You say to-may-toe; I say toh-mah-tah. Deal with it.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Oh yeah, and it's New Year's Eve, too.
TMI (Too Much Information) Warning!
Ironically enough, Dean
and I were actually shopping for Sage's
milk when we spotted it
, displayed discreetly right next to the Watson's Pharmacy cash register: the Super Vibrating Condom. Perverse souls that we both are, we naturally snapped the curious thing up and added it to our pile of purchases.
It turned out to be a single, perfectly ordinary (albeit transparent pink) condom, accompanied by a thin latex ring surmounted by a little oblong plastic gadget with a switch. "When switched on and positioned correctly," the package text informed us, "the Super Vibrating Condom provides pleasurable stimulation to the user and his partner." (I thought that "positioned correctly" was pretty hilarious, since, you know, how much room for error is
It also cautioned us to "dispose of Super Vibrating Condom in a safe and thoughtful manner", which I still don't quite understand. Are we supposed to stand around discussing the matter gravely before depositing said condom in the nearest handy incinerator? Or, is it that we need to decide whether the condom counts as recyclable (sheepskin?) or not (latex)?
At any rate, for your consumer information, the Super Vibrating Condom was perfectly pleasant, but certainly not worth the hundred-fifty-peso price tag. For the same amount, I'd rather buy five packs of cigarettes, which also provide pleasurable stimulation for me and my partner--and occasionally Andrew
as well, haha!
Aprendamos el Espanol!
sorry/excuse me = perdon (pair-don)
I'm really sorry = Lo siento muchisimo (loh-syen-toh-moo-chee-see-mo)
It was my fault = Ha sido culpa mia (ah-see-doh-kool-pa-mee-ya)
bit in at 1:53 PM ::
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Yeah, like that's
Before anything else...
Let me just embarrass my husband no end by announcing that Dean
will be celebrating his birthday this Sunday, January 2. So please don't forget to greet him because (a) it will prevent me from becoming cross with you, and (b) even multi-awarded, internationally-published, good-looking writers who run their own businesses and have fabulous wives and children need love and attention, too.
We haven't really decided how we'll be celebrating the big day yet. I offered to throw him a Disney Princesses birthday party at McDonald's, but inexplicably, he declined. I dunno, Sage
would've been thrilled...
old year's resolution
My big resolution for 2004 was to start learning at least one new skill every year. I realized that, as a 31-year-old working at home, I simply wasn't getting as much external stimulus as I used to at school or in a regular nine-to-five job. So, in keeping with my belief that you have to keep learning or you turn into one of those frumpy matrons who can't even operate a DVD player, I decided to set my own reasonable goals for continued growth.
I'm happy to say that I fulfilled my quota this year by picking up some HTML and CSS skills. For next year, I've decided to start by trying my hand at learning Spanish. Or relearning Spanish, actually, because I'm told that I once spoke it fluently as a child but somehow lost it along the way. (Damn standardized education!) I was tempted to learn French or Russian in keeping with my spy-girl fantasies; but I figure, living in the Philippines, I have a reasonable shot of actually finding people to converse with in Spanish. (Chinese would probably work out better in this respect, but I don't think I'm up to learning an entire new writing system just yet.)
Anyway, in case y'all want to learn a thing or two with me, I'm starting a new ongoing section here on the blog where I'll be posting some bits and pieces of Spanish vocabulary. Salud!
Aprendamos el Espanol!
Great!/Excellent! = Estupendo! (es-too-pen-doh)
okay = vale (ba-leh)
That's right = Esso es (ess-soh-ess)
bit in at 9:35 PM ::
Monday, December 27, 2004
I am happy to say that, after years of vociferous complaining on my part, people have finally stopped giving me fruitcakes. In this case, luckily, the squeaky wheel stops getting greased, ha!
in the debris of delight
It's probably a sign of true adulthood that I've honestly started to get more enjoyment from giving presents than receiving them. It's absolutely true--how fun it is to watch people tear open presents* and laugh, or smile, or even squeal in delight! As opposed to opening presents yourself and having to pretend you're overjoyed instead of aghast.
