Sunday, August 7, 2011

Brown Envelope

While thumb twiddling in the elevator hoping that the day would end soon (it wouldn't, it was just 9 am), who should come in when the elevator doors opened but.... The Daw! The Daw was visibly frantic, because she had to take a second look at my smirking face before she recognized me. Before she could make up some excuse (ie, "Errr, I am just here for my annual colonoscopy"), I immediately pointed out: "Whattup, The Daw, is that.... a brown envelope full of requirements you're carrying?!?"

Brown envelopes rule, because they can carry papers and stuff, but they are also a status of transit. Ooooh, pretentious. In my wilderness year back in 2006 when I've just passed the med boards and was trying to make some money in moonlighting I realized that I felt like a total aplikante as I rode jeepney rides after jeepney rides going from one clinic or hospital to the next for a fucking raket carrying, what else, a brown envelope.

The wilderness year, for all the sense of streamlessness it has brought, still had its blessings and... craptastic joy. For instance, I was thankful for that gig in the clinic in Enchanted Kingdom. Well not really, it bored the crap out of me. Or maybe it was still some sort of a blessing, because I got to read a boatload of books and comicbooks while sitting in the clinic waiting for someone to be wheeled in after getting dizzy from Space Shuttle (a.k.a. Post-Ride Vertigo, what the hell right). In what was supposedly the only exciting moment the friend (who was also a doctor) of a patient who got a "Post-Ride Vertigo" said:

"Baka nag-aarrhythmia na sya!!!!!"

She wasn't having an arrhythmia. She was just having.... a post-ride vertigo.

The Greater Depths

In the midst of all this bitterness over the tragedy that our lives have turned into (exaggerated of course, we don't want to sound ungrateful for our blessings but we must keep up a veneer of whinified distress), Smoketh and I have sighed that truly we wish we were born with a silver spoon rammed down our throats. Of course Smoketh herself was born with a silver spoon and 6 bronze kanyons, but we are referring to those people who were born with a silver spoon, went to college, took up medicine, got married, went places, and still, after all those years, still have the fucking silver spoons epoxied to their ngala-ngalas. Truly it takes a whole lot of luck, intelligence, and great decision-making skills to maintain that thing you could perpetually suck on.

"Yayaman kaya tayo," Smoketh inquired as she guzzled in an extremely saccharine alcoholic drink.
"Rest assured that if I get rich, I will buy you.... a tub of green tea ice cream."

A common friend immediately popped in our heads. We realized that he is the perfect example of being born with a silver spoon and maintained it through sheer intelligence and more silver spoons.
"He does not only have a silver spoon," Smoketh enthused. "He also has all sorts of silverware."
"And soup," I said.
"And salad, bread and butter, salmon sushi, five main courses, palate cleansers, desserts," Smoketh whined.
"And post-dessert coffee, post-coffee mints, lur, post-lur mints, and crystal water," I said with finality.

See if you choose to you can always sink yourself further into the greater depths of depression.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Bula

A few weeks ago my parents visited me and brought me dinner. Home cooked meals are precious and always a welcome change from the Jollibee/Wow Ulam/COOP trifecta, more so in this era of abject poverty. Precious does not even cut it, GOLDEN is more like it. I ate the longganisa with rice from the disposable container which I threw out afterwards, but kept the Tupperware from which I slurped ginisang monggo. Having no ref or microwave I slurped half of the ginisang monggo cold and kept the rest. Everything was fun and golly gee.
          Except a few days ago, when what should I discover, among the rubble of my table, covered amongst totally unrelated things (books, pens, X-Files DVD, chemo drugs, wood shavings, Smurfs Happy Meal action figure)…. but The Tupperware containing the half-eaten monggo. I then remembered, it has been two weeks. Either the seal is fantastic, or I have NPCA.
          With much trepidation I opened the damn cover and discovered…. froth. Occupying the entire fucking Tupperware. The smell is of course horrendous. I immediately threw the crap out and swished swished swished the Tupperware in tap water. Fantastically the smell and the bubbles sort of disappeared… even without soaping! So I immediately put the cover back on. And threw the damn thing back amongst the books, pens, X-Files DVD, chemo drugs, wood shavings, and Smurfs Happy Meal action figure.
            Ibabad mo yan sa kumukulong tubig for one day, Smoketh and Frichmond have succinctly admonished.
           Sometimes I wish I were a better person. Because while other blogs talk about touching patient encounters and such I talk about... fucking anaerobic craptastic bula.