JT in AD

Justin Timberlake in 36 days.
Here in UAE.
And I thought it's gonna be another boring Christmas in this part of the world.
I've been good. Santa loves me.

happy anniversary

Around this time last year, I was onboard the flight going to Dubai via Cathay Pacific.

 

Has it really been a year since the ‘airport scene’ when my classy and sassy friend Rod proved to be jologs when he sang Gary V’s Babalik Ka Rin in front of a multinational audience as a goodbye number for me?

 

Who woulda thunk it? I’m still here in Dubai!

 

Sluggish, restless and impatient as ever, but still, hey I’m thriving at kicking some Arab ass—correction: not just them Arabs, also Indians, Pakistanis, Russians, Germans, British, Koreans, Chinese, Africans… Americans? There are around 2 or 3 around Dubai.

 

See, 99 percent of the UAE are expatriates. Yes, UAE. Dubai is IN UAE. UAE is NOT Dubai. Dubai is only ONE of seven Emirates here. Yes, there ARE other Emirates. GOD made them. NOT the Sheikh. No pun intended.

 

Sorry, I’ve gone robot mode. I’m just sick and tired of explaining to people back home about Dubai… things like, it’s NOT a whole country per se, that it’s only about as big as Manila, that it’s not part of Saudi Arabia…

 

Anyway, see, I learned something about Geography! Anyone who knows me well would know that I care for Geography as much I care about, uhm, let’s see… a boxful of soiled toilet paper in the middle of the desert.

 

And this is only one of the several things I’ve come to discover here. Indeed, so many things have happened in a year!

 

Let’s see here a rough list: changed jobs (not too ordinary for fickle me), changed residence (three times!), changed hair color (but not Lindsay Lohan-frequent)…

 

I’ve discovered things about myself that I wouldn’t have contemplated on lest I’d be faced with truths, such as I am domesticated (HA!)—in terms of cooking, that is. I can actually prepare a decent meal—take your pick: Filipino, Chinese, Italian, American AND Arabic! Really, if someone had told me last year that he can see me cooking for a group of people, I would’ve laughed incredulously.

 

Not only that, I’ve learned to value my independence! Life has a way of happening when you find that you have to fend for yourself or die of hunger … or shabbiness. Having said that, I’ve come to appreciate that independence does not encompass the need for TRUE friends. I can’t imagine life here in Dubai without two of my bestest best friends. JJ: Jen and Jat.

 

Also, I’ve realized that silence is actually good. It is. And that silence is not only a by-product of mindless pigging out.

 

I also discovered that alcohol is alcohol and should NOT be taken in as water. Because of the scarcity of alcohol and the inconvenience of going to a bar before legally getting to drink beer, I’ve kicked the habit of binge-drinking like there’s no tomorrow.

 

I’ve always liked the fact that I come from an English-speaking race—but never realized its many advantages until I got here. I’ve discovered that Filipinos are smart, witty, humorous and very likeable compared to most people of other races—not because we are better than them, but because we are able to express what is in our minds. Filipinos communicate well. And I’m proud of that. I love it that I’m Filipino.

 

Being here in Dubai has taught me how the Philippines, even with its ‘third-world’ state, is very advanced in terms education. In the Philippines, courteousness is a norm—a reflection of higher education and good upbringing. Here, courteousness is a rarity and seen as a sign of weakness. For a place boasting of modernization, Dubai breeds a primitive lot of peoples with barbaric tendencies.

 

For all my years of complaining about having been born in the Philippines where the government is a joke and the weather is just a boring mix of rainy and sunny, I’ve realized how lucky I am not to have witnessed violence and bloodshed up-close—unlike most people here from other Arab countries. That the only thing I know of mass murders and bombs and beheadings are those from TV and Carlo J Caparas movies.

 

So, there. To sum it up, being here in Dubai has taught me a lot. I’m complaining less now about life and its intricacies. So, yes, I feel I’ve grown up a bit. Oh, and this thing with that Syrian guy? It has moved from being transitory to become a work in progress. But that’s another story. Let’s see till my 2^nd anniversary, perhaps?

a language thing

Perhaps it started when I was around 8 years old...

