love in the time of cholera

I have just finished reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez' 'Love In The Time of Cholera.' It is the story of Florentino Ariza, who fell in love with Fermina Daza when they were young. Fermina got disillusioned after a few years of carrying a love affair that consisted mainly of letters exchanged through telegraph offices. She went on to live her life, married a rich man, had kids, and loved her husband till he died. Florentino Ariza continued loving her, and while he vowed to wait for Fermina Daza, he had 622 affairs which he meticulously documented (excluding the one-night-stands). Fermina's illustrious husband died an undignified death by falling off a ladder while trying to catch a problematic parrot, and Florentino comes back on the first night of Fermina's widowhood to proclaim (once again) his everlasting love.

It was funny and touching, meticulously written, and never tedious. It is the simplest story, of a love that withstood all possible tests of fate and time, and yet the characters were extraordinary. You could laugh and be aroused at how the virgin Fermina spent her first wedding night, you could commiserate with Florentino and his chronic constipation, you could marvel at the love of Transito Ariza for her son.

The first time I read Gabriel Garcia Marquez was in my sophomore high school year, when I found my cousin's copy of 'One Hundred Years of Solitude.' I had to make notes to remember which character is the child of whom, and still, sixteen years later when I bought my own copy and read it again, I am overwhelmed by the complexity of it all.

How I'd love to be able to write like that. But reading it, and knowing the pleasure that there are millions of books out there, is enough joy.

a little about love

I had lunch with Susan today. And in the course of a one-hour discussion which included food, raising children, ballroom dancing, and shoes, we tackled how to make husbands feel loved.

When they fight, she gives massages and sponge baths to make up. She is anxious not to make him angry, because she says she holds him in such high respect. They talk a lot, cuddle a lot. And she says she often tells him she loves him, because there might come a time when the chance to say that will be gone.

I do not know Susan well and I don't know her husband at all. But what strikes me is their willingness to take the present, now, to enjoy each other fully. Sometimes, in a marriage, one or the other is too selfish to share himself. It's 'Why should I give first?' It's 'What do you expect? He is not the hugging type, so there's no sense doing it when he doesn't hug me back.' 'Why should I spend time cooking breakfast for her when she has stopped doing that for me a long time ago?'

It's sad when we expect too much. But it's sadder when we don't do enough just because we think the other person deserves only a little of what we can give. Love, like most things in this world, is better if we give it wholeheartedly, with passion, with abandon, with an open heart. You savor it because you have the chance to give it and not because you feel like you deserve to receive something equally abundant. And it's not in things like using up your savings to help her buy that dream car, or giving up a career to stay home and have the kid. It's in little things like caring enough to know when he needs new socks, or boiling the water for coffee when you wake up a few minutes earlier than she does.

It's in little things like a massage after a hard day in the office, or a sponge bath when you're done fighting and you've made up. That's love.

one rainy day

This morning I was quite pissed off. I woke up to a light rain, which means that my husband will not be able to bring me and my daughter to school in the motorcycle. Because it was a cold morning, we were slow in taking breakfast and doing our morning rituals, and soon enough we were running late. And as is customary on rainy mornings, my husband does not even want to get up from bed.

So off we trudged, my daughter and I, in our hooded jackets and a single umbrella. We had to walk through wet grass to get to the road, and she started to complain that her boots would get muddy. The tricycle would take us no farther than the subdivision gate because traffic on the highway is bad most mornings (which is why the motorcycle is a convenient school service). From the gate is is faster to walk about two blocks to get to the school, than ride a jeepney stuck in traffic.

Then I remembered that I left my office drawer key in the house, and it has become too troublesome to go back for it.

My daughter's backpack is very heavy. It has wheels, but since I am too tall to drag it behind me, it will give me a heck of a backache. I carried it on my back, slung my office bag on one shoulder, opened the umbrella, and we got ready to walk. I am now really quite pissed off.

Then my daughter looked up and saw the rainbow. She squealed in delight. It was a complete rainbow, a wide arc in the brightening sky, and the colors were lovely. And as we walked to school it was in the sky on our right, and we talked about why they are called rainbows and what's at the end of it. Soon we were laughing a little, stepping over the puddles, and talking about what's good to eat for dinner later. By the time we reached the school gate, the rainbow is almost gone.

I looked at all the people riding in the jeepneys, thinking they could all be pissed off about the rainy morning and the traffic, and they did not see the rainbow. I thought about the key I left and my husband still lounging over breakfast while we were rushing for school.

And I thought that if we hadn't been walking to school, we would have missed the rainbow. We are always in a hurry to do something else that the most beautiful things go by unnoticed. Like rainbows, a child's laughter, a little love shared on a walk to school.

office toilet

Most of us have our routines ready before we leave for work. We watch the early morning news while eating breakfast, then sleepwalk to the bathroom, take a marathon bath, and do our little business to keep the plumbing free and easy.

