dearly departed dudes and dudettes

since i moved to this bleak city about 3 years ago, i’d altogether abandoned the all saints day ritual my family religiously follows every year. instead, i light candles outside my apartment and say a simple prayer for my ancestors’ beloved souls, then party till the break o’ dawn..

this year is different though, for not only did i re-join my family for our nov.01 get-together, i also learned a few weird facts about my great grandrelatives. these weird facts are all from dead relatives from my dad’s side, which figures coz my dad’s all whacked up. no kidding.

anyhoo, on to the weird shit.

first, one of my great grands, ranulfo, died a bachelor. he was an alcoholic for the most part of his life. he wasn’t always like that though, and i felt sorry for him when i heard the story of how he turned out to consume the rest of his life drunk and useless. he had a fiancé who, on the night he went to her house and announced to her parents that they were engaged, voiced her reservations of the engagement and broke it off in front of her family: parents, siblings, grannies.. the whole freaking lot. after that, my great grand uncle went home and started what would be the only thing he’d be good at: drinking. he died at 51, never dated another woman, never got another job, never got back on his feet after having his heart pulled out, chewed and spat by the very woman he loved.

next is cresencia, another great grand. my granny’s sister who died at 21. as my dad recounted the story of how she died, i had goosebumps all over i couldn’t tell if it was from being too scared or wanting to take a dump. as the story goes, my granny’s family was a bit well off, which explained why some of them grew up to be snobs. cresencia was no exception. one night while attending a ball, a guy (supposedly from Aklan) asked her to dance. she not only refused, but also belittled the guy who so bravely asked her to dance. cresencia was a beauty you see, and i think this guy who asked her to dance looked better performing circus acts than dancing. so the next day, she starts getting sick. she starts having nervous breakdowns. she starts seeing things no one else could. she starts to scream at nothing and everything. they take her to an albularyo, and find out she’s been hexed. i’m not sure how long she lasted, but she died shortly after the ball.

lastly, my dad’s grandfather, delfin. my great-great granddad. he was a full-blooded chinese who one night during the japanese occupation was stopped and taken by 3 men in uniform in the middle of the road. he was never seen after that night, and although my great-great granny looked for him for weeks, it was believed that he’d been killed by the japs for his connection with the hukbalahap, or huk. my granny herself never got to know her dad, she was just a small kid at the time he disappeared.

makes me wonder what stories of me will be passed on to my future grandchildren. will they be told that i was the granny with the most number of boyfriends? or that i was the only one who got married after 30? or maybe 40? will they ever find out that i kept a blog of all my shenanigans? or will they just be told that i was the most stubborn and hard-headed of the 5 kids, that i just went off to live by myself in a bleak city until the day i died?

all i know is… if i want nice stories of me to be passed on to the next janes, i better start being nice to chubby cheeks.

ready to rock steady

i was once asked to name something, anything i couldn’t live without, that if it suddenly ceased to exist i’d probably die. without thinking, i instinctively answered music. i could never imagine my life without music. much like i couldn’t imagine my life without soap or toothpaste, just that i have a much greater appreciation for music compared to toiletries.

i have to thank my parents though for introducing me to the refined music world at an early age. i was in grade school when they forced me into taking piano lessons along with my 2 sisters and eldest brother. my other brother couldn’t be coaxed, bribed or bullied to taking them, so he was left alone. i was in the second grade when i had my first piano lessons, and shortly after that my parents bought a piano for us to practice with. the first piece i memorized and played was wooden heart. the pieces i later learned were from the great composers: beethoven, mozart, rachmaninoff; but i started off playing crap for my parents.

