WORKPLACE HELL: THE WASHROOM.

December 20, 2007 at 5:41 am | Filed under a waste of human capital, bitchin' a ride

It is unfortunate that I— a person who pees a lot— works for a company called Slave-Driving Bastards, Inc.; unfortunate, not only because they are slave-driving bastards who don’t give you the holidays off, but they also only allot their employees ten personal break minutes throughout a 9-hour shift. And don’t get me started on personal minutes being bad minutes because I have too much anger coursing through my veins right now. Blood drive, what? HOW ABOUT I FUCKING DONATE 20CC OF RED HOT ANGER YOUR WAY, ASSHOLE?

It is also unfortunate that there are only four washrooms per floor of our building, one for each sex on each wing. There are about 200-300 agents per wing. I’m sure that about half of that 200-300 are made up of humans with vaginas. So that’s maybe 100-150 vagina-bearing humans sharing Four. Fucking. Bathroom. Stalls.

Until last Monday, when they hung an Out of Order sign on one of the doors.

That’s maybe 100-150 vagina-bearing humans sharing Three. Fucking. Bathroom. Stalls. Since Monday.

It doesn’t really bother me. What bothers me is when I need to, like, REALLYFUCKINGGO (like OMG, can you see the crotch of my jeans darkening? YEAH, I NEED TO GO, LET ME IN RIGHT NOW) and I hit Aux-1 on this godforsaken Avaya phone and then dash to the washroom and—

Is there a party or a prayer meeting going on in the ladies’ washroom? Or did everybody decide to have their lunch here? What’s with all the people?

So I stand there with my butt resting on the sink, my feet going tap-tap-tap and my arms crossed while I wait for a free stall. Usually, there’s a line of about 3-4 vagina-bearing humans waiting for their turn. And because we’re human beings and we’re all supposed to be nice, common courtesy dictates that if you were the first person in the washroom to wait for a free stall, YOU GO FIRST. If you’re the second person, YOU GO SECOND. And so on. I don’t care if you’re the eighteenth person in there and you’re literally pissing your pants and crying, YOU GO EIGHTEENTH.

Unless someone takes pity on you, of course, and let’s you go ahead of them.

So I could really shank a bitch when someone messes the order of things and is rude enough to take my place in line. Like, I could shank that certain bitch. The one who messed up the order of things. Because you just don’t do that!

A few minutes ago, someone attempted to do exactly just that to me. Did she think I was, I don’t know, just hanging out in the washroom, staring at the putrid orange doors and NOT waiting in line to pee? The second I heard the door’s metal lock slide to (surprise!) unlock and the second I saw her make a step towards the stall, I fucking RAN. I tell ya. I RAN. I cut her off, RAN inside the stall, and slammed it shut.

More common courtesy that should be exhibited in the washroom: do not hog the sink. Especially when there are only two.

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IN SEARCH OF NEW ADDICTIONS.

December 7, 2007 at 5:09 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, ditz drivel, photos

The universe must be wonky this time of the year— it’s almost the weekend and I have yet to lust for alcohol. Most of you would probably see this as a good thing, but I’m telling you now: IT. IS. NOT.

You see, children, there was a time in my life when I was actually sober for roughly six months. By “sober”, I mean one beer a week (usually on a Saturday night after dinner and a movie). I also remember that for about two months during my senior year in college when my bloodstream and whatever biological pathways that alcohol courses through in my bodeh were completely— and I mean COMPLETELY— devoid of alcohol.

It all sounds preposterous, I know, and you might think that I’m bullshitting you or perhaps writing about a girl named Melba who lives with her grandmother Zenaida (because her parents are OFWs in Dubai) in some rundown apartment unit in Novaliches. Melba whose hobbies include cross-stitching the face of Jesus and macrame. Melba whose biggest secret is that she has a crush on her next-door neighbor, Jojo, and that she collects his discarded candy wrappers and keeps them in a box under her bed. Melba who drinks Cali Shandy and whose ideal night out would be trolling her village’s streets at 10 in the evening dressed in a Lee Pipes or a Jag Thug shirt and Dr Lee denim shorts, both two sizes too small. With her cellphone in hand.

No, kids, I was writing about myself. I don’t always fail at taking a shot at sobriety.

My weekend is less than an hour away (I’m on leeeeave! I’m on leeeeeeave!) and it’s a bit puzzling that getting hammered isn’t part of the plan. I don’t even have a plan. I’ve texted half the people in my phonebook asking if anyone wanted to watch The Golden Compass with me and not one of them had the clemency to reply to poor li’l DESPERATE-FOR-A-FUCKING-FRIDAY-NIGHT-OUT me.

Is it because they’re scared I’ll end up dragging them to the nearest watering hole as soon as the movie ends? Is it because I disgusted them when, a few days ago, I texted them asking if they could hook me up with Valium or Stilnox or a hosto from Tondo or all three? Or is it because I only have two people in my phone book and instead of texting lover (who is impotent and would rather fap off to motobikes than spend time with me), I sent the message to my mom (who, as we speak, is probably disowning me and packing all my Antipolo belongings in a cardboard box to store in our carport. Or in the vacant lot beside our house. For the cats and dogs to mangle and defecate on)? Or is it because I’m black?

Yeah. It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?

Here’s a picture from last Saturday night, taken at Cubao X during Lomomanila‘s Christmas party. With me is— no, not Melba— Mina, whom I went to college with. Now let’s play a game of Spot The Difference.

Is it our hair? No.
Our eyes (she’s winking, I’m not)? No.
Our shirts? No.
She has more things dangling from her neck? No.

WHAT THEN, FOR FUCK’S SAKE???

She has a degree in International Studies. I don’t.

