Old School

About a week ago, a local news program was airing a feature on whether or not the identities of those politicians who had hired sexy stars for "escort services" should be revealed.

When interviewed, Senator Lito Lapid goes, "Ay, huwag naman. Bakit pa, eh nagbabayad naman itong mga politikong ito?" (Oh no. Why should we do that when these politicians pay for the services?")

Guilty much?

* * *

MYLK, Greenbelt 3

The food was decent, but the service was not. The waiters (except for one guy) seemed possesed with the spirit of Paul Bearer. They trudged around in somber faces that could have done justice to the Undertaker himself. I could not help but feel that Jac and I, with our pink shirts and sunny smiles, were imposing our presence in the white crypt masquerading as a restaurant.

If you're sensitive to this kind of thing, then I strongly advise you to stay clear of this place. If you're not, then bring a picnic basket to the cemetery instead. You'll get the same effect for free.

* * *

It's funny that I have been frequenting, sort of, my nursery-to-high-school alma mater. Apart from the training session that I already wrote about, I have gone there two more times: first, to get my high school transcript, and second to use the bathroom. And no, I did not schedule a date with the bathroom there.

Among the people I saw were:

• Manong Lito and Manang Rita, who took care of me from nursery to prep. I was so touched when they both called me by name.
  
• Mrs. Gracia, my Reading teacher, who has taken a break from teaching, which she told me she has done for half of her life, and now works in the High School Records section.
  
• Mr. Nosico, who was the first male teacher my batch had and who thus had to suffer being teased to all the single ladies in the faculty. They've stopped doing that now, I hear. I wonder why.
  
• Mrs. Lagmagdan. In Grade School, the former called me conceited when I couldn't stop giggling during a singing test. I've been scolded a lot of times for not being able to stop laughing, but I've never been called conceited for it. Okay, okay. In fairness, I was giggling at how horrible the girl beside me sounded. She was laughing at me too, because I sounded just as horrible as she did. Difference was that she was able to compose herself when the teacher started giving us the eye. I couldn't stop laughing though. Between the both of us, we made the Assumpta song sound like the dying cries of a newly slaughtered pig. The worst part was that we were really trying to sing in tune.
• Mrs. Restor. In High School, the latter called me self-centered when I answered that I would not stop producing fireworks even if I knew it was bad for the environment. I answered this way precisely because I knew that this was not the reply she wanted (we were talking about preserving the environment). When you ask a question that very obviously demands a particular answer, you are goading me to give you the answer you don't want to hear. While I would have normally let this pass, something about that day inspired me to take the challenge. I answered as I did and got called self-centered. I got very offended, as she did not even let me explain my answer. Hence, I wrote her a strongly worded letter that night, and I gave it to her the next day. Needless to say, I was never her favorite student.
• Ms. Water, Mrs. Fluffy Pancakes, and Mrs. Konye, all of whom now teach my youngest sister.
  

I miss that school. And this is the very first time for me to say that.

(Just for the record, I have only cordial feelings towards Mrs. Lagmagdan and Mrs. Restor. My paradigm of indignation has long been replaced with that of humor.)

* * *

I was out with my course friends a few days back. We had dinner in Bubba Gump, where we reminisced about the good old days and where we talked about jobs and relationships. And then we went to the pub to unwind. That was indeed an evening well-spent.

Written like that, I could be talking about middle-aged men with beer bellies. And this brings me to what I really want to say: I feel old. I told my course friends that I felt old, and that, furthermore, since I was the second youngest among us five there, they should feel old too. But none of them did. Except for me.

If I were on Oprah, and I had announced, like Nicole Ritchie did, that I'm old now, I'm sure that the audience would have given a collective half-laugh, half-groan. Especially because Nicole is a whole two years older than me. But, see, I never did understand why they had that reaction to Nicole's pronouncement.

That girl was telling the truth.

* * *

I will not be definite about this, but I think that my era of metaemployment (definition: employment so beyond employment that it is not even considered employment) will end soon. Next Monday, specifically. Well, I could be wrong. And, of course, I could be right. I'm not sure yet.

I guess we'll just have to see.

Ateneo - La Salle

We lost to La Salle.

