Dogbert’s Whip

My first two weeks of the Year of the Dog were spent in car-chasing and tongue-wagging mode. First off, I took this Basic Safety Course in a training center somewhere in Roxas Blvd. The lectures started at seven in the morning, which meant that I had to wake up extra early just to beat the pesky traffic in España and Taft. And so for each day for two straight weeks, I chased many Buendia-bound FX taxis in Philcoa as early as 5:45 am. Nowadays, most of us would prefer riding the FX over stinky buses and the hopelessly crammed LRT and MRT. As a result of this, it took me eons to get a ride, and unwittingly made me one of the “Tardy Boys” for each lecture day.

Tardy Boys in the training seminar are not allowed to take a seat or sign the attendance sheet unless they entertain the class with a song-and-dance number. In one particularly humiliating day, I had to garble the inane lyrics of a certain Masculados hit (“Lagot ka, lagot ka! Huling-huli ka… may kasama kang iba…”) as I performed wooden, calisthenic-like choreography amid condescending hoots and chuckles of laughter. Being late does not come as a surprise for me since I’m almost always tardy whenever I show up for my current work in Makati. But somehow, I realized that salary deductions are better punishment options compared to quasi-artistic performances. That’s probably the reason why I became a technical person, rather than a budding artist, in the first place. But then again, I’m just rationalizing.

Although I thought the safety seminar would be a complete drag, it turned out to be an enjoyable experience. There were exercises involving the administration of Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation (CPR) on a female mannequin named “Resusci-Anne.” My classmates thought I did a great job trying to revive the “victim,” saying that my performance was worth a slot in the Star Circle Teen Quest. Then there were activities on fire fighting where I got to be the second “nozzle man,” sea survival techniques where they taught us how to huddle together and board a life raft, and my all-time favorite, the Helicopter Underwater Escape Training or the HUET.

The HUET is very much like a Fear Factor stunt. In the exercise, one is strapped inside a decoy of a helicopter cabin as it is lowered in a deep swimming pool. In a simulated capsizing of the chopper, the cabin will suddenly flip 180° over, resulting to panic, disorientation and the rush of cascading water inside the cabin. Once the pressure inside the sinking helicopter is stabilized, the person inside would have to open the emergency window, unhook his seatbelt, and swim afloat to safety. Sounds simple, eh? But no! Most of us were dead scared of the stunt to the point of hypertension. On the day of the HUET practicum, I think I may have annoyed God Himself from my constant mental whining slash prayers. And when the instructor informed me that I was to take the practical exam first since my surname starts with an A, I moaned at why my dad didn’t have a Castillan-sounding surname like Zuñiga, Zalameda or Zaldarriaga.

I really don’t know if it’s the sheer volume of adrenalin that pumped into my veins, or if it’s just plain divine intervention, but somehow, I escaped the HUET unscathed! The great thing about going first is that when you screw up, you’ll have convenient excuses for doing so (i.e., nerves, unfamiliarity, etc.). But if you’ll pull it off, you’ll look so damn good and earn a great deal of pogi points in the process. “Ang galing mo naman… ikaw na nga ang nauna tapos very good pa…,” people would compliment you. “Wala yun, sinwerte lang…,” you would answer back in mock humility.

While it may seem that my first two weeks of 2006 were pure merriment, a phone call from my brother one late night briefly interrupted my peaceful life. I readily knew that it was an emergency since my brothers and I hardy call each other over the phone. My brother told me that my mom just had surgery to have her gall bladder removed, and that I shouldn’t worry because the operation was successful. Of course I knew he was telling me the truth, but somehow, I felt guilty for not being by my mom’s side.

That same Saturday night, I was having supper with my self-proclaimed techie ex-officemate, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT). It was our first meeting of the year, and what we expected to be a light conversation about the past holiday season and my misadventures in the training seminar turned out to be melodramatic session about our moms. See, QPT’s mom is about to go to the States to work as a nurse. We realized that both of us haven’t been spending enough time with our respective mothers, and that often, in the fast-paced urban rat race, we tend to forget the simple joys of being at home with loved ones.     

I went home to Pampanga first thing the next day and kept my mom company in the hospital. We chatted the whole time, and in between stories about my basic safety training and my current career plans, I gobbled up most of the ensaymada that I originally intended to give her. I also ate a couple of chicos and Fuji apples that relatives brought her. Well, don’t look at me; the doctors gave strict orders not to give her any food or liquid, and I was starving in that hospital room beyond relief.   

By night time, I had to leave since I still had to pack my stuff back in Manila. The next day, I’ll have to be in Roxas Blvd. by 5:30am since our training will resume in a boot camp in Tanza, Cavite. Being late on that day meant missing the shuttle service to Tanza and commuting all by myself to the training site. Before leaving, I playfully informed my mom that I was going to take part in the dreaded HUET that coming week, and that I was chicken scared of the prospect of panic drowning. Like any mom to her son, she assured me that I’m the best kid in the world and there’s absolutely no challenge that I cannot hurdle.

