Grackle Gone AWOL*

So I came to work today and found that my machine is not at my desk. The monitor is still there, but the system unit is nowhere in sight. The only indication that it was ever there was the remnants of unplugged power cables hanging in the desk.

The pictures and notes that were stuck by magnets on the system unit now lay flat on my table, beside the origami and toys that were also on top of it. I stood a good couple of seconds unmoving, still wearing my bag, trying to rack my brains for a reason. I was in this state when Karl came up from behind and in his usual bickering tone said, "O! Asan machine mo? Sinesante ka na!"

Of course not. Well, hopefully not, I thought to myself.

So where is my mysterious missing machine? Fortunately, one of my workstation neighbors informed me that it was the admin who took Grackle for transfer. I approached the admin desk and asked where and why it was moved. Apparently, they received an email late last night that I was the one who was going to train the new batch of developers for the first module of web development. Actually, this was the original plan but I was pulled out from training duty for some other task.

Yes, I train HTML, CSS, and Javascript. My site is so lame that it's almost embarrassing to admit it openly. This one I use is even just a downloaded theme, for crying out loud. But somewhat as a defense, just know that we focus more on the the code structure and not the aesthetics. (Pathetic excuse, I know.)

Anyway, I confirmed with Miss Tara whether there was indeed a mix-up or if I was really going to train that day, for some reason. She told me, "Ok na, nag-email na ako. Sinisi na kita."

Oh. It was embarrassed to be told that it was my fault all along. Was I was supposed to inform the admin that I was pulled out from training? I started to apologize but I eventually found out that Miss Tara meant that she CC'ed me in the email. Not that she blamed me. CC - carbon copy. Sisi - put to blame.

Haay. Miscommunication. Look how that turned out for Romeo and Juliet. At least, the only tragedy for me is just the few frantic and paranoid moments of unemployment.

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*Grackle is my machine name. It is a kind of blackbird. Our company names our network machines after animals, plants, and sometimes mythical creatures like Nazgul and Basilisk. Wouldn't it be cool if we had Marsh-wiggle or Dufflepud? :)

Elevator Blues

I have poor luck with elevators. It is officially one of my life's little annoyances.

At work, our office building actually has a decent number of elevator units. As far as I know, sixteen for each tower. Half of which serves the low zone, the other half for the high. But for some reason, a few of them are often out of order. So the zones are bunched up and before we reach the 28th, we have traversed quite a number of other floors.

And there's another thing about them that bothers me. I think some of my fellow software developers have also commented about the weird algorithm that our elevators have. Or the lack thereof. You sometimes see three units at a time heading down simultaneously. And it's frustrating whenever a lot of people are waiting to head up. Especially if it's almost ten and Azeus people are rushing to beat the OTS. :)

I also spent a lot of time in the hospital last year. And Medical City has really atrocious elevator service. And they're also aware of it. They have signs on the lobby apologizing for their elevators' (in)capacity. In the sign, they also included well-worded encouragements to take the stairs because it's good for the heart and overall well-being. Right.

The first few times, I tried to wait. But patience is not a virtue I had the luxury of keeping because I always had to rush to get something or to be somewhere. In the long run, I took the stairs, even five flights of it, just to save time.

But the elevator here in our apartment building takes the cake. It is old and tiny. It looks like it was hijacked from one of the sad MRT stations. When you go up, you have to press down; and you have to press down when you're going up. The fan goes on only when you're about to get off. The floor buttons are almost falling off. The control panel cover is secured with masking tape which is almost always ripped - exposing the switches and knobs underneath, crudely taped with handwritten labels: "man. up", "man. down", "lights", "fan", etc.

To top it all off, it has a sickness. Our elevator is moody. It hates our floor on some days. And on some specific hours.

Our room is on the fifth floor. And the elevator's idea of "opening" on the fifth floor is abruptly stopping, giving a few moments of violent shakes, separating the doors three inches apart, and then - nothing else. When this happens to you for the first time, you begin to contemplate your mortality. You'll start to think whether you're doomed to spend the last minutes of your life in this heaven-forsaken, lousy excuse for technology.

The first time it happened, my roommate actually yelled my name very loudly through the three-inch gap. Unfortunately, no one could hear her from the hallway.

But now, we have an established workaround. After the elevator's "turbulence" in the attempt of opening on our floor, we hit the close doors button and then the 6th floor button. It closes and goes up to the next floor where its doors smoothly (yes, smoothly) opens. Then we take the stairs down one flight.

So now I find myself muttering when I take the elevator, "please open, please open, please open." Sometimes my muttering ends with a sigh of relief, sometimes with a low curse. I have a friend on the sixth floor and I think about dropping by at her place just to make the detour trip more worthwhile, whenever the elevator is in one of its mood.

