Celebrate good times, come on!

Celebrate, good times, come on!

Our company recently elected a new country head, and as part of a series of well intentioned and woefully under executed PR moves, our branch held a meet and greet Q and A session with our new CH, called “kapihan” (coffee and a handshake). Of course it’s not a Filipino celebration without food, blastingly loud R-Rated hip hop and some cross dressing karaoke, all of which was in evidence.

Location: Just outside our office doors.

Entertainment: The [name of company we handle outsourced work for] Movers! A group of two guys and two gals who did a little hip hop dance to that eternal classic: “Dancing to Booty Music” (yes, really).

About 4 seconds into their number, one set of speakers blew out, but they gamely kept going with their dance, with just one speaker telling various zodiac signs to “go” since it was “their birthday” (“Go Pisces Go Taurus, it’s your birthday” growls the singer, accompanied by the thundering bass line and tinkling keytar).

MC: Our new training manager for *company name redacted* who sort of acted like she thought she might be in the Miss America Pageant. “I’ve been here just 2 weeks and I feel like family already” she purred, swishing her long, Barbie curled hair and beaming her 1000 watt smile, head tilted just so.

Was she shouting into the microphone?

 Is the Pope Catholic? (Side note: Filipinos haven’t really caught on that there is no need to shout into a microphone, so at any event where there’s an MC, you can count on mega feedback, which doesn’t even come close to cluing the host in that their voice is too loud. I’ve even seen people glare at the offending microphone and switch it out, due to the “mysterious” feedback.)

Other entertainment: Ken. Ken is a man who prefers to dress as a woman- I hesitate to say cross dresser or transgender, because there is a really long continuum over here from totally male to totally female. Some men wear long hair and earrings and vaguely feminine clothes, some men wear short hair and makeup, some men dress like Lady Gaga and want to be called “her” or “she”, some men dress manly but also want to be called “her” and are openly out and proud. It’s kind of a free for all.

Anyway, Ken had a buzz cut but wore full makeup. He (she?- pronouns are not gendered over here, so the solution that Filipinos have settled on in English  is to call these men “it” with much giggling) was petite, but with the definite muscles most men have without even trying. Ken was wearing a cute black dress in an empire style with a short skirt and killer black boots, but no jewelry or anything.

He belted out “And I am telling you I am not going” in a clear, very feminine alto, (almost a falsetto, but Filipino men have a high, soft voice naturally, about a full octave higher than American men, so they don’t need to sing in falsetto, it’s their natural speaking and singing voice). It was pretty good, if distracting, Ken’s jet black buzz cut and Michelle Obama arms gave him (her?) a kind of Sinead O’Connor chic.

The speakers were still out, but halfway through Ken’s performance, someone apparently found the plug that had been tripped over, plugged it back in, and BLAMMO! Ken’s silver pipes were now engraved on our brains. Me and my seat mate were really trying hard not to giggle over this, as we could see half the audience was jolted out of their seats.

After Ken had bellowed his last, the question and answer session with our new country head began. Sample questions: Do you go for the face or body of potential girlfriends? How many wives do you have? Lights on or off…when you go to bed….to sleep?

Free food!

Waffle: nuclear red hot dog wrapped in a soggy waffle that has been specially formed to wrap its pinkish form.

Fish Ball: (couldn’t find it, but here’s what it is) kind of like chicken nuggets made out of fish. LOVE IT. Ate it every day for over 3 months, then was over it.

Ice cream: self explanatory

Free coffee! That had to be served by someone banging something on the table every few seconds, thus causing our new country head to scream louder into the microphone, and then stare incredulously as it whined with feedback.

Awesomest direction given: “Guys, we have a full house today so please populate the front rows. And please compress.”

