run away

Have you ever wondered what will happen if you just drop everything and run away? If you just packed up your bags and left? Have you ever wondered how much courage it will take to let go of everything you’ve worked hard for, your family, your career, your properties—everything that the world says would make you a successful person?

And before my friends out there start leaving messages on Facebook saying “Everything all right with you?” and “What’s all this about? Let’s talk.” And “Do you need a marriage counselor?” I’ll make a disclaimer and say this is just a figment of an overactive imagination. You guys pretend I’m into a story draft, and I’ll pretend the same way.

I have never been an impulsive person. Everything in my life has to follow a certain order, and I hate losing control of my tight little world. I plan the grocery list in the same way I plan my monthly office wardrobe and the next five years of my career progression. So if you were to imagine me running away, something has to be fundamentally wrong with my life.

And if I were to imagine myself running away, I think it’s going to be funny.

1. I would start saving a few hundreds each month, in cash. I could lie to myself and say it's my daughter's college money, but it will actually be my running-away money. I would have to start saving at least five years ahead of time before I'd be content with the amount.

2. I would start sneaking an item of clothing into the office, one at a time. I would not want a dramatic exit from the house, with eighteen pieces of luggage and a freaked-out cat. All my running-away clothing would be properly packed and in storage somewhere, long before the actual date.

3. I would plan on my destination. My best bet would be a place far enough away that there's no chance of running into relatives, but with existing internet connection so I can still discreetly check them on Facebook.

4. I would prepare for a new life by listing down the career options when I finally run away. I could become (i) a freelance writer for some women's magazine; (ii) a caretaker of some vacation house near the beach so I can still write when I'm not cleaning the house; (iii) a seamstress specializing in curtains and pillowcases; or (iv) a teacher in a far-flung area. Aside from (ii), I have to further prepare for the new career by taking technical writing classes, sewing classes, or getting a teaching license.

5. I would rehearse saying goodbye. I would kiss my children every morning and night, and cook their meals on weekends, and play with them as often as I can. I will also keep their medical records updated and their teeth cleaned twice a year, so that they'll be perfectly healthy when I leave.

6. I would worry about my children's college education. I would start computing and saving, so that I'd have some money to leave them when I run away. And I'd drop enough hints to my sister and my sisters-in-law, that if something happens and I'm gone, they have to check on my kids to see that they're not abused, they're not going hungry, and they're going to school.

7. When the running-away day comes, I will cancel my mobile phone service and switch to prepaid. There would be no tearful phone calls. Of course I would make sure that all the bills in the house are paid, the checking account has funds, and the fridge is full. Better yet, I could make it a Monday, because on Sundays I go to the market and I make sure that we have soap and sugar and coffee and cooking oil and milk. On Sunday night all the clothes are ironed, the laundry basket is empty, and the cat litter is fresh.

8. I will buy a first-aid kit, charge my Kindle, and label all the assorted wires and chargers that go with my gadgets. I will debate whether I will bring my laptop, or just buy an external hard drive to store all the MP3s, pictures, and story drafts. I will agonize about the shoes I'll leave behind, and whether I'll need five-inch heels in my new life.

9. I will check into a hotel for a couple of days to gather my thoughts, go over my lists, and fill a notebook with my thoughts about running away. I will analyze myself and determine whether I am sufficiently prepared, and decide where I want to end up. Well, of course I have the list already, and if I had considered going abroad I would already have my itinerary one year ahead of time.

And, armed with Excel sheets and 25-year plans, I would be so exhausted about planning that I wouldn't have the energy to actually run away. I knew it.

today is friday

Getting to the office today was a breeze. Since I had a good night's sleep (I had the whole bed to myself because my husband fell asleep on the living room couch while watching TV), I spent the whole ride to the office in a pleasant daydream. Here are the things worthy of note:

1. Number of people in the van who are still awake twenty minutes into the ride, by the time we reached Alabang - 2 (the driver and me)

2. Number of people in the van who are awake a short while later when the driver braked too hard to avoid a swerving motorcycle - All

3. Number of people in the van with earphones - 5
Hmm. Most days it's about ten out of eighteen passengers.

4. Number of people in the van not wearing jeans - 1
Me. Although Friday must be wash day in most offices, including mine, I'm wearing slacks and high heels.

