tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50207411617228303592024-03-05T14:17:42.861+08:00Grace Under Pressurewhynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-84890147097659423822012-01-15T00:03:00.000+08:002012-01-15T00:03:54.322+08:00Tears for Fears<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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It’s been a while since my last post. After a series of
introspection and a rollercoaster ride of mixed emotions, I feel more depressed
than ever, hence more ready to blog. Not really an ideal way to start the year
but who wants<i> ideal</i> anymore? Nothing
in life is ever ideal. Shit always happens whether we like it or not. And this
is me at the peak of a self-proclaimed meltdown talking.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But tears are hard to come by as far as my biological makeup
is concerned. I just couldn’t bring myself to tears the way telenovela
actresses do. Somehow I feel amazed that some could even manage to choose from
which eye a tear shall drop. It only makes me feel more abnormal. I shed tears
profusely at every yawn and yet couldn’t even shed one whenever I feel like my
heart or mind is about to explode. I remember Cameron Diaz in the film <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Holiday</i>. Her inability to cry
frustrated her so much that emotions do not seem to be in her bloodstream. I
know how that feels. Probably a psychologist should be on my speed dial. I’m
not going crazy. Not so soon I hope. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Which is why I recall that one moment that’s forever
embedded in my memory. That one moment: a cab ride from point A to a point of
immense uncertainty. Marie and I were on our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nth</i> move and the gloomy night sky couldn’t be a more perfect
backdrop. Despite our steady jobs and daring ways of seizing life goals, the
universe conspired to accumulate all our worries together and pack our cab with
one fiery ball of emotions bursting at the seams. We found ourselves hopping
from one place to another searching for a flat (as I have shared in my previous
blog entries). Our requirements were simple. It should be: accessible to both
of our offices, affordable enough not to drain our salary, and preferably
sharing it with fellow Filipinos. Easy? Nothing is as easy as it sounds. That
and all the other little things that added up.</div>
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Inside that cab I felt both secure and vulnerable. The
small, comfortable vessel lent us its transient warmth amidst the chaotic
scenarios in my head. I couldn’t exactly remember what Marie and I were
discussing about at that moment. Her words turned into garbled sounds that I
heard not with my ears but with my whole being. Like an echo of a man slipping
away from a tunnel deep underground, it sounded so daunting that I almost did
not want to listen. I had weird imaginations of myself staying over at our
atelier, sneaking after work hours to use the restroom for a shower before
sleeping at the wooden flooring accompanied by frothy gowns that make my
reality turn into fantasy, and vise versa. Paranoia got the best of me. I guess
I was somewhere between a near state of astral projection and a progressive
stage of delirium that I found myself shedding a tear. Oh my gosh, I am human. </div>
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Marie shook me as if to wake me up from a coma. I looked at
her eyes and saw in her a three-part persona: A dear friend who’s always ready
to hand over a hankie to cry on; A partner in crime who conquers dreams with an
equal audacity and such firm resolve; And a comrade in battle, who’s always
willing to save a wounded soldier like myself. </div>
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<br /></div>
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If not for her, I might not have recalibrated my emotions
the way she did. For that I am forever thankful. The universe really has its
own way of aligning and realigning things. Because while I am in my current
state of misery, I am making this little tribute to my great friend. A superb
coincidence or just impeccable timing? Anyways, thank you Marie*! After all, today
is your birthday. </div>
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Oh, and Cameron Diaz’s character did weep towards the end.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-75589659676851613382011-10-18T22:27:00.000+08:002011-10-18T22:27:43.532+08:00Guest Blog: When It RainsThe recent downpours has kept me indoors, catching up on the various blogs that I follow. I am glad that I even got to write again for <a href="http://www.thekablogsjournal.com/2011/10/when-it-rains.html?utm_source=BP_recent">TheKablogsJournal</a>. Do check out "When It Rains".<br />
<br />
I love the rainy season.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-92209330221349732572011-09-26T19:57:00.000+08:002011-09-26T19:58:37.501+08:001, 2, 3...<br />
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I have always disliked math or any of its associates. Had it
been a person waiting for a Facebook friend request approval, I would have
clicked the Not Now button in an instant. <s>Heck, Facebook is even more
complicated than math as of this writing.</s> I still recall how I have
struggled to pass every math subject that I had back in high school. I felt
like an odd apple surrounded by smarty-pants oranges chewing numbers for
breakfast. That is probably the reason that steered my career path towards the categorically
right-brain-dominated field of fashion. But who am I fooling? Math is
everywhere. Numbers are too clingy for my liking. From the measuring tape
around my neck to the fine lines on the French Curve that I caress, I am indeed
outnumbered by numbers. </div>
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But just when I thought that the quest to “Find X” was the
ultimate predicament, here comes another challenge of becoming acquainted with
it beyond my lingua franca. Flashes of a 3-year-old girl displaying her
counting “talent” in Hokkien on a ‘90’s noontime television show suddenly
haunted me. The rhythmic cadence of every syllable she uttered became some sort
of a childhood verse that got stuck in my head. Only now the situation calls
for Mandarin. Toting a spiral notebook and some dogged spirit, I sneaked inside
the workroom to ask Vinia, our drafter, for help.</div>
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<span style="color: black;">“</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'ヒラギノ丸ゴ ProN W4';">一</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> yī</span><span style="color: black;">, </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'ヒラギノ丸ゴ ProN W4';">二</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> èr</span><span style="color: black;">, </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'ヒラギノ丸ゴ ProN W4';">三</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> sān</span><span style="color: black;">,</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'ヒラギノ丸ゴ ProN W4';">四</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> sì</span><span style="color: black;">…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Say that again, is it suh… or sih…?”, I interrupted her with
the hope that my forefinger charade of pointing up and then down actually helped
her note the difference in my voice’s fluctuating intonations. I don’t want to
murder the language that has seen the rise of magnates around the globe.</div>
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But then I wonder, does language matter when dealing with
numbers? They are after all considered as a language on its own. They are the
jargon of the self-effacing geeks and even the lingo of the hyped
extra-terrestrials, as some groups posit. <s>Some</s> Most women consciously
mess around with their weight, body measurements and age as the need arises.
Mastery of mathematical Subtraction is the key to survival. While most men
coalesce in their glorified conviction that size does matter. Thus, paving the
way to miscalculated “shoe size” and padded egos. They are addicted to
Addition.</div>
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<span style="color: black;">“</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'ヒラギノ丸ゴ ProN W4';">五</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> wǔ</span><span style="color: black;">, </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'ヒラギノ丸ゴ ProN W4';">六</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> lìu</span><span style="color: black;">, </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'ヒラギノ丸ゴ ProN W4';">七</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> qī</span><span style="color: black;"> …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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No matter how far I run, I couldn’t get myself to hide from
it. Blame it on Toto, Singapore’s local lottery. Every number crossed out
further lures me into adoring its contours along with the possibility of
winning the muti-zeroed sum. Working away from home taught me that cash is
king. Seizing its monarchy is a plausible strategy. Where does lottery fit in?
Well, it is the court jester. </div>
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<span style="color: black;">“</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'ヒラギノ丸ゴ ProN W4';">八</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> bā</span><span style="color: black;">, </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'ヒラギノ丸ゴ ProN W4';">九</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> jiǔ</span><span style="color: black;">, </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'ヒラギノ丸ゴ ProN W4';">十</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> shí</span><span style="color: black;">.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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“Thanks Vinia! How about counting from 11 till 20?” </div>
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Tomorrow it will be my turn to teach her a few English words
as part of the bargain. By now my jasmine tea has turned cold and bitter. The
client with a 4 o’clock appointment has not yet turned up. I regret peering
thru the workroom’s narrow window, noticing how the traipsing pedestrians and
the stop-and-go rhythm of the cars on the sweltering pavement has made me all
too groggy.</div>
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My eyes are heavy. I feel like dozing off to Neverland. And
my mind is counting backwards in English.</div>
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3… 2… 1… </div>
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(zzzzzzzzzzz) <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div>
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whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-745004405888047262011-09-01T11:57:00.000+08:002011-09-01T12:22:25.067+08:00The Fashion Show<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is the moment that I have been waiting for. Another set
of firsts. First time to get involved in a major fashion show in Singapore.
First time to step inside The Fullerton Hotel (okay, this is my second time if
you will count the 30-minute meeting held a week beforehand). First time to
deal with international models. The list goes on. And it is just six in the
morning! If it’s any consolation, the early 7am call time is not that alien to
me anymore. Having experienced similar shows in my home country in the past has
made me rather comfortable with it. But still, my legs won’t allow me to sprint
any quicker than necessary. I don’t want to be late for the rehearsal.</div>
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I remember how luckily I have survived past night’s
Halloween spotlight. Now it’s clear, everything was real. No amount of denying
will suffice. I couldn’t really say that I have enjoyed it that much when all
my brain prompts me to remember is the last fifteen minutes onstage. Not to
mention the good 30 minutes I spent back at our hotel bathroom desperately
trying to remove those fake nails under the faucet. I think I have wasted
enough running water to fill in the tub that night. I know, that’s too much. I
couldn’t even brag about that as my alibi for staying inside the bathroom while
the other guys (read:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> twinks</i>) relieve
themselves. Somehow the word “interracial” kept popping in my mind. Erase,
erase! <s>Sadly, they were still dressed up as monsters that moment so I
couldn’t figure out who’s who.</s> Wait a minute, why am I suddenly spewing out
porn terminologies? Don’t worry, nothing NSFW here. Anyway. Remnants of that
night haunt me. </div>
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It is a bright and beautiful day. Garbed in the generally
agreed on monotonous black non-color<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
(Next time I am in charge I swear I’ll remove black from the options)</i>, I
reached Fullerton just in time. The hotel guy in a vivid red ensemble with a
feather-topped hat greeted me as I stepped off the cab. (Honestly, had I known
that it was just a stone’s throw away from Raffles MRT, I wouldn’t have taken
the cab.) I went straight to the main ballroom to scour for familiar faces and
saw… two out of five dressers/student interns and four out of twelve models.
Not bad. There’s still time to nap. I wish!</div>
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I quickly rummaged through the racks to inspect if the gowns
were properly transported. Red chiffon gown, check. Black backless gown, check.
Floral cheongsam, check. Wedding gowns, uncheck. They look asphyxiated from
being trapped inside garment bags. These beings need a good fluffing. An hour
passed and finally the rehearsal is about to start. After several moments of
gathering and re-gathering my flock of emaciated sheep, the sleepyheads are
complete and ready.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHb50KbBmBVhDFzRIm_i0uoR8_cukfZHmsnhFn8xgNX6Bdb_yLXuqVUL_e6lev1_Nu_hAZfd6X_K7qMYDRKzLDIyxVj9UB7jgMUcnFLzb4KgEBD4IuhnDL2KRwt-dZxkhcH3DGpqwYh0/s1600/DSC00022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHb50KbBmBVhDFzRIm_i0uoR8_cukfZHmsnhFn8xgNX6Bdb_yLXuqVUL_e6lev1_Nu_hAZfd6X_K7qMYDRKzLDIyxVj9UB7jgMUcnFLzb4KgEBD4IuhnDL2KRwt-dZxkhcH3DGpqwYh0/s320/DSC00022.JPG" width="257" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"> Somebody lend me a steamer please.</span></span></div>
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<br />
While The Designer and the show director discussed the
models’ calculated sashaying, Jill and I tried to practice using the radio. I
never was and never will get used to hearing my own voice. It’s just weird.
Anyway. After running around arranging stuff and liaising with a few hotel
personnel here and there, a strange silence transpired for a second. You know
that type of sudden silence that precedes an impending chaos? Cindy just
arrived.</div>
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The easily misunderstood lady, which I first met<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;"> </span><a href="http://whynotpat.blogspot.com/2011/06/glamourama.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">here</span></a>, came in with boxes in tow. Jill huddled up
the interns as if to prepare them for a security body search. Cindy, in her
usual frantic manner of speaking, <s>commands</s> warns us of the sheer
importance of those boxes:</div>
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“Okay guys, these are very precious jewelry. Please be
careful, okay? Make sure you keep an eye on them. No one else should go near...”</div>
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We get the picture. Keep off and no one gets hurt. Kidding.</div>
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The rest of the day was spent mainly chatting and guarding.