Later: The custom here is to allow whoever volunteers to participate, regardless of their actual skill level. There is also no “anti -double dipping” rule. I’m sure you can see where this is going. Yes, old “cat on a hot tin roof” regaled us with not 1 but 2 songs, all howlingly out of key and sharp. I couldn’t see it, as I was already back at my desk, but every time the door opened we could hear the performer (not Ken, someone else) attacking the ear drums of the audience with an ill advised version of “My Heart Will Go On” (or something)

This went on until midnight. I think it was actually really fun for those that attended, but I had meetings and stuff so I left as the first questions were being asked

The night walk

The night walk

It's 1 AM. Every night is a different cab. Sometimes one of my coworkers comes down with me, to get a coffee or to go home also. Usually it's to the 7-11 first, for him to juggle three beer bottles (2 high alcohol and 1 low, 2 shots and chaser, kind of) and me to buy coffee and oatmeal for brekkers the next day. Since things come in packages of 1 over here, I have to buy my supplies every day. If I forget, it's soda left over from the weekend, vitamins, and whatever's in the ref for breakfast.

After we say our goodbyes, I get in the cab. It's always a crapshoot- there is no "perfect cab"-- it's always something. Either the unnerving smell of beer (I hope it's left by the previous occupant), the door handle doesn't work, the driver just emerged from 100 year sleep to be hustled into a cab and told to "go for it", the radio's on the god awful talk station, or jackpot! All of the above. Once in a while you'll get a cool guy, and a decent cab and then it's not so bad, after all. Not Christmas in the Poconos, but not some kind of punishment either.

The streets are actually quiet at that hour (which is very rare) so as we slide along, over the river on the raised highway, I'm taking pictures in my mind, planning the next day, daydreaming, wondering about my friends, wishing I would get something more than wild sparks and teasing from "him", or replaying and winning a five year old argument in my mind.

Drop off at McDonald's to get dinner. Get dinner, and start the walk home. Usually it's just me, the ladies in front of "The Joke Box", sleepy guards, a group of teenage guys who think they're so fly that they just said "hi" and then fell to the ground laughing with nerves and relief that they tried it, and the animals.

In contrast to the US, where 5-6 ish at night is "the catting hour" as Jessica puts it, where cats come out to lounge, survey the kingdom, and roll around on the warm sidewalks that have gathered heat all day and now release it into the waiting fur coats of it's rightful owner, the catting hour here is midnight. Slinky, rough, these are no Aristocats, but they still rule the roost. They're scared of humans, and they have bobbed tails due to a genetic malformation that curls the tail into a figure 8 knot over the shanks, or leaves no tail at all. Last time I was walking, a white cat with big yellow eyes was sniffing a puddle so I put some fries on the ground, while the cat nervously backed away and gave me the stink eye. But he came back to check them out after I was gone.

One can see all the fruit stands, covered for the night, and the neighborhood homeless (?- not quite sure what's going on with this guy)guy is at work, asleep in his wooden army cot/ sling thingie that he sleeps in, under a store front awning or benign house front, every night. He is very thin, and very quiet, and one can see him sitting in his sling, taking it all in, most days. 

Dogs are around, making the rounds but not bothering anyone, just hanging on the stoop.

When I get to my place, the door guy buzzes me in, while his friend, who's laying on the fold out couch that they take turns sleeping on, rouses just a bit to say hello. The job of the door guy is very similar to that of Victorian England's "hall boy"-- you sleep next to a bell that, if ringing, you have to get up and answer. In contrast to the lottery that is cabs, door guy is pretty much always the same-- civil without being friendly, all business without being rude. Woken Up Friend is usually much nicer. "HI!" He crows before collapsing back to "bed".

Then it's upstairs to the 3rd floor, lights on, air con on, TV on, shower, then bed. Then wake up and face it all over again. 

Araw-Araw ("Everyday")

On the social front, things have been pretty good- not for any lack of work, though.

