I forgot how dangerous it can be to get rained on in the motherland. Remember how your parents always made sure you wouldn’t get wet, and the cardinal rule that states one must shower soon as possible if, despite all effort to the contrary, one ends up getting rained on anyway? I decided my constitution, having been exposed to snow, could weather a little warm rain. WRONG. Do not get rained on in the Philippines, no matter what you do. You will regret it. You will end up with red eyes leaking gross stuff, coughing yourself raw for days. You will wind up in the office of your old paediatrician and find yourself standing on a weighing scale, subjected to the double indignities of admitting how old you are and confronting how much you really weigh. You will get diagnosed with bronchitis. You will give kudos to SUMC for coming up with a priority number system that works smoothly. You will cough and hack your way through your entire vacation, going all Typhoid Mary on your family.
And so, after much chivvying by all and sundry (all and sundry being my mother and brother), I finally moseyed on over to the offices of Pag-Ibig to resuscitate my long dormant membership because “you’ll need it if you ever want a house someday” and “you need to take advantage of your benefits!” ad nauseam, world without end. Each time I’m home, the inevitable well-meant refrain. A girl can only take so much.
I own a grand total of two Vanity Fair magazines, August 2000 and April 2014. Today, the universe is telling me it’s time to add another VF to the pile. The universe, in the form of a shirtless Star-Lord riveting us all with sultry bedroom eyes, inviting us all to test his chesticles the water. You win, Vanity Fair – you evil, conniving, effective sonofabitch. You win.
Rogue One: A Star Wars Story introduces itself like another very familiar Star Wars epic, with the words “A long time ago, in a galaxy far away…” While the words are familiar, they’re in cerulean rather than the time-honored gold. This and the absence of an opening crawl serves to further distinguish this movie from all the others, fostering the sense that yes, this is part of canon but it’s not the story, it’s a story, the odd duck of a brother whose storyline takes place alongside the main event.
WOW! 😱 Check out the line for the #1stJollibeeInCanada! These guys are all geared up and ready to go! Stick around for exciting updates on the warmest, jolliest reunion in town! 😊
The first Jollibee in Canada has opened, and I’ll finally have an answer whenever Le Hubs says “Manitoba? What’s in Manitoba?” I really, really thought Toronto had dibs, but I was wrong. You go, Winnipeg.
I can see why they’d brave the cold just to have Chicken Joy. Anything that reminds you of home is always worth lining up for. Do I know anyone from Manitoba? Can I please have a care package of nothing but Peach Mango Pie?
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.
Is there anything worse than being at the movies beside a Chatty Cathy with three kids and a drink who won’t stop talking and flailing about? Yes, I know. Famine, outbreaks, homelessness, Alzheimer’s, the Syrian war, I’m an entitled spoiled brat complaining about minutiae. Still, it’s a bloody theatre. Has civilization so declined we are no longer able to stay calm and collected for two and a half hours? Of all the seats in all the theatre, she chooses the one beside mine. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, indeed.
Saving for Botox 
You must be logged in to post a comment.