wide awake and dreaming : new look, same madness

People pigeonholed me as technical. I do not really know what they mean by that – introvert with bipolar tendencies or possessing great skills in wielding a screwdriver? It escapes me how I came to be labeled as such but one thing is sure, they expect me to fix the WIFI, troubleshoot laptops, set-up emails on their Outlook and smartphones, and troubleshoot fax/printer and even setup hi-def TV.

I often scratch my head in wonderment. At first I was amused, greatly so, then the amusement grew into slight irritation and now I feel like the joke is on me. Imagine big burly men asking me to fix the printer. Anyone who can understand printed form should be able to follow software installation. It’s not rocket science. It won’t surprise me if I get assigned the leaking faucet in the toilet.

Seriously, I think these people are just plain lazy. Too lazy (and maybe duped) they call someone who can operate an iphone, a BB and Mac (both the gadget and the makeup), the Technical Manager. It is just a rung lower than the Chief Technology Officer. Don’t even get me started on the qualifications to be a CTO. If you like Facebook a lot, good at screen mockups but not at writing the scripts, proficient with Photoshop, excellent at copy-paste and you think a pretty interface can make up for a very lousy code base, then you are welcome to apply. Especially if you think drawing up the software requirement document is a great barrier to meeting your project’s deadline and that a project plan is a Gantt chart. Great salary and benefits package (all expense-paid travel with your partner, bonus, and gadgets) await the successful candidate.

Now, I pretend to not know because seriously, I do not need accolades to validate my effectiveness at work. I am a project manager for software development, not a technician.

I get mistaken for a Chinese. A whole lot. This is not something that I am ashamed of since my great grandfather on my mother’s side was from mainland China. Oh sure, I would rather be mistaken for an Italian since my grandfather on my father’s side was from Genoa. Other nationalities have to double guess – you are Korean or Japanese, but Filipinos, never. They know me, even from a distance. The hawkers on the street would wave and offer their wares. The hairdressers would call me ‘gang’ (shortened form of ‘palanga’ or dear in English) and press their business cards in my unwilling hands. “I just got a rebond and no, I do not want my hair chopped off,” remain thoughts and never get vocalized when I see their earnest faces.

But then again, the local Chinese folks would talk to me in Cantonese. A little boy of 4, followed me while I was window shopping after I smiled at him. He thought I could be his friend and perhaps play with his new toy car. The father has to explain to him that “No, the lady cannot speak Chinese.” Poor little boy, the disappointment lined his face when he waved goodbye.

My work in global remittance has taken me to see Filipinos abroad. It is not always a happy sight. One thing that disturbs me a lot are the domestic helpers clustered in the alleys of Hong Kong. They would put on discarded cardboard boxes as mats and chat and eat there with their friends. It evokes in me a certain sadness. I wish all Filipinas are like my co-workers who are empowered and speak English and sashay in their fancy stilettos. I see Filipinas working at restaurants, entertainers who rock the bars and even the Filipinas in the meat trade. Of course, it shames me, every single time to see a Filipina (or a Filipino transgender) morphed into a boa, wrapped all over an old, balding Caucasian.

It’s not my business to judge but I fear being stereotyped. Is it my pride? It is more of an inconvenience. Nobody wants to be taken for a whore every time you go out in an LBD and a little mascara.

I was attending a Filipino Festival in San Pedro. We were promoting a payment card program with remittance from US to PH. Everyone spoke English with the distinct Californian accent and lingo. I was amazed to learn that some were there for less than a year and yet they have assimilated this new language rather quickly. The uh-uh, yeah, oh yeah? and some gonna and wanna thrown into the blend for the desired effect.

It was very unfortunate of me to ask a Filipino-looking family, “Hi! Are you Filipinos?” The quick and affronted response was, “No, we are Americans. We are permanent residents. Green card holders kami!” I was really shocked. And I thought that, that one family was just snobbish but then everyone was saying the same thing. It seemed to me that day, that everyone was intent on denying their being Filipinos. That made me angry.

When it was time to go, everyone was asking me if I am staying in the US for good. I told them that no, I am going home to my family in the Philippines. My children and husband are pining for me and I cannot wait to go back where it’s warm and the mangoes are abundant. To that I get curious silent responses, sometimes, a bewildered smile. But always the sad, faraway look of longing. And I forgave them right then and there.

Do you ever bother to read the care instructions for your clothes? I do but only for those items that I want to keep in my possession a little while longer than the expected life span.