Sheesh… mothers. They’re simply the best. J     

It’s three solid days before Christmas Day, and yet, here I am, toiling like a dam-building beaver. Unlike the industrious beaver, however, my last-minute efforts are not bound to hold any water. As expected, I still have tons of work left to accomplish. I am not the type who gives up easily or cowardly raises the white flag, but somehow, the holiday mood is a Scrooge of a spoiler of work motivation.

Whenever work motivation is fast approaching nil, what do normal people like us tend to do? You’re right; we all surf the internet. You may not be interested to read this but there are only three websites that I check regularly, and these are www.yahoo.com, www.inq7.net, and (trumpets and fireworks are necessary) www.friendster.com. And yes, I browse those websites in that order.

I was browsing through the friendster page Ding, of a high school batchmate, and came across satellite pictures of Angeles City, our hometown. In those shots, he made captions about where he once jogged with his dad as a kid, where he used to live, some other famous landmarks in the city, etc. It was way too cool and neat that I decided to check out http://maps.google.com, the website where I assume he took the satellite images, and to make a blog entry in the process. Okay, stop; I know I’m such a copycat.

Looking for the places that matter most to me proved to be a challenging yet deeply satisfying effort. It made me miss home A LOT all of a sudden. I can’t wait until I’m seated for the Noche Buena with my family. (You may not agree with me but nothing beats Capampangan cooking.) And what better way to spend the holidays than to have it with the people who matter most to you? I know, I’m getting a tad too sentimental and nostalgic now, but while the moment is right, allow me to say this:

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A BLESSED NEW YEAR TO ALL!!!

Before I darted off to work this morning, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Although I’m probably as vain as a pedicab barker in the marketplace, what I saw did not please me at all. Prominent dark spots with the size of orange wedges have started to form beneath my eyes. I’ve been myopic half of my life, and yet, my darn eyeglasses do a lousy job in concealing my obvious lack of sleep. You’d think that these spectacles with all their multi-coated lens and insanely expensive and highly-corrosive metal frames would have other uses aside from making you look smart, serious, and geeky. But no – let the high heavens sob! – they don’t.

As expected, the bulk of my stress nowadays stems from having to complete my daunting office tasks before the year ends. This is how it works in the private sector: You’re given a set of tasks or goals to complete for the year. You’re expected to meet all those goals, taking three elements into serious consideration – time, quality and cost. If you finish everything up, then you’re fine. But bungle up your goals? Then expect your a-double-s to get whipped.

For most of my colleagues here in Makati, pending work is not the only thing that causes them heart palpitations and upset stomachs. Starting Monday next week, our company moves to another building. From the Citibank Tower in the heart of Salcedo Village, we’re going to pack our things up and move to the uber-posh building that is 6750 Ayala Ave. Not only do we now get to rub shoulders with the detergent-peddling executives of Procter & Gamble and lubricant-flashing employees of Caltex, but the swanky shops of Glorietta, Rustan’s, and Greenbelt are just a stone’s throw away from our new place.

Starting next week, I’m half expecting audible gushes that would include “I’m feeling rather sleepy today… I better get my Starbuck’s fix downstairs.” “Let’s skip lunch and watch King Kong in Greenbelt 3.” “Ohmilord! It’s (insert name here)’s birthday. Now I’ll have to endure a 50-meter walk from 6750 to the Powerbooks outlet from across the street to purchase a present.”  

Just yesterday, we had a tour of our new office space in 6750. They briefed us for everything from structure, safety practices, and space allocation. I finally saw my new cubicle, too. It’s sandwiched between the offices of the Resource Management Manager (our depatment’s big boss) and the Geoscience Manager (my immediate boss). Perhaps fate is playing devious trickery on me for placing me in such hot spot territory. On the bright side, now that I’m seated in a space adjacent to two big bosses, it might provide me with enough motivation to work doubly hard and get my act together. And before I forget to mention this, I also get a single window view of Ayala Avenue in my new cube (woohoo!). That and the building column strategically placed in one corner of my space, allowing me to have a “mini hiding place” for lunch time naps and what-nots.

As I write this, I realized that it’s been a month since I posted a blog entry and only eleven days to go before Christmas. Shucks, I never imagined that I would be this busy. As the one-hit wonder band Arkarna would proudly profess, it’s “so little time, so much to do” indeed. With tons of work left and negligible holiday shopping done (as if I have money for that in the first place), I’m bound to be more stressed in the coming days. But what the heck; bring it on! 

