Musings of a Hapabukbuk

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Magic Eight Ball: All Signs Point To Yes

hapabukbuk: i just dropped my work ID in the toilet
hapabukbuk: is it a sign?
Angel: No just confirmation.
Angel: You knew where that job was headed anyway.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

The Easy Way Out

if only i was small enough to fit in the toilet...which is still running by the way. i despise my landlord.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Take Up The Dance Robert Downey Jr.

Have you ever woken up from a dream completely exhausted but oddly satisfied? That is, without the obvious connotations exhausted coupled with satisfied make?

The beginning of my dream, most details of which are fuzzy, takes place in Sandra Bullock’s dressing room on the set of her latest movie, whatever that might be. I don’t know why I am there, but I know I am not supposed to be so when I hear her coming I dive under a rack of costumes, hiding myself with a dress of some sort. Being an astute observer of things amiss in her room, she quickly finds me by pulling back the dress. The fear of being found I remember quite clearly. She begins yelling and I run out as fast I can.

The next thing I know, I am in a bar of some sort (or perhaps it is the movie set?) where the main focus of the room is a large pool table. Details of this scene sharpen up significantly and looking around my memory, I find that it is most definitely the 80s. I am wearing a white silk shirt with shoulder pads and my hair is crimped. Robert Downey Jr., dressed in a grey suit with a skinny blue tie, takes my hand. He has long curly hair and a smile that makes me want to do naughty things to him. Across from us Sandra Bullock and another guy, anonymous like myself, take each other’s hands. Clearly we are about to have a dance off.

The four of us jump up on the pool table and have to push the low hanging light up into the ceiling so we have room to show our stuff. Anonymous guy pulls Sandy into him and twirls her out in a fabulous spin of feathered hair and iridescent taffeta. I grab Robert’s hand in an attempt to do the same, but end up spinning myself. Looking him in the eyes I think, I need your help Robert Downey Jr., I can’t dance this by myself. He gives me that adorable smile and pulls me in to him.

“Follow my lead,” he whispers in my ear and we start running toward the edge of the table. We jump off and I do the most amazing graceful split in the air and land into a somersault. The crowd is absolutely awed.

Then my roommate’s dog barks and I’m lying in bed wondering why I’m tired, but in a delightful way. Suddenly Robert’s sideways grin appears in my mind’s eye and I know exactly why.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

My Hapabukbuk Brother

one day in july 2003:

my bro: I am growing pineapple, oranges
me: luckeee
my bro: bananas strawberries
me: i dont think my window box would do the trick
my bro: peas, spinach and lots of herbs
me: a man of the land!
my bro: you could grow herbs in there
me: i had some lettuce...and a cucumber
my bro: You should see the size of our cukes!!!!!
me: i rocked that window box
my bro: I love growing things, never thought I'd get excited about things like chicken-Shit!
me: things like chicken shit?...ah, fertilizer?
my bro: yes
me: hee. chicken shit
my bro: I am making homemade compost from kitchen trash and yard trimmings
me: you are such a hippie
my bro: :-)

Sunday, March 12, 2006

How Ya Like Me Now? Maika'i

It occurs to me the word hapabukbuk may be lost on some people. Many people, since I kind of made it up from derogatory Hawaiian (Pidgin) words. You may be thinking, why would an intelligent woman such as yourself want to describe herself using such terms? My reply would be, I just like the way it sounds. For some that may be an unsatisfactory answer, for others on my wave length, it's funny.

  • hapa

  • In the Hawaiian language and in Hawaiian Pidgin, a hapa is an individual of mixed racial or ethnic heritage. Used without qualification, it is often taken to mean "part white", and is short hand for hapa haole. In the Hawaiian language, the word "hapa" can also simply mean half, part, or fragment. It is a loan from the English word half.

  • buk buk

  • (book book)
    Definition: slang term used to describe an individual of Filipino descent
    Used In A Sentence: Albert stay one buk buk or wot?
    In English: Do you know whether or not Albert is Filipino?

