Month: April 2007

Water over wine

This is one of those rare rants about a particular individual. I’ll call her Miss Guided Muffet.

Before I get further, allow me to set the theme for this drivel. I grabbed this quote off Sara’s blog and this hit right home regarding what Miss Guided Muffet is trying to do with her life:

Often people attempt to live their lives backwards;
they try to make more things, or more money,
in order to do more of what they want, so they will be happier.
The way it actually works is in reverse.
You must first be who you really are,
then do what you need to do,
in order to have what you want. — Margaret Young

I am not familiar with with Miss Guided Muffet’s personal history but I have a basic idea of where she’s coming from in the few times she bugged graced my life with her presence. The first thing that immediately called attention to her person is the fact that she seems to be so attached to what people are wearing, what they are driving and what they are ingesting. Miss Guided Muffet has a really attractive habit of ooh-ing and aah-ing over anything that spells M-O-N-E-Y and/or W-E-A-L-T-H.

In a way, there is nothing wrong with climbing up ladders; as my former Economic Anthropology professor used to say,

Men (and women, too) are by nature, social climbers.

Everyone aims for upward mobility, and all the more in this commercialized era.

However, in Miss Guided Muffet’s case, she has failed to grasp the notion that not all that glitters is gold. And not everything that comes in ordinary brown packing paper are useless, worthless trash. (I sound so angry but I don’t wonder why)

She makes snide comments about people who, to her standard, are just worthless shit. She makes it a point to associate with only the elite of this town, that two years back was still considered to be in the Middle Ages of advancement, she calls home, hoping that, in many ways, the persons’ wealth and prestige may rub off on her. And because she has come to a point where she is already someone of worth, at least in her own perception, she has made it her personal crusade to be condescending and patronizing to those unenlightened madlang people, the unenlightened poor ones.

Ugh! ugh!

I could’ve tolerated her attitude if she have not crossed me personally. It has something to do with vintage and her telling me what could intoxicate and what could not. In the sad state of the affairs I didn’t have the strength to at least offer a rebuttal for the poor insecure chit that she was whose greatest hope for the evening was to be praised by the alpha male of the group for her sniveling ways.

In many ways, I pity her. Misguided idiot who can’t tell the sincere from the faux… may she find what she’s looking for.

For her attitude, I’d give her a rating of 5 stepladders


dee wai faiv fo’ no mo’

In a little over five hours from now I’d be cut loose from my ties with the company i’ve worked for the last twenty-one months of my life.

DY54. This number has opened doors within this office. My tag. My concentration camp serial number tattooed on my forearm. My identity.

But I am not just an alphanumeric entity. In a few more hours, I’d be reclaiming the ‘me’ that I’ve checked in at the door to enter into the corporate gates more than a year ago.

I’m excited at my liberation. Yet in this excitement, I have tendrils of regret.

I regret leaving a place where I have found so many friends. I have always thought that I would go through life with just a handful of people who could be called friends. But it is in this place where my notion was shattered. There are people who are sweet. They make me smile in their own ways. And I will miss them dearly.

I regret leaving a place where my resolve to grow up has been tested and found strong and solid. I regret leaving behind an environment where each day is a challenge and at the end of it, I find myself able to make it through another day.

But as I shed the number dy54, the scar will remain and will become a reminder of the bittersweet mem’ries of those days in a certain workplace nestled amongst bamboo groves in the company of people who have become part of my life, as people who matter.

Thoughts sparked by a note

When I got in for work this morning, I found a note pinned to my workstation and it said:

“There is no paycheck that can equal the feeling of contentment that comes from being the person you are meant to be. ~Oprah Winfrey”

Jasmine said she found the note under her workstation and felt that it’s fitting to be pinned along with my other inspirationals so she did the honors.

The handwriting on the note matches my friend Sara’s and I think she had found this while trawling through the net yesterday when I’ve already gone home.

I could not think of a more appropriate slogan for my present predicament than what the note, or Oprah, says.

It would be very unfair if I stay in a working environment where I feel that what I know and I believe in are incongruous with what I do each day…

I feel guilty because of my unproductivity these past weeks and I’ve finally hit upon the answer to the “Why?”. My present job is not what I wish to be still doing three, five, or ten years hence. It’s the main reason why I have tendered my resignation almost a month ago.

When I did hand over the white envelope with my exit note with the eccentric reason of being offered a job which makes it possible for me to work with less-fortunates and which is in line with my principles and beliefs, my sup asked if I had leverages, thinking that I am just another dissatisfied rank and file. I said I had none. With a shake of his shaggy head, he said that my goal, if categorized in Maslow’s heirarchy of needs, already resides in the tip of the pyramid — the self-actualization bit. That he cannot stop me from going.

And going I am. In three more days I’m outta here.

Okay, Oprah, let’s see what it is to be what I’m meant to be.

Sunday [un]bliss


‘Tis Sunday and though I dream of lingering for a few more hours under the warmth of the covers, I had do go down under a drizzle for some work in the office.

So here I am, not really counting the hours but still wishing I’m lazing about half the morning instead of nitpicking subject-verb agreements and scrutinizing captions to see if they match artworks they are describing.