Chatting with the models and guarding the jewels. Over lunch, everybody shares
how their Halloween parties were spent. We ate with heavy ceramic plates on our
lap, scattered like<s> Miss Universe delegates</s> high school cliques inside
the hall. Taking advantage of the situation, I even mustered enough audacity to
converse in Spanish with the group of Spanish-speaking models. I’m pretty sure
they thought of me just as how I thought of every foreign celeb uttering “Mahal
ko kayo” each time: lame but cute. I am just hoping that that’s not the be-all
and end-all of why I studied the language for two years.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5RzxjwzmSXZ8Y7hc8ehaQNl4_o9qMslxNkPvtWwVCKBwgr0PfnLDzYAQ_Le6ee0yBidhJUkVvy5zYniUBmoxEz8XWfwRn7NEVRg6xuCEEpHKnnnWfOhi5wLGHRevL7f9aU182CsuquXs/s1600/DSC00137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5RzxjwzmSXZ8Y7hc8ehaQNl4_o9qMslxNkPvtWwVCKBwgr0PfnLDzYAQ_Le6ee0yBidhJUkVvy5zYniUBmoxEz8XWfwRn7NEVRg6xuCEEpHKnnnWfOhi5wLGHRevL7f9aU182CsuquXs/s320/DSC00137.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">Final run-through</span></span></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The seemingly endless run-throughs of lights, sounds and
models’ choreography finally reached its end. It’s show time. The main ballroom
soon got filled in with affluent couples preparing to get married and humble <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tai-tais </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><i>(</i><i>太太</i><i>) </i></span>who have no place else left to
stash their money into. Lights, camera… bling!</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i></div>
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I am at a good vantage point inside the ballroom. For the
first time I am not backstage. As I radio in my colleague Jill to send out the
models as choreographed, I couldn’t help but feel emotional with the flashes
that the camera bulbs emit and the Swarovski-embellished gowns reflect. This is
haute couture at its finest. Each model sashayed with nymph-like mystery and
dignified elegance. The emergence of cute little page boys and flower girls
towards the end even made it more poignant. Before The Designer made his grand
entrance, he asked me from a good five meters away how the show was. I hope my
expressive smile and thumbs-up response has reassured him in some way. Glittery
confetti showered him as soon as he stepped out and his name flashed on the big
screen. That moment was indeed magical. I promised myself that I should have
one of those bow-at-the-catwalk-with-bouquet moments. </div>
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Missing trolley, staying late post-show, and a missing
jewelry aside, everything went well. But as we know in this industry just like
any other, it’s not all about glamour. The client feedback, i.e., return of
investments, is equally important. Back to reality.</div>
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P.S.: The missing jewelry was immediately recovered from a
Korean<s> "prima donna"</s> model who forgot to remove the earrings after the
show. (Don't worry, this is not the last time she'll surface in this blog.) The missing trolley never resurfaced. And I still stay up late whenever
necessary. No. Overtime. Pay.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div>
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whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-20428844440209117452011-07-17T11:57:00.000+08:002011-09-01T12:33:55.936+08:00Fame Monster<br />
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I woke up feeling less guilty than the previous mornings that kept my guts in a shameless tug-o-war. It is the eve of all eves. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween</i> as what commercialism dictates. Tonight could be the beginning of a haunting nightmare or the end of this poor girl’s career. Or both. I am holding on to fate that the decision which I have made was wise enough to not let me down. Tonight I am the Devil Bunny.</div>
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Yes, these people can be that creative. I remember the first time that I walked into their inconspicuous office at Lavender. The long, narrow and steep flight of stairs allowed me to rethink my options whether to step back or just go with my guts. Inside, the two employees try to make themselves scarce by abusing MSN, pinging here and there like serious business. As soon as the adjacent door opened, I knew it was my turn. A lanky guy escaped the room with neither a telltale sign of excitement nor trauma. A lady soon emerged, waving towards my direction. Inhale, exhale.</div>
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“The idea that we have is similar to the movie “13 Ghosts”, she explains. At one point I got conscious for trying to resist the urge to gawk at her mouth, convincing myself that she’s not playing scare tactics on me by wearing corrugated and fanged dentures. “Throughout the night you guys will be moving around, slamming on glass walls and the like, and basically just hanging around to have your pictures taken with the guests…”</div>
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Sounds easy for a few hours of being a monster of sorts in exchange for a cool S$100. I am excited! No, scratch that, I am terrified! For how insane could I be for prioritizing this “sideline” over an important errand for our atelier’s fashion show?! </div>
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It’s 6:00pm. I am supposed to be staying on to help The Designer to load up the gowns inside the van that will transport all our fashion show paraphernalia to the hotel. But the 10:00pm schedule unexpectedly clashes with my pre-arranged “gig”. So instead of letting my laptop stay open for another 4 hours, I had to shut it down and leave. My apologies might have sounded like forlorn blah-blahs. My phone, which has been ringing repeatedly, only made it worse. I am running late.</div>
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I took a cab and headed to Holiday Inn near the CBD. Inside a hotel room, the “monsters” have already been made up save for myself. An auntie quickly ushered me inside the bathroom and handed me this black, faux leather ensemble that’s tight enough to make me look more famished than I already do. Only the white fur trim at the back reminded me that I am tonight’s resident Devil Bunny. Unfortunately, no amount of squishing and<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> laying-on-your-back-as-you-wear-it</i> tricks could make this hot pants possibly fit me. I mean, clearly, their peg is a size zero as evidenced by the cheerful other “monsters” that scramble inside the room. They are obviously in their mid- to late teens and I am at least a decade older than them. Geez.</div>
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The makeup team immediately got a hold of me as soon as I slipped into my own black hot pants (it pays to be prepared). A slather of eyeshadow over here, a tousling of the hair over there. Tease, Aqua Net. Tease, Aqua Net. I actually felt more glamourized compared to the others who were either lathered in white paste or murky green paint. On the downside, the long, red plastic glue-on nails added a hooker-ish feel to my evolving salacious look. </div>
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The Organizer, gathering his minions, announced a few reminders before leading us out to the streets. Being an ardent follower, I obliged. As we slowly tread the streets of Somerset, I began to realize how this glamourized makeup only does too little to conceal my true identity. While the other “monsters” go chanting and goofing around in their heavily made-up faces and eccentric costumes, I try to stay in the middle of the pack and hide. Not for the shy-type. Really.</div>
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Which is why I heaved a sigh of relief upon reaching Howl At The Moon. An appropriate name for a club during this time, I thought. It is 9:00pm. A comedic skit is still playing onstage. I can hear the boisterous laughter from the inside. Our dimly lit waiting area is comfortable enough to escape the spooky stares from passersby, yet not convenient enough to hide. Guests going in would arbitrarily pose with us and have their pictures taken. Thirty minutes passed and we’re still waiting for our turn. These “kids” must be having the time of their lives. One “monster” is gamely playing with his light saber while the other repeatedly shows-off his spring-activated wings. I eventually found myself chatting with Eve. With her dusky, youthful complexion I wouldn’t have thought that she is actually a pre-school teacher by profession. I wonder what's the background of the others. But one thing's for sure, we've all embraced monsterhood for fun and extra moolah. </div>
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Our casual conversation is interrupted by this petite “monster” wearing a rainbow-colored wig and an equally flamboyant outfit. It is amusing how she enjoys the role of a custodian, advising us on how we would choreograph our moves once we get inside. I have a feeling that <s>the end is near</s> it is our turn.</div>
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My phone rings. I could be wanted by The Designer or The Boss. After 5 minutes of struggling how to fish it out, being encumbered by my 2-inch nails, I recognized that it is just my calendar alarm. It is 10:00pm. They must be loading up the stuff now. Guilt starts to creep in. Soon, whatever anxiety I have is quickly replaced by anticipation. The Organizer is already asking us to go in. The drifting cigarette smoke, raucous babble, intoxicating music and creepy, bloody costumes magnify the celebratory mood inside the club. A snapshot here, a snapshot there. I feel like Britney Spears under the influence, inebriated by the euphoria that is making me bored, awkward and oddly thrilled all at the same time. Gore runs aplenty. From the hackneyed blood-drenched duos and the predictable goth fleet to the villain-inspired folks and the Cosplay-adoring set. The kids of Twilight would have taken a backseat. It is starting to get fun until my feet started to send signals of pain and discomfort. <br />
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I am surrounded with strangers in this festive cauldron. On hindsight, I wish I did not decline the lady in a witch’s hat who kindly offered to get me a drink. That would have been handy. <s>Or pinched the biceps of a hunky guy dressed as The Terminator.</s> For that would have made me more brazen in carrying out our impromptu 15-minute ordeal of dancing centerstage under the spotlight, pulling out random guests from the crowd and swaying to the beat of fear, gaucherie and mortification. If it were a generation earlier, I would expect crates of tomatoes being thrown out. Luckily they were a gracious bunch who enjoyed reveling in the moment. It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Whoever said that we all get our fair share of fifteen minutes of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fame</i> probably meant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shame</i>.</div>
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whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-344841285386245002011-06-19T12:06:00.001+08:002011-06-19T12:11:27.497+08:00The Pot-Pot ConnectionIt is our last weekend at George’s self-proclaimed Big Brother House in Tampines. Fresh from the past month’s move, my big blue luggage is getting its fill of twice the number of badly ironed clothes and carelessly accumulated toiletries. Even my soiled t-shirt has to be included in the mix. It still has remnants from last night’s ice cream, a souvenir from naughty Angelita’s playful little hands. The spontaneous walk in the neighborhood playground at 8:00pm simply confirmed that nothing cheers up a child more than a cone of dripping ice cream and a turn or two at the swing. She might be the female epitome of Dennis the Menace but it is exactly that quality that makes her unforgettable. Just like the “pot-pot” sound that resonates from the kitchen window.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I always knew that my <a href="http://whynotpat.blogspot.com/2010/11/kitschy-kitchen-frenzy.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">first encounter</span></a> with that familiar sound back in Bukit Batok should have an encore. I can’t wait to find out whether there’s proof for my suspicion of it being not just the herald of abundance as a<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> pandesal</i> supplier, but also of it being a distinctive icon of a culturally homogenous Asian lifestyle. Now is my chance. I temporarily paused my packing and walked straight towards the kitchen. Nanay, who is busy cleaning up after Angelita’s mess, noticed my beleaguered stance. She looked at me nodding with her mouth partially open and that articulate glance that seems to always know when I’m about to ask something. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Is that a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pandesal</i> vendor?” I asked her a bit hesitantly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Nooo, that’s not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pandesal</i>. That’s the guy who collects old newspapers.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, I see. I thought it’s the same as in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Pinas</i>…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sounds the same, I know… Anyway, George just asked him to come upstairs.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Seeing it now with my own eyes, all my previous suspicions are now put to rest. It is not a<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> pandesal</i> vendor after all. No<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> pandesal</i> and no profound cultural link. It is just a matter of two countries utilizing the same tools, a bicycle and a “pot-pot”, but for different reasons. I wonder if this “pot-pot” madness will resurface in Tiong Bahru.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The day eventually came for Marie and I to leave. My luggage now feels heavier than before. For the first time I didn’t care about how I look and simply decided to wear a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">daster</i>. The matronly green shade of this informal house dress doesn’t give justice to the breezy comfort that this one dollar find renders. I hailed a taxi as the afternoon drizzle began to pour, quickly dumping our luggage inside the trunk and never looking back. Nanay wouldn’t have wanted any semblance of nostalgia anyway. People come and go, change happens and future beckons. Yet, the Filipino sense of family that they shared with me will always be remembered.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I take delight in the possibility of another encounter with the “pot-pot” vendor wherever I go. I shall welcome it dearly just as I would embrace the valuable memories of Big Brother House.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-83918251183972061912011-06-14T13:24:00.000+08:002011-06-14T13:24:11.352+08:00Glamourama<!--StartFragment--> <div class="MsoNormal">My alarm clock tells me that I have been snoozing it for far too long already. I could only blame the past night’s YouTube marathon of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">telenovelas</i>. I reached the atelier much later than Jill, which rarely happens. She usually arrives 15 to 30 minutes later than myself, barging through the glass doors with an expression-less face, traipsing across the atelier in her high heels like time didn’t matter. I guess it can be considered as one of our job’s perks. There are no strict rules on attendance, no cards to punch in or ID’s to scan.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We have another casting today,” Jill reminds in her naturally soft, husky voice. “Cindy will be joining us later.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Cindy?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh yeah, you haven’t met her yet. She doesn’t come here often. Cindy helps us with the Marketing…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At that point I started to tidy up the fitting room which includes hiding away the ten pairs of stilettos inside the white Ikea plastic box, and wiping the huge mirror with crumpled newspaper. I remember how our drafter once taught me that technique of cleaning the mirror, explaining how the “oils” from the paper would do wonders. Either she thought I was too naïve, or that she is just eager to practice her English-speaking skills -- which I admire by the way. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I regained my composure after the arm muscle-tightening chore of wiping our two ginormous mirrors up and down, left and right. Sheer vanity justifies how I am deeply bothered by the possibility of my right biceps being more noticeable than my left, but that’s another story. While waiting for the models to trickle in, I headed straight towards the body-form where a client’s wedding gown that I have been working on for days is performing rather well under pressure. There it quietly stands shimmering under the halogens, unperturbed by the oxymoronic orderly chaos that is evident in its surroundings. I couldn’t almost recognize the white receiving table where copies of our monthly subscriptions of Harper’s Bazaar and Her World Magazine are strewn together with several Sophie Hallette lace fabric samples and cups upon cups of crystal beads and sequins. It might not look too appealing but often inspiration sprouts from such disarray.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Comparing this wedding gown to Gaudi’s La Sagrada Familia masterpiece is unfair yet inevitable. Because seriously, it looks like it is never going to be finished. Every time I grab the thread, I imagine the sequins jumping out to the needle on its own and sewing itself up onto the lace bodice. If only it is as simple as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Menlo Regular"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Menlo Regular"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">⌘</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Menlo Regular"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">+enter.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Menlo Regular"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Menlo Regular";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The models started to arrive like giraffes being drawn to trees, calculated yet keen. I am getting used to the sight of such live mannequins with their flawless skin sans makeup. <a href="http://whynotpat.blogspot.com/search/label/casting"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">Casting</span></a> is so much fun. It’s like playing dress up with life-sized Barbie dolls. With a wide-eyed wonder of a child and a Tyra Banks perspective, I entertain myself by assessing them in my mind. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hmm, she looks sophisticated but walks like one shoe is coming off… This one looks awkward in a cheongsam… That one is Gisele Bundchen in the making, beautiful glide… She is kinda fleshy for this gown, maybe she’d look better with the other cut… That girl’s walk is fluid, but her attitude annoys me…<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Final casting, check. A cyclone must have hit our atelier as tranquility has temporarily made its exit. What a mess! The items which the models used for the casting were scattered inside the fitting room. Gowns were randomly slumped over the rack without using the hangers. Stilettos were carelessly thrown wherever convenient. The wooden seats were disarranged, some blocking the entrance. And the models’ comp cards cover the entire table like a deck of playing cards waiting to be shuffled. But just when Jill and I thought that the storm is over, another one comes in. And she is charging with click-clocking heels towards Jill.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What happened here?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, hi Cindy, we had a casting...” Jill explains.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What?! You had a casting without The Designer?!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Uhm, The Designer couldn’t make it on time and he texted me to say that we can proceed…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Can I see the models’ comp cards… We have to finalize this already. What about the agency, I told you to call them up, right? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where are the gowns? Is the lineup complete already? I have to see the gowns so I can get matching jewelries later…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Meow… This one is fierce</i>. I almost forgot that the assessment game is over and this one is not part of casting anymore. I tried to avert her gaze, mindful of her ire, as she glances over me once every few blinks. It felt as if she’s raring to ask me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who the hell…?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jill, cleverly noticing this as her way out, exclaimed “…Uhm… ok… By the way this is Pat, our new designer… Pat this is Cindy…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For a moment there I felt how Jill wanted to press the eject button and vanish into oblivion. If I were in her shoes I might have felt the same. Cindy’s commanding presence complements her high-pitched voice that pierces through the air the way an old typewriter would. Only that hers echoes in a peculiar Singlish manner, rendering it undecipherable by my still unaccustomed ears. Yet her aura tells me that she is not as fierce as I initially thought. It’s just something in her that sends a positive vibe that it is just about work, nothing personal. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cindy left as soon as we have presented to her the collection. But just like a real storm, this one has left a casualty. Jill looked me in the eye and said, “That. Is. Cindy. She’s quite a bitch, right?” It is one of those questions that I find the hardest to respond to. I just took a heavy sigh and stared at the gown on the mannequin. The fashion show is a few days away, leaving most of us simmering in tension, excitement and much agitation. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alamak!</i> Who says fashion is all about glamour anyway?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"><br />
