A History of Scars

I need to change my work schedule. Splitting up my two days off to make up for the lack of bodies in the office is working me to the last limb and turning my brain into slush. I'm tired of the cups of coffee, power bars and cigarette breaks that fuel me throughout the day. And when you don't have two days off in a row, you never really feel like you have a day off. You sleep in and spend the rest of the day running errands and don't have any real time for yourself. I can't think straight and my back hurts. I should see a chiropractor.

My co-worker sees a chiropractor for therapy on his neck and a few days ago he was inviting me for a free consultation. He was telling me that after a few sessions he started to feel more energetic and alive. I asked what exactly they do and he described the entire 30 minute session, ending it with, "... and in the end he places his knee on my lower back and applies all his weight on my spine.". My co-worker is about 450 lbs. I wonder if the chiropractor also applies all his weight on a regular sized guy or if he normally just uses his hands for the final procedure. I'm sure that having 160 lbs. of pressure pinned down on my spine will cause more back problems. I don't think I can let someone align my spine by cracking my neck with a quick turn of his hands that could possibly snap my head off. There's some things about chiropractors that I don't trust, but...

When I was still in college in the Philippines, one of my favorite walks was through Session Road which is basically the heart of Baguio City. One thing that always caught my eye was a sign at the window of a gynecologist's office. The sign advertised the services: "Fregnancy Tests, Frenatal Care, Pat Smir". Pat smir? No girl I know is going there. If you can't spell it, you damn sure can't perform it!

After graduation, I managed to break the bone just under my little finger on my right hand. It was too late to put it into a cast so I had to get an operation to have the bone reattached. Cool, my hand won't look deformed and I'll have a functional pinky; The only thing is that for one month, to keep the bone together and aligned while it healed, a thick wire was inserted in my hand. It was about two and a half inches long and about a fourth of an inch protruded out and was exposed. Damn the times I forgot it was there and applied pressure on it to stand up. When it was time to have the wire removed, the doctor just yanked it out without warning with a pair of pliers. So my hand doesn't look deformed but I still wear a deep two inch scar below one of my knuckles.

When I was eight years old, my first time in the Philippines with my family, I managed to have my blood sucked by a bunch of mosquitoes (mosquitoes have an internal radar for fresh blood from America). My mom kept telling me not to scratch but there was one pain in the ass bite on my left leg that was killing me. So I scratced and scratched and the itching turned into temporary pleasure, and eventually an infection, which in turn became a scab that dried and peeled off and became a scar I still wear today.

I have a few scars that seem to be disappearing and will forever leave my body's history of pain. Everyone has at least one chicken pox scar that is still visible. Mine is on my left hand just below my index finger. Its been with me since first grade and is quickly fading away. I also still have a scar from a hot iron. I cooked a portion of my forearm while pressing some slacks and rushing to get to an award ceremony during my senior year in college.

My newest scar is in between my index and middle finger on my right hand. Ever have your moist lips dry over a cigarette butt? Unknowingly the butt sticks to your lips. When you try to pull away the cigarette like normal to exhale, you end up damn near ripping the skin off your lips and the cigarette cherry squeezed between your fingers. Son of a...!

Back to work in less than twelve hours. I try to make the most out of my nights since my days have been scarred by my growing impatience with the people I work with. I hate being the one to carry the load on my shoulders. If some people worked as much as they talk then companies wouldn't have to worry about having to pay overtime.

Time for coffee and a smoke. I'll be careful.

Lion King!


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Sentimental Stuff, Superstition and Sausage

I damn near broke my back yesterday lifting boxes and furniture out of a truck and moving them into storage. My cousin and his girlfriend are moving back to the Bay Area after living in Pasadena for a year. Moving is one of the toughest things to do. You never realize how much you own until you empty out your closets, fill boxes up, and carry everything into a moving van. When you finally leave with high hopes and look at the place which is no longer yours, you can't help but have great memories even for a place you hated.

Girls are better organized when packing but have a hard time throwing away the things they know they no longer need. Everything has a sentimental value even though its kept in an old box tucked away in a closet only to be rediscovered the next time they move. And even if its something that is useless and never comes out ot the box, we get in trouble for suggesting it go in the dumpsters instead of taking up space. I know there are things that we all own and we dread the possibility that it will forever be lost when we move.

There are only two things that I own and use everyday that I cannot live without. They are replaceable but I refuse to use anything else or buy new ones. The first is a Zippo lighter which I've had for seven years. There is nothing special about it; it wasn't passed down from one family member to another and there is nothing printed or engraved on it. I just feel funny smoking a cigarette that wasn't lit with that lighter. I know its weird; I think cigarettes taste different without it. The lighter has its own personality. All the scratches were created by its owner. It has followed me through college, to every bar that I've gone to, and into the hands of strangers itching for their fix of nicotine.

