Death as a concept was introduced by a slightly batty friend of my parents who had been asked to babysit. I don’t remember all the details, I just remember her earnest explanation of war and how everyone was eventually going to kick the bucket. I wasn’t ready. (I’m still not ready.) My parents came home to a five-year-old wailing her head off. I don’t want you to die! They never asked her to babysit again.
Realizing no one lives forever was my version of being told Santa Claus wasn’t real. Now that I knew life was finite, I dedicated the rest of my life to finding ways to prolong my time on earth without adding unnecessary risks. Ha! I wish. I don’t smoke and I drink very little, but my true vices are sugar and salt. Both of these are just as likely to steer me on my way to kingdom come while a dozen nutritionists look on in horror, but what a way to go, eh?
Two weeks ago, Siquijor went from a quiet, untouched paradise to a scary, dangerous place. Two promising young women were cut down in the prime of their lives, all because a crazy bloke was running around tripping balls, leaving devastation in his wake. It hit very close to home, because this is the sort of thing that is only supposed to occur in a gritty metropolis, not a magical, carefree island like Siquijor. Most of the time we shrug off these scenarios, believing they will never happen to us or anyone we know. Then tragedy strikes and it suddenly feels like we’re all just waiting for a piano to fall on our heads.
Continue reading “Addicted to Life”
I finally got around to cobbling together the evidence of the jaunt Le Hubs and I took to see my family last January. I know, I know. I put the late in #latepost.
I don’t quite get why we have to pay for the terminal at the pier.
I’m being disingenuous of course. It’s obvious what the fees are for – the x-ray scanner and the people who man it, the seats, the two large flat screens of almost nonstop travel tips (“To avoid getting seasick…”), washrooms, seats, air-conditioning. What I don’t quite understand is why passengers with tickets have to pay to get into the terminal before they’re granted entrance to said terminal.
The moment you enter the Dumaguete seaport, Continue reading “Terminal Illness”
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.
Continue reading “Lizards on the Ceiling”
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.
Continue reading “The Hours”
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! 😊
Posted by Jollibee Canada on Thursday, December 15, 2016
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?
I saw the speech. POTUS was not the target. Still, it’s easy to see how a directly literal translation could be misconstrued, and Duterte Harry seriously needs to stop dropping the colloquial equivalent of the F-bomb because it’s way too easy to take that line out of context. Can’t help giving the man a slow clap, though. Dude has cojones of steel.
Continue reading “Lost in Translation”