I screamed my lungs out and risked a serious throat injury during that game. No, really. The last time I screamed that loud, which was, incidentally, during another Ateneo-La Salle game, I was spitting invisible blood out for days. I almost broke my arms because I kept waving those columnar balloons that say Ateneo on one side and Moby Hotdog on the other. I have honestly never waved so much in my entire life. And this wasn't exactly the Princess-Diaries-wave that I used to do before I broke up with Prince William. I'm talking about the see-how-my-arm-jiggles-wave that Oprah did in her show once. And, as if that weren't enough, I was jumping up and down too.

Despite the spectacle I made out of myself, Ateneo just had to lose. By so many points at that too.

Sigh. Life goes on, of course. JC Intal is still my favorite Eagle, and Mac Cardona continues to surprise me because he really does seem to be cleaning up his act. I don't know, but I think that may have something to do with the King Eagle-slash-King Archer connection. After the game, the two were cuddling each other. (Those who saw the picture in the Sports section of last Monday's Inquirer will definitely agree with me here.)

It's an interesting development, to say the least.

To La Salle: Congratulations, guys! It was a well-deserved victory. Ateneo will get back at you next season. Or next debating tournament. ;)

To the Ateneo debaters: Don't let me down, friends! But, of course, no pressure.

* * *

I find it funny that some people get so obsessed with the whole Ateneo-La Salle rivalry.

Last Sunday's game, for instance, I saw two midle-aged people, one in blue and white and the other in green and white, having a go at each other. I wasn't near enough to hear what was going on, so I'm not going to provide an account here or judge those who were involved. But what I do want to say is that it's rubbish for people to start attacking each other, verbally or otherwise, over a measly basketball game. Save that violence for a debating tournament. Seriously, though: there is so much more to life than the Ateneo-La Salle hype.

There's Harry Potter too.

* * *

Do you know how the 6th man of Ateneo is always praised? The unbeatable crowd that propels the team to victory by their sheer energy and heart?

I've always believed that this praise was rightfully bestowed. For almost all of the games that I have attended, I have found myself in the center of the Ateneo gallery, where the battle cries of "One Big Fight!" and "Get that ball!" could have rivaled the nastiest bass sounds in both volume and intensity.

But two games ago, I found myself sitting right next to the La Salle crowd. And that was when I realized that, perhaps, those who praise the 6th man are biased because of where they sit. Where I was, all I could hear was "D! L-S! U! Animo La Salle!" (my favorite La Salle cheer) and "Go La Salle! Go La Salle! Go La Salle, La Salle, La Salle!" (what I refer to as the Mickey Mouse cheer). Their cheers were just as deafening and heartening as ours were.

Then again, maybe that's because the green drums were right behind me.

* * *

I know that I said I was going to write more about the Batac experience, but, frankly, I've lost interest in doing so. This doesn't mean, however, that I'm going back on my word. No way. I will still post something up.

In a few years, maybe.

* * *

Jac, it was great watching the game with you! As always.

Oh, Love!

Prologue

I was very excited for my trip to Batac. It was my first time to be going as far up as Ilocos Norte, it was my first time to be giving a Debate Education Seminar outside Metro Manila, and it was my first time to be spending an entire weekend with my Buffy group. (Yes, Cokelover and Comic, I have decided to call us that.)

Indeed, there was a whole lot to look forward to, and I spent the days prior to the trip in eager anticipation of it.

September 10, Friday

On my way inside the Ninoy Aquino Domestic Airport, I struggled with a hyperactive cart that, despite my murderous threats and curses, insisted on squeakily announcing my presence to all those who could hear. I checked in for the flight to Laoag in a counter that said Check-In for Bacolod. And then, free of the cart, the box (for the training manuals and CD's), and the bag, I strolled into waiting area.

The metal chairs, the marble floor, and the ceiling were all white. They were sparkling too, as it was that time of the day when the sun still accepted the "come in!" invitation of the floor-length glass windows. What a contrast it was to the Ninoy Aquino International Airport, which is little more than a functional museum piece.

I looked for Gate S07 and settled myself in a corner chair on the third row to the right of the gate. I took out the debate training manual and flipped through it so that I would be more or less prepared for the seminar the next day. (The definition of a meta extension was not there, by the way. I've heard the term used before, but I have long forgotten what it means. Literally, it means beyond the extension, but that means what? To my ADS friends, don't shoot me!)

