Yesterday I travelled an interminable hour and a half from Quezon Avenue to Fort Bonifacio to pick up two books from the 1/of Gallery. The errand itself took less than 10 minutes. My friend Effie and I were starving, so we had little choice but to choose a restaurant and get dinner that we were fully aware would cost easily three times as much as what we are used to paying for nosh (read Chicken Inasal, KFC, McDo or Red Ribbon merienda sets). We ended up at Xocolat, Effie opting for Chicken Panini, and me picking the Chicken Pasta. Excellent choice, and never mind the price tag of 245 and the ungainly bowl shaped like an upside-down hat that threatened to tip over if I exhibited too much enthusiasm for shoveling the contents down my endless gullet. Effie says the prices at their Eastwood branch are lower by about a hundred pesos. The rent at Serendra must cost a bundle; that, or the establishments there tend to match their price range to the thickness of the wallets of the usual clientele - the Gucci-clad tony condo-living jet set (read: not us). We sat dining al fresco and wondering what it would be like to be these people who spend every evening having dinner in a place like this. People who pay 145 bucks for a 4"x4" rum brownie after an uncheap pasta plate, then wind things up with an 85-peso cup of coffee (whistle). Oh, keep dreaming.
We left at 8pm, shoved a final 55 pesos into the Fort Boni treasury for parking my filthy Toyota in a basement full of German vehicles, and drove back to our real lives in QC, and back to eating our chicken dishes without the ambiance.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Ants in My Rice
I'm done with the first 48 hours of caring for a convalescent Siamese, and I have a crick in my neck that refuses to leave. So far I have plunked down 695 pesos for veterinary kibble that he refuses to eat, and a few hundred more on three brands of tinned cat food of which he will eat one teaspoonful and then leave the rest to go bad in the bowl. He puts up a fight when I give him the antibiotics and hematinics he needs to stay alive, and I'm up to my elbows in congealed kitty litter twice a day. I was so exhausted last night that I fixed a sandwich instead of having a proper dinner, and forgot about the leftover rice in the cooker. I found it being attacked by teeny-tiny ants when I was about to sit down for lunch today, but I ate the stuff anyway (without the sprinkling of ants) because I didn't have the energy to make up a new batch. If I am ready to pull out all my hair after only two days of being mother to a cat, then it's likely that taking charge of a human child will have me eating the paint off my walls before he learns to say "Mama". One reason not to be too sorry that I never married or had any kids. Not all people are cut out to be parents; it's pretty obvious to me now that I'm one of them.
In between cat nurse duty, I ran out to do an errand at the bank. Sat in monstrous Katipunan traffic (can't those dimwits at the MMDA see that it's their blasted U-turn slots and unmanned intersections (case in point: Capitol Drive and Balara) that cause the jams??) for half an hour to drive two kilometers, then spent a total of 15 minutes to update a bank certificate. After that I went to the supermarket to purchase cat food that may or may not pass muster with the patient, as well as find out how much a 50-pound box of cat litter costs (749 buckers, egad). Just so I wouldn't feel like I was neglecting myself, I threw in a package of corn muffins and a small packet of Kisses (if you can't have the real thing, buy the chocolate - all the sensory pleasure without the exchange of saliva). There was a middle-aged woman ahead of me in the checkout line, and I couldn't help but notice what she bought - a big box of Mrs. Fields' premium Macadamia and White Chocolate Cookies, and three cans of Slimfast ("controls hunger"). Lady, what a combination you've got there. Don't know if you're aware of it, but those two are going to cancel each other out, and then you'll still have the vital statistics of a giant pear.
On my way out of the supermarket, I passed an elderly woman who gave me a look that had me checking if my shirt had run up and exposed my navel to the public. Turns out she only pencilled her eyebrows the wrong way today - unnaturally long and arched so far beyond the brow bone that her face appeared frozen in a state of shock. May I never make the same mistake when it's my turn to say goodbye to my eyebrows.
That was the end of the entertainment for the day, and then it was back to my cave for another round of cat-related chores, running through a bank statement with 266 bleeping checks (not my account), and the business of making dinner (this time with fresh ant-free rice). The cat sat in my lap while I worked and fell asleep purring. Maybe that's how he thanks me for my trouble. I scratched his head with my free hand. Let out the sigh I had been keeping back all day. Maybe there's hope for both of us.
In between cat nurse duty, I ran out to do an errand at the bank. Sat in monstrous Katipunan traffic (can't those dimwits at the MMDA see that it's their blasted U-turn slots and unmanned intersections (case in point: Capitol Drive and Balara) that cause the jams??) for half an hour to drive two kilometers, then spent a total of 15 minutes to update a bank certificate. After that I went to the supermarket to purchase cat food that may or may not pass muster with the patient, as well as find out how much a 50-pound box of cat litter costs (749 buckers, egad). Just so I wouldn't feel like I was neglecting myself, I threw in a package of corn muffins and a small packet of Kisses (if you can't have the real thing, buy the chocolate - all the sensory pleasure without the exchange of saliva). There was a middle-aged woman ahead of me in the checkout line, and I couldn't help but notice what she bought - a big box of Mrs. Fields' premium Macadamia and White Chocolate Cookies, and three cans of Slimfast ("controls hunger"). Lady, what a combination you've got there. Don't know if you're aware of it, but those two are going to cancel each other out, and then you'll still have the vital statistics of a giant pear.
