Women Kicking Men’s Ass, in the Movies, that is (emended&edited)

Originally Published: January 28, 2012


“I am the deadliest woman on this planet.” Beatrix Kiddo declared as she flaunts a stony look in Quentin Tarantino’s outstanding action-packed film “Kill Bill.” It’s the ultimate line I wish I could deliver in equal stoic fashion — sans the subsequent chuckle.

Kill Bill, Salt, Resident Evil, Matrix trilogy, Charlie’s Angels and most recently, Steven Soderbergh’s Haywire starring female martial arts expert Gina Carano all feature sexy, beautiful, smart ladies you can’t mess around with. Such a thrill to watch these movies depicting formidable kick-ass women.

Lucy Liu’s graceful nevertheless dangerous moves in her slam-bang movie with Antonio Banderas “Ballistic:Ecks vs Sever” held my complete attention. Ditto for Daryll Hannah’s malevolence as Elle Driver in all her ice-cold lethal charm in “Kill Bill.”

One thing though, majority of the movies of this genre have the hardest time convincing me the ladies could physically battle and defeat single-handedly an all-male batallion. Uma Thurman’s acting might be convincingly tough but she looked skinny and frail. Yet she was able to maim nearly a hundred samurais dressed in suits who were all below her height and who moved hysterically with their swords like queer little men possessed by ogre spirits. Oh please don’t get me wrong – I’m a fan of Quentin Tarantino and “Kill Bill” is an all-time favorite of mine.

Evelyn Salt – played by the slender-figured Angelina Jolie – engaged in some judo karate combating burly CIA agents. Cool. Though while watching, my mind was like “Yeah right…next thing we know, she’d be lifting an eight-wheeler truck using just one arm.”

Exceptionally entertaining but fantastically unbelievable. Can’t stop scratching my head.

I recall my father’s sweeping remark, “What silly movies — women can never be physically stronger than men.” How I’ve come to agree with him. He had always been cynical about it all — albeit one of his favorite TV series was Angie Dickinson’s “Policewoman.” Well…

Be that as it may, let me tell you that in some parallel world, I am the swash-buckling Milla Jovovich in the movie “The Three Musketeers.” Head strong, driven, conniving, calculating, indomitable, you name it. And how incredibly beautiful. So…

Get out of my way, baby.

Can’t Confuse the Perpendicular with the Curve


In the academy where I used to work, I had a smart, well-educated bosom female colleague with regular facial features that were quite appealing and more importantly, a curvaceous figure that could make any man forget his name. Let’s call her AJ.

Although I was a decade older than her, we would heartily exchange stories about love, life, and men while inside each other’s room. When she finally broke up with her on-off longtime boyfriend who, she complained, kept taking her for granted, she set her sights on one of our male colleagues named Cammy.

Before continuing on, please understand I’m not trying to sound smug here. But my internal detecting device for men who are gay and men who aren’t functions perfectly like any present-day gadget made in China. For example, I knew it the very first time George Michael exuberantly sang and danced on “Wake Me Up Before You Go-go” MTV. Undeniable. When Brooke Shields started dating him, I thought “Who were they fooling?” Yet she claimed some years later she did like him and suffered heartbreak out of their brief fling. Incredible.

Likewise, long before the rumor was confirmed by Hollywood insiders, my suspicion had already begun as soon as I came to note the manner Jeremy _ opened up a window in a scene from the movie Mission Impossible 4. I was like “Wait a minute…”

Bear in mind, Jeremy is still one of my most favorite actors and George Michael had composed and sung some of my best-loved songs. My male best friends were mostly either bisexual or every inch gay. They are remarkably fun and pleasant to be around with.

My point is, my radar works fine. Maybe it’s a special gift granted to me by the heavens above. So when people around want to know if the man they’re curious about or interested in is gay or not, they come and seek my opinion. First I whisper “Make him move or talk for three seconds and I’ll tell you.” One two three. “Aha, definitely gay.” Saves the ladies time and effort without question.

Actually, I’m kidding; many others are much sharper than me. Although it’s surprising many have poor perception in that area, too. They won’t be convinced unless they’d see hard evidence. Such as when the man arrives for work wearing bright face powder and pink lipstick. Also, not a few believe they could somewhat reverse things under specific circumstances.

