Desperate Measures

Happy 2013!

It's that time of year again... Bring on the polka dots!

Oh dear...

May your 2013 be filled with much silliness and laughter, more travel and crazy stories, wild passion and mad love, and may you find your sparkle wherever you go.

Wishing you good health and prosperity in the coming New Year!

On Bug Spray and Deodorants. With a Bit About Chickens in the Trees.

I'm not really particular about the products that I use.  I'm more of a soap-and-water girl, really.  Although there was that time when I went for some expensive hair treatment and I was told that I needed to use some special sodium chloride and sulfate-free shampoo to maintain it.  Then I went ahead and used some cheap-ass shampoo that I had bought from 7-11 and, effectively, washed P8500 down the drain.  Doh!

I know a lot of people go out of their way to seek all-natural and organic stuff and that's all very good and commendable but, based on personal experience and observation, I find that there are two things where natural and organic don't quite cut it:  insect repellant and anti-perspirants/deodorants.  Seriously.

I could pickle myself in citronella and still get bitten by a hundred mozzies.

A friend of mine posted this on her Facebook wall recently:

"Mosquito trap - No more mosquitoes!! Cut the top off a 2 liter bottle. Invert the cone and place it inside the straight part of the bottle. Glue the two pieces together. Add 1 tsp yeast and 1/2 cup sugar to some lukewarm water, and pour the mixture into the bottle. Mosquitoes are attracted to the carbon dioxide that you exhale. The yeast feeds off the sugar and emits the same gas, so the mosquito enters the bottle, thinking she will find food there."  (Click here for the link.)

Two of her friends swore by it and, since I live in the Land of Aggressive Mosquitoes, I had to try it.  I made one and kept the bottle beside my bed for several nights.  I still served as fattened calf to those feasting mozzies.

So I thought, okay, maybe the yeast I used wasn't really yeast, or maybe I should have used white sugar as opposed to brown, or used a 2-liter soda bottle instead of a 1-liter water bottle (- I'm not in the habit of drinking soda so I don't have any spare bottles lying around!), or maybe the water I used wasn't warm enough or was too hot.  My friend sent me some yeast via courier.  (Yes, we were taking this project very seriously and many a-text was exchanged between Manila and Siargao on this subject matter.)  Then I sent the girls out to buy white sugar.  We tried this two more times.  With three water bottles.  That are now full of ants.

I could have just put out a plate of sugar for them, no?

Right.  Back to Off and industrial-strength chemical mozzie killer spray.  And none of that lemon-scented nonsense that will kill you before it kills a single mosquito.  It's got to be the Agent Orange-take-no-prisoners type of bug spray that could embalm you in your sleep.

Same with body odor.  You need chemicals to mask that shit.  Seriously.  When I was in college, I remember this guy saying that he would rather emit his own natural odor than smell like a field of sunflowers, or whatever scent those things come in.  Unfortunately, for him and for all of us who accidentally wandered within smelling radius of him, the natural odor he was emitting was similar to that of a rancid goat.

I used to be really sensitive to smell.  I once walked into a ladies room at the Ateneo (the university I went to) and had to walk right out, even though it looked empty.  I waited out in the hall and, sure enough, a vile-smelling woman emerged from one of the cubicles.  I had to hang out in the hall a while longer and wait for the stench to dissipate (I swear it clung heavily to the walls and ceiling) before I could enter the bathroom again.

In high school, we had an exchange student who stank so badly that we had to open all the windows and crank up the electric fans so that we wouldn't pass out from the smell.  An emergency meeting was called on how to handle the situation.  We eventually elected someone to have a discussion with her about it.  If I remember correctly, she opened with, "You know, Daisy (not her real name and she certainly didn't smell like one), the Philippines is very different from your country.  It's hotter here and we sweat more..."

Nowadays, I'm a bit more tolerant.  But most Filipinos are not and find it offensive when someone reeks.  If you smell, they won't tell it to your face but they'll make fun of you behind your back, perhaps give you a rude nickname, and turn their noses up at you when you walk by.

