My birthday is coming up(!) and as is usual, I like to indulge in a little bit of self-searching. Today’s post is brought to you by the memory of St. Ives and a tiny room in a boarding house, many moons ago when the Earth was young (and so was I).
Dear Elly G,
The difference between a Brazilian done in Toronto and a Brazilian done in Dumaguete spans leagues.
The former takes approximately ten minutes. It’s quick, clinical, precise and expensive, barely even giving me any time to register the loss of body hair.
The latter starts with the aesthetician handing me a bathrobe, a towel and a small bar of soap. (“Ma’am, wash first?”) You know you’re in the Philippines when you need a clean vagina before the waxer even deals with you. That’s how we are. We brush our teeth before seeing the dentist. We wash our vajayjays before getting a wax. My usual suki admitted to seeing her share of tampon strings. She would never think of asking her clients to wash themselves. I can only imagine the judgment meted out by a Filipina waxer if someone dared to come in for a wax while on her period.
She had me staring at the ceiling for the better part of an hour wondering what my labia must look like to someone who had a spotlight pointed at my crotch and was aggressively parting it every which way, hunting down stray pubes with a tweezer. (“Ma’am, pwede i-puller?”) No one has ever paid that much attention to my nether regions. Not A. Not my gynecologist. Not even I.
Also, so much aggressive rubbing! Each time she spread a bit of wax and applied the strip, she would apply pressure and rub like there was no tomorrow, ensuring the wax stuck to the strip so she could remove as much hair as was humanely possible. I wasn’t quite sure if I was supposed to orgasm. I wanted to ask her if anyone ever had, but concentrated on biting back my laughter and holding in a fart instead.
The best part was when I had to part my buttcheeks. Never underestimate the weirdness of parting your own buttcheeks while a total stranger plucks it clean of hair because there are some parts that wax can’t reach. I’m assuming there are some parts that wax can’t reach, anyway. All for the low price of PhP 550! Sulit na sulit.
Yours in hairlessness,
PS: Traffic here is awful.
PPS: A motorcab had a sign on its rear that read “Ang mulusot pisot” in big blue letters.
If I was a movie character, I would be Sid from Toy Story. My things have a weird habit of burrowing into the bottom recesses of my satchel whenever I’m fishing around for anything like keys, a brush or a tube of lip balm. Inanimate objects tremble in fear whenever I move to pick them up. I’m klutzy, I drop stuff all the time and I’m not the best phone caretaker in the world.
It doesn’t start out that way, of course. Like all relationships, phone ownership always starts out with a ton of love, care and understanding. With a brand new phone, I exercise extreme caution, treating it like a baby – fed, burped, cleaned, prodded, cooed at every day. Every little bump and possible mishap elicits frantic apologies and maybe even a few neurotic kisses. It grows on me and then, as is usual in a relationship, things start getting taken for granted and the slow slide towards eventual destruction begins.
My first phone was a Nokia 3210. It was an awesome piece of work. Slim enough to slip into a back pocket, streamlined enough not to look like a tragic bar of soap, hardy enough to keep going for days on a single charge. These days, that kind of battery life is a myth. Anyway, I dropped it by accident way too often than was healthy, and it got to a point where it would literally fly apart each time it hit the floor. Its battery would be on one end of the room, the casing on the opposite side, the keypad somewhere under the couch. Took a licking and kept on ticking, that 3210. It was basically Chuck Norris.
It seemed prescient when Nokia announced they were bringing back their classic 3310. I was pretty stoked about this, because a return to “dumb phones” seemed like a refreshing change of pace. Being plugged in 24/7 can get exhausting. In my head I figured they’d dust off whatever boxes of phones they didn’t manage to move twenty years ago, and just offer those up for sale, but no. The new 3310 shares a passing resemblance to the old one, but this is not the phone of yore. It’s a pimped-out imposter dressed in a similar outfit. It’s got a camera, data capabilities and Snake, except Snake is now in colour. I wanted the phone of yesteryear, no bells, no whistles, no rear camera, but I suppose nostalgia can only go so far.