Similar to the case of my female colleague AJ. This was how one of our conversations went:

AJ: I think our friend Cammy is cute.

Me: Don’t you like muscled guys? Cammy looks like Popeye before ingesting his can of spinach.

AJ: It’s okay. He’s fair-skinned due to his mixed heritage and I like that. We were sweet together last night strolling at the mall. I want to ask him out.

Me: To where?

She gave me a naughty wink. Uh-oh, I thought. She had been ventilating on  some “action” missing in her life.

Me: Hey, he’s gay.

AJ: Maybe. Although I felt a particular hardness from him last night and I almost asked… but I wasn’t straightforward enough.

I didn’t dare query her on the “what she felt” part as it was creeping me out.

Me: You know, if we grabbed Cammy firmly around his ankles and turn and shake him upside down repeatedly, he’d still scream out for only men as bed partners.

AJ: (feeling confident nevertheless) Cammy is the ideal one, temporarily. No other prospect in sight yet. Just wish me luck.

The very next day.

Me: How did it go?

AJ: (Not smiling) He simply said it was time for us to go home.

Told ‘ya. No, I didn’t tell her that. I kept my silence.

Update: AJ is married now to a straight guy and they have a two-year-old daughter. Happy ending.


The Girl Was Really Pretty – The Power of Beauty (2)

My (bisexual) male friend had been narrating to me the story of how their district’s congressman fell head over heels for a married woman and subsequently used his power to have her all to himself. In philippine politics, that’s just heinously appalling. My reaction: “He must be crazy.”

My friend’s reply: “But then, she was really pretty.”

I was like, “Huh?” Pause. “Oh yeah, right.” (secretly rolling my eyes)

I don’t know. But wasn’t that justification more than a bit shallow?

In all candidness, some guys unconsciously utter something exasperatingly superficial their fairygodmothers would no doubt flick a finger against their comatose heads. And it’d sound like “Toink!”

Another time, I was talking to my (straight) male business pal about my shock in learning a customer committed suicide because of heartbreak. “Why would he kill himself over a girl?” I blurted out.

To which my pal responded, “The girl was really pretty, you know.”

Toink! Toink! Toink!

C’mon… I mean, can’t they think of a more sensible ground to account for men’s actions other than their single-minded absorption to women’s physical attributes?

OTOH, if those guys had done what they did and the ladies looked like Hilda the Beast, it would’ve been more perplexing. I guess I get it.

Still, what if some male colleague asked me, “She’s a blackbelter. How could she have gotten herself raped by him?” – and my answer would be, “Easy. The rapist was one hot-looking dude.” ??

Alright, scrraaap that. Makes no sense. Duh! 🙂


  *No selfie of me available yet. Don’t worry, I look exactly like them. ^^ just kidding…

She Should Have Slept Around

My elder sister and I with the whole family are having lunch in a restaurant. She’s narrating her recent trip to Germany where she underwent stem cell treatment — something she goes through every year (partly as an aftermath of her choco addiction) with my brother-in-law, her husband. While the conversation progresses, he stands up and goes out to take a phone call. My sister turns to me.

She (with eagerness): My German doctor. He’s cute and I think he likes me.

Me: He is? He does?

She: He’s been sweet and extremely attentive to me. And I believe I’m the only female patient he kissed on both cheeks when we said our goodbyes.

Me: Ooh… (nodding). Inner Me: Of course he’s that nice. You’re a customer! No, I can’t say that to her; I won’t dare refute the giddiest hunch of someone who allows me to live in one of their apartments nearly rent-free.

Me: Aren’t you happily married? I teasingly remind her. Because she unmistakably is.

She: Yes, very much, but I watched the movie “Same Time Next Year.” Interesting to be in that two-timing couple’s situation, I imagine. My sister’s smiling.

My eyes secretly widen in bewilderment; I need a drink quick as I search for any server passing by. “Uh, Waiter, a can of Coke Zero please!”

Is he single?” I proceed to ask her.

She: Well, no. But blah blah blah…

Inner Me: Excuse me, sis. If he’s married, there’s no but. There can never be a but. (Sorry, though, to confess I previously broke that rule twice in my life. Don’t worry, Karma already made sure I paid the heaviest price.) I go on listening to my sis and keep nodding dumbly while she rattles on how maybe her doctor is gonna welcome some sort of fling with her regardless of both their connubial status.

