murphy's law

My flight to Dubai is set.

I am set. Or so I thought.

 

Oct 1 is the day. Sunday.

I’ve cried and sulked and attended/hosted several series of bye-see-you-soon parties with all of my friends.

 

Wednesday, I got my new passport.

Ok, so I look 40 pounds lighter back in 2002 – my passport ‘06 picture looks… bloated.

Whatever. Passport – check.

 

Luggage – check.

All my fave tops and cutie shoes have all been packed.

I went to bed with a smile – oblivious to the heavy rains that seemed to scream havoc.

 

Thursday, I was scheduled to go to POEA for documentation.

 

I woke up with a tree branch banging my bedroom window.

What the fuck?

 

I could hear strong winds making whooshing sounds – like a thousand kids with no front teeth whistling. (Yeah, well, something like that.)

 

Then, like in the far distance (more like a bedroom away), I could hear my sister shouting at her husband, “AYAN NA! PAPASOK NA ANG TUBIG!”

 

What the fuck is going on?

Then, like in a bad movie, just as I sat up in bed, my eternally-on TV went dead and my rusty electric fan stopped moving.

 

Then my sister, clearly harassed, knocked my door open and announced, so jologs-ly, I might add, “May bagyo, di ka makaka-alis.”

 

OK.

 

Then I consoled myself that tomorrow (which is today, Friday), everything will go back to normal and the typhoon will go away and that I will be able to go to POEA and fly to Dubai on Sunday as scheduled.

 

I spoke too soon.

 

I woke up today with the sound of what I imagined to be a battery-operated-AM-radio station, announcing that ALL government offices are still closed and won’t open until Monday.

 

So much for my optimism. I got up from my bed, resigned that I’d have to re-schedule my flight.

 

Then, like in Ground Hog Day, I heard my sister again screaming, this time, at her son, who apparently, was bitten by a stray dog.

 

And the hits just keep on coming.

 

It could be worse, I thought.

 

And boy was I right…

 

Facing myself in the bathroom mirror, I found two burgeoning, UGLY, zits on my chin and my nose.

 

I should put my foot where my mouth is.

be careful what you wish for...

i want this.

i've always wanted this.

for the longest time i've dreamed of going abroad to be a journalist.

and now, it's here.

today, my visa arrived.

woohoo, right?

... i didn't think having a dream come true could be this heart-breaking.

i met this guy...

Sunday night. 3^rd of September.

I had nothing better to do so I watched a movie with my friends.

It was ok. Loved the outfits. As always, Streep was fab.

Anyway, my beer-insatiable self was awake last night so we went to a nearby bar.

After a couple of beers, my friend’s boyfriend, who is also now my guy friend, calls up his other guy friend so I wouldn’t feel or look like a third wheel.

But I couldn’t care less. See, beer is my friend. So…

 

Then I saw him.

My guy friend’s guy friend.

God.

He’s freakin’ HOT.

 

It’s been a while since ahm, you know, and my hormones were like REALLY out of control.

Waiter, one more round of beer here please.

 

Whew.

It was really getting hot.

By this time, we’ve been introduced.

He shook my hand and flashed his Sam Milby-like-close-up-tv-commercial smile.

God.

I am such a sucker for men with nice teeth and boyish grin.

Damn he’s hot.

 

But I didn’t catch his name.

This band was playing and it was really noisy and shit.

 

But man, that smile.

 

His body was not that bad, too.

He was wearing a dark blue shirt that was “unintentionally” hugging his biceps.

And his chest is, uhm, let’s see here… oh, I got it, like Polo Ravales’.

There, a hot guy who looks like Sam Milby with Polo Ravales’ chest.

 

He’s hot, I’m telling you.

 

His hair is something Kayan of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy would style – it’s straight out of a freakin’ fashion magazine.

So, aside from being hot, the dude’s got style.

 

Shriek.

I am sooo dying here na! Down girl, down. I shushed myself.

 

Then he whispered, “Kanina pa kayo?”

I said, mustering normality, “Nah, just got here.”

Then I continued, “I didn’t catch your name…”

He said, almost nonchalantly, “Rap-Rap.”

 

WHAT?!

 

What kind of a MAN calls himself RAP-RAP?!

Rap-rap is… for dogs.

 

Oh no.

 

Not this one please.

 

God, no.

 

Alas, as the night wore on, he proved to be what I feared most – a ditz.

 

My dreamboat is a male Jessica Simpson.

An A-list ditz, who is cute and funny… and stupid.

 

God, you don’t really give it all, do yah?