    Saturday, March 11, 2006

    It Could Be Worse

    That's what I've been telling myself since Wednesday night.

    I got home after work and stepped into my bathroom. "What's this?" I thought.

    "Why is everything wet?" I said out loud to no one in particular. I bent down to look closer. "And why is everything covered in
    dirt?!" The volume of my voice increased with each exclamation. "You've got to be kidding me! What the hell IS THAT?" I hovered in and out of the doorway, wanting to believe I was seeing things, knowing something awful happened in there when I wasn't around. I pulled my roommate in to assess the damage.

    "What's happening? What do you think it is? Is it from the toilet? Or the bathtub? How did it get on both sides of the shower curtain? Ew."
    "I don't know. Maybe it's the ceiling?"
    "But how? Where did the dirt come from?

    She shrugged. I shrugged too, not without utter disgust, stuffed the soaked rug into a garbage bag and stalked out of the room. I couldn't bare actually cleaning until I had something in my stomach, so I sat down and inhaled my dinner while contemplating what I could possibly do to magically make the situation disappear. I also had to pee but that was going to have to wait too. Eventually I resigned myself to gathering up the minimal amount of cleaning supplies I had (because of course I was down the last drops of everything) and set myself to expending the day's remaining energy on cleaning to a somewhat satisfactory degree. Then I went to sleep.

    12:30am I was awakened by the sound of running water. What is that? Did my faucet turn on? Is it raining outside? Where am I? I tracked the sound to my bathroom and pushed open the door. After my eyes recovered from being exposed to the burning bright light, I realized the ceiling was leaking all over my somewhat satisfactorily cleaned bathroom. And when I say leaking I mean someone upstairs turned the faucet on full blast without a sink underneath to catch the water. I danced around excitedly but slowly in my exhausted state, wondering what to do while swearing incoherently under my breath.

    OmaGAD I cannot believe I'm dealing with this right now. I pay WAY too much money in rent to be woken up by a leaking ceiling. I sear to GOD I'm going to kick that man hard if I'm ever within kicking distance. WHY can't he just FIX THE GODDAM thing instead of getting those monkeys to duct tape it? What time is it? Should I call him? He won't answer. Call him and leave a desperate message. Like that will do anything. Just call.

    So I ran out into the living room because my shitty sprint service doesn't work in my bedroom and made the call. Who knows what I said. Back in my room I took one last look at the bathroom, but as it didn't motivate me to do anything I shut the door and got back into bed.

    5:30am I was awakened by the sound of running water again. Oddly enough, the same exact thoughts ran through my head as did the first time. What is that? Did my faucet turn on? Is it raining outside? Where am I? The only difference was this time I realized the source of the sound a lot quicker. With an angry swipe at the door I remembered to shield my eyes before surveying the indoor rainstorm. It was pouring. If I had been thinking clearly I would have grabbed my umbrella and diverted as much of the water as I could into the tub. Instead I just stood there open mouthed, staring like a teenage boy at Pamela Anderson's boobs.

    Then the anger swelled and I did another little exhausted dance, trying to decide between calling my landlord again and calling a cab to take me to the airport so I could buy a one-way ticket to wherever my emergency cash could get me. The more sane but less interesting choice was made and I dialed the bastard. He actually answered and in my flustered state I managed to tell him that it was pouring in my bathroom and that I had to throw out the rug. At least one of my two points was important. I rambled angrily about it expecting him to speak when I paused, so when he didn't I kept going until finally I ran out of breath.

    His response? "Is it still leaking?"
    My retort: "it's like someone turned on a faucet."
    "Ok," he says like I'm putting him out, "I'll send over my guys."

    Gee thanks dickhead.

    And so I shuffle back to my bedroom and once again get into bed. Listening to an indoor rainstorm does one of two things: It can rock you to sleep when it comes from an electronic listening device, or it keeps you awake with thoughts about what can be salvaged from the wreck after the storm is over. I wondered pointlessly when his 'guys' would show up and tried unsuccessfully to go back to sleep.