when i was in high school, our class president somehow got it in his head that i could sing (wtf right?) and asked me to sing lea salonga’s tagumpay nating lahat for our linggo ng wika presentation. i can’t remember my reasons back then, but i somehow agreed. it was going to be my first time to sing in front of a crowd (a live, breathing crowd that is.. my normal crowd back then was a mirror, a faucet and some dry towels idly lounging in their rack), and i had played scenes in my head of how great my voice would sound, and how the class would have a sudden appreciation of my magnetic (if not angelic) voice.  but when i stepped in front of the room to sing my piece, i knew i got way in over my head this time. my voice was too low, i missed notes, and i probably sounded like a vibrating spazoid. added to that, i could see all my classmates’ evil smiles, some even openly giggling at my performance. when i finished singing, i went straight to my seat and swore i’d never ever sing in front of a crowd, EVER. i skipped school for 2 days after my first and only failed concert.

during college, it was music that got me through my first heartbreak. how can you not cry your heart out over boys 2 men’s on bended knees? i must’ve played that song a thousand times, and must’ve sang it twice as much. when i finally got over my loneliness and overcame my stupidity, it was also the first song i loved to hate. what the hell? did i really listen to this sorry excuse for a song? and that’s how it went for most of the breakup songs i’ve harassed since then.

these days, music helps me get in the mood for anything. if i feel like pulling out the exercise mat and breaking a sweat, i play benassi’s california dreaming and moony’s acrobats. senti? ebtg’s cross my heart hits the spot. marvin gaye’s let’s get it on and amber’s sexual are sure to play when i’m feeling sexy, and when i feel like a walking tub of lard i pick myself up by playing the prodigy’s voodoo people and kaskade’s never ending. when i’m happy i play ll cool j’s hush, and when i want to jump from sad to suicidal i play snow patrol’s how to be dead. when i imagine romantic crap before going to sleep i play gloria estefan’s con los años que me quedan. and to get myself to sleep after all my wild imaginations, i play ja jang ga, a piano piece i discovered from the korean movie my sassy girl.

and when i’m feeling patriotic, i play south border’s ikaw nga and eheads’ tikman. hehe

floored

some feelings are just too good for words. take for example a first kiss. it’s not just the butterflies in your stomach, or the tingling sensation when two sets of lips touch, or the elation the experience brings. there’s always something being left out. something beyond what is being expressed.

i feel the same thing when i find a good bargain. now don’t get me wrong folks, i’m a reformed shopaholic. i’m proud to say that i can now handle my finances and no longer have cash flow problems. having said that, i’ll remind you as well that i’m still human, therefore i’ll always be up for a good buy. especially when the purchase i made is something i actually need, and not just want.

with the devastation the recent typhoon brought, my apartment was left with no working electronicas, no usable sleep support apparatus, half my linens and clothes murdered, and all my furniture gone to waste because of water damage. of the 4 dilemmas mentioned, it’s the fourth one that really got me stressed out. the electronicas can be replaced. a good mattress and pillow aren’t hard to find. for clothes, i can always beg my generous sisters (and my fashionista mama) for new ones. but furniture is a different story. your furniture (in a way) defines your personality; i’ve always believed in this mantra. and like my mother, i’ve been very finicky with the kind of furniture i collected and welcomed to my humble abode. however, with the recent surge in furniture-shopping done by people who were also hit by the floods, i find myself with almost no options left. there are of course things to consider like form, function and budget (hmm, sounds a lot like choosing a date har har har), and all three have to be met before i make a purchase. what i found at the malls satisfied form and function, but the ridiculous price tags just made me roll my eyes like those annoying smileys.

this afternoon i resorted to going to a korea-japan surplus store a friend recommended. i’d told him of my current dilemma (my clothes living in my luggage, gym bags and suiters) and he gladly took me to this 2nd hand store he’d recently discovered. upon entering the doors, my eyes immediately fixed themselves on this darkwood 6-feet cabinet with chinese etchings on both doors. i looked at the price and it was fairly reasonable, which meant i could still haggle. and this is what got me excited; i’m a very competitive haggler.

