Nevergirl's

I run into doorways, bump into chairs, fall down stairs, and hit my shin against furniture with almost psychopathic frequency. It’s a good thing modern furniture is sharpness-proofed by manufacturers; if they weren’t, I’d be a walking study in perforations! But wait, that’s not the worst of it. I almost failed Physical Education class twice—once in high school and once in college—because I run away from the ball. Instead of hitting it.

Yes, I am a wimp—the biggest wimp of them all, in fact—unless you consider Scrabble a sport, which my high school did.

Photo credit: Aileen Siroy

Oh, and this is me. With a rented bike. In Guimaras. I don’t know why I look incredibly happy; I had no reason to be. Because I’m the most physically uncoordinated person I know, I spent more time walking the bike than riding it. I bet I make you feel good about yourself by default. Hahaha!

Remember what they said about Mohammad and the mountain? Well, they can officially say the same about me and Cebu. That sounds arrogant, I know, but it happens to be the truth at the mo. Because I cannot go to Cebu, Cebu’s flying over for the weekend. Whooptedoo!

That I actually talked three friends into visiting is a major feat because

1) I live far from any recognizable city on the map.

2) I’m not even sure this place is found on a map.

3) this town lies smack-dab in the middle of a major fault line.

4) there are no tourist spots here.

5) there are no malls here—no, libraries, no restaurants, no, not even a coffee shop.

6) the stores that sell Purefoods hotdogs are all a two-hour drive away. Do not even get me started on Purefoods corned beef—that blue one. I load up on blue Purefoods corned beef once a week whenever we do the groceries, and by load up, I mean hoard in a maybe-the-world-will-end-tomorrow-and-there’d-be-no-store-left-selling-these way.

7) they did not get their tickets on sale.

These three people must miss me really bad. That, or they’re running away from the police. That, or they’re in dire need of career advice (though why they’d fly all the way here to hear that from me is beyond me!). That, or they’re planning to look for Queen Maniwantiwang’s missing jawbone here. There must be some dramatic reason! Why else would anyone give up the city in exchange for boondocks-living even if it’s just for three—almost four—days? And because I’m heartless, ungrateful, and emotionless, I’m putting the visitors to work as soon as they get here. I’ll make them fish and catch chicken for dinner. No catch, no meal. Joy.

I’m always puttering about with language—as if it doesn’t faze me at all that I brunch on language for work. If I’m not looking up the best acne products, adopting a word (I’ll show you how this works in another post), I’m reading about word origins or looking up linguistic curiosities—and yes, I am incredibly boring like that.

Today, I’m 75 percent decided on moving to Pittsburgh because I found out it is home to two of The Most Important Things in My Life (ah yes, the capitalization shouldn’t leave any doubt about these words’ significance): baloney sandwich and idiosyncratic slang.

For instance, elsewhere in the U.S, they call it a submarine sandwich. In Philly, it’s a “hoagie”. They call the pavement “payment”, play the “pieano” in the “pallor”, get their teeth fixed at the “denis”, dump plates on the “zinc”, and never go to the beach unless they are “down da shore where the ‘lantic Ocean is.”

I wonder what name they call the giant bratwurst. The Big Kahuna? The Big Maher? The Big Mahoff?

The man and I email each other. “What a sweet thing to do!” you’re probably thinking. Well, hell, no. The man doesn’t think so. He thinks the email exchange is a sure sign that I’ve gone off the rocker, because

1. we live in the same house.
2. the email exchange occurs even though we’re only five paces apart.
3. I discuss all sorts of girly things via mail (compression stockings information, for example), and well, that’s just more gayness than his testosterone can handle.

But well, he’s used to me now, this man I married, and he doesn’t even bat an eye anymore whenever I tell him, “I’m mad at you. Don’t talk to me; email me instead.”

This was our last email exchange last night:

Dear Husband,

How well do you know the woman you married? Please take the time to read this.

His reply:

Dear Wife,

Well enough to nod at the parts that call you a loon. Please stop telling the girls they came from my sperm.

Isn’t that the most unromantic letter ever? Sometimes, I’m convinced Wett and I have communication issues. That, or he simply disagrees with my science (because hey, if it isn’t the sperm, then it could only be God or the stork).