I'm gaining weight as I speak.
Oh well. At least I'm not hungry. And that all-cheese pizza was worth every pounds I gained.
N still thinks I look great. I guess that's all that matters.
I'm gaining weight as I speak.
Oh well. At least I'm not hungry. And that all-cheese pizza was worth every pounds I gained.
N still thinks I look great. I guess that's all that matters.
Cutie-cute-cute 
I'm physically well, i got my voice back, and I'm noticeably thinner. So why am i complaining?
After a gruelling week of 40-degree fevers, mid-day chills and a hellish sore throat, i'm finally, FINALLY, up on my toes once more. The best thing about being bed ridden for a week is that you turn out looking as though you just had the best diet ever. My tummy bulges have considerably shrunk. I no longer find the need to hold my breath when i'm wearing fitted blouses. I don't have to 'battle it out' when putting on jeans, and my legs are looking shapely again -- plus, i no longer cringe when i try on my two-piece swim suit. From 118, i'm down to 110. People comment on how i look -- "Hey, you look great! Did you lose weight?" Of course, i gloat on the praises, I was in bed for 7 days for crying out loud! Watching reality TV reruns and Friends dubbed in Arabic!
BUT... the price for my vanity is, i'm still hungry. My stomach is grumbling for real food and i know it's had enough of yogurts, fresh fruits and water. I know i should be proud of myself since i'm living a much healthier lifestyle, but i crave for ice cream, for cake, for balut, for crispy pata, for anything which comes dripping in oil, grease and sugar -- for Coke, oh lord, for Coke. I miss how it stings my throat once i gulp down its fizzy goodness.
So this is how I am for the meantime -- looking better, but starving.
Well what can I say, beauty doesn't come without a price.
Now I'm not so sure if I really feel better. 
"And God said, 'Let there be light' and behold... there was light..."
Uhuh. Then God said again, "Let Techie's voice return, only, don't make it sound too cute instantly the way it used to, so she won't take advantage and burn the phonelines once more. You know what? She's been extra-good, let her Incubus interview be moved this Thursday night so she could get more rest. (to Techie) -- You owe me big time daughter (
)"
You're right Mictlan, there really are miracles.
Hallelujah.
Oooooohhh boy do i have a problem.
My tonsilitis have gotten for the worse. My mouth is literally clamped shut most of the time since it's too painful to open. I'm perpetually hungry these past days (not being able to take anything more than soup and juice), and i'm thirsty, thirsty for coke, which i shamefully admit is my ultimate addiction.
And the worst part is that i can't speak! I've been trying to get by at home using sign language and a pad and pen my sister gave me to use. The moment i try to utter something, it comes out in garbled noises, like i was speaking through a can with my nose pinched and my hand over my mouth. It's awful, awful, AWFUL!
And now i have another problem. I'll be interviewing Incubus tomorrow night in time for their concert in our country this march. No, trying to find a way to let them understand what i'll be saying ain't my lone dilemma, another problem is that the interview will be done on air -- over NU 107, just the coolest radio station ever -- and thousands, or millions (?!) will be listening to my nasal cancan dialogue!
Oh, Earth swallow me now.
My God I'm sickly.
A day after i've finally declared i feel fine, i wake-up at 4 in the morning with yet another burning fever. So i woke my dad and asked him to bring me to the hospital. When i got there, the doctor on duty did a short examination, stopping short when he looked at my throat and uttered a very knowledgeable "uh-huh." Afterwhich, he asked one of the nurse to get a sample of me blood to give to laboratory.
When the nurse came in my cubicle with her needle, i almost fainted. I abhor needles. And i hate blood the more. I guess that's why i took journalism instead of a more lucrative science course like nursing or medicine. Anyway, about an hour and a half later, the doctor came back and said, "you have tonsilitis."
me: excuse me?
doc: you have tonsilitis
me: but only kids have them
doc: well you have them. Your glands are pretty swollen right now, don't you feel it?
me: yeah, well it is quite difficult to swallow and talk, i thought i only had a mild sore throat or something...
doc: nope they're tonsilitis
me: but it's Valentines Day!