haggling in hong kong street markets was a breeze for me. you’d ask a saleslady how much a shirt cost, she whips out her calculator and types her price (since she doesn’t know how to say it in english). i then survey the merchandise and the price, and after making up my mind if i want to buy or not i either say ‘xie xie’ (chinese for thank you) and leave, or type my asking price on their calculator. it goes on like this for about 5 or six more times, with the saleslady typing her slightly lowered price and me cutting the price to half its original. the typing stops when the saleslady says ‘oke oke, i give’ and immediately bags the merchandise so they can already forget about the whole business and just get their money.

at this thrift store though, i had to change my strategy. these people knew that furniture were hot items, and that at a whim they could double their prices and still make a number of sales. they had their own handle on the supply-demand concept, but so did i. mine was: if i demand, you better supply.

the initial price was 12k, which to me was a bit overboard. i asked how much their last price was (something i don’t usually do), and they said 8k. i told them i could only afford 5k, to which the saleslady pointed to a worn-out, sad looking dresser priced at 5k. i said i didn’t need a dresser, i needed a fucking clothes cabinet. she gave me the stink eye and went back to her manager (or i think she was the manager) who made a face when she heard my offer. it was the manager who ultimately went to talk to me and gave me their supposedly last price: 7k. i cringed at the sound of 7, and made one last look at the cabinet. it was spotless, almost new. at it’s heyday, it would’ve cost anywhere between 20-25k. and here i was haggling for another thousand pesos on a cabinet that was already priced cheap. but the thrill of the haggle was way too hard to resist. for the last time, i gave my price: 6k. i showed them my purse, which really only had 6k inside it, and about 60 pesos in change. the supposed manager looked at her already pissed-off-from-all-this-haggling saleslady, and with her eyebrows raised and her lips pursed, she nodded her head. and that’s when i got high. the feeling of winning that bidding game was just unimaginable. 6 thousand pesos for a clothes cabinet that could be well worth 4 times that? i was in 2nd-hand store heaven. unless you’re a professional haggler, you won’t get the euphoria that overcame me when the manager nodded her head.

i paid the 6k with a smile that was almost ear to ear, and pocketed my receipt. my friend, who had waited throughout the entire time, was more than glad we were done with the purchase. on our way out, i asked the manager how the cabinet was to be delivered to my apartment, to which she slyly smiled and answered ‘well, you’ll have to figure that on your won. we don’t deliver, we’re just a 2nd hand store’.

what the f.

playing favorites

meet my favorite niece. i call her chubby cheeks, stay puff marshmallow girl, sometimes jane jr. but she’s aptly named athena. she’s turning 2 this december, but is already as feisty as her godmother, moi.

being that they live in hk, i only get to spend time with her when they come home for the holidays or when i fly to hk on vaycay. during these rare occasions though, i try as much as i can to make her remember me. and of course, i too try to learn as much of her as i can.

here’s what i know of her so far:

- she prefers to be called by her full name, athena. her mom trained her in such a way that if someone calls her something else (like me calling her stay puff or chubby cheeks), she corrects them by saying ‘athena’

- she loves stickers. she’ll stick ‘em everywhere (see image to the left)

- her favorite expression is adowayk (in layman’s terms, i don’t like)

- her feet smell like hell, so do her shoes. but the smell is soooo intoxicating, you’ll keep coming back for another sniff.

- she can count to 20 in english, and to 10 in chinese.

- her favorite pasttime is breastfeeding.

- she hates dolls but loves toy cars.

- she hates taking a bath. which explains the smelly feet.

i’ll be in hk for a week this november to spend time with them. hopefully she’ll still remember me by then.

disaster recovery

my apartment got hit by the recent typhoon that devastated thousands of homes here in the metro.

still, i should be thankful for a number of fortuities that may have probably saved my life. first of which was the team breakfast/meeting i called for saturday morning. one of my trainers wanted to eat out that morning, so we drove to eastwood libis and had breakfast at something fishy. when we got back to the office, everyone was requesting that we just have the meeting on monday. i didn’t listen to this, and still proceeded with the meeting which lasted for about 2 hours. second fortuity.

it was around lunchtime of the same day when i found out from my neighbor that the water on the streets going to our apartments was already waist-high. it was just a matter of hours before the water got inside my place. i wanted to go home, brave the frenzied storm and move all my stuff to wherever it was safer and higher, but then i was stuck at work with a stupid report i had to finish. third fortuity.