5. Noteworthy cars: 1 green Mini Cooper (like Mr. Bean's car, which I adore) and 1 lady-driven black BMW along Commerce Road in Alabang.
The BMW is noteworthy because there was no other BMW alongside our van from Alabang to Ortigas, but there were 6 BMWs already in the open parking lot at 7:50 am.

6. Number of documents waiting for me - 18
Sigh. My desk was clean when I left at 6pm yesterday. My day will officially start at 8:30 am, so I'm going to get a nice cup of coffee to fortify me.

7. Things to worry about - 1
Send-off party at 3pm today, estimated 60 attendees of various nationalities, including one high-ranking Japanese officer, which causes anxiety because we don't know if he will eat chicken empanada and cheese sticks.

8. Things to look forward to - 2
(i) Penny's birthday lunch at Shakey's! I love it when I get to eat pizza and pasta for free! Haha!
(ii) 5:00 pm. Get it? :-)

the little bird's lunch

Lunch today was sautéed shrimp and onions from the Vietnamese counter, with some lettuce and rice in a microwaveable container. I decided to eat it in one of our small meeting rooms, instead of the cafeteria.

I preferred to be alone today, because I was feeling a bit down. You know, when the weight of all your worries crashes down on you and you can’t wait for 5pm so you can go home and crawl to bed and sleep it off. You’re logging documents and it suddenly dawns on you that you have a house to run, two kids to raise, groceries to buy, bills to pay, a thesis to finish, and an argument waiting to happen. Oh, and to top it off, you’re nursing a three-day cold.

The room looks out over a portion of the office compound with a tree in it. One whole wall is glass. I can’t see any cars because I’m in the second floor, only the upper half of the tree. It’s rather soothing.

As I started eating, a little brown bird landed on the window ledge. He was carrying something that looked like a bug, and he settled down to have his lunch. I was about three feet away, separated from him by a glass pane, and I don’t know if he can see me. Or maybe he thought, Hello there, how about a lunch mate?

He pecked a little here and there, then maybe he decided he’s too hungry to be dainty, so he tried to gobble the whole thing all at once.

I paused with a forkful of shrimp, and waited to see if the bird would choke. He shook his head this way and that, and then, with a little shiver, he swallowed it whole. Then he fluffed his body, checked the ledge for crumbs--maybe he dropped a bug leg or something, ugh--and then flew back to his tree.

Well, sometimes it's the same with life’s problems. Maybe they’d seem a little too big to handle, but if you shake it up a little, and peck at it a little, it becomes manageable. And maybe it looks like you’d choke, but see, God never gave a bird a bug it can’t digest.

I had to smile a little. Maybe the little bird had problems too. Maybe his tree was a bit shaky on windy days, and twigs were always falling on his head. Maybe his kids had flown the nest, gone off to bird college or wherever it is that they learn bird lessons. Maybe he was divorced and had been looking for a nice brown chick, but he didn’t have enough worms to impress her with. But see, he has to sit down and enjoy his lunch.

Trust me to philosophize over a little bird and an unfortunate little bug. But I figured that sometimes, when the big picture overwhelms you, it helps to step back and take a look at the little pictures that makes up the whole. Ok, so I’m stressed, but I’m still wearing nice clothes and pretty shoes. I’m eating a rather expensive lunch. My daughter has recovered from the flu. When I get home, dinner will be waiting because we have someone to cook for us. There’s always some small thing to be thankful for, something that lets you believe in a better day and the promise of all that’s possible.

Oh, and one last thing? On a lonely day, you can always use some companionship, even if it’s just a little bird.

food!