At this point, the doctor silently chuckled his way out of my cubicle to give me a prescription. And i just sat there not believing that i got back my old ailment when i was in gradeschool, and back then, i knew how i got it -- too much ice cream, ice pops, soda, and all things sweet and cold. But now, it just seemed silly that I'm stuck with the disease -- in Valentines Day at that!
I was released at 9am and the doctor told me to drink three kinds of medicine, plus gargle with a special kind of solution which tastes sooo awful that i puke everytime i use it. There were also no colds and sweets for me -- not that it mattered though coz at that time my throat felt like it was in flames and that i was choking since it got really swollen. I couldn't even properly drink soup!
So there i was the whole day -- cold, feverish, hungry, and thirsty for anything liquid. It was such a heartbreak knowing that N and i can't have our second Valentines date. But he did promise me that we'll have a belated Happy Valentines Day Date.
And for the first time that day, i actually felt better.
****
To N,
Since i couldn't give you a V-gift face to face (Lord knows i'm contagious), I'm giving you a peek of what you'll get for that Belated Happy Valentines Day Date. It's focused on the hand, but you get everything else that's not in the picture.
My heart.
I love you sweetie, Valentines Day and forever.
I've been sick again for three days. I'm not really sure what i had since i wasn't paying attention to what the doctor said (i was too busy convulsing from fever), but i think my illness got something to do with weak lungs. Well what can i say, i picked the best time to quit smoking 
So I spent the whole week at home watching TV, reading blogs, and finishing bowls and bowls of chicken soup. I feel much better now, and i sure do miss the hustle and bustle of the press area, and N. Anyway, i think i've watched too many Blue's Clues and reality TV shows so i'm planning to visit my favorite salon later to have a hair spa, so i'm hoping this will be a good day.
My old maid godmothers visited me yesterday and it's always a riot when they visit. They brought me boxes of cakes which i was more than willing to serve to them, but instead, they opted that i prepare rice and fried dried squid. When the two were settled at the dining table they wasted no time discussing their favorite topic -- my love life. Now i have to tell you all that only my brother, sister and cousins know that i have a boyfriend. I think my folks have a clue but they don't probe and well, i'm just not comfortable discussing this very personal part of my life with my parents right now. It's a family thing, so it's just too complicated to explain. But i'm planning on introducing N very soon.
Anyway, i know just how much my godmothers love to snitch info to my dad so i played it cool when they asked if i already have a boyfriend.
old maid godmother #1: So, who's the lucky guy?
me: (feigning innocence): what guy?
old maid godmother#2: a boyfriend of course!
me: (trying to hide grin) no boyfriend.
OMGM#1: But you're 22!
me: (amused) so?
OMGM#2: You should have a boyfriend by now, why, in my days, we have kids by 18!
me: That's barbaric! Besides, you didn't have a kid when you were 18
OMGM#2: Yes, well i was... picky.
me: picky?
OMGM#2: Well i wanted someone who looked exactly like Sean Connery.
OMGM#1: Uhuh, and look where you are now
OMGM#2: Look who's talking! What about you?
OMGM#1: At least i'm happy!
OMGM#2: Who said i wasn't happy?
me: (laughing) girls, girls, come on, cool down. Let's stop talking about love lives.
OMGM#2: Ok. So, rainne, describe your dream guy
OMGM#1: Oh brother
me: (thinking of N) well, he has to be at least 6ft tall, dark, broodingly handsome, sweet, understanding, and can put-up with my mood swings. Especially during my period and when i go shopping.
OMGM#1: (with real concern in her eyes) Dear, you'll be an old maid like us.
Well i wanted to tell them then and there not to worry coz i already found my dream guy (they were really such sweet girls), but like what i said earlier, it just isn't the right time.
****
To N,
Sweetie, i know you'd rather stay home than celebrate what you call 'the commercial holiday that is valentines', but in case you change your mind, flowers would be great. I love You. Even without the flowers. Really.
What’s you’re end of the world?