44 hours. that’s how long i was stuck at work.

i was finally able to go home sunday 3pm. the water had already subsided back at my apartment, which reached about 3 feet high, leaving some of my stuff floating wet and covered in silt. and it was then that the realization kicked in: i am one lucky bitch.

if i’d gone home early that saturday morning, i would’ve definitely been stuck in neck-high waters that flooded our subdivision all day that day. and it wasn’t just high flood water, you see, there were also strong and heavy currents. it was this combination that killed dozens of people at our subdivision, and hundreds more in other areas.

i lost all forms of electronics, all my dvds, all my PT books. my bed, carpet, shoes, half my clothes, all wet and covered in silt. i have nowhere to sleep, i don’t have electricity. well, even if there was, none of my electronicas worked anymore. they were all one with the silt. oh wait, the water heater near my faucet. there’s that.

despite all this, i’m not worried, depressed, not even angry. i’m actually positive, at least at the moment. i know things could’ve been worse, but i’m glad they weren’t. my family’s been very supportive. my sister in the u.s. couldn’t contact me on my mobile, so she called any number at my work and got someone to look for me and get me to her call. she was with my mom, who was crying the entire time we were talking. my two brothers and dad were sending text messages all day saturday, checking on me and telling me not to go back to my apartment yet. that even if i lose everything, as long as i’m safe i’ll be alright. sticks actually fetched me from work, helped me clear my apartment, even brought me and my trainers extra clothes coz we were stranded at work. and it was this that really hit the spot. we’d broken up for how many months now, yet he’s still here, ready to help without my asking.

so now i keep asking myself over and over again, what have i done to deserve all this? am i just lucky or truly blessed? either way, at least this gives me the chance for another ‘fresh’ start.. so to speak..

the beauty of hindsight

i woke up way too early today and couldn’t will myself back to sleep again. no amount of squirming and pillow hugging was enough to get me back to that place between wake and sleep. and being the chronic insomniac that i am, i always have ready ammo for times like this.

i used to pop v’s, but i willfully tore myself away from the habit. these days, i either down a bottle of wine or drug myself with melatonin and milk. i usually choose the former, since i always have 2  bottles on standby. i’m no alcoholic, but i won’t deny the fact that getting wine drunk is by far better than being beer drunk, or any other liquor for that matter. i’ve never gotten hangovers from drinking wine, which is something i can’t say for beer, vodka or tequila. sleep from getting wine drunk is also less scary. you still go through the usual sleep cycles, whereas with v’s sleep is usually dreamless. i don’t want that anymore. dreaming is something  i always look forward to when i sleep.

having finished a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, i lay down in bed with the promise of glorious, unobstructed sleep. to my dismay, i still found it difficult to doze off despite the 14% alcohol the bottle boasted. instead, i found myself thinking of this guy i have a massive infatuation on. i thought of his workstation that i always passed on my way to the pantry, his goatee that makes him look untidy but irresistable, the way he always wears hoodies like there’s no tomorrow, and his friendster pics that i’m guilty of copying to my desktop. and the more i thought of him, the more i wanted to send him a text  message.

and so i did. i’d gotten his mobile number from the global address book at work, and with the hope that it was still the number he used, i sent him a cheezy love quote. and no sooner had my mobile read ’sent’ did i regret sending the stupid message. what the fuck jane? if anything, i should’ve learned by now not to trust my instincts when drunk.

this kept me up for another couple of hours. i kept fearing him not replying, or him knowing who sent him the message, or worst, him stonewalling me. and it was with these thoughts that i fell asleep.