Well, at the very least, I can console myself that I'll have a healthy heart. Nothing about a cheerful humor, though.

Feel the Rain

Today's gospel was about faith. Faith like a child, especially. Please don't squirm. This is going to be quick and painless. I just wanted to share it.

The homily mentioned an oft-repeated story about a town facing food shortage because of drought. To address this problem - the townsfolk, along with all the religious groups, priests, and parishioners organized a prayer rally in the plaza to pray for rain.

But among all the people in the crowd, only a small child brought an umbrella.

I wonder at what point do we lose that sense of blind trust. When do we stop being kids who believe that everything will be ok and that life is simple. There are no conditions. Or negotiations. I wish there was some way to unburden ourselves with the doubts that keep on piling up. And begin to trust the truth that we are loved more than we realize.

Have you ever asked yourself the question: when you pray for rain, do you bring an umbrella?

“I assure you that whoever does not receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it.” – Mark 10:15

"I keed."

People say it's always refreshing to meet old friends. Patrick is NOTHING like that. He's not a breath of fresh air. He's a bombardment of dense, suffocating, noxious gas. Green in color.

But, boy, did we miss this guy.

He's the only one who can make "nonentity" sound like a dirty word - who can make ANY word sound dirty. The only one who can talk about sleeping with his mags with a straight face.

A few years ago, Liz, Tago, and I were newbies with Patrick. Just a bunch of greenhorns (that term is just asking for it!). Our team shared more than bugs and enhancement requests. Patrick is one of the reasons that COMIS established itself as one of the closest teams in the company and it carried over to our succeeding projects. Good teammate he is; wholesome he is not. In fact, there are parts of this evening's loud conversation that I didn't get (and didn't want to get) and I concentrated on practicing my Swiss knife skills of paper cutting. And no, I didn't cut myself, surprisingly so.

Behind all those jokes - crass, vulgar, grossly politically incorrect jokes - he's a good guy. Deep inside. Deep, deep, deep, deep down inside (Hey, it was Liz who said he's "wide"!). Actually, he just wanted to ask how I was doing. I could understand his concern because the dominant mode of update we have of each other is through our online blogs. But in real life, I'm not always as glum as I am in my blogs. Although I am AS clumsy. When he was walking me home, I missed a step because my shirt sleeve caught a nail on a tree. Of course.

Next time we all meet up, you guys try to keep the sexual overtones to a minimum, ok? There is a limit to the number of discarded receipts that I can mutilate. :)

Hooper Humperdinck

Ok, I’m just going to take a wild shot at this: Do any of you guys know who Hooper Humperdinck is?

I’m actually trying to solicit sympathy here, but I think I won’t get any if I compare myself to Hooper Humperdinck. I doubt if a lot of people remember him from children’s literature. He’s a character in one of the original Dr. Seuss books. And I really felt sorry for him whenever my mother would read us his story.

You see, all throughout the book, kids are having grand parties and are inviting everyone – all other kids with names starting from A-Z – except for Hooper Humperdinck. It’s basically just a list of birthday guests in alphabetical order. I would remember checking and rechecking the page wherein the names starting with H are enumerated, but no. Hooper Humperdinck was always excluded. I think I remember that every page in the book ended up with: “But no, not Hooper Humperdinck!”

I think they mentioned something about him being a party pooper, but I’m not so sure. I cringe whenever I see Hooper in the illustrations of the book just taking a peek into the festive parties he was not invited to. I found it really sad, even if I knew he was not a real person. I guess I was crazy, even as a kid.

Anyway, that’s who I remember now: Hooper Humperdinck. And I’m him! Metaphorically, of course.

My friend Tago is celebrating his birthday with an Amazing Race kind of competition. And no one wants me to be on their team!

Ok, I must admit that they have their reasons. It’s true that I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of Metro Manila. I don’t know how to commute. I am not very good at crossing streets.

I bump into stationary objects, parked tricycles included. I get tangled into hanging objects - tree branches included. I trip over the slightest bump in the ground - sidewalk curbs included. I spill, drop, break, and burn things - solid, liquid, and gas included. I cut, sprain, wound, and bruise myself – and those who are unfortunately within the disaster radius included.

And to top it all off, I have very poor sense of direction. Legendary poor sense of direction. Anywhere. I actually got lost in our dorm building back in college.

But are those reason enough to justify their prejudice over my potential contribution to the team (or the lack thereof)? It’s like being picked last in the playground when kids are choosing players for their teams. Or not being picked at all. Ok, maybe they are right. But, still! Poor me! Poor Hooper Humperdinck! Right? Right?

Or maybe I should just forget it and sign up for the coordinating committee.

Aargh. What a loser. >_<