While we’re on the topic (see comments in previous entry)…my teammates have been calling me “stalker.” It’s not what you think, I am totally committed to H—I’m just sort of stalking a high school girl.
Wait, that sounds even worse.
Let me explain before anyone calls the cops. Haha. The next Ultimate league is the Malakas at Maganda league—each team should have seven players on the field, all of just one sex, either “Malakas” or “Maganda.” Our team’s minimum requirement is two lines each (meaning 14 guys and 14 girls) so that we could have subs. We have enough to field a Malakas team, especially since we’ve joined forces with once-archrivals MC2 (how’s that for “spirit of the game”?). But the girls…well, a few people have gone abroad for work, so we barely have enough to field one line of Maganda players.
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So I went home from work at 4:00 a.m. on Saturday, but it was all good. Everyone was in a surprisingly good mood at the office (surprising given the time), and two of my co-workers were sweet enough to supply us with food and drinks to ward off the late-night/early-morning hunger pangs (a double cheeseburger at 3:00 a.m.? I’ll take that!).
Of course I was a bit of a zombie at my 9:00 a.m. dance practice…learned a lot of choreo since I couldn’t make it to Thursday night practice (again because of work)—“Love Stoned,” “Kiss Kiss,” “Seduction,” plus a review of last week’s “Low.” Oh, my poor choreo-overloaded brain! Still, it was nice being able to dance again. A couple of years ago, I told myself I would only stop dancing once I got pregnant. But man, kids move differently nowadays. I think I’m starting to look ridiculous doing what they do, so I’m rethinking my dance cap. But then another part of me telling me that it’s all in my head, and, in choreographer Joyce’s words, I just “have to own it.”
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I have a newfound respect for people who work in parenting magazines, and magazines that require kid models. Recently, we had a shoot involving children ranging in age from two-and-a-half to nine, and it wasn’t easy!
For starters, it’s hard to get someone who’s barely three years old to understand exactly what you want him or her to do. (I think it was Johnny Depp who said that toddlers are like little drunks. Haha.) And then there’s the matter of trying to get them to stay still, and asking them to be patient while you’re setting up a shot—the feeling is akin to being constantly asked “Are we there yet?” Except you aren’t on the road.
It was a very tiring shoot, but I must say it was fun! It’s not for everyone though—if you’re going to work with kids, I think you have to be the type who loves being around them. It can’t be just another job.
After one long month, I finally got to play ultimate again over the weekend! Woohoo! But I could barely run (tsk tsk), plus I couldn’t wear my contacts so I could hardly see the disc (especially when it started raining). Still, it was fun! I could’ve done without that nasty gash on my knee though—I had to kneel to catch the disc at one point, and my knee landed exactly on a pointy rock. Wow. Out of that entire field, that jagged little thing chose to settle at the exact same spot where I would set my knee. I stood up and my skin was broken, not deep enough to require stitches, but deep enough to bleed into my socks and to make me wince each time I stopped running. (My solution? Keep running! But every time I would stop, it would hurt even more. It was a terribly fun cycle as you could imagine.)
Now I have these ugly little stripes on my knee, and it still kind of hurts to walk. Oh well. For the love of the game! (I’m probably just being a baby about this anyway.)
Got wind last December that Mishka flew back to the homeland and was scheduled to sing at Conspiracy and Magnet at High Street.
Preferred Conspiracy, given the more Bohemian vibe, but sched was screwed. So settled for Magnet. Mishka was wonderful, asyoosh…though I wish she’d sung more of the stuff from her album and not just covers…
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Though I am a consummate roadtrip junkie, I have to admit that any trip—be it one to a mall or one past the city limits—wreaks its own havoc in one’s pocket. And although I’d love to hie off to some undiscovered rustic paradise every weekend, I can’t afford to. Even the most frugally planned itineraries will require at least considerable funds for gas or transportation. And when you get there too broke to do anything, well, that’s just oodles of fun, isn’t it?
So what’s a weekend warrior to do for some serious urban detoxing on a cash-strapped Saturday afternoon? Simple, really…head off to your nearest park. I was at Loyola Heights a few weekends ago when I and all of 200 pesos in my wallet decided to slum it in Ateneo de Manila’s baseball field…
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Do you have a friend who works for a car manufacturing company? If you don’t, well, I suggest you make one pronto.
I’ve made quite a few friends from the motoring industry this year, and what I discovered was this: car parties rock hot ass.
I always scoffed at the idea of going to a shindig held by some corporation that made metal modes of transportation for a living. Let me demonstrate: Exhibit A: “Hey, let’s go to that Absolut Vodka event!”, then Exhibit B: “Hey, let’s go to the Christmas party of Toyota!” C’mon…no contest, right? If it’s a liquor event, then the bar list promises to be off the chain! A Japanese car manufacturing company party? Visions of ho-hum corpy types giving away keychains with the corporate logo as primo prize for the best karaoke rendition of “My Way” at a small function room wasn’t even the worst conjecture my steroidal imagination came up with.
And boy was I mistaken.
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