i was knocked out for nearly 6 hours. when i woke up, my celfone battery was drained and my mobile off. i sat up and thought if i should recharge the battery and check for messages. i decided not to. if he had replied to my message or not, i’ll never know.  up till now, almost 20 hours after my dreadful message to him, i still get giddy over the thought of turning my celfone on. i honestly don’t care to know anymore if he did reply or not. i just want to get past this embarrassment. if he approaches me at work and asks about the message, i always have the ‘my mobile got stolen’ spiel. to heck with integrity, honesty, and principle. in the face of embarrassment, i choose to duck for cover.

i’ll turn my mobile on after a week.

quitting is such sweet sorrow

up dharma down will be playing at saguijo this saturday, which means jarhead and fez (my friends from work) have mapped out weekend plans around the gig. this also means i have to be there, no questions asked. whether i’ve already made plans to spend the weekend at  my parents’ house doesn’t matter; when these 2 fucktards summon me, i must submit.

i initially declined the invite because of one lame reason: i’m trying to quit smoking.

imagine being crammed in a room full of rakistas, all drinking in the music with a bottle of san mig light in one hand and a cigarette on the other. the music soaring, the speakers blasting, the place rocking. and imagine me in the middle of it all, pretending to have a good time when all i could really think of is grabbing the nearest marlboro lights pack.

although contrary to popular belief, quitting isn’t that difficult. sure there’ll be withdrawal pangs aplenty. it’ll be even more difficult if all your friends and officemates smoke. and how do you waste away your alone time if you’ve gotten used to having a cig when there’s nothing to do? there’s really just one answer to all these dilemmas: it’s all in the mind. you are your own motivator, and you are your own worst enemy.

so for argument’s sake, allow me to weigh my pros and cons of kicking the habit:

pro#1: i save P30/day
pro#2: i won’t smell like a walking ashtray anymore
pro#3: goodbye yellow fingers
pro#4: hello stamina!
pro#5: jane no smoke = happy mom and dad

con#1: zero ciggie breaks = longer work hours (do i really want this?)
con#2: friends and officemates coaxing me to smoke a cig with them, coz they know i’m trying to quit
con#3: friends and officemates betting on when i’ll slip
con#4: pretending to be proud of quitting, when i’m really anything but
con#5: giving up one of the things i purely enjoy

like i said, i am my own motivator and detractor. i choose if the balance tips over to the pros or to the cons. it’s all up to me.

i’ll quit after the gig.

touché

i am monday. and i will tell you how jane’s monday went.

she was at The Medical City early this morning to have her laboratory results interpreted by a doctor. she has cysts, you see, and needed to know if these cysts were loitering her boobies just for the heck of it, or if she should be worried. so she got her results from the lab, went to the doctor, and was told the cysts were basically just there for display. they weren’t cancerous or anything, just boob squatters. she sighed a long sigh of relief. good news numero uno.

then she went to banawe with sticks to have the cars’ lowering springs fixed. she couldn’t occupy the passenger seat because of the springs making a loud squeaking noise everytime they made a turn. so she sat at the back seat like sticks was her driver. good news numero dos

when she got back to her apartment, she tried watching year one but then dozed off for a good 6 hours. good news numero tres. (everybody loves 6-hour power naps)

she woke up to the sound of her celfone beeping, her other ex had sent her not so funny messages about love and bull. she replied ‘who is this?’, pretending to have deleted the number. her ex didn’t reply. good news numero quatro.

she got to work on time (good news numero cinco). it’s a monday today, that’s me. jane’s never been in good terms with me. she hates me, curses at me, calls me a sickness, sometimes a disease. if we had it her way, i wouldn’t exist. she loathes mondays, so for her to be on time for work today’s a pretty huge step for her. but, considering how well her day’s been going, what reason has she got to hate me, right?

