JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

Full disclosure: I once ate Happy Meals for a full week so I could collect all The Incredibles toys. That experience rid me of any further urge to consume McDonald’s products, unless it’s 3am and there’s nothing else.

My Personal Ordeal with the Arrogant Managers of McDonald’s

My name is Gary Granada, I am a KaalagaD volunteer, and I need 5 seconds of your time to help reduce the use of styrofoam in fast food chains.

What was meant to be a nice and simple Saint Francis Day motorcade-march to McDonald’s turned out to be a nightmare. We were rudely treated by McDonald’s, to put it mildly. Weeks before, we already sought a dialogue with them to reiterate our concern for their reluctance to reduce their use of styrofoam, despite their pledge to seriously attend to it during our dialogue in 2002! (Jollibee said the same thing, and while we are not satisfied with their response, at least they made some effort to shift to other packaging and serving materials.) We wrote to them, went to their office, made follow ups, waited for a response. The most we got from them was ‘you wait for our call’. They never called, never wrote back, but verbally said they will assign representatives to receive our motorcade’s representatives.

When we got there, their representatives turned out to be the Citibank Building’s security detail. Ill-mannered and impolite, they told us that they were told by McDonald’s that they were not expecting us. One of our staff went up to their 17th floor office to find out whether they were willing to sit down and talk matters. Told to tell us to wait, we waited. The giant that it is, the bosses of McDonald’s apparently regard little children, nuns, mothers, priests and concerned consumers as their employees. We asked how long we were supposed to wait and got no straight answer. Finally they sent word for me to come up, just me, no one else. I thought these people must have seen too many spaghetti movies, perhaps they thought they had a hostage crisis. I was led to a conference room that could easily sit six or seven people and was greeted by two bright boys.

Think about it. Naglakad kami papuntang McDonald’s, at pagdating namin doon, wala man lang bumaba para kausapin kami ng maayos. At pinatawag ako nitong dalawang batang managers!

It occurred to me that there were far more basic issues that plague McDonald’s than styrofoam. Like common courtesy. So I explained to these rich young rulers that the courteous thing to do was to go down, greet the delegation and ask how they may be of help. I even asked them where they were schooled, because in the public school in an obscure town where I came from, they manage to teach such things in Grade One. Their bloated bright brains must have taken up the space that was meant for their ears. It felt like talking to an electric fan.

Meanwhile I insisted that somebody from Greenpeace, the Ecowaste Coalition, Franciscan Movement for Justice, Peace and Integrity of Creation, and the JPICC of the Association of Major Religious Superiors of the Philippines (our partners in the activity) be present as well. They said they can only accommodate three people at most. Fine. So I said I and our staff will go down and we will send three people up. But at the lobby, the three representatives we sent were barred by security people from proceeding, again upon McDonald’s instructions we were told. It looked hopeless.

We decided to wrap up the program when out of nowhere a condescending woman materialized and introduced herself as the media relations officer of McDonalds. She said ‘Why don’t you go to Jollibee instead, they’re number One.’ To which Father Ben Moraleda replied, ‘We did, and at least they are doing something.’

On the side, irked by her audacity, Fr. Ben quipped, ‘And please take that hand of yours off my shoulders, I don’t like you.’

And all that commotion for a very simple and very reasonable plan: that McDonald’s reduce the use of styrofoam by 50% within one year. McDonald’s has once again demonstrated its arrogance and incapacity to appreciate the sincere and constructive efforts of common folks to protect our environment. Unlike them, we do not make money doing what little we can to help make things a little better for everybody.

5 seconds, that’s all I ask of you to help reduce the use of styrofoam. Sa mundo ng mga mayayabang, papansinin lang nila tayo kung tayo ay maninindigan. Take 5 seconds to think twice before choosing where to dine or order food.

WHEN YOU HAVE A CHOICE, DON’T CHOOSE MCDONALD’S.

I feel sad for that woman and those two young managers. So young, so successful, so ahead of their game, so privileged; so rude, so arrogant, so lacking in character, so bland. And I have since stopped wondering why their burgers taste the way they do.

While I recuperate from five days of enforced luxury and delectation (or as Migs put it, the Lifestyles of the Kobe Beef), here is a classic from the early ’90s: a letter sent to me by a reader, completely unedited. Have your friends over for beer and chips and stage a chamber reading.
Who Says Phone-pal is Fun?