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</span></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">*as usual, names were changed to protect their privacy</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-54721223518787888082011-05-28T11:32:00.000+08:002011-05-28T11:32:04.145+08:00Inception<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">It must be every young girl’s fantasy to tackle something that is pretty, sparkling, fluffy and lace-y. The sweet romance that this fairy tale gown evokes simply makes my nimble hands tremble in delight as I begin to embellish it one 3-centimeter sized sequin at a time. My left forefinger sweats in excitement every time it picks up a sequin or two from the cup, transferring it onto the needle on my right hand that’s eagerly anticipating.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ella Fitzgerald’s trademark jazz reverberates across the atelier which makes my humming to her lyrics inevitable. It is during such moments at daytime that I get to focus intently on this therapeutic process that is hand-sewing. I can do this all day. For what can be more ideal than participating in your own dreams and fantasies with full consciousness? As the wedding gown that I am working on lies submissively on the table, I am beginning to infer that there is one thing that can make this living-my-dream declaration even more rewarding. Wearing a self-made wedding gown to my own wedding, what else! Preposterous Idea Alert… Preposterous Idea Alert…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thankfully, I poked my thumb at the right moment. <s>Still in denial that I am unconsciously getting better in my Singlish,</s> I muttered a heartfelt <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Aiyohhh!”</i> Suddenly I am awakened from my own dream within a dream state. It is at this point that The Designer noticed me and casually remarked “You’re so skinny… you don’t eat much?” I know it sounds a bit unrealistic to retort how much of a meat-eater and carbs-gobbler I am. And that I find trying to put on weight more difficult than, say, being constrained in a medieval corset all week. But having been asked countless times by different individuals, my honest auto-response answer would always be along that line.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He approached me from behind to check on my progress. He bent down to scrutinize how I have been treating the delicate tulle so far. “Wrong already…” he calmly declared. Somehow I wasn’t surprised and I knew that my amateur skills needed tough love. Caught up in the thrill of sewing on transparent sequins onto the designs, I didn’t realize that the thread is no longer neatly hidden among the embroidered lace flowers. It is one of those things that I would like to be considered as a vital mistake in the sense that experiencing it would and should lead to the furthering of one’s own passion. And an haute couture house wouldn’t be classified as such if not for the careful attention to detail, among other criteria.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is romantic and ethereal. Yet the wedding gown is far from finished and lots of work still needs to be done. The hundreds of man-hours that are being devoted to this piece of art would culminate in the wedding day where the key ingredients of blood, sweat and <s>blood stains</s> tears will be aptly rewarded. But until that day comes, Rumplestiltskin’s elves shall continue to toil. Nonetheless, the premises of our atelier almost always make me feel that the world is at standstill. That whatever beauty or glamour I am surrounded with shall remain as such. That everything remains calm and orderly, permanently inspiring like that Fitzgerald serenade. But I might again be dreaming within a dream. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My housemate reminded me that our main tenant’s lease is expiring in a few days and we will eventually start looking for a new flat. We are lucky that good friend Angel allowed us to rent her room for a month until we found a more proper place. Marie and I will be waking up to the quaint streets of Tiong Poh once again. A dream-catcher is in order.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-35022269658158630502011-04-27T20:24:00.001+08:002011-04-27T20:25:47.940+08:00100 Words<div class="MsoNormal">Who decides? A patient lies motionless on a long operating table, seemingly sedated by the halogen lights that dot the ceiling. The skin is off-white pale, its texture decidedly delicate. I bent down to examine its entirety, my fingers gently lifting it before quickly putting it back with a fervent gasp. I stepped back with my left hand over my chest and my cupped right hand over my gaping mouth. My prognosis: DOA. Divine On Arrival. Someone else’s fate will soon be changed by this wedding gown. But who decides?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Once upon a time” starts here. That’s all I know.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #404040; font-size: 10pt;">(100 Words is inspired by some of my favorite bloggers’ theme of a blog with just a hundred words.) <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-35538488702045070902011-04-22T23:42:00.000+08:002011-04-22T23:42:47.942+08:00You Live, You Learn<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">One of the amazing pretexts of independence is self-exploration. Sometimes you just have to learn things on your own and discover how good or bad you are at certain things. But it’s only amazing if the spirit is as willing as the flesh.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Going home to an empty dinner table after a day’s work is a common scenario. Cooking for myself is easy. Every ingredient that I toss in just seems right, every procedure perfect. I can cut the vegetables however I prefer, be it julienned, diced or simply halved, no matter if such vegetables are not meant to be cut that way. But cooking for someone else can be far more exhausting than the 9-hour job itself. Just like tonight. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is it the right amount of garlic? Will they like how I marinated the chicken in calamansi (a smaller local version of lemon) and soya sauce? Does it look appetizing enough?</i> This is probably the reason why I pat myself on the back every time my housemates don’t notice anything strange about the food. I’m so glad that my cooking skills now merit a remark succinctly put as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">edible</i>. Read: human-friendly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am reminded of how my former Spanish language instructor taught the phrase <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mas o Menos</i>, which literally means “more or less,” referring to something that is just fine or good enough. I like the way she casually enunciates the slithering “s” with that essential gush of air in between the two front teeth. I studied the language for the same reason that I got motivated to learn how to cook: for <s>my resumé</s> self-enrichment.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, I do not maintain a list of 100 things to do before I die. Aside from the fact that I find that quite self-indulgent, failure to accomplish certain tasks might only lead to unnecessary self-deprecation. But trying to learn things as your viscera dictate, on the other hand, fuels you with a certain energy that is fulfilling in itself. Sometimes I allow myself to be surprised by circumstances all too often that I do not get the desired outcome. I guess that is part of the learning process. Striving to achieve that balance of planning and letting things be is something that I am constantly figuring out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nanay rushed to the kitchen to check on my progress. She took an aluminum ladle and tasted the sauce straight from the wok. “Add a little more vinegar,” she said, “Then simmer for about 5 more minutes and then you’re done.” The queen of the kitchen has spoken and her verdict almost made me chuckle out of relief. I am just hoping that when she said that I’m “done” she meant “done with the task” and not “done with my dear life.” Over. Finished. Kaput! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I was wondering what’s for dessert, our pseudo-cooking lesson 101 was slightly interrupted by Ray who was smoking by the window. “You must watch out later for the pair of teens making out over there,” pointing towards the opposite block’s brightly lit 6<sup>th</sup> floor staircase. “They do it past midnight,” Ray revealed as if he’s a regular “moviegoer”. Indeed, anybody can easily be spotted in that column especially amidst the dark surroundings. Two nights later, I chanced upon the suspects seated together on the stairs. Despite the light rain, everything was clear from my vantage point save for their faces. They cuddle and huddle as I fill my glass with cold water from the fridge. But after 5 minutes of inaction on their part and perversion on mine, I decided to go back to sleep. So much for exploration.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s been raining in the wee hours of the morning for the past week and I prefer to slumber in indifference under the sheets. It is during these times that I wish someone else would take back my laundry away from the open drying area. The cold air-conditoned room temperature only worsens this laziness to which I easily give in. I am realizing how inspiring it is to start a chore yet very challenging and inconvenient to commit to it. In the mornings I couldn’t anymore just leave my empty mug of milk in the sink no matter how late I am for work. Nor could I ask my clothes to iron themselves out. If only I could only make the frozen meat instantly thaw every time I get back home. Or teach the plates to clean themselves up after every meal. That would be fantastic. The advent of technology doesn’t help much either. And I don’t even want to mention cleaning the bathroom. Ugh!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In bed, I usually end up snoozing my alarm clock more than necessary nowadays. I glance at the time on my cellphone and see 8:00am. I couldn’t accept how every second that I close my eyes thereafter translates to 10 minutes or so. Contrary to when I’m at work where what seems to be minutes of staring blankly at the window is actually just a few seconds of idleness. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I guess there are simply good days and not-so-good days. Pay days are always good days even if they only come once a month. It is a source of sheer joy for a lot of reasons. To pay the bills, the rent, the groceries, and what-nots. It is pathetic to imagine how someone so single as myself whines about the attributes of being independent, when George who supports his wife and their child Angelita, as well as their parents Nanay & Tatay, seem all too cool about everything in life. I am tempted to raise my hand, visualize a bar staff and order, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I am having whatever he’s having!”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Perhaps Ellen’s naughty adage “When life throws you lemons, make a lemonade” applies here. I’ll just have to make the most of every situation that comes my way and learn from them. And I guess knowing how to properly slice a calamansi is not a bad start.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-56237011989052011412011-04-03T15:52:00.000+08:002011-09-01T12:41:55.128+08:00Models On The Go<br />
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I almost gave in to a lingering temptation to entitle this day’s blog as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Models To-Go</i>, but I considered that as just an obvious slip of my Freudian<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> id</i>. Besides, having your favorite model as a takeaway dessert might not be a source of good nutritional value.</div>
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But if the 80’s calendar girl is your idea of a model, then a debate of who’s where in the food pyramid might ensue. Not that I’m into girls. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">{pukes for a moment then recovers in haste}</i> During our pre-teen years, my cousins and I would always visit our grandparents’ house in summertime. Often I would catch my male cousins huddling in front of our cool grandfather’s latest calendar, usually blushing in hardly contained giggles. The calendar of course shows more than just the days of the month and the dates of the rising tides. I guess those images of voluptuous girls – usually shot amidst the coconut trees -- plastered at the back of the door served as my first glimpse into the world of the models.</div>
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Such nostalgia distracts me sometimes like the way a whiff of cigarette smoke causes my nose to twitch in disagreement upon recognition. But somehow the direction of today’s wind keeps going my way as Jill tries to puff her cigarette away from my face. We are standing right outside our building, trying to avoid the sun under the generously extended eaves. I try to pay attention to her equally soft voice as she orients me on the day’s schedule. It is my first day at work, and every mental bullet-point note must be precisely organized. I am so excited that we are having a models’ casting today. In between her huff ‘n puffs my anxiety builds up, not only because of the mere mention of male Pan-Am models but also because we are standing not too far from the No Smoking sign. And in this “city of fines”, ignorance is definitely not an excuse.</div>
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On our way back to the atelier at the second floor, I could not forget how my jaw dropped at the sight of what seemed like an epitome of prince charming. He emerged from the glass door, his manly stance forming up a stark silhouette against the intensely illuminated interior. He walks closer. By now every aspect of his angelic, pore-less face and well-toned physique is <s>edible</s> visible. His looks alone is enough to stop us in our tracks. Pheromones must have quickly escaped from his contagious smile that is somewhere between sly and coy. He is here for the casting, and obviously one of the early worms. He asked us for directions on where the nearest restroom is, which Jill gladly pointed him out to. By then his charm has already captivated my senses in complete surrender. It is not too pleasant to see someone ogling at a hot guy, consciously or otherwise. But my seemingly out-of body experience made me see myself standing with side-tilted head, floating right foot and in an awkward spine-less posture, smitten and tongue-tied. His wavy black hair makes me want to stroke it with my hands against his porcelain-white flawless face. And I could not even begin to describe how his eyes are like deep wells that pique your sanity all too effortlessly. </div>
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If I am to survive this dilemma of being swamped with gorgeous guys for the entire duration of my job, I may have to try my best to maintain my composure. It’s tough, I know. There’s a fine line between losing control and losing my mind. Perhaps drooling is their symptom. As soon as the guy walked away, Jill leaned over and whispered something like “He’s cute… if I am into guys I think I’ll like him.” I think I know what she was trying to say, but with the numbing euphoria that the guy has caused, my mind failed to register her reaction at that moment.</div>
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Five minutes after entering the atelier, models started to trickle in. The casting is for an upcoming fashion show that will highlight wedding and evening gowns. Our task is to select twelve female models and one male model to complete the roster. This sad ratio all the more makes me want to scream <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I love my job!”</i> every time a hot male model walks in. Surprisingly, male models came in earlier than the females. The male model that we encountered earlier is first on our list. He walks up to the long white table where Jill and I are seated behind, introduces himself and hands over his portfolio. If only that handshake can be frozen in time…</div>
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I am overwhelmed to see the international brands that he has modeled for -- Dolce & Gabbana, Armani, among others. Each and every picture in his portfolio depicts a different side of his beauty much like a true blue chameleon of a model. Simply divine! These models were flown in from all over the fashion world by their respective agencies pretty much like how online-purchased Louboutins are delivered. The part that I like the most is the casual interview where they eagerly respond to questions like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Where are you from?”, “How long have you been modeling?”</i>, and my favorite <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Do you have a tattoo?”</i>, after which the model gamely shows its location. Some have one on their biceps, while some near their chiseled abs. It is during such circumstances that I find myself dying more than once, only to be quickly resuscitated by their naughty smirk. Jill then shows me how it’s done as she requests the model to don one of the suits that hangs by the rack. A casting or go-see wouldn’t be complete without the standard snapshot behind a raised paper on which the model’s name is written. And for this task I’m glad that I’m the one behind the lens capturing beautiful faces. The model then walks across the atelier, strutting in his most dapper form. </div>
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A few more models arrive, bare-faced and rugged yet not even a tiny bit less beautiful. Equally captivating are the females whose mile-long legs, ET-like waistlines and elongated necks all seem to defy my earlier notions of the human anatomy. Even with my tall figure, I still feel extremely dwarfed by their height especially once they start wearing 4-inch stilettos. Their faces look perfect from every angle. I can almost feel their sharp cheekbones slicing up whatever they come into contact with. Once they converge inside the dressing room, it is like holding a cocktail party for the United Nations. Some of them are Brazilians and Russians, while most are a mixture of two to three different races. The small space that is just enough for two brides in big wedding gowns is now being occupied by not less than five skinny models at any given time. They seem so used to this that they spend this moment in an intriguing <span style="color: black;">tête-à-tête</span> where someone else might easily misconstrue it as a cacophonic prattle. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-dqTeaHim-oX1xw5iKGZFkQKcyFk810pN0s2n8TfbwQplKmdH5OqnMiGd9nSjLYPtwlNQd0bXeQm7uTNBPBo3tTBx-fFpGvCjU3ckfkjgGkhl6l8mu-UAAnEaBWzwER5QmA2P0WyurT4/s1600/DSC00256.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-dqTeaHim-oX1xw5iKGZFkQKcyFk810pN0s2n8TfbwQplKmdH5OqnMiGd9nSjLYPtwlNQd0bXeQm7uTNBPBo3tTBx-fFpGvCjU3ckfkjgGkhl6l8mu-UAAnEaBWzwER5QmA2P0WyurT4/s320/DSC00256.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">Typical scene at our atelier during casting</span></span></div>
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And as I help one slip into a gown, the others are in various stages of undress leaving nothing but a tiny dental floss of a thong. With each pearl button that I fasten, the conservative Asian in me prompts me to quicken my pace before they all catch a cold. It once again brings to mind the 80’s calendar girls imagery in their naked glory, only this time the body proportions have shrunken considerably.</div>
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For them this is just another day. They will be off to another casting after this while the burden of selection will eventually dawn upon us. I imagine how heart-breaking it must be to eliminate someone. I have seen lots of beautiful people and there’s still more to come. After all, this is just day one. </div>