Some days, for a variety of reasons, we are unsuccessful in our sittings on the throne. So we arrive at the office, a bit anxious, and in the course of the day we feel the urge. In my case, I'm pregnant, so I have a little bit more difficulty than the average person.

I used to work in a school. Oh, the misery of it all. You check out the ladies' room in all floors, hoping for one that is not crowded, hoping that the flushes work, and (dear God) that there is water supply. Even then, you cannot concentrate on the business at hand when a crowd of students would come giggling, bang the cubicle doors open and shut, and comment on what's taking the occupant so long. You cannot lock the whole toilet for a few peaceful minutes, because then the students would wonder, and call the Facilities Office for someone to open the door.

In the office, the toilets are generally more pleasant. There is very light traffic the whole day, and no one would wonder aloud why you are inside the cubicle for half an hour. You can even strain and groan in relative privacy. If you're lucky, the office toilet has plenty of toilet paper, and the bowl automatically dispenses a spray of something that smells like disinfectant when you've unloaded something unpleasant. So the scent doesn't linger. If you're very lucky, the sinks have liquid soap and a hand dryer.

My daughter has this queer habit of checking out toilets. The moment we step inside the mall, or sit down at a fastfood or restaurant, she would tell me she needs to go to the bathroom. When I ask if it could wait, of course she reaaally has to go. So we go. More often than not, she'd give just a little tinkle, then announce the verdict. Stinky toilet, no water, locks don't work, no hook for placing Mama's bag. I have become a fan of eating places on the basis of which one has the most pleasant toilet according to my daughter. My daughter even insists that we write it down on the little survey forms they give you at the end of the meal.

Needless to say, the toilet in my current office received good points from my daughter, because there were plants on the sink, thick paper towels to dry your hands on, and liquid soap that smells like bananas.

m is for mama

Three days ago, I learned that I was pregnant. I could not stop smiling, but then I could not stop worrying. Part of me wishes I had taken the pills, and part of me wants to buy color-coordinated baby bottles next payday.

I've eaten KFC Caesar's Salad for the third time this week. I have been wanting to eat yogurt in the evenings. I am usually very sleepy in the afternoon, which gives me a hard time with paperwork. Then I could not sleep on the van on the trip home, which I have been doing for the last four months.

I have been to the maternity section of SM twice, checking out the clothes. I've picked out two sandals with low heels, though I will only be needing them by January or February next year.

There is a trip to Tokyo that I might join in November, I had planned to take the qualifying exams for an MBA degree in January, and we're buying a car in March, but being pregnant changes the plans.

This is so different from the time I had my first kid. Back then, I was so worried about the budget. There were monthly check-ups and vitamins, aside from the house rent and utility bills. We also needed to save up for the childbirth and hospital stay. I had one maternity pants and three dresses, which I had to buy so I would have something to wear in the office. Right now, my biggest worry would be getting to the hospital, period. There is a P2,500 pair of pants that I saw in a store yesterday. It would be nice to wear in the later months. I could buy it, but I didn't. I don't need an expensive wardrobe just to have another child.

I don't have violent moods, cravings for strange foods in the middle of the night, and aversion to perfume. I haven't had the chance to be pampered yet. But my husband has been very kind these days. Pregnancy has its desirable side effects.

eulogy

When I was nine, I thought grandmothers lived forever. You see, I knew that mothers broke promises and left you. My grandmother did not hug or kiss children. Her tongue was sharp and her words make the heart bleed. My grandmother was a tyrant, but she was there. As early as I could remember, she had always been there.

When I was growing up, we had crocheted white curtains on the living room windows. There was a matching crocheted table cloth in the dining room. I went home last week and took one of the curtains. I haven’t seen them in years, after my grandmother gave in to the modern times and ordered yellow-gold satin curtains and cream lace curtains. I put the curtain on my dining table as a tablecloth. It must be at least thirty years old. It was delicate, and in places the crochet had unraveled. And as I admired the hard work in the pattern, I thought I could repair the piece. I knew how to crochet; my grandmother had taught me.

Like crocheting, there were so many valuable things I learned from my grandmother that I ignored, or used to laugh at. They are the teachings in life that didn’t make sense when you were nine, or nineteen. Like getting fine furniture to give dignity to your house, or choosing tailored clothes over ready-to-wear ones.

My grandmother taught me never to accept second-best. For her, ‘good enough’ is never enough, from the grades you bring home from school to the service you receive in fast-food restaurants. She taught me that my happiness comes first, because in the end you will be alone, and if you die sad you only have yourself to blame. She was afraid of being alone, of being old, of being forgotten.

If we displeased her, she always threatened to die and haunt us. My grandfather was a submissive, quiet man who never interfered when my grandmother spewed the curses that would befall us if we did not behave. As a result, I never feared ghosts, vampires, and the like, because the Real Thing was alive and could terrorize both young children and old men. Although I vowed to be never like her, I married a quiet man who doesn’t like to fight. My daughter can be silenced with one look from me, and I am notorious for terrorizing call center agents, customer service staff, and parlor beauticians.

