title-less

It's my first time not to sleep on a weekdaywith work. Well not no-sleep per se since I slept after my OT shift for 2 hours. Then, husband and I went to SM met around 10am to buy some groceries for my "penance;" tuna diet for the week and plastic boxes for the rest of my things to put in.





We're slowly removing "clutters" in our room, one, because the LCDTV is taking too much space and two, so that our move to our new abode is easier. We dismantled my computer and brought the 2 computer tables and one cabinet downstairs, and I thought, no wonder I feel claustrophobic whenever I'm in the room, now we have lots of space, my lips generated a smile, nose generated a feeling of relief, and my eyes not sore anymore. I then teased husband (don't ask how, its way too gross for you) and cornered him near the cabinet, then, from his movements trying to prevent me from getting near; the AVR fell from the top of the cabinet, trying to catch it, he got hurt.



You know how heavy an AVR is, you know how painful it is for the corner to hit your wrist. His facial expression for 3 seconds is enough for me to understand it's very painful. Here's the catch; for some reason, I find his "in pain" facial expressions funny, but this time, it's not.

I felt it; his pain, not physically but emotionally. I hugged him, I apologized, when we parted, I saw tears; its that painful. I asked him to sit down, I massaged it a bit, no more, I massaged it more and more and what hurts more? He told me if I was in his place, I would've walked out, packed my things and won't be speaking for him for a week. Partially true. I grew up in a house of anger, what can I do?

Anyway, while waiting for mom and dad, we laid down and the hum of tha A/C lulled him to sleep while still massaging his wrist. I really felt bad, I hurt the most wonderful person in front of me; and he didn't get mad.

After that, we were both back again, like two child hood sweethearts cuddling like kids. I turned on the water heater for my shower, I ought to stay a little longer in his arms. I tried to fight the urge; can't. I stayed a little longer...

what's better than make up sex? Make-uP SHOPPIng!

Yes, not known to everyone husband and I got into a mini microchip fight last week that forced me not to go home for a whole week, mother-in-law texting me, and most of my friends was worried; of course he was the most.

Anyway, I went back there last Saturday after my brother "kidnapped" me since we have "family emergency reunion"; apparently he just proposed to his 7, or 8-ish year girlfriend and they need to announce that back home at my hometown; Los Baños. Too bad brother's friend at Los banos slipped from his mouth and tsaraaan! Mom already knew about it.

Back to the topic, Last Sunday, after I went to the gym, we attended mass at Greenbelt and then spent the rest of the afternoon;shopping.

I have money handling problem so he serves as my financial adviser; allowance based, deciding on what I can and can't buy. Last Sunday, we were able to do our shopping since it was sale at Glorietta and SM and since there were lots of promotions that time, husband can't stop himself from buying a 32in LCD TV, with free DVD, and since they have a promotion on their Home Theatre System, (7k discount) plus another free DVD; he just have to buy one.

One of the highlight of that day is that he asked to visit Maldita to check some clothes; I'm not a fan of "high end" clothing, rather go to Ukay and get those unique clothes without having to worry that someone out there might actually have the same clothes you have. Anyway, one of the things I check or go through the clothes are those on sale. Apparently, they were selling this big longsleeve for only 250, I could just ask my mom's friend to alter it and presto! It's mine. Oh, I also hunt for those "unusual" designs.

*Not bad for a 250 worth of clothing.

*look at those smiles!

and the rest of the shopping list.

We then watched "The Box" after the tiresome shopping, was still hoping that I bought that pants, but moving on... I'm happy that I didn't encounter pathetic sales persons last night, everybody was well informed and won't kiss ass just to sell.

Then came Monday, was sick. Probably my body got shopping/sale allergy.

Casual Conversations; Movie Edition- Love of Siam

2 weeks ago, I stayed the whole week in the office (kojie vs vondraye mode) and so during my lunchtime I usually call him, but since we're not speaking; I just watched a couple of movies. Unknown to everyone, we actually call each other Tong and Mew because of the Love of Siam movie. He watched it (after I did) and fell in love with it. I watched it again so I could learn to cover up the anger with love (cheeesy!) So here goes my favourite parts of the movie.


Casual Conversation 1

Mew:If we can love someone so much, how will we be able to handle it the day when we are separated?and if being separated is a part of life,and you know about the separation that well, is it possible, tong, that we can love someone and never be afraid of losing them?

