i think the universe is telling me that i should just stay away from situations that have anything to do with my picture. regardless of need or situation, i should just run as fast as i can in the opposite direction.
it's bad enough that i have to carry a horrific photo around for 3 years. so you have to understand that i have some amount of self-loathing going on in my brain at any given time of the day.
yesterday, i had to go to the professional regulation commission office to get my renewed physician's license. the man (boy, really) at the releasing window gave me an old index card to sign. on the card was a picture of me, back when i was a fresh (and i use the term loosely) medical school graduate.
he took one look at the picture, looked at me, looked at the picture again and said (in the vernacular), "you're really young in this pic."
me, quite speechless: "wasn't i?"
which brings me to my next question: just how old DO i look???
come to think of it, i should've seriously thought about this a few months back, when a promo girl in the grocery came up to me with brochures of a new diaper and said, "ma'am, try this on your CHILDREN."
plastic surgery is starting to sound good.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
"nothing good's gonna last forever"
so here is my latest fear: i'm afraid that i am getting stupider by the second.
for starters, it seems that my brain and the rest of my body have not been on good terms lately, resulting in me thinking one thing and then expressing something completely different.
for instance, a friend asked me recently about the singer of "touch me in the morning" (as to WHY we were talking about this – well that's a longer, shallower story, which also happens to involve dione warwick) and i replied with a certainty that can put a college professor to shame, "donna summer." i could even hear her singing in my mind: "wasn't it me who said that nothing good's gonna last forever?" (don't ask me why i know this song almost by heart. i was a diva at 8.)
donna summer DID NOT sing that song. it was diana ross. shame on me. and the sad thing is that i KNEW it was diana ross. it was HER VOICE in my head. but my mouth (in this case, "fingers", because i was texting my reply) wanted to say something else.
ok, maybe that wasn't the best example of how my brain is slowly wasting away, but i can't think of a better one right now. see? see? brain atrophy!
is it a sign of aging? i'm only (and props to me for using the word "only") 32!!! so why is it that i can't remember prices of items i purchased just a few days back, or what "assonance" means (was this taught in high school?), or why i scheduled a night flight when i knew that my uncle can't drive in the dark!?
if that last paragraph made any sense to you, be afraid.
meanwhile, i'm going to lock myself up in my room until i start to make sense again. or until i feel hunger pangs. whichever comes first.
for starters, it seems that my brain and the rest of my body have not been on good terms lately, resulting in me thinking one thing and then expressing something completely different.
for instance, a friend asked me recently about the singer of "touch me in the morning" (as to WHY we were talking about this – well that's a longer, shallower story, which also happens to involve dione warwick) and i replied with a certainty that can put a college professor to shame, "donna summer." i could even hear her singing in my mind: "wasn't it me who said that nothing good's gonna last forever?" (don't ask me why i know this song almost by heart. i was a diva at 8.)
donna summer DID NOT sing that song. it was diana ross. shame on me. and the sad thing is that i KNEW it was diana ross. it was HER VOICE in my head. but my mouth (in this case, "fingers", because i was texting my reply) wanted to say something else.
ok, maybe that wasn't the best example of how my brain is slowly wasting away, but i can't think of a better one right now. see? see? brain atrophy!
is it a sign of aging? i'm only (and props to me for using the word "only") 32!!! so why is it that i can't remember prices of items i purchased just a few days back, or what "assonance" means (was this taught in high school?), or why i scheduled a night flight when i knew that my uncle can't drive in the dark!?
if that last paragraph made any sense to you, be afraid.
meanwhile, i'm going to lock myself up in my room until i start to make sense again. or until i feel hunger pangs. whichever comes first.
Friday, September 23, 2005
and it came to pass
you know how sometimes, when you're in a certain situation, you think about the worst possible thing that can happen to you and then it doesn't happen and you're grateful and you move on with your life and ...
(this has a point. wait for it.)
the past few weeks, i had to go to the dentist twice. the first time, while my dentist (who also happens to be one of my best friends, which makes all the difference in my story) was drilling into my tartar, i was thinking, "what if the drill slides off my tooth and drills into the underside of my tongue?"
you know how sometimes, even without hearing the end of a story, you know how the rest of it goes?
well, there. need i say more?
ok, i will.
it happened during the second visit. the drilling-into-the-underside-of-tongue scenario. the sharp pain was aggravated by the shocked gasps from my two onlookers who wasted no time running out of the room in horror. to make it even worse, my dentist had trouble removing the embedded drill from under my tongue because it was lodged quite well – which makes sense if you think about the physics of screws. in fairness, maybe it took just a few seconds to remove. YOU try boring a hole under your tongue and tell me if 2 seconds doesn't feel like 2 months.
morals of the story:
- do not laugh while a dentist has dangerous machinery in your mouth.
- do not allow other friends to make wisecracks beside you while a dentist has dangerous machinery in your mouth.
- it is very easy to forgive well-meaning dentist friends.
- time heals all wounds ... including those accidentally drilled under your tongue.
