one blueberry

strong women

2012-01-12T11:02:00.013+08:00

Kaye is upset today. She has been in an argument with her husband, and he has accused her of having had an affair with another man.

What's worse is that the affair was supposed to have happened two years ago. That particular argument has been going on for quite some time, and Kaye never knows when her husband would bring it up.

What hurts is that Kaye had never been unfaithful and had no idea that her husband was doubting her. Her supposed lover is still in their circle of friends, in the same place where her husband works.

Now, after two years of defending herself, Kaye is getting angry. (Side comment: She must be some kind of a saint.) She is thinking of walking out on him. And she made the unfortunate decision of asking me what I think.

You can only insult a person for so long. Anyone who gets hurt often enough gets mad enough to either walk out or lash back. Even a dog knows that. No matter how much it loves you, if you kick it around for years, it's going to bite you one day.

No, wait. I have a better example: the cat. It can get mad if you step on its tail every day, but do it one day too many and it will come biting and scratching. A dog can say sorry with the way it rolls its eyes, but a cat never, ever shows remorse on its face when it decides to fight back. Ooh, I can feel my claws coming out now.

Being angry with your husband doesn't mean you have to break some plates or run to his mother to tell her what a bastard he's been. You can scheme. (Side comment: You knew I was mean.) It gives you time to calm down and consider all sides of the story. If you sit back awhile, you can ask yourself if he's worth it. But more importantly, you can ask yourself if YOU are worth it.

You have the option to stay and keep trying (for another twenty years?), but not at the cost of your self-respect. I stand by what I say: you alone are responsible for your own happiness. If you allow your husband to damage your self-esteem every day, who would you blame for your misery? If he has succeeded in making you feel worthless, it's because you chose to believe it. And if he calls you a whore? You don't have to prove anything if you think your honor is immaculate.

Remember running away? I think Kaye has gotten to the point of paying all the bills and her kid's tuition for the year. And every time you come close to doing it, it gets easier and easier to actually do it.

When strong women walk away, I'd like to believe that it's not because they admitted weakness or defeat. It's because they liked having that option, and they had all the bases covered before they walked out the door.

I wish I could tell all men never to make the mistake of marrying-- and offending-- a strong woman. But then, most men underestimate what a woman is capable of doing until their asses get whipped.

One last word, Kaye. Walking away will not stop the hurting. If you walk away, you'll find the most difficult thing is saying goodbye to your child. My running away list does not include goodbyes, but your heart will definitely break, even while you're sneaking underwear out of your own house, one piece at a time.

My heart goes out to you, Kaye, but if you do decide to go, I also applaud.

(Thanks to Win for the picture. My MBA9 pals would understand: a Type 8 personality is never really good at emotional relationships... but she can give one heck of an advice that she'll probably do herself.)

one day

2011-12-13T14:03:00.005+08:00

One Day by David Nicholls

This is one of those love stories that I hate to read, yet I cannot put down till it's finished.

After spending their graduation night together, Emma and Dexter seems to be destined for each other, but life interfered, and they spend the next twenty years in the periphery of each other's existence, secretly longing for each other.

Dexter becomes a minor celebrity, and he lives the glamorous TV life. Emma, with a double-first degree, becomes a waitress, then a teacher, and oh, I so hate Dexter when he says "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach." But I love Dexter when he writes to Emma, saying that she likes being mediocre, she likes to be an under-achiever, because then she can make a joke out of it, and not have to try so hard at being good in what she can do.

They get into relationships, they are hurt, they are successful, they laugh and cry and hate, and their thoughts always turn to each other, but they never seem to find each other.

Finally, when it seems it wouldn't become a love story after all, they do find each other. And it's beautiful, and like most love stories, it's sad.

Don't you just love it when you've got great friends (read: Jerry Colasito) who just route a book to you, trusting in their sound judgement that you'd read it and find it worth your time, and they turn out to be right?

Let me quote Jerry: It's sad, but life does not always have a happy ending. The good thing is, we can always find something good in a sad story.

battle hymn of the tiger mother

2011-11-29T08:41:00.007+08:00

I think Amy Chua is what Wonder Woman would be like if she became a mom. Harvard-educated, with a high-profile husband, a lifestyle that includes frequent travels around the world, and children who are straight-A students and music prodigies. One child, a pianist, performed at Carnegie Hall. The other is a violinist who would later give it up to play tennis.

She has a family of super-achievers. Her story is both inspiring and daunting. It makes you think about the way one mother's force can make her children achieve glory, and it makes you want to say, Why not me? What mother would not want her child in the spotlight, the one being applauded instead of the one who applauds?

