A Big Time, Beijing-Sized Suck

Yesterday evening. The day before the opening ceremonies of the Beijing Olympics. Little Spud’s nanny teleports to my side.  “Ati!  Wala na namang segnal ang teveh!” 

I rush to the TV set and check.  It’s not that we did not have a signal exactly; the box scans for channels then displays: Load.  On the TV screen, I am prompted to enter a password.  What the eff is this?!

“Pateh ba teveh nelalagyan na den ng lud?” asks Little Spud’s nanny, as I explained the problem to her (she insisted on a play-by-play).

Little Spud’s nanny is a tiny woman without a smidgen of inferiority complex who’s quite adept at collecting and sharing scandalously distorted gossip.  She has a lazy left eye that gives me a bit of disorientation whenever I talk to her; the other eye prefers to focus on cute men.  I shall call her Mata Hareh. 

Mata Hareh sometimes amuses me.  Other times, I want to wring her neck.  But this time, we’re united in the anticipation to watch the opening ceremonies of the Olympics.  Mata Hareh is pissed because this year was her first time out of the country and in China, ever, and we have the Olympics happening in China and we can’t even watch the Olympics?  In China?  The country that gave us visa hell because of the surge of foreigners who had the moolah and time of day to see the 2008 Olympics LIVE or stage “Free Tibet” protests??!!  Even in her own little world, it does not make sense.

“Nageng ganyan na yan kanena pa, kagabe hende naman ganyan, de ba nanood pa tayo ng debbedeh?”

Yes, I thought to watch a DVD of the teen flick, Stick It (it says here, “From the makers of Bring it On…“), the night before, to… I don’t know, psych us up for the competitions?  And I’ll be watching gymnastics because I’m curious to see how this batch will fare with the new scoring system – which will consider difficulty of artistic and technical elements in addition to ticking off points for mistakes – that debuts in time for Beijing 2008.  Brief segue: I wonder if Stick It had a hand in addressing this apparently long-standing complaint on gymnastics’ scoring system the way Bring It On repackaged cheerleading as a serious competitive sport in today’s pop culture?  Who’d have thought cheerleading cheering cups could become international events? Is cheerleading Olympic material, even?  Getting back, yes, Stick It was a fun show to psych us up for the Olympics.  In fact, we were so psyched, we became anxious about not being able to watch the Beijing extravaganza; talk about bad timing.

But other than the usual hooking up the DVD player and turning things off after, I didn’t do anything else to the stupid tuner.  I’ll also mention that all menus on the TV set is in Chinese, and I doubt I’d ever get interested learning putting in passwords and stuff even if I sleepwalk.  It’s a TV, I watch the news and DVDs with it.  That’s it.

And so the next day, today: I call the TV service center after work.  Our landlord owns the TV, among other furnishings in the house.  Except for the Internet connection, all services — cable TV, water delivery, gas, electricity — have been previously set up, and things ran smoothly most of the time.  We once lost the signal two months ago, and that was because we weren’t familiar with the payment system or the service routine then. 

An operator has a technician call me back, and I describe my problem to him.  “We don’t put in passwords to the box, that may have been your doing,” he tells me.  Mata Hareh tells me she neither pressed anything out of the ordinary on the remote, nor did she have a sudden urge to baby-proof me from the Korean channel. 

“I don’t know how to do that, and this never happened before in our three months in this apartment,” I reply. 

Mata Hareh and I eat our last meal for the day at 7:30.  “Seguru hende na sya dadateng?” 

7:45, the doorbell rings.

It’s the guy who set the TV for DSTS.  He’s baby-face-ish and pleasant to talk to, not all growly and abrupt, and he’s like, what’s the prob?  I show him the TV and the Load prompt.

Baby Face whips out another card reading, signal boosting, whatever-you-call-it box (and they think I’d bother programming a password, like, shyeah) and confirms, “Yes, you did not input that password, I think the box is not functioning correctly, don’t talk anymore…” when I attempted to make a point, “… we have no time to lose.”

And so he changed boxes and turned on the TV and switched to the CCTV channel et voila.  A three second countdown to the Olympics… commercials. 

“Official time is 8:08 PM,” he informs me.  Seriously, without the one-child policy, having eight kids seems like a good idea around these parts.  I thank Baby Face and he wishes us a nice evening watching the opening ceremonies.  I figured he’s hurrying because he wants to watch from his place, too.  Indeed, if you step out on the veranda, you’ll hear other apartments tuned in to the same channels.  The whole country is tuned in to the same channels.  While CCTV is the sole broadcaster of the Olympics in China, several channels apparently will broadcast the CCTV frequency.  I don’t know if I got that tech bit right, but you get the idea — it’s like a special product launch commercial that airs in 50 different channels simutaneously.

