CABS, RUSH HOUR, MKAE.

January 9, 2008 at 11:15 pm | Filed under bitchin' a ride, urban primadonna

When it comes to hailing a cab in the metro between the hours of three and eight in the evening, only one rule applies: it’s every man for himself. For someone who doesn’t know how to drive (you laugh, but wait ’til I kill myself because I had one too many rumcolas and ended up ramming my car into a wall) and for someone who doesn’t own a car, the term ‘Rush Hour’ basically translates to “I, Helga Gabrielle Weber, am fucked; I might as well grab myself a 1-piece chicken with rice meal, a Tomato-Lettuce-Cheeseburger, and a large fries from Jollibee and head back to the condo to play more Sims 2 (which is actually the reason as to why I ended up not leaving home early enough to avoid rush hour) because there is no waaay in hell am I going to get out of Katipunan; not right now, not in the next hour, not until 9PM”.

That was the case the other day. Tonight, I did not have the liberty of flipping the evening Katipunan crowd the finger so I prepared myself for the worst, left my laptop at home, and traveled lightly (ooh, so dramatic for a twenty minute cab ride to Pasig).

I waited seven minutes for a cab outside my building (I know it was seven minutes because that’s how long it takes for me to smoke a cigarette) and nothing. I flagged down a tricycle, got off at McDonald’s, and walked down Katipunan Avenue because lawd knows I’d have better luck getting a cab there. I checked the time on my phone: a little past seven. I figured that most students must have gotten home by now and I’d have an easier time getting a cab. WRONG.

Now like I said: it’s every man (or woman) for himself (or herself) this time of the day. No acts of gentlemanliness or kindness occur when it comes to getting your ass in a cab; and really, no one expects any sort of chivalry during desperate times. What I do expect, though, is some fucking decency; some evidence that these rich college kids aren’t a bunch of assholes and fuckheads.

Or maybe I’m too mannered when it comes to certain things. Am I the only one who thinks that there’s such a thing as, uh, cab hailing etiquette? And if there isn’t, well, there should be. Nevermind that you’re dealing with strangers and people you’ll never encounter again (thus, giving you the excuse not to be nice pffft)— it’s not right to steal someone else’s cab.

So I have here a super short list called The One Thing You Should Never To Do To Your Fellow Stranded-In-The-Metro-During-Rush-Hour-Waiting-For-A-Cab Men When You’re Stranded In The Metro During Rush Hour Waiting For A Cab:

1) DO NOT HOUND SOMEONE WHO’S WAITING FOR A CAB, IN HOPES OF BEATING THEM TO THE FIRST CAB THAT SLOWS IN FRONT OF THEM. There is nothing more annoying than this, I swear. On the same note: when waiting for a cab, keep a distance of at least ten meters between you and the person in front of you. Do not give them the impression that you are itching to pounce on the next cab that merrily rolls your way— a cab that’s rightfully theirs.

I remember this time when I was running late for work and it was 5pm on a weekday on Katipunan Avenue. I was standing outside Red Ribbon, desperate for a cab when two Korean girls sneakily made their way behind me. I looked at them, shrugged them off for being weird and Korean-y, and started walking towards 7-11 (better chance of getting a cab from someone getting off at the condo building). They were tailing me, planning to steal my cab! The non-English speaking Korean nerve!!!

So I killed them.

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ON ARMPITS, INTIMACY, AND PUBLIC BEHAVIOR.

January 8, 2008 at 6:22 pm | Filed under mr wonderful, the helga manual, Y!M conversations

Despite looking like your average run-of-the-mill wouldn’t-know-better good-for-nothing Filipina adult who you’d think, at first glance, most likely spends her time doing average run-of-the-mill wouldn’t-know-better good-for-nothing Filipina stuff— I actually don’t. Or I’m actually not. Or: I’m actually not and I actually don’t.

It’s been pointed out several times by lover that I am not normal (actually, not just not normal but far from normal) and that I should be taking steps towards normalcy. And I am working on that, and anyway, that’s not the point. The point is: at the risk of being laughed at or having your respect levels for me plummet to -19, I’d like to come clean and say that I. Have a thing. For armpits.

All along, I thought having an armpit fetish was an acceptable thing. Until today:

WEIRDING OUT SOMEONE WHO LIKES TALKING DIRTY TO HIS PENIS. :(
KILI-KILI = ARMPITS

This thing for armpits began some time ago when I saw a picture of Jerry Yan wearing a sleeveless top for a Pepsi endorsement. Instead of saying the usual “Patingin ng titi!” (trans: your penis, show me it), I got so…interested in his armpits and his armpit hair that I said “PATINGIN NG KILI-KILIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!” (trans: I could have sex with your ampits if you showed me it).