My yaya presses my suits and they can stand and walk on their own, carry out a mission straight to the oval office and shake hands with President Obama. She is that good. Even if an item says dry clean only, she’ll hand wash it gently, allow to drip-dry and scoffs at the price of dry-cleaning. My brassieres get a similar treatment. Because by jove, the cups should never be crushed or folded otherwise, I would go out looking like a walking plank.

I know, I am so dependent on my yaya for a lot of things but when I travel, I get to be independent again. Cook my own meals and do my laundry. And that’s when little disasters happen.

After a week of frantic meetings in Dubai, I head to our HK office where luckily, the staffs are housed in serviced apartments. I prefer that to staying in hotels because at least I could do my laundry and cook food that I want and not be tempted everyday to over-eat at the breakfast buffet of the hotel. Anyway, all my suits need to be laundered. I got in at around 11 in the evening and rushed to get my clothes ready for the next work week so I popped them all in the washer/dryer.

I know the labels said DRY CLEAN ONLY. I was playing Russian roulette with the washer and the washer won. The jackets shrunk and are crumpled beyond recognition. I spent the entire afternoon Sunday pressing them to no avail.

At least, no one, I know died from wearing wrinkly clothes.

It’s Sunday and it’s the day before the Chinese New Year. But it is a workday for us, just like any other days. I have done my laundry. Suits that said dry clean only and all woolens are now rumbling in the wash. It’s cold, 10 degrees and I cannot wait for the laundry to open. I won’t have anything to wear tomorrow. My undies are drip-drying in the bathroom. I have a nice base for the French onion soup ready on the stove; just waiting for the cheese and bread. I can run downstairs to get some. Downstairs being a mall.

I am looking at the contract. It’s 40 pages long and I am distracted by the view on my left – the ever gloomy view of Victoria Harbour. It’s all gray and dull and the few boats that come and go are all gray and dull. My life is dull when I am not with my family. It must be that mental disposition that colored the rest of my perception.

I was shaken by the news that some couple that I know is on trial separation. They seem to have the perfect life – beautiful daughters, dogs, a big dream house, multi-million business and they are quite famous. There were days that I envy them but normally I don’t. I can’t imagine being a public figure and you know publish the daily ins and outs of my supposedly private family life. But I enjoy reading about them and living vicariously through them.

It got me to thinking about divorce and the western culture.

In the PH, divorce is not an option. You can opt for an annulment but it is a tedious and very expensive process. And the courts are not very trigger happy with declaring a union null and void. It has its up and down side. The down side is, if a woman gets beaten by her husband, she can get her husband jailed but severing their ties, will be an entirely different process. I’m purely speaking from the female perspective because that is the limit of my experience. I have not grown balls ever since. Also, if you do not get the emotional satisfaction, that sublime feeling called bliss from the marriage it will be difficult to quantify that to the judges.

On the one hand, not having that quick exit clause, forces everyone to work at their marriage. We’ve all heard and read it everywhere – marriage needs a lot of work. Sure, it sounds easy but how and what to work on is elusive as the end goal – marital bliss. This however, is what I consider the upside.

When couples are conditioned that exit is not an option, then they are more motivated to make their living arrangement pleasant for all parties. Unless, you are a sadomasochist and you thrive on chaos. Plus you have to think of the children. I have done my fair bit of share of being a single parent – when the hub is on foreign lands for months on end and even with 2 nannies to help, it is just difficult. Consider the psychological impact of separation on the kids. I cannot even go there without going all emotional. My parents separated when I was in my 20s and I was devastated. I do not think I can ever get over it.

It is not easy, as I have said but it can be worth the effort. This is me, tongue in cheek and inviting my own marriage to be jinxed.

Nine hours of free time and I spent it watching movies. Crossing time zones is like FOREX, you gain hours and lose hours depending on your direction. Most times, I feel like I got cheated of my hours. To some people, business travel seems so exciting. They never know that all we, travelers see are the insides of airports, taxis and hotels. Am not really complaining, don’t get me wrong. It has its perks. Take for example, last Monday the team had drinks at NEOS, located in Dubai’s The Residences. It affords us the view of Khalifa Al Arab. The stacks of metal rounds that decorate the place gave it its unworldly appeal. It seems like am in some sci-fi movie. Could be the décor or the one too many cocktails combined with jet lag.

As usual, I was too lazy to fish my camera out from my purse.