My grandmother loved cats. When we were little she adopted orphan cats that slept on the sofa and left so much cat hair on the beds they make you sneeze. The cats defecated inside the house and it stank to high heavens, but she did not have the heart to kick them. When she became bedridden, one cat would always enjoy the ride on her lap when she sat in her wheelchair. As a result, I talk to my cats and allow them to jump up on my back and scratch my clothes. I don’t hate dogs, but I’ve always mistrusted their wet noses, rolling eyes, and waggling tail. Dogs are too big to cuddle.

Her room in the old house looks the same, although she had not slept there for as long as I can remember. She is fond of umbrellas, and there are four new ones hanging behind the door. She likes to take apart old dresses and put together the accents in different outfits, mixing and matching sleeves, collars, belts, appliques, and skirts. In her closet are scraps of Spanish lace and embroidered collars, waiting for her patient hands to recreate into some fashion statement. The towels are individually wrapped in plastic; they are the monogrammed ones that are reserved for when guests arrive. I picked up a tiny ID picture of me when I was a high school sophomore. She kept our photo albums on display in the living room.

My grandmother died last year. I went home for her funeral and helped sort her things. I saw my childhood in the things she kept. There were the kitten-pattern shorts I sewed as a high school project that I could not wear because they were too tight. There was the cross-stitched ‘Home Sweet Home’ wall décor in the fifth grade that she had had framed in carved narra wood. There was my Art Folder, and I remembered that we once had to do artwork using flower and leaf juices, and I broke out in hives from foraging leaves that she said were the best ones. There were the letters I wrote home in my high school and college years, either asking for more rice, or thanking her for sending fruits.

When I visited her grave, I thought I should go home every year to bring flowers and light candles. And I was filled with sorrow to think of all her birthdays that I had allowed to pass, as she wrote letters telling me how sad she was. I think of all the stories she never got a chance to tell me, about her life, about the girl she once had been, about the town I left behind. And I think, perhaps she did not know how to tell me, because I did not know how to ask. I am left with little pieces of her life, the pieces that I live with each day, the lessons that I recall from my childhood.

And now I see my own daughter, so attached to my mother-in-law that she is asking if she could live in her grandmother’s house. She asks for her grandmother’s night light and a little gas lamp, and her grandmother obliges. Her grandmother cuts her hair, allows her to play in the sand, and shows her how to save for a new doll. Tyrant or not, there are things that only grandmothers can teach.

When the crocheted curtain-turned-tablecloth is complete, I will try something else. Like cooking sweetened sticky rice, or making a patchwork blanket from scrap cloth. The way she taught me, the way I remember. Because I was right all along. Grandmothers live forever. They are in their granddaughters’ hearts.

letting go

My daughter grew up attached to a little bolster pillow that she had named ‘Baby.’ I made Baby’s blue-and-yellow pillowcases when I was still pregnant; I sewed them by hand in my graveyard shifts at the call center. I would re-stuff Baby when it became flat at least twice a year.

My daughter never went anywhere without Baby. She could not sleep without Baby. She dragged Baby while playing, while eating, and on trips. In one of our vacations I forgot to bring an extra pillowcase for Baby, and it became dirty. My daughter cried as Baby’s ‘dress’ was washed and she waited as it dried on the clothesline. Baby often stank because my daughter would rub the end of the pillow against her mouth as she waited to fall asleep.

When my daughter turned five, we talked to her about Baby. We said she was growing up, and it was time to outgrow Baby. Besides, the pillowcase is already too frayed and faded from five years of washing, since she never wanted Baby to change dresses. She cried.

We scheduled a shopping trip to buy Baby’s replacement. We had agreed on a soft doll that she could still hug when she went to sleep. She would choose the doll, then we would put Baby in a plastic bag for putting in the trash. Which was what we did, although the day was punctuated by little sobs as she prepared to say goodbye to Baby.

She slept poorly on the first night without Baby, but after a few days she declared that she loved the new doll, which she named Sabrina.

Sabrina wore a pink dress and had little knickers. Sabrina also had the habit of disappearing whenever my daughter misbehaved, so my daughter got very cautious about offending Sabrina. As a result, they got along well most days, and the house is peaceful.

After a year, Sabrina lost her button nose, and my daughter said Sabrina was getting ugly with age. Already she would forget Sabrina when she runs out to play. I know that she would soon prefer more ‘grown-up toys’ as she declares ‘I’m a big girl now!’ It would not be too long before she gives up the doll.

We could learn a lot about letting go from little kids who say goodbye to old bolster pillows. The same could be said for broken hearts, lost loves, dead pets, wallets left on buses, and stolen boyfriends. We could cry a little, then it’s time to move on. Sometimes we outgrow the hurt, sometimes we forget. Sometimes we always remember, but we live with the loss.