I never actively pursued my men’s armpits, though, and it wasn’t a non-negotiable when it came to whether or not this guy would make a qualified partner in bed. Truth be told, only two of my exes had armpits yummy enough that made me want to pitch a tent in them and live there forever. One of them was 6’3″ and the other used to fight— professionally. So to say, they had (uhhh) big and (uhhh) very accomodating armpits that doubled as a pillow because back then, all I had was a tiny single bed that could hardly fit two people.

(Dear Lover,

Love,
Helga)

Lover’s armpits are another story, though. They’re not big, they’re not very accomodating, and quite frankly, they’re a couple of snobs. But I have never EVER met a pair of sexier snobs in my life. It can be said that I’m nearing the state of being obsessed. Lover didn’t sleep over the other night and I woke up to a dream of him showing me his armpits. So imagine my disappointment when I opened my eyes, rolled to my side, and saw not a sexy hairy armpit waiting to be kissed or have my nose buried in it, but empty space. I almost cried.

Having an armpit fetish is a dangerous thing for someone who hardly has any sense of privacy or for someone who is lacking inhibitions, both of which can be said of me. It’s also mighty embarrassing for lover that I am or have all three. Several times it has happened that we’re in a public place and I automatically reach up his sleeve to tuck my hand into his armpit. It’s something I do out of habit and as sort of like a replacement for a kiss or a hug.

Of course, lover had to analyze the shit out of it and kill it for me by saying that showing affection for armpits in public is actually a gesture more intimate than a kiss; posing questions such as “would you greet your friend by touching their armpits?” and “would you kiss your friend’s armpits?”. The answers to both questions are an obvious no…although there was this one time that Aa was passed out and drunk in my bed and I had to move her and she wouldn’t budge, so I bit her armpit— that doesn’t count, though, because I did it out of necessity, not because I had the desire to.

I’m curious: is armpit-touching in public something you actually notice? I know that no one sane would consider it acceptable public behavior (same goes for loudly commenting on your partner’s ass— something that I, once again, am guilty of), but is it something that would grab your attention if you see strangers doing it?

Helga: I’m blogging about your armpits.
Lover: You’re kidding me.
Helga: Nope. Lol.
Lover: Aww baaaaayb, lol.
Helga: They’re so sexy kasi eh hmp.
Lover: Fine. I’ll blog about your singit.

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IT WAS ABOUT TIME.

January 6, 2008 at 5:04 pm | Filed under admin, mr wonderful

Uhh. Updating for the sake of saying that I, uh, finally changed headers and the color scheme. Something I’ve been meaning to do since May last year. The last layout, the one that I’ve secretly always referred to as my Easter Egg layout, has been around since April 2007 (thus the easter egg colors, doi) and I’m glad to be rid of it. Still using the same theme, as I like this one.

It’s my face again because I am vain and because lover told me to use my eyes in that photo. So I decided to use my nose. The colors on the header’s left side are actually the colors of my dress that night/New Year’s. And you need to know all this because?

What’s a good color for the date? Anyone know anything about Wilmington NC real estate? :(

In other news, today has been a real lazy Sunday spent at Starbucks with lover; my laptop against his laptop as we sit right across each other, talking over YM and Twitter. What a geeks.

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LIFE AS AN UNEMPLOYED 22-YEAR OLD WAITING FOR HER LIFE TO START.

January 4, 2008 at 4:28 pm | Filed under ditz drivel

I have decided that the concept of life as an unemployed 22-year old waiting for her life to start would make perfect chick lit material, and that I should put my talent (lolwhat?) for stringing words together to form sentences and paragraphs to good use by writing that sort of novel. But I’m lazy and chick lit heroines are required to have the one thing that I lack and that my friends, is a resume stating that she graduated top of her class from some prestigious and insanely expensive university.

So I’m royally bored. Last night, lover asked me what my plans were for today. I replied with “Nothing…and I LOVE it!”. And I do. I woke up at a little past 11 today and I couldn’t decide what, of my many options, to do first: play Sims 2? Finish watching Shopgirl? Finish watching Lucky Number Slevin (yes, I have a habit of watching movies in halves)? Watch The Ten for the second time? Shower? Clean our guest bathroom? Go online? Work on this blog’s new layout? Guess which of those I didn’t do (clue: it includes scrubbing, detergent, bleach, and a toilet brush).

It’s scaring me shitless, though, knowing that I have voluntarily rendered my bank account stagnant and I won’t be drawing a salary until further notice. The other day, I stood outside our bathroom as my housemate was taking a shower (conversations when the other party is naked and covered in soap suds makes for, well, good conversation) and I told her the amount I had in my bank account and how I only have enough to last me until the next month’s rent (I actually had enough to pay for three months plus a little more but our “contract” ends in February and then I move back home until I figure things out. Also, rent isn’t the only thing I pay for; I DO send an economically-disadvantaged kid in Bangladesh to school and donate to charity. Okay, so I’m lying and now I feel bad) and she told me that I had a lot. I said NO!!! DON’T YOU KNOW? I DONATE TO CHARITY! and she said “Well, you have your folks.”