And so after the hundred twenty seven commercials from the government and all those Olympics sponsors, we finally get into the opening ceremonies and we were just about to ooh and ah over the amazing light shows and fireworks displays when the box blinked (Mata Hareh: “Aaay!”).

The box scanned channels, and then it’s back to normal. I press the buttons to resume viewing the cable channels.  Cool, I thought.  Maybe it was just kind of rebooting or something.

Only this rebooting glitch repeated every 10 seconds. 

I call Babyface; he doesn’t answer.  Perhaps it’s official policy to take orders from his switchboard crew only.  I call the TV service again. I describe the new problem, and midway she concludes, “this repeats ever several seconds, correct?”  So this is a routine problem for them.  “We’ll try to send someone to check the problem, but this may carry over to tomorrow morning, I’m sorry.”  That sucked.  Yes, a 9 PM TV service is itself a miracle, but dudes, we’re in China.  Where anything is possible.  And it’s the freakin’ Olympics opening ceremony rumored to cost billions of Renminbi and featuring everybody from Zhang Yimou and Tan Dun to Sarah freaking Brightman!

We put up with the stupid reboots, rescans and pressing buttons for a while, but we were also concerned about maybe damaging the remote and the TV.  “Kaka-enes, ha,” Mata Hareh clucks my sentiments aloud.  She thought the boys from Iceland were impressive and was looking out for Gloria Arroyo in the presidential bleachers (“Paano kaya sya makeketa ng mga Penuy pag daan nela?”).

At past 9 PM, I am really neither dressed for nor in the mood for calling on the neighbors.  And the Little Spud is sleeping.  What, we drag him with us?  Leave him behind?  Even a temporary mania has its limits. 

I call DSTS, who is back home chilling with his boyfriends after work, to dump my frustrations to.  Hey, you don’t watch TV most days of your life already at this age and the one day you have a hankering for TV watching, you get denied.  This is anger management session material!  He consoles me that tomorrow will have a lot of reruns going on (It’s not the same!).  In turn, I managed to convince Mata Hareh to watch a Sharon Cuneta-Robin Padilla film from a compilation DVD that DSTS purchased from Carriedo.

Meanwhile, I decided to put my searching prowess into action to look for a live feed online.  The prominent yield: 

CCTV is the sole broadcaster of the 2008 Beijing Olympics!

Great.  I press the button aaaand…

Sorry, please install our CCTV media player. 

Press.  Button.  Daggit.  Installed! 

Press again, aaaaaaaand…

Sorry, broadcast is limited to the Mainland, Hong Kong S.A.R. and Macau. 

I am in the Mainland, you stupid prompt!

I log onto the Chinese version of the site.  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand…

Sorry, please install our CCTV media…

This is really getting old. 

Press, press, press.

Press again.  AAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNDDDDD?????

Sorry, due to the statutes governing the agreement to broadcast the opening ceremonies live, you cannot view the live webcast online at this moment.

I.

HATE.

Media in China.

Looking For A Squeegee

Okay, I know they mean well, and appreciate the concern and sentiments and all; most are genuinely solicitous, too.  I’m also all for politeness and civil things the parents nagged about and stomped further into the consciousness through Values Education? 

But every day?  I mean, how do you respond the same way to the same people, every time, when they zing you with, “Are you pregnant?”  Obvious ba.  This one’s a favorite: “Are you still pregnant?” What the hell kind of question is that?  And the necessarily polite small talk openers amended for my benefit like, “How’s the tummy?” automatically accompanied with mostly unauthorized pat-pats from the same people at work, at the same time of the day, every day? 

“Oh, fine, fine.  Still gravid like when you asked me exactly twenty-four hours ago, and of course, it comes with the occasional queasiness and back spasms to enjoy that I believe I also mentioned?  But thanks for asking again.  Looking forward to tomorrow.  Excuse me, I need to pass out more gas.”