Because there is a reason why we have to let go of things. It’s either something better will come your way, or you were never meant to hold it forever.

lotion lesson

I have always loved body lotions. My favorite is Ralph Lauren Goodbye Dry, which has body shimmer. Then there's Dove lotion, which is sooo difficult to find in the local department stores. At home, we have Vaseline, Body Shop, Jergens, Avon Skin-So-Soft, and Johnson's Baby Lotion. I prefer lotions over perfume and cologne, and I love slathering it on after a bath. If there are women who drool over makeup, I get my fix from body lotions.

So you can imagine my pleasure at receiving lotions as gifts from my husband's two brothers, who are both seamen. I usually get Victoria's Secret's Strawberries and Champagne. Last night, I got a different one, Pear Glace. So I was excited to put it on, which I did this morning.

And on this morning, in my brown giraffe print dress, a beaded belt, dangling earrings, luxuriating in the feel of my new lotion, I felt good. That was, until we hit the traffic. I was riding on the left side of the van, in direct sunlight from Alabang, through SLEX, all the way to C-5 and coming into Pasig. That was a two-hour ride. And all the time, I felt like I was steaming in my scent. I thought I smelled like the air freshener used by airconditioned buses going to Laguna, only. By the time I reached the office, I was badly nauseated. I was also sweating, my arms were sticky, and I had the beginnings of a headache. It's almost lunch time, and I'm still groaning.

Next time I'll save the lotion for when I'm already in the office. At least it's airconditioned, and if my scent fills up the office, well then, at least I won't feel so much like I'm polluting the environment.

ignorance

you don't ask, and so you don't know
you don't mind, and so you don't know
you don't care, and so you don't know
you don't think
you don't dare
you don't love, dream, or share
you don't try, fight, or play

you don't know
you don't live
and you don't know
why

elephant sitting on my heart

tusky, pink, wrinkled
little elephant
bright merry eyes
floppy ears, swishy tail
moving along on cat's feet
ambling, stumbling, fumbling
for the sun and dust baths
magnificent, regal
playful oh so naughty
looking for a place
to rest your wandering soul
tested my cold empty heart
and sat
and sat
and sat
and warmed it
liked it too much
grown bigger--
no more place, no space
to take even a mouse.
won't go away.
cruel little elephant
is it my fault
you stayed?

haunted houses

I read 'The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red.' Fond as I am of the horror genre ever since I read Stephen King's 'Firestarter' when I was thirteen, this one gave me the creeps. (Well, a little.) Perhaps it's the understanding that this one is not a work of fiction. With stories like 'The Tommyknockers' or 'Carrie,' you know somehow that some horribly twisted and magnificently imaginative mind created them. When it's a diary, an element of delicious horror is added.

I do not discount the existence of haunted houses. I respect those who believe in the supernatural and have experienced unexplainable things. I used to live in a house that, although may not be classified as haunted, was a little bit strange. One would glimpse movement in the mirrors or see reflections of things that are not in the room. Or one would hear chairs being dragged at night, someone sweeping the upstairs floor with a hard broom, or knocking on doors when nobody is there.

But because I grew up with all those things, I thought all houses were like that. As children, we never asked what those things were. The adults brushed us away, saying it was our imagination. We got used to it. We only grew closer together, all staying in one place. We did not sleep in the rooms, but in the hallway, beside each other. We washed plates together, studied in the living room together, climbed the stairs at night together.

Now perhaps I should ask. Perhaps old houses have ugly histories, and perhaps they have memories. Perhaps they have a 'presence.' If those things are not for us to understand, at least we could accept, as long as we are not harmed.

not unhappy, but... (part two)

It's one of those times again, when a perfectly fine day goes by and I feel like I've accomplished nothing. Of course I feel guilty, annoyed, and vowing (once more) to do better next time. But 'next time' turns out to be a repeat of said day-gone-to-waste. I have the whole weekend, yet Monday will find me in need of a pedicure, with a pile of unpressed clothes, half-read magazines waiting to be sorted, three-month-old pocketbooks awaiting plastic covers.

But I should stop whining about how I cannot manage my time. Why do I feel like I have to do so much? Because I have so much. I am a good tutor but I haven't managed my daughter's study habits. I write well, but I haven't gotten around to getting something published. I have more money these days but my credit card bills remain unpaid. And I have gotten lazy.

So I feel bad, because I feel that if I don't use these resources well, they will one day be taken from me. I have waited a long time to enjoy a good life with my family, and now that it looks like it's happening, I often sit on the terrace the whole day to read a book I've read five times already (Prince of Tides, quite wonderful). I think I've never done a single resolution well, such as getting up early. I tried this morning, but promptly went back to bed when I saw it was still dark outside.

And here I am, knowing perfectly well something is not right and something should be done, but I just write about it. Pathetic, my dear, pathetic. I have to groan when I read my old post, 'What's Holding You Back?' Why do I try so hard to make my life so complicated?

meow!

