Caustic Thoughts

Random funny thoughts with a taste of Pinoy and a hint of acid.

High Functioning Depression – What it’s Like to Have it

by Leave a Comment

 

Video Transcript: I had a secret. I kept it under wraps for years because when I tried talking about it people thought I was being ungrateful.

My secret? I suffered from depression.

I still do, but I have had the good fortune of eventually stumbling upon people who also suffer or have suffered from it and understand what it’s about, people who don’t aggressively blame me for it, but don’t let me wallow in despair either.

Before I go on, let me just say… If you suspect that you suffer from depression or some other form of mental, emotional, internal disturbance, DO NOT SELF-DIAGNOSE. Please seek help. Depression is not a joke and there is no one size fits all solution. I should know, I had a close family member who didn’t make it. So I can’t say it enough; seek help!

Also, please note, what I am about to say is based on my personal experience. I am not a mental health professional or your overbearing mother, and I am not qualified to define or analyze anyone else’s circumstance. My objective here is to simply share what I personally went through in the hopes that it might prove relatable to someone.

So what does it feel like to have what I have?

At first, I seem to have shared very similar mental states (some of which still persist) with my clinically depressed acquaintances. There was that crushing feeling of sadness and hopelessness, and the distressing feeling of sitting in a black hole, alternating between numbness and overthinking the cobwebs I conjured out of nothing. I had very little belief and pride in myself and in what I did, and like my saturnine pals, there were sporadic attempts to be, let’s just say, harmful…

But then something shifted ever so slightly, and I don’t quite know how and why it did. Perhaps a combination of my unique chemical and mental make up and the demands of a changed environment made it possible, or maybe a huge purple villain from another dimension snapped, and instead of eliminating 50% of the population, his snap shifted brain cells.

Whatever the cause, I noticed, I had suddenly gotten up and began to drive myself over cliffs of excess.

I’d become so concerned about time or my perceived shortness of it that I start work at dawn to ensure I make the most out of my day, but even then I end up deeply dissatisfied with the day’s work. When I’m not working, I either stuff my face senseless or I sleep — a lot, one time clocking in a record 20 hours of sleep on one of my mandatory holidays. I sleep so much during my days off I’d likely pass off either as a cat or a piece of furniture. But despite all the seeming rest I get, I still end up perpetually exhausted.

But there is one other thing I do even more excessively than eating or sleeping — reading.

In 2016, I read 61 books and listened to 24 audiobooks, a total of 85 books consumed in one year. This, combined with my two other favorite excesses, has resulted in extremely dark eye rings and a fairly even increase in my horizontal dimensions.

Yes, I really look like a sad panda right now.

sad panda stuffed doll
Feeling like a panda. Thinking like Batman.
 

I’ve been told this seemingly frenetic mutation of my earlier condition is called high functioning depression, also known as, the Batman state of mind (just kidding) — also known as, dysthymia or persistent depressive disorder (PDD).

Earlier in 2018, I went through another major shift. All of a sudden, something just lifted. There is still some feeling of heaviness, but I feel a lot lighter now, and I’ve done a lot more different things besides reading, eating and sleeping. By the end of 2018, I only managed to read 25 books, and looking back at 2016, I can’t imagine how I finished so many.

Moms Don’t Think

by Leave a Comment

We used to tease my mother-in-law for her preferred mode of weekend entertainment. It consisted mostly of watching movies with little to no dialogue, but brimming over with blood, gore and broken limbs. She explained that she did not care to think in her moments of repose, which would have been the case if she were to watch fiction of the verbose sort.

arnold schwarzenegger meme

While, in the interest of maintaining my digestive peace, I still question her choice of genre, I no longer wonder at her reason. I understand her now. After a week of slaving over soul-crushing cubicle work that is the demand of necessity rather than interest, and dealing, in a personal and professional capacity, with the mind-boggling angst and nonsense of a constant stream of bipeds in arrested emotional maturity, it is too much to require additional strenuous mental exercise on a rest day.

I understand her even better because I find myself in the same situation, stretched so thin by the demands of full time employment and parenthood that I refuse to use my brain a second over Friday’s sunset, by which time I demand my inalienable right to nonsensical rest and recreation.

