Have you ever had those really bizarre ‘foot in your mouth’ moments that are so awkward they’re almost surreal? The kind wherein you’re almost sure that someone’s about to blab Homer’s famous ‘Doh!’ jab, or you’re just so out of it that the you can’t help but say, "Did I just say that out loud?"

Well I just had that experience a while ago, and I’m still waiting (dreadfully) for any violent reactions.

A few minutes ago I sent N a message through MMS which said, "Mike & Ryann r nviting u 2 play biliards wd dem @ hme (Mike and Ryann are inviting you to play billiards with them at home).

Sounds harmless right? Well, there really is nothing wrong with the message except for the way I spelled Ryann. With an extra N.

You see, normal Ryans are harmless ho-hum identities that are no cause for alarm. But you put another N to the name and you instantly transform them into: soccer captain, college best friend, old flame, green-eyed monster bait. Uh-oh.

Although it’s been more than a year since I last crossed paths with him, N still considers him a threat to our relationship, no matter how petty it seems (note how I refuse to mention his name again). It’s a bit my fault actually why N feels that way, since when we first started out, I used to talk about him a lot, how I was really a goo-goo eyed schmuck back then (it didn’t really cross my mind that N and I would be a couple). In my once-in-a-blue-moon barbaric moments (like when I feel totally neglected), I often use his name to make him jealous – which I know is a totally awful idea, but girls do have these devious tactics of making their significant others cherish them a bit more. As unbelievable as it sounds, we sometimes take possessiveness as a sign of endearment.

But this time it wasn’t deliberate. I have no idea why I punched in the extra N. It was an honest mistake but I’m sure as hell it caused damage. I hurt N without intending too.

This calls for some serious making-up later. Lips, pucker up.

Back in college, Bitterpaulie, Haze, Ex_groupie and I would usually lull the time thinking whether we should go for idealism or compensation when looking for a job. If we could have it our way, we’d definitely want to write, but at the same time, be paid handsomely. You see, getting a job inside a publication also means you’re getting a salary that’s just above the minimum wage. Of course you’d be treated to a lot of perks – free spas, free makeup, free trips… but monetary wise, our salary would suffice only if you plan to be single forever, living in your parents house, and not having to foot any bills – except for groceries and your sister’s allowance.

Well, when I got a job in my publication, it really didn’t matter that my salary is barely a five-digit sum. I was happy. I have a social life, get to rub elbows and kiss the air with people I only see on television, get great clothes for free, eat at fancy restaurants, met the man I love… the works. And not only that, I get to do the one thing I’ve known since grade school, that I’m good at, or at least, rate fairly well. I exercise my freedom of speech to full extent, and the feeling of independence in what I write, not only teaches me the value of responsible journalism, but overwhelms me as well regarding the power of words.

But lately, the corporation is dong a lot of revamps and one big move that they’re implementing is to remove one day from our issues (we used to come out every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday). This would mean that we have limited space for our topics, and that we can only release materials if they plan to put an advertisement to our section, which of course, would further limit the space that we have from our already curtailed page. We can no longer freely entertain the people who wants to do a story with us, it’s now tit for tat. The corporate arena is a fierce battle zone, and for a young section like us to survive, the upper-ups believe we just got to play hard ball.

I don’t really have any serious qualms about the company’s plans to get more money, I mean hell, them getting rich also means me getting more compensation. But limiting the writing space is surely a big thing. Now we have to focus on fashion and events. I don’t have anything against fashion, I love fashion! I'm a self-proclaimed shopaholic, but sometimes I’d rather express myself by letting people see what I wear everyday, than writing to help people find their own vogue style. I don’t want to be selfish, but if you really want to be labeled a true fashionista, I suggest you look inside yourself and start being creative on your own. As for events, sometimes I believe parties are organized to allow highly dressed individuals (whose clothes are shouting Prada! Louis Vuitton! Or Mango!) look down on those who came in plainer garbs. I’d rather be writing about music, the faceless people who are the wheels of our amazing pop culture, art, books, and a lot of other topics which truly counts.

But now we’re allowed to show only two pictures or less, angle the story to sway in, yet again, fashion, talk about shallow stuff which concerns the youth… I don’t know about you, but it’s insulting how the administration sees us, the young minds of the now, that we’re perfect copycats of everything that we see in MTV, and that all that matters are sex, beauty and which bag will go with the shoes.

A while ago, my editor was copyreading an article and she deleted the phone number for a press release about Habitat for Humanity because according to our superior, they’re not advertisers and therefore, getting their numbers printed on our paper is a luxury to be enjoyed only by those who pay. Sure, the Habitat for Humanity may not sound as interesting as the latest craze on wooden clogs, but Habitat articles are the ones which doesn’t thrive because they’re getting lots of money. They’re institutions who need our help so in return, they could help others. They don’t owe us anything, and the way I see it, it is us who owe them our help because they are the ones who know what things we should truly be concerned – not fashion or events, but honest to goodness human concerns which need to be addressed at the soonest possible time.

Now don’t think my editor is a meanie or something. No, far from that, she’s one of the coolest most soft-hearted boss you could ever find. But she’s working in handcuffs and sometimes, no matter how much authority you have, it’s still difficult to work on the things you want with chains wrapped around you eyes, your hands, your hearts. I just hope that in time, she’ll be back to her old non-conformist self, because that’s where our section thrived – writing on what we believe matters. It would take some time of course, especially now at this time when she feels all her efforts were not given the proper appreciation that she deserves. But I hope though. The only thing to do is to hope.

Right now, I’m trying to keep what little pride I have left in me. If I can’t impress the corporate gods, then at least I know I feel good about myself, because I haven’t given up on my idealism just yet. And for now, that makes all the difference.