See, my father used to send tons of VHS tapes from the US of movies he recorded in HBO – yes, Tatay is the original pirate.

I remember one title vividly now as if reading it on the side of the tape, with Tatay’s neat hand-writing in blue square-tipped marker: Shinning Through.

I remember my siblings and I – all 6 of us – gathered around the balikbayan box, savoring the ‘smell of abroad, trapped inside’ the package, and laughing our asses off because of Tatay’s shenanigans.

“Diba Shining Through?” one of my sisters asked.

“Baka The Shinning!” another countered.

“Gago, The Shining yun!” another said.

“Meron bang word na ‘shinning’?” somebody asked.

And every time a box-full of goodies from Tatay would arrive, we would always poke around for the VHS tapes first – just for kicks, I suppose.

Another sample title: Nightmare on St. Elmo’s Street.

You get my point, right? Jimmy Santos step aside.

Oh, but I love my Tatay so!

I never did care that he couldn’t spell. Or couldn’t get movie titles right.

More than the language thing, it’s a heart thing.

L-O-V-E is never spelled with words, really.

It’s beyond grammar.

Still, I grew conscious of the ‘significance’ of language skill.

English language skill, that is.

Communication and communicating well became my thing.

I believe I was the youngest proofreader.

Yes, shallow as it may seem, growing up, I’ve frowned at ‘potential’ crushes, or boyfriends who did not have a good grasp of the English language.

I would always prefer an ‘Inglesero.’

It’s top three on my list of ‘must-haves in a guy’ – just after ‘good teeth and ‘nice breath’ (synonymous, in my book); and ‘nice eyes.’

And now, as if fate is taunting me, I’m dating a guy who doesn’t know the difference between ‘P’ and ‘B’.

He doesn’t recognize ‘P’. Beriod.

And as much as he acknowledges that the English language is important, especially in an international commercial hub like Dubai, it doesn’t acknowledge him back.

The Syrian guy is worse than Jimmy Santos.

And being part of a race that places too high a regard on ‘speaking correct English,’ I don’t take it too well that my so-called boyfriend has ELDS (English Language Deficiency Syndrome).

“Can you carry these for me, please?” I asked him one time, handing out paper bags to him.

“Of course, habibi, I care for you!”

“I said CARRY – what the fuck are you talking about?!”

“Oh, ok.”

I’m such an ass.

After looking at his face, all red and mortified, I wanted to kick myself.

The man just said he cares for me, and sincerely so, too, and what do I do?

Shout and say ‘fuck’.

Nice going.

But more than anything, I felt like a fool.

When did I ever equate having correct grammar to being intellectual?

And every day, I’m astounded at how much I don’t know about the world.

And I learn it all from him – the Syrian guy who speaks worse English than Jimmy Santos.

When did I become such a snob?

Then I recall all those times I laughed at Melanie Marquez, Erap, and basically anybody who fumbles at speaking English, and think – oh, who am I kidding? – it still sounds funny!

“Habibi, sometimes you are ‘nose up’.”

This, after I laughed so hard when he told me I’m beautiful…

Especially now that my hair “is growing up.”

But no longer do I think I’m better.

Or smarter.

Because I’m SO not.

“I deduct this song to you, Lachelle.”

How sweet.

I wonder if it will come out in my pay slip.

The root of all things nice

I led a boring childhood – because it was a happy one.

Nothing tragic happened except for the time when one of my sisters dropped me face down on pure, concrete, jagged flooring when I was a few months old.

That tragedy bore two bumps on my forehead, which, if you look closely, appear to be where the mythical she-devil horns come out.

Thankfully, these bumps are only obvious when I frown – which unfortunately, and ironically enough, is my default face.

 

But, really, I was a happy kid.

Not that I resent it.

It’s just not too good a background to use as material for a teenage-writer-wanna-be.

 

Then I grew aware of the people around me apart from my family, and realized I was lucky.

