Hunting Jobs and Men.

Job hunting is no different than dating.

Stage One

Job Hunt (JH): This is where you meet your potential employers. It's usually a 'casual' chat about yourself and they give you a brief background on their company. The clientele, the number of employees, and how fun the company can be. In short, you both are trying to seem appealing to the other party.

The Date (TD): This is where you meet your potential partner. It's usually a CASUAL chat about yourself and he/she will give you a brief (or not, depending on how nervous or how much alcohol has been consumed) background about themselves. It's usually about their families, their jobs and how fun they are outside of their jobs. In short, you both are trying really hard to seem fuckable to the other person.

Stage Two

JH: Congratulations, they might like you. This is where it gets slightly more intense. You are asked to talk more in depth about yourself. What you want. What are your expectations. What you can provide for the company. They might even sum you up and  put a value on you and how much you are worth to the company.

They tell you things you want to hear. They tell you they like your work, and you have the potential. They may even lead you on occasionally by asking questions like "So when can you start?" and saying things like "You're just what we're looking for".

You will never be able to read how true all this is.

TD: Congratulations, he/she might actually like you. Seeing that the course of dating has to be prolonged compared to an interview, stage two probably begins after 5-6 dates where things begin to get intense. You are asked to talk more in depth about the 'relationship'. Where is this going? What do you want? What are your expectations? What can you provide for this 'relationship'? He/she might even sum you up and put a value on what you're worth in terms of investing time and energy in this 'relationship'.

He/she will tell you things you want to hear. He/she will say they like you, and they see this going somewhere. He/she might even lead you on occasionally by making faux statements that involves future plans and how you are exactly what he/she is looking for.

It is almost impossible to read how true all of this is.

Stage Three

JH: The waiting game. You wait for them to call you. You constantly check your email for a call back. You start to go insane.

TD: The waiting game. You wait for him/her to call you. You constantly check your phone for a text or a phone call. If you're pathetic enough, an email might even make your day. You start to go insane. You and whoever's crazy enough to stick around to listen.

Stage Four

JH: A call? You got the job. Congratulations. No? Game over, keep calm and carry on.

TD: A call? He's a gem. You stupid lucky bitch. No? Asshole.

The Big Bang

A month back, as I was making room for more closet space, I stumbled upon a notebook that dated way back to 2001. Seeing the prepubescent cover of this notebook not only made me wonder what the hell I was thinking when I bought it, but it instantly brought back memories too. I flipped through the pages. What started off with law cases and legislative notes soon turned into a three way note passing conversation between two girlfriends and I. Hence, this is why I am not a lawyer.

I came across a section that was then depressing, but now rather amusing. I was going through a bad, probably the worst break up and my two girlfriends were consoling me. I had no recollection whatsoever of the events that happened in the notebook. I have mastered the art of blocking despairing memories ever since my parents' divorce. That, or he fed me so many lies that I was too full and had no choice but to vomit it all out of my system. But what I do remember distinctly is how I felt at the time. 

This past weekend, I managed to meet up with one of these girlfriends of mine for dinner and we ended up talking in her apartment till 4am. 

The subject of the notebook was raised, naturally. We began juxtaposing our lives; then and now. Problems that were so godly and worldly at the time seems so minute now.

The subject of my juvenile breakup too was raised, naturally. We laughed about it. Then like any woman, we began dissecting it. Verdict? Let's just say we've calmed a fuck load since we were 20.

You see, we all go through heartbreaks. But, you will always have that ONE person who will break your heart so bad you feel like dying and you feel like you will never recover from it. Well yeah, of course, you're dead. 

You will feel like you will never find someone that perfect for you and there's no one out there who can ever make you that happy again.

You will cry for days, or even weeks. If you're me, you just stop eating. Or if you're Bridget Jones you just won't stop eating. 

Every damn thing would remind you of him/her. Even a frying pan. And all of a sudden, all the song writers in the world are your best friends because they share your pain... because every fucking song is ABOUT you. And every time you see a couple, you can feel the loathe just breeding and manifesting in you. It might even take you months to recover. But we all have been there. That dark, dark, ugly place.

But once you overcome that, every other hurdle or heartbreak that comes your way will just seem like a mere fart compared to what you went through. Of course you're not made of stone, you will still bawl your eyes out, you will question yourself, you will still wallow in self pity. You will feel everything you did before, but on a much smaller scale. However, just like before, you can and will pick yourself up and you can and will move on. 

You may even be surprised that it might only take you half the time than it did before. 

How Would You Tag Yourself?