She: The part where he injected (the goat, I mean sheep cells) bulged a bit so that became an excuse for me to email him. I had to ask about the swell…

Me: What did he say?

She: Well, he didn’t reply at first. So I had to email him again. He responded then. I think he’s just being cool and cautious because Joey (my sister’s husband) is his patient, too. But I can sense my doctor does like me as much as I like him.

Now I’m resisting the urge to dip my fingers in my glass of cold H20 and sprinkle some on her face.

Dear dear sister of mine, you’re telling me he has seen your 50-year-old butt (the needle went there, btw) and now he helplessly finds himself having a crush on you. Listen, a good-looking well-moneyed medical practitioner like that will get carnal only with the best-looking female  WHO’S HALF HIS AGE. Get real!” Again, no, I couldn’t tell her that. She’s paying for the whole meal.

My sister, in sudden mild reflection, continues: In our earlier years, Joey fooled around. Those were very stressful periods for me. Maybe he doesn’t anymore but I’m not quite certain. Now I realize I should have “hanged around” with other guys in the past.

I understand. I look at my sister keenly and start pondering as well. This is what happens when a woman has bedded only one man her entire life. I’ve gathered she’s just had the same discussion with our mother; how she feels sorry for herself for lacking “substantial experience” with men. I remember when she and I were in our earliest teens, our parents would lecture us till midnight not only about prioritizing our studies but more on the value of preserving our “innocence.” Our mother went so far as to insist our first boyfriend should end up as our husband, too, and should be the only male we’ll ever sleep with. Sister took it to heart (She and our mom have always been soulmates). Me? Inside I was like “Yuck!” The rebel in me at the time had already been emerging so my stance was “One dude in a whole lifespan? Not on your life.”

Anyway, my zany brother who’s been partially listening to our sisterly chat strongly butts in: Ho ho, jumping to conclusions! Too much chocolate again in your system, sister. The three of us laugh. My brother-in-law walks back to our table.

What is the moral of this blog piece? Sister should have slept around and all women should do so during their unwedded era. Unequivocally. And it matters little whether the men were fucking dickheads or not.

Wait, did I just say that? Give me two weeks of good night sleep to take it back.


++my brother, bro-in-law, sister and me in that most recent outing++


Yep, another old favorite love song (ad nauseum, I know) from way way back. This Dionne W’s deeper gentle version I surprisingly unearthed on YT as it was rarely played on the radio.


One Job Down – End of Another Era

Man oh man, January was a crazy time indeed. I finally gave up on my teaching job (gasp!) last January12. After ten long long years. Yeah. Now my remaining occupation is as a government agent. I wish I could say I were the stealthy Miss double Oh-7 working for the British Secret Service. Alas, merely an agent that helps generate online 20-peso tickets to gambling freaks is everything I currently am.

Several considerations led to the decision. The dominant factor, however, was the impending off-peak season (which is start of February), when my bosses’ preschool and gradeschool children will be back. And all of us teachers will be forced to serve as their nannies again.That was what had been tormenting me. I’m talking about those four bratty small children whose ages range from 4 to 8 years old. Heaven save mister macaroons.

Two of them is a four year old girl who screams at the top of her lungs out12062046375 of the blue to elicit attention, plus the seven year old boy who’d swiftly touch his teacher’s boobs all of a sudden (#%!& grrr… seven year olds…). We, six properly educated permanent winsome teachers, would report promptly for work in our lovely dresses and shoes and accessories wearing pretty makeup – only to be each assigned to any of the four little rascals who’d make us look like Hilda the Beast by the end of the day.

Have I forgotten to mention I am not that into children? (except for my own child I raised, of course)

me on the left wearing green feeling tipsy after downing only a bottle&1/2 of Red Horse. girls night out.