Have you ever experience of having a boyfriend in phone? I mean, felling in love with someone you never seen before? Well, actually, I’m one of it. Sounds weird, isn’t? But, it’s true!

Having a friend in phone (or phone-pal) is nakakaaliw, specially ‘pag walang magawa. But my friends said, that ‘We don’t had to be serious about because we don’t even know if they are telling a truth or what. Basta the only thing you know is thay you are fond of talking with them. ‘If binobola ka nila, bolahin mo rin,'” they added. I know this kind of foolish thing will go nowhere because it’s only lokohan. But, lokohan for me became seryosohan when he came to my life, Gary.

Gary was the one who became my boyfriend in phone, one of Dingdong’s frind. Well, space is not enough to write if how Dingdong and I became pal. Basta the only thing I know was when Dingdong told me that he liked my company, he asked me a favor to call him. And so I did. But the one who answered the phone, was Gary. And that’s how our story began. We’ve been talked for a while, he asked my phone number, and he said that Dingdong’s number was his number too.

At first, well, masaya. Because he was so makuwento, madaldal, bolero, but malambing. Maloko? Yes! Because whenever I told him that I’m look tilapya, he said we’re compatible because siya naman daw, mukhang pla-pla. And he was honest. He admitted that he had a girlfriend already. But he said that they splitted for a while because her girl named Kay was too terribly possessive. And he added that I was a part of their trouble because once I called him, Kay was in his house. So they splitted for a moment.

Through phone, we became closed to each other. Until he courted me, saying some compliments, until he whispered the word “I Love You.” And he asked me to say that word too. I remember my friend told me that if the guy ask you to say that word, just do it na lang daw to make the conversation’s short. So, February 19, 10:55 p.m., was a moment when I told him that I love him too.

Pakikipagbolahan with him, I thought kaya ko. But, I was wrong. Because I felt something different when Gary told me that he and Kay got reconciled. I don’t know. But I was so upset and disappointed. Because one time when I called him, and Kay was in his house, he pretended he didn’t know me. So, the one who talked to me was his friend, Dingdong. But, despite of those things, I still tried to be nice with him./

Many days passed, Gary told me that he and Kay was no more. “Ang gulo niyo,” I told him. But then, he courted me again. He said we’re still on and we can continue our communications again. So he asked me to send him a picture. But before that, he asked me for a date saying that maybe I might be the one who could help him to forget Kay.

I know we’re just fooling ourselves. Pretending that both of us had a same feelings. But I knew it from the start that he really never had it eversince, neither a little. So I made a firm decision not to speak with him anymore. But before that, to complete his satisfactions, I sended him a picture.

Holy weekends, March 28, and. . .Gosh, What a surprised! It was Thursday morning when my Dad told me that there was someone who wants to speak with me, named Gary. I thought I was only dreamin. But then, when Ate Vern was in our house, he called me again. So, I asked my sister-in-law (Ate Vern) a favor that tell him I’m not here. But, on that night, when I was home alone, the phone rangs. I answered it and he knew my voice. He asked why I’m hiding him. And he said that he already received it. He added that my poem was cute, specially the picture. I never thought that he will love my poem, a poem that tells about him. And because of his too much gladness, he introduced me with his Aunties. They asked me if where do I live, how me and Gary became friend, and they’re inviting me to visits their place to meet them, specially him. And I was so flattered on that moment because I never thought that he will like me.

So, he always called me everynight, trying to beleive me how much I am really important to his life. And he said that his feeling for Kay was truly no more. Now, it was too late to realized that my feelings for him were getting back again. So, my planned, to hide him, became drawing.

Until one night, he asked me for a date. Because phone daw is nakakasawa na. I didn’t responsed because I was so confused what’s my bestfriend told me. And the more I became confused, was when everytime we’ve talked about meeting each other, I always feel he closed the door slowly for me. I asked him why? He said that paano na lang daw, if we’d met, and madisappointed daw ako sa kaniya. So, as much as possible, mangyari man daw iyon, makakarecover daw siya agad. So, I told him that it doesn’t matter what he lookslike. What is important for me is what he is inside. And I assured him, “Gary, I love you whatever and whoever you are.”

Actually, I really love to see him. Because I want to prove in a whole world that we’re not only a fantasies like a cartoons that we seens on T.V. I want all things be real, although I had some fears and doubts, looking for an answer if how can I be so sure, that his feelings for me is real and true.

