Hello, Poverty Line

March 23, 2007

What has two weeks of faking knowledge at poker brought me? $33. But of course, I exaggerate. If I add up all the hours I spent researching and writing, I'm sure I still won't get a full 24 hours. In fact, I finished seven of the fourteen articles that represent my two-week workload only today. That's $15 for a total wordcount of 2,738 done in three hours,  inclusive of the minutes spent researching, eating chips, logging into Friendster, and making numerous trips to the bathroom.

If I did something lucrative with every second of my time, I'm certain I'd soon usurp Lucio Tan's place in Forbes Magazine's Asia's Wealthiest. Okay, okay, that's another gross exaggeration. A more realistic picture would be this: I lose P1,291.68 each day I do not report for work. However, given the choice between reporting for work for five days and taking five days off to go traveling, you can just tell, can't you, which option I'd pick.

It's a pity wealth doesn't rank so highly in my hierarchy of needs. Sure, I want to be loaded in the so-rich-I-get-headaches-from-worrying-that-I'm not-spending-enough way; but, and this is a big but, I think I will just shrivel up and die if you have me spend every minute of my day making money, or engaging in future-income-generating activities.

So yeah, it sucks that I can't buy all the chocolates, colorful trinkets, and pumps that I want, but I'd rather deprive myself those than endure being cubicled for much longer than is completely necessary.

Alex, say hello to a childhood and teenagehood spent only being marginally above the poverty line.

Turning Into a Fiend

March 22, 2007

At the stroke of midnight, T called. We burned phone lines, despite the fact that she's calling from half a world away. We talked of heartaches, relationships, moving, husbands, and our favorite little person who calls her "manang." By the time I decided to crawl into bed, it was 3:20 in the morning.

Small wonders, then, that slouching in the office this early, I am as cross as sticks and crabby as lobsters. Yes, yes, I really must be feeling so hung over because I'm liberally pulling out horrible metaphors from the closet. I am in the foulest mood possible. I want to go home before I injure myself and others. Less than an hour ago, the secretary came up to me and sweet as banana cue, paid me a compliment. "I like your top. It makes you look very young and pretty." The rude, cantankerous old woman who lives inside my head resurfaced and bit back, "You don't have to pay me compliments every day. It's not factored into your salary."

A little earlier than that, I talked to a would-be applicant on the phone. "What's the name of this company?"

"You're calling us and you don't know?"

"I think I saw your ad in the papers."

"Think? You don't know for sure? Do you make a habit of randomly punching a series of digits on the telephone?"

He mutters some gibberish in an apologetic tone and then hangs up. For a nanosecond, I toyed with the idea of calling him back and screaming, "You asswipe! We have caller ID! Bet you din't think of that, did you? Did you?"

Yes, yes, W really should take me home now. On days like this, the part of me that did not successfully make the transition from ape to human being takes over the part that did.

Out, on a Wednesday Night

March 21, 2007

Lynette is gorgeous. She's very friendly and classy, and she seems to have discovered the fountain of youth. That, or she was born with skin of similar elasticity as, say, the rubber band. I was thunderstruck when I saw her. I stared, and then blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "Gwapaha nimo uy!" 

Kaith and I met Lynette outside Tita's room in Chong Hua's ICU Section. We saw Tita, too, or more accurately, we saw the the back of her head. She went through surgery a few hours ago and though her condition remains critical for the next three days, she will hopefully be out of the woods after that. 

After the brief visit, Kaith, the hub, and I went to Kahayag. I picked Kahayag so I could hit two birds with one stone. First, I could have dinner with Kaith and ask her about her crazy life and second, I could practice returning to the fold. I've long gone AWOL on the Cebu literary scene and though I've no plans of reclaiming the old "child prodigy" status (because obviously, I'm neither child nor prodigy at this point), I thought it would be a good idea to meet up with characters from a past life. The old clique was holding a poetry reading session in Kahayag and I got to say "hi" to a lot of familiar faces.