I used to handle only adult or university students. But my boss has become frustratingly more and more detached as our manager that his fellowmen from the entire nation of unremorseful canine-eaters have come to learn how he literally sits in front of his computer watching k-soap operas all day long. So for the last two years, no worthy students had been turning up following the return of bunch and bunch of indolent middleschoolers to their homecountry every end of peak season.

geenaAt least I’ve proven to myself that once in my life I was able to hold a job that long. Ten years. Wow. To think about the dear people to me that got sacrificed within that period. Three beloved casualties. The third one I might not have talked of before was the best female friend I’ve ever had who began suffering from health ailments and for whom I couldn’t be there because I was constantly preoccupied with the low-paying teaching job of mine. My bad. Our 20-year friendship, as a result, went down the drain.

Plus my job situation was making me more and more unhappy I would academyfoto2console myself by eating at pricey buffet restaurants on the weekends; not to mention the many instances I’d go down to 7-11 during school breaktime to snatch an unhealthy delicious snack to make up for my miserable condition.

12272010031My booth operator also had asked me a few months ago,“What are you still working so hard for? You have long finished sending your son to college and he now has a fine job.” Good good point.

It was an intention I had expressed late last year to my family –my mom, my sister and my brother: the aim to quit my 9 to 6 livelihood soon, which periodically changed whenever I told myself “just one more year” so I’d be able to save a bit more to finance my future objective to go back to Europe for another brief recreational voyage.

school1But I came to figure the amount I had managed to save could already be enough. My sister even asked, “Why not Japan or the U.S. the next time?” to which I replied, “No more Asian countries for me and there are too many Latinos and Asians in America. I want to see mass and mass of blonde hair with matching ultra delicate fair skin. Why would I want to see what’s in profusion here in our country?” Besides, my trip in Europe had been a magical one which I look forward to undergo again. Wait, I think I just digressed right there. 🙂

Anyway, perhaps this time there’ll be ample opportunity for me to definitively study advanced grammar, read outstanding literature, take up yoga seriously, get around to watching the much-talked-about Game of Thrones series, habitually entertain myself with young pretty pole dancers and sundry other stuff on You Tube, kick off doing charcoal-pencil art again, stay relentless at my pathetic attempts composing cheesy juvenile romantic poetry, hook up in passionate abandon with the hottest-looking, brawny rum drinker available around the neighborhood (just kidding), and sign up -before it gets too late- as FHM’s next cover model representing the sultriest lady approaching her 50s (kidding again).

A lifelong nightowl that I am, staying up late and not getting up early have been the sweetest halloweenpayoff so far. I’ve stopped popping the low-dose doctor prescribed anti-allergy pill to fall asleep at weeknights. I admit, though, of two or three mornings when I woke up feeling mild panic realizing I am not bound to get up for work anymore. Nice thing about holding a job is it gives your day a sense of structure. But, ultimately, I just can’t have it all.

I haven’t told my family yet because they might soon ask me to run errands for them. I realize I haven’t taken pleasure having the apartment all to myself since my son moved out more than a year ago. I worked steadily like a robot, soldiered on my daily affairs like a zombie. I’m taking things precious and easy now. Plus there’s lots to do and, er, clean.

At least, too, there’ll be no more furtive pinching of my nose whenever “those peeps” (at work) are around, them keemchee-eating species….

And if ever I’d feel regret about giving up the job I’d held for 10 long years, I’d simply remind myself this: The ewoks are comiiing!


And The Winner Is…

What can I say, it’s our current delight and pride here — the new Miss Universe comes from the Philippines. It’s been a long wait: Forty two long years for the 3rd one to make it. Imagine that.

Since I grew up in a family that puts external appearance of a woman above all her other qualities, beauty pageants used to fascinate me — so much. Physical attractiveness was impossible to eliminate on my list of must-haves for a female that I’ve always aimed to score at least fairly both on the looks and smarts department my entire life — uh, without great success, of course.

Anyway, last week during lunchbreak with my netbook at the workplace,

The filipina is pretty enough to deserve the title, you see.

the drama that took place during the coronation of the Miss U pageant I found equally stupefying and exhilarating. Because Steve Harvey’s gaffe no doubt humiliated Miss Colombia and at the same time robbed Miss Philippines of her moment.

I just have to post the photos here minus the unnecessary description of what happened as the whole planet had already become witness to the most awkward moment in the history of this competition.


How could he have let this happen?

The blog universe must also have its own beauty contest. I will surely join. And this is what’s gonna happen in the end: “And the Miss Blog Universe crown goes to……. Miss Bohemian Sentiments!”  

