Archive for made in the Philippines
November 30, 2007 at 2:39 am | Filed under made in the Philippines
This Trillanes guy, what a funny. Nothing came out of the Oakwood Mutiny so what made him think he and his little army would get anything out of besieging the Manila Pen? On second thought, he did get something out of the bloodless mutiny from four years ago: a seat in the senate. Just shows how what-a-not-thinkings the Filipino masses are.
SERIOUSLY. I was asleep when the quasi-coup happened. Lover and I were planning on catching a movie in the Makati area because he’s leaving me for the weekend (HEY BOYS, I’M GIRLS! WANT SOME SMEXY NO-STRINGS ATTACHED SEXY TIME SATURDAY NIGHT??? CALL ME! LOVER IS OUT OF TOWN… oh wait, look, an email. What? He missed his flight?! WHAT? His flight was really for Friday night and he was stuck in traffic for over two hours on his way to the airport, for nothing? HYUK HYUK HYUK, THIS LOVER PERSON, FUNNIER THAN TRILLANES)… wait. What was I saying?
Again. So I was sleeping when our hero decided to waltz out of his court hearing. I was still sleeping when whatever happened at the Manila Pen happened. I got a text message from lover saying that due to the “stupid coup” we won’t be able to go on our Makati Movie Date so can he just use my body for secks, please? Fine by me. I was still in bed when our hero and his crew surrendered to the mighty mighty tank that busted down the lobby of the Manila Pen. Oh, the hilarity of it all. I’ve had foul moods that lasted longer than this BS.
I’m willing to bet my inheritance that we’ll be seeing Danilo Lim running for office in a few years.
August 10, 2007 at 4:01 am | Filed under ditz drivel, made in the Philippines, technicolor lover
For no apparent reason, I am reminded of this time the best friend and I took on Pampanga on our own. Armed with bikinis, two days’ worth of clothes, Valium, and each other’s company (all you need in life, but throw in some cigarettes and rum in there) we made our way to a provincial bus station, sat in the front of an ordinary bus (so we could smoke during the two-hour ride) and started badgering the driver to leave. But anyway, not the point.
So this security guard comes up, stands on the steps in front of us, and starts trying to get me admit that I was Yasmien Kurdi from Starstruck. Or just anyone from Starstruck/a celebrity. And then the guard does the laughable: he pulls out a wallet-sized photo of him, hands it to me, and asks for my autograph.
Several levels of weird and crazy right there. Tell me this doesn’t only happen in the Philippines.
I’m feeling extremely irritable and territorial today and I’m trying my bestest to suck it up and remain pleasant. So I’m calling forth happy thoughts, such as how Mr Supervisor likened me to Avril Lavigne: like a strawberry milkshake with a shot of tequila. Amusing.
This is a couple of weeks late (and for good reason): …haha. Mr Supervisor reads my blog. Now, the face-palm awkward are-those-crickets-I-hear? moment only lasted, like, a day. It’s the omg-my-world-is-getting-smaller feeling that took longer to shake off. But what’s really a bother is the whole oh-noes-I-can’t-blog-about-how-hot-he-is-today-in-that-red-sweater-of-his-and-other-stories thing. See, I can’t even write properly anymore.
That said, I guess I should go shut up now about the whole thing.
September 7, 2006 at 9:56 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, made in the Philippines, urban primadonna
I have nothing against walking, the sun, and walking under the sun. It’s something I actually enjoy doing provided the right circumstances, the right setting, the right people and provided that I won’t have to do it on a regular basis (and with my lifestyle— I don’t). But walking under the sun IN THE CITY, IN STILETTO HEELS AN INCH AND A HALF HIGH after a nine-hour shift at work just irritates the shittles out of me— especially when it could’ve been easily avoided if only the people around me weren’t such idiots.
(On my way home yesterday, a woman got on the bus somewhere in the Ortigas area and sat next to me— no, squeezed her sticky self next to me, even though we were occupying a three-seater. We were to get off at the same place: Farmers, and it was CRUCIAL for us to get off right there there there because the bus was taking the fast lane and the next stop would offset me by [I'm guessing] more than a hundred meters.
We were seated near the back of the bus and she took her time to get up and move when the bus was ALREADY AT OUR STOP. I had already stood up and was nudging her slightly [she was in my way]— a signal that she should hurry her ass down the exit because unlike her, I have to be somewhere. She didn’t. And so we I miss my stop and am inconvenienced. Unnecessary anger.)
Walking through Cubao isn’t my number one most hated thing in the world (that honor belongs to gaining weight) but it comes in pretty close. It’s a scorching Wednesday afternoon and the diseased masses of Cubao move as if they were going for a Sunday stroll in the park, seemingly unbothered by the vehicular fumes. Sometimes, they’re also unmindful of other people and act as if they own the fucking city and block the way. Oh look, stairs, perfect!; let me stop RIGHTHERE and send someone a message on my phone. Who the hell cares if I’m a goddamn obstruction— I don’t.