I’m highly tempted to bolt especially when the pat-pats come from acquaintances who are practically strangers.  Don’t they know familiarity, when not really familiar, breeds contempt?  My mother is all for good manners and right conduct, but my tolerance level is not all that.  Now, more than ever.  If DSTS were to describe me in a word, he’ll promptly say, “Abnormal.”  I also once worked without much distress under a department that was proudly autistic amidst the sunshiney people who frequent the stupid pantry in the office, which, just our luck, was right beside our cubies.  And contrary to Aunt Bebop’s reverse psychology of yore, I’ve always liked Oscar better than Big Bird… there was an elephant in his can,  how cool was that?  And his catchphrase, “Scram!”  It’s still a great word, and it’s very handy right now. 

Before, at least there was this filter in place that somehow managed to pass off sarcasm and condescension as what I hoped were ambiguously polite replies to general inanities.  The filter also dampened the freaky effects of touchy-feely things suddenly imposed on me — sorry, but I really feel weird about people who dispense them in copiousness even if they don’t really rate that high on the touchy-feely meter?  But on good days, I just kinda suck them up because it’s not worth disrupting world peace in exchange for such little warfreak impact.  The energy fuelling that filter, however, is now occupied with other things like mass production of progesterone, getting creative with migraine combinations, and rechanelling my calcium intake away from my own bones — and so, it couldn’t possibly care less about others’ feelings, which are really nothing more than feelings right now. 

It’s not like I made a habit of copping every woman’s fundus when my own uterus was unoccupied, and the things I deployed were always different, I think, like “Do you take milk formulas or pregnancy supplements?” or “Please, for the love of Keanu, don’t name the baby Alfalfa Ingus,” so I’m pretty sure I’m not being whipped by the laws of karma. 

Should the stupid questions and invasion of personal space stop, I can return the favor, you know.  In the near future, I’ll refrain from bursting into unsolicited, non-stop prose about what genius the spawn of Jill will be — that is, unless the kid’s really a genius; then I’ll be asking you for contacts who can train her how to enslave humankind and rule the Earth for the advancement of the species in thirty years or less — or boring you with how the kid grew an extra micrometer just the other day, and the day before that.  Neither would I want to do a Kris Aquino (please, Lord) and foist delightfully mundane things such as standard mucky procedures concerning a preemie and the details of his baby poop onto the unsuspecting everygirl.

In fact, I’ll probably attempt mind melding to fortify defenses for when the kid will come to find self in contact with saccharinely corrupting but nonetheless inevitable and very necessary outside influences from friends, relatives, and strangers alike — what DSTS insisted was normalcy, and what I know as the perpetual social system that distorts a child’s basic knowledge of good and evil:

“Aren’t you adorable?! Yes you are!”

“Don’t spank na, Jill, the kid’s just being rudely cute!”

“Want me to give you this candy?  Makes your cavities grow bigger!”

“Give me a kiss muna!  Oh, go on… don’t mind sticking your lips to the latent and active mutant acne plus the day-long toxic sebum spouting from my pores…”

“Sing ‘Eensy, Weensy Spider’ with matching wiggles for us, just because our vapid, grown-up amusement demands it!”

“Why don’t you audition for Starstruck like my Bonbon did?”

Now if only I had this tee, I’m all set until then:

She’s Never Read Cold Mountain

Day 1

Twinky: Hi, Jill, nice day, isn’t it? I’d like to file a leave of absence.

Jill: Sure.  Just be here by next Thursday; there are people coming in to audit the stuff you and I know must be audited.

Twinky: Er… I want to file for two weeks’ leave.

Jill: Sorry, no.  Be here by next Thursday.

Twinky: …

Day 2

Phone rings.

Jill: Hello?

Twinky: Hi, Jill.  Nice day isn’t it?  It’s [Twinky].

Jill: Hey, Twinky.  How come you’re not in for work this nice day?

Twinky: I got sick. I just thought to let you know.

Jill: Okey-doke.  Bring your doctor’s note when you get in.

Twinky: …

Twinky’s days on leave kick in.  Three days later:

Phone rings.

Jill: Hello.

Twinky: Hi, Jill.  Nice day, isn’t it? 

Jill: Twinky, it’s Saturday.  You don’t need to make up excuses today.

Twinky: Yes, I know.  Can I extend my leave beyond Wednesday?

Jill: No.

Twinky: Because I’m now in my hometown, I’m home with my Ma, whom I missed very much. I’m so homesick.

Jill: That’s nice.  No.

Twinky: But I’m so…

Jill: Twink. You may have comprehension and reasoning that make as much sense as Sweet Valley High plots, but I must maintain order and sanity.  No.

Twinky: Then you give me no choice.  I resign.  Effective immediately.  Like, now.  Today.  This second.

Jill: …

Next Monday.

Twinky: Hi, Jill, nice day, isn’t it.