I was in a 3-day coverage to Zambales, one of the most hidden provinces I’ve been through wherein I had to take a 6-hour land trip to reach our destination. The assignment was simple enough – make a feature story of a corporation that makes novelty items out of rocks, the same ones you see in mountainsides and are usually dangerous especially during landslides. We then get to stay in beach resort and stuff ourselves silly with the best mangoes in the country – plump, juicy, and amazingly sweet. And work on my tan, of course.
Since it was a pretty remote town, I simply spent the first night in the hotel, listening to old talk from old people who reminisced on the stars who were able to stay in their rooms like Francis Ford Copola, Elizabeth Taylor, Charlie Sheen, Imelda Marcos and Joseph Estrada. It was pretty cool to know that you might actually be sleeping in the same bed where the director of Apocalypse Now used to stay.
Then their conversation turned to politics, on how in our coming presidential elections, the leading contender is an old actor made famous for his role as a mystical sword smith, or panday, and that he has no experience whatsoever when it comes to politics – and that his only strength is that he’s honest – which of course, he can apply once he gets a seat in our filth-infested government. *Snort*
It also doesn’t help that he’s a high school dropout, and knows zilch about the Philippine economy. But people in the slums are being charmed by his humble aura, and they don’t really care if he turns out to be another duffus in the government. For them, he’s their deliverance and come rain or storm, they’ll jot down his name on the voting ballots.
But I don’t really wanna talk about this supposed future president (God help our country), no. I want to talk about Zambales – its buried beauty and tragic past. You see, 12 years ago, the whole town was devastated by the sudden eruption of Mt. Pinatubo, a volcano, which last erupted 300 years ago. The volcanic blast came hand in hand with a freak storm, so the lava combined with water and instead of molted rocks burying most of the cities at the foot of the mountain, what came down was lahar, or volcanic ash and flood combined.
For ten days, Zambales was plagued by the gray death, covering two-story houses, killing rice fields, animals, people…
The lahar filled-up rivers, lakes and vast lands. It literally, wiped Zambales out of the map. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part was fear. For ten days, the skies were covered with the ashes blown away from the volcano’s crater. At high noon, the outdoors were so dark, you won’t be able to see your shadow, and the people had to go out to shovel the ash and sand which settled on their rooftops, or else they risk the weight which might cause their houses to fall. I remembered when I was back in the city during that time, I went out at night and noticed that I kept on getting something in my eyes. When I woke-up the next day, my whole street was covered in fine gray dust, and all the plants in my garden died during the night.
“For ten days, we witnessed the end of the world as it is” the resort’s owner silently remembered.
The next day, we took a short trip to the mountains, and for the first time, I saw the full extent of the damage brought about by Mt. Pinatubo – my eyes couldn’t even see where the gray terrain ends. Everything was covered in ash. Yes, 12 years after the mountain unleashed its anger.
Then I got to witness a very simple cultural show of Zambales’ native mountain people, the aetas. They were the most shattered victims of the mountain since they themselves used to dwell there. They offered an old warrior’s dance, which is said to appease the God of Pinatubo. One of the dancers was a very frail old woman, I think she was about 90 years old or a hundred, I couldn’t really tell. But her spirit was alive and it shook her body in unmatched vigor.
After the performance, I looked at the old lady and noticed her back was turned against me. When I walked around to face her, I noticed that silent tears were flowing down her sun-battered cheeks. Then she looked at me and spoke in a dialect that I couldn’t begin to understand. I looked at the local who understood her tongue and asked what she said.
“May you never see the end like I did. Your eyes were born to look at beauty, not the rage of the mountain.”
The pain brought about by the volcano is so raw, I saw the lahar through her tears. I took out my handkerchief, left it for the old woman to use, and walked away thinking that indeed, in one way or another, I’m still way lucky than the rest of the world.
Zambales Ash Desert
Warrior Dance
I found Nemo in Palawan
Ummmmmm....