Now, my Galaxy S3 is a few months shy of its sixth year and the truck driver who gives me a lift from work thinks my phone is a piece of crap. It’s certainly seen better days – beside the gleaming polish of his iPhone 6 it looks like a candidate for the junk heap – but I don’t care. I glory in the broken-downness of it. I complain about its stupid auto-correct and I think it’s gotten as slow as all get-out, but deep inside I love my S3. You know the moment you lose an iPhone 6S that you’ll never see it again but you can’t say the same for a cracked S3. (I wouldn’t be surprised if someone paid me to take it back.)
When it comes to tech, I apply the same strategy my father has for his house slippers: use it into the ground until it conks out, maybe try to resuscitate it with lots of duct tape and a prayer, then when it becomes painfully obvious that it’s given up the ghost, set it aside for the next big thing. I’ve been fortunate in my choice of phones so far, but the end may be nigh.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the closest I ever came to being road ready. Yep. Ten years later, I still can’t drive worth shit.
Confession: I am thirty-five and I can’t drive. This is not a badge of pride, the way some people take pride in saying they don’t know how to cook – a roundabout way of saying
they grew up with servants, which means they’re rich and cooking is menial and for peasants. Yeah, no. I wish I could claim I can’t drive because I actually have a chauffeur, but that must’ve been my former life in an alternate universe because in this particular reality, I am too poor for a chauffeur. Also, people who’re proud of not knowing how to cook are crazy and run the risk of going hungry and/or eating uncooked ramen noodles. I feel nothing but sadness for them, much the same way you feel nothing but sadness for me, the non-driver in her mid-thirties who still takes the bus like Miss Rosa Parks.
The truth is, I can’t drive because I don’t know how and I’ve never really needed to. Everywhere I’ve been has always had easy access to public transportation, and there’ve always been people to drive me around for little to no charge, be it my parents, my in-laws, Le Hubs, a friend, the subway conductor and Manong Bus Driver.
My driving record is non-existent, unless you count trying to mow down chickens with a scooter. But I am a grown-up now, and I need to learn how to drive. It’s about time. I can’t take public transit forever, and I can’t keep relying on someone else to drive me. Like swimming, driving is a survival skill after all. What if I get kidnapped somewhere in the Mojave desert and my only recourse is to hijack a truck and ride out at top speed like a bat out of hell? The reception could be sketchy and who has time to call an Uber when one is too busy trying to live? Or what if the future is a George Miller fever dream, where we are all Mad Max in an post-apocalyptic wasteland where everyone fights for water and guzzoline while Tina Turner sings the theme song and the only way to get around is by driving stick in a jacked-up supercar?
In my defence, I’m short. I don’t quite like the idea of having to sit on a giant Webster’s dictionary just so I can see above the dashboard. You’ve seen the video. I had to wear shoes the size of cement blocks just so my foot could reach the pedals. But Le Hubs’ grandmother, who is about seventy, still drives and does it on the highway, to boot. Each summer she drives about four hours up north to cottage country. So what pathetic excuse can I possibly give myself after learning of a gutsy display like that? Nothing. I am disgusted with myself. A woman twice my age is more badass than I am at this moment. I need a number for decent driving school. Stat.
So here is my New Year’s Resolution: get a license, and learn how to drive.
Originally published in 2001, Then and Now: Bridging 50 Years in Silliman was featured in The Sillimanian Magazine, a special centennial Founder’s Day Issue of The Weekly Sillimanian.
Proving that nothing really lasts forever, Yahoo has been sold and yet another internet OG has come crashing down. Everyone form a prayer circle and have a moment of silence, because 2016 is hellbent on taking everything we once held dear. Things will never be the same again.
Yes, this was a long time coming. The writing’s been on the wall for years. It’s been a slow slide downhill for poor, purple Yahoo since Google, that precocious little upstart, burst on the scene and started gaining ground in the early aughts. I barely use my account anymore and probably check my Yahoo e-mail twice a year, but once upon a time Yahoo was the first site I would go to whenever I got online.
Six years ago, yellow ruled the world. Like I said, things seem really different now. Reblogged from 2010. Original here.
Another long weekend to enjoy. It’s supposed to be a weekend with a purpose – the working class have all been (very kindly) given one day off to decide who will lead our country and occupy upper echelons of the republic for the next few years.
And, I’m not voting.
Upon hearing this, my good friend and colleague Charity B. summarily stripped me of every right to complain. “You’re not voting? Then don’t complain about anything in the government.” She’s from Manila. Everyone in that city complains.
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