 Tuesday I had a dinner at Relik, this tapas place, in Fort Bonifaco, just around the corner from where I work--with the same ex pat group I've been writing about previously, InterNations. This is kind of a subset called "DinnerNations". I was pretty jazzed to go, wearing this knit Banana Republic Dress in old rose, and a kind of beaded headdress that caused my coworker Rajesh to exclaim "Hey you have a good hairband today!"

As is always the case when you take care to look like a million tax free bux and keep it up all day at work, the after-work event is a bit of a let down. Despite the good food, free (!!) wine and good looking table mates (one of whom, Glenn Lee, I've taken to referring to as "my future husband", which I'm pretty sure is all good since I'm also pretty sure he's g-a-y) I left feeling a bit down- something was just OFF.

Part of it was that I felt ungainly- like I was wedged into a too tight outfit (which I wasn't) or sitting on a child's chair or something. I was also really exhausted emotionally and mentally afterwards and I couldn't figure out why. I mean, the night went really well- grabbed some new contacts, laughed, had fun-ish, and all that. I thought about it long and hard, at first thinking I missed having a date, someone with whom to partner in crime, but upon further study, it turns out to be: I missed the mark of the evening, which was hanging with AMERICANS and  I was at a table full of very nice, well meaning, petite, FILIPINOS. Now, before everyone (not that very many of you are reading this these days, AHEM) gasps and clutches their pearls, allow me to explain:

Living here as "the guest of the state", I have to be "on" almost all the time--- talk slowly, not lose my temper,               explain things over and over and over until I want to scream, answer the SAME FIVE QUESTIONS over and over (for the record:  2 years, ups and downs, New York, here for work, and no, I haven't visited your godforsaken hamlet hometown on a coral atoll, but it's on my itinerary, sugar pants).

Around Americans I can relax and be myself and complain all I want without worrying about hurting someone's feelings or coming off like Paris Hilton. The evening shook down in the way it did through casual coincidence: I was first seated at a table with Americans, but the table itself was too low and I couldn't get my legs under it, so I was sitting sideways, leading me to chat with the friendly Filipinas at the next table over, and then eventually they beckoned me over. From there it was all Ateneo, University of the Philippines, Basic Filipino classes, who's part Chinese and who's not, who's dating whom and who can't get their school certified by the government and why. To add insult to the unintentional injury, they all knew each other from high school, college or both.

Although it wasn't a loss (I got a few numbers and had some form of fun) it was work, not play. It's work to keep it clean, it's work to avoid sounding like you just dropped in from Planet Trump when you complain about the lack of service in stores, it's work to avoid chewing out the waiter after waiting 30 minutes for the wrong check because you don't want to make a poor impression on your new aquaintences, it's work to keep a loving and unenvious mind when YET ANOTHER size 0 sweetheart dressed in something you yourself could never get away with slips effortlessly into the booth that you can't fit your GIGANTIC American legs into. It's not play, people, it's hard, hard, hard work. Meeting gorgeous, quicksilver funny and delightful Glenn almost made it worth it, but "The hustle, the grind, whatever other people call it, that's what I call life now." (loosely paraphrased from performer PitBull). 


Saturday night was much better- my friend from work Eric and his wife Lizel were going out for Mexican at Agave at Eastwood malls, so I was invited along. In a "shoe's on the other foot" moment, Eric, who's local, is married to a Columbian woman, and she was inviting some of her Spanish/ Hispanic friends to eat and Eric (aside from wanting another woman as a buddy for his wife) wanted someone to speak English with when his  wife was happily occupied speaking a language he didn't speak. Oh, the delightful irony!! 


So Eric and gossiped about our coworkers, and I got to know his wife, who's just lovely, and we all feasted on mountains of Mexican food and a few beers, then I toddled off to window shop for a bit, then home to go to sleep early, as I had a spa day planned for today (Sunday). 