Darn it!

Happy and lucky – how do you suppose I could win a Palanca now when I don’t have even one dysfunctional component in the foundation of my being?!

Where do you heave the emotion, the angst, the passion?

I was doomed.

 

I’m the youngest of six siblings.

The eldest was 17 when I was born.

And the youngest, up until I came, was 9.

Oh, yes, I was an accident.

 

Be that as it may, I was loved.

Ew.

Really, I had no chance on drama from the start.

 

Blame it on my Mother.

 

She is generosity personified.

She makes upright hip.

She is witty enough to laugh at her mistakes, but is decent enough not to laugh at others’.

She is strong-willed, but has the softest of hearts.

She upholds smarts, but applauds integrity.

And above all, she makes love come easy.

 

And we – my Father, my siblings, and I – are just prototypes of her character.

Or we try to be.

See, she is the root of all things nice.

And her essence ties the whole family into one big… happy thought.

 

SHE is my ultimate happy thought.

 

And today is her birthday.

If it weren’t for her I wouldn’t be what I am now – a pseudo Drama Queen with no real childhood-related tragedy in her portfolio… and I can’t thank her enough.

 

So, cheers, Nanay.

Here’s to the celebration of your eternal kindness and wisdom.

I would be happy (and lucky) to become even half of the person that you are.

Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem

By Dr. Maya Angelou

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes
And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.
Flood waters await us in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche
Over unprotected villages.
The sky slips low and grey and threatening.

We question ourselves.
What have we done to so affront nature?
We worry God.
Are you there? Are you there really?
Does the covenant you made with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters,
Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope
And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air.
The world is encouraged to come away from rancor,
Come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season.
Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner.
Flood waters recede into memory.
Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us
As we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children
It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.
Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,
Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We hear a sweetness.
The word is Peace.
It is loud now. It is louder.
Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence.
It is what we have hungered for.
Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas.
We beckon this good season to wait a while with us.
We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come.
Peace.
Come and fill us and our world with your majesty.
We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian,
Implore you, to stay a while with us.
So we may learn by your shimmering light
How to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.

On this platform of peace, we can create a language
To translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.

At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ
Into the great religions of the world.
We jubilate the precious advent of trust.
We shout with glorious tongues at the coming of hope.
All the earth's tribes loosen their voices
To celebrate the promise of Peace.

We, Angels and Mortal's, Believers and Non-Believers,
Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at our world and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves
And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation.

Peace, My Brother.
Peace, My Sister.
Peace, My Soul.

transitory – NOT a business article

Dubai is THE global logistics hub.

Because raw materials, manufacturing and production of goods are now all basically done in the Far East, particularly in China, the need for a link in the global supply chain is inevitable.

And because of its strategic location, Middle East is it.

Its greater region includes, Sub Continent India, Africa, South East Asia, and the many states of CIS, among others.

Why Dubai?

Its government is wise.

Free Zones proliferate the city like mushrooms.

A free zone is where a company can put up business with 100 per cent exemption charges on corporate tax, import and export tax, personal income tax and commercial levies. Apart from these tax incentives, operating within a free zone means 100 per cent foreign company ownership and 100 per cent repatriation of capital and profits.

Nice, no?

The most popular of free zones are those that deal with cargo, like Dubai Airport Free Zone Authority, Jebel Ali Free Zone Authority and the most-anticipated, Dubai World Central.

These are airports and seaports.

Remember those goods from China?

They are transported here, in Dubai, where there are companies within the free zones that take care of the warehousing, packing, kitting, and ultimately the distribution process of the products to the global market, including Europe and some parts of the US.

And because of the qualities of a free zone, there’s a substantial reduction in cost for businesses, as movement of goods is made more convenient, easier and faster.

And we’re just talking about cargo here.

What about manpower?

There’s a particular free zone for every kind of business imaginable.

Media City (media companies), Internet City (computer and the like), Knowledge Village (universities and colleges), Dubai Outsource Zone (call centers and such), etc etc.

So, imagine the flock of people around the world going here for employment.