I looked up just then and saw three mayas (small brown birds) chasing after each other, inches away from the ceiling. I thought that was pretty unusual. I shrugged and went back to the training manual. After a few minutes, I happened to look up again.

Imelda Romualdez Marcos.

And no, that is not an expletive like, say, Santa Banana! is. I saw her. She was there. Right in front of the gate. Really.

Low-pitched buzzing and a flurry of action told me that the other passengers had seen her too. I could not move. I was flying to Marcos country with Imelda Marcos. And, if she was to believed, I was a few meters away from Love personified. (The reference is taken from the film, Imelda, where Imelda said she wanted her tombstone to read "Here lies Love." This means that if you want Love to live forever, pray that Mrs. Marcos never dies.)

How overwhelming.

The first thing that entered my mind was that she was one tall lady. She stood inches above almost every man in the room. I bet if the Philippine president, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, were to stand beside her, they'd make a pretty mother and child picture: Mrs. Marcos, the mother, with a martyred and worried air about her and GMA, the toddler, with a self-satisfied smile on her face.

The second thing was that Mrs. Marcos was being ignored. No one was approaching her, much less mobbing her. Sure, people knew she was there. I, for one, was openly staring at her, and there were others who would, every five seconds or so, glance furtively her way. But that's all they did. Even the one bodyguard that she had with her was more preoccupied with his cell phone than he was with her.

I wonder how she felt about that.

The contingent of Mrs. Marcos, which included the aforementioned bodyguard and four ladies, settled in the tables of Saint Cinnamon. She was seated about 45 degrees and four meters from where I was. I could thus observe her more carefully. She had on orange slacks, orange shoes with inch-high heels, and a pink floral shirt made of that flowing material that you can drape on tables to make them look pretty. (Yes, I know nothing about clothes.) Her face was about two shades whiter than her arms, which were rather fair, except for the area near her jawbone, which was colored reddish-brown. Correct me if I am wrong, but I think that the make-up there is meant to make the face smaller.

She was seated there for about five minutes when a young mestiza (woman with Spanish/Caucasian features) emerged from the bathroom and started speaking with her. I thus got to observe Mrs. Marcos conversing. What I noticed was that she was very expressive: her face changed often, and, when it was her turn to speak, she tended to gesture with her hands. When she was listening, she would perch her left arm on the chair back, nodding her head every so often.

While Mrs. Marcos and the mestiza were conversing, I saw something else of interest to me. A janitor, who had been mopping the floor, had caught sight of Imelda and, upon doing so, had perched his hands on the handle of his mop, rested his head on his hands, and gazed at her reverently, much like a child on the street would stare at the window of Toy Kingdom. He was parked there for about a minute when this lady on the way to the bathroom happened to look at Mrs. Marcos. She never stopped looking. She was walking forward but facing backward, almost as if she were daring the proverbial post to appear right in front of her. When she was finally able to pull her gaze away, the lady encountered the knowing look of the janitor. They smiled candidly at each other. I just had to laugh to myself.

"Yihee!" I wanted to call out. "Two strangers brought together by Love!"

And then it was time to board. As usual, everyone rushed to the gate so that they'd be first on the plane. As to why that is somehow appealing, I have no idea. I stayed where I was, still observing Mrs. Marcos. At that point, the line in front of the gate had formed all the way to the tables at Saint Cinnamon, where she was.

That was when she was asked to pose for her first picture. She was asked to smile for about four more, and I do have to admit that she was very gracious about it. But perhaps her love for the camera, and not altruism, can be credited for that.

The photo-taking incident reminded me of the question-answer portions in open forums. Half of the time allotted for it is wasted because no one wants to ask the first question. But once the first question is asked, all the questions in the world wait to be asked. But, by that time, the speaker has to wrap the session up. As it happens in those cases, so too did it happen here.

I strolled into the carpeted tube that connects the airport to the airplane, finding Mrs. Marcos less than a meter away from me. Separating both of us was the Stateside and more horizontally challenged version of Vandolph and his Filipino-American companion.