I love cats. I grew up in a house where cats are members of the family. I assisted in cat births, shared my food with cats, wept over their deaths. I have photographed cats, been bitten by cats, rescued cats from dogs. Of course, on occasion I have also kicked cats, but it does not diminish my regard for them, even as I threaten to chop them up and throw them in the frying pan if they do not stop stalking the African lovebirds.

Panic was my cat in Cubao in 1998. I fed Panic cat food, even when we did not have enough money to buy groceries. Panic knew when I'd be arriving after my midnight shift in the call center. He would jump up on my shoulder and allow me to carry him inside. He did not allow anyone else to do that; he was bad-tempered and would often bite ankles. He also hated my youngest brother, clothes hangers, and for some obscure reasons known only to cats, the commercial jingle for Flintstones Chewable Kids' Vitamins. For exercise, he would chase flies. He could jump really high when he was on his fly-catching moments. He looked at rats with mild condescension, and so he could never be bothered with them. We had big rats that would scamper around at night, sometimes running over our feet as we slept. Panic would give them a single bored glance and go back to sleep-- on my pillow, of course.

Miminchi grew up with Spotty, my daughter's dalmatian. The dalmatian often forgets that even though they sleep curled up together, she is now much more bigger than Miminchi. When they wrestle, Miminchi ends up slobbered with dog saliva, and I assume that underneath that fur Miminchi is all black and blue. Yet it doesn't stop him from snuggling with Spotty. Like Spotty, Miminchi eats dog food. Since I carry conversations with cats, my daughter has picked it up. She would ask Miminchi a question, and when Miminchi meows back, she would ask me what Miminchi said. Last week she asked Miminchi if he knew where the nanny is going. Miminchi meowed. My daughter nodded, satisfied. The nanny came out and asked, "Where did Miminchi say I was going?" My daughter replied, "He said it's secret!" Miminchi responds to human talk, although much is lost in translation.

There are many many cats before and between Panic and Miminchi. I could write on and on about what each one of them did. I remember them all. All of my cats were strays. Although I say that one of these days I'm going to get myself a Persian cat, I'm happy with the ordinary ones. I love them as they come. These days I prefer toms because they don't reproduce, but they raise such a racket when they decide to prove their masculinity at night.

I have a list of my favorite moments. Topping the list would be a rainy afternoon with a new book, preferably Stephen King, and a few Fuji apples. Second would be the same thing, with a warm, soft, purring cat on my lap.

feeling good!

My feel-good things today:

1. Feeling the sun on my arms and back while waiting to cross the street, after two days of rain.

2. Knowing it's Friday, and when I go home tonight I can read a novel until midnight, because I can get up late on Saturday morning.

3. A ham sandwich with mayo, lettuce and lots of cucumbers. A cup of brewed coffee splashed with fresh milk. And all for 36 pesos at the cafeteria.

4. Anticipating Sunday, because then we go to Zapote market in the morning. My daughter goes with us, but only because she gets to eat breakfast at Jollibee and use the play area. When there's extra money we go to the ukay-ukay. :)

5. Having one of my bosses on a three-week home leave, which means I do only filing and labeling. I also have time to browse his foreign newspaper subscriptions (except the Japanese Nikkei news) and clip out pictures of fashion models and house furnishings.

6. An unexpected-- but totally pleasurable-- early-morning tumble-in-the-hay.

7. Going down late at night to get my daughter a drink of water, and ending up sharing a big bowl of cereal and milk with her, giggling like conspirators in the kitchen.

8. Picking off malunggay leaves from the stem. Try it for an hour, and see if you won't fall asleep.

9. Listening to The Corrs.

10. Buying a new book!

what's holding you back?

I picked up a book at a National Bookstore sale. It's title is 'What's Holding You Back?' It's one of about a thousand self-help books out there. It's supposed to teach women how to be raging successes in their field. I haven't even opened the first page. I read Stephen King's 'Lisey's Story' instead.


But the question is basic, one I've asked myself at one time or another. What's holding me back? What's stopping me from becoming who I wanted to be? What's keeping me mediocre and average?


The answer: nothing. The possibilities are endless. A person's limitations are only as big as his perceived weaknesses. More often we are surprised when that thing that we had been putting off because of our I-can't-possibly-do-it attitude comes out right. Like trying out for the cheering squad, getting out of a bad relationship, baking cookies for the first time, learning to ice-skate at thirty. I can't say I've done all those things or am planning to do them (especially the ice-skating part), but sometimes it's all about having as few regrets as possible. I don't want to be lying there half-senile at 75, and berating myself for not getting an MBA when my brain cells are still jumping around. Failures don't diminish a person. Failures help a person know his limitations. If one is wise, it lets him know when to stop. If one is wiser, it also lets him know where he needs to improve.

As always, it is easier said than done. Juggling motherhood, wife-hood, a job, MBA classes, writing, and heaven forbid, ice-skating, can be quite a challenge. Just writing it down makes me exhausted and think twice about remaining mediocre. It's about knowing priorities, weighing options, and having guts enough. But that's another topic for another day. :)

simplicity

I look around me and see a lot of unnecessary things cluttering my space. I have a Palm, a cellphone, and an iPod Nano. Of the three, only the cellphone is useful, and although both the Palm and the iPod are gifts, the money used to buy them could have paid for three months' rent in the house, with something left over to buy a month's worth of groceries. Sayang.

