Waking up to surprising rain was not really a disaster, even though the laundry I hang out to dry last night drooped heavily with drip. I tried not to whimper; one simply doesn't mourn the early passing of summer.
It was no big deal either to spend a cumulative hour and a half looking for the toothpaste, the deodo, good, clean underwear, my cellphone, my watch, my eyeglasses. And yes, my sandals – oh please, any which pair, as long as they match.
I have long reconciled myself to spending more time to look for things than to do them.
It is that time of the year again: I am helpless, hapless, maidless.
Which means I have to cook in a hurry before leaving the house. On the chopping board, I nicked a finger while slicing the ampalaya paper thin, the way I have to do it if I want gourd minus the bitter. Not missing a chomp-chomping beat, I simply licked the blood and sting away.
I went back to the motions of dressing, got engrossed with more flipping and fluffing, forgot I had ampalaya guisado simmering, until I smelled something scorching. I ran back to the kitchen ... uh-oh! …. toasted ampalaya, anyone?! I amused myself I might have stumbled on new gourmet cooking, the way lechon was discovered – by a bungling farm boy who accidentally set a barnful of hogs on fire.
Before I left home, I had set on the table a half dozen of perfectly-fried longganisa, silently saluting the unknown who invented sausage.
Inside the car, the rain grew more insistent. And where there's insistent rain, persistent traffic can't be far behind, -- and it wasn't. As we inched our way through the godawful maze, I hummed a tuneless tune to keep my wits about.
My dog day morning had begun.
Later that day would find me on a paper chase – in my office, the NSO, back to my office – that was supposed to lead me to a potty of post-retirement gold. Why do I have the feeling it would first lead me to the fixer’s den before anywhere else?
That night, I strained to remind myself the next day will be new.