Of course, I don't discount the possibility that people who open my
presents are likewise faking pleasure, but better them than me, I say. See? Even when I'm generous, I'm selfish, haha!
*un-fragile--please handle without care
Okay, it's not exactly a pet peeve, but it does kind of irk me when people painstakingly peel off gift wrappers, with the ostensible intent of saving them. I mean, come on! If you ask me, it takes half the fun out of it. And you're gonna save, what, less than ten pesos? Worse, are you actually trying to save some brand-name wrapping paper like Rustan's or something so as to give yourself present prestige points, when you are, in fact, reluctant to shell out the aforementioned ten lousy pesos?
Granted, there are many people in the world for whom ten bucks for wrapping paper is a big deal, but let's come clean: none of the people I actually know well enough to give gifts to are those people. Not that I have anything against frugality or anything, but well, I guess maybe I do. But I got you a present--you could at least make it look like you actually want to open it, instead of letting me watch as you map out your little repurposing plans in your head.
bit in at 5:32 PM ::
Friday, December 24, 2004
Well, if you don't know, then tell me: what is life like on your
Finished up Puting Tikbalang's
Christmas wish--a blog revamp--in photo-finish time for Christmas Eve. Since I actually already have my main present (my cell phone, how lovely it is!), I'm mostly excited to watch everyone else unwrap their just desserts. Yes, it's that time of year for Santa to give all the nice people the nice things they so richly deserve... the rest of us know that naughtiness is its own reward!
Check out La Vida e la Morte de Cavallo Bianco here
bit in at 3:00 PM ::
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
I got it, I got it, I got a new replacement for my stolen cell phone! Dean
paid for half of it as my big Christmas present, which actually cost him more than the whole cost of his own phone, by the way. Annnd, I still get to pick out a little gift from him. I have the besterestest husband in the world. (So even if I did have the Make-Your-Own-Dildo Kit, I'm not sharing; Christmas spirit be damned, haha!)
Anyway, if you care, it's a Sony Ericsson k700i, which I got on the expert advice of my friend, the incorrigible Phone Whore
. It has a built-in camera, video, FM radio, MP3 player, various forms of wireless connectivity, a nice big screen, and it's gorgeous. Oh, and, um, it can call and text, too.
None of you can see me right now, but I'm dancing.
bit in at 2:48 PM ::
Monday, December 20, 2004
Okay, so this is what really happened to J9.
First off, her name was Janine, okay? I don’t know, I guess she thought it was cooler or something to spell it that way, but really, how late nineties can you get? If you ask me, it looks like it ought to be said like “canine”, you know, like a dog? And maybe that’s why some people keep trying to bring a dog or something into the story, ‘cause everyone has their own version of it, but me, my boyfriend’s cousin’s friend was her dorm mate, right? So I’m telling you, it was Janine, spell it like you say it.
Anyway. Janine was, like, your average, everyday girl, okay grades, nice roommate, that kinda thing. One day, she just wakes up, and her eyesight is blurry. Nothing major, not like she utterly couldn’t see, right? So she figures, okay, her laser-correct is off or something. So she skips class—not like she could take notes—heads off for the mall, gets her eyes zapped. But, nothing. Still blurry.
So then she pops into a diag booth, and the Doc-Box tells her she’s totally fine, except maybe a little dehydrated, which is no drama because she’s on one of those fat-burner whatzits, you know, the ones that really just kill your water retention? And the Doc-Box says, pretty much, destress and it’ll all go away.
Which she does. And everything is chill until—
And this is the good part, that not everybody knows—
She starts telling my boy’s cuz’s friend that her sight isn’t blurry anymore, it’s blocked. And not blocked like she can’t see nothing; blocked as in, there’s an actual black bar across her vision, you get? And cuz’s friend, who’s studying med tech, goes, “Whoa, maybe you had a stroke.” Except, you know, she’s seven decades or something too young for a stroke.