At the same time i was also wondering is it possible that we can live our entire life without loving anyone at all?

That's my Loneliness.

I have lived with it now for 5 years, I know just how bad loneliness feels. I fear it will continue to get worse.

Tong: Mew...

*hug*

This is where Tong slept over Mew's place when they were grown up, too bad there weren't any jurjur moments. nyahahaha!! However, it was sweet and I appreciated the cinematography when Tong's mom was looking for him while Mew was talking about his lonliness.


Casual Conversation 2

Yin: It means "As long as you love, you will still have hope."
Mew: So are are you still hoping?
Yin: And should I hope?
Mew: Ying you are a good friend of mine...

This part is where I wanna go inside the screen and join the scene and scold Yin and shook her and say "haller!? Mew is one of us!? Duh?!" and tell Mew "and you heartbreaker!"

Casual Conversation 3

Mew: I'm not in the mood for singing anymore you wouldn't understand
Aex: Even though I may not understand, you are still my best friend, why do you always think that no one cares about you?

Another part where I want to enter the scene, and tell Mew "Oo na maganda ka na may Tong ka, pero tama na ang pagmomoda mo!" (Yes, you're beautiful because you have Tong, but stop acting like a star!)

Casual Conversation 4

Tong: Are you tired mom?
Sunee: of what?
Tong: Of everything.
Sunee: of course im tired what can i do? What about you how's everything?
Tong: Good I guess, I don't know it seems fine mom.
Sunee: Could you turn on the lights? Tong, can you help me put the ornaments on the tree?
Tong: Is this one good in here?
Sunee: Just put it around.
Tong: What about this one here instead mom?
Sunee: Just put it around.
Tong: What about the two of these together?
Sunee: Just put it around
Tong: Ok, what if I choose and you don't like it, will you get mad?
Sunee: Choose what you think is best for yourself.
Tong: Chooses guy ornament

This one is one of my favourite as well as this scene depicts the question if the mother is okay if her son chooses to be gay, and just like testing the waters, Tong still chose to be a guy; straight guy. This is when those gay stories ended up sad, but still good.


Almost everyone who watched this movie loved Mario Maurer aka Tong, but for me, for some reason, I like Aex better. I also like Yin for her strength and courage and her dedication for Mew, especially the 99 thornless roses, when she let go of Tong for Mew, when she comforted Tong when they were in a confrontation, when she got the "nose" part of the toy for Tong. I really think they should be together instead. I also love their OST, for some reason, their songs are really good (for me) since their songs are one of those sets that has been in my mp3 player since last year; never replaced never removed.

Love is a Fallacy by Max Shulman

Love is a Fallacy

by Max Shulman



Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and astute—I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, precise as a chemist’s scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And—think of it!—I only eighteen.

It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Bellows, my roommate at the university. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender oneself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it—this, to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.

One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. “Don’t move,” I said, “Don’t take a laxative. I’ll get a doctor.”

“Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.

“Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my flight.

“I want a raccoon coat,” he wailed.

I perceived that his trouble was not physical, but mental. “Why do you want a raccoon coat?”

“I should have known it,” he cried, pounding his temples. “I should have known they’d come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbooks, and now I can’t get a raccoon coat.”

“Can you mean,” I said incredulously, “that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?”

“All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where’ve you been?”

“In the library,” I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.

He leaped from the bed and paced the room. “I’ve got to have a raccoon coat,” he said passionately. “I’ve got to!”

“Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weigh too much. They’re unsightly. They—”

“You don’t understand,” he interrupted impatiently. “It’s the thing to do. Don’t you want to be in the swim?”

“No,” I said truthfully.

“Well, I do,” he declared. “I’d give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!”

My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. “Anything?” I asked, looking at him narrowly.

“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.

I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn’t have it exactly, but at least he had first rights on it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.

I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.

I was a freshman in law school. In a few years I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer’s career. The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.

Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt that time would supply the lack. She already had the makings.

Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table her manners were exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house—a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut—without even getting her fingers moist.

Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.

“Petey,” I said, “are you in love with Polly Espy?”

“I think she’s a keen kid,” he replied, “but I don’t know if you’d call it love. Why?”

“Do you,” I asked, “have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going steady or anything like that?”

“No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?”

“Is there,” I asked, “any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

I nodded with satisfaction. “In other words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be open. Is that right?”