So, what happened na? Sad to say, but the ending of our story is not maganda. Why? May 15 was a date that we had to meet. But it didn’t happen. Because I tried not to be in there, because I know he really don’t love me, nor even serious. And that’s how our communications staterted to cold. Of course, he did mad! At first, I tried to explain the reason why I didn’t came. And it works. He said that my doubts for him was wrong. So we still tried to planned for a date as our last chance. But, all of the sudden, his brother told me that he don’t want to speak with me anymore. I tried to asked him why, but he didn’t want to clear everything., nor even just to speak with me. I know I have some mistakes too, until it came to a point that. . . . .so hard to tell.

For being along in a few days, the words of my bestfriend Russell still whispering in my mind. Because all the words that she gave to me came true. She’s right! That Gary was not serious for me.

So, I confided my problems, to my Ate. She gave me of course, sermon, but some good and nice advices. And she told me that it isn’t important if who’s winner or loose because I have some faults too. And she added that think it na lang that it was only a bad dreams.

To see him face to face, madali lang iyon. In fact, one of my friends saw him, and she said that I’m not talo because Gary daw is not Gwapo. Should I had to smile? I know naman from the start that he’s not totally handsome. But despite of that, I still did love him. So, why should I? Anyway, for me, I don’t care what he lookslike, because I know, I’m nothing to him, eversince.

I know February 19 and a Holy Weekends still a memory in my heart. How could forget the one who taught me how to creat a poem, who gave me happiness when I was depressed, and who taught me how to be strong? How could I hate him? Well, I know a people like him is really hard to forget, specially that he’s one of my friends neighbor. But as I promised, someday, I’m going to see him. And I’m gonna thank him for all the good thing that he had done to me, and for being a part of his life.

They are right! Phone-pal is fun. But not all the time. Because you don’t even deserve it, to waist your time to someone you never know who really he is. Phone-pal? Not anymore. . . . .

X X X X
Baesa, Quezon, City

I’m being held hostage by Singaporeans. I have not had any time alone in days—every second has to be accounted for with food and alcohol and spas and clubs. It sounds like a great vacation, but I’M LOSING MY MIND. You’re going to have fun! Fun! FUN! even if it kills you! I’m groggy from lack of sleep. I got here Thursday just before lunch but I feel like I’ve been here a month. The media junketeers are in each other’s pockets 18 hours a day; it’s like we’re in a cult and were forced to marry each other. I feel like scrawling messages on the windows of the tour bus—Help! We’ve been kidnapped!—but goddammit the windows are too clean. Even relaxation time is enforced and regimented: Here is the spa. You have exactly one hour to refresh and have your spine rearranged. The masseuse gave me the Vulcan neck pinch: “I clack your neck lah! I clack your back lah!” Everything is orderly and pretty, like the contents of a snow globe without the snow. I actually miss Manila, which is just warped.

I’m in Singabore for five days. It’s the opposite of Manila: everything works, and everyone is working very hard at looking like they’re having fun. There’s a white haze over the city from the forest-burning in Kalimantan. Otherwise it’s exactly as I remember it. I always thought 48 hours was too long for a stay in Singabore, but the Singapore Tourism Board is striving to convince us otherwise by force-feeding us fabulous meals (possibly the best lobster bisque on earth) and putting us on an action-packed tour schedule (8am to midnight). We’re staying in a boutique hotel that was once a bordello (or maybe they’re just saying that). Across the street is a sign for Shanghai Hairy Crabs. Sounds like the worst VD on earth. Ach, here comes the tour guide.

I have three cats. “Have” is a bit of a stretch. It implies possession, and I really can’t claim to own these cats. Clearly, they own me—see how I run around doing their bidding. Keeping a litterbox in the house is a form of slavery. Occasionally they seem to possess me. It’s a good thing the Inquisition is over, or we’d all be in trouble.

I’ve always liked cats. When I was a child, cats would follow me home. The backyard was as far as they could get; my father had allergies, so we couldn’t allow furry creatures in the house. I would sneak food out to the cats, and before long there would be an entire colony of them lurking in the bushes. One day I was practising my cat impression (I was a weird kid), and my meow was so convincing that three cats began shrieking back. Then they started climbing the screens outside the windows, demanding to be let in.

My best friend Gail, who was my seatmate in the second grade, was allowed to keep cats. She had as many as forty cats in the house. They had the run of the place; some of them knew how to open the refrigerator and fix themselves a snack out of leftovers. Even better, they could feign total innocence when Gail’s mother arrived and saw the mess on the floor. “What? Moi? Rummage in the fridge? How too tacky. Maybe the dog did it.” And the dog, who had only come in for a little nosh, would slink away, looking guilty.