So then J9 goes, no, it’s not just a black bar, it’s a black bar with text on it, okay? And the text says, get this, “This sight is prohibited.”
S-I-G-H-T, you know? “This sight is prohibited. This sight is prohibited.”
So obviously, Roommate connects that J9—I mean Janine—is going whackers or something; and she’s a good roommate, so she’s all helpful and “Let’s go back to the Doc-Box”, which they do a couple days later.
And Janine is all freaky all the way there, saying she’s starting to see things out of total history, like, I dunno, potholes and pollution and poor people starving and, you know, Rizal, I guess. Like she’s gone back through time or something to when things were really crap in the country; before legal linkage, even.
By the time they get to the mall, J9 is seriously zoned, and cuz’s friend can barely get her, ‘cause she’s saying something like the blocks have broke down, and now she can see, but she doesn’t want to see. And she’s starting to really freak out, which of course embarrasses Roommate to death because, you know, it’s so TV, right?
So cuz’s friend has to drag J9 all the way into the mall to the diag booth, because J9 doesn’t wanna go, she says it’s scary, what if the building collapses? But now Roommate knows something is seriously out there, so she practically shoves J9 into the booth and waits outside—which she totally regrets now, but, you know, these things are private, right?
So. Next thing (and I figure this is why people keep talking crap about rabid dogs, because you know about hydrophobia and that, right?), she hears J9 yelling—really, actually yelling, “We all drink the water! We all drink the water!”
Of course Roommate is a thousand times more embarrassed than before, and people are really eyeballing now, but she figures her friend is really spazzed and maybe needs empathy or something, so she yanks open the Doc Box.
And you know the rest: there’s no one there. As in empty Doc-Box.
Now my boyfriend’s cousin’s friend will tell you that she felt, like, some kind of pressure or weight or something thump against her at that point; but if you ask me, she was just so whacked by the whole thing that she fell flat on her ass, you know? Pretty mortifying to tell, I get, but it’s not a crime to just admit it; I mean anyone would be off-balance, right?
So no one’s seen J9 since. I mean Janine.
This weekend, Dean, Vin, Jason, and I got to talking about narrative perspective and turning a blind eye. This is what came out of it.
bit in at 4:08 PM ::
Help! Does anyone know what this one is actually about?
In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to name my blogpet after that real-life cat of mine that was heartlessly abandoned by my grand-aunt. Now, like its namesake, the blog cat is getting dumped, as it has failed to live up to its press. It was touted as something that would effectively 'read' my blog, and make comments in relation to it, but all it actually did was say things like "no change here" and "still the same". Oh, and make the same ten or so jokes over and over again. So, well, nice idea, developers, but until the cat improves, it has to stay outside the house, as it were.
Instead, here's a blinkie that amused me.
, I've finished another blog design, this one for Vin
, who heroically suffered in silence with the old template, which I'm pretty sure was just not red
enough for what he really wanted. I made his previous look back when I was just a baby at blog customization, so I'm pretty pleased now that I actually have the skills to make his blog all pretty and thematic-like.
Plus, it was a bit of a challenge to do, since men are usually harder for me to design for (You have to be careful to avoid--shudder--excessive girliness); and red is just a difficult color to work with if, like me, you favor a certain level of restraint in your design. I think it came out pretty nicely; you can check out My Life as a Bed here
I'm really enjoying this design work, not least because it has actually helped me in both my professional copywriting and the occasional comics work. I find I'm able to think much more visually nowadays. Now, on to revamping Jonette's
bit in at 11:15 AM ::
Friday, December 17, 2004
That's wright, wrabbit.
casting your member
So there I was, leafing through the magazines at my ridiculously-overpriced new salon of choice (one of their draws, for me at least, is the quality of magazines available for persual) when I encountered this review on the Make Your Own Dildo Kit
. Yes, folks, thanks to the miracle of science, you, too, can now make your very own replica of your favorite penis. All you need is the convenient set and a willing (and presumably pleasantly-shaped) volunteer.