“I guess so. What are you getting at?”

“Nothing , nothing,” I said innocently, and took my suitcase out the closet.

“Where are you going?” asked Petey.

“Home for weekend.” I threw a few things into the bag.

“Listen,” he said, clutching my arm eagerly, “while you’re home, you couldn’t get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?”

“I may do better than that,” I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.







“Look,” I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.

“Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face. “Holy Toledo!” he repeated fifteen or twenty times.

“Would you like it?” I asked.

“Oh yes!” he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. “What do you want for it?”

“Your girl.” I said, mincing no words.

“Polly?” he said in a horrified whisper. “You want Polly?”

“That’s right.”

He flung the coat from him. “Never,” he said stoutly.

I shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to be in the swim, I guess it’s your business.”

I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a torn man. First he looked at the coat with the expression of a waif at a bakery window. Then he turned away and set his jaw resolutely. Then he looked back at the coat, with even more longing in his face. Then he turned away, but with not so much resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning. Finally he didn’t turn away at all; he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.

“It isn’t as though I was in love with Polly,” he said thickly. “Or going steady or anything like that.”

“That’s right,” I murmured.

“What’s Polly to me, or me to Polly?”

“Not a thing,” said I.

“It’s just been a casual kick—just a few laughs, that’s all.”

“Try on the coat,” said I.

He complied. The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons. “Fits fine,” he said happily.

I rose from my chair. “Is it a deal?” I asked, extending my hand.

He swallowed. “It’s a deal,” he said and shook my hand.







I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature of a survey; I wanted to find out just how much work I had to do to get her mind up to the standard I required. I took her first to dinner. “Gee, that was a delish dinner,” she said as we left the restaurant. Then I took her to a movie. “Gee, that was a marvy movie,” she said as we left the theatre. And then I took her home. “Gee, I had a sensaysh time,” she said as she bade me good night.

I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task. This girl’s lack of information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with information. First she had to be taught to think. This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to Petey. But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.

I went about it, as in all things, systematically. I gave her a course in logic. It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my fingertips. “Poll’,” I said to her when I picked her up on our next date, “tonight we are going over to the Knoll and talk.”

“Oo, terrif,” she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would go far to find another so agreeable.

We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly. “What are we going to talk about?” she asked.

“Logic.”

She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it. “Magnif,” she said.

“Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight.”

“Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.

I winced, but went bravely on. “First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter.”

“By all means,” she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.

“Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise.”

“I agree,” said Polly earnestly. “I mean exercise is wonderful. I mean it builds the body and everything.”

“Polly,” I said gently, “the argument is a fallacy. Exercise is good is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people. Otherwise you have committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?”

“No,” she confessed. “But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!”

“It will be better if you stop tugging at my sleeve,” I told her, and when she desisted, I continued. “Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can’t speak French. Petey Bellows can’t speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French.”

“Really?” said Polly, amazed. “Nobody?”

I hid my exasperation. “Polly, it’s a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion.”

“Know any more fallacies?” she asked breathlessly. “This is more fun than dancing even.”

I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing if not persistent. I continued. “Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let’s not take Bill on our picnic. Every time we take him out with us, it rains.”

“I know somebody just like that,” she exclaimed. “A girl back home—Eula Becker, her name is. It never fails. Every single time we take her on a picnic—”

“Polly,” I said sharply, “it’s a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn’t cause the rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker.”

“I’ll never do it again,” she promised contritely. “Are you mad at me?”

I sighed. “No, Polly, I’m not mad.”

“Then tell me some more fallacies.”

“All right. Let’s try Contradictory Premises.”

“Yes, let’s,” she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.

I frowned, but plunged ahead. “Here’s an example of Contradictory Premises: If God can do anything, can He make a stone so heavy that He won’t be able to lift it?”

“Of course,” she replied promptly.

“But if He can do anything, He can lift the stone,” I pointed out.

“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, then I guess He can’t make the stone.”

“But He can do anything,” I reminded her.

She scratched her pretty, empty head. “I’m all confused,” she admitted.

“Of course you are. Because when the premises of an argument contradict each other, there can be no argument. If there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object. If there is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. Get it?”

“Tell me more of this keen stuff,” she said eagerly.

I consulted my watch. “I think we’d better call it a night. I’ll take you home now, and you go over all the things you’ve learned. We’ll have another session tomorrow night.”