When the distance grows and the nights are long
And you’re scared at times and you wonder why
Take care and don’t go too far; I will miss you so…
The road back home is shorter than you know
– Moonpools and Caterpillars in “Heaven”

If you guys have been reading my blog here in Friendster (well, at least I hope so), you’ve probably noticed that I often mention a person who goes by the name Queen of Pain and Tardiness, or QPT for short. On a number of occasions, I have described (or playfully denigrated) QPT in my articles, detailing how she acquired her three word moniker. Although I hate to admit it, QPT also happens to be my all-time favorite officemate (but then again, this is just my first job – peace!).

I’d like to think that QPT and I get along pretty well not because we need each other’s precious company during our lunch break, but because we complement each other in many ways. For instance, we both have this habit of shamelessly slacking on our daunting office tasks, then whine endlessly whenever our bosses remind us of our deadlines. QPT is also the girl I know who gamely answers all my demented hypothetical questions. In the process, she even comes up with her own brand of even more sick questions. For instance, let me give you this classic example:

QPT: “Would you make out (read: french kiss, necking, and petting) with Pierce Brosnan for fifteen minutes if you’ll get a top-of-the-line Jaguar in return? Nobody has to know; it’s just Pierce, you, and a five-star hotel room somewhere in the Caribbean.”

I, the Geoscience Hunk Wannabe (GHW): “You’re crazy! And you even have the gall to bribe me with a luxury car and a trip to the Caribbean!”

QPT: “Why not?! It’s just smooching and groping with a hunky, hairy actor. You have nothing lose. Isa pa, kasiraan yun ni Pierce at hindi sa’yo ‘no! Kapal talaga! And think of what that Jaguar would do to your dismal social life…”

GHW (covers ears with palms): “I’m not going to listen to any of this anymore! (sings loudly) The sun goes out tomorrow…”

More than just the hilarious hypothetical questions, QPT and I share other things, and among them, food. Some weeks ago, we munched on Piattos potato crisps and Tostillas corn chips in the company cafeteria. It was our typical late afternoon merienda, except that it wasn’t just an ordinary day. It was QPT’s last day at the office, and that snack was our last meal as official workmates.

QPT and I are never the sentimental kind, but it felt rather surreal knowing that our days of swapping hypothetical situations over lunch break has finally come to an end. No more ribbing each other in our sensory deprivation chambers (read: cubicles). No more Ctrl+A e-mails that document our endless whining and what-nots. No more “taxipooling” after work and hunting for Makati babes and hunks in the elevators and side streets. Somehow, I got the feeling that the world has just gotten a tad sadder.

Before QPT finally left Citibank Tower, I promised that I would make a blog entry about her. I explained that it would be sort of a quasi-tribute to the person who has introduced me to blogging, who has called me the most jaded and cynical person in the world, and who has become my closest female friend so far. Immediately, she lashed out that I should make it good, lest she retaliates against me in her own “Stupid Strings” blog in Multiply.com (well, she calls my blog “Stupid Dogbert” so I’m not being mean here).

I’ve always been a fan of David Letterman, so predictably, my so-called tribute for QPT will be in the form of a TOP TEN LIST. Yes, I know it’s not original at all, but if you’ve been brain dead like I am for the longest time, this is my best crack at something presentable. So without further adieu, here it goes:

TOP TEN THINGS YOU PROBABLY DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT QPT:

(10) THE ALWAYS LATE DRAMA QUEEN – This is quite obvious already, given that she is the Queen of Pain and Tardiness. I’d like to think that she has never heard of the story about how the early bird gets the worm. Also, Lindsay Lohan will never stand a chance… :p

(9) TOPSY TURVY – It’s virtually impossible for her to make concrete decisions. She simply can’t make up her mind, whether it is food that she’s going to order in Wendy’s, or if she’ll shift back to Physics after spending a year of grad school in Computer Science. But this trait is most particularly applicable to her love life, or simply the lack of it. :p

(8) FRUSTRATED PHOTOGRAPHER – No matter how hard she tries, I still take better photographs. Ha! :p

(7) CHOCOLATE MOUSSE – She gobbles up massive amounts of this whenever she gets depressed. No wonder she gained a lot of weight in such a short time. :p

(6) BROWN OUTFIT – She always dresses in drab brown: brown blouse, brown skirt, brown slacks, etc. I once joked that she could hug a tree trunk and she’ll blend perfectly well, sort of her version of a chameleon. :p

(5) GOOD WRITER – She writes pretty darn well. If you haven’t read her blog articles or her Chant column in Peyups.com, then I guess you’re missing a bunch.

(4) SELF-PROCLAIMED TECHIE – iPod? Check. Laptop? Check. Digicam? Check. Now only if she’ll get rid of that phone… :p

(3) HEADSTRONG – Time and again, we’ve clashed on our political views. No matter how hard I try to convince her, she’ll never ever dish out a morsel of love for GMA.

(2) LOVING & LOYAL – There was absolutely nothing that I could’ve done in the past to piss her off until I made fun of her friends and her family.

(1) ANGEL – Believe me; it’s not just her real name.