And don't even think about using those tawas (potassium alum) crystals.  They don't work.  Industrial strength anti-perspirant-deodorant-fields-of-sunflowers chemical is what you want.  Okay, there are the unscented ones and those work just fine.  But, yeah, all-natural when it comes to body odor - and insect repellant - is never a good call.

***

Oh, while we're on the subject of mozzies, those mosquito zapper tennis rackets are awesome!  I love the smell of frying mozzies in the evening.  It's worth it to get a few - they're dirt cheap anyway - because they're flimsy and don't last very long.  Out of the last three that I brought home from Chiang Mai, only one is working and I'm worried that it's about to fizzle out from being whacked too many times on various surfaces.  The previous ones I had didn't survive being chucked at 5 AM at roosters in the trees.

And that's why they're called roosters, isn't it?  (Eureka moment.)  Because the damned things roost in the fucking trees.  And here I thought they were high on "Sesame Street" when they had that cartoon about chickens in the trees.  When the gardener showed up later in the day, I casually mentioned to him that he may find a few mosquito zapper tennis rackets, umbrellas and an assortment of slippers in the bushes behind the trees.  Goddam roosters.

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Postcards from the Edge (The Typhoon Diaries Pt. 3)

So Bopha lost the boner it had for us and rammed into Southern Mindanao instead. 

Fellow evacuee, James Kurylo, echoed my thoughts:  "Now the people who didn't take this seriously will think that they were right and will never take storm warnings seriously."

As somebody who hates being told what to do and, even worse, being told that I have to be afraid, I had given this a bit of thought.  I did wonder why I was giving Nicolas such a hard time when he was insisting that I catch the next flight out of Siargao to avoid Bopha.  And then, of course, I realized that it was because:

a.  he was telling me what to do

b.  he was telling me that I had to be afraid

and

c.  I was PMS-ing.

Initially, I dismissed Bopha like I would a tsunami warning.  I could be totally wrong here and I certainly wouldn't take anything I have to say seriously but I think that, ever since that Indonesian tsunami of 2004, it's been SOP to issue tsunami warnings left, right and center if a sumo wrestler so much as farts in his sleep.  So that scientists can say that they did their jobs.  And, yes, they told you so.  But they can't really predict tsunamis, can they?  Because by the time they suss it out, it's pretty much upon you, isn't it?  Tsunamis don't exactly tell you, "All righty then, we'll be there in two days.  We still have a spot of shopping to do."  No, in the two and half seconds that it's taken you to figure out an earthquake's epicenter and done the math, a whole island could have disappeared off the coast of Costa Rica.

Same with earthquakes.  By the time you've felt a big-ass plate heave underneath the bowels of the earth, you can't have too far to run, can you?

But, luckily, I managed to get some blood flowing into my brain and I had to admit that storms are different.  Storms, you can measure with barometers and... um... weather vanes, and some such other scientific-like things.  And you can actually see them via satellite, take infrared-imaging and track the bloody thing.  They have all sorts of data about it, like its height, weight, horoscope and what it had for breakfast.

Let's just say that there's no way I can deny a storm's existence.  And therefore, proper respect for storm warnings I should have.  Said Yoda.

The same would have to apply for, er, um, volcanic eruptions, which is the only other thing I can think of right now.  So those are two things I should heed:  storm warnings and volcanic eruption warnings.

Not everybody has to fucking crank up the brain activity to figure that out, right?  Fuck me, I think I almost gave myself a stroke there.  Given that most people are smarter than me, I figure that if they can't figure out that they're supposed to take things like storm warnings (and volcanic eruption warnings) seriously then - well, it's natural selection, isn't it?

Why mess with evolution?

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Postcards from the Edge (The Typhoon Diaries Pt. 2)

All quiet on the Philippine eastern front.  Maybe because my windows are all boarded up.  <checks outside>  Nope, it's quiet outside.  Bit of a patchy sky, but there's sun shining through.

According to the latest weather reports, Siargao no longer seems to be in the direct path of the typhoon.  (Please see latest trajectory for Typhoon Bopha.)

We're still going to carry on with the evacuation procedures we've set out.  I'll be leaving this morning because I have to transport my dog.  (He's really the only one who needs saving.  He's ten and old for a Great Dane and I have to take him in a car to safety.)  Nicolas' Right Hand Man will stay with the house until he feels the need to evacuate.