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Now, if I can only have the guys who will not make it as my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ta-paw*</i>... <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">*ta-paw : takeaway (Mandarin)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-60612717483098809582011-04-01T19:42:00.001+08:002011-04-01T19:43:32.049+08:00Online CommunityI would like to thank the moderators of Kablogs Journal for inviting me to share a blog in their site. You can read my piece <a href="http://www.thekablogsjournal.com/2011/04/in-their-midst.html">here</a>. Please do check them out as they feature lots of interesting themed stories every month, both in English and in Filipino.whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-65125246310138291182011-03-20T02:10:00.000+08:002011-03-20T02:10:20.218+08:00The Age of Innocence<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">In the same vein that some good things come in small packages, sometimes we also come across instances which remind us that not everything that needs to be learned in life is taught in school. A lot of the things that we know are a synthesis of knowledge both from books and from daily experiences that start from the day that we learned how to prod mommy to buy us a toy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am quite unsure whether it’s the weird resemblance of purple Barney and McDonald’s Grimace that I find more revolting. Perhaps it’s the songs that the former sings to most nearly hypnotized kids such as the 6-year-old<span style="color: blue;"> <a href="http://whynotpat.blogspot.com/2011/02/sisterhood-of-travelling-suitcase.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Angelita</span></a></span> who already seems to represent an exaggerated free-spirit. She speaks like an outspoken fifteen-year-old minus the rebellious snide remarks. There are no traces of gibberish in her enunciation of words as she asks questions like a paparazzo without malice. Sometimes it is amusing just to listen to how she and her grandmother converse. She just seems wiser beyond her years. If you would close your eyes and imagine Angelita’s voice to be a few pitches lower, you wouldn’t think she is how old she is. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dora the Explorer is her idea of a style icon. From the fringe that frames her face to the pink-colored outfit down to the cute mini rucksack, everything is<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Dorafied</i>. She never fails to sit in front of the TV screen to watch her idol while playing with her dolls and her miniature cooking set. It’s cool that kids nowadays are given more options on which cartoons to watch and which characters to impersonate. When I was her age Barbie reigned supreme and no one else dared to steal her spotlight. The Cabbage Patch Kids and the troops of Polly Pocket are simply runners-up to the throne. But even then I always tend to like those not so much in the mainstream such as the fat and orange cat named Garfield who I love to repeatedly draw. But times have indeed changed. Now there’s Spongebob, the Disney Princesses, Backyardigans, the kids of Twilight, and oh another Garfield in Spiderman. (Okay maybe not all of that are suitable for 6-year-olds.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But what I find adorable with Angelita beneath all the Dora ensemble is her insatiable curiosity. It’s a genuine naiveté that even some grown-ups try to emulate. Her emotions are always honest and unedited. She may be irritatingly naughty bordering on bratty at times, but I guess that comes with the whole package. Sometimes I wonder what will happen if all adults retain the same pure simplicity of emotions, without having to weigh one’s thoughts or resort to mind games. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I muster enough wits to ask her why she likes to cook clothespins as her main dish, I realized that it’s time to go to the wet market. RC flew in all the way from Kuala Lumpur to visit his girlfriend Marie. Nanay and I figured that one of the best ways to show him how life is like in reality is through a shopping trip at the nearby wet market. With Marie at work in the city and myself not yet officially starting, I willingly obliged to be the tour guide for the day. Actually, this is also my first time to visit the local wet market. Since Marie and I arrived in Singapore, it’s been a no-brainer that we always head out to any air-conditioned grocery shop nearby which is usually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fairprice</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Back when my height was just an inch taller than the standard sink, my mom would take me with her to our neighborhood wet market. One of the local sellers would shout out <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“suki!”</i> (loyal patron) at the sight of her slender frame. I can barely see how the old lady’s fingers maneuver the slimy Milkfish as she takes out its innards. Every item on her sink was drenched in water and no one can deny the distinct smell of raw seafood. She would then put everything inside a plastic bag, swiftly twisting and knotting it in a carefully choreographed dexterity that is coupled with a quick glance towards my curious eyes. I just didn’t like that she never used gloves, handling money and fish alternately. As soon as we reached home, I remember imitating the whole scenario on my mom’s bed, with socks and pillowcases as my goods. I don’t remember using clothespins though.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Crates upon crates of unwashed potatoes, turnips, ginger and a myriad of other root crops welcomed RC and myself upon reaching the nearby wet market. Their rough texture is so inviting that I couldn’t help but caress them as we pass by. Dried mud slowly crack and fall off along with some splinters of twigs. Pek Chye, Kang Kong, Spinach and other leafy vegetables cover another aisle like a verdant foliage. While the bright red bell peppers, plump tomatoes and crooked horseradishes add luminosity to one corner of this roofed open-air arena that is insufficiently lit by the ten o’clock sun. We slowly walked towards the meat section, cautiously avoiding the wet floor where I am quite certain that I saw a struggling shrimp or two. A stall sign on one side reads “Halal” where chicken and veal are sold. In this multi-cultural city-state, this term is a crucial information for customers especially to those of the Muslim faith. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By the time that we finished, our hands were already swollen from the weight of our baskets. But whatever minor discomfort that we experienced was immediately refreshed by the impressive talent of this youngster at the payment counter. As soon as we put down our baskets in front of him, he started to shout out the price of every individual item as if he had memorized the price of everything in the market. There were no price stickers to look at nor any list to guide him with. No tabulating machines either. The rapid pace of dumping a week’s worth of goods into plastic bags culminated with his calculator-like revelation of the total price, which was only given a nod of approval by one of the market custodians. People within the area simply broke out into manic laughter. But the weird part is that I think they laughed at us for being so astonished at what was apparently just a regular occurrence in this side of town. I really wish I have captured that moment and posted it on YouTube. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For a moment I was tempted to mumble the thought that was running through my head, which goes along the lines of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Who are you people?!”</i> But gladly I didn’t. Long after Bill Cosby had proclaimed that kids say (or do) the darndest things, I realized that it feels good to be entertained by kids for a change. Sometimes their sheer candor in itself can be a source of joy even for the most jaded of souls. Their lives are bereft of any complications, their wants more trivial than vital. And when things don’t turn out as planned, Angelita can always rely on her cuddly Elmo stuffed toy, press its belly and hear its contagious giggle. And that tickles.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-17908783346435131342011-03-07T09:30:00.001+08:002011-03-07T09:36:10.505+08:00Not an Ordinary Day<div class="MsoNormal">It is almost 6:00pm and I am once again entrusting my punctuality to my now heavily earmarked map guide pocketbook. The sun only begins to set by 7:00pm in Singapore and somehow this afternoon’s rays make me more giddy than usual. The thought of the sun stealthily escaping the skies by the back door as the moon sneaks in makes me wonder if this day will end just like any other. By now my heart is doing skip-rope inside my <s>flat</s> chest. After all, I have an interview to catch.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For a moment it feels as though I am rushing for a go-see, portfolio in hand, frantically searching for the correct building along Stamford Road. The glass windows of every shop that I pass by give me a blurry reflection of my deteriorating poise and quickening pace. I always felt that I am fresher and livelier in the mornings which is why this unusual call-time only makes me extra conscious. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally I reached the building, entering its main threshold facing the road junction. The dark and unruffled interiors are a stark contrast to the intensely bright and animated city life outside. It is almost bare. The high ceiling that are lit up by the seemingly antediluvian brass lamps breathes a distinct air of enigma that I only get whenever I step inside a colonial house-turned-museum. The wooden cornices and doorways are like the dark chocolate complement to the cream concrete walls. As I try to remember which floor I am supposed to be in, I almost imagined a cigarette-toting Marlene Dietrich walking across the hall in an all-black ensemble, plumes and all, mingling with her entourage of dapper guys dressed like mafia and girls dressed to the nines.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I got distracted by the escalator in the middle which reminds me that I am in the 21<sup>st</sup> Century, and that it’s time to hop on to it. The second floor gradually reveals itself as I slowly rise from below, extending my neck left and right like a mother hen in search of her chicks. The overall yellow lighting adds drama to the dim corners that partially cloaks some narrow passageways leading to who knows where. The building’s dark and solid balusters emphasize the old world charm while the echo that every step on its polished wooden flooring creates calls attention to its classical grandeur. I keep reminding myself that I am not here to check out an art gallery or a specialty store that runs the gamut from elaborate picture frames to fancy doilies, although they are both present here. But I am here to undergo an interview and I am looking for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the</i> atelier. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Where oh where is that atelier…” I asked myself in a hush-li’l-baby modulation, trying to shake off any bottled up nervousness. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even before I finished convincing myself that I correctly pronounced the word atelier, there it stood, gleaming like a vintage Van Cleef & Arpels bling. This is it. Inhale… exhale. Every moment felt surreal from then on. There’s no other way to enter but thru the floor-to-ceiling glass double door that is framed in heavy wood. As I slowly pushed it open, holding its tarnished brass handle with clammy hands, excitement soon overcame the nerves. It’s the same feeling that you get whenever you receive a present where you can’t wait to open it and see what’s inside. The only difference is that this one has its price tag written all over it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A young and slim lady approached me as she was trying to hang back an obviously glamorous dress onto one of the racks. “Hi, how can I help you?” she plainly asked. I told her that I came for an interview with The Boss. She then asked me to settle in for the meantime while I wait. But the gorgeous ivory gowns are so captivating that my eyes kept wandering from one gown to the next. They line the walls as if they are radiant marching brides in single file. Before I sat down, I gently caressed the wedding gown on one of the mannequins. The delicate fabric looked so pristine, and the beadwork so intricate that I couldn’t help but ask myself: <s>How much could this be?</s> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When will I ever get to wear such?</i> As soon as I sat down, a smartly dressed guy, tall, tan and slim, sat down and introduced himself. He is The Designer. But even before we finished the customary personal background shtick, he introduced me to his assistant Jill, the lady who first approached me. Looking like what seems to be an ordinarily busy day, Jill briefly asks The Designer’s approval on the correct shade of fabric to order as she shows him the swatches. I can sense a split-second crucial-decision-making-moment for them as they both look at the limited selection of greens. And while this is happening, I myself am also having my own split-second moment that flashes back the “cerulean” predicament that the iconic Miranda Priestley had which proved to be an embarrassment for poor “Emily”. Fortunately, theirs was blue and ours is green. And luckily I know the difference between emerald and chartreuse. Ha! Plus, I also know when not to chuckle. Not that it matters now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jill went off and The Boss arrived in a rhythm that the sun and the moon will eventually mimic. The proper interview commenced with the completion of the triumvirate: The Boss, The Designer, and myself. “How do you find Singapore?” they asked. To which I quipped “Clean!” without batting an eyelash. The questions that followed range from the hackneyed “Describe your previous job” to the more technical “How much is the estimate cost for a similar embroidery?” referring to the blouse that I was wearing. It was a rather fast-paced and straightforward interview that didn’t give me time to think of how to embellish my words or edit my thoughts. The verdict has not yet sunk in even after they dropped hints to my favour. They have a forthcoming fashion show and added help is crucial. Knowing that my papers will take time to process therefore I could not yet officially start work, I volunteered to work as an intern at least for the next two weeks leading to their big event. Talk about hard selling. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Perhaps it is a potent combination of desperation, passion and optimism that always come into play whenever I find myself on the verge of taking some calculated risks. Besides, there’s nothing further to lose once you have already lost a lot, be it time, money or opportunity. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think I threw a smile to the guard at the ground floor as I make my way out of the building. Somehow everything looks brighter than they actually are. And although the moon has already chased away the sun as it always does, tonight’s velvet skies tell me that the day is not going to end just like any other. Past the traffic lights, I crossed the street knowing that everything will be green-and-go from here. And that also makes me feel giddier than usual. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-49698036523857177642011-02-28T15:11:00.000+08:002011-02-28T15:11:04.083+08:00Gotta have the "F"<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I thought I would never see the end of my continuing saga. My relationship with my future self is not really going well. I have this notion that how you envision yourself days, weeks, months or years from now affects how you live out your present life. I know this thought may seem esoteric and totally the opposite of what actually happens, i.e., the present affects the future and not the other way around. But perhaps it is my way of harnessing the benefits of positive thinking, mind mapping, and all the other psychological babble that I often ignore everytime I pass by the “Self-Help” section at the bookstore.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In reality, it is easier for me to close my eyes and see myself prancing in Prada stilettos living out a highly successful life. Such visions that appear overhead like a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Peanuts</i> comics dialogue cloud are easier to conjure up at times when I feel like “bad luck” – also known as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the universe conspiring for my downfall</i> – has struck me once more. Because sometimes, as they say, “When it rains, it pours.” Is this saying applicable to bad times as well? Heck, yeah!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And it felt more than just rain. It was a downpour of hailstones when the company at Jurong East that I have applied at informed me that my work pass was disapproved by the Ministry of Manpower (MOM) – the governing body for work passes. The company thought that perhaps it was due to the local-foreigner ratio, that they have to hire more locals first before they can be allowed to hire a foreigner. This is the company where the boss has expressed eagerness to hire me so much so that even some confidential company plans have already been shared with me. This just proves that no matter how a company likes you but if your work pass application was rejected, you still cannot start working for that company. Yes + No = NO. Such is the mystery that is MOM. They will not explain their reasons for disapproving applications. It’s just either a straightforward Yes or a straightforward No. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just a few days after that, I followed up with my other application at the <a href="http://whynotpat.blogspot.com/2011/01/not-deity.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">school</span></span></a>. They informed me that they are momentarily putting all applications on hold. The opening of the school in Vietnam where I was supposed to be deployed to was postponed indefinitely due to recession-induced budget cuts.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> When it rains, it pours</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Add to that the numerous other job applications that were either uncomplicatedly denied, politely rejected, or seem to be plainly ignored. Those companies which replied simply expressed their preference for locals or those with permanent resident status. As for the rest of my applications, they were akin to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Add as a Friend</i> invites on Facebook which are neither confirmed nor denied. Just ignored. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When it rains, it pours.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Am I really seeing the end of this saga of job hunting? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was two hours before midnight when I decided to retrieve all my clothes that I had left outside to dry. I am still hesitant to try the<span style="color: blue;"> </span><a href="http://whynotpat.blogspot.com/2010/11/kitschy-kitchen-frenzy.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">bamboo poles</span></a><span style="color: blue;"> </span>after the occasional futile attempts. In our new “Big Brother house” on the fifth floor, the corridor in front of the main door serves its dual purpose as a Smoking Area (for smoking housemates) and as a “Drying Area” for machine-washed clothes. Really, clothes that dried under the sun smell a lot fresher compared to those that dried indoors or just via the machine dryer. Sometimes Nanay, the grandmother, would hang huge, colorful blankets over the corridor ledge and leave them all to bake under the scorching heat of the sun. Viewed from the ground, these blankets could be mistaken as parachutes or kites that got accidentally caught in, obediently caressing the breeze. It is not as hideous as it sounds. Our side of the building faces the backyard of sorts of well-maintained bermuda grass and other common foliage. Several tall trees line the edge of the wired fence that separates the HDBs from the expressway at the opposite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I passed by Tatay, the grandfather of the house, on my way back to my room. He was sitting by the dining table intently reading his Bible with such concentration that allows for his lips to alternately purse and mumble almost involuntarily. It reminds me of the way I used to read my other bible which is also spelled as V-O-G-U-E. (Sometimes it is spelled as E-l-l-e, or H-a-r-p-e-r-‘s-B-a-z-a-a-r, depending on which has the fiercest cover for the month.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried my best not to disturb him by not making any unnecessary noise despite the shaking sound that the spider’s web-like clip hangers make as I carry them. But I guess even the faintest of sounds could instantly interrupt his reading, the way that a hypnotized person would immediately be awakened with just a snap. He cleared his throat, looked at me in a librarian-esque signature gaze with a lowered head, spectacles resting low on his nose bridge and eyes rolled up to the ceiling of his eyelids, and whispered:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What job position are you applying for again?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was tempted to let him know that I am open to any kind of decent job with a decent income that is hopefully fashion-related. But then again, that idea of a reply is <s>something that is better said in front of a potential employer</s> pathetic. Besides, just the way I constructed that thought in my mind seemed too wordy for a simple question that is answerable by a word or two. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Fashion Designer,” I murmured. