snippet of a dinner conversation

conversation at the dinner table a few nights ago.

me: saan kaya ako ikakasal?

ninin (deadpan) : sa dreams mo.

leche. mukhang totoo nga.

in my dreams.

detachment

i never really thought of myself as the kind of person who was overly attached to material stuff (except for my shoes and books, of course). I don’t mind getting cheapo clothes from tutuban and various other sale bins. i don’t care that my iPod is four years old already and creaks like an old man’s knees. i don’t care that my mobile phone doesn’t have all that new-fangled technology that my non-techie brain cannot comprehend. it matters very little to me that my jewelry and bags and watches are all fun and not serious and not the type that will appreciate with time, nor are they the type that can be handed down to the next generation.

and all this time, i didn’t mind having regular stuff because i figured if they were taken away from me, then it’s okay. i realize i accumulate stuff for their fun value and throwaway attitude.

until my phone crashed.

my beautiful girly pink phone that trills “chweet chweet text message” when you SMS me and sings “this is the story of a girl who cried a river and drowned the whole world, but she looks so sad in photographs, I absolutely love her, when she smiles” when you call me.

my pretty pink phone that holds my illegal photos of the Sistine chapel ceiling, the live recordings of the Duomo church bells in Florence and Noel Gallagher singing Champagne Supernova at an Oasis concert in Singapore, and other photos of my feet in Bohol, Bangkok, Mindoro, Rome, Venice, Glasgow, CamSur, Boracay, Malaybalay, and Romblon. and a photo of the words Les Miserables on a London West End theatre stage.

my arte pink phone that contains ten years worth of HR and headhunting contacts, contacts that have been the foundation of my life as an HR girl. little known phone numbers of CIOs and group heads of banks. work phone numbers of colleagues and competitors in the HR world. email addresses of headhunters.

gone. all gone.

so now i am rebuilding what in all honesty cannot be rebuilt. and yes, i am an idiot for not backing up any of the information in my phone.

and i am not as detached as i thought i was. i am attached to everything in that phone and all that it represents.

i’m so upset. i need a nap.

grooviest cab ride in the world

it was an extraordinarily tiring day. so tired my eyes felt like popping out of their sockets. and days like these require me to do Me Time. and Me Time i did. but the big mac meal and caramel macchiato did not fix me the way they should during Me Time, so i decided to walk. and walk i did, and when that didn't help i just decided to go home and take a shower and sleep. got into a cab after about ten minutes of waiting and humming some tuneless note in my head.

i got into a cab, no different from the hundreds of cabs the whole world over. i gave the driver my destination, and sat back and emptied my mind of the day's flotsam. then it started out so quietly – like a quiet breeze ruffling the nape of my neck – i thought it was my imagination finally snapping. i heard singing. so softly.

two drifters off to see the world
there’s such a lot of world to see
we’re after that same rainbow’s end
waiting round the bend
my huckleberry friend
moon river and me.

the cab driver was singing Moon River. beautifully. with an unmistable andy williams flavor.

i kept silent in case it really was my imagination snapping and i was imagining the the whole thing. but after a few lines, the cab driver says, “okay lang po ba mag-ingay ako? mahilig po kasi ako kumanta pag nagmamaneho.”

i wasn’t losing my mind after all! he really was singing! and i wanted to weep at how beautiful his voice was. so i urged him to keep singing.

and sing he did. he sang a bunch of old tagalog songs (that i couldn’t identify, sayang). and right as he was rounding the corner into my village, he starts channeling elvis costelo.

she may be the face I can’t forget
the trace of pleasure or regret
may be my treasure or the price i have to pay

holy camote que, the man is singing She. one of the most heartbreaking songs in my world.

then in a twist that makes my world one loony bin, he belts into the next stanza

she may be the beauty or the BEST
may be the famine or the (yes you guessed it) FEST
may turn each day into a heaven or a HEEL.

mercifully, we reach my house as he finishes the song. i gave him a P40 tip and thank him for making my day.

at least in the eyes of at least one cab driver in this world, i am a goddess worth singing to. thank you manong. this was the trippiest ride ever.