Jill: You resigned. What’s up?

Twinky: Can you sign my clearance document at HRD?  So they can realease my salary for last month and this month and whatever money I’m entitled to after four years of serving this company.

Jill: It stipulates on the document that you must give me a month’s notice.

Twinky: Yes.

Jill: Or else you’re considered AWOL.

Twinky: Yes.

Jill: You did not give me a month’s notice.

Twinky: … Yes.

Jill: Nice day, isn’t it?

Tuesday.

Phone rings.

Jill: Hello.

Twinky: Jill, please sign my clearance.  I can’t get my money and HR says even if I did not give a month’s notice, if you want to sign, I can get the money.

(Author’s note: Yes, we have a useless HRD.  Getting back…)

Jill: Yeah, but see, I don’t want to sign (hell-ew?).

Twinky: But you’re nice, and I like you!

Jill: Ha ha ha.  No.

Twinky: But I took the trouble to leave a bunch of instructions for Muffy to follow for Thursday’s audit, too!

Jill: Muffy’s a designer, Twinky, not a clerk.  She will not know how to file the Excel forms.  No.

Twinky: But that’s not fair!

Jill: And you’re not smart.  Tell you what.  Come in on Thursday for the audit, then I might be persuaded to sign your clearance.

Twinky:  But that audit might not push through again like the last time!

Jill:  That’s up to our bosses and auditors and I don’t care.  Take it or go away.

Twinky: …

Jill: Well?

Twinky: The thing is, I have a new job now, and my new boss is kind of mean, and I might not be able to make it on Thursday.

Jill: Have a nice day.

Moral lesson: you try to be fair and they walk all over you.  People at work expect to be bitchslapped, backstabbed, and horsewhipped.  It is best to live up to expectations.  Better yet, exceed them.

The Ya-Ya Singlehood’s Last Night In With Ants, Elastica, And A Sticky Guy Called Herbie

All present:  The League Of Extraordinary Midnight Snackers. 

I just want to say that the second most unforgettable moment of last night’s little soiree, the one with Herbie being stashed onto the bathroom sink while Bionic Noyce’s Dynamic Mom inspects the ranks?  Is priceless.  We were thisclose to being banned from her domain for ever.

As for the main one well, I chomped on Herbie.  Okay?  Ya happy?  Friendster beware what was captured in pixels.

Transparent and elastic nightwear aside, I didn’t expect the party and it means a lot to me.  Thanks, you guys.  DSTS should be happy if he doesn’t collapse laughing first.  Here’s to ten more years of nuttiness from the coolest chicks with tech pens and insomnia.

T Minus 17

It’s great to be home again, if you overlook the minimum jeepney fare is now 7.50, intersections in the metro are fast becoming extinct, and we still have the madam president’s tush firmly planted on Malacanang ground, et semper, amen.  We have Magnolia back in the market, and the milk, Chocolait or otherwise, is so much better tasting than Nestle’s, everyone.  Please ignore that misleading Nestle commercial.  And we have more people training children on how to be the next Viva Hot Men!  Ahh, the circle of life.

We have food.  I’ve been reacquainted with bibingkas, Red Ribbon’s infamous ube cake, Ongpin’s dimsum (best in the WORLD for monosodium-gultamation), Diok Hua’s incomparable tokwas and maki mi on Padre Algue, and a taco and Mongolian barbeque at Toll House in Angeles City.  DSTS is in constant panic that I won’t fit into that damned white thing when zero hour approaches.  Miracles do happen, dear.

Flipside:  I’ve wiggled into dresses, bonded with relatives I’ve never mingled with for decades, and talked with vendors I wouldn’t be caught dead talking to EVER should you look me up six years ago.  Aliens have plucked my eyebrows supposedly to aid the pre-mating ceremony, so when I finally get back to real life, my labada-induced perspiration will never hold up as well, I’m sure.  I want a headband like Federer’s. Cards we’ve pledged insomnia for to print and fold were finally sent via post office.  I’ve tested for blisters wearing illogically designed footwear, and my spinal alignment is to be adjusted to better project my ribcage to pixelated photomatic synthesis as instructed by the brilliantly semi-autistic hired savant called Wonder Lulu.

I don’t think I’ll be getting married again soon.

PS — A belated shout out to Mr. Shuli, who’s now happily trekking the land of Rogers.  Happy Birthday!  Thank you for introducing me to Vlad Dracula once again.  Have a great adventure ahead — and I hope soon I can afford to shoot that infernal dial up dead.