It's actually not all that scientifically miraculous--basically, you get a mold that you form and allow to harden around said penis (after, um, ensuring the hardness of that
, of course). Then you end up with a cast with which you can mold up to five rubber replicas.
I'm not entirely sure why anyone would need five copies of a penis which--having volunteered for insertion in cold, clammy molding material--is obviously readily available for utilization anyway. I can see the potential uses of one
replica, mind you, but five?
Well, it is
Christmastime. And they do say sharing is caring...
bit in at 3:04 PM ::
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Yes, folks, according to the spam I received today:
1. Some long-lost relative of mine--the "Honorable P.J.", who used to work for Shell, apparently--has died and left behind 8.5 million dollars. And guess who his only living relative happens to be? Yup, me. I'll just have to ask Mom how dear, departed Uncle P.J. happens to be related to me, but not to her, Dad, or any of my four older brothers. (Of course, said older brothers have always maintained that they found me on top of a trash can, and only took me home on the mistaken assumption that I was a puppy... Yup! That would explain it!)
2. On the very same day, I have also managed to win the Spanish lottery! Which makes me even richer, to the tune of 300,000+ Euros. This just goes to show how differently they do things in foreign countries, so that you can actually win the lottery without even joining.
So now I am filthy rich, haha! I will give you all one or two of my many spare millions when the money starts pouring in.
(And if you actually believed any of this, you may wish to stop visiting my blog. We have a credulousness limit around here, y'know.)
update to the update:
Oh my goodness, I've now managed to win the lottery twice in one day! Once in Spain, and once in the Netherlands. This is an almost inconceivable case of beating the odds. I'm so lucky I could probably toss myself from the top of a building and land in a pile of cash.
bit in at 1:12 AM ::
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
petty pet (not to be confused with Dean's Petty Pets)
There are about a kazillion things I should really be doing, but instead, I followed Kate's
lead and got myself a blogpet
! The script is still under development, so there are still a million ways I wish it could be better--I wish the colors could be customized, for instance, and I wish I could have something other than a cat. Otherwise, though, it's fairly neat: it reads my blog and makes comments, greets my visitors, and tosses out the occasional joke (generally corny, but one can only demand so much of a talking cat). Scroll on down and give him a pat, why doncha?
The cat's name is Meowitz, by the way, in honor of a former brick-and-mortar pet whom my grand-aunt deliberately 'lost' in Paranaque. She was a terrible little calico who liked to make great slashes with her claws in all our window screens and furniture (um, Meowitz, not my grand-aunt).
Ella's blog has refused to load for days now, and I'm not sure why. Has Ella removed it? Is Blogger just acting up? Or has Ella been carried away by the wee folk, thus leaving my blog with that most irksome of things (to me, anyway), the dead link? Ella, are you still with us?
bit in at 4:13 PM ::
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
To be honest, I don't really know my bouillabaise from my vichyssoise. Except that vichyssoise is served cold.
my spam wish list
As someone who's online pretty much every day, I've actually become more or less resigned to the reality of spam. Still:
1. I wish that the Viagra vendors and purveyors of penis enlargement would figure out that I'm female. I mean, okay, I know that 'Nikki' is sort of a unisex name, but surely the spelling isn't? But clearly these folk are confused, or they wouldn't keep sending me messages like: "You DARE to f**k women with that tiny d**k?!" (Asterisks are theirs, not mine, by the way.) I really don't know why I find this insulting, considering that I neither f**k women nor have any size of d**k, but nevertheless, I feel bruised whenever I encounter these epithets on my monitor. I have
been told that I have sizable balls; maybe that's the source of confusion?
2. I wish one of the many people writing to offer me millions of dollars would actually turn out to be the real deal. On second thought, scratch that, because even if it was the real deal, I'd never believe it, out of sheer overexposure. Instead, I wish I could figure out why all these supposedly abandoned bank accounts and unassigned inheritances seem to originate from South Africa. What's up with that? Is it particularly difficult to check up on such things in South Africa, or do the spammer-scammers simply figure that it's too far away for anyone to possibly doubt? And if it's the latter, then where does the spam-scam addressed to people in South Africa originate from? Let's hope it's the Philippines; at least then, the thousands of people around the world who still think we live in trees will realize that we have Internet connections, not to mention banks.