When I'm bored waiting on long lines at Forever 21, and I must say that's quite often, I divert my attention from the array of racks stacked with clothes, shoes, and accessories placed conveniently along the path on where you would queue. What started of as hope that my impatient glares might send telepathic waves to speed these people up turned into an entertaining habit of people watching.

You see, Forever 21 sells clothes catered to females (and now males, too) ranging from teeny bopper to 'oh Lord, please act your age'. Through my unwarranted human behavior study, I've learned that young  girls are divided into six categories when it comes to their boyfriends (or lovers) buying them clothes.

Bitch Bella
First of we have the Bitch Bellas. They are the kind of girls who believe that the power of the vagina grants them the right to have men buy them gifts. They would traipse around the store picking out whatever they like and want; hands moving as fast as a Shaolin monk executing a kung fu move. But for some reason, when these Bitch Bellas are faced with the cashier with boyfriend by their side, their hands start to look like a Thai masseuse. Gently rubbing the counter tops, caressing the mouth of the tip jar and running their fingers on the gift card holder. Eyes that were once fixated on racks like a sniper are now swaying left and right like a cat with a ball of yarn dangling in front of it.

Fugitive Fifi
Next are the kind of girls who wait with their boyfriends (or lovers) on line and the moment it is their turn, so does she. She turns left. Or right. And walks to the other end of the store - and is no where to be seen and found for the next 4 minutes when the purchase is being transacted. So how do Fugitive Fifis' boyfriends find their girlfriends? If you were an illegal immigrant or a convict where would you go? Yes, the border. So the couple would reunite at the boutique's exit and casually walk on hand in hand. And that is how Fugitive Fifi works.

Pretend Patricia
Third in this category would be the Pretend Pats. It is when a girl pretends she's paying for everything but in fact, she's not. I once saw a young teeny bopper couple waiting on line to pay. Both boyfriend and girlfriend were holding a couple of items. It was a Saturday, also known as 'date night'. And I thought to myself, "Aww how sweet, young love shopping together". When the cashier called out for their turn, the girl walked up first and her boyfriend waited behind. This is where I began to think, "Why wouldn't they just go together?" Since I'm such a professional in Human Behavior studies, I drew up a conclusion, "Maybe it's their second date and they're really serious about this whole going on dutch thing". When she was done, she stood at the corner of the last row of cashiers, to wait for her boyfriend, naturally. And then he steps up and puts down 3 dresses. Honey, I sure hope those dresses are for you. Young boyfriend himself began to feel awkward paying for 3 dresses alone with 20 girls waiting behind, clearly able to view his purchase, starts signaling stealthily for girlfriend from under the counter to come. But at this point, girlfriend isn't going to have 20 witnesses that her boyfriend had to pay the other half of her bill. So she did what she does best. She pretended not to see.

Dancing Darla
They are the most annoying of the lot because they take up the most time. No, they don't break into song and dance out of excitement while their boyfriend pays but they do the bill dance. He'll offer to pay but she will say "Oh no, but I can't!" and takes out her wallet. He then pushes it away and hands the cashier money to which she grabs it and hands hers over. All we need are some palm trees and a hill to roll down in with 20 costume changes and Hindi music in the background. Watching Dancing Darlas' pay dance is as bad as watching Kate Gosselin on Dancing With The Stars. Because at the end of the day, the boyfriend always pays. The boyfriend knows it, the girlfriend knows it, the cashier knew it and heck, all 20 of us behind you knew it too. So save the drama for Jersey Shore.

Comedian Connie
Ever farted in a room full of people and say "Wow the cafeteria sure does serve bad cheese!" Some people crack jokes to avoid awkward situations. So do the Comedian Connies. They start telling jokes and teasing their boyfriends, trying their best to make the cashier laugh or smile in hope that the cashier would not notice that the credit card she's accepting is from her boyfriend and not her. I've seen enough of these to know that no one really gives a shit. The cashiers either ignore them thinking it's a private conversation or gives a polite smile. Which is why it's best to be a

Smooth Sue
They are the kind who just play it cool and doesn't give a rats ass. But say thank you to their boyfriends after. Verbal or action, I gotta look in the bag.


Don't get me wrong, the fact that these girls are doing any of the above is because they have a conscience. Be it out of shame or guilt, it's great to know that girls are not out there feasting on the idea that men should always pay. Unless of course, you're a Bitch Bella.

