I Love Coffee

I. Good Morning

Woke up this morning with a massive headache. I felt as if I slept on a rock all night. My head throbbed like it had its own heartbeat. Figured it was just stress -- had lots of to do for just two workdays, squeezing everything to make sure the market's happy. When afternoon came, hours after every corporate requirement was ticked off the to-do list, brain was still complaining. Asked AD to do wonders on my head and shoulders (he doubled as the office masseuse), good thing he agreed. Call it best friend benefits. Had a bonus ten minute rub session, but the pain was still there.

Told to this to my mom this evening (the headache, not the massage). Asked me if I had my coffee today. No, I said.

Ah, that must be it, she said. Happens to her too. It's a withdrawal.

Currently stirring my midnight cup. Headache's gone, but I need caffeine now to keep awake. Editing duty calls.


II. Issues

Am not really a starbucks girl in the sense that I would complete those holiday promo cards to get a free planner. I don't usually order frapp (on the rare occassion that I do, it's usually on those treacherously hot days). I can't appreciate their drips (when I taste them they're all the same and it must because they've overheated the coffee). Most of the time I order the same ol' same Short Cafe Mocha with a Shot of Raspberry. It's my whole life in a paper cup -- I take it all/most of the time because it works for me. Tastes great. Makes me happy. Fuck calories.

If I wanted my own cafe americano, I'd be mixing nescafe at home. (Btw, the "new taste new aroma" nescafe tastes WORSE.)


III. Parentology

The irony is I hate it when my dad drinks coffee. He drinks it five times a day. When we're there at home, he asks us to make him a cup, even if it's eleven in the friggin evening. He's been doing this since we were ten? twelve? some odd child age. Well, better this than alcohol. And we love him anyway. Anything to make him happy.

IV. Marketing

Must admit, the devils at Starbucks are genuises. I can't imagine we ALL fell for the comfy chairs, the wifi, the coffee bean story, the brew aroma (which, I have just found, they did on purpose, like a sampling ploy), the mug merchandize, the flavor stories, even the baristas who speak perfect english (so conotic an accent that I suspect they're rich bums) ... Their coffee's a killing at atleast 80 pesos a cup. Margins margins margins. Brilliant!

V. Love

Coffee bars took over dinner as a relationship starting point. Probably the trend now is friendster/myspace>> email>> text >> phone >> coffee >> dinner >> etc. In the old days, people actually met face to face THEN asked each other out to dinner. This generation's added too many steps in the courting process. Time to streamline.

Let's Play Distraction

"Hi."

"Yes?"

"I want to scream."

"Go ahead."

"Do you want to know why I want to scream?"

"'Why do you want to scream?'"

"I've got deadlines. For three different people. Using three different parts of my head."

"Left brain. Right brain. What's the third?"

"What's the third? ... You're right. Okay. I'm going to need both sides of my brain for three different things."

"Go ahead and scream."

"Can't."

"Why?"

"Too many people."

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"Hi."

"Yes?"

"I can't get to work on my stuff. Can't concentrate."

Reads papers. Ignores person.

"Do you want to know why?"

Folds paper down. Raises eyebrows. "I'm dying to know why you can't concentrate."

"There's just too many things to get done. Overwhelming, really."

"How many?"

"Three. Three things. One's a story I need to edit. Another's a story I haven't started. The third's just planning and making the most of long holiday. I hate wasting holidays."

"There is nothing there that involves abstract reasoning. You told me awhile ago you need both right and left brain."

"Hello? Planning is abstract reasoning."

"Says who?"

"Says Freud. Carl Jung. It's in theory."

"Freud and Jung actually theorized that the left brain takes care of planning vacations?"

"Yes. It's complicated stuff. YOu have to know where do you want to go, how much to spend; if you need to bring your big or small overnight bag, whether or not our cuz Gary should sit next to my mother, that sort of thing."

"Those little things need left brained activity?"

"Actually, come to think of it, should be more right brained. Yeah, that's right. Have to be creative in figuring out the thing to do."

Goes back to reading papers.

"LIke I said, I can't get my work done. Very distracted."

Turns next page.

"I want to scream. Do you get that feeling that you want to scream?"

"Yeah. I do. You won't believe I do."

Always the Eifel

Babot and I decided that we should get a culture upgrade at the Met. One more museum wouldn't hurt, she said. Think of all the impressionist paintings we'd get to see. Enough to last you your whole life.

When we got to that part in Paris (le rue's name escapes me now), the line was unbelievably infinite -- from the ticket booth a hundred people from a hundred more races stood under the scorching June sun. We did travel thousands of miles from Manila, but I didn't think that standing in line for hours when you've only got two days in France to spend was worth it. Babot shrugged her shoulders and then put on her cheshire grin. Look, she said. There's a man doing miniatures.

I looked across the street. A frosty wind blew, even though it was summer. (It must have been a normal gale for locals but my asian skin was not used to temperatures dipping below 20 degrees.) It fluttered the fresh paintings that were clipped to a nearly invisible cord that ran an impressive length along the Seine.

Shall we go see? I asked.

Of course, she said. I took her hand and we crossed the busy street.

There were tiny little frames, snapshots of nooks in France we barely knew. There were watered cafes and dreamy cobble-stone streets. Some pictures had women with long thin cigaretteholders with smoke curling at the ends. There were men in suits, their eyes looking as if they had read too many books. Always the Eifel, tucked somewhere in the distant back in dark bronze strokes. Soft, soft afternoon light. There weren't any pictures of tourists with maps and backpacks, whitebread men in hats and khaki shorts and sandals. No chinky-eyed asians with digital cameras. No drunken poets. No beggars. Not even portraits of painters which this city spored every minute.

Want to buy one? It's a nice souvenir, Babot asked.

The girl in the blue dress holding flowers would have made the wall in my apartment less lonely. I turn to look around, back to the museum I never got to see, the tourists arguing about where to go next, the red double-decker waiting for passengers at the bus stop.

Nah, I said.

Later that day at Champ de Mars I told her, This looks like a fine spot for posterity.

My mother laughed and gamely posed. I framed her in my hands, the Eifel silently perched above her like a crown.

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Happy Birthday, Ma. Love you!

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