In my case, I find my comfort in my trove of books, but while my younger tastes leaned towards the likes of Poe, Kafka, Fitzgerald and Dostoevsky, I now find myself in need of much, much lighter fare, so utterly bereft of depth that I am ashamed to admit the crime of reading them, and am therefore constrained to hide the evidence in the bowels of a nondescript eBook reader.

But even then, the lack of spare brain cells to process even my dumbed down diversions requires me to reread sentences thrice before I comprehend their import, an affliction first manifested by my own mother, who, paradoxically, has a degree in English Literature. This has led me to the conclusion that mothers aren’t, by nature, slow or uncomprehending. We’re just tired!

(Thanks Rocky for sharing this. >:D)

Now the question is, shall this be the permanent prevailing state of affairs? To that I say, I refuse defeat. After two months with my eBook reader, I have been forcing my grey matter to gradually migrate, cell by cell, back to its usual haunts: Tolkien, Dickens, Eliot, Chekhov, Hemingway… God help me.

Comelec Tales: The Return of the Dead Voter

by Leave a Comment

It’s almost election season again, a time for cripplingly long lines and tall tales. Sadly, while most of us will probably be forced to marinate in candidates’ assorted vats of lies, not all of us will be given the privilege to cast our votes for our preferred liar. “No bio no boto” stands.

I almost didn’t make it though, and it was partly my fault.

I do not do anything at the last minute. I am, moreover, so anal retentive that I quadruple check anything I’d already done, which is why it came as a surprise to me that I decided to depart from my usual insanity.

For some inexplicable reason, I trusted in the system. I registered years ago, and in my voter’s certification, they printed my signature, thumbprint and the face of the first functional zombie on earth.

I was therefore quite distressed to find my name among the list of voters without biometrics a week before the deadline for voters’ registration.  I suspected that it might have been my otherworldly beauty that may have led Comelec staff to doubt that I was human.

Regardless of the reason, I made up my mind to line up the following day to show my certificate of proof that I am a voter in possession of a face. This is despite the fact that, with very little time left to registrants, the lines would likely redefine despair, patience and fortitude all in one day.

By the way, can anyone remind me why do we do this? Why do we voluntarily subject ourselves to such a painful inconvenience when we always end up electing officials who torture us with inane or corrupt governance anyway?

I do not know why. I suppose Filipinos are simply eternally hopeful that eventually we’ll hit the mark. Unfortunately, the last time we did this, we mistook PNoy’s shiny pate as the bullseye and missed by a mile entirely.

So, armed with a dose of determination and a layer of hope imbibed from listening to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing on perpetual loop, I marched to the registration area the next day, only to discover that there were no separate sets of numbers for inquiries, new registrants and registered voters without biometrics. We all had the same queue and the last priority number had been given at 6 a.m.

Those of us who persisted in inquiring, gathered like lost sheep at the exit, united in our mutual cluelessness. With the seasoned tutelage of Manong Guard, our self-appointed shepherd who had hitherto been intent on making sure none of us went over his imaginary fence, we eventually devised a fishing game to reel in passing Comelec staff to gang up on (with the meekness of a gang of sheep of course). We appointed official bait who we threw at our prospects.

Two catches later and our group had grown considerably smaller, with most of the sheep marching home sheared… err, verified. My situation however, had gotten murky. Our first catch declared that my certificate was enough proof that I had the all clear to vote for my choice of clowns in next year’s cirque de gobierno. Our second catch however, said I had no biometrics despite the printed proof to the contrary.

Manong guard had a word of sage advice for us few remaining disconsolate sheep: We should line up at 2 a.m. the next day so we could be the first in line for priority numbers at 6 a.m.

I could almost hear Heneral Luna hollering his now immortal question in my ear, “Bayan o sarili?! (Country or self?!)”

Such a difficult question. Can I use a lifeline please?

The predominant feeling was disappointment, but I have, these past years, been decidedly dissuading myself from the immediate urge to complain about public service. First, because it isn’t always the public servants’ fault. In this case, we were given 18 months to sort ourselves out, but many chose to do so only at the last minute. Second, because not all government employees take one hour to finish their 15 minute breaks while queues simmer in high blood pressure. There may have been flaws in the local systems they chose to adopt, but the local Comelec staff clearly worked seriously and diligently.

With no solution in sight, I trudged home defeated, and in a twisted attempt to relieve my disappointment, I took to Twitter to bask in the despair of other voters. Fellow blogger, Vic ended up tagging Comelec’s James Jimenez in a tweet I made in reply to one of his. Naturally, I thought nothing of it. You simply do not expect people of consequence to take notice of little people (although technically speaking, years of stress eating has made me anything but little).