The second thing I can't live without is a ballpen which I've had since high school. It's a simple six dollar pen and for years I've been buying refills for it. My hands can't properly hold any different pen and my penmanship turns into chicken scratch if I use just anything laying around in the office. The only thing that stops me from replacing this is superstition. I've used this pen in every writing contest I've entered in high school, every test in college and every document I've signed. The days that I'm without my pen and need it, I feel like everything will go downhill and bad luck will come my way.

* * * * *

Just had lunch today with my sis, cousin and his girlfriend. We were supposed to go to our favorite Italian deli but they were closed and on vacation until the 13th. If you're ever in the Willow Glen area in San Jose, check out La Villa and get yourself some ravioli and Italian sausage. We ended up at a place called Amato's which specializes in Philly Cheese Steaks and cheese fries- real heart stopping, artery clogging pleasure. I'm damn sure that La Villa would've been open if I had my pen in my pocket.

3rd of July and Semi-Sweet Dreams

24 hours before the celebration of America's Independence, fireworks lit up the sky. For people in Santa Clara in Northern California, the spectacle of bright lights came early thanks to Great America Theme Park's decision to launch these mini rockets of fire on the 3rd. I don't know the reason behind this, all I know is that this meant that the annual family 4th of July barbecue would be a day earlier. I didn't care though; the entire family was there, the smell of barbecue was non-stop, and the alcohol was kept on the down low as usual from the inevitable raised eyebrows of my cousins' wives. So the 4th of July celebrated on the 3rd of the month came and later ended wth me puking tequila and beer in the parking lot of Molly Magee's Irish Pub, along with all the hotdogs and barbecue I ate.

Plans on the actual day of independence were up in the air and surprisingly I spent it with my fellow Filipino neighbors whom I never speak to except for the occasional "Hey!" when we coincidentally smoke a cigarette at the same time at 2 in the morning. It's been a while since I had to speak straight Tagalog. I'm getting rusty. Mix that with the slurred speech of drunk men and you'll have problems comprehending each other. The night was actually fun but different, and after eight bottles of beer I was ready to go to sleep thinking how I'd get out of bed and make it to work in five hours.

With the celebration of independence and freedom over, we can go back to our ordinary lives that are not free to fulfill our own desires and are dependent on the poor state of the nation with a lousy job market. America doesn't have a job market where you are free to feel fulfilled. Almost everyone I know that has a degree isn't putting it to use only because the economy sees no use. If you have a college degree or formal training in a particular field but your job is not related to it, most likely you're selling something. If you're not selling something, you're a laborer producing something that will be sold. And if you're not producing something that will be sold, you're someone's assistant in an office that provides and sells a service. In the Bay Area, the migration of foreigners is huge. The Philippines produces nurses that are sent to the US; the US produces engineers that are sent to India.

$1.00 = PhP55.84

In the Philippines, America is looked at as the promised land of fast cars, big houses and riches. The value of the dollar has a huge impact on the way the US is viewed. Foreign exchange rates are the most watched set of numbers only after the lottery. A single dollar will go a long way there. A pack of Marlboros in the Philippines would only cost about the equivalent of 50 US cents, or about 4 minutes of work on California's minimum wage. In the US, a pack of cigarettes costs around the equivalent of 275 Philippine pesos, or one day of work for some Filipinos. In the Philippines, 275 pesos is enough for two people to eat at McDonalds, watch a movie, then get coffee. The conversion of dollars to pesos will make you look like a big baller, but in America, everyone has to work hard and make ends meet for their share of milk and honey. Filipinos will never be free in America if they are reliant on conversion rates. Many still convert dollar prices into pesos to justify whether a deal is good or bad. Drinking with my neighbors on the 4th of July, I realized that a lot of these first generation migrating families come out here with nothing but a dream to work and provide for their families only to discover that life here is not as sweet as it appears. For them, being in America is a luxurious gift. Soon the gift grows old, the magic fades away and necessity overshadows luxury; then they feel like average society steps on them and eventually feel like they failed their own children simply because "Mary's parents bought her one, why can't you?!". We are free to be overwhelmed by a dream. For most of us the dream stops when the real America pours a glass of cold water on our heads and wakes us up. It's a wet dream and you find the gratification existed as long as you kept your eyes closed.

24 hours ago fireworks should have lit up the sky. I guess there's not much to celebrate in the land of the free. It's one day in America where most of us get drunk to forget our problems.