Cab Wars : Revenge of the Bitch

Sitting quietly with thoughts on “How to Torture a Cab Driver 101” at the backseat of a dingy, on-the-verge-of disintegrating, gasping-for-life mechanism that is considered as public transportation, I couldn’t help but think, “What a way to end a crabby day that has curiously rendered me constantly fluttering in an odd delightful state.”

I’ve been mean the whole day, and quite having fun at it. I was taking jabs at people who don’t necessarily deserve it. I was constantly ignoring people I usually talk to, and I was chatting up folks that were normally a hundred miles from my conversational acquaintances. The only time I wanted to do something nice for my friends at work, I winded up potentially getting my boss into trouble because an email that she sent (Alerting her staff that there might be a PC-Sweep that day. Us lowly employees are not allowed access to the web. But of course, there are ways.) was forwarded by yours truly to some people who coincidentally were having their inboxes checked for spam emails. I am truly sorry, but right now all I can think of is “Way to go dear woman. Way to go.” I am sorry, I really am. And I will do whatever it is within my scheming abilities to worm our way out of it even if it means putting myself right smack in front of the firing line. Record? What record? Mine’s pretty much fucked up already. I don’t give a rat’s ass (But please let me work until I find a new one.) My boss has been really lenient on me, and I couldn’t ask for any other to replace her hence I would stab myself right in the eye if my carelessness screwed up her job. See what I’d do for you if you managed to win my respect? I’d go the extra mile. I’m going to work that one out tomorrow.

So where was I. I’m in a cab. I hate going the long way because 1. I have a TV Show to catch and 2. Cab fare is boring holes into my poor dilapidated wallet. By this time, I was already having a staring contest with the driver through the rearview mirror. I had to let him know I wasn’t happy with him. By the time he made a right turn on my street, I pulled out my wallet, and out of habit I say, “Manong (Filipino term addressed to a preferably aged-male in the service industry otherwise known as Dude), change for 100”.

The idiot turns to me and says “Ano, hihingi-hingi ka ng sukli? Bakit nagbayad ka na ba?”(“What? You’re asking for change? Why, have you paid me yet? I don’t think so.”).

Hohohoho. Way for thin ice mister. Way for thin ice.

I said, “Manong, sinasabi ko lang sayo na magbabayad ako ng isang daan para makapaghanda ka ng sukli.” (“Dude, I was only telling you in advance that I’m paying a hundred bucks so that you can prepare or at least anticipate the change that I am expecting”). And of he goes ranting about how stupid I am to ask for change when I haven’t paid.

“Ano akala mo sakin? Walang barya?” (“What do you think, that I don’t have change?”). To this I snigger half-resentful and half-humored, of course 80% of the time cab drivers say they “don’t have change” leaving you to pay 100 bucks for a 50-buck worth of lousy driving. “Tatawa-tawa ka diyan. Hihingi ka ng sukli di ka pa nagbabayad,” (“Go ahead, laugh. You’re the one who’s asking for change when you haven’t paid yet.”) he said while he hands me a 20-peso bill that looks as if it had been use to wipe someone’s ass.

I got out of the cab, attempted to close the door, changed my mind when I heard that he was still ranting, poked my head back in for one last sniff of that disgusting lemon scented pine tree thingy, and quietly said “Yes jerk, shut up now.” I slammed the door shut, and hurried along lest he decides to run me over.

Trotting along the street (With “Singing in the Rain” playing at the back of my mind.), I thought “Yes J***, you showed him.” When I got home, I went straight to the phone and relayed my little adventure to Jamie (Who I bet was watching MTV the whole night waiting for that ONE commercial with Orlando Bloom who makes the word “tsunami” sound oh so…sensual. He’s not gay goddamnit! Who coincidentally is also the bringer of common sense to my little obsessions and trifles). As always she knocked some sense into me. “J***, you sounded like a spoiled upper-class yuppie. Shame on you. Next time, if you’re going to argue with a cab driver do it in a way that he will understand.”

Yeah. I could have said “Ang bobo niyo manong. P*tang Ina niyo!” (“Dumb nitwit! You son of a bitch!”)

But that’s too mean. I’m not that big of a bitch. I only called him a “jerk”.