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He went back to reading like nothing has transpired in the past few seconds. I went back to my room and started to fold my clothes as usual. As my roommate Marie began to chat online with her boyfriend, I began to wonder about my brief encounter with Tatay. Perhaps he was just curious. Or maybe he just forgot that I already told him exactly the same thing twice before. But I hoped that he included me in his prayers. I have been remiss in my obligations as a Catholic and nothing can prove to be more helpful than a nudge from an elderly pious man like him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next day I was casually browsing the Internet when I chanced upon a job ad that has been there for 4 months already. It was not in the usual online job portal format and yet it described everything that I wanted in a job. And so I decided to go for it and immediately called the number. While there’s a high probability that the vacancy has already been filled up, I chose to take my chances. And I’m glad I did. I was quickly scheduled for an interview. I have always believed in gut-feel when somehow you feel that something good is bound to happen. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You get that unique this-might-be-it feeling where excitement is fueled by Faith…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You get that moment when you know for sure that this time it is really going to happen (despite the fact that you already thought of/felt/said the same thing a hundred times before, only this time it really feels different)…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You just know this is meant to be. Fate as they call it. And I believed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, but please don’t make me sing the high notes of that old Mariah-Whitney song.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-79103830336698039712011-02-20T18:32:00.001+08:002011-02-20T18:36:24.339+08:00Diversions<div class="MsoNormal">While it seems like I spend most of my time tiptoeing along a wobbly tight rope between utter despondency and frustration on one end and a fleeting sense of triumph over adversity on the other, it isn’t always so. I do try to fulfill that “stop and smell the flowers” adage in my own little ways once in a while. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On weekends, it is all too easy to get lost in the euphoria of generally flat-tummied citizens walking around in a relentless state of oblivion. As if everything else is cool, stable and easy. The accessibility of malls here (read: no security guards pretending to inspect your bags with a measly wooden wand –<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I mean really, what’s up with that? Only in the Philippines, I guess.</i>) allow for that much needed break from the monotony that has been strangling me for days. Window shopping is a form of diversion more than anything else. It is a way to alleviate the pangs of scarcity -- real or imagined, emotional and material – albeit temporarily.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But this diversion has its way of luring you in if you allow it to. One of the first few shops that will blind you is the jewelry shop. The diamonds that sparkle in all their glory behind glass cases will surely send any girl’s heart aflutter. They are the same “best friend” that can make your heart stop and throb all at once whether you are the one buying or the one being gifted with. It was my first time then at Tampines Mall and I realized that these jewelry shops were strategically located near the mall entrances. Business must be good and Singaporeans do love their blings. It might be a hypnotic attempt at attracting passersby the way that a male peacock captivates a potential mate with its flamboyant feathers. And before you even start to recite the 4 C’s, you are already singing your way in to the tune of Katy Perry’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I wanna see your peacock”</i> anthem. Just don’t echo the last syllable the way she does. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next thing that will catch your attention are the appliances and gadgets shops. Luckily, I am not a techie and I can be content with a modest version of whatever is on the market. But still, I can’t deny the intimidating presence of iPhone-wielding teens whose sole accessory should only be a solar-powered scientific calculator. But nobody said that life is fair. Nowadays they can have instant access to both the Theorem of Pythagoras and the theory of the Lady Gaga generation, where X equals iTunes + MAC cosmetics + jôie de vivré. Funan Digitalife Mall is built for the gadget-hungry. It is an entire building that sells anything and everything that could fit into this category. But I don’t fit in this techie mould. Perhaps it is indeed a guy’s world. It is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only</i> realm where guys and girls alike understand the concept that smaller is better anyways. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After all, size matters. I’m talking about food servings of course. I was at West Mall when I first tried Subway. I have always believed that the short interaction between the staff and the customer of any food establishment is crucial in the overall dining experience. Despite what I imagined to be a routine spiel, I still felt the “freshness” and sincerity of the staff as he presented me with the choices from the type of bread to the type of meat and veggies all the way to the sauces. He got me at the end when he spoke to me in Tagalog. He can easily be Malay/Singaporean with his looks and accent, but he is pure Filipino. Another reason to feel comfortable I thought. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now that I have heeded the advice of a wise man who once said that if you must window shop, do not go on an empty stomach, I can now continue my diversion. One of the best cures that window shopping brings to hapless souls like mine is presented like a tableau by the mannequins. As a child I would recite my ABC’s alongside cue cards of the alphabet where A stands for apple, B is for ball, and C for cat. But once you step inside Ion, Takashimaya or Paragon malls, you end up unlearning your alphabets and replacing them with Armani, Burberry and Chanel instead. And the best part is, you are willing to recite your whole new alphabet until Westwood, Yamamoto and Zegna. If their chic displays will not captivate you, the lingering aroma of fine fabrics and luxe leathers will surely do. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I soon found myself eating my quick perk-me-up comfort food in the form of McDonald’s vanilla sundae cone, closing my eyes on alternate licks. At the end of a day full of walking, I felt more tired than the lady who just came out of the mall with several paperbags and an easy-breezy-beautiful smile of confidence. For an Andersenian matchstick girl like me, I am content on staring unabashedly at the glass windows. At least for now.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-26090736332019735682011-02-09T19:24:00.000+08:002011-02-09T19:24:27.957+08:00Sisterhood of the Travelling Suitcase<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I would never have thought of the maximum capacity of my big blue suitcase until this moment came. I was once again stuffing it with clothes, accessories, shoes, toiletries, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">etc</i>. I still clearly remember how light my suitcase was when I first landed at Changi airport. Due to the 15 kg weight limit I was not able to stuff it with as much things as I wanted. Hence, the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“etc.”</i> then was generously represented by<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “Lucky Me noodles.”</i> But the situation now has changed. I could not imagine how my stuff seemed to have doubled in just less than 2 months. My friend Marie and I would be transferring, again, to another HDB.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We found this room-for-rent thru the online community portal called PinoySg.com where Filipinos converge and share experiences and post accommodation ads, among others. A few days before our intended date of transfer, Marie and I decided to meet up with Ray at Tampines MRT.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Our flat is just few bus stops away, very near the MRT,” assured Ray, friend of the main tenant, looking all alert despite his hour-long train ride straight from his workplace over in Jurong East, which is actually located in the West.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ray continued to share with us his own first-time experiences as we queue up and wait for our bus: “It was a rough start for me, I had to borrow money from relatives then. It took me quite a while to find a job. You’d be lucky if you manage to get hired before your visa expires. Most people I know took 2 months on average before they were able to get a job.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In a way those words offered me half-comfort and half-worry. I realize that I’m still left with 2 weeks before I reach that 2-month average. But unlike a project deadline where I can choose to exhaust myself working for extra hours, none of that is applicable here. I can email as many resumes and cover letters to as many companies as I please but that’s just it. The rest is spent on praying and anticipating. It was akin to being stuck inside Big Brother’s house where every move is limited within its confines and all I could rely on is the powerful voice of Big Bro, er, the Supreme Being up there. All the while praying that I won’t get “evicted” so soon and so sudden. I still pondered upon that imminent 2-month “due date” as I stood inside the cramped rush hour bus ride.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We eventually reached Ray’s noticeably quiet neighborhood. I was excited to see what we would call our new home. After passing by three HDB blocks and parking lots, we have reached their flat.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Come in, come in,” said Nanay, the grandmother of the house, as they ushered us into their living room. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just the mere smiles on their faces instantly made us feel welcome. Ray then led us to the room that Marie and I would share. It was pretty spacious -- with a single bed that we would later on toss a coin for to decide who’s sleeping on the floor, fairly wide curtained windows, a “dextrosed” aircon and a huge cabinet – seems good. Later on we were shown their dining area, kitchen, and toilet. The main tenant George, coming from work, reached in time to introduce us with the other tenants that include his parents, 2 younger siblings, his wife, and their only child Angelita. They can never get any more close-knit than this. Just the flavorful smell of the simmering Adobo and the deafening sound of the TV made their household more typically Pinoy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><s>Even though I foresee the unbridled naughtiness in the 6-year old Angelita,</s> there was no hesitation on our part when the moment to decide came. While we could not imagine how they will manage to squeeze themselves in this 3-room flat now that they are left with two, Marie and I were happy that we have found a new home, in the privacy of our own little room. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And after handing over to George the agreed 1-month advance payment, all he could muster was the jolly greeting: “Welcome to Big Brother House!”<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"><br />
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</span></div><!--EndFragment-->whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-31744666347929129992011-01-30T17:53:00.001+08:002011-01-30T17:56:08.868+08:00Not a Deity<div class="MsoNormal">What I find to be quite fascinating is the assumption that I have mastered how to read maps. The Street Directory pocketbook comes in handy whenever and wherever I feel like exploring. Of course, that incident where I got lost at Normanton Park was an exception. Although sometimes I question my capability to interpret maps, especially after having navigated the streets of Metro Manila using some intricately illustrated map guide. And getting lost. Perhaps I just missed a few turns. Either that, or that it is not unusual for the inexplicable detours and changing of façades to occur the way they do in Harry Potter movies. Fortunately, nothing like that manifested in the city of fines.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The map pocketbook was my trusted ally. I was again exploring some unknown roads. The MRT voiceover’s eloquent pronunciation, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">uhtrm pahk</i>, sounded more sophisticated than how I would have otherwise pronounced it. I have reached Outram Park interchange.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Usually, the roads are not as distant as they appear to be. I kept that in mind as I opted to walk instead of taking another ride. I was looking for a building that’s sandwiched between Chinatown and Outram Park stations. In a few minutes I was able to locate my first landmark, the Pearl's Centre. It was 10:00am and the stalls have just started to open. There were kiosks whose merchandise ran the gamut from jade ornaments and bottled ginseng roots immersed in water, to the jelly-esque body enhancers named Freebra and a myriad of delightful paos & dumplings. I was almost tempted to try one of those stuff -- no, not the dumplings. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But the heat was sweltering. Any stopover could alert my sweat sensors which I did not want to happen. I continued walking for about a few kilometers until I reached the junction. It was good to know that despite the heat, there was no visible sign of air pollution around. In fact, since I got here I did not feel the need for a hanky to cover my nose. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I crossed the road as soon as the green man lit up. In contrast to the bustling scene alongside Pearl's Centre, the opposite side was quite serene. While the inner roads were lined with shophouses, the overall mood was more restrained. Perhaps it was too early in the day. Indeed, with the quaint bars, restaurants and cafes in its every nook and cranny, nightlife must be all abuzz with boisterous laughter and sinister grins.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Walking further, it was impossible to miss the grand colorful Indian temple. This tall, imposing building tapers towards the top as dozens of sculptures adorn its exterior. Each sculpture was interesting on its own, some being a hybrid of human and an animal. It reminded me of the way my college professor described one sacred temple in India where thousands of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kamasutra</i> sculptures cavort brazenly. But that sudden imagery in my head was quickly thwarted after I trampled on a few slippers. Perhaps one of the deities detected my blasphemous thought. Hundreds of slippers were strewn outside the door, some even reaching the sidewalk. I could only imagine how the devotees inside the temple manage to survive the prevailing temperature in their layered silk saris. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was still thinking about the interesting cross-cultural <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><s>kamasutra</s></i> location of the Indian temple within Chinatown when I realized that I have reached my destination. It did not look like a school at all. Yes, I kept my options open and entertained the idea of working as a lecturer. It was still fashion-related and I thought that I wouldn’t lose anything if I at least tried. I repeated that line of thought in my mind as I stood in front of the building. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls almost blinded me as it glistened under the sun. The main door led to a cozy, carpeted reception area with two plush sofas and a low center table. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I politely interrupted the ladies from their casual chatter. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Mr. Siew. I’m here for an interview.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One of the ladies handed me a form and asked me to fill it out while waiting for the interviewer. Ten minutes later, I was ushered into a narrow room that’s barely enough for me to spread both my arms across. Not that I was made to spread my arms, or legs for that matter. A guy named David asked me to show my portfolio to him while waiting for the Principal, Mr. Siew. After a short and casual interview, he toured me inside their school premises. It was a relatively small building with around 4 to 6 floors, with each floor having just 1 or 2 classrooms if I remember correctly. Each stairwell was adorned with wall art in pops of colors that would impress every child-at-heart. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We reached the topmost floor where David and I entered a vacant classroom. The Venetian blinds cast a stark shadow onto the long tables and the room temperature was suffocating. He turned on the a/c and told me that the Principal should be in any moment. Ten minutes passed and no Mr. Siew in sight. Fifteen minutes. Twenty-five minutes. I almost didn’t notice the time as I was being regaled by David with stories about the students participation in various activities. Finally, Mr. Siew arrived. He did look the part: tall, stern and bespectacled. During the interview he asked if I would be interested in being stationed in Vietnam. He said that they are currently building a new school there where the lecturers will be housed in a separate dormitory near the area. Mr. Siew even showed photos of the site and an artist’s rendition of the new school. He visually painted for me this imagery where the lecturers would drive in bicycles to and from the school, that a huge market is located strategically, and that a laptop will be provided. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sounds like a Vietnam fairytale to me. But things just couldn’t happen so quick and easy. Besides, I just got here. Hopping over to another country is a blurry scenario. On the other hand, the idea of me playing Heidi b*tching around the students seems like a cool idea. But that’s just not me. What have I gotten myself into?! David escorted me outside as I was trying to recall whether I did confirm or not. Being a local, David volunteered to give me a tour of the nearby bars someday. Such a gracious host. Meanwhile, Marie and I would be transferring to a new house soon. So many changes, so little time. On my way back and passing by the Indian temple again, I wondered if things would be easier as an eight-armed Durga incarnate.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jb0AOMitnWiFIHHwLBg_9-7wn4_0MXHgq1arO869G8in1zttCcQa1t1blRUx0ZpIeyuM5Hm2lziB64cETn-lDo0-IHXnHXKT3dIN7sO5quUGPf6gotlrhHvrjqq9Pw9lDii_9hkrE7c/s1600/durga.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jb0AOMitnWiFIHHwLBg_9-7wn4_0MXHgq1arO869G8in1zttCcQa1t1blRUx0ZpIeyuM5Hm2lziB64cETn-lDo0-IHXnHXKT3dIN7sO5quUGPf6gotlrhHvrjqq9Pw9lDii_9hkrE7c/s320/durga.gif" width="261" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: Durga (www.iloveulove.com)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-8068854507588304982011-01-23T15:24:00.002+08:002011-01-24T19:36:54.246+08:00Swipe, Tap, Press and Go!<div class="MsoNormal">I guess that the more progressive a country gets, the slimmer the people’s wallets become. Not that I have been casually observing the buttocks of every Cruise, Pitt or Depp that I see on the streets. (Okay, maybe sometimes, but only to check on the quality of the pants’ tailoring. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I promise!</i>) Society and economy dictates that all your wallet needs is your credit card.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Forget about the gazillion membership cards that you tend to acquire whether consciously or unconsciously. Or the old ID’s that only remind you of how horrible those 2x2 photos look, constantly putting the blame on “bad lighting”. Or the “important” receipts that accumulate almost on its own. (Am I describing just my own wallet here?) The only thing that matters that grants access to your dream purchase-of-the-moment relies on that one (or a few) mighty plastic. In a world where every item that you buy wrings you off of your hard-earned moolah, this is all you need. And maybe that one <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">evidence-of-undying-love</i> photo of you and your loved one is an exception.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But if survival from the daily commute is at stake, another card should not be left out: the EZ Link card. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZtJjh1TLSarqUV2GEyS8lqsTb_JulSfdtIdiSsZIcue5UrmLJucu59urzu2yyfo0cFY-i-Uhfboa4-o6tIpQlG_ZgHdJr-2UJWABSYOCioybySEVNwrkE4i47RTLGZjuOAuM6p5E0Dc/s1600/ez+link.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZtJjh1TLSarqUV2GEyS8lqsTb_JulSfdtIdiSsZIcue5UrmLJucu59urzu2yyfo0cFY-i-Uhfboa4-o6tIpQlG_ZgHdJr-2UJWABSYOCioybySEVNwrkE4i47RTLGZjuOAuM6p5E0Dc/s320/ez+link.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is convenience right at your fingertips. Just top-up at the automated machines in every MRT stations and you are good to go. It can be used for both MRT and bus rides. Actually, there are credit cards that have already incorporated this functionality. But for individuals like me who prefer using debit card or cash over credit cards, the EZ Link card on its own is just as efficient.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was pondering on this whole premise of convenient living as I sat at the upper part of a double decker bus. Another first for me. I have always wanted to ride on one of London’s scarlet red double decker buses. And I have always envisioned that scene where the minute I take that first step inside the bus, chimes would harmoniously ring as if my wish has just been granted by a fairy godmother. But since London is thousands of miles away, this orange/purple/white SBS Bus, neatly wrapped in ads, would suffice. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaPxMYZ6V5xxwGYe3wlCXR-8U4MW5gRH0I7yWhsNLRYZrp9i-7FK06EKRBPxwMMY6D0gSiTt-L-B6EnNWeMH2Fn1ugwV8LsnSzABBJMKHwQR4RKXJP4I0-ShgfvklCDVjjl5CPjQTLUk/s1600/double+decker+bus.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaPxMYZ6V5xxwGYe3wlCXR-8U4MW5gRH0I7yWhsNLRYZrp9i-7FK06EKRBPxwMMY6D0gSiTt-L-B6EnNWeMH2Fn1ugwV8LsnSzABBJMKHwQR4RKXJP4I0-ShgfvklCDVjjl5CPjQTLUk/s320/double+decker+bus.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">View from the double-decker SBS bus</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cool! I’ll just take in all the sights that my bewildered eyes could handle. Whenever I find myself sitting inside a vehicle, there’s a constant reminder at the back of my mind telling me to keep my eyes open. After all, we can only make the most of our eyesight. Because when the time comes that we die, we can spend the rest of our time sleeping. But that’s just my morbid thought speaking.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I never got the chance to ride Manila’s double decker buses back when they were still in existence. I was too young then. By the time that I took my first bus ride on a regular bus, no chimes rang. Horns did. The traffic and pollution then were not as bad, but the passengers’ buzzers were all already out of order. They were nothing but mere accents to an already aging vehicle.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I continued by sightseeing. Singapore’s lush greens: perfect. Well-paved roads: nice. Stoplights that work – where green means go and red really means stop: finally! The calm 40 kph travel was only interrupted by the necessary brakes at designated areas. Just press the button before you reach the desired stop and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ding-dong</i> goes. The driver will then be alerted. By the time you reach your bus stop, the doors will automatically open for you. And if you are polite enough, you should observe the door rules: enter by the door nearest the driver, and exit by the door on the bus’ midsection. I try not to forget to tap my EZ Link card whenever I enter/exit the bus because the penalty can be costly. But then again, what isn’t? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