I deposited her at the girls’ dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a perfectly terrif evening, and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure. The girl simply had a logic-proof head.

But then I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening; I might as well waste another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind a few members still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could fan them into flame. Admittedly it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it one more try.







Seated under the oak the next evening I said, “Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam.”

She quivered with delight.

“Listen closely,” I said. “A man applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his qualifications are, he replies that he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal in the cellar, and winter is coming.”

A tear rolled down each of Polly’s pink cheeks. “Oh, this is awful, awful,” she sobbed.

“Yes, it’s awful,” I agreed, “but it’s no argument. The man never answered the boss’s question about his qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss’s sympathy. He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do you understand?”

“Have you got a handkerchief?” she blubbered.

I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes. “Next,” I said in a carefully controlled tone, “we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examinations. After all, surgeons have X-rays to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to guide them during a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a house. Why, then, shouldn’t students be allowed to look at their textbooks during an examination?”

“There now,” she said enthusiastically, “is the most marvy idea I’ve heard in years.”

“Polly,” I said testily, “the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren’t taking a test to see how much they have learned, but students are. The situations are altogether different, and you can’t make an analogy between them.”

“I still think it’s a good idea,” said Polly.

“Nuts,” I muttered. Doggedly I pressed on. “Next we’ll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact.”

“Sounds yummy,” was Polly’s reaction.

“Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about radium.”

“True, true,” said Polly, nodding her head “Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. I mean he fractures me.”

“If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,” I said coldly, “I would like to point out that statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can’t start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable conclusions from it.”

“They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures,” said Polly, “I hardly ever see him any more.”

One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. “The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well.”

“How cute!” she gurgled.

“Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, ‘My opponent is a notorious liar. You can’t believe a word that he is going to say.’ ... Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What’s wrong?”

I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly a glimmer of intelligence—the first I had seen—came into her eyes. “It’s not fair,” she said with indignation. “It’s not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?”

“Right!” I cried exultantly. “One hundred per cent right. It’s not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start ... Polly, I’m proud of you.”

“Pshaws,” she murmured, blushing with pleasure.

“You see, my dear, these things aren’t so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think—examine—evaluate. Come now, let’s review everything we have learned.”

“Fire away,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.

Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, I began a long, patient review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without letup. It was like digging a tunnel. At first, everything was work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would. But I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.

Five grueling nights with this took, but it was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think. My job was done. She was worthy of me, at last. She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for my many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled children.

It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the contrary. Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned, so I loved mine. I decided to acquaint her with my feelings at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.

“Polly,” I said when next we sat beneath our oak, “tonight we will not discuss fallacies.”

“Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.

“My dear,” I said, favoring her with a smile, “we have now spent five evenings together. We have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well matched.”

“Hasty Generalization,” said Polly brightly.

“I beg your pardon,” said I.

“Hasty Generalization,” she repeated. “How can you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?”

I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons well. “My dear,” I said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, “five dates is plenty. After all, you don’t have to eat a whole cake to know that it’s good.”

“False Analogy,” said Polly promptly. “I’m not a cake. I’m a girl.”

I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously the best approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper word. Then I began:

“Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, the moon and the stars and the constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”

There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.

“Ad Misericordiam,” said Polly.

I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat. Frantically I fought back the tide of panic surging through me; at all costs I had to keep cool.

“Well, Polly,” I said, forcing a smile, “you certainly have learned your fallacies.”

“You’re darn right,” she said with a vigorous nod.

“And who taught them to you, Polly?”

“You did.”

“That’s right. So you do owe me something, don’t you, my dear? If I hadn’t come along you never would have learned about fallacies.”

“Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said instantly.

I dashed perspiration from my brow. “Polly,” I croaked, “you mustn’t take all these things so literally. I mean this is just classroom stuff. You know that the things you learn in school don’t have anything to do with life.”

“Dicto Simpliciter,” she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.

That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. “Will you or will you not go steady with me?”

“I will not,” she replied.

“Why not?” I demanded.

“Because this afternoon I promised Petey Bellows that I would go steady with him.”

I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after he shook my hand! “The rat!” I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf. “You can’t go with him, Polly. He’s a liar. He’s a cheat. He’s a rat.”

“Poisoning the Well ,” said Polly, “and stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too.”