To my utter shock, Jimenez asked for the details of my problem and had Ms. L from his office call me long distance from Manila. I was astounded. It was as if I was in the middle of a bizarre late night telenovela where everything was so absurd that nothing made sense. Someone from up the top was personally trying to help me.

Succeeding referrals from Ms. L to Ms. M and Ms. H of their local offices finally revealed the reason behind the discrepancy in my records. Apparently, my file had been deactivated due to death. More importantly, it wasn’t my fault, Ms. H said. It was involuntary manslaughter on their part.

tomb
Get up. Time to vote.

My husband rejoiced at the news because it meant I never had to pay taxes again — I was dead after all. To his dismay, I opted to rise from the dead with the help of Ms. H who had restored my biometrics.

And I lived happily ever after… I wish. I might still end up with a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, voting for loonies we’d end up suffering under for the next six years, again.

But really, the highlight of this story is Jimenez. This should teach me not to lose faith in our public servants. Hallelujah! There are still some good ones out there. Here’s hoping that next elections, we put more of them where they can help.

The Half of It

by 2 Comments

It happened one bright afternoon when vendors were setting up their stalls for the weekend flea market. She had expelled copious amounts of undigested matter, soft projectiles so formidable, they sent one stall owner and her kin running for the hills, leaving me with the unenviable task of demonstrating my inadequate cleaning skills in front of oddly delighted spectators.

It happened again in a posh upscale mall. This time it was the youngest who had deigned to enhance the tiles of beige and cream with his ecru-hued dinner. At least his color combination was impeccable. By this time, my cleaning prowess had elevated to ninja level; I had to wipe the mall restroom too when his digestive tract decided it had more to share to the world.

Halfway there

My mother assured me I hadn’t seen the half of it. I wondered what worse things I’d done as a child to make her say that. I have no recollection of having made her acquainted with the byproducts of failed digestion. But then, our adventures together may have been of a more extreme nature.

There was that time I slept at the car’s back seat and downed a lungful of carbon monoxide. Senseless and, according to her, looking possessed and grinning like the devil, I very nearly crossed over.

Then there was that unique swimming episode when I plunged into the mouth of a dead volcano that had been converted into a water reservoir, with my salvation in the hands of a man, who himself, did not know how to swim. I swear my mother’s agitated gesticulations during and after my Olympic worthy dive could have won her the championship at a hip hop dance contest. 

Multiply all my other escapades by six (my siblings) and you’ll arrive at the conclusion: No wonder my mom is one crazy tamale.

I strongly suspect though that I am fast approaching the point of “seeing the half of it” or at least reaching my mother’s level of insanity. I have, after all, carried an unconscious 25 lb asthmatic boy for three hours because the ER had no beds left, and I have held vigil and cleaned after a bloody food poisoned little girl. And yet, that really is just part of the half of it, because they’ll grow up and there’ll be more frightening things to look out for, like prom dates and abominable teen fashion.

This isn’t intended to scare. If anything, this is really an exhortation to be kind and forgiving of the people who’ve raised you. Ruling out some detestable exceptions, many parents do the best they can with their limited skills and understanding and despite their frustrated dreams. The best of us expect no other reward than the memories of little arms lovingly wrapped around our abdominal spare tires and soft grateful kisses on our raisin faces permanently wrinkled with worry.

Cheers to all parents past and present who have seen and survived the halfway mark.

Interstellar Mini Movie Review

by Leave a Comment

I’ve been emotionally compromised. I couldn’t stop thinking about Interstellar days after I’d watched it, and I’ve had to rationalize my prolonged teary-eyed state as distress over more mundane concerns (paying my annual income tax, for example), when in reality, I wanted to weep for Cooper.

My husband got a copy of the movie because he liked it but felt he needed another go to fully absorb the story. His brains apparently fell off a cliff midway. That was fair warning that I needed to watch the film in an isolation chamber for comprehension purposes. That’s just what I’d expect from Christopher Nolan whose films are beautifully crafted marvels that require audiences to take anti-inflammatory medication.

If all you remember of high school physics is your teacher’s superb skills in making you cry, then the movie’s dialogue, liberally seasoned with discussions about singularities, wormholes, relativity, gravitational waves and time dilation will leave you feeling like a fart capsule exploded in your brain. The only way to connect with the story is to pare down some of its mind numbing concepts.