*Halo*

*Angel’s choir singing in the background.*

I could have flipped him the bird. Robert, a friend from work, could warrant that this actually works, as it seems this is a universal language that is understood by people of all occupations. But then again, the cab driver tried to run him over. But that’s entirely another story.

the CHEESE stands alone

The farmer in the dell
The farmer in the dell
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The farmer in the dell

The farmer takes a wife
The farmer takes a wife
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The farmer takes a wife

The wife takes a child
The wife takes a child
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The wife takes a child

The child takes a nurse
The child takes a nurse
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The child takes a nurse

The nurse takes a cow
The nurse takes a cow
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The nurse takes a cow

The cow takes a dog
The cow takes a dog
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The cow takes a dog

The dog takes a cat
The dog takes a cat
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The dog takes a cat

The cat takes a rat
The cat takes a rat
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The cat takes a rat

The rat takes the CHEESE
The rat takes the CHEESE
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The rat takes the CHEESE

The CHEESE stands alone
The CHEESE stands alone
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The CHEESE stands alone

Childhood trauma. I hated this game in pre-school. I wanted to stab the bastard, who picked me as the CHEESE, with an ice pick. I hated it when I get to be the CHEESE. I hate hate hate it. What was the CHEESE supposed to do? What was the purpose of this game? The CHEESE had to stand in the middle of a circle composed of evil toddlers emphasizing “cheeeeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzz”, high-pitched mind you. And you stand there, and you think, “Hmm, what now?” while these kids sing at you with bulging eyes and evil glee at the fact that the CHEESE is standing alone.

You sweat.

And at that last line of the song… “the CHEEEEEZZZZZZ stands alone…”

They scream… “AAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!”

All hell breaks loose and everyone runs, and for a moment you’re paralyzed. “Mommy, what am I going to do?”

So you run around as well screaming…until the teacher cries “Alright! Alright! Stop that!”

She sits you down and enlighten you patiently, “You have to pick the next farmer.”

So…

The CHEESE gets to decide, eh? And the evil cycle begins all over again.

Somehow I always forget.

I hate being the CHEESE. Because then, everyone wants to be the farmer.

Of 8 Year-Old Girls, Kissing, and The Reproductive System

I’ve made a discovery as to why life became a tad bit boring after High School…Rosanna Buencamino (Goes by the incongruous sweet name of Rose but was also notoriously known in a more suitable name of Sk8) fled the country shortly after graduating. I haven’t spoken to her for the longest time and the image of her in my brain is still that of the tall, gawky, nerdy, bullying, intimidating, outspoken, loud, four-eyed girl whose eccentricity is so way off the charts that when launched from the ground, it circled the earth and the moon ten times before it finally reached its destination. Ah the days of yore, when Rose would pick on Jeya, swoon over Matt Salerno, write her outrageous poems, strut a little too manly, pluck her eyebrows a little to thinly, and fixate on my budding chest. Rose is a freak train speeding dangerously down the tracks, and to be her friend is to be in the front seat with no harness or safety device to cling on to for dear life except for her word that it’s going to be "freaking fun". Coolness.

I have a very fond memory of Rose wherein she polluted my brain with something that never really bothered me before that incident. I met her when we were in the third grade. Sometimes I still wonder how the hell did I get mixed up with the likes of Rose. I can’t recall how or why I was crazy enough to have even given her an inaudible grunt that was mistaken for a "Hi, I want to be your friend". But I thank the gods in Olympus for inspiring that moment. You have to have at least one crazy friend. She's one of them. And then of course I collected more, more, more!

My earliest memory of her was when we were eight years old. In the school that I went to, we had this box contraption called the “SRA”. Hmm, never really knew what that meant. We had a Reading class and the teacher’s job was to have 40 or so students sit still, read from that box, answer questions, and then read some more…solitary...for an hour. To me, that was one hour to indulge in idleness. I read some. And then I talk. And then I sleep. And then I pretend to read furiously at the last five minutes of the period. Little did I know that they record the stuff that you read, and turns out, my numbers turned out to be very dismal. This resulted in English Remedial Classes that I had to attend after my normal schedule. But I only attended one meeting…because of Rose. Rose somehow convinced me to skip the whole thing altogether and just lounge around in the library to vandalize the underside of our uniforms with colored glue. Well, it WAS better than remedial classes. So it was me and Rose, and the Albino kid who was always in the library.