Well, i just came back from a 3-day vacation/ work in one of the northern provinces in my country. I had to cover a corporation which makes different kinds of ornaments from big boulders of rocks which you often see blocking the road. It's a wonder how they turn out into lovely marble-like clocks, candleholders, plates, vase, jewelries, and a whole lot more. In exchange, the media people -- which includes me, were treated to one of their best beach resorts, and i just have to say it was indeed a glorious and most satisfying feeling to work on your tan knowing you're getting paid on the process (see the contented ummmm and smiley above).
Anyway, i missed blogging so here's my blog roll...
ex_groupie: Try photobucket for your pic. Sorry I was in Zambales when you texted.
Harriene & andromeda: Yup, that's me on the picture. It was taken about three months ago when i covered this very posh nail spa. We needed a model for the shoot so two of us posed, on account that i was brave enough to have my nail painted fire engine red, and to think that i got really short nails. We thought it was very striking and decided the color would come out even if the pictures of my hands and toe nails would be taken at a very far angle. Well, i felt very vampy with red nails (although i think my feet look pretty big), so what the heck -- i agreed to model, as long as I don't show my face. Hence, the pillow. 
Stonyblue: Hey, sorry, it was the blurty which registered on my mind. I was actually thanking you! Thanks again.
Mick & Harriene: Haha. Well, i was really eager to get to know 11 more than his usual "11's". Seems my plan is working. No, we're not blog married. Yet. Unless 11 is actually a girl... oh dear.
11: 11
Eheheheheheh...
I finally posted a picture! Techieidiot is on a roll.
Thanks Blurty!
I stumbled upon this old article by a friend who i believe is one of the sleaziest, but best writers in our publication -- he's also very much underrated. He might claim this as copywrited material but hell, i'll just treat him to a dish of sushi.
To niel: I think i'm doing you a favor man, if the company can't recognize your flair for writing, then let the world be your audience. I'm one of your biggest fans. I just hope you won't be able to read this, coz i know i won't be able to hear the end of it.
Niel's Article:
We’re going for the age-old question.
"What is the meaning of life?" "Where is the smoke on the water?" "What chord was it that George Harrison strummed at the beginning of A Hard Day’s Night?’" "Assuming that we’re rational Christians, did Buddha or the personalities of other religions made it to Heaven?" "Is it morally correct to think that we humans are the only intelligent life-form across the universe?" "Where is the ham in hamburgers?"
Sure, they were candidates and, although they are worthy of serious pondering, this we ask ourselves, "Will it sell?"
Well, perhaps so… But it won’t rake in as much as "sex," and maybe "drugs," and maybe a little bit of "rock n’ roll" and a bowl full of "decadence." And nothing, nothing ever rocked the scandals charts for ages as sex did.
And, sure we’ve heard all about where the G-spot is or the things that turn women on, but we first need to get under her pants. And just how do we do that? Do we have to go through all the BS motions or do we simply have to ask if she’s interested?
So, the question is, "Is it perfectly fine to ask a girl straight-up if she’s apt for sex?"
While we’re pretty sure that more eyebrows than skirts will be raised, pursuing the saucy, insolent even, yet practical idea without a soaring talent for diligent inquiry nor commanding determination to develop it into a working concept is just, well, fun.
In all that follows, this endeavor may very well counteract all our fervent fondness to a very interesting art: The Pick-up Lines. But that’s another sorry story.
Okay, is it perfectly fine to just go up to somebody and ask if they’d like to do some groping and humpin’?
Generally, a lot of women say it’ll probably annoy them but it’s because of the seeming impudence that comes with the question. It won’t necessarily make them feel like they were treated like sluts.
The more liberal kind says it’s okay and that it’s even flattering, however, they always prefer a more favorable time and place. The mall, the bus stop, or the barangay hall would be pushing it a bit far, spooky even.
But, say, you’re in a club, in your party clothes (then you’re fair game, I’m sorry), and some semi-attractive guy comes up to you and just ask you if you’re willing. How offensive is it? Would you feel debased in any way? Wouldn’t you be flattered that someone found you appealing enough and mustered ample guts just to invite you?