In Summary

The earth and the human race are about to go kaput. Cooper, a former pilot, is recruited by NASA’s professor Brand to take a ship with a group of scientists, including Brand’s daughter Amelia, into a wormhole to gather data from three possibly habitable planets orbiting a black hole. Brand reveals he is working on an equation that will allow them to launch space stations that’ll take humanity to a new home. In the event that this fails, Brand’s plan B is to use frozen embryos, which the scientists take with them, to jumpstart the human race.

Cooper leaves behind his broken hearted 10 year old daughter, Murph, but is determined to one day return. It is later revealed that Brand lied about there being a plan A, having secretly solved his equation and deemed plan A to be impossible. From the start Brand intended Cooper and company to execute plan B with no hope of ever returning.

After discovering that two of the planets are inhospitable and after a series of unfortunate events (i.e. after all the supporting cast have been killed off), Amelia and Cooper are the only ones left of their company. Low on fuel, Cooper detaches himself from their ship and launches into the black hole’s singularity while propelling Amelia and her embryos into the third planet. (Talk about becoming the mother of the human race! That is if she manages to survive her first ten toddlers.)

While in the black hole, Cooper finds himself in a five-dimensional area compressed into a three-dimensional space from where he transmits data to an adult Murph. She uses the data to solve the equation that will allow mankind to launch space stations, thereby saving it from extinction. Cooper exits the blackhole and is back where he started. He is later reunited with Murph, but because of time dilation, Cooper has hardly aged, while Murph is now elderly and dying.

The Bottom Line

You don’t need a PhD in constipated Hollywood plots to be able to relate to Interstellar. Nolan’s message is simple. Unfortunately, this is also where the story goes a little wishy washy. After all that convoluted mental acrobatics, all Nolan wants to say is: Love is that all mysterious force that binds us, draws us together across time and space and conquers all. In the end, Nolan takes us back to the inexplicable.

I don’t begrudge Nolan though, because he reminds us that we don’t always need rigid proof to experience something powerful, real, true and comprehensible. Matthew Mcconaughey portrays Cooper as your average Joe which makes it even easier for us to stand in his shoes. If you’ve ever loved another being with fierce depth, you will understand Cooper’s despair at parting and his anguish at later realizing that he has missed irreplaceable years in his child’s life.

For countless Filipinos the world over, Cooper’s experience should resonate on an even more personal level. We have, after all, our OFWs who, because of love, must part for prolonged periods of time from the people they care for.

So is Interstellar really just a touchy feely movie masquerading as an abstruse pop quiz in astrophysics? If the story strikes a chord with you, I don’t think you’ll bother analyzing what it is or is not.

Just for laughs, here’s Interstellar’s Honest Trailer .

Reading Guide: Ten Questions Filipinos Should Ask after the Mamasapano Clash

by Leave a Comment

The botched police operation in Mamasapano, Maguindanao that led to the brutal deaths of SAF troopers has left a potent cocktail mix of emotions in me. Forty-four brave sons for the head of international terrorist Marwan. I knew none of the troopers personally, and yet I grieve in this awful state of anger, devastation and frustration. If you love this country, you will understand why this has left a bitter sting on my consciousness.

Of course I am saddened for the bereaved families, but there is an overarching awareness of another loss. The Fallen 44 were among the best and bravest who would have constructively contributed through their work and character to the task of reviving an ailing nation. We need people like them. We’ve already lost too many of our brightest minds, artists, athletes and workers to foreign shores because our government has neglected to nurture their dreams.

As if this loss wasn’t enough, the incident has had a ripple effect, touching and exposing a multitude of sensitive points, ranging from doubts about the soundness of government leadership to fears about the outcome of peace talks with the MILF. This is what some of us fail to see even as thousands have already freely expressed their sentiments.

The problem is not that we all have an opinion. It’s that many have opinions formed on the basis of digestive gas, and social media gives us the license to throw out incomplete or misguided thoughts like bits of fecal matter on an already gangrenous situation.