As I was explaining to Eric, describing my coworker August's little chip on the shoulder about my white privilege, it only looks easy. I told him about how after Au and I left the event at One Roxas, Au was rhapsodizing about some of the Europeans there and their lofty jobs, and I teased him 'Well, I like to roll with big fish in a big pond" and he snapped back "It's easy for you because you're WHITE." I told Eric, "I wanted to say "No it's NOT Au, it's actually twice as hard to break in, to find friends, to keep it together when you just want to scream, to work and work to find other ex pats who aren't total creeps- it's one of the hardest hills I've ever had to climb." But then again, that's why I got these long stems, I guess.

And more....and more....and more....

The days are just packed

This weekend has been rather busy and it's not over yet. Firstly, after a grueling week of work, our coworkers all got together for some after work drinks. Everyone was able to make it, although some were more enthusiastic about it than others (Nix spent most of the time checking his watch, frowning manfully, and nursing a soda, by contrast August wasn't ready to quit at 5 AM). We started out at a railroad themed all night diner called the Whistlestop, where they serve Hoegarden beer (!!!).

Originally, we took 3 cars, with me, Charlene, and Rhia in one car, Nix and Ace in another, and Hart, Eric, and August in a 3rd. Two out of three blazed up to the resto in about 5 minutes, the car with Hart and Eric (driven by August, who I'm now calling Jinxy after his uncanny ability to turn what should be a 10  minute car ride into a latter-day version of The Hunt for Red October) was 35 minutes late, after most of us were well into our second round and had finished off most of the food.

 After this, we repaired to a local sports bar, Heckle and Jeckle, where the English football game of Greece vs Germany was on and the crowd was...quite frankly, a bit scary. Huge, loud, super-Aryan dudes were bellowing and when we found a spot near a second, disused bar, this jerky guy told me, August and Eric to suck in it, since we were blocking his view of the 50" TV that was taking up the back wall. Yeah, those type of people.

Three drinks later the people next to us (who were also from our company, although from other divisions and locations) had discretely rearranged themselves so that single and ready to mingle Preetam (his name means "Beloved One" and he has, as Chuck Klosterman so memorably puts it "The personality of a honey gorged bear") could be next to me. This happened while I was giving someone else the eyes, and as has happened with Keziah, my eyes, still in "milk and honey" mode, drifted over to Preetam and ZING! He was in love at the club.  The word that comes to mind when thinking of Preetam is "pleasant". 5'8" (he told me when asking me my own height), stocky (but not overweight), handsome in a bland way, with the little paw like hands that make you think of sacred statues,and affable to the point of near silliness, Preetam was nice, but my interest level was, like, a 2 on a scale of 10.

So naturally, Preetam is immediately full court press on making time with me, getting my number, making a date for the next day, etc. I was a) a bit too in my cups and b) distracted by the wheelie fireworks show that was tipsy August, who on an average day radiates enough energy to power all of Metro Manila and while drinking is a barely contained one-man harmonica band, to really focus on what was happening, and before I knew it I was sort of committed to going to Republik the next night. (I already had plans with Haresh, who is pictured above, in full-on James Bond mode).

After about 3 long hours, the group split up, with everyone but August, Eric and me going home. The 3 musketeers (we have often had lunch together and have our own mini group within the team) decided to try to go to a little sketchy bar I thought I remembered as being 24 hours, near my house. (Heckle and Jeckle is about 10 minutes away from my pad) When we got to the bar (which I remembered being called 'The Laugh Box' or something equally awful, it was crowded with "ladies of the evening" prominently hanging out in the doorway, so we passed on that and grabbed beers from the local corner store (August tracked them down with the alacrity and hunting skills that he has heretofore failed to show in any other circumstance, but hey this was an EMERGENCY! We needed cold beer, stat!) and toddled up to my apartment.

The mood was happy- Eric and I were giggling to beat the band, making silly jokes and things, and August was in high torpedo mode, firing off his best "Oh, you crazy American" jokes and routines, including a long riff on how we knew my own Baranguy (hood) better than I do now, since he was able to find beer-- typical screwball-y, nonsensical, light-footed, impish August stuff. He's kind of like those sidekicks you see in 1950's musicals, making jokes like "Bananas? No thanks, I've just come from a funeral."


