My Village

Contrary to popular notion that I have always been a city girl, my formative years were spent in rural Cebu. We live in an idyllic place that feels like ‘The Village’ village.

It is off the highway and a little skirting road leads to the foothills where we are situated. It has an atmosphere of a self sufficient tiny bed of civilization. Bordered on the north by great hills, on the south by a brook, and on the east and west by fruit bearing trees and corn fields.

There’s a tiny elementary school where I studied. Although it is no longer as tiny as I remembered it; because improvements were made. I embraced its quintessential barrio school touch that I was disheartened to see that they traded in our vegetables plots and school gardens for additional classrooms. In the 90’s we only had six classrooms all for grades 1 to 6, and the gardens were so vast I extended my gardening to our own home yard.

I used to sneak into the gardens during weekends and pick tomatoes, eggplants and okras. I ate the green tomatoes dipped in salt and spend the rest of the lazy afternoon playing with tadpoles in the stream.

The great hills, much to my dismay, had parts of it buldozed for a cement road. We used to visit relatives up the hills by foot. We hiked up the foot path made of rocks and tree roots. I thoroughly enjoyed these hikes, but it wasn’t so apparent because I was a lousy hiker.

As kids, we turned the ravine into a giant slide. We each got our own palm leaves and any giant leaves we can find and use it to slide against the steep hillside.

Cows and goats abound, I had an unforgettable immaculate sighting-for a seven year-old, at least-to witness the birth of a kid. It felt like the confirmation of animal books and nursery rhymes and sesame street episodes.

I can still sense the earthy smell of fruits, damp soil, cow manure and burning leaves. The frogs still come out in the early evening, some still hang out at the door. The big lizard, a.k.a. tuko is still making the tu-ko sound at night.

But my childhood brook is no longer pretty. Modern stone houses have sprung up in our quaint village. The mountains which provide a mystical backdrop to our smallness is now venue for expensive real estate. The moving fire lights at night, which we used to think as voodoo ceremonial lights are now gleaming halogen bulbs.

That’s the beauty of…

Professors are an interesting bunch of people. I’ve had couple of male college professors who always appended the word ‘beauty’ whenever they are justifying the intricacies of their topic.

One was a math professor, and he would say “that’s the beauty of mathematics”, after parading before us a dizzing equation of Algebra. It was peculiar to find beauty in a mathematical equation, let alone consider it beautiful.

Another was a criminal law professor, and he really was a lawyer. He would say “that’s the beauty of criminal law”. Oh how clinical! If anything it was thought provoking, but not at all beautiful. He would say that smugly after a nice debate, where of course, he would win against any student whom he debated against. I wasn’t spared from the debates, particularly because I thouroughly enjoyed it, but not the ‘beauty’ part.

These professors must be very obsessed with their subjects to consider it beautiful. They devoted all their thinking years in developing and mastering Xs and Ys and sections and articles. Maybe even bring the subject with them in their sleep. And so the concept of beauty has been distorted.

Mathematics could have been resplendent, though synonymous, at least it doesn’t sound pretty. Criminal law could have been perfect.

Humanities can be appropriately beautiful, or Sociology, even Economics. But Math and Criminal Law!

For one, Math is strictly mundane, much like Physics, and Criminal Law is, austere, would very often remind me of Victorian spinsters and shrewd fiscal. Now that’s not beautiful!

Why would I marry?

Oh, why indeed? I can only think of one upside to this commitment: shameless consummation. My fundamentals of marriage considers this primal activity as the only enticing and encouraging factor.

Everything else, to me, is terrifying beyond imagination.

*Babies: are only fun when they’re not yours. Yes they are cute and cuddly and I am pretty confident my offspring will be born with outstanding IQ and aesthetic value. But small as they are, babies have a way of running your life for you, diapers, nappies, feeding bottles, cots, measles, and unimaginable sickness.

So why won’t you have just one? A single child, is still a child dependent on you for its food, shelter, education, clothing, upbringing. And that single child, will, at some point in its infancy through toddler years, scream when it’s hungry, wet, bored, sleepy, lonely et.al.

The amusement of child bearing and upbringing will get old soon after it starts crying. That amusement will be thrown over by hysteria, depression, sleepless nights and poopoo.

*Homemaker status. I am domesticated to the point of gardening and plumbing. Occasionally, I am willing to extend my domestic prowess in the presence of house guests. But I can not resign myself to cook, wash, clean and pick up after someone my age, if not older, who is perceived to be from the stronger sex.

How can I successfully dominate my field of practice if I have to be home before six ‘o clock to make dinner? And while I’m making dinner, should he be really lounging on the sofa watching TV or busily reading the news online?

Why must a married woman become a wife? And why does wife sound so demeaning? Wife is almost the personification of housework. I don’t like the idea of performing most of the domestic chores simply because I’m female.

*Conjugal property. We’re earning our own dough, but then I still have to inform him that I splurged on something. The only time I intend to talk of my splurging is to extract compliments. It would be better if he offers to reimburse the money I spent for it.

Why must I feel guilty for something I’ve worked for? Why must our shopping monies combine? Should it feel like I’ve robbed us of our savings?

I’ve never been proposed to, and after this, I doubt if I ever will be.

Shutting out the world with Skull Candy

Having an earphone stuck in your lobes is tantamount to shutting the world and the rest of humanity.