If you must have an opinion, you should at least read a little, analyze and ask questions. If you don’t know where to start, here’s a reading guide:

1. Who was Marwan and why were they after him?

Malaysian bomb maker Zulkifli bin Hir, also known as Marwan, was an engineer trained in the United States. He was believed to have headed a Malaysian terrorist organization and was a member of the Jemaah Islamiyah. He is suspected of having had a hand in the 2002 Bali bombings, killing 202 people. Local media suggests he had ties with the ISIS.

Read:
Wanted by the FBI: Zulkifli Abdhir
‘High likelihood’ suspected Bali bomber among dead in Philippines clashes, official says

2. Who was directing the operation against Marwan?

Suspended PNP chief General Alan Purisima has denied having directed the operations, declaring that his role was limited to providing the intelligence packet. If you listen between the lines of Aquino and Purisima’s statements, the blame seems to be pointed at a smaller goat, relieved SAF chief Getulio Napeñas, Jr. 

Is it acceptable that none of the top brass seem eager to take responsibility for what happened?

Incidentally, Aquino was in Zamboanga when the slaughter happened. Can you honestly believe he was just there by chance?

Read:
‘Purisima planned it all’
Purisima denies hand in Mamasapano operation
Aquino’s February 26 speech after Purisima’s resignation

3. Why was the military unable to provide reinforcements?

PNP OIC General Leandro Espina and AFP chief-of-staff General Gregorio Catapang knew months ago that there were plans to arrest Marwan, but they had not known of the exact details of the actual January 25 operation. Espina’s request for military reinforcement was made only during the actual fight.

Bitter ampalaya balls have been thrown between the PNP and the AFP but again, it’s important to read statements carefully. It seems clear that the operation was kept so tightly under wraps that coordination became difficult during the actual encounter. It has been suggested however, that secrecy was crucial for the success of the operation.

Read:
The Mamasapano operation: He said, he said, he said
SAF chief: I am responsible
AFP chief sheds tears for fallen PNP-SAF cops

4. What could have happened if the military got involved?

The situation was complicated by an existing ceasefire agreement between the MILF and the government. If the military got involved, could they have endangered peace talks with the MILF?

Read:
Where were the military troops?
Why the military did not reinforce SAF

5. If there is a ceasefire agreement, why was the MILF involved?

The forces that clashed with SAF troopers included members of the BIFF, MILF and private armies. The BIFF is a splinter faction that separated from the MILF in 2010 over disagreements in the peace process. Only the MILF has a standing agreement with the government.

Notwithstanding the agreement, MILF Chariman Murad Ebrahim said that in reality, once there is a common enemy, everyone joins in. Moreover, the MILF and BIFF have members who are either relatives or friends, making it difficult for one group to completely sever ties.

Read/Watch:
BIFF on MILF unit: ‘We’re all family’
MILF Chairman Murad Ebrahim – watch 2:18

6. If the BIFF and the MILF have close ties, what kind of peace will there be in Central Mindanao?

This remains to be seen if the Bangsamoro Basic Law is passed and takes effect, but you can just imagine…

7. If the MILF are eager to shake hands with the government, why did they allow a known terrorist to roam freely in their area of influence?

Marwan lived in Central Mindanao for twelve years, taking three Filipino wives and forming ties with a number of terrorist groups. The key word here is “ties”. If the MILF tried to aggressively ferret him out, would they have stepped on certain relationships that were not in their best interests to run over?

Read:
Marwan’s ties that bind: Aljebir Adzhar aka Embel
Marwan’s ties that bind: Ren-Ren Dongon

8. Why are the authorities being faulted for not coordinating the MILF if they felt they had good reason not to?

The implementing guidelines of the ceasefire agreement stipulate the need for government forces to coordinate with the MILF for planned operations in their area. Former GPH Peace Panel Chairman Jesus Dureza however, said that this excludes operations against high priority targets. The current government peace panel has labeled Dureza’s statement as misleading.

Wait. What?! The term “required” is a little disturbing. Areas occupied by the MILF are still under Philippine territory. We are a sovereign nation. Can’t the government enforce the law in its own territory without the requirement to coordinate?

Read:
SAF did not have to inform MILF
Govt panel: Coordination with MILF required even in pursuit of high-value targets
Lacson’s supposed opinion on sovereignty – paragraph 6 (source unverified)

9. Is everything okay now that Marwan has supposedly been neutralized?

Marwan’s cohort and fellow bomb maker, Abdul Basit Usman is still at large. Marwan also reportedly trained 300 bomb makers in Central Mindanao. Moreover, the government now has the BIFF, who have threatened to launch attacks, to contend with.