I'm not a picky eater. I usually eat what's on the table without scrutinizing if it came from a mammal. At home, I prefer simple meals. I'd be happy with fried fish and boiled camote tops dipped in soy sauce and calamansi. I like seafood better than chicken or pork, but fresh crabs and shrimps have gotten to be a luxury, it's sometimes easier to hit Jollibee and buy takeout food that my kids would enjoy.

But when we eat out, I go Italian. I even eat alone, at Sbarro in Megamall, and attack a slice of Chicago White pizza or a half baked ziti with a pinwheel.

At Amici, I'd go for vongole and the four-cheese pizza. At Green Tomato, I'd have the shrimp and feta pasta. At Yellow Cab, it's (what else?) the Charlie Chan pasta and the Manhattan Meatlovers pizza, with lots of Coke. At Pizza Hut, it's their garlic, shrimp and mushroom pasta, and stuffed crust pizza. Gumbo has a wonderful seafood pasta. And ok, I'd also eat the carbonara at Red Ribbon, and the Hawaiian Overload pizza at Greenwich.

I don't cook well. Hell, I seldom cook, and I have to be in a very good mood if you catch me cooking fried rice and fried Spam for breakfast. But I can cook spaghetti for my kids, although the sauce is never the same taste twice. One time I also tossed some canned tuna and grated cheese on pasta drizzled with olive oil, which my daughter pronounced non-edible.

So really, it's better to eat at all those restaurants that serve pasta and pizza, and drool over the menu, and remember which dishes I'd come back to. I also dream of an Italian vacation, where I'll visit all those places Elizabeth Gilbert wrote about in Eat Pray Love and eat pizza and pasta the whole day long. Unlike Monette , I can't blog about food; I end up making stories about my fellow diners.

But since I'm the only one in the family who actually got upset when we can't find the Yellow Cab in Imus, I sometimes relent and allow my husband to take me to dinner at Seaside in Daang Hari. We eat crabs and shrimps, and take bets on who will get hypertension when we grow old. Then when I'm in the office, I'd happily play eenie-meenie-minie-moe on which Italian restaurant in Megamall would fulfill me.

my new car

No, I didn't buy one. I'm talking about what I usually think about on those interminable rides to and from the office. I spend roughly 3.5 hours commuting, and when you're on the road, all you see are wheels.

I've made a game out of it too. I try to guess the make and model of the car before I get close enough to see the hood ornament. Most of the time, I'm correct about Honda Civic and Toyota Vios. And I could differentiate the Toyota Innova and Avanza. I could also easily spot a Fortuner, and a Nissan Frontier Navara. The flashy BMWs and Mercedes Benzes don't count, because you'd notice them even if you're not trying. I don't do car reviews, but I notice when the mags are hyped up. When the car windows are not tinted too dark, I check the seats.

And of course, I count the doors, because I love looking at two-door cars. The Hyundai Genesis is my favorite these days. I also notice the Ford Fiesta and the Mitsubishi Eclipse. I seldom see a Toyota Celica, but it's there. Where I work, I often see 2-door BMW sports cars, Porsche Boxsters, and Jaguars in the parking lot. But I'd strain my neck just to see a Genesis hurtling down SLEX at 10pm with no traffic. I just adore those sleek bodies in motion. No, I don't mean the drivers.

Ok, so here's what I'm waiting to see: the Honda CR-Z. It was launched in Japan in 2010 and is marketed as a sport hybrid coupe. It is the only gasoline-electric hybrid model offered by any car maker that can be equipped by a manual transmission (which means nothing to me, since I don't know how to drive). It ranked #15 in the list of Affordable Small Cars by US News and World Reports, and was Car of the Year 2010-2011 in Japan. It costs around $21,000, and currently available in Japan, Europe, South Africa and North America. It's scheduled for release in Australia mid-2011. I wonder when it will reach Asia... and how much it will cost in the Philippines by the time we're done burying it in taxes and other charges.