As soon as I alighted from the bus, I walked towards the stoplight to cross the road where I pressed the button for the green man. After a few minutes, it went flashing. I found myself catwalking again. But this time in a cadence that rhymes with the loud timbre coming from the stoplight’s timer. It was 20 seconds or so of a resonating rhythm that sounds more like a laser-spewing outer space pistol.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is this kind of <s>pampered</s> modern city that anyone can easily get used to. But reality remains. Not everything in life is as easy as swipe, tap, press and go!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-15157691432318210712011-01-16T22:31:00.001+08:002011-01-16T22:32:40.442+08:00Job Hunt Series, Part 2<div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">Weather Forecast: A cluster of nimbus clouds are heavy; Its bagful of surprises about to fall.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If there’s one thing that I have rediscovered, it is probably the fragile art of being patient. I consider it as an art because there are intimate ways of communicating with, nurturing and interpreting it. You learn to appreciate its technique on your own terms. And when it speaks to you, your heart and mind listen. And yet it is fragile. Fragile because you could lose it in half the time that you spent imbibing it. But if it’s any consolation, it is not a black-and-white thing of whether you have it or you don’t. In fact, I consider it more like water flowing out from a faucet where its intensity can be adjusted. Living away from my comfort zone taught me this. With my resources gradually dwindling, time quickly disappearing and hopes gently fading, life was becoming a litmus test of patience.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But just like any piece of art, its intrinsic beauty can be better appreciated if you take a few steps back and look at the bigger picture. I remember the first time that I saw Juan Luna’s historic masterpiece <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Spoliarium”</i> at the National Museum in Manila. As part of our field trip in elementary school, my classmates and I were instructed to queue up as we silently pass by this ginormous oil painting. I couldn’t understand it then. Standing merely 5 feet away, all I know was that it’s an important piece of art that was painted in dark hues and whose 4m x 7m size dwarfed all of us. Sixteen years later, I went back, this time on my own. With no restrictions to queue up or hurry the pace, I was able to see it in a different light, staring at the painting’s full glory. And while we have learned about its history back in the university, it was only right then, standing halfway across the immense hall, that I was able to appreciate and understand its beauty and impact.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRnMvj8paHdvcuN4pkfI1_mJ01b79Gy4JiJ6tWupouVsTfv8auhYqUIIQNzXwPP39t1mCcI0batk_2xvCRgjKFncrkIG2W3tCx8_XMgwEQ0qunwx5L-tK8SJy3uKkLrL6SyHT8W7XZ1I/s1600/spoliarium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRnMvj8paHdvcuN4pkfI1_mJ01b79Gy4JiJ6tWupouVsTfv8auhYqUIIQNzXwPP39t1mCcI0batk_2xvCRgjKFncrkIG2W3tCx8_XMgwEQ0qunwx5L-tK8SJy3uKkLrL6SyHT8W7XZ1I/s320/spoliarium.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> The Spoliarium (from pinoytumblr.com)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unlike a painting though, life presents circumstances where it is difficult to tell whether you are already looking at the bigger picture or not. And so as I was pondering on the level of patience that I should be working on, I realized that I have a few job interviews lined up. The big picture in my mind features more than just my pathetic state of joblessness. More importantly, it emphasizes the fact that being overseas in itself is an opportunity that not everyone has access to. I must not give up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I prepped myself for the interviews and thought of nothing but positive would-be scenarios. I was hoping for an actual interview this time, unlike my first time at Bukit Batok. This time it was within Jurong East, a bit far from Tiong Bahru but distance shouldn’t be an issue. After an MRT and a bus ride, I reached this industrial park. “Not again,” I thought. But this one was not as isolated. In fact it is surrounded by residential HDBs. Within the compound, there were a lot of men busy packing and loading up boxes onto a huge lorry. There were forklifts and boxes everywhere. The screeching sound of the packing tape in action pierced through the air like a cat’s claw scratching a blackboard. I approached one of the friendlier-looking men and asked for the entrance to the office building. It was sunny and everything seemed to be turning out fine. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Exploring new areas is always fascinating to me. It gives that jittery feeling of anxiousness, excitement and curiosity. I reached the second floor together with a guy who seemed to be looking for someone, his walk more frantic and determined than mine. His yellow-and-red collared tee screams DHL. The labyrinthine corridors are narrow that it could only fit about two and a half persons on its width. Some areas lead to a wider hall while some lead to locked doors. Now this may sound like something right out of a sitcom show, but the speedy DHL guy who was just a few feet ahead of me actually bumped into a clear glass partition. I wished I could save him the embarrassment by pretending that I didn’t see him. He looked at me right after the bump and just proceeded as usual. That guy was really in the zone. On the other hand, thanks to that painful warning, it could have been me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eventually, I reached the office door. It was locked and I had to speak thru the device on the door. A middle-aged lady, dark and with Indian features, pleasantly opened the door. In less than a minute another lady approached me. She was wearing this black blazer and pencil cut skirt that fitted nicely on her slender figure. She was kinda tall, clearly a Chinese Singaporean, with shiny black hair and nice fringe framing her face. By her stance alone you can tell her position in the company. She took me to another area outside of their office where there was some sort of a common lounge area. I quickly sat down on one of the plush sofas and arranged my bag while she answers a call on her mobile phone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the usual round of basic questions, she asked me: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Why didn’t you apply at *** company instead? Why choose us? They are more established.”</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That sounds simple but it almost took the wits out of me. It was my turn to talk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Actually I am a case of a hopeless foreign talent who has just applied for a visa extension, desperate to fulfill my dreams in this sunny island of yours. I don’t have any idea of your company, heck I just came across your info on the Internet. I even don’t know that *** exists either. But with that amazing shade of lipstick of yours I am hoping that you’d say yes and together we will work hard to achieve our goals of high sell-thru, brand growth, greater market share and…. World peace. Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That was what I was thinking during the 5-second pause. I didn’t utter them. After a few batting of mascara-less eyelashes, I replied:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Yes, *** may be more established than your company, but your brand being a new player in the industry allows for more opportunities for growth which I would like to be a part of. Besides, unlike ***, your company focuses on the use of organic fabrics which most people are beginning to notice now, and it is also socially relevant.”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It may not be as polished as I recalled but it was something to that effect. I didn’t know which sounded better, the one that I said or the one that I didn’t. (Trivia: That day, I googled *** company that she mentioned and I applied as well. Har-har!)</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">I easily felt comfortable with her. She is not the Wilhelmina Slater type that I thought she was. And as the interview went on I could sense that she was also getting comfy. Too comfy that after about 30 minutes we transferred to her main office room and continued our chat. It was already lunchtime. The other lady who opened the door for me asked the boss whether she would like to go out for lunch. She declined and instead chose to proceed with our t<a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/t%C3%AAte-%C3%A0-t%C3%AAte"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">ête-à-tête</span></a>, during which she even mentioned of her colleague John who helps her with the designs. She said that they became so close that they even share personal relationship stories with each other. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After touring me inside her office and discussing more technical stuff, she asked me to meet up with John later in the week for another interview. She then gave me John’s <s>calling card</s> name card before we ended our session with the usual pleasantries. Just like everybody else, I would hope and pray that I will get hired after every job interview. Gut-feel plays a big role, and with hints here and there I would say I have a good chance.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The day came when John and I would meet. He asked me to meet him at a coffee shop near his other office which is located at Tanjong Pagar. The last time that I had been interviewed outside of the company premises I got the job. So judging from that experience I was hopeful that it was a good sign. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I entered the coffee shop with resume, laptop and confidence in tow. I ordered a frappe, texted John that I have already arrived, and chose to sit on the red couch. I envisioned a tall, broad-shouldered man in a suit with a huge, uhm, ego. Instead, a cheerful, innocent-looking guy in t-shirt and jeans with a huge, uhm, smile walked towards my direction. The interview was very quick and casual. I actually felt that I have lost my composure when I realized that I have slapped him on the shoulders endearingly a few times. <i>Oops!</i> There were more laughter than nerves. We were still talking about work by the way. It felt more like a getting-to-know-your-soon-to-be-officemate kind of thing. At least I hoped so.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I went home I remember telling my housemate Joey about this, to which he laughed. I know that was a ridiculous thing to do. I guess when you get carried away, you tend to forget about all your inhibitions… I’m still referring to the interview. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had another interview the day after. And another one after that. I was on a roll. Just as waiting for a job interview was a test of patience, so was waiting for results.<i> “Look at the big picture”</i> became my mantra of the moment. The succeeding events that would happen only made me scream this mantra even louder.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(To be continued)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"> Names are changed to protect their privacy.</span></i></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-5306588529473746492011-01-09T22:49:00.000+08:002011-01-09T22:49:24.397+08:00Independence Day<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;"><b>Weather Forecast: Everything is such a breeze.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A good job, just like true love, is elusive. I made that cheesy realization one day as I was observing the goldfish swim inside the aquarium. Swimming from one side to the other it goes, repeatedly moving in circles, only to momentarily stop as if to realize that it ended up on the same spot from where it started. Much like my own personal pursuits.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m aware that it doesn’t sound that complicated to the goldfish. Perhaps it was just me trying to stir my idle mind. Besides, who would want to be alone inside a pre-war flat after hearing of horror stories the previous night? Electricity is expensive (among other things) and conserving energy is essential. That explains why the lights are off most of the time even if it looks like a dungeon enveloped in darkness. It doesn’t help that the architecture of the flat permits only a small fraction of sunlight to go in. It was daytime and my housemates all went to work already. The secret goal was to make this flat look abandoned so that no stranger would come knocking. Not that strangers would bother to randomly knock on our door anyway. Just the long, narrow and dark stairs leading to our flat at the second floor would hinder anyone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I went to the kitchen to scour for something edible. Living with other people aside from your family teaches you the value of “pakikisama” (smooth interpersonal relationship). You learn to adjust, cope and weigh things according to reason and intuition. When Marie and I were still in Bukit Batok, we didn’t feel the need to adjust that much. But that’s because we have known each other for more than a decade. We could share most things with less restrictions and less worries. But with newly met housemates, there are unwritten, non-dictated and perfectly understandable code of ethics which are necessary for peace and order to thrive. But looking inside their fridge made me think twice. I could see the creamy salad staring back asking me to eat it. Not to mention the ice cream. And the cheese… the pricey cheese that made me appreciate its aroma like that mouse in <i>Ratatouille</i>. I would remember Marie’s “motherly” voice reminding me that we did not have to buy such things as they are still considered “luxury” for the meantime. Indeed, sticking to the budget is key at this point. So before I further get lured, I took out only what’s ours and closed the fridge tight. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But who would complain of having a decent breakfast of sliced bread and strawberry jam, plus a piece of <i>Dole</i>-labeled banana to boot? Besides, this is just the third week straight of the same carte du jour. I prepared a cup of hot Milo and slurped a bit. TOO HOT!!! And not in an <i>OMG-look-at-Zac-Efron’s-abs</i> kind of way. Instantly my taste buds got numb. In my case, whenever that happens, it will surely take at least one full day to heal. On the bright side, at least I could deceive my tongue that it was munching on mango crepe for a change. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1XsI1iR_Q3KdinjXH437Gv4a_eXFenJ8UyabfJ8fClTuQSBiwQLZupVS8nhC0V_viEYcM6PNpxmHkZzkUD8_ZGkAGGqLwmJrChsl2P0hK336s_fKv0IYZgwQSOyroAx2xVJ-nSZHxhc/s1600/banana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1XsI1iR_Q3KdinjXH437Gv4a_eXFenJ8UyabfJ8fClTuQSBiwQLZupVS8nhC0V_viEYcM6PNpxmHkZzkUD8_ZGkAGGqLwmJrChsl2P0hK336s_fKv0IYZgwQSOyroAx2xVJ-nSZHxhc/s320/banana.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was so quiet. So quiet that it was sort of embarrassing to fart even if no one else was around. (I just didn’t write the F word, did I?) While eating alone in the solemnity of it all was uninspiring, it made me notice the faint sounds that I would otherwise ignore. Like the rhythmic buzzing of the fridge that could tell you its age. Or the mild clanking of the big aluminum wok which moves with the occasional gush of wind as it hangs by the wide kitchen window. Or the unique ticking of the celadon green metal-rimmed (was I right in hearing them say it’s electric?) wall clock which has been around for years – its shape and appearance actually reminds me of the classic and rusty school bell during my elementary school days. In fact a lot of things looked what others would associate with<i> shabby chic</i>. Vintage. Charming!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Right before the kitchen is the<s> comfort room</s> /<s> restroom</s> / toilet. (Is it just me or does that word make you instantly see flashing images of the bowl?) The opaque sliding door adds that Oriental touch to it. Slide half of the door open and it would reveal the shower area. Slide the other half and it would reveal “the throne.” And the cute part lies in the partition which leaves a wide gap from the ceiling. Enough open space to hear what the person on the other side is doing. <i>Bombs away! </i>>>></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">At daytime, the narrow corridor from the kitchen to the living room transforms into an imaginary runway where one could strut like diva Naomi Campbell. I admit to doing the catwalk there sometimes, especially whenever I take my dried clothes out from the washing machine in the kitchen onto our room which is at the other end. No phone-throwing, of course. But at night, that same corridor feels different. Once each housemate is in their respective rooms and I feel like using the toilet, I would usually trade-off my catwalking with brisk walking. Who knows whose silhouette I would see in that pitch black part of the house. And it doesn’t help that the light switch is located about 3 feet outside the toilet as I would have to stop to flick it off before rushing back to our room as if someone is chasing me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s almost 10:30am. After performing the chores and rituals that go hand-in-hand with the reality of being independent, the time has come for me to continue my job hunt online. After sending out several emails and calling a few companies, I psyched myself that after a couple of days I should be getting their replies. With every ad, reading the company background is exciting. And as they enumerate the job responsibilities and requirements line by line, I would nod and make an imaginary check mark, grinning along the way sometimes, as if every single requirement matches my own set of skills and credentials. As if I was that 6-year-old kid again outside the Church, ecstatic everytime the vendor hands me out a balloon until I had enough to make me believe I can fly. Until I reach that last line that reads: <i>“Singaporeans or PRs Only.”</i> Then the balloons begin to burst one by one.<i> Dammit</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But even if most ads specify this, I would still send out my resume. I am not a good statistician but it’s safe to say that 95% of the ads indicate that specific requirement. That makes going thru the ads a swift ride from wild euphoria to mad depression. That is why most of the time I would dash into reading the last line, just so I could easily get over the false hopes. Though sometimes I find that to be KJ (kill-joy), which makes the process all the more pathetic and boring. Like cheating on the newspaper’s crossword or Sudoku puzzles where you can naughtily check the inverted correct answers (although I believe nowadays they only provide the correct answers on the next day’s issue).