BAnD aID(EA)

Apart from watching "The Real Housewives of New York City/Orange County/New Jersey", I have another bad habit - and that is picking my zits. Gross, I know, but I hate bumps on my face and somewhere in my delusional mind, I think by popping it, it'll magically disappear - like all the chocolate around the house. However, I've had a pretty stubborn one for the past month. It hid itself so well that I gave up and didn't bother touching it for a month. However, 4 days ago, it grew weak and l I had it wrapped around my (soaped, washed, clean) fingers - with a piece of tissue paper of course. It was such a stubborn zit that I couldn't get it all out in a day. Results? My cheek is now officially red, angry, swollen and raw from this bacteria bump. 


This all happened on Friday and I thought it would be better by Monday when I have to face the world outside of Facebook. Didn't happen. And my anxiety for it to heal quicker by applying creams just dried my skin up more. So, not only is it red, angry, swollen and raw, feel free to add flaky to that shit list. 


I woke up Monday morning with two options. Skip classes or go for plastic surgery. I wasn't allowed either, so I came up with a brilliant idea. I found clear square mini band aids in the cabinet and decided to apply cream and cover it up to save my classmates from the horror that is my face while 'treating' it at the same time. The only reason why I didn't mind doing this was because this volcano was situated on the inner side of my left cheek, so my hair would be able to conceal it nicely if I walked with my head tilted slightly to the right like a retard.


Here's the problem. As I was walking in to school, the wind started billowing gently like I'm auditioning for the role of Asian Pocahontas. Because I was walking against the wind, my face was exposed and my retard walk failed. My patch has seen daylight! I started walking like a new kind of retard. The 'paranoid on LSD' kind by lifting the folder all the way up my face like if I can't see them, they can't see me.


I kept telling myself that I only have two classes today and to just get by and leave. Doesn't sound too difficult, now does it? Wrong. The fire alarm went off while I was waiting for my second class. Ignoring it crossed my mind -high possibility that it is only a fire drill. As I see kids scampering off toward the exit, I felt compelled to drag my feet and face out the door.


So there I was, standing in the middle of a fucking field with the WHOLE school. Of ALL days. All I wanted was to get through the day with just two classes by camouflaging a patch on my face with a walk I so carefully crafted.


Thanks Murphy. Look, I'm sorry I stole your boyfriend. I guess we're even now.

Say What?

It was c.1995 BTA (Before Tits & Ass) when I was fighting that awkward prepubescent stage. My idea of an outfit worthy to the public eye is baggy jeans big enough to fit a European man and my father's T-shirt, and chunky sneakers like I play for the NBA. I was a girl who looked like a boy trying to look like a girl in boy's clothes. I guess I had so much lesbian potential in such outfits that my mom advised me to wear more fitting clothes. She said I'm still young and thin, so I can afford to flaunt that youth because once I give birth to children and my body is too weak to fight gravity, I will not have that opportunity anymore. I bet she regretted giving me that advise because c.2000 ATA (After Tits & Ass), all I ever heard out of her mouth were
Inappropriate.
Cover up.
Are you seriously wearing that?
Go back up and change.
You're not leaving the house in that
I didn't raise you to look like a whore.

I made the last one up but I bet she thought it.

Mothers, always telling their daughters not to date until they are done with school. Focus on your studies, don't get distracted by boys. But of course, raging hormones vs. mother's wrath. There's no need to pick a winner here. So why do you think daughters end up sneaking around behind their mothers back? To avoid being yelled at and nagged at. Plus, we love the drama that comes with it. They instilled so much fear when it comes to dating during your teens, that you find it insanely annoying when you're 25 and she's bugging you to find a boyfriend to get married. Listen, if your grandmaternal clock is ticking, take the fucking batteries out. You didn't see me up in your face when you threw menopausal tantrums.

That being said, that doesn't mean mothers don't give good advice. My legs and armpits are free from natural fur.

We, The Confused Creatures.

I use the term "I want it, but I don't want it" quite heavily and every time I use it, I receive stares. Stares that say "What the hell's your point?!" But really, it's not like you've never experienced it before. It's a sort of confusing and indescribable emotion. Like your period. You don't want it because it is inconvenient in so many ways, but when you're late, you behave like someone died.

You know how malls have these model agency kiosks that are supposedly looking for potential talent? We know for a fact that these scouts are nothing but scavengers. They make you sign up but you have to pay in order to get gigs or 'training' to be more model-esque to raise your chances to get picked for gigs. Here's the thing. I know what their deal is, and I try to avoid eye contact when I'm within the vicinity. But when they don't approach me, I'm thinking "This is fucking insulting! Why? Are you calling me ugly? Who do you think you are? Am I not good enough for your pathetic establishment? What?!"