I'll probably spend the day hanging out at Cloud 9, watching the surf.  I might check in on some buddies staying in the area and have a few beers with them. 

Clever-me stashed a bottle of Patron XO in the freezer at the evacuation site yesterday.  Must remember to chill the shot glasses too.  Am hoping tonight will turn out to be more of a slumber party than a zombie apocalypse fire drill.

To those still in the direct path of the storm, please be safe, and stay warm and dry!

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Postcards from the Edge (The Typhoon Diaries Pt. 1)

I first heard about the storm last Monday, when a friend said he was extending his stay in Siargao for the coming swells.  So, this past week, I've had it in the back of my mind that a storm was coming.  But storm, shworm, right?  You've lived through one, you'll live through them all.  It never even occured to me that the storm might be dangerous.

Then last Wednesday, perhaps by way of making small talk, I casually mentioned the storm to Frida - from Sweden, like Abba - and she said, "Yeah, David [of Kawayan Resort] is freaking out about it and wants to leave the island."  Hmm...  Bit paranoid of David, no?  I mentioned as much to Frida, then promptly forgot about the conversation.

The next night, it was Frida's turn to get paranoid.  She sent me a few text messages, hassling me to find out more news about the storm.  Right.  I couldn't be arsed and went out drinking.

But before Frida came around for dinner at my place the next evening, I made sure to pull up some website on the storm that I could show her on my computer.  This is what I found:

"Typhoon Bopha is forecast to strike the Philippines at about 15:00 GMT on 4 December.  Data supplied by the US Navy and Air Force Joint Typhoon Warning Center suggest that the point of landfall will be near 10.5 N,126.7 E.  Bopha is expected to bring 1-minute maximum sustained winds to the region of around 203 km/h (126 mph).  Wind gusts in the area may be considerably higher.

According to the Saffir-Simpson damage scale the potential property damage and flooding from a storm of Bopha's strength (category 3) at landfall includes:

Storm surge generally 2.7-3.7 metres (9-12 feet) above normal.
Some structural damage to small residences and utility buildings with a minor amount of curtainwall failures.
Damage to shrubbery and trees with foliage blown off trees and large trees blown down.
Mobile homes and poorly constructed signs are destroyed.
Low-lying escape routes are cut by rising water 3-5 hours before arrival of the centre of the storm.
Flooding near the coast destroys smaller structures with larger structures damaged by battering from floating debris.
Terrain continuously lower than 1.5 metres (5 feet) above mean sea level may be flooded inland 13 km (8 miles) or more.
Evacuation of low-lying residences within several blocks of the shoreline may be required.
There is also the potential for flooding further inland due to heavy rain.

The information above is provided for guidance only and should not be used to make life or death decisions or decisions relating to property. Anyone in the region who is concerned for their personal safety or property should contact their official national weather agency or warning centre for advice.

This alert is provided by Tropical Storm Risk (TSR) which is sponsored by Aon Benfield, Crawford & Company and University College London (UCL)."

Source:  AlertNet

Those are pretty alarming numbers, except that, typically and quite stupidly, I wasn't alarmed.

I know this sounds obnoxious but I never think that anything really, really bad could ever happen to me.  Maybe something mildly unpleasant but nothing that I couldn't handle and certainly nothing earth-shatteringly bad.  I still don't think I'm going to die, for instance.  Nor will anyone I love, simply because I will not allow it.  Of course, the last guy who shared the same sentiment with me ended up with Frankenstein stitches where they cracked open his skull; he's lost his eyesight in one eye and the hearing in his opposite ear.  And still I believe I'm untouchable.  <knock on wood>  This is the kind of hubris that is going to get me killed, isn't it?  Struck down by lightning and various biblical shit.  Like plagues.  And storms.

Of course, because they possess more sense than me, Frida and her boyfriend, Pontus, freaked out by the news I presented to them.  To calm them down, right there and then, I made inquiries into some sort of evacuation plan for them and, consequently, for me.  So that when Nicolas called me the next day, upon learning the news, I was like, "Yeah, I'm on top of it."