Yeeeehaaa!!! (clap clap clap)

I’ll accept the bunch of flowers, wear the sash, and have the crown on top of my head — while wiping away my tears of joy, waving my hand to all of my dear cheering co-bloggers.

Just make sure no Steve Harvey is going up the stage to do some reversal of fortune.



That's me barely 10 years ago. Just kidding....
That was me barely 6 years ago. Just kidding….

Prepositions Plus Further English Matters That Cause My Downfall

You may have no idea how I end up getting buried under the weight of my wrong grammatical turns and past lexical errors.

Cranking out a blog post and doling out comments on co-bloggers’ sites can give me trauma when after pressing the Send button, I discover, to my terror, either a grammatical blunder or a spectral misuse of an English term. Hardly a way is there to take things back so the accompanying mark of shame could only follow me for years to come.

My attempts to work a few good expressions into my composition tend to backfire, moreover, with disconcerting regularity — as my adventurous nature continues to soldier on to my spirit for bold writing. You gotta understand, I’m a wanna-be writer.


A previous blog pal’s sophisticated implementation had switched on my fascination for phrasal verbs, yet to this day I keep blanking out on their apt usage. He once wrote: “Play on, my friend.” Well, that one definitely made me scratch my head.

And please don’t start me with idioms: “Why keep flogging a dead horse?” (Seriously, why would anyone want to do that…to a lifeless horse?).

Nor should you remind me of the innumerable cases of redundancy in my blog posts which I’ve yet to find both time and expertise to mend.

When writing, I get in a bind inevitably as to my choice of prepositions. Let me give you a few examples: Should it be —prep6

on a street or in a street

on the beach or at the beach

angry at or angry with

at WordPress or on WordPress or in WordPress?

Then there are the prepositions I have tried to work into my compositions until I am literally blue in the face:

across, upon, along, beyond, amid

I believe they stylishly elevate your sentences by a few notches. Take an illustration:

A smile spread across her face.” — more tasteful compared to the prep “over,” don’t you agree?

Her reputation fell in value amid suspicion of her chicanery and promiscuity.” Amen.


Perhaps I’d better enumerate my additional issues with the English language that keep consigning me into a vague degree of semi-literacy:

  • The use of would and could still boggles me the same way a nude dude should. (Hey, I simply aimed for some rhyme there)
  • Past perfect has always been painful for me. Because my past had never been perfect in the first place.
  • Relatives can indeed be a pain in the #%$. Don’t nod your head — I’m talking about relative clause and relative pronouns here.

An ESL teacher that I am for a neighboring Asian country, imagine my toil and the bunches of knots on my students’ foreheads the minute I spell out to them grammar jargons such as subjunctive, modals, infinitive, and gerund. Ouch.

I remember somebody once said to me, “Let’s chill out!” To which I replied, “Come again?” Yeah, like I’m supposed to be hip in catching all cool expressions.

I’d hate to admit there’s more to bring up with regards to my punctuation, idiomatic and vernacular boo-boos 😦 .  Maybe in the end, we could all agree it’d be best if I just scoot off to a remote island in Southern China and learn Cantonese instead.



I am a poor, poor (old) girl. Nevertheless, I love singing along to this wonderful song “Rich Girl” by one of my fave artists of the 1980s — the duo of Daryll Hall & John Oates, who also happens to be the top act of the said decade. C’mon, sing this with me.

My Short Story with an Elder Chinese “Romeo”

On Sundays, my son and I used to alternately man the booth where I sell (up to this day) government-sponsored tickets.

One afternoon, a few years ago – while I was still in my earliest forties – a man stopped over to purchase a ticket during my shift. He proceeded to ask a few questions on the details and time of the draw. It was my job to answer or give information with courtesy and a smile. He seemed pleased and subsequently left, but came back thirty minutes later to hand over a small gift. “Thank you!” I exclaimed. His name was Mr. Tan.

From then on, Mr. Tan would pay a visit to my booth on Sunday afternoons to make small talk and give delicious eatables, plus sundry other items. Oh by the way, he was 30 years my senior, which made him 71 years old at the time. Short, thin, and unprepossessing – there was nothing in him to write home about. He was polite, nice and generous, though.