3. I wish those people who go around trying to send other people viruses would at least refrain from abusing the English language--although, granted, it has probably helped me avoid infection more than once, as I categorically refuse to acknowledge anything labeled "Read this important informations!" Actually, Alex
has informed me that spammers often misspell these things on purpose, to avoid being identified by webbots. Which means that webbots also have no truck with bad grammar. Good for them!
3a. In relation to the preceding item, I really wish that I would stop sending myself email with viral attachments. It's bad enough getting virus email; worse having your email address hacked into; and the worst of all is getting scam spam from yourself! Aside from the irritation factor, this may well cause me to miss any important warnings or advice sent to me from my future self through the backward flow of the time stream.
Hey, you never know. But I'm pretty sure I wouldn't say "important informations attached".
So I looked it up and...
Bouillabaise is a very rich Mediterranean fish soup, distinguished by a unique flavoring derived from saffron, fennel seeds, and orange zest. Variously referred to as 'the magical synthesis' or 'soupe d'or (soup of gold)', it's supposed to have been invented by the Roman goddess Venus to lull her husband Vulcan to sleep while she fooled around with Mars, the god of war.
As for vichyssoise, it turns out that this creamy potato-leek soup (which is indeed served cold) is not a French soup at all, but an American invention! It was actually created by Chef Louis Diat of the New York Ritz-Carlton, sometime in the 1910s.
bit in at 8:25 PM ::
Saturday, December 11, 2004
I don't think I even know what a noodle ring is
fairy blogmother strikes again
I was actually shopping around for a background for Vin's
new blog look (Shh! Don't tell him; it's supposed to be partly a Christmas/early, early birthday present), when I hit upon the cutest little fairy animation. Now I couldn't use it for Vin (Well, I could
, but then he'd have to pretend to be happy about it while secretly shuddering with saccharine overload inside...), so it turned into a new template for Sage
This has really all happened because I'm waiting for Kat
to email me what she wants for her blog redesign (another Christmas present), though I don't really know why she wants one when her blog has just gotten a new look and looks perfectly cute. Anyway, the point is, I already put my Fairy Blogmother hat on (That's what my sister-in-law Jo
calls me), so I had to do something
I think it turned out to be the best blog work I've done so far. Check out Sagey's blog here
You know, I think fairy godmothers wear hoods, not hats. Oh, well.
Grammar & Punctuation: traffic
Because it's the Christmas season, I've been hearing sentences like this one a lot: "It's very traffic." So to save my poor ears, let me just clarify: traffic is not an adjective, okay? It's a noun; therefore, we say:
"The traffic is terrible." or
"It's very trafficky today."
The latter, by the way, is a word that entered the etymology some time ago, but has only recently been included in dictionaries. So if you don't find it in your dictionary, it means your version isn't current enough, and you need to get the new version that actually includes the word 'blog'.
Have a traffic-free day! (Yup, that one's an adjective.)
bit in at 3:24 PM ::
Thursday, December 09, 2004
I celebrated with a Twinkie.
sympathy for the devilish
One of my flaws (and there are many, you should know) is that I'm not too good with sympathy. I'm pretty good at giving it (when I feel like it...), but I suck at receiving sympathy.
Probably it's because I don't like to dwell on my problems. I prefer to solve them, dismiss them when I can't solve them, or put them away until I figure out how to solve them. So sympathy just tends to remind me of problems that I'm (a) busy trying to solve, or (b) resolutely not thinking about. Besides, somehow--maybe it's my personality, I don't know--it usually winds up with me comforting the person who's supposed to be doing the sympathizing. "Don't worry, it's okay," I end up saying. "I'm going to be just fine." That, or I get irritated by people offering me 'helpful' advice which I already considered and dismissed as unfeasible, like, eons ago.