After showing an appropriate amount of deference for my cool place (although August kept on accusing me of having "Googled" it, as if there was any other way for an ex pat to find a place---then again, out of 4 places, this current place is the only one I've actually found online). We sat around having a bull session and drinking, while dawn did it's thing in the background. Only a call from Eric's long-suffering and rightly concerned wife broke it up (they were scheduled to make a 3 hour drive to a vacation town for a weekend trip at 8 AM and it was 7 AM), and with the requisite beso-beso, the guys left, trailing clouds of hops in their wake.

Then I collapsed into bed and woke up around 4 PM, with Haresh calling me (he's one of only a few friends that actually calls people, as opposed to texting, which most people do over here), and reminding me Oh yeah, I'm supposed to meet him and go to this little speakeasy where they serve couture cocktails. These plans have been in the works for quite some time, so I showered and met up with Preetam, who wanted to get dinner, and then off to meet Haresh.

As is always the case with someone who you have no interest in romantically, the date was flawless- Preetam paid for everything (I DID offer to pay, but he wouldn't have it), window shopped with me like a pro, and made light, easy going, yet intelligent conversation that genuinely made me smile. Too bad I'm like meh on dating him- there's really nothing wrong with him, except his just "a dude". A dude with exceptionally beautiful eye and great hair, but he doesn't fire the imagination the way some dudes do. Anyhoo, after dinner,  coffee and all that, I met Haresh and we toddled off (minus Preetam, who had to go home to get ready for his stage debut at Republik later) to the Blind Pig.

This place was totally amazing- dimly lit, with a clubby, English atmosphere, some of the nicest bathrooms I've ever seen in the Philippines, and custom made cocktails (you tell the waiter what you like and he makes you one custom to your likes). Haresh (naturally) has a drink named after him that involves an absinthe-rinsed glass (it tastes like sambuka, which I happen to love), and following in Preetam's footsteps, he too proceeded to turn on the charm, to essentially no avail. (Although I think Haresh is rather less interested in dating than Preetam, he still gives me the impression he wouldn't say no if I "insisted"--which ain't gonna happen.)

Haresh is really a catch- he was a self described nerd as a kid and a young adult, and despite his striking good looks, he has a dry, self deprecating wit and yards of style. Witty, mannered, intelligent, and quick as a whip, he's a little serious (almost all Indians are a little heavy hearted in some essential way- like they got in line twice when "god" was handing out soul) but this only lends him a flattering gravitas. He's an unusual character who has the blessed melancholy of a banished traveler, which gives him a polish that might other wise be lacking in a privileged young man with his gifts and talents.  He invited a friend, a young woman named Hannah, who was sunny and fun, and we chatted and shared some truffle fries and had lovely custom made cocktails until about 12, when I went home (since I had stuff to do today, Sunday, and wanted to get an early start).

So that was THAT! So happy to be here, thanks for a lovely evening, and don't forget to tip your waiters!

Scaramouche

Second time around is always better: The true story of the second InterNations gathering (that I attended, that is, not 'ever').

I was surfing around the InterNations site and found that there was an event scheduled for June 9, so I invited this kid from work (same offender from "You WHAT?", given a chance to behave himself). Originally, he actually invited ME to a party before I could even fully finish my sentence about InterNations, so we merged our plans and developed the itinerary to go to my event first (which was early) and his friends' joint birthday party after, since no self respecting party would get swingin' much before 10 anyway.

But what was I wearing?!?! My mom gave me a lovely silk vintage sheath dress from Hong Kong that she inherited from a friend: darkest midnight silk with a print of gold, bright green, and russet flowers on it, and an unusual split skirt in the front that revealed a swath of deep, burnished gold silk-satin.I paired this with gold sandals that had large stones in the same smoky grey-blue as the dress, and I was good to go.