(this has a point. wait for it.)
the past few weeks, i had to go to the dentist twice. the first time, while my dentist (who also happens to be one of my best friends, which makes all the difference in my story) was drilling into my tartar, i was thinking, "what if the drill slides off my tooth and drills into the underside of my tongue?"
you know how sometimes, even without hearing the end of a story, you know how the rest of it goes?
well, there. need i say more?
ok, i will.
it happened during the second visit. the drilling-into-the-underside-of-tongue scenario. the sharp pain was aggravated by the shocked gasps from my two onlookers who wasted no time running out of the room in horror. to make it even worse, my dentist had trouble removing the embedded drill from under my tongue because it was lodged quite well – which makes sense if you think about the physics of screws. in fairness, maybe it took just a few seconds to remove. YOU try boring a hole under your tongue and tell me if 2 seconds doesn't feel like 2 months.
morals of the story:
- do not laugh while a dentist has dangerous machinery in your mouth.
- do not allow other friends to make wisecracks beside you while a dentist has dangerous machinery in your mouth.
- it is very easy to forgive well-meaning dentist friends.
- time heals all wounds ... including those accidentally drilled under your tongue.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
sad? call me.
of course, the obvious question to ask at this point is:
"is she going to wait for 2014 before she blogs again?"
(meanwhile, the obvious question in terms of rock star:inxs is: "is marty casey unbelievable or what?")
there is a reason for not blogging. actually, there are a number of reasons.
1. i am queen busy. (get it? queen BEE-zy? hwe hwe hwe ... ok, calm down. no need to get violent.)
2. i am queen lazy.
3. (most important reason) i have been trying to find a cure for global sadness.
and now, i would like to announce that i've done it. i have the solution to every depressive episode in the world.
three words: driver's license picture.
in an attempt to justify the horror that is my picture, i would like to point out that NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WOULD BE TWO PICTURE-TAKING SESSIONS. so there i was, ready for the first (and i thought 'only') picture. i had blotted out all the extra oil from my face, made sure my hair was in place, thought happy thoughts and gave a subdued-but-pleasantly-content-with-life smile for the digital camera.
after my pic was taken, i wore a headband – it was just after lunch on a hot hot hot day – and waited for the license with all the other drivers, not caring about the amount of perspiration that had begun to leak out of my ultra-open pores.
and then they called my name. again. for a second picture.
all logic flew out the window and i removed my headband in a hurry, thinking that i looked better without hair accessories. if there's anything i regret most in my life, this decision would have to be it. it completely beats 'entering med school' and 'eating an entire (smallish) ball of gouda 5 minutes before sleeping' (a recent impulse – don't ask) hands down.
when i finally got the laminated card, i had to pinch my nose so i wouldn't explode in laughter. happiness is not appreciated in philippine government offices, if you haven't noticed. so i held my nose for about a block, walking towards my sister, who was waiting inside our parked car. complete strangers were running away from me, thinking i was holding my nose because i stank.
to put it kindly, i looked like a convicted felon in the &#!%^$#% picture. my hair was all over the place, i was sweaty, and i had a sullen look, the kind of look foreign celebrities have when they are taken in for driving under the influence. 'assault victim' also comes to mind. or maybe 'meth addict'. your choice. any would be apt.
i have a reputation for having the worst expression in pictures, but this is insane. more accurately, i LOOKED insane.
i'd like to blame the guy who was handling the camera. i'd like to, but did he really care that i needed to bear with the hellish picture for 3 years (when my card expires)? did he really care that i have redefined the word 'disheveled'? did he really care that i would be forced to become the perfect driver just so i would be spared of having to show my license to some poor policeman who would lose all composure upon viewing my picture!?!?
he didn't.
so there's nothing i can do but wait for 2008. and maybe scan and send the picture (labeled 'antidepressant') to all practicing psychiatrists. nobel prize, here i come.
"is she going to wait for 2014 before she blogs again?"
(meanwhile, the obvious question in terms of rock star:inxs is: "is marty casey unbelievable or what?")
there is a reason for not blogging. actually, there are a number of reasons.
1. i am queen busy. (get it? queen BEE-zy? hwe hwe hwe ... ok, calm down. no need to get violent.)
2. i am queen lazy.
3. (most important reason) i have been trying to find a cure for global sadness.
and now, i would like to announce that i've done it. i have the solution to every depressive episode in the world.
three words: driver's license picture.
in an attempt to justify the horror that is my picture, i would like to point out that NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WOULD BE TWO PICTURE-TAKING SESSIONS. so there i was, ready for the first (and i thought 'only') picture. i had blotted out all the extra oil from my face, made sure my hair was in place, thought happy thoughts and gave a subdued-but-pleasantly-content-with-life smile for the digital camera.
after my pic was taken, i wore a headband – it was just after lunch on a hot hot hot day – and waited for the license with all the other drivers, not caring about the amount of perspiration that had begun to leak out of my ultra-open pores.
and then they called my name. again. for a second picture.