He was incensed that I hadn't told him about the storm and that he had to find out about it from somebody else. - Well, while I knew about it, I still didn't really get it, did I? -  It was only when he impressed upon me that, since I had decided to stay (- when I was talking to him, I still had the option of arranging a flight out of the island), I was now responsible for the lives of our staff.  And our pets.  Geezoos!  I can't be responsible for anything or anyone that isn't me.  Hell, sometimes, I'm not even responsible for me!  

I focused and listened to what Nicolas had to say.  Of course, I was still thinking like a dolt.  I thought we'd each stock up on stuff in our own rooms, then run to higher ground when necessary.  Which was really just across the road.  If Nicolas could knock me on the head with words, well, he sort of did.  He practically screamed at me, "If you aren't in a safe place when this hits, you'll never be safe!  You can't run to safety in a 200 km/h wind, with debris flying around!"

Good thinking, Robin.

This is why I have an uber-smart boyfriend.  He has to be smart for both of us.

It's a good thing that the arrangements I made for Frida, Pontus and me actually came through and, because Frida and Pontus so sagely decided to leave the island, and most of our staff opted to go their own ways too, I am now only officially responsible for me, Nicolas' Right Hand Man and our Great Dane.  Phew!

Of course, it was only when Nicolas gave me another talk and I listened to co-evacuee, David, this morning when I went to inspect our evacuation site, that I realized what sort of massive, serious shit was about to rain over Siargao.  They both painted horrific pictures of dead bodies, fallen trees, a flattened, unrecognizable landscape, and a starving, desperate populace that survives it.

And they can sleep at night, and I can't??? 

We brought some plywood to board up the windows, but David showed us how a slight force would bend it and rap it against the glass.  He said, "Now imagine that force at 200 km/h for one hour.  That glass will shatter all over us."  It's a good thing that David and his father, who is back in Siargao from France, are builders and supposedly spent a good part of the day making sure that our windows are properly boarded up.  (I wouldn't know.  I went back to the house and sunned myself by the pool.)

But thank you to David and David's father!  Merci!  Allow me to dedicate this cheesy, 80s song to both of you.  <cue Huey Lewis and the News>

I'm still hoping that I was right not to panic about all of this and that the storm will lose steam and dissipate into a sputter before reaching us, or that it will change direction and wreak havoc where they're used to havoc being wreaked.  Er, like over an uninhabited island in the middle of nowhere where miserable things occur that nobody knows about..

Always.

We're a quiet, chilled out island, Siargao.  The only havoc we know is the stirring in our souls when we've had too much to drink and have danced up a storm.

***

As of this writing, this is the news on Typhoon Bopha (a.k.a. Pablo):

AlertNet, Sun, 2 Dec 2012 07:52 GMT:  Typhoon Bopha is forecast to strike the Philippines at about 21:00 GMT on 3 December. - That would be 5 AM, Tuesday morning.

Weather Philippines Foundation (www.weather.com.ph) is also a good site to check, but I can't access it right now.  The last update I read had the storm over Palau at 9:00 this evening.  While it has entered the Philippine Area of Responsibility, landfall is still expected on Tuesday morning.

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Trust No One

Okay, I know this post is a radical departure from what I normally write about, but I found the subject so disturbing that I couldn't not write about it.

It all started the other day, when a friend of mine posted a link to this photo on Facebook:

(The link to the photo can be found here.)

I TRIED to do some research, given my dodgy island connection...

This should be me but I'm really too lazy to get out of bed.

What's interesting is that the first page of Google's search results didn't turn up anything written on Amber Lyon in the mainstream media.  Nothing from the New York Times or the Huffington Post or the BBC.  This is a woman making very serious allegations against one of the largest news networks in the world and there's nothing about it in the news.

The search results did lead me to an interview Lyon did with Joe Rogan last October 4.  Please click here for the link.  It is almost three hours long and you do have to bear with Rogan touting T-shirts and fitness equipment and, worse, editorializing, and Lyon does say "systematic" quite systematically but do listen to it so that, at the very least, you can form your own opinion about what you think you know.