Dogs are terrible liars. They are devoted and affectionate, which is why they’re man’s best friend. Cats, on the other hand, are furballs of feral cunning. Eons of evolution have turned the cat into the perfect killing machine. Ever observed your cat around the house? She’s always plotting on killing something, or else she’s plotting on increasing her tribe so they can kill more efficiently. When she’s asleep, which is most of the time, she’s doing both. Whenever my cats catch a cockroach, they do not kill it immediately. They toy with it, practising their springing and pouncing. There is basically no difference between the genetic makeup of a housecat and that of a lion in the Serengeti. However, urban house cats have adapted to their unnatural environment. After generations of living with humans, they have learned that their primary weapon in the city is not their hunting skills. It’s their cuteness. Why eat mice when the human is perfectly happy to provide cat food, clean water, catnip, a comfortable home, and toys? All they have to do is look adorable, maybe act fascinated with string. Or okay, wear a costume. Did you know that cats don’t really meow? They do it because humans expect it of them.

The week before Gail died, her head cat left the house and never came back. I like to think that he was her advance party to the afterlife, and that he was there to guide her over the bridge. The last conversation I ever had with my best friend was about kitty litter. A week earlier, I had picked up a kitten on the street and brought her home. It was my first adoption; arguably, the kitten had adopted me. I had no idea how to raise a house cat—I just covered the floors with newspaper in case the kitten had to go to the bathroom. “You have to get a proper litter box,” said Gail, who could barely speak at the time, who had to communicate by scribbling on a Magic Slate because her lungs had failed. “Where do I get kitty litter?” I asked. “In the supermarket,” she said—Said, not scribbled, because this was important. And my best friend of two decades who was lying on a hospital bed connected to a morphine drip and surrounded by beeping and blinking machines, told me: “Don’t give cats too much milk, it makes them poopy.” You see, I do not have the constitution for tragedy, and in those moments when something profound and colossal must be said, I get poop.

So I live with three cats. I wake up every morning—well, noonish—and my cats Saffy and Mat are sitting on the bed, watching me expectantly. Koosi, the subject of that final conversation, is usually sitting at the window, watching the birds in the tree and occasionally swatting the glass. Or else she’s lurking under a shelf, waiting to pounce on my feet as I walk by. I get up and Saffy and Mat are already racing to their feeding bowls. The bowls are always full of kibble, but for some reason they will not start breakfast until I pour more kibble onto them. They don’t see the bowl as half-full or half-empty, only overflowing or nothing. Then I change the water in their bowls, splash water on my face, make myself a cup of coffee, and write my column.

It was my blog’s first birthday last Saturday and I completely forgot (It’s a different url, but the same banana). I should’ve remembered because it falls on the day before the feast day of St. Theresa of Avila, the only saint’s day I’ve ever bothered to remember because it meant there’d no classes at my old school. (Reminder: St. Theresa of Avila is not to be confused with St. Therese of Lisieux. One was a Doctor of the Church, the other was illiterate. Yes I am an academic snob, says the person who hasn’t actually graduated from college.) Anyway, Happy Birthday, Blog, congratulations on existing after I said I’d never blog.

My iPod Eomer is turning one later this month. (I always give names to my machines so they’ll be loyal and reliable. My iBook is named James Tiberius Kirk. My older Mac, who is dormant but can be revived with the installation of a new hard disk, is called Fergus. My oldest Mac, who is dead, was named Goran. Do you notice that almost the minute you get a new computer the old one dies on you?) I am proud to announce that after a year of dithering, I have finally loaded every song on every CD I own into my iPod (Doh, I missed that one). The entire Tom Waits discography, the complete U2, every song of The Police (Thanks, Jobert, I will return the boxed set), nearly every Elvis Costello, and way more Bryan Ferry/Roxy Music than anyone needs to hear. Yes, my entire music library (plus half of Ige’s, which I stole off his computer) is literally in my hand, and there’s room for a few thousand more songs (I really don’t like watching video on a tiny screen, although I will put in Jon Stewart throwing the first pitch at the Mets game like a 95-year-old grandmother). So I’ll go over to Ricky’s and swipe his entire music library, although I could probably live without every recording Madonna ever made. (If Madonna is your mother, is Sean Penn your father?)