Kitty Litter

I am so proud to be part of this team! Beautiful Weddings is the "baby" of Wedding Essentials, and features real stories by real brides (NOT canned PR). Guess which stories gave me the most hell to edit? Haha! It's available at the Wedding Congress tomorrow at Megamall and will hit bookstores next week. All those lovely pages for onlyP 120! :)

Want a free dose of humiliation with a side order of sweat? Ever wondered why nearly everyone looks hideous in their driver’s licenses? I’ve uncovered the secret, and I’m going to share it with you. It’s all in the process.

I renewed mine early last week to avoid two things: 1) the penalty they slap on you for doing it late and 2) the horror of trying to get it done on the day of your birthday.

They say the mind blocks out traumatic episodes in your life, and I’m inclined to agree, because I trooped to the San Juan LTO with a vague memory of having had a good experience there three years ago. I had the impression that they were far more efficient than the LTO on East Avenue, which is riddled with fuckers, oops, fixers. cheerfully expecting to be done in half a day. I was wrong; I got my license in two hours. Good, right? Not at all. “You gotta be kidding me” is my catchphrase of the day.

This is how it happens. You get a form from the guard (though the official directions tell you to go to Window 3). He staples the form to the receipt that comes with your license. You get your drug test, where the attendant unstaples your forms, staples the drug test application form to it, then when the results come in, unstaples the whole mass of forms then staples the results to the bottom. (Want the excruciating details of the drug test? It’s a total “You gotta be kidding me” moment. It’s gross, so if you’re sensitive, forget about it.) You line up again at Window 3, wait for your forms to be unstapled from one another, assessed, then restapled together again. You are then directed to get your medical examination (which Miss Window 3 says you should have done so earlier, but how were you supposed to know?) upstairs, where a gaggle of small medical testing clinics sit together. Incidentally one sign says “Medical Test P 50 Urine Drug Test P 250 Mineral Water P 10”. You hope they aren’t handling the bottles of pee with the same hands that hold the mineral water.

So I lined up (again) for a medical test, and when my turn came, the quack (I have my doubts as to whether she was a doctor) asked me in a loud voice, “HOW MUCH DO YOU WEIGH?” (Amounts greatly exaggerated from hereon in) I said, “Uh, one ton?” She replied, “ARE YOU SURE? YOU LOOK MORE LIKE TWO TONS TO ME!” The others waiting for their tests were now looking at me interestedly, probably thinking I was reluctant to reveal my weight—which I was willing to do but not in a public forum. “GET ON THE SCALE,” she ordered.

The good news? I’ve lost fifteen pounds, probably thanks to the stress at the office. The bad news? Quack didn’t know that, and announced my weight to the world. “UY YOU WEIGH ONE AND A HALF TONS. OKAY!” She proceeded to write the pound figure for my weight, but added “kg” at the end, effectively doubling it. I just had to speak up. “Excuse me but based on the weight you’ve written there, I should logically be unable to fit behind the steering wheel.” “OH YOU’RE RIGHT! OK LANG YAN, YOU’RE GETTING THERE ANYWAY,” she chortled. She then asked me if I wore glasses, and made me read the eye chart on the wall I’d memorized in the time it took to call me to be examined.

On my way out, her assistant greeted me an advanced happy birthday. I bit my tongue to keep from retorting, “Not anymore, thanks to your boss.” She unstapled my papers then stapled the medical test results to them. Scrap metal from the staple wires were gathered in small plastic bins on her desk; for what earthly purpose, I have no idea.

After Miss Window 3 unstapled my forms yet again and arranged them neatly, she then stapled them back together…neatly, set them aside, and instructed me to wait for someone at Window 5 to call me.

I took a seat in the crowded, unventilated waiting area. By now I was soaked with sweat, and so were the people around me, 99% of whom were male. I remember thanking whatever gods there be that I already have Wynn; the waiting room was filled with enough unattractive men to make you go lesbian. Here’s the thing; while I don’t mind men who are physically imperfect (I am, after all, dating a man who looks like Hagrid, and I love him that way!), I do object to men who pick their noses in public, spit on the floor, scratch their crotches, spread their legs wide, smell awful, are rude, and who are all of the above simultaneously.