Vandolph, as he will be known in this post, was the grown-up version of the noisiest brat in Head A. Whle we were waiting for our turn to board the plane, he cracked a lame joke about the plane running out of seats for him. Something like that anyway. It was the kind of joke that should never have been made and, when made, should have been abandoned as quickly as possible. But Vandolph, the simian, did not get the hint. Instead, he spent his time in the tube booming out lame follow-ups to his already dead joke.

As the tube was reverberating with his voice, I was torn between rage and pity: I was enraged that he would, with such audacity, threaten the personal well-being of at least a dozen other people, and I pitied him because, at the rate that he was projecting his voice, his pathetic sense of humor would be known by even those in Timbuktu. Poor me. Poor Vandolph.

Thankfully, we got out of the tube, and I got settled in Seat 9C. While I was sitting down on the narrow chair, I could not help but hope that Vandolph had been assigned a seat outside the plane. But, as he never bothered me again, today is the first time since then that I have spared a thought on him.

Then Mrs. Marcos passed my row. Sideways at that, as the plane had rows like a bus. She was so near me that I could have stabbed her with my pen, except that I didn't have time to tie a ribbon around it. (This is, once again, a reference to the film. When stabbed by an unknown man while giving a presentation, she lamented afterwards that the weapon, a knife, was too plain and should have been dignified with a ribbon.)

I heard her say that she was in Row 14. Row 14? She didn't even get the best seats in the plane. Why was she flying commercial anyway? Oh, right. Maybe President GMA had borrowed her personal jet on that state visit to Brunei.

I didn't have much time to think of anything else. Before I knew it, the plane was taking off.
I settled into my seat and smiled.

I was soaring to Marcos country, with no less than Imelda Marcos right behind me.

* * *

More accounts coming! Soon, I hope. But I'm being very careful not to promise anything.

* * *

To one of the two best sisters in the whole wide world: Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday to you-ooo!! Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday to you-ooo!!

My sister is 18 already! But that's okay. She looks like me, so looking old is not a problem.

Bazooka

Note: The following is a short story that I wrote that was published in the Read Magazine (3rd Quarter 2004, Vol. 1 No. 2) of Powerbooks. It was the first time for one of my stories to get published. As Gigi and Andrea have requested to see it, I have decided to post it here and allow the rest of you the option of reading it.

BAZOOKA

“Hi Mommy,” I said cheerfully, as I burst into my parents’ room that Monday morning. I was getting bored with my Disney coloring book – I couldn’t see the pictures anymore because I had colored the entire page black. My yaya was not helping me either. She kept singing and singing, and I told her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen to me. So I threw my crayons at her. And that made her mad.This was why I had run to Mommy’s room. My yaya would not dare yell at me when Mommy was around.

“Hi Mimi!” My Mommy said. She was getting ready to go to the office. My other yaya was there with her. She was shooting at Mommy’s hair, which was flying all over the place. Mommy was coloring her face. I had tried doing this to myself once, but got scared when I looked in the mirror and saw an ugly clown instead of me. Mommy sometimes looked like a clown too. And she knows that because I told her.

I jumped up the bed and pulled out a Bazooka from my pocket. I put the pink gum into my mouth. I was bored again, so I started swinging my feet on the side of the bed.

“Mommy, can I go to the park later?” No reply.

“Mommy, can I go to the park later?” I shouted.

“Yes, Mimi, very nice,” she answered without looking at me. “Inday, can you hurry up with my hair? I have to be in the office in ten minutes! Where is my blazer?”

“Mommy, I have an owie! The pencil pricked me!”

“Oh, very good, Mimi! Tell me about it later okay?” At this, she turned to Yaya Inday, said something, and the whirring sound stopped. She picked up the phone. “Oh, hello, Sir! Yes, I will be in the office in ten minutes. Yes, I am already on the way, Sir. It’s just a little traffic. Okay, thank you, Sir.”

Mommy then threw the phone down and started fanning her face.

“Inday! My blazer! Hurry, hurry, hurry! HURRY!”

I stopped chewing. The bubble gum had no more taste. I got the Bazooka Joe cartoon strip that I had thrown away. I started to spit my gum into it, but I stopped. I had a better idea. I put the gum in my hand and then dropped to the floor. I crawled to where Mommy was. Then I put my gum in her hair, right in the middle of it. Mommy whirled around.

“Oh Mimi, what are you doing there on the floor? The floor is dirty. There are germs there. Where is your yaya? YAYA!”