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lunchtime came and I have sent enough emails to flood my Sent Items. Thank Starhub for fast Internet connection speed. I took my purse, locked the doors, both the heavy wooden door and the squeaky metal door, and headed to the hawker center. I made a secret covenant with myself to try to be as experimental as possible when it comes to ordering food. This time I’m trying the Kway Teow. Its dark colour seemed icky at first sight, but the taste was flavourful. So yummy that it makes my stomach growl until now just at the thought of it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And this was how I spent my typical idle days. I know it’s bad but sometimes I envy my friends who have had better luck at finding a job. But at the same time I am grateful for a lot of reasons. It was already September ‘08 and luck was nowhere near. Oprah once said that luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. If that is true then clearly that meeting has not happened yet.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On my way back I tried to change things up a bit by passing by a different route. I didn’t mind the intense heat of the sun as I was still enjoying every minute of this newfound independence. The mere fact that I chose to pass by a different street, just because I can, felt fun and empowering to say the least. The sights may not be any more captivating than the usual street that I take, but it is different – and I’m loving it. It renewed in me that sense of childlike wonder and awe that I seem to have lost through the years.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-83813996046805737782011-01-04T11:40:00.001+08:002011-01-04T12:05:23.822+08:00First Twilight at Tiong Bahru<div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">Weather Forecast: Dusk will reveal the moon's riddle.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the beginning of every new year, most people make it a point to start afresh. Out with the old and in with the new, so they say. This year started with the date 1.1.11 which may sound auspicious for the superstitious. Who doesn’t like the sound of number 1 anyway? And in the modern world where everyone desires to be ahead of the pack, this indeed could be a sign of good things to come.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">These were exactly the same sentiments that I had when we transferred from Bukit Batok to Tiong Bahru. New address, new life. It felt like a second chance at a failed romance, a firm handshake that undermines an un-chic outfit in an interview, or simply like opening up an ice cream tub to taste the new flavour. I conditioned myself on what to expect and yet, once there, all the preconceived ideas in my mind went away. Apprehensions were replaced with hope. A frown, with a smile.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As soon as Marie and I stepped out of the cab, Angel came rushing by to help us with our luggage. A dependable friend, she allowed us to stay in their flat for a few days until we find our own place to stay in. Every moment suddenly becomes vivid.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the old lady on the big screen said, <i>“I can still smell the fresh paint.”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Only that there was nothing fresh in this side of town. Tiong Poh Road is lined with historic pre-war, two-storey shophouses that seem to be out of place in affluent Singapore. It is rustic, quiet and aged. Walking by, I could not forget the lingering smell of what seemed like wet clothes that didn’t properly dry, mixed with 2 or so different scents of incense. The overflowing trash bins along the sidewalk were flocked by the orange-billed black Javan Myna birds whose crowing could send chills to the uninitiated. Their signature crows only remind me of the movie Omen. Not too far away was a group of <i>Banglas</i> (Bangladeshi blue-collar workers) doing some road works. The drilling noise breaks the monotony of the Sunday afternoon gloom.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1iv1ih9cX6sBqW5ta2saKdGegCkKrpfJJnCo_SbJWPemrabLAuE6UXQUJ7iI0xGbRRScIZ83tAiZOBM5ta30WNKJTfRAyWewMs7A40Y3x79gBapXzHiRwangjxOD5iRhO3R_lhbjYqx0/s1600/javan+myna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1iv1ih9cX6sBqW5ta2saKdGegCkKrpfJJnCo_SbJWPemrabLAuE6UXQUJ7iI0xGbRRScIZ83tAiZOBM5ta30WNKJTfRAyWewMs7A40Y3x79gBapXzHiRwangjxOD5iRhO3R_lhbjYqx0/s1600/javan+myna.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Javan Myna</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although we were only going to stay there for a few days, Angel’s housemates welcomed us like dear friends. There’s Joey, whose muscles could put Sylvester to shame (the action star, not the cat). There’s the inseparable couple Nico & Ana. And there’s the cheerful Nita, who would be our roommate together with Angel. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But we were not all strangers. Angel is actually an ex-colleague of mine and Marie’s former schoolmate. While Nita and I share a common friend who works for the same company where Angel and I first met. It is a connection that is not too far-fetched especially for today’s Facebook-addicted folks. And the tie that binds us all in that flat? We are all part of the creative industry. >>></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_x2JitnzoBvvwU2na9WxyPdkneQVv0nxo7RfTCUl4kGDNQv04cdT8SKjB9eXpri1MmyJD2hI6bha-ZE3rBRpIrUf6qWdFOVJgl6T57HzcwkSPe4OXzEJq6NsUIoRqHZqwqRLcRQ-RbQ/s1600/tiong+poh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_x2JitnzoBvvwU2na9WxyPdkneQVv0nxo7RfTCUl4kGDNQv04cdT8SKjB9eXpri1MmyJD2hI6bha-ZE3rBRpIrUf6qWdFOVJgl6T57HzcwkSPe4OXzEJq6NsUIoRqHZqwqRLcRQ-RbQ/s320/tiong+poh.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Tiong Poh Road</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We have settled in Angel’s room that was highlighted with a diaphanous curtain in deep purple, her favourite colour. Our chit-chat turned into a virtual talk show, each inevitably ending up on the hot seat of fun, wicked, intriguing and embarrassing recollection of the past. We almost forgot that it was already past six in the evening and our now exhausted jaws and overworked throats were starting to crave for food in harmony. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We headed towards the nearby hawker center along Seng Poh Road that is situated atop a wet market. Unlike the quiet Tiong Poh Road, this area was teeming with people all eager to have a good meal. The layout of the center is like a big donut where one could freely roam and hunt for the stall that caters to your cravings. I was too amazed at the several choices that I circled the area three times before I ended up buying. So many food, so little time. <s>I wish I could say that with men</s>. I chose to eat <i>Hokkien Mee</i> – handmade noodles with prawns, squid and a few veggies. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel a bit guilty and <i>paiseh</i> that I still haven’t given enough attention to my chopstick-wielding skills. But at the rate that I eat, which is at the snooze level, using the more ergonomically compatible spoon and fork seems like the best option. Sometimes I do try to eat with the chopsticks-and-spoon tandem, though, especially when I am not too hungry.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But sitting inside that hawker center and staring at my delicious plate of noodles made me too hungry. So hungry that I felt like 3-inch fangs were coming out of my mouth ready to lunge ferociously anytime. <s>I wouldn’t mind The Cullens doing that to me, would you? </s>And so we chomped in between babbles, laughter, and the periodic dipping on the chilli sauce. I downed my meal with a sweet sugarcane juice that was freshly squeezed using a metal machine that functions similarly to a paper shredder. Only that the end product is not trash but a very refreshing – and <s>vomit</s> green – liquid that’s perfect for someone with a sweet tooth. What could have been a quick dinner ended up as more than an hour-long gathering. On our way home, we passed by a general provision shop where I bought a one-dollar glass mug and a red plastic toiletries container. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXJsFA8rhSA_gjqQfMPLCwJMyMZ0FsnMzf7PTd7MJcDWj2fdDt-JASpMJWRkRa1XJDjg4zA46tUYZfl_-wofFEZ0aiooXF8GWONrahPz6hepshjjX5vwRjGD9hmUN8qy4mgV8hI1oBAHU/s1600/edward+cullen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXJsFA8rhSA_gjqQfMPLCwJMyMZ0FsnMzf7PTd7MJcDWj2fdDt-JASpMJWRkRa1XJDjg4zA46tUYZfl_-wofFEZ0aiooXF8GWONrahPz6hepshjjX5vwRjGD9hmUN8qy4mgV8hI1oBAHU/s1600/edward+cullen.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Edward Cullen</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">As we slowly reached home, strolling as if we were on a park, all the energetic ambient noise gradually faded. It was full moon (or was it new moon?) and the night sky looked more poetic than ever. I wished that we could walk slower so that I could enjoy this moment while everything still seemed predictable. Time was my perennial enemy. Somehow anxiousness seeped in. It will be the first night that I will be spending outside Bukit Batok, a place that I dearly miss. But with newfound friends in this country full of strangers, I knew that everything’s gonna be alright.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Names were changed to protect their privacy.</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div>whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-83589895886844308912010-12-26T10:35:00.000+08:002010-12-26T10:35:43.223+08:00Seeking Speaking Signs<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">Weather Forecast: Raindrops will fall o'er the weary feet</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lamaze-style breathing was all I could do when I realized that three weeks had already passed since I arrived. The days in 2008 seemed to move quicker than ever. With one more week to go and lots of things to accomplish, I could already feel the pressure. Three time-bound tasks I had to do: apply for a visa extension, look for a new flat, and most importantly apply <s>make-up</s> for a job.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Applying for a visa extension was pretty straightforward. With just a few clicks I was able to gather all the information that I needed and secure an appointment date with the ICA (Immigration and Checkpoints Authority). I could easily notice how systematic their government agencies were by their updated and easy-to-navigate websites. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The second task was to search for another place to stay. New tenants would soon take over our flat and we were left with two options. Option #1: Find a flat with a vacant room for Marie and I to share. Option #2: Find a friend who could let us move in for the meantime while we do option #1.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The third task was the most crucial one. Getting a job quickly was the goal. A job that would pay for the visa extension, pay for the rental & utilities, and pay for the day-to-day needs like food, transportation, salon and dermatologist. Fine, maybe the last two were not really part of the day-to-day needs. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But all these three tasks were way beyond bite-size. Not fulfilling one task could lead to the failure of the other two. At that point there was no other way to tackle it than head on. Sitting on the sofa, I leaned backwards, tilted my head and stared blankly at the ceiling for a few minutes. As if I was waiting for the roof to open up so I could push the eject button and escape from an impending catastrophe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With faith as my only parachute, I was not too sure if that was enough to save me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My cellphone rang. I immediately thought that this could be the most awaited call. After sending out dozens of resumes online, this could be it. This could be the call that would lead to an interview, which would lead to a job offer, that would eventually lead to my first paycheck. A call that would help me fulfill all the tasks.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But it was Peachy, Ruthie’s cousin. She was inviting me to come over to her place. Having been in Singapore longer than myself, she offered to bring me to interesting spots nearby. At that moment I just felt that her timing couldn’t be any more perfect. Perhaps I needed to momentarily escape from the madness that I was about to sulk in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The eject button had just been pushed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A few minutes later I was on my way to Buona Vista. Armed with my trusty street directory map and bus guide pocketbooks, nothing could go wrong. Oh, wait... I forgot to bring them. But no reason to worry as I had carefully reviewed the directions last night. I didn’t make a big fuss over it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was midday and everyone else was either at work or at lunch, including my friend Marie. My solo adventure was now taking place. As I sat patiently inside the MRT, I noticed this sign:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2jC9jjTqmJm7mPjqw5PMI1HuWSO7XclQXNpsuKh5Th9GRuH4oiX6PnC5C3kc-yRERiqDposErhfBki0MidEWVM5QIAFk5PH8BGkUWY-7y2i2mTJf28ECG08q2xpjYOp4gPvoJ-rm1O0/s1600/fine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2jC9jjTqmJm7mPjqw5PMI1HuWSO7XclQXNpsuKh5Th9GRuH4oiX6PnC5C3kc-yRERiqDposErhfBki0MidEWVM5QIAFk5PH8BGkUWY-7y2i2mTJf28ECG08q2xpjYOp4gPvoJ-rm1O0/s320/fine.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Indeed, Singapore is a<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> fine </i>city. I looked around if any one was bold enough to violate these regulations. No one was smoking, thankfully! I thought the old lady at the opposite side was munching on something. But after a while I realized that with sleepy eyes, tilted head and slouchy posture, she was probably just dreaming of food. There was no indication of anybody carrying flammable goods either. So far, so good.</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">But as we advanced from one stop to another, the number of passengers kept multiplying. An MRT car is a microcosm. One could see the diverse race & culture inside. They were a mixed crowd of tourists, students and office workers from all walks of life. And just as how mixed the crowd was, so was the lingering smell. It wasn’t always like this though. Perhaps it depends on the day’s <s>menu</s> collective brew of odours. But no matter how overpowering than durian the stench was, no fine was indicated for that. I didn’t want to appear insensitive by covering my nose so I tried my best to enter the tantric phase of altered states. Half-consciousness was difficult to achieve. And closing my eyes seemed to just exaggerate my sense of smell. Finally, I reached my station alive yet partly groggy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I then took the bus that would take me to Peachy’s condominium. Thinking about her own rendition of Cordon Bleu made me want to pick up Harry Potter’s broomstick and just zoom over to her kitchen. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I started seeing the same view of buildings. It turned out that I had taken the bus from the opposite side of the road. I should have read the bus guide when I was at the bus stop earlier instead of just dashing unabashedly at the sight of the bus number. Ugh! After wasting about 10 minutes and 40mph travel, the bus had just begun to ply the correct route to my destination.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fifteen minutes into the trip and we were off the busy highway and now on a calm residential road. By then the passengers had whittled down to a sleepy few. I approached the driver and requested for him to drop me off the nearest bus stop to Normanton Park Condominium. He just nodded and mumbled something that gave the impression that he knows the place. His smile was refreshing. Until then I had not seen a cute guy who made me smile and sigh. He was a cool twentysomething dude with creamy white complexion that contrasted his jet black hair. And with nearly a month of looking at the same mold of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chicken Little</i>-like bespectacled blokes, he was a good substitute. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I caught him thrice looking at me through his big rear-view mirror. Perhaps assuring me <s>of our plan to elope and live happily ever after</s> that he would take me to my destination and that there was no reason to worry. After a few minutes he stopped the bus and gestured me to wait a while as he hopped off. By this time I was the only passenger. I had never experienced buses here making a stopover and I know it’s highly uncommon. I glanced thru my window and saw him enter a small office of sorts which my anxious mind couldn’t clearly make anything out of. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Was it an SBS satellite office? Maybe. Did he answer the call of nature? Possible. Did he go out to pick up his mom for him to introduce me? Nah. He jumped on again and in a few minutes we were back on the road. New sets of passengers eventually started to hop in. I approached the driver once again just to make sure that he didn’t forget about me. Cool and collected as he was, he simply told me that my destination is very near. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">True enough, we reached it in no time. I looked through the windshield and saw a long and narrow pathway amidst Bermuda grass. The road was a dead end and he now had to make a u-turn. I asked him once more if that pathway would lead me to the condo, to which he fervently nodded and gestured, still smiling, that it was where I should go.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although I was a bit hesitant, I tapped out with my EZ link card and hopped off. I started to walk along the pathway. In this isolated area, there was no way I could ask anyone for guidance. Literally tweeting back to the birds would not help. I didn’t want to bother Peachy again with another text message as I already had bombarded her with lots of texts during the entire trip. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I could do this,” I thought to myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I looked back hoping that I could still find the bus, or anybody that I could ask for directions. But the bus had already left and there was nobody around. I continued walking until I reach a vacant lot with one parked car. Not too far away from it was a high fence adorned with barbed wires. Through it I could see an edifice a few meters past a vast stretch of lawn. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It must be the condo, but it didn’t look like it. Peachy had actually already brought me and Marie to her condo before. But we rode a cab then and the route that it took was very different. Back then I remembered passing by a few chalet-like houses inside a compound where the roads were made lively by jogging residents in their iPod-and-dog-on-a-leash accessory, and nannies with their PSP-toting charges. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t see any of those here. Could it be that the bus driver purposely ditched me in this abandoned area? Was this a part of his masterplan where he would eventually appear from a distance carrying a bouquet of red roses? I looked around one more time hoping for a sign that would tell me that I was at the right place. I walked closer to the fence. No one was manning the place, or at least I didn’t see one, but a set of surveillance cameras atop a post. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then a glaring sign caught my worried eyes: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Protected Place”</i>. The warning was interpreted in 4 languages: English, Mandarin, Malay and Tamil. Whoever made this sign definitely wanted to get his message across to all. And if by chance you don’t know how to read, the visual illustration of a man pointing a rifle towards another person could not be misunderstood. It was my first time to see such a threatening sign that for some reason made me hallucinate of Flor Contemplacion. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzrQjdvISevVyRxYa6wqQIMQgKsgUj3F71-mAA-6TndRJgL9pYCe8Tpj8EBCSYLiZjcrfMRx4q-fqTLsF1bY72_8gBpe6Nsl8H7a96sdSixjOjDiJGj4vr6xwKhit9x8yyP6LeeZrWVe8/s1600/danger+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzrQjdvISevVyRxYa6wqQIMQgKsgUj3F71-mAA-6TndRJgL9pYCe8Tpj8EBCSYLiZjcrfMRx4q-fqTLsF1bY72_8gBpe6Nsl8H7a96sdSixjOjDiJGj4vr6xwKhit9x8yyP6LeeZrWVe8/s320/danger+sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fearing that another step forward would define my mortality, I stepped back and quickly walked away. I walked towards the right hoping to see any familiar clue that I was going the right way. And so I walked. And walked. Brisk-walked. Hopped. Jogged. Still no clear indication of the condo. And just as I was about to pause and catch my breath, it started to drizzle. Great! With nothing above me but the full view of the skies, now I must keep on moving. I tried to run as fast as I could but my flimsy sandals were not cooperating. My heart was pounding like crazy, not just because I felt tired but more so because I was beginning to feel nervous. I was literally all by myself, isolated in this Twilight Zone of a road.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Houston, we have a problem. I’m officially lost,” I whispered to myself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I saw an approaching car. This could be my only hope. I didn’t know what came over me but I waved my hand like a true blue hitchhiker, hoping in utmost desperation and panic that I could ask for directions. But alas, the guy behind the wheel just drove by with a wide, naughty grin without even slowing down. Either he thought I was just plain crazy, or that I was a prostitute at work. Or worse, both. Geez! This could not be happening to me. At that point I was hoping that Ashton Kutcher and his crew would surprise me out of nowhere and tell me that I had just been Punk’d.