The actual interview begins from around 4:00 and the meat of it happens before 39:41.  Then you can skip to 46:58 and there are some interesting bits from there to 1:15:14, and then 1:31:51 to 1:38:05 and maybe 2:42:17 to 2:48:11, but really if you stop any time after 39:41, it's okay.

This interview with Lyon led me to another name, that of former White House political adviser, Gwyneth Todd, another name that won't turn up anything written by the mainstream media in Google's search results.  This is a women who, in 2007, thwarted a plan by a Naval official to create a false flag event that could have led to the U.S. declaring war on Iran, yet her name remains unreported in the press.

We, Filipinos, know something about false flag events, don't we?  In 1972, then Defense Minister (now, Senate President), Juan Ponce Enrile staged a fake assassination attempt on his life that then President, Ferdinand Marcos, used to justify the declaration of Martial Law.

On the trail of Gwyneth Todd, I followed this link to a blog called "Infinite Unknown" which, in turn, contained a link to a very detailed account of the Todd affair in the Washington Post.  I'm now on the ninth page of my Google search results for Todd (- it's starting to show me links to Gwyneth Paltrow), and the Post article still hasn't turned up.  The third page did lead me to something in the Sydney Morning Herald and, the fourth, to an article in the Guardian, but both do not make mention of her allegations on the false flag event.  This leads credence to Infinite Unknown's assertion that the Post article has been "scrubbed" from search engines.

Lyon and Todd have leveled some very serious accusations against their former employers, CNN and the government of the United States of America, respectively.  There are huge stories in there that should have been picked up by the media and investigated, and presented to the public for scrutiny.  Apart from Joseph Stein of the Washington Post, whose article can no longer be found in search engine results, no one else has bothered to report the stories and find out if the allegations are true or false.

Has the term "independent media" always been oxymoron?  Have entire news networks now become "special advertising sections"?  If everyone and everything has a price, I wonder how high a price the Truth must command to be silenced or distorted.  So far, the silence is deafening, but it speaks volumes.

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Loud and Clear

Michael (not his real name) wanted to go diving off of Siargao.

Nicolas and I met him when he was a guest at our resort in 2005 and, since then, he and Nicolas had become good friends and dive buddies.  They had been diving all over the Philippines and Southeast Asia and, in those seven years, it was the first time Michael indicated an interest in returning to Siargao.

He asked Nicolas' help in securing a private plane that could fly their party along the coast before dropping them off in Siargao, where his boat would be waiting to take them on their dive trip.

Nicolas was telling me his plans and how he needed to contact Jason to charter a plane.  I thought that was odd but didn't question it.  We normally chartered planes off Jessop but, recently, Nicolas had become close to Jason, his golf buddy, who also happened to be very well connected in Cebu.  I figured Jason had access to other private hangars with newer planes.

It would turn out that I had heard wrong.  Nicolas had said Jessop, not Jason.

Nicolas tried to arrange for the charter of the Piper Seneca.  Among AviaTours' fleet of small planes, it was the most comfortable.  But the Seneca had already been booked for August 18.  Jessop offered the use of the Beechcraft Baron instead.  Nicolas sent the details to Michael who, instead of forwarding Nicolas' message to his assistant, gave verbal instructions to book the Baron.

Nicolas turned up at AviaTours early morning of August 18.  The Baron was there, but the rest of his party wasn't, and the staff didn't seem to be aware of any charter.  He phoned Michael to inquire about their whereabouts.  They were at the hangar next door.  Apparently, Michael's assistant had booked the wrong Baron.  Nicolas phoned Jessop to apologize for the mix-up, then hurried over to the next hangar.

Rosan and I were in Zambales, visiting old friends, the artists, Plet Bolipata and Elmer Borlongon.  It was almost four o'clock and the yoga instructor was late.  He was supposed to be there at three.  When he finally showed up, I took that as my cue to leave.  I had skinned my knee two nights before on too much rum and too high heels and was in no condition to do yoga.

I busied myself with various tasks that took me upstairs to our sleeping quarters on the mezzanine, back downstairs, then back up again.  I was trying to fight off the urge to nap.  I took photos of Plet's studio, went out for a smoke, charged my camera, charged my phone, got some water from the kitchen...