I started laughing because she didn’t notice anything. Then I laughed so hard that I started rolling on the floor. I started slapping it, even, because my tummy was getting painful already, and I couldn’t breathe, but I still couldn’t stop laughing.

I finally managed to say “I have a joke for you, Mommy!”

“Okay, you tell your Daddy the joke!” She said, while still making signs that I should get up from the floor and stay on the bed instead.

“No, it has to be you!”

"Why does it have to be me?”

I pouted.

“Okay, what is the joke?”

“I put bubble gum in your hair!”

Mommy’s face changed just then. She looked like my Ate when I showed her the fat orange fish that I had pulled out of her aquarium. Mommy slowly reached for her hair. And then she screamed so loud that I had to put my hands to my ears.

“INDAY!”

I laughed some more. “Don’t worry Mommy, it’s really easy to get out.”

I plopped up, reached for my gum, and pulled it. Her head snapped back, but the gum didn’t get out. I pulled again, harder this time, but the gum still wouldn’t get out.

“Uh oh…”

Yaya Inday shoved me out of the way. She had with her a bottle of my Baby Oil. She poured a lot of it onto her hands and then started shampooing Mommy’s hair with it. Mommy’s hair got shinier and shinier, but the gum was still there. She tried brushing her hair. I was starting to get worried. My Mommy was going to start screaming at me soon.

I looked at the floor and prepared my sorry face. Then I looked up at Mommy’s hair again. Now it was shiny, with pink threads. And there was a brush stuck there. The phone rang just then. I ran to pick it up.

“Don’t pick that phone up!” Mommy screamed.

I sat back down on the floor. Just then, the door opened, and I saw my Daddy. I gave him a little wave.

“Manny, your daughter just put gum on my hair! And I am late for a meeting!” My Mommy screamed at him.

My Daddy looked at me, and I thought he was going to get mad. But he started to laugh. I was surprised, but I was also happy. I started to laugh along with Daddy, but Mommy had heard him laughing, and she started shaking a comb at him. She was also saying something that I couldn’t understand. I had never heard those words before.

I just sat on the floor, staring at my hands. I had my sorry face on, but no one was minding me. Mommy was now running to the bathroom, Inday and Daddy right behind her. I looked around quickly. Then I stood up and ran to my room.

I pushed the door shut. Then I went back to coloring Snow White black. When Mommy would come in later, I would give this to her, and then everything would be okay. And then I would go to the park to play.

The End

* * *

Accounts of my extremely eventful weekend in Marcos country coming up!

Cokelover and Comic, I had a blast with you guys. As expected.

Chica Teasa

As far as job-hunting goes, Chica Teasa has been one of the most, if not the most, memorable company thus far.

The First Call

A couple of weeks ago, at around four in the afternoon, I was awakened from my dreamless slumber by a rather frantic Lali, our helper. "Mil," she goes, "may tawag para sa iyo. Tihicha ata." (Translation: Mil, there is a call for you. It's Tihicha, I think.)

I thought the Initiative was calling me, so I forced myself to wake up. Let me tell you now that this is no easy feat for me (a.k.a. hibernation personified). Batugan talaga ako. My head was spinning, my throat was dry, and a person whom I wanted to impress was on the phone. I shook my head to clear it and willed my voice to sound normal. In short, I tried to do the impossible.

"Hello Ma'am," I finally managed to croak out.

Unbelievable. More than sounding like a frog, I sounded like a Jessica Rabbit who was bent on seducing Roger. I cringed automatically but hoped that the person calling me was either slightly deaf or that my voice sounded normal to all but myself. The latter is actually plausible, as my voice supposedly changes when I debate or give presentations.

No such luck. She was laughing when she asked me if she had woken me up. I didn't want to lie to her, so I just laughed along. When I realized that she was waiting for a reply, I said "Not really" in a painfully perky tone.

And that's true, technically. Anyway, I made her laugh, and she gave me a testing date. Things could have been much worse.

The Test

I was running late.

Actually, I would not have been running late if the traffic had lended itself to even a little bit of reasonable predictability. But then again, why was I attempting to do what even Nostradamus could not have done?

During the decade that I was in the car, a poem popped into my head:

Marching to a soundless beat,

mushrooms crowding on a street

soaking backs, rebellious feet,

crowns that are no longer neat.

