It's the end of the month, and I didn't get the call.
I sort of saw it coming, because Friday passed and it still wasn't there. True, I wasn't really
excited about it, but I still had the feeling that I will get it. The interview went well. I can say so myself: I had good answers and better questions, and I didn't leave with an empty feeling in my chest, whispering, "what the hell did you get yourself into?" I had a really good feeling about it, and then I'll find out that I wasn't even considered. Someone else beat me to it.
That should trigger my usual diatribes about how unfair the world is. I always thought that way. There was an interesting conversation I heard on Mancunian radio
last week. Never mind that it's a conversation within the context of the North West, because it works perfectly in my context, too. You can't get a job without work experience. You can't get work experience without a job.
The news came to me the same way everything else that came before it. I'll realize the dream is over. I'll be hurt. I'll start quoting Squidward after he squeezes a lemon wedge in his eye rather than on his cup of tea. "Why do I even bother?"
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Let's talk about that pre-nuptial video, shall we?
To be honest, I actually forgot about that pre-nuptial video. I remember reading about it in the newspaper and shrugging it off. Well,
I thought, if that's how they celebrate their love, then so be it.
A week later, I'm watching Sunday showbiz talk shows and promptly found out that the video's been labeled as controversial, and all because Maggie Wilson (not to be confused with the woman who ruined the mood at the Allison Iraheta concert
) and her beau decided to have a sizzling pre-nuptial video.
I mean, so what if that clip involves the couple pretty much making out in different settings, tastefully (or snazzily, whatever) shot? If that's how they celebrate their love, then so be it. And, of course, there's the fact that what you see on the video will happen after the wedding anyway. And then the report continues - "Maggie Wilson, magsasalita na tungkol sa kontrobersiyal nilang
pre-wedding video," that patronizing voiceover said - and I realize something. Right, the bride has a TV show coming up.
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Apparently Jose Fabella - the guy after whom the hospital was named - was the country's first secretary of health. Appointed by President Manuel Quezon before the war, he was, according to a memorial marker, given a free hand to implement reforms he deemed necessary. The guy devoted his time to establishing programs and systems aiming to improve the health of expectant mothers and their children, which explains why the Jose Fabella Memorial Hospital
is where pregnant mothers go to give birth - and why it always features during New Year's Eve newscasts, when reporters set out to look for babies who will be born at midnight.
I found myself with a smirk while reading that memorial marker. Thanks to his undying efforts and enthusiasm
- I'm paraphrasing here because I failed to bring a camera - the Philippines is now at par with other progressive countries in maternal and children's health, in the cities and in rural areas.
And yet the Jose Fabella Memorial Hospital, like most public medical buildings in the country, isn't exactly up to speed with the latest developments - or, at least, so the newscasts suggest. I mean, I've aware of private (and really high-end) hospitals with equipment so advanced it's hard to pronounce. Their marketing staff go out of their way to say that they offer "world-class" service. And here I am, in a public hospital, where fees are considerably less expensive, but everything else seem to be in short order. Or so the newscasts suggest.
So why was I there in the first place? My aunt, who lives twenty minutes away from us, is expecting her second child. She's due tomorrow. They aren't exactly well-off, so my uncle - my mother's brother - asked if we could bring them to the hospital when the day comes. Yesterday my aunt noticed some spotting - I don't know what that means, but she was also experiencing some pain, so they thought that labor was imminent. My dad drove the car and I provided the company, for what might be a pretty long night.
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"Indeed! We have run out of material!"
It's a random - well, not really - message that I sent Gwen
last night. I'm not bent on talking about why it isn't that random. Let's just say that it is, well, random.
Let's just also say that we had a pretty good conversation last night. It lasted for two hours, maybe three, although it only involved the two of us entering words into mobile phones. A pretty good conversation, since we talked about a bunch of things - and I didn't feel a bit conscious about it, which was odd. It just went one way and we went with it, even if it meant my mom catching me smiling after reading a text message.
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