Read:
Marwan leaves behind 300 bomb makers in Mindanao
BIFF vows more attacks

10. Will passing the Bangsamoro law finally bring peace and put an end to the troubles plaguing Central Mindanao?

Much depends on whether the MILF can police their ranks and contain those who are relatives with or sympathetic to the BIFF who are in turn sympathetic to suspected terrorists.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though, because the Bangsamoro Agreement is still up for debate. Constitutional expert, Senator Miriam Defensor Santiago says that creating a substate, which the Agreement suggests, is unconstitutional. Moreover, the existing ARMM is mandated by the constitution and cannot simply be abolished to give way to the Bangsamoro law.

My Opinion: The constitution is the supreme law. If we cannot respect it, no law is sacred.

Already, we are seeing vestiges of this substate. In the video shared in #5, Ebrahim said that if any of the MILF fighters involved in the Mamasapano clash are found in the wrong, they will not be turned over to government authorities, but will be tried in their own courts.

It’s worth noting though, that all out war doesn’t seem to be an easy alternative to a questionable peace agreement. According to GMA News research, armed conflict in Mindanao has lead to the deaths of 120,000 people from 1970 to 1996 and to physical and cultural displacement.

The effects of armed conflict go beyond Mindanao. There will be economic consequences that will affect the rest of the country.

Read:
Miriam: Bangsamoro Agreement Unconstitutional
Bangsamoro law cannot abolish ARMM, says ex-solon
Armed conflict, malaki ang epekto sa kalidad ng buhay ng mga komunidad

The SAF 44 did more than fulfill their mission. Their deaths pushed more Filipinos into seeing the bigger picture— the enormity of the difficulties and issues facing Mindanao and the rest of the country.

Knowing our government’s track record, I do not expect that the brave Fallen 44 will ever be given conventional justice. The best justice we ordinary citizens can give them is to pay better attention to the events that threaten to push our country into a deeper pit and to become more involved. Our nation’s future depends on our decisions. Let’s start by picking leaders in 2016 who have our country’s best interests in mind and the skill to steer us out of this quagmire we’re in.

Rest in peace Fallen 44. May we do justice to your sacrifice.

Lost Soles

by 6 Comments

The best places to find financially rewarding jobs in Misamis Oriental are Tagoloan and Villanueva. These two places contain the companies that applicants drool over while half awake beside the telephone on a warm and dry jobless day. Getting into companies there will not just give employees the feeling of being well compensated; it will also give a view into a distant but secure future, one filled with fat chickens on the table, Tanduay in blue boxes, an air conditioned home in the Estates and the most expensive Magic Sing in the sala.

That’s why my heart jumped when I got a call for an interview from a Tagoloan company. I took out my interview clothes that had been reeking of moth balls, put on my most comfortable pair of fake leather shoes and flew off to the jeepney terminal. It was my first trip to Tagoloan and I had no idea that the sun would be crueler on that part of the world and that the trip would include a free supply of grey face powder that had a peculiar way of coating the insides of nostrils too. But I didn’t mind going through the trip. If I got accepted, I could be sitting on a company bus the following week on a cool morning when both sun and smog are at their kindest.

I got off right in front of the company gate. The company building was still some distance away and I had to walk over cemented paths that looked so warm that they could cook applicants in transit. All of a sudden I knew how the ancient human sacrifices thrown into volcanoes must have felt like on the day they died. But I pushed on, hoping that I would meet with no other form of tragedy along the way except for a splitting headache no pack of Medicol would be able to cure.

But the hammer in my head proved to be the least of my worries. By the time I reached the middle of my walk, I noticed tiny black particles following my every step. I thought the heat had finally gotten the best of me, making me more paranoid than usual. It turned out I wasn’t hallucinating. The little black things dodging my every step came from the bottom of my fake shoes.

I had no idea shoes that hadn’t been used in ages had a way of falling apart under the slightest provocation. The problem was, I was already at the office door. Oh, the shame of it all! I dragged my feet carefully but still left traces of black pseudo leather on the carpet.

I sat through my interview, praying that I wouldn’t leave the remainder of my soles underneath the chair where I had tucked my feet. When it was all over, I limped out as quickly as I could, leaving more of my nasty mystery trail for the janitor to solve. If Cinderalla had fake leather shoes instead of glass, her prince would have found her sooner.