    7:30am I decided to take a few things out of the bathroom so the monkeys didn't use/dirty/destroy them, when suddenly the storm hit again. There really isn't anything less fun than being doused with water from an unknown human source. I screamed like the girl I am and ran out of the bathroom. It would be a lot funnier if I was reading this about someone else. Eventually it slowed down enough so I could remove stuff from the room, as well as outside the room in the event that they broke a pipe and godforbid the place flooded.

    8:30am said monkeys finally showed. One guy knocked on the door and peeked his head in.

    "Is the dog still here?"

    I thought to myself, still here? My deductive skills lead me to the conclusion that you've already BEEN here once today and LEFT because you were scared of the DOG. However, both me AND my roommate have been here ALL MORNING and not once did we hear knocking or the doorbell. All of these details pretty much make me hate you right now because I can't shower before I have to go to work, nor can I pee without feeling like the ceiling might explode on me.

    I led him and monkey #2 back to the bathroom and let them get started. Monkey #1 was so freaked about the dog we had to keep him in my roommate's room. He seriously looked like he would leave again if we didn't.

    All I have to say is, nothing compares to hearing a monkey sing "Afternoon Delight" at 8:30 am. Nothing.

    Luckily, or unluckily for my roommate, she was taking a sick day anyway, so she could keep an eye on them as they worked. I headed off to work, pipe dreaming for a brand new bathroom when I returned, knowing it'd be a miracle if it was functioning at all.

    When I did return later that evening, equipped with all kinds of cleaning supplies, my roommate filled me in on the happenings. I ventured into the bathroom to look and was absolutely delighted to find the tin square the original monkeys put up when they fixed the leak a year ago, was back in place with more rust stains than before and less screws to hold it in place. It adds that certain deserted factory feel everyone covets in a bathroom. Even though I wasn't completely convinced the leak was even temporarily fixed, I spent the next couple hours burning the hairs in my nose while stripping the room of any dirt and germ related things, living or dead.

    At the moment, the leak is allegedly fixed with some kind of putty, but all that really means is in another couple months I'll have a very similar story to tell about my bathroom ceiling leaking, only next time it will end in tragedy. I have nothing against monkeys, but their keepers? That's another story.

    Friday, March 10, 2006

    WTHIWWY - (Preface) Big Ego, Small Package

    A reading from the book of What The Hell Is Wrong With You?:

    Like many people in large cities, I have the indescribable pleasure of commuting to work in a shuttle. The company I work for, however, intentionally uses the term shuttle to mislead you into thinking it will be a somewhat comfortable vehicle that a group of professional adults can ride in with dignity. This is in fact, only the tip of the lying, greedy, unconscionable corporate iceberg. In reality, we are forced to pack ourselves into a 14-seater, shocksless passenger van, which we are required to pay for using a small plastic card. A small plastic card that charges a fee to use, mind you.

    All of those indignities aside, today I was lucky enough to sit next to Mr. Big Balls. It is one thing to have long legs, it is quite another to sit diagonally with your legs wide open for no reason other than to mask your insecurity about the size of your tiny package. Had it been just the two of us, this would not have been an issue, but a third person needed to sit on the three-person bench with us. This is only possible for three adults when they share the area equally and respect each other’s space. Apparently Mr. Big Balls did not feel the need to follow this general guideline of common courtesy, so when I slid over to make room for the new person, he didn’t budge. He didn’t even move his leg, which would have been in my lap if I hadn’t shifted to sit diagonally myself.

    So thanks Mr. Big Balls, for making my morning commute that much more pleasant. The only thing I can hope for you now is that a man with a bigger insecurity about the size of his tiny package, or even perhaps a man with an actual big package, sits next to you this evening and makes you sit sideways in your seat for your stand still, traffic-laden commute home.