With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice. “All right,” I said. “You’re a logician. Let’s look at this thing logically. How could you choose Petey Bellows over me? Look at me—a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at Petey—a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who’ll never know where his next meal is coming from. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Bellows?”

“I certainly can,” declared Polly. “He’s got a raccoon coat.”


*story posted for my Classmate in Masters, but since I love this story, I ought to share it with you guys... enjoy!

VISA ni Lolo (Lolo's VISA)

This is a true story taken from one of the most read newspaper in the Philippines .

A 70-year old 'lolo' from the province was accompanied by a grandson to the US Embassy in Manila for his VISA interview.
The lolo spoke not a word of English so the grandson translated for him. The Consul told the young man to ask his grandfather why he wanted to go to the States.

"Bakit daw ho ninyo gustong pumunta sa Amerika?" The grandson translated.

"Sabihin mo gusto kong makita yung mga anak ko doon."
"He said he wants to see his children there."
Fair enough, that's what the lolo's application indicated.

The Consul had another question. "Ask him why does he have to go there? Why can't his children just come and visit him here?"

The grandson translated this in Tagalog.

Lolo replied: "Sabihin mo kasi dito pinanganak yung mga anak ko.
Nakita na nila ang Pilipinas. Gusto ko namang makita ang Amerika bago ako mamatay."
(Translation: "Tell him, my children were born here. They've seen the
Philippines already. I just want to see America before I die.")

The HEARTLESS Consul was unimpressed as he declared, devoid of any emotion, that he was rejecting the visa application "because the applicant was unable to speak any word of English."

"Reject daw yung visa ninyo kasi hindi daw kayo marunong mag-Ingles."

The lolo was equally unimpressed. "Sabihin mo ito sa kanya at huwag na huwag mong papalitan ang sasabihin ko: "Putang ina niya, bakit siya nandidito eh hindi naman siya marunong mag Tagalog! ?"

Translated, "He said: You son of a bitch, how come you are here... you do not know how to speak in Tagalog!?"

Taken aback, sense of humor still intact, the consul relented and approved lolo's visa application in pronto.

(Taken from The Philippine Star (newspaper), written by Boo Chanco)

Go LoLo...Mabuhay ang Pinoy!!!

taymferst... casual conversations; comment on blog edition

Need a breather from my report, I'm browsing the blogspot dashboard and found Sheenah's new post-Our Baby: Boy or Girl.

If you're too tired, too gay, too sleepy, too lazy, too *tooooot* to click on the link, she basically talks about her baby and betting whether the baby is a boy or a girl from the preggy signs.

She then formulated two names for her baby; Chad Cedric and Danah Louise, if its a boy or a girl respectively.

I just smiled with what I posted on her comment:

ayaw mo ng Phiper? or Leo? (from the hit tv series CHARMED; for the benefit of those who are unfamiliar)
Andrea or Jim?(the Corrs; my favorite band)
Naruto? Sakura? (obviously!)
Kurama? Mikaela? (Sige nga, tingnan natin mga anime freaks kung kilala nila...)
Pikachu? Charmander? (we both love Pokemon!)

hahahaha!!

However, I’d wish its a girl. tapos girl, tapos boy, tapos boy ulit, tapos twins na girl boy, tapos twins na girl girl then twins na boy boy….
i was thinking of quadruplets but im thinking kung pwede lahat ng combinations..
nyahahaha!!!

Of procrastination and of projects; commercial from school mode

I’m still here in the office, an hour after my shift ended. During my shift, I was supposed to do my report since there weren’t too many stuff to do, however, “I” won’t work; with my report I mean. I was trying to do my report but it just paved way to think of ideas what to blog; about my grandmother, about work, etc. I don’t have the”creative” juice to do my report.

My project is actually chapter 1 of a thesis report, our professor just wants us to see if we learned something from the communication theories and models we discussed. Waiting for a laptop, verrrrrrrrrry slow computer at home, and a heated argument with husband doesn’t help at all.

Procrastination was and has been my problem since college, for some reason, even if I try working on my project days, weeks, or even months doesn’t work. My brain will just start “chug-chug chooo chooo” either the day before, hours before, and worse (last week) minutes before the deadline.
After doing the first part, my brain needs a chill, so blog hopped some sites and checked the news. For some reason, my brain needs to be pumped (*grins*) before it works. Now, I’ll get back to my report, will make my brain works smoothly as if I’m working someone in bed.