humor

Why Are We So “Sensitive” to Each Other?

/ ludlumdrive / 2 Comments

cows8

I have been frantically breaking out like mother rabbit dropping her million babies. They have been popping lately from every corner – one here another there, to the west and to the east, from the south and the north – whenever they so feel like it. They are thundering down the curve, ubiquitously like microwavable popcorn at speed of my brain cells.

L’Oreal ain’t doing it, Oxy 5 too oxidized, Proactiv nuh, it too has a mind of its own. The fad just busted my solemn face and left me with some universally unappreciated dark spots at the chairs where they were conjured up; so, I parked it.

The little weasels just have a mind of their own and there is nothing I can do about it. They are irritating, unflattering, annoying and just plain selfish.

I feel like exhausting a leaf blower and all its magnetic heat into my face, zit it all out with a laser and like a carpenter carve it with a perfect razor. I know, that’s called going to a spa for a facial peel, microdermabrasion treatment and yada, yada, yada but in today’s economy, all bets are off; who can afford it? Besides, I may come out of there looking more like a lizard shelling its skin then a perfect green apple.

I just had it with them. So, I woke up one morning, loaded with ideas on how to deal with my inimitable crisis – as if I am the only soul dealing with this issue but I want to look pretty. So there!

I resorted to the oldest trick on the table; the cheapest bonanza on the bank, one that one may find in a corner of our bathroom cabinet and went berserk with it.

I looked like a woman in a mission, one mad lion on her way to scavenge for her latest meal. I designed my own little garden, as my face resembled the latest issue of Architectural Digest. The garden looked lovely but it was one scary scenario, I may add.

That was the previous night, while at the house. I cleaned it all out the day after.

I did not intend to make myself a walking Cirque du Soleil member but I stapled one of the miserable little things right above my lips back in. I glazed the zit with a tad of toothpaste – it is known to be an inexpensive spot home remedy for pimples – and got out of the house.

The unadulterated speckle was noticeable to the naked eye. A binocular wasn’t promoted nor a magnifying glass; they were not needed. I mean anyone could spot it; it was that obvious.

So, you would thing that a celebrated home remedy resembling a booger was sufficient to alert anyone of my protocol violation? You would think, someone would at least classily advise me that I have a “hideous” monster shoved up under my nose? You would think that in the age of the Internet someone would IM me to save myself from an embarrassment? Nope, nothing, zilch, not one dopey or hallucinagent comment. Everyone looked, everyone stared, everyone walked on by but no one dared say a nothing. Not _one_ word _whatsoever!

I paraded my anointed face the world over and no one blinked. I knew it was by design but the purpose was foreigner to most; so, I was expecting at least a person – a woman perhaps – to jump ship and report me to the Principal’s office. (I must confess that I was not looking for the report card since the expectation level wasn’t running high; besides, who cares, really?) The women were the best dodge drafters, avoider’s 100; they did not even look.

My little experiment led me to question, why are we so sensitive to each other; what are we afraid off? Why are we so cautious about telling people that they look appalling; that they look like evil in its way to the purgatory? They would rather see people running around with their trousers hanging or blood stain on their skirts – for their latest water cooler tittle-tattle bulletin board – then to warn the individual? Personally, I always raise the biggest stop sign I can find instead of letting the person crisscross a plague-ridden railroad.

It is not like we are walking towards the confessional booth and find the priest sitting on the corner ready to stamp “mia culpa” on our forehead for being callous. It is simply a matter of do unto others as you would have others do unto you. If you don’t want to be seen in an embarrassing jam; perhaps, someone else also would not want to be in the same predicament.

My Trip to The Mechanic

/ ludlumdrive / 1 Comment

mechan

I was looking down with a book on my lap. I was reading “Eat, Pray and Love” when this gregarious, slender lady – she must have been 5’4”, 110 pounds and in her late 50’s to 60’s, walked up and sat on the only (well, there were two; the other was occupied by me) remaining run down, comfortable enough to sit, beach seat.

The lady: “Oh alo! “

Me: “Hello, how are you.”, I replied and went back to my reading.

The lady: “Oh man, I’m tired; djou know”

I did not respond and attempted to continue reading. She drops her bag on the floor, takes some magazines out and lays them on her lap.

(Good, now she will leave me alone. She is entertained reading.) Wrong! In her broken English – not that mine is better – she carries on.

The lady: “Djou know, it is not good to be single specially when djou do not have a man to help djou with too much stuff, djou know; too many stuff. I bring my car here, its brake down. Simply thing djou know but I have to bring here; I have to sit and wait. Just simply djou know.  Little ting here, little ting there, have to do it; alone. Not good djou know, not good “

Me: “I can image”, I said. I could not disagree with her more but why dispute? She was complaining, dusting the feathers out of her chest; so, why help and add more fuel to the fire?

(HUSH PLEASE!) I wanted her quiet. I wanted to read.

The lady: “I am done djou know; done”, she continued.