You know you're in the company of writers - celebrated, failed, or actively failing - when like them, you start thinking of people in terms of titles and bylines. "This is Noemi," L introduced, and almost mechanically, I said, "Noemi of Let Them Reclaim the Sea?" 

L grinned happily. "Yes, yes. That Noemi. There's everything wrong with your writing and nothing at all with your memory. Welcome back."

"What's wrong with my writing?"  I made a face at her. L had once been my Economics teacher. She still teaches Economics at USC, in fact. She's a brilliant woman, a fierce thinker, a very eloquent speaker, and the most tactless person in, perhaps, the whole length and breadth of Asia. 

"You don't write enough. You're wasted in that call center you're slaving away in."

I laughed. She's the third person that night who told me to stop being in the call center industry. I wonder where they got the idea I'd find happiness being cubicled and then told to answer calls and bark out instructions to clueless Americans at a going rate of at least 40 calls a day. 

"I so do not work for a call center! Me? Work at a call center? Never!"

"Why?"

"Because I could easily imagine better and more lucrative reasons for self-exploitation."

"You married W," B chimed in. "That's exploitation for which you don't get paid at all." B is a full-time activist who moonlights as a USC Socio-anthropology Department faculty member. He is sitting beside his girlfriend, a pretty American named C. 

"Look who's talking. C is worse off than I am. She's letting you pollute her gene pool. How did you get so lucky, you bastard? You'll have a green-eyed future Miss Cebu for a daughter." 

"And you'll have a pislat ug ilong little brownie for yours," B shot back. 

Oh yes, if there's one thing I miss about this old crowd, it's the witty banter. I could have spent the night happily trading insults with B, L, and whoever wants to join the fray. I may have been outnumbered but I sure was not outgunned. 

Unfortunately, Kaith was prime target for all the failed geniuses prowling that bar. Easily the prettiest girl inside that room, she also happened to be the best dressed. In the interest of keeping many male hearts and egos intact, Kaith and I went elsewhere for dessert. We went to La Marea, in Crossroads, and yakked an hour and two platesful of chocolate cake away.  We stumbled home a little past ten.

Everyone should have a girlfriend like Kaith and a Wednesday night littered with good food and good friends.

 

Dear Kaith

March 19, 2007

I worry about you. How are you doing? How are you coping? I hope whatever it is you're going through, it won't get the better of you. I'm just seven number-punches away from you. Remember that.

Wanted: Efficient Secretary for the After-life

In my next life, I hope I get a secretary very much unlike the one I have now. My next secretary should be able to speak in passable, if not flawless, English. She should be quick and efficient. She shouldn't have to be told what to do. She should have all the filing categories memorized. She should be able to do Math without getting at least five numbers wrong per calculation. She shouldn't ask my permission every time she needs to go to the john. The present secretary does that and it drives me up the wall.

Her: Can I go to the CR?
Me:  Why do you have to ask me that question? Have I ever said no?
Her: No, but you're the manager. It feels odd not to ask.
Me:  Why? Do you think there's a possibility I'll prevent you from going?
Her: No. But it feels odd not to ask.
Me:  Why does it feel odd not to ask?
Her: Because you may want me to do something else.
Me:  Have I ever stopped you from going to the CR because you have to do something else?
Her: No, but I wanted to ask.
Me:  (slumping in my seat in exasperation) Okay, you may go to the CR.

I don't get it. Why does she have to ask for permission to go to the john? If my goal were to monitor her every move or location, I'd have had a homing device implanted in her ID.

Oh, and did I say she also asks permission every time she starts a new task?

Me:  Kindly encode this report.
A few minutes later…
Her: Ma'am, can I start encoding the report, now?
Me:  Didn't I ask you to do that a few minutes ago?
Her: Yes, but I want to ask your permission before I start my task.

Ye office gods, you owe me big time. You better be good to me in my next life because I've put up with this secretary longer than any person should ever have to; and if you're mean to me, still, and give me the same secretary in my next life, I swear I'll get a rope and string her up by the window, where she could sway in sync to every passing breeze.