Dateline Baguio City.
Being a research assistant (read: pack animal) for my significant other is not as hard or as boring as it may look.
Everyday I get to lug half a ton of survey forms as if they were my collective cross, new-made just for me. I lug my cross up a winding cement path from the inside of some rich man's hidey-hole called Lexberville (hmmph. must be a Luthorcorp subsidiary. Damn Lex. He's as egotistical as me) until I hit the main gate. From there, I wait for a passing cab to take me into town, specifically to Session Road. After making minor oikos-related transactions, I wend my way to Teacher's Camp.
At all these times I am with Honey, who, upon our arrival at Teacher's Camp, will speak with the apparent leader of the youth group we wish to study. She will hand him the forms. Half an hour later, she will get them back, unfilled, and promise to return the next day. Y'know. So that the delegates can have done with their effing sportsfest or whatever it is important that's occupying their precious kiddie time, and finally fill out the effing forms.
I am a peaceful man, described by some as taking after Mohandas Gandhi in submissiveness, but not in problem-solving. Right now Mohandas wants to wring the delegation leader's scrawny widdle high school neck.
Not Your Laughing Buddha
Dateline: Teacher's Camp, Baguio City.
Dex the Pack Animal has finally transformed into Mohandas the Hopeful-if-not-Cranky Research Assistant. As predicted, I have forgone the strangulation of the convention head. Instead, I am taking my ire out on certain people whose mayhaps necessary machinations have put me, me, in a mood to scowl.
I should not be scowling and snapping at everything that comes hither. Not when --
- I've got my best girl and sandwiches within easy reach
- I'm surrounded by a swirling mass of the cream --at least to the eyes of their handlers and sponsors-- of Philippine pre-collegiate womanity.
Well, okay, there're a bunch of, er, juicy males too, but I will leave them to the tender affections of the females and the local gay community.
See, my sister (let's call her Indira) SMSes me-- informing me that a Very Important Job Interview cannot take place (Friday afternoon in Manila) without my warm, ambulatory Baguio-bound corpus. You will note that I did not like Indira's use of words.
[Kuya] Ur xpected here by 2mrw morning
Ur intrvw's in d aftrnun. Dnt put it off 4anything.
...& bliv me, pulling strings at d [company]
isnt a piece of cake. [the Maid] has the details.
"Pulling strings" at "the Company" is "not a piece of cake?" Molasses! As if my sister had personal knowledge of the schmoozing my aunt had to do to help get me that interview. (And why on Earth does my aunt have to schmooze to help get me employed?) If Indira wanted to impress upon me the importance of my returning early, she could have just cut the message short after "Don't put it off for anything!"
A coupla hours after I read the message and stewed over it, one of my harpies calls me up and nags me about showing up early. Happens. And normally, I'd be able to keep my cool, smiling my beatific smile, as I lay the problem at Sri Krsna-Caitanya's lotus feet. But I was in the middle of processing survey forms and diagnosing a faulty laptop--multitasking--when I was made to listen to my harpy's unnecessary and wearying exhortations. I became a very annoyed Roman Catholic prelate-- old, utterly self-righteous, fat, dismissive, quick to dish out verbal abuse. The kind you still find --by some accounts-- at the UST.
Honey figuratively rapped my knuckles with the Sword of Awakening for the shameful outburst, returning me to myself. I only hope I am more composed the next time I am forced to work through more tiresome things when I'm caught multitasking.