I didn’t get the job. The interviewer must have noticed the way I sat as if I was carrying a liter of urine in my bladder. I learned a valuable lesson that day. Don’t wear fake leather shoes to an interview if you’ve kept them too long. You’ll lose your sole on a warm, unforgiving interview day.

*First posted on MisOrJobs
November 27, 2008

MisOrJobs Bids Farewell

by 32 Comments

Everything we do involves some degree of risk. The only way you’d be able to avoid taking risks is if you keep to your bed for the rest of your life and do nothing. Even then you’d probably risk eventual organ failure for lack of activity. The real challenge is knowing when to charge and when to surrender. The problem with me is, I never can tell.
   
My experience with letting go has always involved making the decision to do so only after some alarming sign slams some sense into me, like a 500 lb. anvil falling on my head or Maricel Soriano’s palm hitting my face at 200 kph.

A few weeks ago, I had another one of those devastating alarms go off. I woke up to the news that my six year old local job site, MisOrJobs, with over 20,000 monthly unique visitors and over 50,000 monthly visits became the unwitting tool of a scammer. Some wise guy posted a bogus job ad, intending to defraud applicants.

Yup, those are some pretty decent stats I’ll surely miss.

The ensuing events felt like a bad primetime drama unfolding in slow motion, leaving a prolonged nasty aftertaste you can’t flush out with mouthwash. In summary, an applicant fell into the trap. The NBI got involved and, what I would imagine to be a nerve-wracking entrapment operation was mounted, leading to the scammer’s arrest. The media caught wind of it of course, and published an article with my website’s name splattered all over it. I was contacted for my side of the story. I had to see lawyers and then lie down anxious and immobile for hours.

I’d assume the scammer took a fair bit of time to brainstorm his grand designs of petty thievery. Really though, if he used his skills and resources to pursue a more socially acceptable undertaking, like writing better senatorial speeches, he’d have almost made an honest living for himself, but noooooo, he had to go all Lex Luthor and use his prodigious intelligence for evil.

Needless to say, my thoughts go out to the victim. I can’t imagine the stress caused by such an ordeal, but I can’t help but think I’d been ill used too, and I suspect that the effect on me will very soon spread over. The incident has convinced me to shut down MisOrJobs, leaving its thousands of followers out in the cold.

This is not a case of lack of perseverance on my part or turning my back on a challenge. This is about me finally realizing that I’ve sacrificed enough. Running a website involves many sleepless hours of administrative and maintenance work. Add to that the time and effort needed to put every single email from employers, jobseekers and spammers under a magnifying glass. If I had to screen more intensively, I’d need an electron microscope. Even then, who knows when an even more enterprising bacteria of a man manages to disguise his presence and escape detection.

Do take note, I do all of my intensive work and screening for free. I don’t get paid. I already have a demanding full time job that eats my brains on a regular basis, plus kids on lithium batteries to manage. MisOrJobs has become one of those extra weights designed to etch darker bags with the depth of the Marianas Trench under my eyes.

Why did I punish myself with all that free work, you ask? Too many have said they found the site helpful and have expressed gratitude for the hard work. It didn’t feel right to pull the plug then.

Now that I have made the decision to abandon ship for myself, I probably have more time to do things I probably should have done more, like comb my hair or check myself out in the mirror. I also have extra time now to go to the kitchen to learn to prepare food that doesn’t come out of a can or dial McDo; to go out and find out what the sunlight feels like; to burn the growing tire  around my waist; to rediscover the use of my voice box to talk to real people; to watch more fun cat and dog videos on YouTube. More importantly, now I have time to pursue things I’m truly passionate about.

I’ll be honest, just because I’ve made up my mind doesn’t make the execution easy. I’ve nurtured MisOrJobs for more than half a decade, and it feels like I’m letting go of a loved one, so I’m more inclined to drop it slowly. It’ll be a couple of months before I finally close the doors.

It’s worth noting that I’m not the type who says never. Who knows one of these days someone else might offer to take the domain out of my hands to resurrect it or I might find myself in a new situation where I’m more able to run it again. So I do encourage my fans to continue to follow MisOrJobs’ social accounts. I’ll keep updating those with relevant posts and perhaps one day I’ll let you know what the future holds for the site, but for now, farewell.