(You know what else I hate? Groups of people who stand around by the entrance or the exit and discuss where to go next or whatever. MOVE TO THE GODDAMN SIDE AND LET PEOPLE THROUGH.)
Stressed, sleepy, hungry, and angry, I comforted myself with a 16-ounce brownie tempation blizzard from Dairy Queen.
July 9, 2006 at 2:43 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, made in the Philippines, technicolor lover
In all my years of taking cabs to get from one place to another, I can only count two aggravating instances that made me wish I had:
- an airgun
- superhero powers (so I could fucking knockout Mr Cab Driver and leave without a trace)
- my own car so I wouldn’t have to hail another cab– EVER
- my own boyfriend (one who is available 24/7) with his own car and willing to drive me anywhere and everywhere
As luck would have it, tonight had to be the third.
It started with me half-wobbling from my building to the main road— 100 meters of sucking on a cigarette and carefully avoiding puddles because I was wearing my new pink satin slingbacks, damnit. And I was late, so double damnit.
I finally reached Katipunan Avenue, stopping across Starbucks where I usually flag down cabs. I didn’t last five seconds— suddenly all these Katipunan Street Adolescents flocked towards me. “Ma’am, taxi, ma’am?” I CAN FUCKING HAIL A CAB ON MY OWN, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. I don’t need you to get me one, in exchange for five pesos. Do you know what I can buy for five pesos??? Two sticks of Marlboro Reds, that’s what!
So I walked, no, SAUNTERED away from them. They threw some snide remarks at my direction LIKE THEY FUCKING MATTER.
I finally hailed an empty cab. I climb in and tell the driver to take me to Ayala Avenue. He tells me to add 30 bucks on top of whatever the fare would amount to— “because it’s already nighttime”. SO?
Filipino cab drivers are greedy little asshats, did you know that? My professor in International and Globalized Economy was once faced with a cab driver who asked for an extra 50 pesos. He (my professor) boldly suggested: “If you want, I’d even make it 70 pesos”, much to Mr Cab Driver’s embarrassment. It’s all about giving back the burden. Or something.
Tonight, I did not have that luxury (of giving back the burden, since I had gone shopping with my commission money yesterday after work), so I opened the cab door, stuck one leg out, and said “NEVERMIND”.
Cab driver takes it back. I retrieve my leg from the concrete, shut the door and tell him the route to take: Let’s pass through SANTOLAN-EDSA.
We not-so-merrily roll along. When we hit Katipunan extension, he goes “Let’s pass through Araneta”.
“NO. I SAID LET’S TAKE SANTOLAN-EDSA, IT’S QUICKER THAT WAY.”
We reach the intersection where we’re supposed to take a right to get to goddamn Santolan-EDSA. I had to tell the idiot to take take a right, as it was obvious he was planning on going straight ahead for reasons BEYOND me.
For the past THREE MONTHS, I’ve been taking a cab to get to work EVE-RY-DAY. So I know that it only costs 130 to 150 pesos— and nothing more— from Katipunan to PBCom.
Imagine my surprise (and pure pure loathing) when I noticed that the cab meter was already at 190 pesos— and we haven’t even hit Ayala yet! Surprise and pure pure loathing was to be followed by giddiness. I check my wallet, glad that I had a 100-peso and a 50-peso bill.
We pull over to the PBCom bus/jeepney/cab bay. The meter was at 220. I hand him the 150, tell him that I take a cab everyday from Katipunan to Ayala and it never exceeds 150 pesos, and he should have his fucking meter checked. He holds my money, looks at me with his mouth slightly open (surprised that I wasn’t a dumb twit who’d willingly hand over her hard-earned cash to a sleaze like him, perhaps?) while I step out of his cab, shut the door gently and walk away.
But really. You know what’s really hateful? It’s SATURDAY NIGHT AND I HAVE WORK. The big boss asked me out again (for drinks and World Cup) and I had to turn him down NOT because D would get mad :roll:, but because I had work.
And I prettied myself up for work D (skinny jeans, funky top with the neckline sliced off, pink heels— a welcome change, since I’ve been looking shabby this past week) and it turns out he’s on leave for the day. HE DIDN’T TELL ME!
(Well, he claims he did. He actually did tell me he was applying for an incentive leave— I just didn’t know it was for today!)
Grumble grumble. :blah:
EDIT!
I was whining to D about him not coming in for work. More like giving him a hard time. He has a game later this afternoon AND WHAT IS HE DOING RIGHT NOW! DRINKING, that’s what!
I just got back from my break and here’s a message that was waiting for me in my phone:
Everytime you scream at me, I wanna kiss you. Everytime you touch me, I wanna hug you cos you’re so damn sexy when you’re mad!
Cheesiness. He said he was the one who wrote the chorus for Neyo :lolol:
Hi, my name's Helga Weber and welcome to my personal site. I'm 23. My first socio-political scandal will happen at the age of 35 and will include men, sushi, an African country, and lots of money. My lover is the greatest. 