For the past few weeks, I have racked my brains off trying to develop a log template using a specialized mining software that I learned how to use, but have sadly forgotten, ten months ago. After a thorough review of the software’s manual, I realized that the procedure for creating the template is quite simple, assuming that the raw data one will use is nearly flawless and error-free. Otherwise, this template task will be an endless loop fest of revisions, corrections, sweat, tears, snot, and near insanity. Scanning through the MS Excel spreadsheets that contain our data, I soon realized that a great deal of editing is in order. Shucks, the very thing that I was dreading of is hovering under my nose. Somehow, hysterical wailing and fainting spells appear to be more attractive alternatives to the former.

I have to admit that I’ve stalled on this task for as long as I could remember. Although I’m fully aware of the impending urgency for this template (my officemate informed me that they absolutely need my input by the end of the week), I have somehow managed to fulfill all sorts of things, like buying salted peanuts in the cafeteria, for example, as a sorry excuse to procrastinate. No, I’m not the superstitious kind; I don’t believe that eating nitrogen-rich underground legumes will sharpen my mind to accomplish this template task. If this was true, Albert Einsten would have bowed his head in shame given the massive amounts of peanut butter and Growers® nuts that I’ve consumed in my lifetime. The thing is, when I’m under a great deal of stress, I tend to channel it through my jaw muscles. In short, I munch on anything to cope. Well, it’s no wonder why I gained so much weight since I started working a year and five months ago. But then again, I’m also fond of making sorry excuses.

Feeling helpless a few days ago, I trooped to the company cafeteria and bought a small bag of peanuts. Each bag costs a staggering twenty pesos, and if not were for my desperation, I wouldn’t have agreed to such bad, overpriced deal. And so a few moments after, I picked on the peanuts as I stared blankly at the computer monitor for what seemed like forever, hoping that God Almighty or even Mama Mary would help me out of my predicament. As the familiar gritty and salty sensations tickled my taste buds, I had the comforting feeling that the peanuts, at least, were doing me some good. Well, that was until I decided to observe one legume in better detail.

Holding a single peanut firmly between my right thumb and forefinger, I noticed that it glistened with vegetable oil, boasting of a perfect, golden brown color. Reeking of garlicky aroma, the legume was unable to hide the real reason why it has become irresistible to the palate: bits of white crystals were adhered on its slick surface. Majority of these crystals are unmistakably salt due to their round and stubby appearance. Now that explains the saltiness. However, why do pre-packed peanuts taste so good? Closer inspection reveals another type of crystal that has a more elongated shape and tapered appearance. This foreign substance has made many bland Chinese restaurants flourish, has forced a lot of us to be unwitting captives to Jack and Jill junk foods, and when used as a lacing agent to hotdogs or any other meat, has murdered countless loyal pooches who guard their masters’ homes with gusto. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m talking about monosodium glutamate (MSG).

When I was a kid, I would run petty errands for a stick of cigarette, a few eggs, a sachet of conditioner, and of course, a packet of MSG. In those days, the adults don’t actually ask you to purchase MSG. They simply have to say “Ajinomoto” and somehow, you’re pretty sure that it’s the “sugary” stuff that they want. Back then, I would ask why they keep adding MSG to food and I kept getting the same response: “to make the dish more delicious.” Although the health consequences of habitual MSG use have not been verified medically up until today, my mom has nevertheless abandoned MSG use in her cooking for a few years now. That’s why whenever I stay in our house during extended vacations, I end up complaining that our food “lacks character.”

My taste has definitely evolved to adapt to the Ajinomoto life that thrives in the big city. As a self-confessed fast food boy, I’m sure I get my fair share of MSG from my steady diet of hamburgers and Chicken Joy. In my personal food pyramid, Cheetos® and potato chips probably occupy the portion intended for “green, leafy vegetables.” Time and again, I have vowed to stay away from fast and junk food. But like a typical topsy turvy junkie who ends up swallowing all his rubbish and bull sh*t, I end up going back for more. Maybe it doesn’t help that I live in a place where a nearby Jollibee and Mc Donald’s outlets are open for 24 hours. Heck, in my workplace, there are four fast food outlets – Jollibee, Chowking, Deli France, and Greenwich – from across the street. Tony Tan Caktiong (CEO of Jollibee Foods Corporation) may be Ernst & Young’s 2004 World Entrepreneur of the Year but for me, he’s one bad, bad man. Again, I have this shameless fondness for making bad excuses.

In a previous blog entry, I have discussed how certain circumstances led me to pray again. Admittedly, prayer has had positive effects in me. Lately, I have noticed that I sleep better now, and there’s a sense of calm when I wake up. However, it was a different story last weekend. See, I joined two of my friends for a jogging session at the Academic Oval of UP Diliman. A full round of running in the oval is roughly 2.2 kms, and we decided to finish three rounds. Even after months of virtual inactivity, I managed to run the whole first round without stopping. However, somewhere between CASAA and the AS Steps, I felt the world around me getting hazy. Catching my breath and acknowledging defeat, I decided to stop and walk for the rest of the way.