Once, his ticket won 4000pesos; He put half of the amount in an envelope and graciously compelled me to take it. I couldn’t; yet I thanked him just the same.

It would have been nice if Mr. Tan had looked like this.

On the few occasions Mr. Tan would eventually leave to head home, my business partner (wearing a wicked grin) would approach our stall and taunt me with: “At least man shortage doesn’t apply to you, huh.” Or he’d come up with: “Ahem, not bad for someone your age.”

I’d glare at this business partner of mine in retaliation and would jokingly fire back: “Tease me one more time and I swear I’d find a way to exterminate you.”

My mother became annoying in the same magnitude. When she learned of Mr. Tan’s Chinese-style of courtship, she bugged me with, “Why can’t you accept the man?”

Huh? Wait. “Mother, he’s a septuagenaariaan!”

She gaped for two seconds before she shrieked, “So whaaat?!” Resolute to her point, she continued, “You go for good-looking and exciting types, but have they given you anything?”

Really. My mother’s shape of thinking? Totally beyond my purview.

The time came, however, when Mr. Tan began to make an appeal. He requested if he could hold my hand, my two hands to be precise — right there in my place of work. My skin could have crawled.

But contemplating on all those delicious snackfoods and drinks, and nice goods he supplied to me – little inexpensive jewelry, bedsheets and pillowcases, collectible coins, raw stuff from his refrigerator, etc. — I figured, “What’s a few minutes of feeling creepy with him clasping my hands?” The grilles fenced us off anyway with him outside and me secured inside my kiosk.

So every Sunday for some number of months, I had festively been chomping or chewing and gulping down delectable edibles he’d manage to bring; As soon as I was finished, though – while still burping — I’d force myself to put out my hands for him to hold.

Did I ever lead him on? Not by a long shot, I believed.

Or this.
Or this.

One day, Mr Tan tried to ask me out. He said he wanted to take me somewhere special. My curiosity got the better of me. “May I ask where?”

To the cemetery where my parents lay in peace. Then we’re going to have lunch at McDonald’s.”

I see” was my response — hedging.

A particular day finally came when I was in no good mood at all; I could hardly bear with him and I snapped: “Look, we can only be friends. Nothing more. I hope I make myself clear.” The poor guy must have been aghast my remark rendered him speechless.

He remained visible in the two weeks that followed; then he started making his presence scant – until he stopped showing up. There was this one day he stopped by merely to return the photo I had given him which he had put on a modest picture frame. He said he hadn’t been feeling well and preferred that it not be thrown away, just in case. I sincerely bid him to take care of himself and expressed my best wishes. I still saw him a few times afterward (around the area near my booth), relieved to see him still looking healthy. He even bought a ticket once or twice.

My booth operator goes to work on Sundays now I’ve not much chance to see my customers anymore. No idea if Mr. Tan is still around. I hope he’s doing fine.

I guess I had been bad. I know — you need not tell me; I was bad….

My Social Prerogative Versus An Occupational Must

A brief rundown of my social history and characteristics:

Quiet and shy. Never a social butterfly. More of a larvae: unmoving; socially retarded. That’s me.

Push me into a ‘sizable’ group of female acquaintances and there’s no chance you’d hear my voice for two hours straight. Dumb smiling or listening is all I’d be able to manage. Confounding, yes. It’s actually one of the great mysteries of this planet.

In the company of ‘a modest number of’ friends I feel comfortable with, I am gregarious. My close pals would vehemently apprise others, “Geena (my blog name now, btw) is quiet and shy? No way.”

In college, my attempts to look cool, like my “gangmates”, included lighting up a cigarette every now and then during our hangouts. Still, for all my stab at sophistication, the flavor of smoke on my tongue was atrocious. So in the few seconds my pals weren’t looking, I’d spit out the foul taste on a nearby soil. I’d turn around only to see them laughing at me.

In my 20’s I started carrying a persona which was equivalent to: “You don’t like me? That’s tough. As I couldn’t care less.” Not entirely or always accurate from my core, of course.

My 20’s also saw me conducting with a lighter carriage amid my dealings with the opposite sex. I don’t know. Compared to women, it’s a breeze to be genial around men. It might have something to do with my being a tomboy as a girl. Plus the fact I simply like men.