WRONG.

news flash jane. i hate you too, just as much as you hate me. so let me just remind you of the things you need to finish today:

1. your trainers’  june-august scorecards (bad news numero uno)
2. the monthly training calendar you should’ve completed start of september (bad news numero dos)
3. buy something for that hideous pimple on your right cheek. believe me, it looks like it could grow its own head. either you cover it up, or make it go away (bad news numero tres)
4. drop off your 3 weeks worth of clothes at the laundromat. you’re running out of business casual clothes (bad news numero quatro)

so that totals 5 good and 4 bad news. do the math and that leaves you with just one good thing left for today. thought i was gonna let you go all hippity-hoppity today? think again. i can be just as wretched a bitch as you are.

lust for life

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing spirit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that?

I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons.

- Renton

after watching Slumdog Millionaire a few months back, i found that the film director’s name, Danny Boyle, rang a bell. i didn’t want to google the name coz i also wanted to beat this slowly-progressing memory loss that’s plagued me for years now. so i racked my brains out trying to remember where i’d seen or heard of the name. and it was only today that i figured it out.

Danny Boyle is also the director of one of my all-time fave movies, Trainspotting. i watched the movie for maybe the 15th time this afternoon, and it was only then that i noticed his name on the closing credits.

Take the best orgasm you’ve ever had, multiply it by a thousand and you’re still nowhere near it.

heroin. most of the film’s main characters were heroin addicts, and the story revolved around their sincere junk habit and their consequent downward spiral. but it wasn’t always about the drugs. like many people, addicts too dream of change, of getting off heroin and leading a normal life. and these struggles too were chronicled in hilarious scenes, witty lines and a great soundtrack. speaking of which, the title of this post is the opening track to the movie, performed by iggy pop. i love this song, it’s currently my ringtone.

but what i like most about the movie is how it also shows change as an inevitability. everything changes, nothing and no one is spared. and whether you like change or not, it doesn’t matter. life, people, time will still go on moving and changing with or without your consent. you can choose to be left behind, or you can choose life.

snarky, snarky me

my nokia e71 accidentally dropped on the floor when, trying to get the cursor to move, i banged my mouse several times and hit my phone. despite the thick carpetting, the impact still left a crack on the lcd. i had to have it fixed asap, my spare phone’s still with big bro. i didn’t want to go to a nokia service center by myself, i didn’t want to hail a cab in the middle of the f-ing burning afternoon, i basically didn’t want to go through the entire ordeal of having my phone fixed by myself. i may be an independent woman, but there are some things that are waaaay too emotional for me, that i just can’t handle them alone. seeing my celfone with a cracked screen is one of them.

so i called sticks (my 4th boyfriend/latest ex/occassional driver). he was at my apartment in no time. we went to the  nokia service center in greenhills, where i was told i’d have to leave my celfone for 3 days, and the warranty would automatically be voided since the damage was due to mishandling. mishandling? i wasn’t even holding the phone when it dropped! bleh.

i didn’t want to be without a phone for that long, so i opted to go to those celfone repair shops inside the shopping complex, and guess what? i had it fixed in less than an hour, at half the price! nokia service centers suck.

that was 10 days ago. today, i’m no longer with sticks. we sort of broke up (again) after our 10-day get together. i’m glad we’re done though, it’s such a hassle having him back at my aparment again. having to smell his smelly feet when he takes his shoes off, om-f*ing-g, the worst. sometimes i want to rinse his feet with rubbing alcohol just to kill off the smell. and those text messages he constantly receives! gawd! i swear, we never had a decent conversation in those 10 days because he was either sending or reading a text message all the time. at one point i suggested he take his celfone out on a date. they have a better relationship than we do.

the final straw was when i told him i was ready to buy a car. i asked him for suggestions, and gave him an idea of what type of car i prefer. he suggested honda city i think, and i immediately said no. he said it wasn’t a pump-sucker (one of my requirements), i said no. he said i’d get great mileage, but i still said no. he said honda cars have good resale value, and at that point i told him ‘what part of no don’t you understand?’ and gave him a snarky look for about 5 seconds or something. i forgot to count. that’s when he got up and walked out. and we hadn’t talked, or texted, since.

immature, that’s what he is.

snarky, that’s what i am.