I have seven pairs of shoes, and a couple of them have not been used in the last four months or so. I have a black blouse bought in May that I haven't had any occasion to wear yet. Sayang.

There are ordinary women like me who will sound horrified at having ONLY seven pairs of shoes; most of my friends have at least a dozen. I have friends who have bottles of unused perfume, blouses still with price tags, bags bought last Christmas but still unwrapped, jewelry.

I have always hated superfluous things. I hate things going to waste, or things in excess. I guess I can get by with very little because I was brought up having 'just enough.' It was my grandmother's rule of thumb. Get just enough food on your plate so you won't waste it, followed by the immortal 'A lot of children in Africa are dying of hunger...' Another pair of school shoes? No, the old one is perfectly serviceable for one more school year. In her house I grew up with three pairs of shoes: one black, for school; rubber shoes for running around and P.E. classes; and one pretty pair to go with the dresses for church on Sundays. My grandmother would hoard imported corned beef, socks my uncle sent from the U.S., Tupperware, blankets. The dolls were kept in the cabinets in their unopened boxes because, of course, the kids had just enough toys to keep them busy. I had a Rainbow Brite doll sent by the aforementioned U.S.-based uncle for Christmas when I was in third grade. I stole it from the toy cabinet when I was fifteen and took it to Manila when I studied in college. When I went home last year for my grandmother's funeral, I found an Avon lipstick, still sealed, that I gave her about a year before she died.

I don't like knick-knacks, figurines, sculptures, and artificial flowers in vases. They are not useful. Which is probably why my efforts at decorating the house have been pathetic at best. I have bought a lot of home-improvement magazines, but I cannot imagine spending 4,500 pesos for a lounge umbrella, or 600 pesos for a blue glass vase. If not for the nanny, we probably would not have a dining set or a living room set. She bought them and I paid her back. I keep on meaning to buy new curtains, but I reason out that we still have perfectly serviceable ones. I also say that it's partly because the house is not truly ours, but as the nanny says, it's not as if we're moving out anytime soon. We lived five years in the house in Sta. Clara and we barely filled one-third of the moving truck when we moved to the house in Cavite. I don't have pretty bedsheets. My sister who lives in a rented house that's only one-fourth the size of ours has a cabinet of matched bedsheets and is planning built-in wall shelves.

My husband is also a simple man, so I guess we're lucky to end up with each other. I have nothing against pretty things, expensive things, or a dozen pairs of shoes. I sometimes give in and buy new books when I could hunt them down in secondhand bookstores. I only think sometimes that it really takes little to make a person happy, if one learns to be thankful for what one has. I will not be a hypocrite and say that I always think of the hungry children in Africa. I feel that living within my means, knowing when it is just enough, is enough to keep me all right. I can now afford a car, but I don't HAVE to buy one.

feeling good!

On 04 August:

Sitting in the terrace at ten o'clock on a Saturday morning, waiting for it to rain. From the terrace I can see Bernard the dog taking a nap under the mango tree. The African lovebirds are keeping up their pleasant mid-morning racket, and the FM radio is blaring from the laundry area where my kid is helping the nanny with the laundry. The subdivision is so sparsely populated that I don't even hear the tricycles on the main road behind the house for long minutes at a stretch. Thunder rolls from the east.

I have just finished a book by Stephen King, 'Lisey's Story,' and like all of his books, I am amazed. I wonder what kind of brain such a prolific writer like him possesses, and again I daydream of writing books one day. I think of staying home to take care of my daughter, and writing books for a living.

Not worrying about lunch. I could go down and prepare it, but the nanny has it all figured out until suppertime. I wish we had some chocolate cake for dessert, but it's too much trouble to go out and buy one. Knowing I don't have to wait for an occasion to buy chocolate cake is enough. Raining now, just a soft pattering on the roof, but I'm hoping it will fall harder so my daughter and I can play in the puddles later.

wishful thinking

You know what I think of, when I'm stuck in traffic on the way to the office? That I'd love a condo unit where I could stay all by myself. It should be only one ride away from the office. I'll have a laptop, a CD player, a personal ref and a microwave. No tv, since I don't like movies and tv shows all that much. I'll have lots of bookshelves, of course. And I'll have a Persian cat.

My bathroom will be done in blue and yellow, and my bedroom will be color-coordinated. There will be no figurines, flower vases, or scented candles. I'll have a newspaper subscription. There will be a wall cabinet for my shoes.

It's not a question of wanting to be single again. I would not exchange my daughter for a chance to live like that. I may not be always perfectly happy with married life, but that's what I have now and like everyone else, I make the most of it. I like the house we're living in now, and we have more space than we need. I guess the condo dream is like having my own getaway, something that's for me alone, when I need a quiet time. It's like going to bookstores and hunting for the book I MUST have.