Ah, choices.

Listless, again, in a domestic setting

Thoughts of submarines and how they could function as a pratical mode of transportation and could double up as a bachelor’s pad…

As I made ready for work this morning, I caught Tata staring into endless space. I thought at first that he had fallen asleep with his eyes still open, as he was wont to do in the early mornings when I insist that he should be awake also while I am puttering around the house before I get out into the cold, purple world to work.

But he winked and smiled, very much awake. So there goes being featured in Ripley’s Believe it or Not.

Anyway, if this drivel must move along, Ta shared his morning thoughts.

Submarines. Ta thinks they’re the best conveyances. Can’t crash land, can’t collide with other moving objects [not counting the blue whales and giant squids], and could serve as a home anywhere the owner is around the globe. I brought up the problem of fuel cost if indeed a submarine was to be had and used to its fullest potential. Ta smiled. His solution: hire the sub as chauffer service, much like those limos prowling on the streets of Hollywood. [Colombian drug lords, here’s your chance]. When I left for work, Ta was still mulling over the pros and cons of submarine lifestyle. Should tell him soon that I have mild claustrophobia, in case subs could finally be had in a 24-month easy installment plan?

Drove down in the cold dawn, still half asleep. Met Wimpykitty, who was supposed to be driven down by her sis to work, on the way and she changed rides from her sister’s to mine. Had a pleasant conversation with her, dissing our place of work. By the time we arrived in the office, ten minutes early, we were prepped up to do our best grousing work for the day.

As my mood has greatly improved compared to yesterday’s, I’ve changed this blog’s theme to the original which I liked so much. ~sigh~ So much for the experimentation.

Note to self: check out if subs are in e-bay in my lunchtime


Sorry. Can’t help it. Been tossing and trawling through almost all of wordpress’ blog themes, trying finding something that fits my mood today. I think I’ll settle on this one for now, the girl in green with a bit of abs [i wish] showing.

can’t think straight these days. my thoughts are clipped on a clothesline in torn bits and pieces, incoherent phrases and single-word adjectives, broiling under the sun. turning into indedible crisps. a big part of me is high strung and listless. waiting for the moment to do the right thing, say the right words.

i’m useless and almost everything at work today. for the first time, i’ve logged a wrong file in my tracking system [eyes wide in disbelief, out of breath] and even if i’m half-way done with my shift, i still have no output!

i wish i were home and in bed.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick…

I’m counting down. 

In less than two weeks I’m out. Out of this office building. Out of this job I had for more than a year.

It would be unfair to say that all I ever got from this “career” is a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach from the emotional roller coaster ride that is usual of my time-in through time-out itinerary and the constant feeling that I’m being cheated out of something [yeah, that’s the sound of a gripe].

Yep, it would be very unfair to just hit the spotlight on all those pains and agony.

I’d rather that all those things that are worth smiling for take center stage and be etched in my memory of this chapter of my life.

I’m going back to the city where I was born. To start new things. Test my wings to see if I could already fly. Whether I make it or be broken in the process, I still have to find out how I’ll fare. 

I am not someone who’s good at saying things in person, especially if it is to say how I feel. I find that my thoughts are more coherent if written down. But still, I grapple, things don’t seem to come out right in writing this time, for words to offer for those who have become my friends. Friends who make each day here in the workplace less of a struggle. Friends who are the very reason I haven’t shipped out sooner.

For all those I’ve shared with them, I could only say thank you. Little words. But I mean these.

Sham Loaf

A perfect loaf.

It stood there, in the display case, brown, crisp, crinkled. It radiated an air of scrumptiousness about it and so hapless woman with a craving for a wholesome slice of loaf bread that I was, I excitedly ordered a slice from the indifferent servedora.

She plonked a slice of the bread on a saucer and handed it to me and rang up the rest of my order. I nearly dropped my lunch tray when the green numbers popped in the display. The cash register blinked twenty more pesos than what I expected would be my bill.

“How much for the bread?” I asked the servedora/cashier and she quoted the price; way, way up higher than the amount I had fixed in my hungry mind.

“And that’s not bread. That’s choco marble cake.”


Okay. Oh.

I really presumed it was a loaf of bread in the display.


So okay, it’s my fault because I didn’t ask beforehand what was in the display case. But see, in my vocabulary, and the accompanying word pictures, cakes could either come in layers, logs, tiers, or boxes but never loaves. Loaves are reserved for breads.

I was duped. And highway robbed.

So I resigned myself to having a loaf of cake for dessert. 

When I finally got to taste the cake though, the tendrils of respect I had for the office canteen’s baker melted like butter in a double boiler.

Cakes, again in my vocabulary, should be moist, scrumptious, heavenly, and light. Angels ought to come out from the blue skies and sing hymns once I get to taste the cake. But this loaf does none of the above to my senses.

The piece I struggled to swallow abused my esophagus like a serial rapist on a rampage. It was oilier than the shores of Guimaras after that tanker accident. And worse, it tasted like the made for business cake that it was, bland and lifeless.

So much for a sweet ending to lunch.

Moral of the story: Always have a glass of water at hand when eating pastry products, especially if dining in the office canteen.