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But it was all too real. After several meters of exhaustive running, I reached a sign that read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kent Ridge Park</i>. I then stared at the nearby bench like it was telling me to sit down and rest for a short while. But the drizzle wouldn’t stop. I continued running, praying that beneath all these tall trees and chirping birds I would eventually reach civilization. Several meters later, I did. Thank God! Soaking wet like a lost puppy, I searched for a bus stop or any waiting shed to no avail. But the now busy road with passing vehicles gave me the much-needed amount of confidence boost. I instantly took the first cab that caught my eyes and told the uncle to bring me to Normanton Park Condominium. Now I am not the type who would casually share sob stories with cab drivers. But at that moment, I felt like a wailing child whining to her mom about a toy that had been taken away. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A few minutes and a painful seven dollars later, we reached the condominium. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I would later find out that the bus driver actually led me to the seldom-used rear gate of the compound. Looking back, I could only laugh at that experience, although I couldn’t forget every minute of the fear and panic that I felt. I realized that depending on how we understand and interpret, often we encounter signs, literal or otherwise, that warn, inform, lead or sometimes mislead us. However, the choice to follow or not to follow is all up to the individual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Someone who might dare to eat inside the MRT would be fined $500. Someone who chooses to ignore the warning sign could indeed face the pointed end of the gun. But personally in this unpredictable world I could only hope that, like the three Magi who were guided by the lone sign of the Star that led them to The Nativity, the consequences of whatever sign I read or witness would be magical.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-20463451847306388582010-12-16T14:51:00.000+08:002010-12-16T14:51:57.238+08:00That Time of the Month<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">Weather Forecast: An full moon that looms overhead could bring out the Jekyll & Hyde in you.</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The first few days of being left alone in our flat proved to be liberating. Ever since Marie had started working, I would spend my time -- apart from job hunting of course -- doing what most young people hate to do: household chores. But I didn’t mind. In fact I was a bit excited. For me, it was an acknowledgement of this newfound independence. The idea of learning something on my own and at my own pace made me appreciate such things that other people used to do for me. And it was easier than I thought. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Of all the chores, doing the laundry using the washing machine is my favorite. It would do its job of washing and drying clothes with the least human intervention. Pressing the start button would give me about 40 minutes to do something else. So I picked up a broom and a rag. The marble flooring actually made the few dusts and fallen hair strands easier to sweep. And with just 2 fairly organized occupants, cleaning the tables on the living and dining areas were no big deal. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">During elementary school vacations, my parents would ask me and my siblings to help out in household chores. I remember that my favorite back then was polishing the floor using the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“bunot”</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> (dried coconut husk). Sweat would drip all over my body like a leaking faucet as my legs and feet slide the lowly </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">bunot</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> back and forth until the floor became so shiny that a passing ant could see its reflection. Black & Decker eventually made that chore a thing of the past. Although I believe that I owe my toned legs to that unique and practical workout. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQEEK28wQqvnaAtl96I5SMwDvnPwpfzyQU3JWp1ZYzZJ1z0wjUVZbXZPI59YqBDoEjAThew-3b7Jxw-5jJfCu8MZ8VdlvMFNUo73gsqCE-VpKcoExXnpREhbj4vJz-PzO-uKkaqO-LwX4/s1600/bunot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQEEK28wQqvnaAtl96I5SMwDvnPwpfzyQU3JWp1ZYzZJ1z0wjUVZbXZPI59YqBDoEjAThew-3b7Jxw-5jJfCu8MZ8VdlvMFNUo73gsqCE-VpKcoExXnpREhbj4vJz-PzO-uKkaqO-LwX4/s320/bunot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I still had a few minutes to spare while the washing machine continued to grunt. I immediately went outside to buy some ingredients. I have always wanted to learn how to cook Adobo, a signature Pinoy dish, but the task seemed too ambitious and daunting for someone who has not yet tried cooking. Boiling water is not counted. So I decided to start with an easy dish: fried fish!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On my way to the supermarket I smelled something burning in the air. Luckily it was not my hair. I then began to notice rectangular, yellow pieces of paper scattered on the sidewalk. Looking around I saw a thin smoke coming out of a huge & rusty barrel with round holes. An old man stood beside it, throwing wads upon wads of that rectangular paper into the barrel. Could this be just a different way of fumigation like the way our elders would sweep and gather dried leaves in the yard to burn under a tree? >></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a name='more'></a></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A sudden surge of wind sent the smoke towards my direction. My eyes began to feel itchy so I walked away. I immediately entered the nearby air-conditioned supermarket to buy the ingredients that I would need. Cooking oil, garlic, fish and salt. Hmm, this would look plain. I grabbed some lettuce and tomatoes for garnishing. And the meal wouldn’t be complete without Thai white rice, of course. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For the past few days, Marie and I had been ordering takeaway meals from the nearby hawker center. Sometimes you just feel the need to break out of the norm. And if we wanted to treat our taste buds to Filipino cuisine without going to the malls, we better learn how to cook. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Upon exiting the store, my eyes were quickly drawn into the newspaper stand just outside the door. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Hungry Ghost Month</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. It was not the headline but somehow my eyes gravitated towards that particular phrase within a news article. The mere mention of the word “ghost” sent chills down my spine. Only the word “hungry” made it worse. And I could not even begin to think how the word “month” would seem to prolong that agony. I bought the newspaper.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was August, the Hungry Ghost Month. Quickly reading while on my way back, I found out that it is a traditional festival that Buddhists and Taoists celebrate every seventh lunar month of the Chinese calendar. It is said that during this period the hell gates are opened, letting the ghosts and spirits of the deceased ancestors roam freely among the living. This is when certain ceremonies and rituals are performed to appease and entertain them. These rituals include food offerings and the burning of joss paper items which are believed to have value in the afterlife. It is also considered to be an inauspicious time and people are even advised to avoid staying out late at night.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Like most open-minded Catholic who grew up in an environment that cultivates creative imagination, I also believe in the supernatural. It is a totally fascinating realm that </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">JRR Tolkien brought to life</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> could only make you either curious or afraid. Or in my case, both. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVn_abUDkTiZ9vGOgx0R6Ag3z9RHBqqtlfhUF0wBhndlZDX-9yYyLv8RwMDuOKzdFNFptL1ZlVju4VGAZ0hQ6ZWMDGgrxv3qQQKpyAk_Flhd8jh7046QFTMBSjiUnhFCLqtRZ9pDXX7p4/s1600/joss+bin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVn_abUDkTiZ9vGOgx0R6Ag3z9RHBqqtlfhUF0wBhndlZDX-9yYyLv8RwMDuOKzdFNFptL1ZlVju4VGAZ0hQ6ZWMDGgrxv3qQQKpyAk_Flhd8jh7046QFTMBSjiUnhFCLqtRZ9pDXX7p4/s320/joss+bin.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Walking back to our block now seemed like forever. It felt like I was suddenly trapped in a slow-motion world. My senses got heightened and my eyes widened. I passed by the old man once again and this time he caught me staring at him. I immediately glanced away and pretended that I didn’t see him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I reached our floor I realized how no one seems to be home. Not a single sound could be heard from the neighboring flats. At that point I could only hear the nervous throbbing of my chest that was only calmed by the uneasy swallowing of my own thickening saliva. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I began to notice the sponge cake and oranges that sit on our neighbor’s outdoor altar. As well as another neighbor’s </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bagua</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> that made me rapidly close my eyes as if it was the snake-headed Medusa that could turn me into stone. Every pair of slippers that rest on every doorway that I passed by made me pray hard that they would remain there motionless as I push an imaginary Lotus Feet further back into my mind. The sudden lingering smell of burning incense turned my fears into 3D.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I quickly reached for the door keys from my pocket, opened our wooden door and swiftly closed it behind my back. What a relief! I switched on the TV, turned up the volume and headed straight into the kitchen to drink some water. And just when I thought I was calm and back to nirvana, the hysterical alarm of the washing machine made me mumble an expletive unbecoming of a beauty queen. I held my chest and my mouth in utter shock.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thankfully, logic and reason eventually triumphed. Momentarily, at least. After an hour, I was done putting the laundered clothes on the indoor clothesline (my clumsy hands wouldn't attempt to use the outdoor bamboo poles) and finished frying the fish. Lunch for one was never fun. I looked forward to cooking our dinner where I plan to spruce it up with veggies.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Later in the evening, Marie returned home from work early. Although she looked a bit under the influence of menstrual cramps, I knew she’s eager to taste my first masterpiece. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fried fish on a bed of fresh lettuce and sliced tomatoes.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As soon as she saw it, the hungry and outspoken Marie had no time to mince her words and pointed out how oily the dish was. Which was in a certain way, in a close proximity, in the slightest notion, with a teeny weeny probability, a tad true somehow. Nonetheless (with conviction) we managed to finish the food, in between sprinkling of nag and raising of </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">knife</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> / </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">voice</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> / glass. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There’s still tomorrow to improve on my cooking skills, I thought to myself. And as we ended the night, I secretly hoped that </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Lotus Feet would know which side of the bed to haunt tonight</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Marie would enjoy my next dish. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Burp!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020741161722830359.post-15215244227518994092010-12-12T22:24:00.000+08:002010-12-12T22:24:30.199+08:00Job Hunt Series, Part 1<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Weather Forecast: A dark rain cloud is building up. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nail polish!!!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I looked at my poor toenails after dragging my feet for a few kilometers. A fresh coat of paint and a relaxing foot spa were what they were gasping for. But at that moment priority went to locating the address on the paper. Yes, after four call-a-friends, three cups of Milo, two sleepless nights and a </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">partridge in a pear tree</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> strong dose of optimism, I had finally decided to stay and give it a try. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Giving it a try means I had to find a job. The wishful thinker in me instantly showed me visions of the privileged life as if I was watching my future thru a hippie-gypsy’s crystal ball. It showed someone who looked like me in the middle of a posh street, carrying loads of shopping bags, bouncing like a flirty cat in a diaphanous DVF wrap and chic Louboutins the way that the winged Adriana Lima sashays on the runway in her Victoria’s Secret. A dapper Noah Mills-lookalike would whisk me away. And the next thing I knew, I’m wrapped in his arms viewing the city lights from a Bentley.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIQV0z2OwsFfq9mm9gynUuKBeEZbniv_Skhn5tZiRvGBekzT2O8sRmhXAGMAvg93514jg3AHJ0tgjjY96ZyOhF-dEC2VO1s2Z_STM8Wdr8foW5y5NXbDYuQzQ_dJmMnbRx9KGhvn5ZCM/s1600/Noah+Mills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIQV0z2OwsFfq9mm9gynUuKBeEZbniv_Skhn5tZiRvGBekzT2O8sRmhXAGMAvg93514jg3AHJ0tgjjY96ZyOhF-dEC2VO1s2Z_STM8Wdr8foW5y5NXbDYuQzQ_dJmMnbRx9KGhvn5ZCM/s320/Noah+Mills.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Noah Mills for Gap Jeans</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But this is no fairy tale. This is reality. Only that the ubiquitous hidden cameras make it feel more like a reality TV. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I continued my search within the industrial compound, I kept praying that the resume, which I have been carrying in my hands, would not go straight into the bin. Or that at least it would wilt first before my spirit does. The warehouse-like building looked so cliché -- straight out of a 90’s action movie, devoid of fancy architecture or cool décor, where vintage Seagal would pop out of nowhere and beat the hell out of Mr. Shooli and </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kuhol</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. >></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was a bit hesitant to step inside their narrow elevator, or </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">lift</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> as what it’s referred to here. The lift was not at all uplifting. Dim lighting, dusty interiors and flyers strewn on the floor. Running up the stairs up to the 10</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> floor was not ideal though, so I took the lift. It’s one of those creepy feelings where you sense that you are not alone even if you are. And the gradual pace was not helping either. But I had to focus. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Four offices greeted me as soon as I stepped out of the lift. I double-checked the room number on the paper and just took a deep breath before entering. Their two glass swing doors were plastered with announcements and posters in Mandarin and English. Inside, the air-conditioned office was occupied by a few uptight-looking Chinese Singaporeans in their standard blue cubicles. On one corner were some clothing samples hanged on the racks with a few pieces folded on the floor. And on another corner was a pile of fashion magazines and some packaging mock-ups. My stealthy inspection of the room was only disrupted by a chorus of heavy keypad strokes and frequent telephone rings. I hoped to see fellow applicants around but the receiving area was vacant. I wondered if I’m the only person who noticed their microscopic ad in the newspaper. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A petite lady, dressed in a pink cotton blouse tucked inside a pair of black slim pants, greeted me. She seemed to be busy on her way to a meeting or something so she referred me to her colleague. That colleague of hers, who seemed too engrossed in her work, took about 10 minutes before approaching me. She took my resume and told me that they would give me a call if I get shortlisted. And that was it. It was not what I expected from my first attempt at job hunting. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A lot of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">maybe’s</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> got me thinking. Maybe that is the style here. Maybe they are still waiting for other applicants. Maybe they already hired one. Maybe they don’t hire foreigners. Maybe they didn’t like my qualifications. Maybe they didn’t like my aura. Or maybe my birth date is not compatible with theirs. Maybe I should have worn red. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe I should stop worrying. Ugh! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On the bright side, at least there were no lengthy and archaic written exams which are still a prerequisite in most companies in the Philippines. I’m not sure if the HRD still evaluates the results of such written tests when a degree, work experience, a portfolio, and probably a hands-on exam are more relevant and significant. I believe that those who belong to the creative industry are equally tired of looking at the exam sheets while rotating some shapes in his mind or choosing the most suitable title for a given set of scenarios… et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum, ad nauseam. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I went back to our flat where I found Marie just as I had left her, sending out resumes online. We took turns using the laptop and encircling newspaper ads. Later in the day she received a call for an interview. We were excited for her as much as she was.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Lady luck must be truly on her side as she eventually got the job within the week. This all the more made me hopeful realizing how fairly easy it was to get a job. It was indeed an effortless job-hunting experience for her. Celebration was in order. The determined vacationer in Ruthie insisted on a trip to the popular theme park Sentosa for our first weekend. We both felt the need to share the good news. She immediately contacted our mutual friend Angel and arranged for a meet-up. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Weekend came and the four of us were queuing up for the ticket at a mall called Vivo City. From the mall, a train took us to Sentosa within a few minutes. It had a brief stopover in the middle of the tracks just to showcase the groundwork for the then unconstructed Resorts World which would include the Universal Studios theme park. There were cranes and forklifts everywhere. For such a small land area, Singapore seems to never run out of things, and dreams, to build. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB2lq3ow8avgNn2qEvjVVWZ1ZK5DsZo1WoEsSHilZ3PdqdkOCjnmdal0CV2Ha6fGRh-7AxnSllZf2pV_3o4Q7rZ9IONhyReZZCV3kzyTCN6tt2g1EbsVyBY1V4m8zRVlP_syxEf_37L-Y/s1600/merlion-sentosa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB2lq3ow8avgNn2qEvjVVWZ1ZK5DsZo1WoEsSHilZ3PdqdkOCjnmdal0CV2Ha6fGRh-7AxnSllZf2pV_3o4Q7rZ9IONhyReZZCV3kzyTCN6tt2g1EbsVyBY1V4m8zRVlP_syxEf_37L-Y/s320/merlion-sentosa.jpg" width="294" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At that day Sentosa was packed with tourists. The general mood was chaotic but in a fun and non-stressful way. It felt good to be a kid for a day. Its colossal version of Merlion was impossible to miss. It made me feel like we were wandering puny chicks under the watchful eyes of this mother hen. Only that her anatomy is much more complicated. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Although we were unable to try all the attractions that day, it was nevertheless a memorable experience for everyone. The 4D Magix theatre was unexpectedly fun with the sudden spray of water and tickle of the feet. And even if it drizzled during the Songs of the Sea open-air show, the view of the sea of umbrellas and the weird feeling of sitting on wet benches actually added to the charm of the whole experience.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Two weeks had passed since. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I woke up early one fine morning, went to the bathroom and looked at the mirror. Strangely, I felt something was missing. And it was not my day moisturizer. I looked over to my right just as I used to, but this time the giggling did not happen. Then I realized that the trio became a duo. One less musketeer. One less roommate. With Ruthie back in Manila, everything felt real once again… the ticking of the clock, the changing of the date, the passing of time. JobsDB, JobsCentral and Jobstreet would soon replace The Sartorialist, Vogue and Style.com as my new </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">BFFs</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #404040; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">*Names were replaced to protect their identities.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->whynotpathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05827233854438808671noreply@blogger.com0