all logic flew out the window and i removed my headband in a hurry, thinking that i looked better without hair accessories. if there's anything i regret most in my life, this decision would have to be it. it completely beats 'entering med school' and 'eating an entire (smallish) ball of gouda 5 minutes before sleeping' (a recent impulse – don't ask) hands down.
when i finally got the laminated card, i had to pinch my nose so i wouldn't explode in laughter. happiness is not appreciated in philippine government offices, if you haven't noticed. so i held my nose for about a block, walking towards my sister, who was waiting inside our parked car. complete strangers were running away from me, thinking i was holding my nose because i stank.
to put it kindly, i looked like a convicted felon in the &#!%^$#% picture. my hair was all over the place, i was sweaty, and i had a sullen look, the kind of look foreign celebrities have when they are taken in for driving under the influence. 'assault victim' also comes to mind. or maybe 'meth addict'. your choice. any would be apt.
i have a reputation for having the worst expression in pictures, but this is insane. more accurately, i LOOKED insane.
i'd like to blame the guy who was handling the camera. i'd like to, but did he really care that i needed to bear with the hellish picture for 3 years (when my card expires)? did he really care that i have redefined the word 'disheveled'? did he really care that i would be forced to become the perfect driver just so i would be spared of having to show my license to some poor policeman who would lose all composure upon viewing my picture!?!?
he didn't.
so there's nothing i can do but wait for 2008. and maybe scan and send the picture (labeled 'antidepressant') to all practicing psychiatrists. nobel prize, here i come.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
scared of the point
due to her newly launched business, my sister now sews the whole day. yes, she S-E-W-S. she attaches beads to plain shirts and resells them for a higher price because the shirts now have "manual labor" written all over them. manual labor, i immediately found out, comes in the shape of flowers, fruits or strange-looking animals.
i have to admit the shirts look pretty good, considering my sister never really liked sewing – or pretended not to.
(i'd like to point out my use of "–", the en dash that i was never able to use for blog entries because i didn't know where it was on the keyboard. in word [the program], i used to select it from the symbol list or just type in a hyphen, a space, a random character, and autocorrect would transform it into the longer en dash. this, of course, does not work in html-based [oooh] blog entries, so it was always "--" or some other mark, such as ":" or "^" or "$." recently however, i accidentally found the highly useful combination of keys to produce that blasted dash. which makes me ask the same question i asked myself when i discovered that if you refrigerate an open bag of chips, they stay crisp: "why don't i know these things?")
(there's a good chance i'll get a scathing comment from a friend about the previous paragraph: "i don't get it.")
ANYWAY ...
another important fact to introduce at this point of my rambling is that many things scare me. and i won't give you the full list right now (although i suspect i may have revealed some fears in previous blog entries already. thank goodness it's not easy to access my blog archives) because, you guessed it, it will lull you to sleep.
recently, however, my sister uttered the scariest sentence i have ever heard in a while. we were in front of the tv – she was sewing, i was on a break from working – when she said, with the seriousness of an actress in a bad horror flick:
"i wonder where my other needle is."
if you don't understand why that musing is scary, then you're probably not afraid of being stabbed while plopping on a seemingly safe sofa ... or bed. after that incident, i've had to run my hands across the surface of anything i've had to sit on in ... my ... own ... house.
to this day, the missing needle is still missing but we are all still intact and no blood has been shed. yet.
i'm going to suggest my sister take up knitting instead. or, at the very least, invest in a pincushion.
i have to admit the shirts look pretty good, considering my sister never really liked sewing – or pretended not to.
(i'd like to point out my use of "–", the en dash that i was never able to use for blog entries because i didn't know where it was on the keyboard. in word [the program], i used to select it from the symbol list or just type in a hyphen, a space, a random character, and autocorrect would transform it into the longer en dash. this, of course, does not work in html-based [oooh] blog entries, so it was always "--" or some other mark, such as ":" or "^" or "$." recently however, i accidentally found the highly useful combination of keys to produce that blasted dash. which makes me ask the same question i asked myself when i discovered that if you refrigerate an open bag of chips, they stay crisp: "why don't i know these things?")
(there's a good chance i'll get a scathing comment from a friend about the previous paragraph: "i don't get it.")
ANYWAY ...
another important fact to introduce at this point of my rambling is that many things scare me. and i won't give you the full list right now (although i suspect i may have revealed some fears in previous blog entries already. thank goodness it's not easy to access my blog archives) because, you guessed it, it will lull you to sleep.
recently, however, my sister uttered the scariest sentence i have ever heard in a while. we were in front of the tv – she was sewing, i was on a break from working – when she said, with the seriousness of an actress in a bad horror flick:
"i wonder where my other needle is."
if you don't understand why that musing is scary, then you're probably not afraid of being stabbed while plopping on a seemingly safe sofa ... or bed. after that incident, i've had to run my hands across the surface of anything i've had to sit on in ... my ... own ... house.
to this day, the missing needle is still missing but we are all still intact and no blood has been shed. yet.
i'm going to suggest my sister take up knitting instead. or, at the very least, invest in a pincushion.
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