So there was this one day wherein we talked about the act of kissing. I can’t remember why but I’m pretty sure it was because of that Blue Lagoon movie with Brooke Shields and some obscure actor whose name I never bothered to remember. We were hanging out on the second story of the playhouse that was decked with pillows left and right that were most probably drenched with the sweat and drool of other kids. If you ever studied at SSC, did you even wonder at one point if they, at least twice a year, washed those pillows? All I can remember is the smell of mothballs.

The following conversation is most definitely not verbatim, but pretty close. Keep in mind that Rose is 8 years old albeit imagining her as an innocent child is close to impossible.

Rose : Kissing is not as enjoyable as it seems.
Me : Really. It looks okay. Yuck. But the people on TV seem to like it.
Rose : Are you kidding me? Don’t you watch it closely? Don’t you wonder why the girl cries or moans while kissing?
Me : Not Really. Because they enjoy it?
Rose : *exasperated sigh* You have much to learn Ms. *******, much to learn indeed. Do you really want to know what happens?
Me : *curious, threatened, and scared* Yes?
Rose : When people kiss, this is what the guy does. A part of him enters the girl’s body….

DUN DUN DUN

Me : Eh?
Rose : Yes that’s right.

SILENCE

Rose: He sticks a finger up your ass.

CUE THEME FROM THE TWILIGHT ZONE

Me : *flabbergasted, mouth agape*

Rose : And that’s how babies are conceived.

...

Seriously, I bought that for a year. I was a sucker. Thanks a lot Rose.

EPILOGUE
I advanced to the fourth grade, met the terror that is Ms. Santos, and was introduced to the Reproductive System and how it’s all supposed to happen. And half the time, I’m still thinking, this might just be some big conspiracy that Rose had set up because it still sounded ridiculous.

When You’re Caught Between A Rock & A Hard Place

A friend’s recent conversation with her ex-boyfriend incited this little rant. I’ve heard this happen to 5 different people on the span of 3 months and I still find it exasperating. Apparently, some members of the male specie are rapidly losing whatever little amount of testicular fortitude that nature has bestowed upon them.

The situation is this:

The guy is tired of the relationship, the circumstances, the arguments, the making up, the monotonous sex, the tiring routine, when push comes to shove --- he’s tired of you. He’s so fed up he wants to smite you off of his little piece of the world and would rather stare at his stamp collection than to enjoy the company that is you. But did he break up with you? Noooo. Instead he let it drag on and on and on until you snapped and decided to ditch him only to find out months later that “He was being a gentleman by letting you save face and break up with him first rather than the other way around.” BULLSHIT. The gall really, because it sounds like he deserves a thank you card and a medal of honor.

Dudes, here is the deal, if you can’t bear another second with your other half or if you have any other reasons to end it, spit it out because by not doing so, you’re prolonging the torture for all the parties involved. Your torture is in the form of subjecting yourself to the loveless relationship which is nothing compared to the affliction that you have brought upon your partner. You keep them in the dark and give them false hope because little do you know they may be doing the little-engine-that-could routine and are trying to salvage what’s left of your relationship. It’s a cowardly thing to do and in the end you are a spineless jerk. In your opinion you are the considerate and thoughtful party, but by technicality, you are the biggest loser. But that’s just me.

Or maybe girls are guilty of this as well. Okay we are. I just think it’s silly to continue on something that you’ve lost the passion for, pointless really. The intent may be sincere --- to not cause pain, sadness, shame, anger, resentment, heartache, acne, migraines, heart palpitations, brain trauma, epileptic shocks, outbursts of violence, nervous ticks, dementia, Bell’s palsy, and so on and so forth --- but there are two things to be considered: a. You will though, in the end. Best not to aggravate it further. And b. There is no such thing as a pleasant breakup. Or if there is, well that’s nice to know. Still, I’d say it’s minimal and rare.

So how is it supposed to end?

Closer.

I’m referring to the movie.

“I don’t love you anymore. Goodbye.”


Who said it had to be complicated? When it’s gone, it’s done.