Smug and officious.

In high school, I graduated without honors, but I received a special award for besting the rest of the class in the English course. I did not receive honors because I was a lousy student who did not have school books and notes. My special projects were often mediocre.

My special award caused me guilt because I felt I did not deserve it because I was not a hard-working student. When I was told of such award, I  mentally recalled the times when I actually dismissed the grammar part of English. The only interesting part for me was literature which included Mythology.

Reading is an obsession. I spend most of my time reading, from food labels, books, advertisements, magazines to behavioral patterns. It felt guilty because I topped English Literature only because I read and re-read the materials.

Grammar was difficult for me to absorb and caused numbness to my senses. I shut my brains at the talk of Subject-Verb agreement, Tenses, and Syllabication. I was content that my compositions were not red-flagged for grammatical errors; and I love spot-checking other person’s writing, no matter how officious it seems.

After years of communicating with smug and nonchalance, I had the misfortune of not acing a few grammar quizzes. I absolutely hate the way the scores made me feel.

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.

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.

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.

Magazine

For someone who claims to be extremely stylish, with an employment in the fashion mecca to boot, I seriously avoid fashion magazines. Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, Preview, Mega, Seventeen and other locally published magazines make me self-image sick.

These magazines  leave me with a stabbing heartache and a lump in my throat. I always feel less important, insecure and incompetent. The sustainable world which I built around myself crumbles in the face of a perfect cosmos which revolves around the material heavy media.

Their campaign for female emancipation have reached me in a different context. In my parallel universe, I make my own rules, I am the best, I am the only one who feels the pea under twelve mattresses, and as Alana Davis puts it, I am whom everyone harbors a secret hatred.

Fashion magazines tell me I’m not who I think I am, because if I were indeed, I should be on the cover, not her. Their  success and real-life articles are too good to be true. If  it were based on real women, why haven’t I met anyone who has been surveyed, or interviewed for any of their sources. Why? I am a real woman, I live in the real world and I have real people friends. Why do their self-help articles seem impossible for someone who don’t know anyone above middle-class.

In Wonder Spot, Melissa Banks describes a life of not fitting anywhere. That is precisely where the local media has put me, nowhere in the face of the glamorous world.

Bingo!

Ronald and I played Bingo Friday night for the first time. I have been prodding him for weeks to join me; it had an interesting appeal and I was hoping to win.

It was apparent that we were clueless, we didn’t know where to buy the cards and when we got the cards, we didn’t have anything to mark it with. So I tore the numbers which were called. I probably looked like a loser so Ronald asked the woman beside him if he could borrow one of her four markers. She pointedly said “No” and mentioned that she paid for those. How cruel. I suppose that woman has made a living out of BIngo. Her table was filled with cards and did I say four markers?

So we bought a marker and Bingo became more fun. I had gut feelings of winning, and I had to believe myself, then suddenly, someone screams “Bingo!” Darn.

We played four games, three were black-out and the last was an inverted hourglass. Ronald and I argued during the last game because he marked the boxes even before it was called out. I was fuming because it was unnecessary. He reasoned that when everything is marked then it means we’ve won. It’s not as complicated, but it was all the same unnecessary.

We left with 285pesos less in our pockets, no win and both angered. We made peace at the supermarket and bought food to eat at home instead. Next time, we’ll bring our own markers and play our separate games.

Global Antagonist

In my 12 months of working in a high-end fashion retail shop, I have had several unpleasant encounters with customers. Eighty percent of which are foreigners, mostly Korean and Arabs.

These encounters have compelled me to utter words that should be left frozen in thought lest be terminated. However, our company is quite headstrong in terms of policy enforcement, especially in pecuniary matters.

So I am repeatedly absolved even after telling the customer ” That’s your problem,” “Listen to me,” ” I know what I’m saying,” “Take it or leave it,” and “Go sue me.”

In fiery manner I have said these things, and I am forced to raise my voice because either A.) the customer can’t hear me, B.) the customer chooses to shut his ears, C.) the customer has shut his ears and made noise, and D.) it’s the only way to get my point across.

I have mastered the art of being blunt and unsympathetic especially around foreigners because being nice and careful with words make them pushy.

Being very sorry and woeful gives them the feel that I might actually give in to what they want. And they usually want the impossible like refund on a change of mind and sudden discounts.

A Libyan diplomat has commented that unlike most Filipinas, I am not nice. I was tempted to lie about my race, maybe to raise an even more heated scene, I could say I’m Jewish. I could pass for Middle-eastern. He was not the first irate customer to tell me how un-nice I am. So I stared back and said Ok.

It’s fine, angry people only hear and say what they want.

Skanky swollen

In my very skanky uniform

My recent pair of VNC shoes disproves my claim that all my VNC shoes are comfortable. These sexy black peep-toes cause me so much pain everytime I wear them. And I had to wear them with my betty boop dress which is unfortunately my uniform.

I absolutely despise my betty boop tulip uniform because it enhances my posterior to greatest proportions. It embarrasses me everytime I wear it to work and had to visit the ladies room. People follow me with their eyes, and a few have literally followed me. It’s very skanky with its deep neckline and clingy material, I could be ravished anytime.

Given that this dress has caused me so much misery, I resolved to wear a jacket everytime I step out of the store. And my peep-toes don’t help at all. My feet keep slipping down and scrunching my mini-toes. Callouses have developed on six of my 10 toes.

It’s sad really, because I chose VNC for my work shoes for its comfort. I hope it becomes better after my 10th use.