We’re not saying it only applies to attractive individuals however, let’s face it, it may be superficial but there’s a whole lot of us who judge by the cover and people react more positively to the more appealing. (We’re sure some of you are familiar with those Jack Nicholson lines in that movie he starred in opposite Michelle Pfeiffer. It’s "Wolf," I find. He said something like, even though Michelle would like men to see through her and not just take her by looks alone it won’t happen. The only reason men would bother to look past the physical is because she’s beautiful.)
It is also true that the more intelligent a woman is, the higher her level of transcendence is, and the more she’ll be tolerant, at least, to this kind of stuff. It is, in some way - however perverse - a compliment to your smarts.
Oh, please? Spare you? Sexist pig?
Before dissing this article as another self-serving, just- to-reel-you-in testo-fest and before we get way over our heads with this, we’re not trying to pull a stunt like that of the men who invented "feminism." (Essentially, the concept of feminism liberalized and empowered women to take over their lives and make decisions for themselves. Consequently, SOME of them developed the idea that they too can sleep around.) Remember that when confronted with this kind of question, you don’t have to say, "yes."
Now, it’s all in your hands. Suddenly the question has mutated into, "Can the male ego handle it?"
And most guys who’d do this sort of thing are ready for almost any kind of reaction. With a rejection, they’ll probably just brush it off and say, "Just kidding. Ease up. Here, have a smoke." Albeit it’s true that they’re half-joking, it is also true that, OFTEN (feel the capital letters and the italics, please), men do that hoping to really get laid.
Women also acknowledge the fact that there are really a few men who can cough it up quite right. The few who can get away with it without sounding disgustingly sleazy. Perhaps, it’s because with them, the 50 percent "just kidding" component comes in first before the malicious half. And they’re not really that dead-on in pursuing the sex part. Some do it for the sheer thrill of asking while some use the high-risk line to break the ice. And the rest ask just to feed their egos. Some of us are just that shallow and pathological. Our egos are in constant need of affirmation (It’s a phase that happens to almost everyone.)
For certain men, the I–can-if-I-want-to feeling is enough. There’s another breed of the male ego and it’s totally the thing that makes women wanna throw-up: the kiss-and-tell, I’ve-got-your-number,-girl type.
Whatever the case, and considering our deeply imbedded Filipino values (crab-mentality, regionalism, crab-mentality, crab-mentality… just kidding), it’s just talk. An invitation to have a mutual good time. At least, we’re all spared of the games – the flowers, the text messages, the chocolates…
Still and all, be gentle we should. You know that song "Just Like A Woman" by Bob Dylan? It’s one of my favorite songs.
The object of this whole endeavor is to simply cut the bull in the things we do so we can devote our time to more pressing matters.
The meaning of life we leave for armchair existentialists to ponder. Buddha’s in Nirvana, Jesus is in Heaven, and the others created their own (apparently all the love, kindness, wisdom, and ego cannot be accommodated by one Heaven), happy now? Who cares what chord it was, at least George Harrison didn’t die choking in his own vomit like Jimi Hendrix or Led Zeppelin’s drummer, John Bonham. It is never moral to conclude on things you’re never sure of. And, too much mayonnaise never fails to make any burger a ham.
I smoke. But I’m more of a social smoker than a habitual one. Still, lately, I noticed I’ve been lighting-up sticks more than the usual. Should I be alarmed? I didn’t really give it that much thought. We choose our own cancer after all.
But last night, when I went out the house for the nth time to have a smoke, I was suddenly overcome by a strong urge to consider my alarmingly aggravating vice.
I was enjoying my strawberry flavored cigs (DJ MIX – also in lemon and mint) when I took notice of my shadow. I got an impulsive urge to be vain and did shadow tracing – admiring my profile while I trail the outline of my silhouette using my finger (damn that sounded so lame). Looking closely at my dark image, I noticed the smoke from my puffs weren’t reflecting any shadow at all. It was mere ghost from my commercially developed cigarettes made to satiate my lack of interest from the usually prosaic tobacco. The smokes don’t seem to exist, yet I patronized them.
I looked at my stick and thought, "I’m killing myself for nothing."
Halfway though my smoky palaver, I threw away my cigarette, stomping on the ember to make sure it’s dead.