@@@

On a lighter note, I just came back from the beach and it was pretty okay, not the super fun I was hoping (I planned on getting a gorgeous tan but it rained on the second day), but an experience I won’t soon forget nevertheless. More of my trip soon.

And for the first time, I was finally able to wear a white, string bikini. I just found another weapon how to make guys eat at the palm of your hand…

Remember the Incubus interview? Well, I was more than certain they told me it would hold at 10pm and that I should be at the radio station by 9:30. So imagine my surprise (or horror) when my cell frantically began to ring by 9:40am.

me: (very sleepy) 'lo?

them: (exaggerated cheerfulness) Hi Ms. Rainne! Are you on your way now? We've been texting you since 8am.

me: (very confused) on my way where? Who's this?

them: This is Nelly from Liza Nakpil’s office, you're going to interview Mike of Incubus remember?

me: (panicky) but that's not supposed to be until tonight!

them: Oh no ma'am, the interview is this morning, we'll wait for you, BYE!

I couldn't believe it. I stared at my phone and froze. My sister, who heard the whole thing, looked at me and said, "run."

So i did. I ran around the house trying to do everything at once. I bathed, dressed, and zoomed out the house at a record time of 15 minutes. I ran to the nearest waiting shed (in minis and 3-inch heels) and hailed a cab. Now you must understand it would take me a full hour to get to the station. When i harangued the driver to step on it (shouting, "Fly good driver, fly!"), he meekly suggested i take the train. For my Pinoy blog mates, I live in Proj. 8 and i need to get to Ortigas in 10 minutes. For my foreign pals, hmmm… imagine New York traffic maybe?

So i knew I would never make it to the radio station in 15 minutes, but I went ahead nevertheless. Why? One word – Incubus.

Just the idea of interviewing either Mike Einziger or Brandon Boyd is for me a far-fetched dream that I would definitely want to come true, and I froth at the mouth at the thought that I’d be exchanging words with the heavenly Brandon – and he’ll be addressing me, in my name, and I just know I could die happy after that. Of course, not to leave out Mike, the magnificent strummer of the band, would also be an act of pure repute. He’d be an amazing topic of discussion during parties, since the guys would probably dig him more over the vocalist because of his magic fingers over the strings (I could just imagine the only lines girls have to say about Brandon is "He’s so cute" or, "Doesn’t he look a bit like Keanu?").

When I got to the train station, my heart just sank at the sight of the mob who’s trying to get on the platform to buy tickets. Anyway, at the foot of the escalator, the people at the top started stampeding down the ‘up’ escalator. Something is scaring them to an apparent panic state. Luckily, I was already alert (the very strong brewed coffee already kicked in), so I hurriedly ran to avoid the distressed throng of people obviously late for work. I hid underneath the stairs to avoid getting run-over. A lot of people got hurt. Most of them were girls in office skirts who were quite slow in getting down the platform. The weird thing is, when the commotion subsided, nobody could tell what the tumult was all about. And that’s when I conveniently discovered I lost 10 minutes of my precious 15 to get there.

Not wanting to get into another hassle, I took the two flights of stairs going up the ticket booth. Afterwich, I needed to wait for my turn to pay in the ridiculously long line. Now I really have to say that I love our metro railways. It only took me ten short minutes to get to the Ortigas station, and I kept on texting haze, asking her if the interview started already (she said not yet but soon) then I zoomed down and hailed the first cab I saw. I didn’t know where the station actually was, but I did know I was already near. I think it was only 30 seconds before the cab stopped in front of the station and I paid him twice of what I was actually supposed to pay, you see I was such in a hurry that i didn’t bother to get my change. When I got there, everybody was calm but I think they got a surprise to see a haggard looking girl in minis who was sweating like a pig barrage inside the dj booth.

Me: did I make it?

DJ: Who are you?

ME: Sorry, I’m rainne, from Manila Bulletin.

Nely: Oh miss rainne, we’re having some technical difficulties. We’ll try again in 20 minutes.

Me: How come you didn’t tell me?

Nely: We really didn’t think you could make it

By this time, I got really irritated. I mean, sure I kept them waiting but thinking the interview was scheduled for the evening and not earlier was an honest mistake. I don’t know about you, but I think the proper thing to do was inform me that I still had enough time to get to the station so I wouldn’t be at the edge of my seat nervously thinking how could have a special interview with the band – which is impossible considering they’re going to be on the road soon preparing for their Asian tour. But I took it all in stride and just busied myself calming down and fixing myself up.

After 30 minutes and no interview, I just couldn’t stand and asked Nelly what was wrong.

Nelly: They can’t call Mike, all they’re getting is his answering machine.

Well how about Brandon?

Nelly: We can’t call him either.

After an hour, the people from sony approached us and apologized (I don’t know if it was just me but I think they did it in an indifferent kind of way) that the interview won’t push through and that they’ll just inform us when it might actually be set. My mouth just dropped. So that was just it? They made me hurry for nothing. You NEVER do that to someone who’s only had three hours of sleep! But I was too tired to bring out my usual bitchy attitude towards this kinds of appointments – specially after learning that the reason they couldn’t reach Mike was because they promised to call him after five minutes, not 20, and after informing the sony people that he has an important place to go to. No wonder only his machine entertained them.

So I went out the building into the hot sun, pissed off but too tired and still sleepy to complain. I hailed the first cab I saw and decided to go home first rather than go straight to the office, so I could take a bath again.

Halfway down my trip the driver turned on his stereo and the first song that blared was "Wish You Were Here" by Incubus.

I asked him to turn it off.