On my way out of the supermarket, I passed an elderly woman who gave me a look that had me checking if my shirt had run up and exposed my navel to the public. Turns out she only pencilled her eyebrows the wrong way today - unnaturally long and arched so far beyond the brow bone that her face appeared frozen in a state of shock. May I never make the same mistake when it's my turn to say goodbye to my eyebrows.
That was the end of the entertainment for the day, and then it was back to my cave for another round of cat-related chores, running through a bank statement with 266 bleeping checks (not my account), and the business of making dinner (this time with fresh ant-free rice). The cat sat in my lap while I worked and fell asleep purring. Maybe that's how he thanks me for my trouble. I scratched his head with my free hand. Let out the sigh I had been keeping back all day. Maybe there's hope for both of us.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Expiry Cometh
A long time ago, when I was in my late twenties, I met a distant relative from my mother's side of the family. One of the first things she wanted to know about me was whether I was married. I said I wasn't, and then she asked if I at least had a boyfriend. When I smiled and said that I didn't, she gave me a look that got on my nerves. Ah, yes, in this family someone always gets left behind, she said, and appeared to be quite certain that if I hadn't managed to get anyone at that advanced age, I'd never find anyone at all. I think I would have enjoyed stabbing the freshly-sharpened pencil I was holding straight into her heart. I think she died a couple of years ago; I imagined she insulted someone and that person managed to do what I had only relished in my head. But she had been right about my fate after all. Twenty-seven days to go, and all hope that there is such a thing as "someone for everyone" shall be gone on midnight of October the 21st. That is when I turn 36, that point where I will leave behind the final signpost that says "Last Chance" and drive on to wherever my destination is by myself. I envy those of my friends who are certain of meeting someone, even if they're of the same age as me and have not dated since Edsa the First. I envy that they can still believe that the one meant for them will just suddenly drop out of the sky. Good for them. As for myself, the fat lady has finally sung.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Blue Eyes and a Hairy Chest
I would like to live my life without having absolutely anything to do with the government beyond being regularly bled for E-vat and income taxes that ultimately end up paying for some ugly politician's behemoth SUV and his retinue of beastly bodyguards and grasping mistresses, the yearly treks to the LTO to register my car, passport renewals, driver's license renewals (every driver has been required since the past few years to pee into a plastic cup to prevent junkies from being on the road, but only take a full turn around Quezon Circle and it's plain to see that everyone still drives like they're high), and shooting dirty looks at traffic aides and policemen convened at a hot spot in a patently obvious attempt to bushwhack motorists for bogus violations. Had to add the SSS to this unsavory list yesterday. The people at the office, who were more pained at the sight of me hobbling around for the past two months than I ever was, convinced me to make a claim for the ankle injury. Russell drew up my papers and submitted them on my behalf, then was told that I should personally appear to show the doctor the foot in question. I drove to the SSS along East Avenue yesterday at half past ten in the morning, had to drive around and around the tiny parking area allotted for members till noon before I could manage to grab a slot, and then after I had waited in a barely moving line for 15 minutes, I realized that I was in the wrong branch in the first place. I was supposed to be at SSS Cubao. Desperate call to the ever-reliable Jonny Tuazon, Carlos Superdrug's Man Friday. He drove for me so I wouldn't have to tear out my hair looking for a place to park. My encounter with Dra. SSS, annoyingly, took all of three minutes. She didn't even look at my blasted foot though I was prepared to unroll the bandage that would unleash the remains of the blotchy red convalescent tissues and the odor of a sockless afternoon in sneakers. She waved me off before I even warmed the seat next to her computer. I wouldn't be surprised if I find out next week that my claim's been denied. So much for the Amazing Race: SSS edition.
I had expected that errand to eat up the the whole afternoon, but seeing that it was only 3pm, I went to see a dear old friend at the hospital. The Makati Dog and Cat Hospital, to be exact, and the friend I went to visit was Sammy, our 9-year old Siamese who had fallen sick and disappeared from home two weeks ago. I went looking for him at the neighbor's house and found him at ten in the evening in terrible shape, drenched from the rain and looking like death. I wailed to my sister to drive us to the vet, and I sniffled all the way to Makati with the cat bundled up in my arms like a baby.