Sat night "dawned" and Risky Business asked me if we could go to my event a little late, since he was wrapped up in Family Business. Sure, that's fine. 8 it is. At the *crack* of 8.30 a yellow cab screeches up and we pile in to start the adventure of a lifetime: Trying to Find the Goddamn Place. Almost a hour of wandering around getting sweaty, giggling semi-hysterically at our plight, calling various friends and family members for help, taking 3 cabs, more wandering, asking no less than 4 security guards for help (and not really getting it-- "There was a "segunda" ("I'm not sure") in there" Risky Business intones mournfully as one security guard squints and gestures into the Wild West that is Makati Central) we finally pull up at the HARDEST TO FIND LOCATION EVER, One Roxas Blvd. Seriously, this place might have well been on "Bob's Alley, second door from the right, make a left at the pinecone", because it was SUPER ill placed.

The place itself was lovely- a sort of convention room thingie with a spectacular pool and deck (which was cloaked in darkness and had been for several hours when we got there) and a slightly less spectacular function hall/ main area. 

The party was in full swing when we arrived,  immersed in something that, after a few tries, I managed to make Risky Business (my date) understand: The "mingling"---that IS the party. There is no sit down and eat, no cards, and no group of men staring manfully and silently as one guy repairs something, drunk as a skunk. The event was a cocktailish meet and greet, where the purpose was to...mingle.

My date acquitted himself well, drinking beer but not too much, hanging back instead of hanging all over someone's neck, smiling at people and chatting with whoever I was talking to. In short, a miracle date. I didn't have to "babysit" him, and considering that he had little to no experience in this sort of thing, I was pretty impressed. We met up with this very unusual person, a tall, thin, slightly stooped Indian (he's actually Pakastani, but that makes people think of Afghanis, which he is not, he's a Hindu who was "caught" in the partition and repatriated to be born here in the Philippines.) who was touting his own self published book of short stories, he was actually a rather interesting conversationalist. I spent most of the time trying to convince him how awesome Richard Brautigan (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Brautigan) is, and he was trying to make me read his book on his smart phone. After we settled down a bit, my date, me and Havesh (that's the author) told war stories about tattoos and other wild adventures, and clinked glasses like old bar buddies.

Then it was off to the after party at Buddah Bar. If you've ever seen Sex and the City season 4 where Carrie goes to "Tao", that's what this place is like: Huge, high ceilings, waitresses in chegongs, (sp?), exotic cocktails and spicy Bang Bang Shrimp nibbles, chairs that look gorgeous and are about as comfortable as a hospital examining table, the whole works. My date and I huddled at the bar and chatted, having (I think! It's hard to tell sometimes with Filipinos) a grand old time just drinking and talking. Then the big boys arrived and we were beckoned over to sit at the Grownups Table, where we just lounged and chatted. Other than Havesh, my date was the only non-white there. One lady turned to her seatmate, half including my date in her musings "He doesn't really look like a local. What are you, honey?" (It's true that my date has a very unusual face for a Filipino- sharp, with strongly cantilevered lines- and two little commas around his downturned mouth like Jeremy Irons). He took it well, joking that he's probably Nepali, while I was frozen in mortification: "Uh, guys? He's not a cigar store Indian. He can HEAR YOU! He's right here!"  Sigh.

After that it was home, since Risky Business had a fever, and had been champing it out the whole night, so we skipped the other party. He also admitted that he really couldn't show up in a button down and a scarf, he'd be laughed out of the barrio, to which I scoffed that he should be able to show up in a speedo and a tiara if he liked, these were his friends, and he gave me the Patented Risky Business Withering Stare of Get With It, Whitey. So that was that! Effusive thanks followed, on Monday AM upon arrival in the office (from my date, who was fully recovered and full of beans) as well as connections on the InterNations site, as well as FB.

Success! 

You WHAT?

Ill advised texts I've gotten from men that make me want to go gay for Shane McCutchen.