We have a standing joke at home: I will only take driving classes when I have my own two-door car. And since I cringe to think of me killing all the trash bins and guava trees in the neighborhood, and end up wrecking our gate every time I try to park (imagine if it were a Genesis, with a price tag of Php 1.8 million!), here's the car I'll buy:

A 92-94 Honda Civic hatchback, which I'll have painted red. (Honda used to have a metallic purple color in its Civics that I love, but I'm afraid the hatchback would look like an oversized eggplant in it.) I'll have Sparco bucket seats. No tint on the windows. A plate number that says REN 123. No mirrors under the hood, please, but I'll have a mean sound system. And I'll teach my Siamese cat to sit on the dashboard while I run for groceries.

Maybe I could dream of a CR-Z. Maybe one day I'll be able to afford it. But you know what? I think I won't buy one, because I won't need one. The Honda hatchback would be quite fine. It's not horribly expensive, I'm in no immediate danger of being carjacked in the SM parking lot, and if I hit a guava tree, my husband will still smile and fix the fender.

And while I'm driving it, why, I'll still crane my neck to count how many two-door cars are passing me, and be perfectly happy.

water for elephants

Jacob Jankowski's life as a would-be veterinarian with a city practice ended on the night he jumped a circus train. He became the resident vet for a traveling circus, the trainor for an elephant who understands only Polish, the surrogate mother for an affectionate chimpanzee, the friend of a circus worker who became paralyzed due to booze, and the lover of the circus manager's wife. All this at twenty-three, before he took his final university exams.

It was also the story of Jacob, who can't rightly remember if he's ninety or ninety-three, and who lives for the memories of the backbreaking work, the wonder of the performances, the animals, the stampede, the murders, the deep friendships, and the greatest love.

As with the other books, I won't be watching the movie version. I can close my eyes and imagine how it feels like to ride a circus elephant. It makes me want to try the real thing, even though a circus is not part of the Filipino way of life. But that's what makes books great, isn't it? They let you be more than you are, by showing you different kinds of lives, and for the moment, letting you live them. They are stories, yes, but for the most part, beautifully-written stories are crafted from real experiences, carefully researched, and told in words that catch your heart.

I read this book on the Kindle, on the way to work in the morning, on the way home in the evening, and for about an hour before going to bed. Took me 3 days. The pleasure is partly in the Kindle, partly in the great book.

Filipinos

These are the cookies. A colleague in the office brought them from Spain. He said they're sweet, like the real thing. :-)

I was tickled when I saw them. And yes, they're very sweet. But some of my officemates weren't thrilled. They wanted to find the reason why they named those crispy little doughnuts after our noble race.

I checked the website. www.filipinos.com is redirected to a Spanish site, where they have this promotion that gives you a chance to win gadgets, Peugeot motorcycles, and a trip for 4 to the US. (Why not a trip to the Philippines, then, where the winner gets to meet several million of the real thing?)

I checked Wikipedia. Filipinos are made by Kraft Foods. The entry says that in 1999, Congressman Heherson Alvarez filed a diplomatic protest with the Spanish government over this cookie, and even Erap reportedly called it an insult to Filipinos. I could find no other article online about what happened to this protest, or whether Kraft (Artiach in Spain) ever responded.

Personally, I don't feel an immediate need to kick a** just because I share the name with a pastry. It's not an issue of patriotism; it would be hard to say you're insulted when you go to Starbucks for a coffee and a bagel for breakfast (ok, so your mug says 'Starbucks Philippines'), use imported Dove and Irish Spring soap at home, and flaunt all those Italian leather bags and shoes.

In my mind it's something like, Ok, I'm a Filipino. Kenneth Cobonpue designs furniture for Angelina Jolie's offspring; he's a Filipino. Lea Salonga, Charice, and Manny Pacquiao are Filipinos. The world's shortest man alive is a Filipino. Imelda Marcos was in Newsweek's 'Greediest People of All Time' in 2009. The 'I love you' virus, which drove CIA and Pentagon to shut down its mail system in May 2000, was created by a Filipino. There are reasons for pride; there are reasons for shame. And oh, we got a cookie named after us, too.

I think I know my own worth, and it's enough not to become insecure of a tiny crispy doughnut that's actually quite delicious.

Would you take offense?