Then you walk into a designer store, where the left shoe is $350 and the right shoe is another $350, and skins of dead Italian cows cost $1500. I'm not hating on designer labels, I'm just bitchy because I can't afford. So I walk into these stores to smell expensive, touch luxury and look at what my life is missing out on. (Is it just me or do you find closed glass entrance doors intimidating?) So, I walk in with the intention to window shop and when the sales person comes up to assist me, I feel the pressure, the guilt and the poverty. I pray they don't come up to me and ask "What are you looking for?" Because I don't like questions I have no answers to. So, I avoid eye contact... again. But then, when there's no one in the shop and 5 salespersons decide that rearranging bags and folding scarves are more interesting than assisting me, I begin to think "What the fuck is the meaning of all this? Why? Are you calling me poor? Who do you think you are? Am I not good enough for your pretentious establishment? What?!" 

It's the weekend and you go to a bar with your girl friends. You see a hot guy. He's with his bunch of friends. Some hey hey and some nay nay. They notice a group of girls and decide to be friendly. So, they ask if they can join you and your friends. So you notice the hottest guy and it doesn't take long before you realize he's a smooth talker - your regular player. You're done dating men like that. You've sworn them off. You've had your fair share of heartbreaks. You're disgusted by their lack of respect for women. So, you talk to his friends and do what you do best - avoid eye contact. Then you realize he's talking, joking and laughing with all your friends BUT you. You start to think "That gay motherfucker! Why? Are you calling me unattractive? Who do you think you are? You manwhore, you!"

  

However, if he did try to make his move on you, you'd be thinking "What an asshole! Why? Are you calling me easy? What do you think I am? You manwhore you!"

So what do I have to say about all this? I guess I kinda know but I don't really know either.

Love You Long Time

Gone are the days where you meet someone, exchange phone numbers and sit by the telephone, or keep your mobile right next to your pillow, waiting for him to call. Now, you exchange email addresses, add him on MSN Messenger, Facebook, MySpace, AIM, gTalk, Yahoo! Messenger and the other 2, 384, 763 social networks available out there.

Here's the thing. Because we're hiding behind a computerized security blanket, we feel it is safe to practice the rather new unhealthy obsession. Cyber attention whoring. Well, everyone knows cyber stalking. Not many address cyber attention whoring. Probably why it craves attention.

Firstly, you have what I call psycho-babble. This is when you change your MSN status 20 times in the span of 10 minutes. Why? So that person your whoring to realizes that you MUST be online in order to make such changes. Not only that, it's called psycho for a reason, I mean, apart from having 20 different thoughts in 10 minutes, those thoughts are usually attention whoring thoughts. Say, angry, raging comments such as "You SOB! I hope your uncle Satan claims you and your family!" Or, over dramatized comments like "OMG! I almost DIED in the shower just now!" And then there's that emo comment that sounds something like "Love... is something that will only crush you, if not kill you..." and lastly, I call it 'The Vague', as it goes a little something like "Sigh..." or "Why....?". All this is done with hope that your attention seekee will IM you to ask you what's up with your status. 

Next, we have the faux bad connection syndrome (FBCS). Truth is, your connection is fine. You paid your monthly fees, it's just that he's not paying attention to you. So, you quit and reconnect your MSN Messenger every 5 minutes. Why? Because when you reconnect, your name pop ups. This is so he knows you are actually online. Just in case he missed your name when he scrolled down his list or forgot to check who's online when he logged on. Oh, and it would be easier for him to just click on your pop up to start a chat with you! Now aren't we considerate.

Moving on, we have the but oh no I can't. Ever get tired of seeing the same screen name you've been using for the past 5 months? You decide to spice it up a little. But oh no I can't! What if he doesn't recognize my nickname and just skips me? So, if Prince Charming added you as ButtCheeks863, you're stuck with that until you decide he's not worth it anymore.

If all that's mentioned above does not work, it's time to get visual. Also known as, the model. This is when your put up the most artistic pictures, the most photoshopped pictures and the prettiest picture you could find from your photo album I Love Me. You hope that by realizing how hot you suddenly look in 100x100 and blurred out dim shots, he might actually want to pay you some attention. Some might even take a step further and perform the cyber seduction, which is to post risqué pictures of themselves. Depending on your face, that is indeed a risk.

When all fails, you decide that to make things easier, you should delete him. That way, you don't have to know when he's online and you won't have to worry about him not messaging you. This is called the fail. Because what happens next, you'd be thinking, "I wonder if he's online now..." and re-adds him. This only means one thing. You have thus, memorized his email address. So, your whole operation has done nothing but make you into a term well known to us today, a cyber stalker. Mission is the fail.

To be honest, this seems like too much work. I'd take brain tumor from cellphone waves beside my pillow every night any day.