Mushrooms on a city street.

Tell me if you can figure out what this poem is about. But I digress.

As I was saying, I was running late. Specifically, I was half an hour late for the test. This turned out to be perfectly okay, thankfully, because I was the only one called to take the test anyway, and even the HR person had no idea about my schedule. She asked no questions, and I told her no lies.

Before I knew it, I found myself in a square room with a square table with a bunch of papers in front of me. The test was upon me. As far as that goes, I would have to say that it was not so bad. The Math part was easy, as was the English. But when I looked through the questionnaire and saw that I had around fifteen essays to write plus a sentence completion test and a personality test, I felt like screaming.

Must I sit through the same tests for almost 3/4's of all the jobs I apply to? Why can't they have a standard job test anyway? Why? Grrr. I sighed out loud and stretched in my chair. Just then, the silly notion that there was a camera in the room entered my head; so much did the room look like an interrogation cell. I straightened myself immediately and diligently went back to taking the test, making sure that my lips curved upward in an endearing little smile.

After writing my sixth essay of the day, I stretched again. And no, I was not smiling anymore. Very loudly and precisely, I declared, "This test is so long. It really is too long!!!" I made sure to twist my body to all corners of the room while I said this, so that the invisible camera could get clear shots of me from every possible angle.

Of course, I knew that I was being silly, and I ended up laughing at myself seconds after. But if I was right, and there was a camera in that room, at least I had expressed my sentiments about the test and, in that way, made this world a much better place.

When I finally got to the one-hour personality test, I found my patience, and not my personality, seriously tested. As was the case in the personality test administered by my University, I had to answer questions that were asking pretty much the same thing. I relieved myself by shading those tiny rectangles with such force that it was a miracle that my answer sheet was not ripped apart.

The torture was horrible while it lasted, but it too came to pass. In this ordeal, two people made me feel slightly better: the security guard, who was very friendly, and the nice lady who gave me toilet paper when the surprisingly clean restroom there had not a scrap to offer.

The Second Call

Just three days ago, my youngest sister was shouting that I had a phone call. I asked her who it was and she bellowed, "Cham, it's the Tihicha something advertising whatever... basta, just get the phone!"

I picked the phone up, all prepared to deal politely but curtly with whom I had supposed to be a telemarketer. To my suprise, I found that it was Chica Teasa calling. And, once again, the lady on the line was laughing. She was calling to say that I had passed the test and could now be interviewed.

Interesting.

Epilogue

It was my first interview two days ago. I think it went well. I hope Ms. Tak thinks so too. Well, I have done what I can. I'll just have to see how this whole thing unfolds.

But whatever happens, there is one thing about Chica Teasa that I can say with absolute certainty: it sure has been a most interesting ride.

* * *

To the best brother in the whole world: Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you! (And in the fast tune now.) Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you!

And I am singing this while I am typing it, so he probably hears me, as he just in the next room.

* * *

Marcos country, here I come! Comic and Cokelover, here's looking forward to a fantastic time!

Texting, Teaching, and Despairing

It is of great importance that you proofread your text messages before actually sending them out. Consider the following examples:

What was Intended

1. I refuse to do that for as long as I am in the car!
2. We will go to Makati. And then I will bring you guys home. (Not mine)
3. Good afternoon, Sir! May I please see you at around three, for just five minutes?

What Appeared on the Screen

1. I refuse to do that for as long as I am the car!
2. We will go to Makati. And then I will bring guys home.
3. Good afternoon, Sir! May I please you at around three, for just five minutes?

One word can make a world of difference.

Thank God I caught the last message just in time.

* * *

Speaking of text messages, I got a message from Head A two days ago that I had passed the basic test and could now take the advanced test. This refers to the tests that all tutor-hopefuls have to take.

Yes, that's right - I am applying to be a part-time tutor. I find that I like explaining things to people, and I figure that I may as well experience doing this, on a formal level, while I can. And also, Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe talked me into it.

While I was planning to teach English, whether Grammar (or Language) or Literature (or Reading), the funny thing is that I may end up teaching Math, Science, or Filipino instead. Keat, the girl I was texting with, said that these were the sections of the test that I had registered high scores in. The thing is that there were only two sections she didn't mention - Language and Reading Comprehension.