I use my Zen Neeon11 as shield when (1) I don’t feel like talking, (2) I have nothing to say, and (3) I don’t want that person to talk to me. Plainly, I stick my earphones in a hostile environment; whether I make it hostile for others or vice versa.

Inversely, I take off my earphones and shut my player when I am surrounded by friends. Ronald and I consider it ethical and respectful to do so, to people we like, and justifiable to do so, to people we don’t like.

It is similar to, “I can only give you one-eightth of my attention, which I feel is too much” or “Everything you say may have a life-changing effect on me, bring it on!”

Which brings me to wonder how some can endure a full conversation with a loved one, a family member or a best friend with earphones on at blaring volume?

Unenthused existential shop manager

A customer complained about my snobby demeanor and demeaning haughty looks, according to a co-worker. The complaint was made last night and unfortunately I was not there to witness her anguish.

This is not new to me, and I do not feel sorry, only bemused. I suppose what she interpreted as antagonistic expression was merely a default poker face usually worn during disinterested times.

If I had the luxury of an acerbic reproach, I would have begged her not to give herself too much credit. Other than never seriously demeaning anyone, save for comic relief, I never give that ‘dagger looks’ look.

But then, she doesn’t have to know that my enthusiasm is as dry as the arid soils of Africa, and my previous superiors and employers can attest to that. Also, she doesn’t have to know that my idea of genuineness excludes staged graciousness. It is disinterest in times of disinterest, the rest are all pleasant, at least to me.

Like all other attention-starved emotional shopper, she was probably longing for the nauseating sugar loaded attention a shop manager could afford her. She was probably hoping for me to jump at her and offer anything that could establish our equality in the world of fashion.

Well, I don’t live in the world of fashion, my existentialism is swinging between the real world and a parallel universe.

Interview musings

I forgot to give the jeepney driver my 12-peso fare. I was deep in thought the whole ride; swimming in reverie of would-be interview episodes. In my busy-ness of reconstructing my future, like an automaton I stepped off at the last jeepney stop in SM City Cebu.

Imagining myself in job interviews make me feel like a fortune. I can almost feel the glory of getting hired and staring a new job, especially now when I am very near quitting my current employment. I give myself challenging questions, I answer brightly and smugly.

Oh, if only job-hunting would be as easy as I have it my day-dreams, I would quit this politicking called store management and move on a new field I fancy.

It’s just a fantasy, whoa!

I have a worldly fantasy. A man to mindlessly pay for my shopping and surprise me with lovely new clothes and accessories. He may also take me to expensive dinners and holiday trips. Oh how lovely!
Of course, I believe in self-sufficience, but who doesn’t like guilt-free spend-free new clothes.
But I will never get princess treatment from anyone. No man will ever be too macho to beat the handyman in me.
And if he can’t do more carpentry than I can, less likely for him to spend for me.

Smartie

There are very many things I am not confident to claim about myself. If I should list it down, it would make up my full being and that would make me feel depressed.

Despite my vanity, I am always battling with praise about my appearance. I secretly think I am beautiful all throughout, but I also secretly think I have zero aesthetic and physical market value.

Secretly, I believe and doubt that I possess innate impeccable style.

I am also unsure where I stand in the circle of my friends.

These thoughts prevent me from arguing, asserting and taking liberties, lest I hear the dreaded so-called truth.

There is one thing though, which I am very confident no one will stand to contest about. That is I am very smart.

I am that kind of smartie who fits anywhere and shuts up when everyone else starts showing off and talking shop.

Oh, and another, I make a very good comic. For a girl who has bland taste (literaly), I make laughter a daily treat.

Five minutes.

The first time I realized the actual length of a minute was during a skating game with my eldest brother.

 I don’t remember if I was eight then, but it was definitely during the popularity of roller skates. We each had our own pair of in-line skates, which I heard, was better and more modern , than the usual roller skates.

My brother and I gave each other a minute to show-off our skating moves. He went first and I was getting impatient because he seemed to take long. I complained and he replied to look at our stopwatch which we used to time ourselves. True enough, he only took a minute.

I though then, “oh. that’s how long a minute is? I thought a minute is just a minute. As quick as you say it.”

Twelve years later, in my first week in the call center, I discovered how long seconds can take.

I was itching to log-out and hoping for the dial to drop my time and there was only a few seconds left and I don’t want to get a call in my last second.

The seconds, I found out, also mattered in time keeping, especially when I’m running late.

Now, I left Ronald in Manila with a promise to return in six months. A month has flown by quickly, but looking ahead, the five months seem very far away.

Once a fat girl, a always a fat girl

Six inches off and forty pounds less later, I look in the mirror and still see my old self three years ago. No amount of encouragement and positivity will ever make me see my actual present image.

In my book, it’s called image distortion disorder. I will always find and magnify the ripples on my arms, the bulge on my tummy and the dimples on my thigh. From size 10 to a mere size 2, I will always believe that I’m bigger than the rest of the girls.

I religiously followed my weight loss scheme and made a lifestyle out of it. But I will never see, with confidence, the change I have done with myself. I will only hear about it, when people tell me so, but I will listen with a bit of reluctance.

It is not out of choice, it is more of an occupational hazard of having to live with the image all my life. Hypnotism will probably help to open my mind and let me see what other people do.