Twenty minutes later I was called so that they could take my photo. I hate having my photo taken because cameras hate me with a passion. In addition, I was tired, sweaty, and puzzled about the whole staple business; environment-conscious blokes would have kittens if they ever saw what went on at just one branch of the LTO (I bet they go through a ton of staple wire a day). That didn’t stop me from taking one of my most horrid license photos ever; those who have seen it (just Wynn, actually) have had to fight acute cases of giggles. I look fat and sweaty and tired, all at once. The kindest comment I’ve heard is that I look tired. Personally, I think I look like an overweight terrorist in drag but then that’s just me.

Thirty minutes later, I was called to pay almost P 300 for one of the worst photos ever taken of me. Another thirty minutes later, I had my license.

Maybe it'll scare cops when they try to ticket me. It's the only consolation I can think of.

Addendum: I just glanced at it and got past the hideous photo to look at my stats. They got my weight wrong: 47 kilos. I think they weighed my left leg to get that figure. Now I have to go back and replace it. But not very soon.

Labels: funny bureaucracy, humiliation

While working at home yesterday to save lunch and commuting money, I heard the song “All For Love” by Color Me Badd (how prosaic) from 1992. It brings back cheerful memories of a time gone by, of lost innocence, and makes me write in clichés like the ones you just read.

It’s amazing how important songs and music are to our lives, whether we notice them or not. I was proofing the New York Times last week when I came across an article explaining why “The Wonder Years” is not yet available on DVD despite the huge demand for it. It’s because the music licensing costs are prohibitive. Yet the producers persist, because they believe that without the original music, much of the series’ charm will be lost. The fans agree.

Getting back to “All For Love”: I absolutely hated that song when it was first released back when I was still in college. A little background is necessary at this point, and I’m reconstructing this from my old diaries.

I was going through the application process for an organization which I really had no business joining—it being a pre-med org, and I an English major. But hormones usually rule over right and left brain hemispheres, and so I found myself going through the rather brutal application and initiation process because I had a crush on one of the guys there. Let’s call him "Tim".

I’d first seen him in my Soc Sci class, and marveled at how such an anime-pretty boy could come to life right in front of me. Coincidentally, Wynn was in the same class, and he was assigned the seat diagonally behind Tim, thus blocking my lovely view (I was across the theater from both of them. Yes, I had a class in a theater. Go figure). Oh, how I "...cursed and ranted at the fates that such a dorky-looking guy could prevent me from seeing my male Muse..." (and note that I am quoting from my old diaries, so forgive the stinky prose).

But when I found out (through a process one shade removed from stalking, and including certain acts of dubious morality such as stealing Tim’s class card from the heap where the Soc Sci department usually dumped class cards the end of the semester) that he was the member of that org, I put my name down for application. Had I known then what was involved (hint: ketchup does nothing good for your hair when you shampoo with it. Same goes for patis--fish sauce) maybe I might have thought a little harder before defying my friend James’ dire warnings and insisting on joining that org. If you’re safely in your twenties or beyond, of course you know that I didn’t listen to him; the more you tell a teen to do something, the more s/he’ll do exactly what you don’t want her/him to do.

Enough with the sermon. During the application process, I became close to another applicant, Lisa, and we shared secrets. I told her about my crush on Tim and she told me that she liked another member, whom I’ll call Pao, who was currently linked to another member but who was not that member’s boyfriend.

(Digression: when he went after poor Lisa, the repercussions were terrible, mainly because the other member was the prez of the org, and the other members felt it their civic duty to “destroy” Lisa for presuming to interrupt a beautiful non-relationship (otherwise known as MU, allegedly "mutual understanding" or "mag-un". It's a lovely kind of non-relationship that allows both parties not to commit). It's the stuff teleseries like "Beverly Hills, 90210, Dawson's Creek, and The OC are made of. Ah to be young and hormone-riddled again!)