I was laughing when I read her text. I had found Language and Reading Comprehension to be the easiest parts of the test. In fact, when I was taking practice tests in review for the Law School Admission Test (LSAT), I'd always get the highest scores in the latter.

It's really funny how these tests go. But then again, it is nice to know that I still remember Math, Science, and Filipino so well.

And to those of you who noticed, yes, I am aware of the slight contradiction in the statement above.

* * *

While I have great plans of being a school ma'am of sorts for a couple of months, two of my recent experiences have made me question my applicability for such a noteworthy profession.

Taking the Basic Test in the Head A Center

When I was taking the basic test, a tutor and his pupil were right behind me. This is how their session went: the tutor would read a question out loud, and then the student would guess her answer to it. Sometimes, she would get it right, but most of the time, she would not. After one question, the student or the teacher would narrate some anecdote that would be totally unconnected with the subject matter at hand. Think electrons and the Philippine National Anthem. They would spend five minutes laughing over it. After the first minute, the laughter of the student would start getting strained, but she would keep on laughing anyway. She would start sounding like a hyena-toy whose batteries were slowly dying on her. Finally, she would stop, and the next question would be asked.

Sometimes, it was even worse. The tutor would ask a question, and the girl would not know the answer to it. The tutor would then translate the question to Filipino. I wanted so badly to tell both of them that, if the student did not know the answer to the question as asked in English, then translating it to Filipino would not increase her chances of getting the answer right. And second, even if the translation of the question would help her, all the standard tests here are given in English, and personal translators are not allowed. From what I heard of the questions, I could gather that the girl was reviewing for a college entrance exam. Well, more so in that case!

So, yes, I was eavesdropping on this pair while I was taking the test. I couldn't help it, as their voices seemed more suited to a crowded club than a relatively quiet review room. But that's not it yet.

At around lunchtime, the Center was invaded by nasty hobbits in khaki and white. One of them seemed determined to cause an earthquake with all the jumping he was doing. The other one kept slamming his Coke can down on the table where I was taking the test. I gritted my teeth every time he would do this and resisted the urge to dump the Coke on his head. I was so close to losing my patience with the lot of them, but I controlled myself because I didn't think throwing a spectacular tantrum would endear me to my potential employers.

If and when I do get accepted to tutor for this Center, I will make my one condition very clear to them: I refuse to deal with annoying brats.

Training my High School Alma Mater

Just yesterday, I went to my Alma Mater to train the club which I had headed when I was on my senior year in High School. This was my first time to do so in the five years since my graduation there.

I will not give a blow-by-blow account of what transpired during the two hours that I was there, but suffice it to say that I gave those girls (and yes, I am purposefully calling them girls instead of ladies) a piece of my mind. My youngest sister looked at me in horror when I informed her that I had told the club off at my first ever meeting with them, but I stand by what I have done. Those girls had it coming. And I, of all people, am not one to take rubbish like that from anyone. (Well, of course, not everyone was being rude or disrespectful. But the few who were compensated enough for the rest of them.)

I was telling a close friend of mine about this, and she asked, aghast, whether we were that bad when we were in High School. I replied that I was sure we were and that, furthermore, we deserved every bit of those lectures that our teachers would give us. I sympathize with them completely now.

In any case, I have nothing to ashamed of. Even when I was telling the girls off, I was very careful to stick to the issue and to leave out any personal insults, which I had no inclination to make anyway, as I didn't know most of them even by name. I hope they grow up by next week, when I might train them again.

I wonder if these two incidents are telling me something about my potential for teaching.

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Last night, I found myself in serious despair about the world.

In the local news, I watched as Nestor Silang, who was believed to be high on drugs, jumped off a bridge in Quezon City (yes, the TV showed him jumping) with his one-year-old son, Nestor Jr., in his arms. The father survived, but the son did not.

In BBC and CNN, I was watching the coverage of the hostage crisis in Belsan, Russia, where militants held 1,200 people, around 840 of them children, hostage in a school. A lot had died from this, and I know that, in the following days, more deaths will be credited to this. The line that got to me was "And when these children sleep, what will they be dreaming of now?"

What is the world coming to?

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This website will definitely see more of my rambling.