And Dubai as a tourist spot is not so bad, too.

The beaches are incredible. The hotels are superb.

Clubs are awesome.

And the SHOPPING.

Now don’t get me started on that one.

I’m just saying European and Chinese businessmen are on a ‘free-trade’ agreement with the UAE government.

So, hello clothes, shoes, accessories everywhere.

Have you heard of Dubai Shopping Festival?

Slashed prices up to 70 per cent off on designer brands.

Enough said.

So, really, this city is ALIVE, man.

Everyone wants to be here.

But as much as everyone IS here, no one really ever is, ultimately.

Dubai is a breathing, throbbing business hub.

But the key value proposition of a hub is a pass-through business.

And because the supply chain demand is ever changing, which is the driving force of businesses here in Dubai, everything else is transient.

So when a Syrian guy asks you out on a date and together you spend wonderful times being ‘so different, yet so alike’ – put through your thick head that ‘this feeling’ is transitory.

And after spending amazing walks along the beach, romantic dates and endless talks, he will soon realize that ‘you’re a strong, smart woman who has her goals straight and her direction set.’

Sure, he ‘likes you so much.’

But his family expects him to marry ‘only an Arab woman.’

Transitory. Transient. Temporary.

Say it like a chant in your head.

No wonder house and car mortgages here are really affordable but leases are ridiculously high.

Everyone just passes through.

No one really stays.

Long-term investments are not wise.

Especially those that are emotions-related.

So, smile, shrug, and thank God he’s decent enough to have knocked some sense into your head early on in the ‘relationship.’

Shukran, habibi, hod balak.

And goodbye.

Because, see, Dubai is a transit.

And ‘you and me,’ like everything else, is transitory.

First day high

I cried the minute I saw my friend Jat at the Dubai Airport. God, I was sooo happy to see her. She was too, but had a unique way of showing it.

 

“Tangina bakla mukha kang ginahasa! (Fuck, bitch, you look like you were just raped!)” Then she hugged me tight, and mumbled something about missing me so much.

 

And so we arrived at the flat in Sharjah. See, the house is Jen’s – another friend who at that time was still back home for a vacation. So Tin, Jen’s flatmate, was the one who welcomed us. Jat – no she doesn’t live there, she also just crashes in because her own space is too crowded on account of her shoes.

 

So, anyway, I brought with me Jose – straight out of DDF (Dubai Duty Free). And you know my relationship with Jose, right? I haven’t, up to this day, conquered this fine Mexican creation. But I went ahead and devoured him anyway – all 1 liter of him. I talking senseless Arabic by the time I went to bed. This was around 3am (7am, Manila time).

 

The next day I smelt of tequila and cigarettes but had to go to work to acquaint myself with my new environment and meet my new boss (who from now on I shall refer to as Mr. E).

 

“Hurry up male-late ka!” I heard Jat shouting from outside the bathroom.

“UWAK…” I hugged the toilet bowl as if it was my bestest best friend in the whole world.

 

By 8 am (12 nn back home), with my body screaming SLEEP, Jat and I set off to find my new office.

 

Sharjah is around 20 minutes away from Deira, Dubai (my workplace), but with traffic, it’s best to allot an hour for travel.

 

My insides weren’t helping; I was all jittery and dizzy. Intoxication, coupled with headache and anxiety, and any drunk would know this, is just.plain.bad man. Then add the crazy roads of Sharjah, with all its bends (think Baguio), and the pungent smell of the whole bus. Gawd, what the fuck am I doin’ here???

 

“Jat, nasusuka ko…” (Jat, I’m about to puke…)

Jat, who was sound asleep, said: “Ay, putangina mo!” (Oh, sonofabitch!)

 

“Fuck, it’s Ramadan, you can’t eat or drink in public! And I don’t have candy. Shit. Shit. Wala kong plastic. San ka susuka?!!!!” (Now, where will you puke, I don’t even have a plastic bag?!!!!)

“UWAK…” Argh, my mouth tasted vile!

“Putangina!!!”