Dark Thoughts in the Dark in Mindanao

by 12 Comments

I’ve been derailed. Around a month ago, we had two weeks of spotty internet connection, supposedly due to damage to undersea internet cables. The thought of the little mermaid cutting lengths of cable for her collection came to mind. Just as an onset of conscience convinced her to return the stolen cables, our city descended into the wholly warm, occasionally dark realm of rotational blackouts — 3 to 7.5 hours a day. The lady at the power company’s customer care table remarked at our good fortune considering that other places in Mindanao endure 12-hour blackouts. I’d give two AA batteries to anyone who can guess the expression on my face when she said that.

animal eyes

I tried to fit my usual long online work hours and childcare into insane schedules to work around the blackouts. There was a point though when I began to feel myself progressively transforming into one giant, tense, purple nerve, ready to snap at the slightest poke.

Naturally, I’ve had to control myself. To vent off some steam, I’d march to the closet and scream. I’ve since sent the bogeyman running to his mother crying, “Mom there’s a nerve in my closet.”

Staying in control is important because I get the impression that complaining isn’t fashionable here. The last time I complained was when our garbage collectors disappeared into some void, leaving us close to cultivating the first maggot farm in the city due to uncollected trash. I was told I shouldn’t have filed a complaint and that I should just wait patiently for whenever authorities choose to take action.

Wait a doggone minute. Am I not a citizen of a country with one of the highest tax rates in Asia? If I can’t enjoy reliable basic services in spite of the taxes I pay, can I at least be entitled to the right to send maggots to government officials for Christmas?

We Filipinos are famous for our ability to cheerfully and ingeniously survive the worst kinds of adversity, but there is a danger to this skill. We run the risk of always accepting that we are slaves to circumstances, whatever they may be, and that there is nothing we can do.

Just because we are a happy people and we can live through the worst times, it doesn’t mean our default response should be to accept every piece of shit thrown at us. Can we not demand for accountability too? I suggest we nominate members to the Government Association of Greedy Officials (GAGO for short) and send them on prolonged field trips to Mindanao during rotational brownouts.

Of course it’s not just GAGO members that we should be taking to task. We are after all, responsible for putting them where they are. Does that make us eligible for membership to the TANGA club?

Bonus Rant: If you want to understand how electricity is generated and distributed in the Philippines, why it’s so expensive and why we consumers sit in the dark waiting for the light long after God gave humankind the intelligence to generate it, watch this video from Rappler.

Out of the Kitchen

by Leave a Comment

Are advertisements shaped by the real world or is it the other way around? I’m not entirely sure. My kids and I seem unable to relate to some of the more recurring TV ads these days. Cases in point:

Ad A: A woman grinning from ear to ear washes clothes by hand, and the items on her clothesline multiply indefinitely until she becomes a tiny spec in a sea of clean clothes. She remains blissfully happy, a maniac addicted to laundry.

Ad B: It’s early morning and a mom is in a mad rush around the kitchen preparing for members of her family who will be off to work and school. She ends up having a massive headache the size of PNoy’s foreign relations problems.

Ad C: A mom serves her kids at the dining table while joyfully extolling the virtues of artificial flavoring. Life has never been easier with the advent of semi fake food.

My husband bought this for me for my protection. I’m kitchen and cooking impaired.

Do most modern women do all of that? If I had to wash clothes to infinity and beyond, my fingers would be in bloody shreds and I would probably never smile again, ever. As to kitchen duties, I am cooking impaired. My husband once summed up my attempts to learn to wield knife and spatula by declaring in exasperation, “The whole kitchen is against you.”

In our house, my kids know it’s their father they need to see for clean clothes and good food, but these ads have gotten them confused so that they’ve started to wonder if their father is really their mother; their mother their father; or if their mother is really their mother, then why is she working ten hour shifts and not in the kitchen or the laundry room shredding her fingers?

I suppose my kids aren’t the only ones puzzled. One time, while at my father-in-law’s place, a group of neighbors’ kids, all boys, were playing in my pa’s living room with pink cookware. They were each vying for the role of father of their make believe house. Clearly in their houses, the men man their kitchens as well. 

This is not a feminist commentary. It’s an observation on how some families and situations no longer fit old standards and how children’s perceptions have begun to evolve.

I wonder if you’ve begun to change your internal concepts as well. More importantly, I wonder who does the cooking and the laundry in your homes.

Here’s the man of our house doing the cooking.