On our way home, my friends were hungry already and decided to grab a quick bite. The nearest place with decent food is in Philcoa, and we settled for a “meal” consisting of Quarter Pounders, fries, and Diet Coke at Mc Donald’s. After that, I passed by another friend’s house where I was treated to a canister of MSG-laden Planter’s® Cheese Curls before going home. That same night, I dreamed about a girl who I haven’t seen in a long time. In that dream, I was a spectator in an Olympic swimming competition. She was the lone Filipino entry amid the stunning brunettes and statuesque blonde Caucasians who rule the sport. The moment the pistol was fired, she leapt into the air like a gazelle and glided through the water like a mermaid. In a few effortless strokes, she made the finish line, beating the world record by five full seconds!

I found myself at the end of her lane and offered my hand to pick her up from the water. With a smile (I was surprised by that, honestly), she accepted my kind gesture. The moment she made it on ground, she removed her swim cap and proceeded to sprinkle my face with droplets of water as she shook her lovely, fragrant hair. Eyeing her opponents with a half turn of her head, it was so damn obvious that she devoured the whole competition from the first nanosecond. And then, as if by magic, she clutched a gold medal the size of a small platter that dangled pendulously in front of my eyes. As if in a hypnotic trance, I stood there transfixed, marveling at her dominance and swimsuit-clad beauty. Then like a slap delivered in light speed, she eyed me contemptuously and snickered, “Eat your heart out, Fast Food Boy!”

I woke up that instant and shook my head from the absurdity of the whole thing. And yes, I still blame fast food, and while we’re at it, I guess I’ll fault the MSG as well.

Over sizzling plates of two different types of sisig – flaky bangus and spicy squid – and ensaladang talong at Ihaw1 Philcoa last night, my self-proclaimed techie officemate slash pesky neighbor, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT), inquired if I felt sorry for the grimy urchins who often press their noses on the glass wall of the restaurant. Clutching wilted garlands of sampaguita on their frail hands, a young boy and his toddler sister stare wide-eyed at the generous servings of animal body parts, sautéed in butter, garlic, onions, and green chilies. There was a slight drizzle that same night, and somewhere between the blinding lights of honking, traffic-scarred automobiles and the raucous of the crowd rushing to beat the impending September shower, I thought I saw the street kids shiver – whether by the chilly breeze or from outright hunger, I really have no way of saying why. But then again, it must have been both.

“Of course I feel sorry for them,” I responded quite belatedly.

“Then what are you going to do about it?” QPT retorted as she scooped a heap of the ensaladang talong into her steaming bowl of rice.    

With Buddha-like contemplation, I synthesized that simple question. Personally, I frown on people who offer monetary alms to beggars of all ages. In my mind, such actions merely promote the continual dependence of these people to unwitting acts of charity. I’ve heard countless stories of homeless kids who purchase rugby instead of the food that they promise to buy. Worse, there are adult beggars who feign disability while they beg, only to return to their shanties that same night for a round of gin bulag, or probably an overnight tong-its session under the light of an incandescent bulb. 

“I think I’ll pray for them,” I said smugly.

“NOT! As if you pray, noh!?” QPT jokingly snickered as she speared what looked like a squid tentacle on the hot plate.

Scooping a spoonful of bangus sisig in my bowl, I realized that QPT has a point. It’s been six long years since I actually stepped inside a Mormon chapel and heard mass. When I was still with my ex some time back, I also accompanied her, on a number of occasions, for Sunday mass in a chapel (I think it’s St. Jude) somewhere in Manila. One Tuesday evening some months ago, I also joined a friend as an "observer" to the Baclaran church for his weekly devotion of praying over lighted candles. But in both instances, I was a mere spectator who does not take spirituality seriously. Don’t get me wrong, though. I still truly and sincerely believe in God or a Supreme Being. It’s religion that I’m having trouble with. Ever since I realized that religions are filled with contradictions and dictatorial dogmas, I embarked on a self-imposed soul searching. I still believe that the right religion for me will pop up in due time. When my favorite cousin learned about this, she advised me to at least stay Christian no matter what happens. “I don’t think our clan is open-minded enough to accept, say a Hindu, in the family,” she says as if it’s a warning.

The last time I prayed was during the above mentioned “excursion” at the Baclaran church. There is this room in the church where one-inch tall white candles in aluminum cuplets are available in huge crate boxes. A devotee can take as many candles as he wants to accompany his prayers. Usually, it’s one candle per prayer request. The devotee could also dedicate a candle to a friend or loved one. The best part is that the candles are virtually free of charge. One merely has to drop a coin or two in the designated slot as a form of donation. If you’re feeling generous, a bill of any color will also do as fine. And if you don’t have any money to donate, don’t feel guilty; it’s perfectly fine. The house of the Lord is the ultimate house of charity.