But when the time comes and I can afford it, I'll get that condo unit, if only to show myself that I really could. Wouldn't that be nice?

looking good!

These days I usually try to dress well. I may only be a glorified secretary, but it doesn't mean I have to dress like I just pulled the first thing I saw in the closet. It's worth it when people in the office tell me I don't look 30, or when they sound surprised when they learn I'm married and my daughter is six years old. And yes, I like it when I'm colorful and different and smart.

I'm not being pretentious. It's only that I know what looks good on me and I can get away with it. When I'm 50, I would have lived 18,250 days, and I don't want to wear all those days on my face. By that time I will not be wearing my three-inch-heels, but I would like to believe my legs will still look good!

not unhappy, but...

My mind is elsewhere. I am not sure why I feel... not unhappy, but dissatisfied, when everything seems to be going right. I have a job that pays well, a husband who likes peace and quiet, a kid who's growing up to be a little bit pampered but otherwise healthy and smart, my books. I feel like there's a lot of things I have left undone, that I just wake up in the morning, trudge off to work, then go home and flop down to bed, only to do the same things day after day. Yes, there's a certain satisfaction when I've put in a good day in the office, when I leave at 6 p.m. and know that I've squeezed in as much as I can, but when I really think about it, this is how my 24 hours get spent:



10 hours in the office

3.5 hours on the road

8 hours of sleep



I only have 2.5 hours for my family! I should do something about it. I've been promising to reform for the last two years, but until now my kid does her homework with the nanny, I wash the dishes only on VERY occasional weekends, I have not touched the laundry in about four months, and I haven't cooked dinner since New Year. (My bedroom score is also a bit low, but as I've said my husband is not the complaining type.) And still I lament about wanting to learn how to swim, or take photography classes, or go to sewing lessons, when it's the little things that I leave undone that give me the most grief.



Some time ago I wanted to know about the purpose of life. I read Rick Warren's 'The Purpose-Driven Life' and decided that the profound and mystical concepts of a life for God are a bit too deep for me. I read Deepak Chopra's 'The Angel is Near,' and it said that the purpose of life is life itself. Now that's a bit easier to digest. You take it one day at a time, give it your best shot, and have as few regrets as possible. That's also easier said than done.

crazy friends

Great are the friends who bring out the best in you. And lucky are you if you have one friend like that. I only have a few friends, one or two for each period of my life. I had Haidee in grade school (who was my neighbor), Annabelle (who was my seatmate) and Henry and Joseph (who completed my triumvirate) in high school, Gemma in college (who was mostly my seatmate for four years), Jen, and Dhey when Jen left, in my first job, Monette in my second job. Jen, Dhey, and Monette were also seatmates of sorts. Here at the bank, I don't know yet. I usually like being alone.


You do crazy things when you're with friends, and your friends do crazy things to you. Haidee, with the help of my tyrannical grandmother, ruined my chance with my one true love when we were thirteen. I confided in Annabelle (not my mom) when I first had my period... and she promptly announced it to the girls in class. I wrote Henry's speech when he became magna cum laude in our college graduation and my daughter was a flower girl in his wedding. Gemma recorded Depeche Mode's 'Somebody' and we played that single song over and over the whole night we stayed up to finish our thesis in Psychology. I promised that I would give a copy of that song to the man I would marry, which I did, three years after college graduation. And when I grew older (but none the wiser in some ways), I shared boyfriend-problems and later husband-problems with Jen and Dhey. Monette gave me the chance to work in the bank, after we've worked together in the college for four years. She is also my kid's honorary aunt. One time, when my daughter was three, she did not receive an invitation to a classmate's Jollibee birthday party. It was Monette who was so outraged.


And for these friends, you'll go out on a limb. You'll drop everything and go if a friend needed to cry, knowing that she will do the same for you. You mess up and turn your life upside down, a friend will knock you on the head, then help you up. With a friend, you laugh the loudest. For a friend, you fight your damnedest. Because of a friend, you give your best.

life

I wish planning for one's life is as easy as planning for a child's birthday party. In a party, you know who you're going to invite, what you're going to serve, what games would be played, what time you're going to start and finish, what gifts would make your kid squeal with glee.

In life, you don't know who your friends will be, how long you'll live, how many times your heart will be broken, how important the lessons learned are, how little time there really is for love. Sometimes you find out that it's the smallest things that mean the most, like playing in the rain with your child, or coming home one hour earlier so the family could have a funny dinner together. In life, you don't know the gifts you're being handed; you don't know when you're getting them; and you don't know if it's a gold nugget or a jack-in-the-box that's going to hit you in the nose.

Two years ago we lived in a house that had fifteen adults and two toddlers. The water supply came at 3:00 a.m., the house badly needed a coat of paint, and we only had one curtain. Now our house has two spare bedrooms, two bathrooms, and all the water we want. We have four dogs.