On one of my trips up the stairs, a butterfly flew up to the balcony rather clumsily and then settled on the floor.  By the way it flapped its wings, I knew it wasn't going anywhere else.  

I had never seen such a butterfly before.  It was a very vivid pink and black and matched the colorful Bolipata-Borlongon home perfectly.  I thought it curious that it had found the most fitting place to die.

But butterflies inside houses always freaked me out.  Not that I had seen too many of them.  This was only the second - that I recall, at least.  The first one was a white one that appeared inside my grandmother's house while everyone was out for the traditional Christmas Midnight Mass.

Having given up religion when I was 18, typically, I skipped the Mass and stayed in.  Being alone at midnight in a bolted-up old house in the province was already unnerving on its own.  The unexplained presence of a butterfly at midnight made it even doubly so, especially since my grandfather had passed away that year.  I recalled an old wives' tale...  Something about butterflies and the souls of the dead.

Refusing to be scared into believing in superstition, I steeled my nerves and did what every rational non-believer (and possible psychopath) would do.  I killed it.

My mother and grandmother tried to feign indignation when I told them about it (- "That might have been Lolo!"), but none of us are particularly superstitious so I don't think they were really upset.  I think they were just shocked that I whacked a harmless butterfly to death.

So I ignored the pink and black butterfly dying on the floor in that house in Zambales, but my thoughts flew to Nicolas.  I hadn't heard from him the whole day.  Which was a good thing, I supposed.  I had learned my lesson from Gary Gnu, after all.  "No gnus is good gnus."

(Internet file photo.)

I drifted off to sleep.

I was awoken by the sound of voices outside. Yoga was over.  I checked my phone.  5:30 PM.  That was a long yoga session.  I shook myself awake and joined the others outside.

Later on, when I had to go back upstairs for something I had forgotten, I called out to Plet about the butterfly on the balcony.  She yelled back at me, "That's my dad!  He's visiting me!"  She rushed upstairs to have a look and then called for her husband to come over.  That's when I finally took a photo of the now-dead butterfly.

After dinner, while we were sitting around chatting, Rosan was fiddling with her phone.  She was tweeting.  Plet and I made faces at each other when she'd interrupt our conversation with her news feeds. 

"Secretary Jesse Robredo in plane crash," she announced.  "It doesn't say that he died, so I guess they're still looking for him, no?"

We made jokes about Rosan being a CNN ticker tape news broadcast.

"Sir," Nicolas' office manager called his attention.

Nicolas had gotten back to Cebu on Monday night and was back at work earlier than scheduled because one of their party had an emergency at home.  Instead of rescheduling the Baron to take them back, they had all returned to Cebu on board Michael's boat.

"What is it, Abner?"

"Your friend died."

"What?!"

"The pilot.  Jess Bahinting.  He was the one flying Secretary Robredo."

(Read news report here.)

***

I forget now how we know Jessop.  He must have been introduced to us by guests at the resort.  All I know is that, every time we needed a plane, we'd call AviaTours, Jessop's charter company.  The only times we ever chartered from other companies was when we needed bigger planes.  Eventually, even the other resort owners on the island were using AviaTours' planes for their guests' charters.

If you've ever been on a private plane to fly in or out of Siargao, chances are that it was one of Jess Bahinting's planes.

I have been in and out of small planes since 1993.  I've gotten so used to turbulence that it takes an unusual amount of rattling to trouble me.  Of course, every time I've gotten into one, just as every time I've gotten onto a ferry, there's always been that niggling voice at the back of my head, whispering that it might be the last plane or ferry ride I ever take.  But  I certainly can't have fear of the what-ifs rule my life.  I've always believed that when my time is up, it's up and that death will find me, whether I'm on a plane or at sea or back on terra firma, tucked safely in my bed.