 

Jat then threw the contents of her bag on her lap and shoved the empty container in my face.

 

“I can’t. It’s your favorite bag.”

“Shut up and hurl!”

 

“UWAK…” nothing. Everything just seemed clogged in my throat. It was disgusting. “I need fresh air, Jat…”

“Putangina ka talaga, Leng-Leng ka, pabigat ka sa buhay kong hayup ka!!!” (#$%^&*$%^&#&@!*T&WE^QR%$#@%^%!!!)

 

“My friend,” I said to the driver, “Stop the bus now. Please.”

“Yallah (or something) parrrking is not yet!” pointing angrily that the next stop was few more blocks away.

 

I was cold and sweating profusely by the time Jat and I got off the bus. Then… pooooofffffft. Yep, I farted – a big, repulsive, skin-sticking stinky fart.

 

Jat, whose eyes are normally round, looked like her eyes would pop out when she did a double take and stared at me disbelievingly. She then opened her mouth to say something (to curse me probably), but coughed uncontrollably when she actually GULPED (and tasted possibly) my fart.

 

HAHAHAHA

“Hayup ka! AMABAHO pukingna ka!!!”

 

Just a then a cute Pinoy was walking toward our direction. “Yuck, JAT, kadiri ka! Ambaho ng utot mo!” (Yuck, JAT, how dare you fart in the streets?! So gross!)

 

Jat, who was busy coughing and shooing away polluted air, could not do anything but look at me with loathing eyes.

 

I smiled at the cute Pinoy apologetically. “Pasensya ka na ha? Baboy kase yang babae na yan eh.” (Sorry, but, see, my friend is really vile.) He smiled back but pretended to gag at the stench. Or that wasn’t pretend? Whatever.

 

Anyway, when we got in a cab, it was Jat’s turn to laugh.

 

“You do gym ha?” said the cab driver, looking at me in the mirror.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“You, instructor? Big muscles ha?” He continued, holding his biceps for effect.

“What the fuck?!” I shouted. “tangina mo, anong ibig mong sabihin, ha?” (Fuck you, what’s that supposed to mean?)

 

Jat, as if on cue, burst out laughing. “Waaahhhh, gym instructor ka daw!” NYAHAHAHAHA

“Shut up!” I slapped her on the arm.

 

“No, please, don’t angry! I’m like… I’m like muscles,” explained the driver.

“Pukingina ka, wala kong pakelam kung ano gusto mo, hayup!” (Fuck you, I don’t care what you do or don’t like!)

“No, really, I like Filipinis – they are kind and clean.”

Jat laughed some more – holding her chest like she was going to die or something.

Despite myself, I joined in.

 

When we got to my office, it was past 10am – I was more than an hour late.

“Hi, it is nice to finally meet you Lachelle,” said Mr. E, my new boss.

“Hello, same here… May I use the bathroom,” I said stupidly.

Pause.

“No, you may not… you’re not an official employee here yet. You haven’t signed the necessary papers.”

Pause.

I looked at him incredulously. Then he smiled.

I breathed a sigh of relief. He was joking!

I liked him already.

 

He must have realized I was in no shape to work because he shooed me away after a few minutes of the must-have-first-day-at-work talk.

When I got to the reception area to meet up with Jat (she waited because she was sure I was going to be sent home anyway); the Filipina receptionist said: “Siguro girlfriend ka ng Editor mo noh? Imagine, imported ka from Pinas! Ikaw lang ang binigyan ng employment visa sa lahat ng Pinoy dito! At sagot pa nila ticket mo! Ang lakas mo ah!” (You must be the girlfriend of the Editor to be hired straight from the Philippine. You’re the only Filipino here who was given employment visa; plus they even paid for your ticket! You must have connections huh?)

 

I looked at her with disgust. I said, “Oh, so you’re one of them typical crab-like ones huh?”

She looked at me blankly. Go figure.

 

On the way home, the cab driver kept looking at me from mirror.

“Jat, ano problema nyang hindot nay an?!” (What’s this dickhead’s problem?)