Sammy's first tests came out like a death sentence. Dehydration, anemia, kidney failure, liver failure. The vet said he could die any time during treatment. I never forget that Sammy is a cat, but to me he may as well be human, and that day when I was forced to prepare myself for what might be goodbye, I cried the most painful tears I've ever shed in years. Technically, he isn't my cat. He is my sister's. He was a gift from her in-laws, brought home in 1998 when he was a little slip of a kitten, and I remember that he was shy, and stuck his head in between the sofa cushions like an ostrich. I loved him from the moment I opened the basket he came in and he stared at me with his pretty jewel-blue eyes. I've always been the cat person in the family, so it was my lap that Sammy came to prefer to sit on, my bed that he liked to sleep in, and my closet that he napped in while I worked at my computer.
It was heartbreaking when I came to see him a few days after we had taken him to the vet. He was on dextrose because he hadn't eaten, he had a bad cold, was skin, fur and bones and was drooling. His eyes were no longer blue; they were the color of mud. The following Sunday we almost agreed to have him put to sleep, but when my mother and I saw him, neither of us could go through with it. He looked so happy to see us that it would have been cruel to say goodbye when he didn't look as if he wanted to. So we decided to wait another week. When I came to see him yesterday, the vet was all smiles. Sammy had finally begun to eat, and though he isn't in the clear yet, the cat sure was putting up a fight for his life. They brought him to me in one of the examination rooms, and I was so pleased to see that he was off the dextrose, no longer drooling, no longer sneezing, and his eyes were blue again, blue as on the day he came to live with us nine years ago. I picked him up and he was so light I was afraid I'd crush him. So I sat in a chair and he curled up in my lap, just like old times. We sat there for half an hour, me scratching his head, and he making up for the lost lap-time I hadn't been able to give since I moved out from home. Some people will think it excessive to treat pets almost as if they were human, but it makes perfect sense to me to make no distinction between friends with two legs and those with four.
I had expected that errand to eat up the the whole afternoon, but seeing that it was only 3pm, I went to see a dear old friend at the hospital. The Makati Dog and Cat Hospital, to be exact, and the friend I went to visit was Sammy, our 9-year old Siamese who had fallen sick and disappeared from home two weeks ago. I went looking for him at the neighbor's house and found him at ten in the evening in terrible shape, drenched from the rain and looking like death. I wailed to my sister to drive us to the vet, and I sniffled all the way to Makati with the cat bundled up in my arms like a baby.
Sammy's first tests came out like a death sentence. Dehydration, anemia, kidney failure, liver failure. The vet said he could die any time during treatment. I never forget that Sammy is a cat, but to me he may as well be human, and that day when I was forced to prepare myself for what might be goodbye, I cried the most painful tears I've ever shed in years. Technically, he isn't my cat. He is my sister's. He was a gift from her in-laws, brought home in 1998 when he was a little slip of a kitten, and I remember that he was shy, and stuck his head in between the sofa cushions like an ostrich. I loved him from the moment I opened the basket he came in and he stared at me with his pretty jewel-blue eyes. I've always been the cat person in the family, so it was my lap that Sammy came to prefer to sit on, my bed that he liked to sleep in, and my closet that he napped in while I worked at my computer.
It was heartbreaking when I came to see him a few days after we had taken him to the vet. He was on dextrose because he hadn't eaten, he had a bad cold, was skin, fur and bones and was drooling. His eyes were no longer blue; they were the color of mud. The following Sunday we almost agreed to have him put to sleep, but when my mother and I saw him, neither of us could go through with it. He looked so happy to see us that it would have been cruel to say goodbye when he didn't look as if he wanted to. So we decided to wait another week. When I came to see him yesterday, the vet was all smiles. Sammy had finally begun to eat, and though he isn't in the clear yet, the cat sure was putting up a fight for his life. They brought him to me in one of the examination rooms, and I was so pleased to see that he was off the dextrose, no longer drooling, no longer sneezing, and his eyes were blue again, blue as on the day he came to live with us nine years ago. I picked him up and he was so light I was afraid I'd crush him. So I sat in a chair and he curled up in my lap, just like old times. We sat there for half an hour, me scratching his head, and he making up for the lost lap-time I hadn't been able to give since I moved out from home. Some people will think it excessive to treat pets almost as if they were human, but it makes perfect sense to me to make no distinction between friends with two legs and those with four.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Revisiting Napoleon Dynamite
The song that's currently on repeat on my iTunes, cd player and car stereo is Jamiroquai's "Canned Heat". The song from Napoleon Dynamite's impromptu dance number for Pedro's post-speech skit. The first and last time I saw this movie was one late evening in 2004 in my brother's Melbourne living room. Oh joy, I found a vcd at Astroplus last week. It's not the kind of film that people who weren't geeks will get. I was a high school geek, and that's why I get it. Biggest awkward pencil neck there ever was; terrible at PE, afflicted by acne and a bad haircut, who practiced dancing alone in her room, who went to dances completely unaware of the fact that I was badly dressed, who tried to fit in with the cool kids but never actually did. In time I outgrew the dweeb exterior, and gained a fair bit of rhythm for dance and sports, but at the core I'll always be a square peg in a round hole.
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