The male bestfriends I had had were mostly gay; although my closest confidantes have been female. I believe it’s practically impossible to have a straight man for a ‘real’ bestfriend. Deep inside, straight men could consider only a fellow dude their true bff.

I’ve adopted a torpid stance in the pursuit and preservation of friendships these days. All relationships require effort. I figure why go pleasing certain #&@% when my own company is a lot more pleasant. Right right, I could get self-absorbed I admit. Or maybe, this is another plain manifestation of growing older. But really, most ladies my age here I find too blabby, as in blah blah blahbby bohring. Am I of semblance, as well? Indubitably not. Don’t forget — I am strange.

I hate pretending, to boot. Albeit there’s Breaking News: This coming summer season at school, whatever remains of my social skills will be put to a test – in the performance of my job. However did that come about? Story below.


I have two bosses – both foreigners; both from the land of unrepentant consumers of our beloved Bow-wow-wows. I am at the moment sitting across from the more difficult head honcho. Inside his room are he, the head teacher, and I. The special meeting has been going on for nearly an hour.

Our company is in the red – especially throughout off-peak seasons. We must try harder to keep students and not lose them, regardless of their disposition toward learning English. Teacher M, you have to pretend – even if the students aren’t good enough or well-behaved. No doubt as to your competence, but…you must strive to be like the other teachers who have to put on an act that all students are likable. For the benefit of our school.”

Holy Mother of Monster Tuna, how am I supposed to pull off something that repulsive (I ponder with worry).

Can I rely upon you on this matter?”

A painful pause. Sir…..I’ll try.”

You can’t just tell me you’ll try. Tell me you’re going to do it.”

A long, difficult silence befalls.

I don’t know… allow me some time to think about it.” Well, my conjecture is management can’t castigate me for maintaining my bar — which aims toward my predilection for diligent students, over the insolent and indolent ones. They should know I have my privileges, in view of my pioneering role in the academy.

My boss senses this. He begins to execute his last recourse: Teacher M, I’m begging you…”

Now that is mortifyingly awkward — sussing I’ve reduced my boss to pleading to his mere subordinate. Oh dear old MrPark, you need not beseech me.

Okay sir, I’ll do it.” I blurt out. “I am going to pretend. And I’m doing it only because you ask me to. This one I’d be willing to do. Just for you.”

A hint of blissful reassurance glints underneath my boss’s reserved demeanor.

It’s a tall order I may not be able to follow. I must remind myself, however, of the times my bosses put up with me, of the many times they had been patient with me – especially in one, no, two instances when I had plonked my job on the line for personal reasons (uh, that’ll be another blog post). I owe them that much.

We all came out of the meeting with a lighter heart. Giving in to his request somehow provided a hush, sided by a feeling of gladness.

Now I have to make a pact with myself to do a double sign of the cross each time I enter a classroom.



This favorite dance tune of mine by Bobby Brown was from the soundtrack of “Ghostbusters 2” a movie I didn’t like much. I love “Ghostbusters 1”, though, largely because of Bill Murray, whom I have adored ever since his first major hit — the wonderful and delightful film “Stripes.”

This star-studded video also (for a few seconds) featured Christopher Reeve, the original Man of Steel no other actor playing Superman could surpass.

Anyway, here’s the talented Bobby Brown before his messy marriage to the famous singer. I am of the opinion, too, the song is another underrated piece of his.

Tiny Thoughts On Not So Small Matters

Let’s not kid ourselves. We are not that special. Writing is something 98% of the world’s population can do given enough time, training, and experience.

Wedded Bliss is overrated. Save for being married to your soul mate. I still have to meet a long-time married couple who don’t constantly complain about each other and feel that they are stuck with their mates.

Very amusing. Try throwing them a bit of attention and they are quick to assume 1000 things that would make you roll your eyes massively in repeated fashion.

Every white person seems proud to declare his or her being non-racist — until a non-white starts making an assertion or express an opinion. A deed that they think is a privilege granted solely to their kind.

Pretty much for losers and social misfits, and those who have loads and loads of time on their hands. Yeah right, we’re all pretty much (secret or self-confessed) misanthropes here. 🙂

Kicking the bucket to boot. Still the greatest equalizer.