One year ago, my idea of an exciting getaway was a day at Island Cove Resort, something that I'd have to save up for about a year. Now I can afford to bring all four of us to Hong Kong Disneyland for Christmas.

Life sometimes give you the most unexpected surprises. My appointment here is good for three years. After that, I don't know. But for someone who three months ago was dreaming of being able to afford monthly trips to the province, I can now dream of going to other countries.

Life has been good to us. I hope I won't forget to be thankful for all these, to take things one day at a time and enjoy it fully, much like reading a book one page at a time, picking up the good passages and the lessons, learning something from each page, so that at the end, when you close the book, you can sit back and tell yourself, 'Well done.'

a tribute to bridget jones' diary

Time woke up 5:30. false starts 3 (set the alarm to ring in 5 more minutes). actual time getting up 6:10 (after husband threatened to throw alarm clock outside window). minutes spent staring at coffee cup 7. minutes spent hunting for right color underwear to go with purple skirt 10. target liters of water to drink 6 (but realistically counting 3).

11:00 a.m. Boss sick, so spent whole morning downloading mp3s for my iPod. Will attack reports in the afternoon. Thinking of going to Powerbooks during lunch break, will see if can resist buying Stephen King's 'Lisey's Story,' and will check if Michael Crichton's 'Next' is in paperback. Hardcover quite expensive. If can't resist, will buy book and skimp on lunch till Friday. Hope can convert guest room into nice library. If guests arrive, they can sleep on carpet in the living room.

11.25 a.m. Went to 5th floor to look for boss' husband's secretary. Didn't get lost. Was thinking must be nice to have own office with door. Am grateful for own workstation not in shared space, but feel like have long way to go. Must not be impatient, been working here only two months. Liza's been here ten years but still an administrative assistant like me. She has a nice car. Don't exactly wish to own one, but would be a relief to go to the province NOT on a motorcycle. 4 hours on motorcycle, with last hour on muddy unpaved road, gives one mighty sore butt and makes one wish had taken bus instead, even if it takes 7 hours to get there. Will probably have saved enough for car in a year, if don't spend all extra money on pocketbooks, pastel bikinis, and 3-inch heels.

Am glad to be working in bank. Liza says if I want to be a career woman I have to work elsewhere, but if I want to earn enough to feed my family (read: stability) this is a good place to grow old in. Didn't want all that power and high-level meetings. Was once like that when I worked in the college. Quite stimulating, but at the end of the day you wish you had spent more time helping kid with homework. Quite a lot of broken promises too, and five-year-olds have memory like obsessive-compulsive boss. Now am happy to go home early, spend weekends with a book, go to fastfood with kid. Never really liked gardening, have no patience for husband's African lovebirds, don't like dogs that lick people, can't really cook well, like to do laundry but easily get tired, don't like tv or movies. Now can't think what I want to do or what I'm capable of doing. Feel like I'm useless human being.

Nice boss gave box of Swiss chocolates yesterday. Had to say they were great, though cannot eat a lot. Bad cough today. Chocolates make throat hurt. Brought them home, kid ate half. Why do kids chew chocolate and not suck thoughtfully? Might send kid to private school next year, can afford it already. Didn't realize been speaking to her in English the whole time, she does not know 'kusina,' 'saging,' 'kama,' and 'alimango.' Grr.

12:20 p.m. Have no energy to put on lipstick. Will now go out for lunch, perhaps grab pizza or something else not nutritious. Wonder why spend so much on books. Can't eat books for lunch.

2:00 p.m. Had McDonald's cheeseburger and fries. Bought TWO new books. Am frustrated, as could have waited for the books to appear on second-hand-bookstores. Now allowance will not last through Friday and have to withdraw some more money. Have pasted label on piggy bank which says 'Down payment for Nissan Frontier.' Piggy bank now looks scraggly as have been opening bottom every week to get the coins inside.

3:00 p.m. Will work two hours, then head home.

one blueberry

I have always loved blueberries. Blueberry jam on toast, blueberry cheesecake, blueberry-flavored pancakes, it's just wonderful. But for the longest time I did not know how fresh blueberries looked like. It was like I've always seen them in bottles on supermarket shelves. Then I went to Baguio and found blueberries sold in little buckets, which I promptly bought. I guess I was imagining it was like comparing grapes and raisins, with raisins being the counterpart of the blueberry jam.

So there I sat in Burnham Park, watching the boats go by with their load of sweating, straining inexperienced rowers, took a deep breath, and ate my first fresh blueberry. I was sorely disappointed. It was... lacking in character. It was like eating aratiles. I had to spit out the skins. I tried it for two more days, and decided that they weren't really that great. They easily got spoiled, and when they were already squishy they tasted awful.

I came down from Baguio with six bottles of blueberry preserves that I ate by the spoonful for dessert. I also had pneumonia, perhaps from sitting on the bench in my spaghetti straps for several days, hoping to capture the essence of fresh blueberries.