"Hey Inky, let's start up the friendship (DRAMA) again, ha ha."

"Hey, can you do me a favor and find out if I passed my certification, thanks Miss Naomi."

"So is not answering text messages the new thing or is everyone busy?"

"Hey we can hang out but I don't really want to "do that", okay?"

"OMG they're selling the most beautiful coffin right now near Pure Gold!"

"Hu dis? (which was a pretty rad response to my nuclear telling off that preceded it)

"Hey if it's okay with you can we not tell the workmates that we hung out?"

"Depression." (This is the only answer I got in response from multiple "Are you okay? How come you aren't texting me? texts to the guy I was actively dating at the time!)

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to come over today and there's something I need to talk to you about" (this was the only breakup text or explanation I ever got from this guy).  We never did "talk."

People, these were all from different offenders. 

And...drum roll.... The latest:

Okay, so at my work are some very cute boys- I must say the level of attractive, well dressed, English speaking, intelligent guys is MUCH higher here. Like there are some. Heh.

Anywayz, I met this guy my first day here who is a team member and also a new hire, he's been there for a few weeks longer than I but he's still "a newbie". His name is *redacted  He's for sure my type- string bean thin, with dark skin and long wavy curly hair. He really has a sense of style, like wearing a rock tee shirt and a perfectly fitted blazer with jeans on a Friday.

 So we hit it off right away and I could swear I felt "something" there, we were kind of flirting in the most mild way- like him loaning me money to buy a snack and showing me how to use the office coffemaker, etc. (this is the Filipino version of flirting, it revolves around food. The usual 'howYOUdoin' " line here is "have you eaten?")

And he gave the giveaway move, which is "explaining" that Filipino men are "shy to ask you out" (a precursor to every man I've ever dated making his move- or what passes for a move over here, which is orbiting me looking cute until I ask him out) while giving me the "sex eyes".

He also wangled a way to ask for my number (ostensibly to text me about where he and the rest of the team was going to eat). So I sort of thought something might be going on; he did that dude peacock thing where men ill advisedly brag about all the dames they've bagged in an attempt to make you gasp at their studliness. Heh.

So Saturday night at midnight (not as rude as it might have been, since we all work overnights, and 12 MD is more like 12 NN to us) I get the "Hey how's it going?" text. I told him I was watching Anderson Cooper and drinking coffee and he texts me back with THIS:

"I'm out drinking and this risque white lady just walked into the bar and reminded me I have a new white contact. LOL. Connection? (he means "coincidence"} I need a wingwoman and a drinking buddy! Ha ha hiqx" (hiqx is slang for "I'm so drunk")

Words kind of failed me here for a moment and then I decided to play it cool while sort of schooling him that appearing to ask your coworker to get out of bed at midnight to go across town to help you pick up OTHER WHITE CHICKS isn't cool. I sort of feel this was a misfire on his part- like "I don't want to ask her out OUT, so let me fake it like we're dude bros and take it from there". But wow.

So I told him "I'm sure you don't have any problems getting the ladies. Anyways, where are you?"

He told me via text and then backed the truck up a little (oh crap I'm drunk! Shit! I'm blowing it!) and was like "uh, am I waking you up?"

The bottom line is I politely declined his offer to come out there (which he made, with the "gallant" warning that he was "toxic" (their phrase for "faced" or "trashed", but truer words have likely never been spoken) and gently schooled him "I'd for sure like to hang out some time, I'd rather start our evening together, so next time text me earlier."

He was pretty excited over that one (answer was in Taglish) "Tama! Cge, cge (for sure, right on). Next time, I'm game, I'll text you early :)"

But FOR SHEEZY! His stock kind of plummeted with that series of ill advised texts.

