when you speak;
Your words are
cold when they
when you speak;
Your words are
cold when they
The last weekend was probably one of the longest weekends (figuratively, of course) I have ever spent in my life. Ander and I arrived at the bunny‘s house at half past noon on Saturday. We’ve already been travelling 4 hours by then, and we’re about to go on another 2-hour trip with her family and relatives to Nasugbu in a nearby province, which is known for its nice beaches. Ander and I are like extended extended extended members of her family, you see. I’ve been in a lot of family things with them. But this is not just another one of them.
The weather was not the best, as an untimely storm made landfall that weekend. Nonetheless, we had fun froliciking in the huge waves, catching up, laughing at all her dad’s jokes, looking after the kids, just getting our hands on all the food — albeit functioning on 4 hours of sleep. Sunday night, and we were ready to head home.
Now the normal route home from Nasugbu is around 78km (48 miles) via Tagaytay and would take slightly less than two hours. Her cousin this time, suggested another route for some scenic views for everyone. He can’t be blamed though, the trip would have been magnificent …had it not been at night …and storming. Everything was pitch black.
I have been trying to give this site a fresh, new look these past few days as you can see from this pink and gold thing I have going on. You know that with every major change I do, I also update my pages. Today, I got stuck on my About pages… again. By stuck I don’t mean I don’t have anything else to say about myself, but rather I don’t know how much to tell. This has always plagued me. I wanted to keep it short. I really did. I wanted to be somehow discerning about what I spill online, especially since they can be read by virtually everyone, most of whom I barely even know in real life. But words are my thing, and I find it hard to keep the thoughts from pouring out sometimes.
But the galaxy I speak, is just one of the one hundred billion galaxies in the universe that is me.
So despite knowing so much, there’s still so much more you don’t and you never will. I just thought you ought to know that.
I think I could probably write a book of all the weird things men do or love that make absolutely zero sense to me – farting under the covers, the attraction to girl-on-girl action, and naming body parts (just to name a few).
But what has continued to blow my mind more than anything over the last several years is why men feel the need to hoot and holler things to women on the street. Why do they think it’s socially acceptable to objectify and disrespect women in the guise of — what they think is a — compliment? I’ll be all hot and sweaty, with my hair pulled up in a ratty ponytail, minding my own business while walking the dog down the street… then I’ll feel the presence of a car slowing down beside me. I hear “Hey baby, where you headed?”, “Woot woot”, or perhaps even more puzzling is this sudden-breaking-out-into-a-song thing they love to do. I once ignored an obtrusive catcaller, and was called something along the lines of a “bitch” for doing so. I flipped the guy off. “You’re not immediately interested in me, you must be easy.” Love the logic there.
Has this EVER worked for men? Have there EVER been any successful relationships that have started from this sort of contact? Is there a woman out there that would respond to this with a “Oh hello! I really appreciated the way you so sweetly called out to me from your car. No, I wasn’t aware of how nice my ass looked today, so thanks for pointing it out! Would you like to get a drink?” Are there any statistics on this? If not, can we start keeping statistics on this? I feel like this is something we need to track.
For a middle-aged man to do this while driving alone (probably on his way to deliver his truckload of perishable goodies), is just downright weird. What is the freakin point? You know, I can almost understand or excuse this if it is done by a carload full of young men. Oh ha ha, it’s so funny… and they all laugh and exchange high-fives. To be fair, the cat calling (in my book) has gone done significantly during the past few years. My teenage years to early twenties were the worst. I guess being in a five-year relationship helped, since I rarely have to walk the streets alone nowadays. Not that I’m trying to justify this stuff, because I think it’s wrong. But I am starting to think that maybe it’s something primal…you know, whoever grunts the loudest gets the hottest cavewomen?
Primal or not, it would be awesome if men could control their urge to shout pleasantries while I’m PICKING UP DOG POOP.
Paris (and Europe in general) has always been my dream. Love this quote on the Christmas card my cousin, who is now based in France, sent me:
“Ajouter deux lettres à Paris: c’est le Paradis”
Translated, it says: Add two letters to Paris: This is Paradis.
Ate, I’ll see you in Paris indeed.