True that.

Right now, my head is in my hands, as I think of ways to swindle money from my mom. Kidding, mom’s actually agreed to finance whatever “academic” whims I have that need financing (but I doubt she’d agree to send me back to an actual university or college for another eight semesters) and it’s annoying that now that I know I have a safety net in the form of a 46-year old woman, I’m starting to not want to do anything with my life. I’m probably going to end up the typical Filipino: 36-years old with 3 kids (different fathers, no husband) still living with her folks.

I need a good nudge and perhaps the will to start going through the reading materials that my personal career coach (who also doubles as the lover) has so sexily provided me. My eBooks, let me show you it:

Nevermind that he totally ignored the fact that I don’t have a dSLR or a camera that’s spiffier than my Cybershot.

So. What now. Life, are you there? It’s me, Helga.

Edit// I checked my email and found a letter from the past, from me, to me:

One year from now, when you read this, I hope you’ll be happy and loved. Same as the last letter you sent yourself. You read it just a few days ago; you had wished yourself (more than a year ago) to be happy and loved. You were, when that letter came. And now you’re not.

OMG, the emo-ness. But I am happy. And loved. But more importantly, loving. :cute:

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SINCE I WUZ GON.

January 2, 2008 at 3:45 pm | Filed under joyful girl, mr wonderful, photos

I ended the year doing the most courageous, irresponsible, and courageously irresponsible thing in my 22 years of living: I quit work. I didn’t even properly hand in my resignation when I decided not to come in Christmas Eve. Like hell I’d spend the first few hours of Christmas in the office; it’s bad enough that my folks don’t celebrate the day, leaving me with nothing to be cheerful about.

But I did have lots to be happy about (even if my noche buena consisted of a Jamaican patty bought from a gas station convenience store, a dimsum swiped from lover, and a bag of potato chips) because I spent Christmas with lover. And okay, so I had Christmas dinner with my family, too, but Christmas sex > quality time with people you’re related by blood to and will probably never disown you even when you resort to online prostitution because you’re currently unemployed and have bills to pay, kk?

Notable conversations with the family:

#1: Mom (looking at the dress I was wearing, which barely covered my ass): That’s what you’re wearing?
Helga: Yeah?
Mom: It’s too short!
Helga: Fine. I’ll put on a skirt. (Puts on a mini skirt that added a quarter of an inch of coverage)
Mom: That’s better.

#2: Brother: So what now?! I thought I’d drop you off where you’ll eat and then I’ll go pick up Elaine (the girlfriend).
*silence, trying to figure out the night’s logistics and such, because my dad was being a priss and faking a headache so he wouldn’t drive)
Dad: Just pick up Elaine…dude.

#3: Mom: Si Daddy, parang artista. Suplado sa personal. (Trans: dad’s like a celebrity, a snob in person)

#4: Dad, putting in a CD of house music: Listen to this, this is nice.
Helga, after a few songs: *changes the track, quickly*
*silence*
Brother: …what was that???
Helga: A HALE SONG.

And then two days after Christmas, I found myself in hell (which can be found on Region I of the Philippine map under the town of Mangaldan, Pangasinan) for my mom’s cousin’s wedding (which I was a bridesmaid for. Those Mangaldan people, always getting me for their weddings. I was once maid-of-honor for another mom’s cousin and I didn’t even know the bride’s first name). I tell you: I hated that place when I was a kid, and I thought it wouldn’t be so bad now that I’m all grown up and shit but NO WAY, it was still just as bad. Actually, it was worse because there were more kids (I reckon about twenty of them) running and screaming around the compound, the old wrinkly people talked to you more cos you’re, like, nearer their age now and not some sulky ten-year old nagging her mom for cable tv, and the drunks hyphyer. All I wanted was to hole up in some room with a computer with internet and I went through all four houses looking for one and found none. Crazy.

La Union proved to be the third best thing since I changed my employment status to, well, unemployed and on my way to being broke. Except that bit when 20 people from Mangaldan decided to spend the night, but nevermind that. There’s something very zen about waking up at 9am, making my coffee, grabbing my cigarettes and an old issue of Cosmo, and spending an hour on the kubo by the pool with the rice fields and farm animals laid out in front of you.

And because I’m not in a blogging mood and have to catch up on all the internetty stuff I missed, here’s a shitload of pictures, starting with my new kitty, Poochie (just like baby announcements!):

INSIDE HER BAG, ATTACKED BY A CAMERA

Read the rest of the entry »

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