Where was I? At the tambayan (organization hang-out), we had a radio going nearly all of the time, and once, near Christmas, the song “All For Love” was playing. I was railing to patient Lisa about how I particularly hated the repetitive piano riff in the background when Tim entered the tambayan. He heard the song, snapped his fingers, and did a cute little dance only cute boys can do…and get away with. Upon seeing me watching him, he smiled at me radiantly, then said, “Cute song, huh?”

When he left, Lisa turned to me and said, “So, about your new favorite song...?"

She understood things better than I did.

Labels: college memories, music

One of the advantages—and I use the term loosely—of being a commuter to Manila is the many stories you can tell of what transpires during your trip.

(Allow me to clarify one thing now: a commuter is anyone who travels, whether on foot, rickety jeepney, rotten car, helicopter, or MRT. But let’s stick to the groundlings like myself for now.)

I go to different car washes when I can, and I am often embarrassed by how dirty my car gets after a mere three days in Manila. When I was still in UP, I only needed to clean my car once every two weeks; in Manila, miss one week cleaning your car and things begin to come alive in places where the sun shouldn’t shine.

The dirt comes from many different sources; my least favorite are the jeepney drivers who clear their nostrils willy-nilly into the road. Other human waste I’ve seen strewn about on Manila roads include urine (from a jeep laden with returning holidaymakers), the ubiquitous spit, and human feces—the squatters along the railroad tracks in Manila delight in throwing arinolas and plastic bags filled with shit at the passing train. I can only assume there’s a points-and-rewards system in place.

How on earth will you explain that hardened yellow gob of snot on the passenger side of your car? It’s the kind of thing that makes car wash boys back off and charge ten bucks extra.

I watched one driver while stuck in traffic a while ago. Not content to “phone home” with plenty of gusto, he happily rolled his bogies into tiny cannonballs and flung them out the window. Then he would receive payments from passengers and make change with the same hand he used to pick his nose (yet another reason not to take a jeep). When the, uh, strain in his nose grew too much to bear, he alternately depressed one nostril while energetically blowing unidentified yellow-green matter from the other…in the general direction of my car. I know it’s stupid but I deliberately plowed into floodwater on that side of the car. My car can’t die of leptospirosis now, can it? (If it can, oh siyet.)

While I know that toilet paper is a luxury these drivers are unwilling to give up their daily Philip Morrises or San Miguels for, I just wish they’d aim elsewhere. Like at their fellow drivers. Of course that will lead to a fight, but you’re not truly Pinoy if you’ve never egged two combatants on, ever.

When I began working for the Bulletin, one of the delights I encountered early on were the naked men who litter the streets here and delight in displaying their 'meaty' wares to passersby. One such specimen walked slowly and deliberately towards my car, all the while fixing a manic stare on my plate number and 'choking the chicken'. I can only suppose my plates really turned him on, but I didn’t stick around to find out; I nearly smashed into a jeepney cutting into the next lane so that my car could escape his unwanted attentions.

But the most fun you have when commuting is trying to figure out the WTF (what the fuck?) moments. For instance, stuck on Lacson, Wynn and I once saw a guy selling fishing poles (which in itself is a WTF situation; who buys those things?) scurrying for cover, wending between cars in an effort to escape something, all the while glancing over his shoulder.

Ten seconds later, two men came pounding after him. One was a big, bald bloke sans shirt, with the kind of physique that makes young girls want to turn lesbian. It invoked images of Baliwag lechon to me. He was armed with a lethal looking bolo, and if we’d been in a cartoon, sparks would’ve glinted off his eyes. The other was skinny, and he raced behind the lechon guy, determinedly clutching…a pair of large rocks.

Had they been cheated somehow? Did they take their poles on a fishing trip only to find out they could reel in nothing bigger than a tawilis? Or had the fishing pole guy poked one of them with his wares?

Only Manila knows, and she can keep her secrets.

So. Have you got a commuting story too?

Labels: funny yucky stuff, horrors of driving