A few weeks ago, I got back home after a weekend of partying with some of my favorite people on the planet, when I became aware of that agonizing desire to freeze that moment in time.  The very thought of any one of them disappearing from my life was unbearable.  It made me think of all the other people I love...  Pat and Joel in New York, Alan and Tricia in California, Sandy and Marmie running around offices in Manila...  So many people who occupy spaces in my heart.  I may not see them or speak to them as often as I would like, but just knowing that they are somewhere in the world makes my world complete.  How could I hold on to every one of them?  My own parents' lives revolve around hospital visits, wakes and funerals.  One by one, they've watched their loved ones disappear.

The details of the past events have not been lost on me.  The timing of everything.  Had one thing been different - the date of Secretary Robredo's charter, had it been been scheduled one day later, it would have been Nicolas on that plane that day.  The butterfly was a wink from the universe, a reminder that it could have taken away the person that I love the most, but it didn't.  Not yet.

It's fucking creepy, the reminders the universe sends us about our mortality.  Time and time again, to keep my hubris in check, I get the message - loud and clear - that I know nothing and that I control nothing.

ISN'T THAT OBVIOUS ALREADY???!

I would be afraid, if it didn't make me so damned angry.

35...

... drunken miseed calls from the same number from 12:25 AM to 2:22 AM.  I would be flattered if it weren't a bit creepy.

He said his phone was on automatic redial.

It's a good thing I keep my mobile phone on silent when I'm trying to sleep.

Losing It

As the cab was nearing the gym, I pulled out my wallet.  I hadn't seen it the whole weekend, not after a Friday night I can barely remember.

I woke up Saturday morning to find the contents of my bag scattered in odd places around my room.  I arrived at my friend's birthday party close to midnight the night before and I was told that I had to catch up.  So catch up I did.  I remember ordering at least six double Stolis on the rocks, but I barely remember leaving the bar and have absolutely no recollection of anything that happened after that.  (Drunken texts and Facebook posts reveal that I was home after 5 AM.)

I had put off tidying my room since The Night of Too Many Red Horses a week earlier.  Not only because I am lazy, but because I didn't want to confirm what I suspected was true.  That I had lost three of my favorite silver rings that night.

Since I was not in any condition to go anywhere during the weekend, I slowly started putting things in their proper places.  By Sunday evening, I found my floor.  By Monday afternoon, I found my wallet (- it was by the window sill).  But my silver rings were nowhere to be found.

Which brings us to yesterday's cab ride.

As I opened my wallet to pay the driver, I found - nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  Well, my cards were there, and I had some coins in the pocket, but there wasn't a single bill.  Not a crumpled hundred, or even a twenty.  I couldn't believe it.  I had never NOT had a single note in there.

I apologized profusely to the driver, asked him to take me to a bank where I could withdraw money and then back to the gym, where I paid him well.

I hate these blackouts!  How the hell did I get home last Friday night?!  I don't mind so much the memory loss because there are things that I've been told I've done that I am so relieved I cannot remember, but it's the losing stuff.  I'm not sure that I lost any money that night, especially since I do not know how much I had in the first place.  It's my silver rings.  The diamond earrings my mom gave me.  The compact Nicolas' mom bought for me last Christmas.  And too many other things that have gone missing along the way.  (Including my dignity, it has been said.)

Sigh.

Truthfully, I don't really care.  I mean, I'm not really distressed over losing all those things.  For some reason, I still think they'll turn up.  Somewhere.  Eventually.

Or maybe I've just mastered the art of detachment and I am well on my way to enlightenment.

Right.

Okay, I think I just don't like finding my wallet empty.

So, Evil Twins (Misses Emily The Strange and Bianca Jaeger), could we please just keep it together enough to get home safely and leave enough cash in the wallet for me to, at least, get to where I need to the next day, even if it's to a bank to get more cash?

Thank you.

And could you please TRY not to forget this?!!! 

Owing To A Sleepless Night...

... and a whole lot of muscle pain, today has been postponed for tomorrow.

As you were, people.

<dialling masseuse>

What's the rush?

The most urgent thing on my to-do list isn't due till Monday and it reads:  "Buy ice cream."

IT'S FOR LUNCH WITH MY UNCLE.

And, yes, I fully intend to have lunch.

***

Ohmigosh, this is too precious not to share.  Especially since I just downloaded FreeCell onto my iPhone and was playing a game while waiting for the masseuse.