My friend took about twenty of these candles and arranged these on the metal racks. He lit each of the wax stumps and in bowed reverence, whispered prayers amid the overpowering orange hue of the flames. Impressed by the prayerful atmosphere of the room, I decided to grab nine of the candles (2 parents + 5 siblings + 1 sister-in-law + 1 nephew) myself and lit them one by one. Mentally reciting prayers for each of my loved ones, I felt goosebumps forming from my nape all the way to my back. For someone who now rarely says graces before meals, it was such a surreal experience. Before I left the room, I decided to light one last candle – for myself. Frankly, it was one of best things that I’ve done for myself in recent memory.

After our twin sisig meal, QPT and I decided to pass by the local Mercury Drug outlet to purchase some cookies (handy midnight snack) and a bottle of Enervon-C tablets (I got soaked in the rain last Friday night and I could sense my often fragile immune system waging war against a cold virus). As we stepped out of air-conditioned eatery with the ripe “sisig smell” adhered to our skin, hair, and clothing, the young boy blocked our path and offered his fragrant wares.

“Kuya, sampung piso lang po… para makauwi na kami…” the boy half-pleaded with his sister tugging his soiled tank top from the back. At that instant, piercing spiritual emotions clash fiercely with my personal convictions. Instinctively, I searched my pockets for a couple of coins, but hesitantly, I decided against it. With a heavy heart, I said: “Boy, uwi ka na… gabi na… baka maabutan pa kayo ng ulan…”

That same night, I had an intimate conversation with God – my first one in a long time – before retiring to sleep. And yes, those kids were definitely in my prayers.

I knew you couldn’t resist this, you nosy person you…

iPod Erotica #1: The Geoscience Hunk Wannabe (GHW) and the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT) lust after the sleek beauty of the iPod with its new "doggy dish" speakers.

iPod Erotica #2: QPT leans her head coquettishly; GHW grins as he presses the right buttons.

iPod Erotica #3: "Take a bite; it’s alright. Taste the taste that sent all mothers giggling in sheer delight…" (The Eraserheads in "Fruitcake")

Lately, I have noticed that on most nights, I tend to watch one television channel more than any other. Nope, I’m not talking about the overhyped and ridiculously cheesy Pinoy Big Brother on ABS-CBN (although I have to admit that I’ve caught a couple of episodes so far, being the natural born nosy person that I am). Instead, I have decided to reach out to the other members of Kingdom Animalia by spending dozens of hours on Animal Planet. I have even acquired a peculiar liking to the song “Roam,” a B-52’s hit from the 80’s that serves as the channel’s official jingle. It goes: “Boy mercury shootin’ through every degree/ Oh girl dancin’ down those dirty and dusty trails/ Take it hip to hip rock it through the wilderness/ Around the world the trip begins with a kiss…” And you thought 80’s music was all about corn ball pop beats and crazy outfits, eh?

Apart from graphic specials that show lions goring over hapless herbivores on the African bush, and documentaries about the intelligence of chimpanzees, what really makes me hooked with Animal Planet is a show called “Growing Up Wild.” Growing Up Wild follows the stories of zoo keepers and other ordinary folks who embark on the heroic task of taking care of orphan baby animals. To date, I have watched stories about people acting as surrogate parents to three zebra foals, a pair of lion cubs, a litter of wolf pups, and even an abandoned walrus calf. Raising wild baby animals is a Herculean task filled with sleepless nights and enormous challenges, and the show cleverly and effectively depicts this struggle. In the end, the human care takers prevail, and their animal offsprings outgrow their fragile childhood. 

The most touching moments in Growing Up Wild are when the surrogate human parents finally release their “babies” in their natural habitats. I remember this Aussie zoo keeper in his mid-20’s with multiple facial piercing as he fondly held on to the Tasmanian Devil that he’s raised for the past eleven months for one last time. “This guy has been a great part of my life for the past year, and it will be really difficult to let him go… I’m so proud of him,” the Aussie bloke replied with his voice cracking and struggling really hard to keep his tears from falling.

Watching the above mentioned scene would likewise make my eyes well up and sends a couple of sniffs from my congested nose. I even remember a time when I actually cried when on one episode, a middle-aged woman bade farewell to her baby zebras. “Run like the wind,” she whispered, clutching a pale blue handkerchief as the three nimble zebras sprinted towards the sun-baked grass of the savannah. I could withstand a tear jerker of a movie like “A Walk To Remember” and “Magnifico,” but not the closing moments of Growing Up Wild. I guess I’m just plain crazy that way.

For some time now, I have been raving so much about Growing Up Wild and Animal Planet that my friends are starting to associate me with the cable channel. Whenever I hit a rare winner in our badminton games, they would kid: “Wow! Yan ang lupet ng Animal Planet!” Once, I “taxipooled” with my officemate and I sang Roam over and over. It wasn’t long before she was singing the same song, too, although unwittingly. 