Hopefully, I just quit smoking. Go me.
Ghost Stories
Okay. After my futile attempts to post pictures, I am giving-up (at least until I learn how) trying to put pictures on my blog. For the time being, Techieidiot will be just that – Techieidiot, an incognizant audience to the complexities of computer technology. I’ll just have to be happy with writing (or typing for that matter) all my entries. And doing
, of course.
Anyway, do you believe in ghosts? The other night, some of my village friends and I were having our usual Sunday night gathering. Our whole block was pretty quiet, and we were just reveling on how beautiful and calm the night was. After a few exchange of ‘how yah beens’ over shots of Cuervo, glasses of Coca-cola and tea cups of green tea for me (I’m trying to lose weight, you see), our talks turned to ghosts.
It turns out, one of my friends, let’s call him 3rd Eye, has been experiencing a couple of episodes with the paranormal. He said that an old lady in white with knitted veil would constantly appear near his water station. He said the lady would usually be standing on the stairs going to the upper veranda, or walking around the garden. Now, there used to be a big santol tree in the yard of 3rd Eye’s house, but a couple of months ago, the tree was cut. After that, the Lady was able to go down the veranda, and go beyond the garden for her ‘walk.’ 3rd Eye said the Lady was actually quite harmless, and she seemed happy that she has now more space to wander, or haunt, actually.
Well one story led to another like how, in one Dominican school, a chemistry professor told the story of how she used to have the habit of making her lesson plans while the janitress is cleaning the room beside hers. The janitress would often bring her six-year-old granddaughter with her and would usually just leave a few snacks and toys to keep the kid entertained.
One time, the granddaughter was quite restless and kept on nagging her lola to go out of the room. She kept on saying, "Lola, ayoko na dito, alis na tayo." (Grandma, I don’t want to stay here, let’s go) The lola, irritated would reply, "Maglaro ka lang diyan, hindi pa ako tapos mag-linis!" ("Just play there, I’m not done cleaning yet") But the kid kept on bugging her, so naturally, the janitress was curious of her grandchild’s behavior. When she checked on the child, she was horrified to see, a bloody, amputated hand creeping its way towards the kid…
By this time, everyone was kinda scrunched-up in one corner of the terrace (yup, the same one where the white lady loves to take her walks), all trying to act really cool and nonchalant that the night air seemed a bit more chilly.
Now I have to explain that my job usually makes me go home around the wee hours of the night, like 1 to 2am. And I have to pass the terrace, the yard, and the garden on my way to my house. So everyone was assuming that of all the people present, I’d have to be the one who’s got her nerves all racked-up.
3rd Eye: Hey, don’t you go home, like at dawn?
Me: Yeah, so?
3rd Eye: Well, you might just catch the white lady in one of her morning walks (snickers)
me: (very cool) I ain’t scared of nuthin’
So we ended our ghostly discourse and went home well past midnight. Everyone was teasing me ‘coz I was the only one who had to walk past the dark garden. I retorted with a quick, "Oooh, I’m so scared now. Yeah right, you guys suck, I’m not afraid of anything." So I got to my house with the sound of my friends laughing their heads-off on my behalf.
When I got on my bed, it took a while before I began to feel sleepy. That’s when I noticed the shadow. Reflected against my wall was the shadow of an extremely large, bony man who seemed to be clawing at my windows, trying to get in. I was frozen in my bed, I could actually hear his nails scraping the pane. I was scared shitless. The wind was also howling by this time so that just doubled my apprehension. I didn’t even dare to move, or run to the next room where my brother was. I don’t know why, although that’s probably the most practical thing to do if a large man was trying to get in your window. But hey, I was terrified!
I wasn’t sure what I did, but I woke-up the next morning and my head was covered by my three very large pillows. When I looked out the window, I realized that last night’s freaky show was because of my brother’s shirt, fresh from the laundry lines, which got blown by the wind and got stuck in some tree branches. Then I thought, "of course that’s what it was. Silly git." There wasn’t really anything to be terrified about.
I was right. I was scared of nothing.
by TechieIdiot | categoria: |