymore, though, and then some. I had long resigned to the fact that my emotional capacity has been reduced to a sun-dried raisin (pardon my reference to food again, the turkey is still cackling inside my intestines). Then, I came across what I would say a curious concoction of sorts that took on a human form, someone who had gone through almost the same crap that I had gone through. The level of crapness might have differed slightly, though. Nevertheless, I always marvel at how his unnatural sweetness doesn’t make me run to the nearest exit for an insulin fix. Once again, I find myself frolicking in the clouds in heavenly bliss…sans the dress and the heels.
2008 had finally ushered in 2009. I have yet to recount past ups and downs, pushes and pulls, stretches and bends as I am wont to do at this time of the year. And believe me, my three readers, you would need an overdose of caffeine to keep yourselves up. In the meantime, I need to get past psycho dog to get me another flap of turkey skin.
Happy New Year!
Having thirty people under your wing, to me, is a big responsibility. Having the ability to have them fired should they screw up is another. Over the last two weeks, I had had two people kicked out for non-performance. In one of the two cases, I had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that I was sacking a father with a sick child. That I was just following company procedures and policies definitely did not make me feel any better.
The second case, however, was the exact opposite. Never had I ever felt so much pleasure than when I finally printed the walking papers for this employee to sign. I was later informed that he went verbally homicidal after he heard that I had ended his contract. There was no way that I would allow such a malingering, lying, manipulative, sorry excuse for a human being to wreak havoc on the account that I have come to love so much. He simply had to go.
His last words to me were: “I have nothing against you.” To which I replied, “Well, you know what, even if you do, I really don’t care.” Harsh as it might have sounded, but the silent cheers and sighs of relief from his co-workers (as well as my own) resounded louder in my ears.
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It’s almost Christmas. This fact was rubbed in my face when I went to the mall the other day during my break in my futile attempt to buy presents for my kids to bribe them into forgiving me for not coming home Friday night as I had promised. The fact that End of Training reports, OCPs to accomplish, ECTs to approve, CETs to update had me working to a pulp last Friday–wouldn’t mean squat to them unless it’s substantiated with something as concrete as a Power Rangers toy and a Barbie Ultra Hair.
So I did what I am normally averse to doing. I queued. The line was like a kilometer long, give and take a few thick-faced morons who shamelessly whipped themselves in between the queue saying that they only have one item to pay for, anyway, so would anyone let them insert real quick?
To cut the story short, incase I digress and rant more about the long queue and how one person with underarm and breath issues successfully drove me out of the line, and how I later missed the bus home even though I was only two millimeters from its door, I went home without Barbie and Red Ranger.
My dad was already waiting for me at the terminal when my bus pulled in. As I opened the car door, shrieks from the backseat greeted me. My very own Barbie and Red Ranger excitedly almost wrung my neck with their tiny arms as they covered my face with wet kisses. Then, I told them the bad news–no toys. Here’s the exchange that followed:
Angela: “No problemo! We’re going swimming!!”
Me: “Uh…we are?…We are!!! Yey!!!”
Bro: “Swimming! Swimming! No toys! No toys!”
I should’ve known Barbie and Power Rangers are soooo overrated.
© 2009 Balot PInoy
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