(Is this the time on the film when I ask her why? I better keep my mouth shut if I really want her to stop and enjoy my Saturday morning in peace while I wait for my car.)

The treaty was observed for a second. She was briefly “sedated” as she read through her magazine that turned out to be none other than the Star Magazine. As if her intoxicating annoyance was not enough, she dared to interrupt my reading again – not once or twice but too many for me to count for Star Magazine.

(OH GOD, IS ANYONE THERE? SOMEONE PLEASE HELP OR I WILL GO INSANE!)

I was ready to crack that WIP; I was going nuts – well this is nothing new; this is my typical self.

starmg1

She browsed the Magazine as if she was swimming through shark-infested waters; just glancing through the pages, not actually reading them. She hurriedly flipped through the pages, side to side; one down, go; one down go, next; and then break.

She paused the Magazines on her lap and turned to me once again.

The lady: “Djou know, look at these dresses –while pointing at the page – the starts are wearing. It look like 1940’s and 50’s again djou know. All come back. I and my family wore them like that, djou know. They were beautiful, big like that.”

(Ok, and?!)

Me: “Yeah! It looks like it, doesn’t it?”, I smiled and agreed. It was clear that I was not born at the era but know enough about fashion to concur.

The lady: “But djou could not know; djou too small to know.”

(Thank you madam, I bowed. Thank you for confirming and approving this message but MADAM, YOU ARE BURKING ON MY STAGE NOW. PLEASE GET OFF OR SHUT UP.)

She did not realize it as she continued to constantly barging in, like hungry hyena.

The lady: “Djou know, money is good but it doesn’t solve a lot. Look at these peoples (she was referring to John Travolta and his family) I mean, they have too many, too much djou know but look, look at them, look at them… hum… now they are… suffering, suffer djou know. His son djou know, too big, very big children and now is dead. Don’t know but… hum!”

(Lady, yeah, he was big and your point?)

She puts down the first magazine and picked up another one. She went through at least four, flipping through each page like an assembly line, stopping only as soon as the mechanic announces that her car was ready. She hurriedly lays all of them on the table, gets up, turns to me and do the unthinkable.

The lady: “Here, these for djou. My car is ready now. Take them with djou (the magazines off course; nice present thank you). Enjoy to read. Good story djou know; good story, nice dresses too.”

She is joking right? Me! Reading Star Magazine! She interrupted my session of “Eat, Pray and Love” for this? For the Star tabloid (Celebrity fashion, news, and gossip exclusives. Users can post rumors about their favorite celebrities on the message boards.) Magazine? All that choreography so, she could show me pictures of some celebrities?!

I must have been hallucinating; running high fever or perhaps, have finally landed on the moon because…. As my late friend and ex-colleague Tracy Smith used to say, “Star Magazine is the true newspaper”.  The bug must have caught up with me because I am finally reading at level 17.

The Lost Perfect Picture Moment

/ ludlumdrive / 1 Comment

dog

Why I should have carried my camera with me!

Just as I have decided to carry a small notebook – after countless of tore ‘memorable’ stripped pieces of paper (I once used bathroom tissue) and post-it note stickies, to catalog my ever so intrusive thoughts that come racing at every moment; I decided after this enthralling occurrence to at least attempt to carry a camera with me at all times; just in case. One never knows when the ever million-dollar opportunity presents itself. Lol. Keep dreaming!

Anyway, last Saturday, I was on my way to the shopping center when the traffic became a tad too heavy, unhurried for my taste. It wasn’t Sunday, so I could not understand why everybody was on their way to the church.

It was drizzling a bit, so I incurred the thought that it might have been the architect as I saw no other source for “where is everyone going” aspect. To conciliate my flustered soul, I decided to take a shortcut as always do whenever I stumble upon these occurrences. (I have yet to come across anyone who enjoys traffic jam).

Just as I turn right onto a familiar street, neighboring residential communities, leading to the shop, I spotted this figure on the sidewalk to my left, strolling hastily, as if in a hurry.

The lady was approximately 5’7” tall, skinny and exhausted, in her 50’s, wearing nerdy like big eyeglasses, pasty sneakers with blue stripes, long skirt and long sleeveless shirt – she came across like sixty’s groupie – and a plastic scarf covering her locks.

She was pulling a Labrador in her left hand and a stroller on her right. However, the thing that stroked me the most and caught my interest – it could have made one heck of a picture; there is if I was allowed to take it – was what was on the stroller. It was not a baby or perhaps groceries like some debilitated people use it for but a cute, cuddly dog. I can’t pin point the breed but it looked like a Chihuahua from a far and wait, it was wearing sunglasses. How cool!

It was amusing; the picture looked perfect. The little creature just sat there without a care in the world, as if it was a queen, enjoying the journey and whatever it was taking it. I loved it. I thought about stopping and use my cell’s camera but chose to drive away instead. It was one amazing sight, one that could have made the front page had I been able to take the picture.