Look, it's not like I'm some kind of coy person. If I want advice, I will bloody well ask for it. If I want a shoulder to lean on, I will plant my head thereon without preamble. Otherwise, all I want is for the person I'm addressing to say, "Shit, that sucks," and move on to a new topic of conversation.
Which I know is not very reasonable of me, but hey. Didn't I just say this sympathy thing isn't one of my strong points?
Anyway, the whole point of this rant is to tell you all that I haven't posted for a while because some schmuck nabbed my cell phone, and I didn't feel like talking about it. But I'm going to get paid for some projects soon, and Dean has generously offered to cover the rest of the cost for my new phone, so problem solved.
Which means I am now free to move on to new topics of conversation, and you are now officially permitted to say, "Shit, that sucks."
bit in at 1:56 AM ::
Sunday, December 05, 2004
If I had a bathtub, this would be nice.
With a little time on my hands at last, I've been able to fulfill some of my little side obligations, like Eric's
blog redesign. Well, I say
section, in which he plans to feature artists, writers, and whatnot that he happens to admire. He also has a nifty little daily horoscope, which isn't supposed to be specifically about love, but oddly seems to focus on that more than anything. I may have to change this if it continues.
Anyway, you can check The Fool
. (And no, I am not dissing him; that's really the name of his blog!)
bit in at 3:37 PM ::
Thursday, December 02, 2004
On the morning of my wedding, I actually had to take a swimming exam as part of my job application to be an airline flight attendant. I couldn't get out of it by telling them it was my wedding day, because they were only accepting unmarried applicants (which I was when I applied, but I didn't think they'd think much of that
loophole). So while my mom and bridesmaids trooped over with my dress and all to the hotel suite we'd rented as a staging area, I was doing laps at the Philippine Plaza swimming pool, accompanied by my then-81-year-old grand-aunt, who was my chaperone in case anything went wrong. (Though what Ma Aguing was supposed to do if I started to drown or something is beyond me!)
I finally got to the hotel (having passed my exam, thank you very much!) at around noon, whereupon the hairdresser my mother had hired promptly pounced on me, clucking all the time over the state of my chlorinated tresses. I remember everyone being in a terrible tizzy, what with getting themselves ready, and my mother instructing my best girl friends Jen and Dee over and over as to the proper distribution of the valuable sponsors-only giveaways. (Which were only for sponsors, so you wouldn't think the instructions really needed to be that complicated...)
I myself was perfectly calm, having realized months back that my real role there was as a prop in my interior-decorator-mother's magnum opus. (Three of my four older brothers had already gotten married, but in each case, my mother had had to bow to the wishes of the bride. I, as her only daughter, was her only chance to see her vision fully realized.) (But I had to put my foot down about her idea of putting ducks instead of doves in the wedding bell. I was afraid that they would come crashing to their deaths on our heads instead of taking flight.)
My only moments of tension were (1) when I realized that the wedding dress my mother-in-law and her helpers had lovingly hand-sewn with sequins and seed pearls weighed about 80 pounds; (2) when I was told that the bride had to sit quietly in the limo and wait for the priest, while the groom and all their friends got to mingle and laugh outside the church; and (3) when Dean
made me dance the Macarena
with him in the aforementioned 80-pound dress.
Despite those moments, it was actually a very fun, silly, and splendid party, still remembered by many as "the best wedding ever". But a party was all it was, which was why I didn't really mind having about as much say in the proceedings as the little bride figurine on the wedding cake. See, in my head, I'd already gotten married two years before, when the man I love asked me to marry him, and I said yes without a doubt in my mind (at the age of 20!). So what mattered was not the ceremony, and not the piece of paper--just what the two of us knew and agreed upon together.
True then, true now. Not that being able to have sex without sneaking off to a motel doesn't have its perks, mind you.
To all of you who sweetly remembered and greeted us: Thank you! I hope you all find someone who can make you at least half as happy as I've been for the last nine years. Then you'll be at least half again happier than just about everyone else...
And to all of you so-called 'friends' who said, "I give them five years, tops": Nya-nya-nya-nya-nyaah!
bit in at 7:29 PM ::