Now that I’m in the throngs of a mid-20’s life crisis, I am seriously considering a career in wildlife conservation or even a Masters degree in biological sciences should I decide that I’ve had enough of rocks, faults, and volcanoes. But of course, every positive concept attracts a negative counter-attack, and as usual, it comes from my worst critic, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT). She blurts, in hyper speed: “That will never happen because you’re hopelessly jaded and cynical. So what makes you think you’re capable of taking care of species other than your own? And besides, you’re such a carnivore with your steady diet of Jollibee Chicken Joy and cheeseburgers!” (Again, QPT does not really mean all the mean things she tells me. She just exists to criticize everything that I do, and in return, I do the same to her. Criticism, when viewed positively, could actually make our lives better. I think.)   

True, I’m not PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) material simply because I insist on attaining my protein requirements from farm-bred animals. And I’m horribly mortified by poisonous reptiles and prey-gobbling constrictors. That could seriously jeopardize my dreams of being a wildlife person. But then again, dreaming is free and harmless, and if I do indeed fulfill it, I’ll make sure that I’ll be the gigantic blue whale of the seven seas, the mangy lion of the African bush, the cunning tiger of the Bengal swamps, the irresistibly adorable polar bear of the Siberian tundra, and the majestic swooping eagle of the blue, vanilla sky. In short, I’ll be the best damn wildlife conversationalist on this side of the planet.   

I don’t about you guys, but for me, Tuesdays are unbearably dull. Work’s just started the day before, and it’s still a far cry before the weekend ushers in the fun that we all crave for. I actually prefer Wednesday, the middle day, when hope creeps back into my subconscious, realizing that the dreaded work week is bound to cease. But Tuesdays? I only have three words for it: Never. Nada. Zilch.

Like most weekdays, I got home last Tuesday feeling exhausted from my daunting office tasks (right!). I snatched some time to snooze and reminded myself to call my self-proclaimed techie officemate, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT), by seven in the evening. QPT has recently decided to devote more time for the MS Computer Science degree that she’s currently pursuing in UP. Thus, she vacated her posh Ortigas condo and moved into the bone thug-infested neighborhood of UP Bliss.

As I mentioned in a previous blog entry, UP Bliss is a run down neighborhood of dilapidated, multi-level housing structures.  Although I stay in Bulding 2 and QPT found her niche in Building 19, we’re practically neighbors now, and it suits us perfectly since we’re both horrible time managers who nap in the late afternoon and hit the covers again only after midnight.

QPT and I agreed to have supper together that same evening. However, my original plan of calling her at seven never pushed through due to an unforeseen glitch with my cellphone (which handily doubles as my alarm clock, by the way). I woke up past 8:30PM, and I hurriedly washed my face, wore street clothes, and went down the flight of stairs to meet QPT in her pad and confront her potential rage and hunger pangs.

Stepping down on the last step of the stairs, I barely saw a man who stepped tentatively in my direction. It was quite dark in our building, there were no overhead lights to speak of, but I was sure that the man wore his dark shirt as a mask. As I turned to leave, the mysterious person began to speak in a chilly voice that is somewhat also laced with rage. He said: “Saan nagpunta ang dalawa? Saan sila umakyat? Saan sila nagpunta? Sa third floor? Sa fourth floor?”        

At this point, I inspected my surroundings. All the ground floor units were locked and cave dark. Realizing that nobody was around, I glanced back with the intention of asking if his queries were intended for me. Before I could even speak, I was rattled by the way he stood his ground, and with clenched fists firmly planted on his sides and a faraway look, he proceeded to murmur: “Uulit ka pa ba? Taas… Baba… Taas… Baba…”   

Goosebumps erupted on every pore of my body. It was definitely one of the freakiest moments of my life. I turned away so fast that a walkathon could have been in order. Through my peripheral vision, I could feel the person follow me in short, calculated steps. Proceeding to a mid-run, I turned around to check if he was still following me. Alas, as if in a snap, he was no longer there, not even a trace of his scrimpy shirt mask.

Later that night, I recounted the strange experience to QPT in her pad as she ravenously chomped on her Chowking Supreme Chicken and pineapple juice. With bits of chewed rice forming arc projectiles from her lips, she made fun of my cowardice and apparent low tolerance of anything deviant or paranormal. “What if you see him again on your way home,” QPT inquired, rubbing sauce off her cheek with a soiled napkin. “I mean, what if he’s a homicidal psycho or a renegade ghost with a mission of vendetta?” “I’ll let loose a high-pitched shriek so loud that it won’t matter to me if I rouse the whole of UP Bliss from its peaceful slumber,” I said matter-of-factly.