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CRASH DIETS ARE MY EMOTIONAL CURE-ALL.

December 4, 2007 at 5:29 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, breaking up the girl

Let it be known to the world that I, Helga “The” Weber, a Filipino citizen of legal age residing in Loyola Heights, Quezon City, am probably having what could easily be tagged as The Worst Days of My Life.

You bet I wish I were exaggerating.

Now the last thing I want to happen is to immortalize the past few shitty days in the form of a blog entry that will magically have, well, the magical capabilities of Never Being Deleted. So I won’t write about it. Yes, I’m that traumatized. Instead, what I’ll do is go on a hunger strike!

NO! MORE! EATING!
(I KNOW I’M SWEATY. GO AWAY)

This works perfectly, in pursuit of my lifelong ambition of becoming a trophy wife. I mean, I can’t sit on my ass all day, stuffing my face with insane amounts of convenience store breaded chicken strips while smoking pack after pack of Marlboro Reds and expect that some rich, good-looking, condominium building-owning old man would sweep me off my feet and bribe me (with all the KFC bucket meals I can eat, WarBook goldses, and tabloid articles about me three times a week) into a loveless marriage, can I? I mean, have you ever heard of a fat trophy wife? Can you even fathom the idea of one???

So my point is this: Hunger strike. Tic-Tacs and vodka diet. Dulcolax. Until I start feeling better or lose 10 pounds.

Today, I bleat at the world (while checking out equestrian apparel): MEH.

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MORE LANDLORD RANTING.

October 30, 2007 at 2:57 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, photos

For Halloween, I went as a lesbian.

Okay, so the truth is: my last-minute plans of going as a Girl Scout or a missing remote control were foiled by the lover and I making an adventure out of going to Mordo and Jen‘s place down south. Meaning, we took the train and the bus and then hung out at ATC while waiting for someone to pick us up— not exactly something I’d like to do in a Girl Scout uniform or with two cushions stuck to my side. MEH.

So anyway, a blight to what could have been a perfect weekend (practically spent in bed, recuperating from the Juans’s awesomtastic Halloween party) with the lover: more landlord issues. I’m seriously sick of dealing with our two psycho landlords who are obviously determined make our remaining months in their building a living hell.

For the past eight months, my two housemates and I have been renting out this two-bedroom condo unit in the perpetually noisy Xavierville Avenue. Since we pay for the rent and the utilities, we expect to be able do as we wish. After all, it’s not a boarding house or a dormitory, yet the landlords lay out silly rules as if it were. We can’t have people sleep over without a written request (which is “not guranteed and subject to approval”) and we also can’t have visitors stay beyond midnight (a rule we continually and purposely break).

It was kinda tolerable, really, even though the asshole night guard with the faded blue uniform would ring our doorbell at midnight to remind us that it’s time to kick out our visitors. We kinda just learn how to bring in our guests in the afternoon and keep them inside the unit til the next morning. I was able to shrug off that incident when the nice guard went up to our unit to inform us that the landlords were planning on having the lover’s car towed, even though it was a Sunday and the shops downstairs were closed and there was no shortage of parking slots ANYWHERE. I was also able to laugh at and make a joke out of that time when the crazy landlord wife confiscated our umbrellas that we left outside our door for drying. I mean, Jesus Christ, how petty can someone get?

Unfortunately, I reached my limit when the asshole night guard semi-bitched at me yesterday, at 3am. You’re a security guard and I know you’re just doing your job and carrying out orders but you don’t talk to me in an arrogant tone and you don’t threaten me, saying that you won’t ever let my guest in— especially my lover— while you’re on duty. You’ll have the right to ban my guests the day you fork over money to pay for our rent and our monthly bills, you understand? As for the landlords, we’ll consider following their stupid rules once they give us our copy of the contract that explicitly states that we can’t have visitors past midnight, that we can’t have people sleeping over (because our friends are thieves and druggies and pedophiles and are threats to the building’s security and would rather troll the building’s three floors at two in the morning than spend time with the awesome inhabitants of Unit 2A *insert rolling eyes here*), that we can’t have people parking in the building (by the way, we were told before we got the unit that we’re entitled to one parking slot), and that we can’t leave our umbrellas to dry outside the unit.

GAH. I’d like NOT to deal with this crap, thank you very much. Three things about them:

1) We don’t have a copy of our contract. The first time Allah attempted to ask for it, they asked her why. The second time, they yelled at her.

2) They don’t pay taxes.

3) This all started because we wouldn’t bring our laundry to their laundry shop.

I told my dad EVERYTHING (except that part that I usually have a naked man in my bed during the weekends. That, and the fact that there’s a five-year old Chinese kid I’m holding for ransom stowed away under the bathroom sink) and he wrote down on his nifty to-do list: Helga, lawyer. I seriously hope I don’t calm down and turn soft because I would love nothing more than to ruin their family’s holidays by ratting them out to the BIR.

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HOW VOLATILE.

October 18, 2007 at 4:49 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, photos

Phony Issues
Valid during many months: With this influence, you have to show other people that you are someone to be reckoned with. Or you may have to defend yourself against an attack from someone, whether or not you have provoked it. This influence is most likely to produce conflicts, anger and resentment. The best thing to do, if a conflict situation arises, is to have it out immediately. If you do not find a satisfactory outlet for your energies at this time, you will be easily angered, resentful, irritable and quick to take offense. If you must blow up at somebody, make sure that you understand the real source of the conflict, so that it can be aired. All too often, conflicts occur over phony issues that are only symbols of a much more profound problem.

Quand je suis fâché, je me sens comme je t’aime moins.

Je souhaite.

Gonna set up some cardboard displays.

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