I mean, there's no reason to go super bitch on his ass, but I can't be "Giggle, Giggle, sure I'll get in a cab at midnight on the OFF CHANCE I might get me some hot action from YOU." groan. no way. I feel like I handled it right: showing him I have pride and a backbone while still leaving the door open and not being super harsh like "FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!" I really wasn't that upset, I chalked it up to "boneheaded hitting on attempt number 9 million" that I've endured while over here.

One for the Road

Well, with my bindle over my shoulder (shout out to Jessica K!)I took off to the big city yesterday. I've been planning to move to Manila for some months now, and ever since the InterNations party, it's been just a matter of time. Manila is very like NYC- the prices are high, the luxury stores are many (I'm in a mall right now that has Louis Vuitton, Prada, and Marc Jacobs right now, and not "Marc Jakkobs" or "Louiz Vitton" etc!) and the food makes you gain weight looking at it. There are many reasons why I wanted to move here, but in short:
1) More expats. In Clark, getting stared at (and I mean really STARED at, like eyes burning a hole in me) was an everyday, all day occurrence. I was over that in about a month.

 2) Clark is a nice, sleepy bedroom community suitable for families and retirees. I am neither. Clark is, even in the kindest mention by guidebooks, "not very much to look at". It's culturally barren. Because of its central location to the provinces, most people here are rural and provincial and make me feel like Belle from Disney's Beauty and the Beast singing "There must be more to life than this provincial town" with my nose in a book.

3) Manila offers much more opportunities for career advancement. So to make a long story short, after almost two years of solid (dare I say, even "very good") performance at my current post, I took the plunge and chased after (and landed!) a new post in the same company. A promotion and a 10% raise followed, and now I'm on the Instructional Design Team.

 The process of getting there I'll detail later, because I'd rather talk about how KEWL my new digs are and how happy I am to be here, finally! I have been to Manila a handful of times, each time clocking the city a bit more, and having been in the Philippines for almost 2 years now, I feel much more comfortable finding my way around and figuring out what's what.

 So I looked up budget apts in Makati (the area of town my work is in) and found a little place that's a residential hotel for a reasonable rate. Water, hot water heater, electric, cleaning and all the basics (such as a few plates and flatware-- my plates are from that well known restaurant "Pizza 10-4")are included in the very reasonable rent, which can be paid in advance but in any allocation you like (daily, weekly, monthly, etc).

 I checked the online recommendations and then sort of closed my eyes and wired them a one day deposit. I arrived around 2 pm and requested the 3rd (top) floor so I wouldn't be disturbed by the amateur clog-dancer one always encounters when one accepts the mid floors. The place is about 400 square feet or so (I'm notoriously bad at estimating such things, but it's about as big as a studio apt), and it's major selling point (in my eyes) is that the bedroom is partitioned off (via a wall of drywall that's about 6 feet high, topped with sections of corrugated glass.

It's kind of like a set from a 1960's movie about a hospital, so naturally I love it. It's very spare and neat, with the unexpected luxury of excellent hardwood floors in what looks to be very expensive, well preserved heartwood in a dark chocolate brown, and real marble counter tops and shower walls. The sink is a sunken square of all marble. These touches, combined with the surprisingly good art and the light fixtures (the fact that there ARE any is a boon and a rarity)makes it delightfully chic, in a very 1970's art student way. There's a press board wardrobe for clothes, and the bathroom fixtures are a lovely mint blue.


 Someone else might recoil at the flaws (among them the flimsy rusty-black painted trim and doors, the lack of a toilet paper roll holder (!!!), the only-florescent lights,the miniature furniture in a style that was a bit over even when it was made and the (almost stereotypical) 'view of an air shaft' out the window.

 But I tell you, it's really somehow me. I might even just move in there and call it a day. The view from the common area is lovely and the neighborhood is a nice mix of residential with just a few small shops in it-- the apartelle (as they're called here) is down a side street with blessedly little noise and very few families can

 afford to relax in "high style" at the place, so I'm not plagued by the drippy-nosed under 3 set and their ambulance screams.

Once again, Channel 23 has come through for me, and HOW! plates