Jat said, with a knowing smile: “Type ka nyan, bakla.” (He likes you.)

 

When we were about to get down from the cab, I said, “keep the change.”

He faced me and took hold of my hand, and said, while blushing, “No, please, no pay.”

I snatched my hand away and shouted, “Oh, fuck you, just take the freaking money!”

 

Fuckin’ perv. PAKSHET.

the airport scene

I hate going to the airport – it has always meant someone I love would be leaving me. At 4^th grade, my brother left for Riyadh. At 14, my sister left for the States. Soon, my parents followed suit. Then my other brother went to Japan. Then my other sister left for Saudi Arabia… and each time I’d tag along to the airport, as I waved goodbye and shouted out my endless wish list, I really believed I’d die crying…

 

Obviously, I lived to experience being the traveler. My sister, brother-in-law and their 2 children, Nico and Nica; plus my friends Sheila, Rod, Budoy and her husband Reggie took me to the airport. Oh, I was raring to cry like anything, I'm telling you – that is, until Rod decided to do a Gary V.

 

He, of the posh Ballestra clan who is friends with the Marcoses (yes, Borgy), decided to SING the old, pathetically ridiculous OFW song, "Babalik Ka Rin." Not only did he sing in front of the multitude of Koreans, Thais and Pinoys at the airport that day, he also did a DANCE number as he sang. A Filipiniana dance number at that, mind you.

 

So, needless to say, I, together with the airport audience, laughed so hard that I forgot I was actually leaving and won’t be seeing them for years.

 

This is why I love my friends – for stepping in when I’m about to screw up… or something. And so Rod saved me from ruining my make-up by making a total fool of himself… I just love him.

 

Then I checked in my luggage – I knew security was going to be tight – but I didn't think my belt would be so much tighter. As if playing a character in a slapstick movie by Tito, Vic and Joey, I couldn't get my freakin' belt off of its loop!

 

"Ma'am paki dalian po, may pila na."

"Wait lang, I can't take this thing off!" I said, while yanking at the freakin' belt.

 

After an American guy loudly cleared his throat and some Taiwanese woman snickered, I finally got the belt off.

 

"Ayan pukingina." Throwing the belt and swearing like a sailor.

 

Of course, the same thing happened at the Hong Kong Airport.

 

“Ma’am, you don’t have to take off the whole thing, just the buckle,” said the guy at the X-ray thingy.

The buckle, by the way, is a HUGE silver flower. Think Kamiseta – the old logo. But bigger. MUCH bigger.

 

And so I did as he suggested… to no avail, of course.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Biting my lower lip and wishing for the ground to open up and eat me.

 

After 10 million minutes, and several muted chuckles from behind the line, I was able to take off the cursed belt.

 

Fearing the same embarrassing nightmare would happen at the Dubai Airport, I decided not to wear the belt anymore and thought of creative ways on how to smash the damn thing to smithereens.

 

Tugging at my dropping pants, and limping with my 40-kilo luggage, I arrived at the Dubai International Airport, Oct 4, 830 pm (12:30 am, Oct 5, Manila time).

 

I stepped out of the plane and, GAWD – the heat and the stench – oh my, it was awful! And because the airport is humongous, I had to take an Indian-and-Pakistan-full of bus up to the front gates. And boy, was it hot… Like the air was coming out of an exhaust fan.

 

And so there I was, the modern Filipino hero, ready to take on the Arab world – with armpits wet, hair oiled with sweat, and panties showing… and I’ve never felt (and looked) so ‘IN.’

 

Saan ka man naroroon ngayon, Saudi, Japan o HongKong; Babalik ka rin, babalik ka rin, babalik ka rin. Ano mang layo ang narating, Singapore, Australia Europe o Amerika; babalik at babalik ka rin. 

 

Putangnang kanta yan.

The Dubai Chronicles: First Semester

So, my Multiply site is blocked. Welcome to the Arab world, LoLa…

 

Good thing I can still post blogs – I just can’t change details in my profile. How odd. Then again, so is everything else here…

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?