Thirty minutes past twelve, I finally got tired of QPT’s i-Tunes, her Keebler raisin-and-oatmeal cookies, and her endless whining about the difficulties of the real world. Since her roommate finally got home, I decided to call it a night and head back to Building 2. When I got there, I realized that the gate has been closed since it was well past midnight. I inserted the key and for some strange reason, the blasted gate wouldn’t budge open. With my heart beating a jillion times per minute and beads of perspiration forming on my brow, I murmured for the mysterious masked entity to leave me alone and let me in. With a chilling breeze of cool wind, the lock suddenly unhooked, and with galloping steps, I proceeded to embark on the maddest dash back to my room.   

The world seemed smaller as I opened my eyes last Friday morning. For the short, few seconds that I reluctantly pressed “snooze” on my ageing cellular phone, I sat down on my mattress, and realized that a combination of puffy and itchy sensations permeated from my eyes. I stood up and stared at my reflection on the mirror. Before me was not the prettiest sight one could ever look at so early in the morning: through a head of rumpled hair and a hint of spittle on the corner of my mouth, a pair of red swollen eyes made me look like jaded Mandarin who was just bullied by a giant bumble bee.   

It’s really a bit weird as to how I developed this eye allergy. As if on a whim, my eyes suddenly have an adverse reaction to dust, contact lenses, and other alien bodies that come in contact with our peepers.  I first contracted this allergy last summer when my left eye swelled up, and being the cry baby that I am, decided to consult an ophthalmologist in Makati Med. The lady doctor diagnosed my condition as a simple case of sore eyes (or in my case, sore left eye), and prescribed two different types of eye drops – an antibiotic that costs around PhP 300 and insanely expensive “artificial tears” that retails for PhP 600 – to relieve my discomforts. She assured me that if I’ll religiously apply the eye drops on my left eye (one drop of each type, three times each day), I’ll be up and about in three days max. My visit took all of fifteen minutes, and before I turned to leave, I had to churn out another PhP 500 for the customary professional fee.

Three days later, however, my condition did not improve at all, and my right eye decided to join the bandwagon and swell up like its leftie counterpart. I marched back to Makati Med, sorely disappointed and battle ready to confront the lady ophthalmologist who just rigged me off of 1.4 grand. Arriving there, the drab secretary told me that the lady doc will not be reporting for clinic that day, and if I desire, will consult her brother (who is, mother of all shockers, another ophthalmologist, by the way) instead.

The Li’l Devil on my left shoulder poohed and bahhed. Ignorance is hereditary he snarled, and that Paris Hilton is probably Mensa material if I fell for the trap for the second time. The Li’l Angel on my right shoulder, however, argued that to err is human, and that the sibling ophthalmologists deserve a second chance at redemption. 

I am not a religious person but I’m always rather inclined to side with the Li’l Angel. And since I didn’t know of any other ophthalmologists in the first place, I decided to play along and consult the brother. After a routine examination of my swollen eyes, the doctor gave the same diagnosis and advised me to apply the same eye drops for the next seven days. “*&$#@^ (name of sister) should’ve advised you to apply the medicine on both eyes,” the pudgy doctor added, “so the infection shouldn’t have spread to the other eye.” Before I left, the secretary charged me for PhP 400, and not for the usual PhP 500 since I came in only for a “follow-up check up.” “Thanks a lot,” I snickered sarcastically. Maybe I’ll donate the hundred bucks that I just saved to UNICEF and feed a zillion homeless kids. “And have a great day!”

On my way back home, I phoned my mom to complain about my condition. In my mind, there’s got to be a catch from all of this. My mom suggested that my condition could be a simple case of eye allergies. Months back, one of my brothers also had the same symptoms, and after administering anti-allergy eye drops for a few days, my bro recovered soon after. Trusting my gut, I bought the same anti-allergy eye drops that my mom has spoken of. Within days, I noticed considerable decrease in the swelling of my eyes and recovered swiftly. Four short months after my first brush with eye allergies, I was once again thrust in the same predicament. And it had to afflict me when I was gaining good momentum with my work and with my badminton training. I was then left with no choice but to rest out my allergies for the whole weekend.

When you’re down with puffy eyes with nothing left to do but eat, sleep, and watch Animal Planet on cable, you start to notice the small things in life. On my part, I realized that a footlong hotdog sandwich sold for PhP 25 each from the friendly sari-sari store could make for sumptuous meal. It was refreshing to see kids play street games once again in this age of computer games and the virtual world of the internet. I was even amused by my landlord’s collection of religious statues that were carefully arranged on top of his china cabinet. Why, there’s even a lamp that burns lavender oil on one of the desks in the living room! No wonder it smells funny during the morning.

I couldn’t believe that I’ve missed out on life’s little pleasures simply because I am too absorbed with my own little self. Last weekends’ bout with eye allergies may have prevented me from having a great time with my pals, but in the process, I got a definite eye opener. Sure, a potent formula of steroids, antibiotics, and other anti-allergy agents are slowly easing the redness and swelling of my eyes. But for the first time in the longest span, I haven’t seen anything so clearly.