You have to give it to her for sheer persistence, but what I truly admire is the way she did it with her children. Learning piano and violin lessons with them, so that she could better teach them at home. So that they could practice to perfection. I cannot imagine holding a full-time job, then rushing off to one practice or another, and supervising the school work as well.

And then for all the effort, there's the question: who do you do it for? For all the trophy children out there, for the most part it's the parent who gets showered with praise. You did a good job! What fine children you raised! You must be very proud! There's an uncomfortable thought that you drive your children to achieve because it's proof of your greatness as a mother.

I once wrote a story in Reader's Digest, about growing up in my grandmother's house. I called her a tyrant; she was a 'Chinese mother.' I hated her for making me take piano lessons and ballroom-dancing sessions in the summer while the other children played. I hated her when I always had to get first prize in quiz bees. I hated her when she sent me to Manila when I was thirteen-- by myself-- to study high school there, while my classmates stayed in the little town and got boyfriends.

No, I did not become a famous pianist, or a great dancer, or the most expensive psychiatrist. I have not traveled around the world. I am only a working blogging mom with two daughters. But what the Tiger Mother says and what my tyrant grandmother taught me is that it can be done. A mother like that succeeds in teaching her child that one can always do more; one can always be more than what she is.

And what mother wouldn't love to do just that?

messenger

2011-11-14T17:15:00.004+08:00

In the middle of the forest, far enough away from everything else, lay Village. It was a peaceful place, and a healing place. People from other places came there, but not just ordinary people. They were the ones who were hurt, or disabled, or ostracized. And Village welcomed them, made them well, and gave them a new life.

Village has Leader, a wise young man who could see beyond things. He had pale blue eyes, and maybe you'd recognize him from The Giver. Then they had Seer, a man who had been brutally blinded in his previous village. And they had Matty, who had not received his proper name yet, but who wished it could be Messenger. His job is to go places, bring messages, and navigate Forest, which no other person could do.

Forest is alive. It kills. It gives a Warning to people who enter it, and once you get a Warning, you should never enter it again. Seer has had that Warning. But Matty had never been harmed in Forest, and he considers it his friend.

Something ugly has come to Village. Kind people became cruel. There was sickness, and sadness, and hatred. And the people voted that Village be closed to visitors. Leader sent Matty to bring messages to the path and to the other places that Village will be closed. Seer sent him with a different mission: to bring his daughter Kira home.

Matty goes out on a dangerous journey, and it is where he discovers his true gift. It is where he is given his real name.

A lovely story to close the trilogy. But to me, The Giver is still the most amazing of it all. You keep wanting it to be more, to take you farther. You wish it were a thousand pages long, more like Stephen King's Dark Tower series. :-)

gathering blue

2011-11-14T11:51:00.004+08:00

Lois Lowry's Gathering Blue gives you the life of Kira, a deformed girl living in a village that appears to be inhabited by the strong and the savage. When her mother suddenly died, she was rescued from certain death by the council of the Elders, who rule the village. She was taken care of, clothed and fed, and given her mother's old task of repairing the Singer's Robe.

The Robe is crucial, because it tells the story of the times before. It tells, in the intricate designs embroidered on it, of the start of time, when birds and trees flourished, and man was happy. Then man started building, and the bigger things he built, the greater was the destruction that followed. There was war, and ruin, and afterwards, man would build again.

Every year this story is sung by the Singer. He wears the Robe that Kira is repairing. But Kira, for all her incredible skills as a threader, did not have the color blue. There is an old woman who knows where the blue is, but it lies far beyond their village.

In the confines of the building where Kira is housed, she discovers Thomas the carver, whose work is the repair of the Singer's staff. The Singer carries the intricately carved staff to help him remember the Song every year. Kira also discovers Jo, a little girl whose songs are said to be magical.

Kira discovers a safe, comfortable life, where her every need is given to her, in exchange for her work on the Robe. She has her new friends, Thomas the carver and Jo the singer, and an old friend from her old life in the village, Matt.

Then Matt, a mostly wild, mostly neglected child, decides that he wanted to bring Kira the blue she needs. What he succeeds in bringing Kira shatters her comfortable world, and makes her question the things she had always believed in.

I read this book because I read The Giver, and I guess I was searching for answers on what could possibly have happened to Jonas. I still don't have the answers, but I was hooked on another great story. I read it all online, on OnRead.com. Check out their great selection. Next on my list, Messenger, still by Lois Lowry.

the giver

2011-11-11T16:12:00.003+08:00

There's a place where there are no cars, only bicycles. A place where you have to request for a spouse, and a Committee decides if you're qualified to have one. You request for a child, and you are permitted only two: one boy and one girl. A child is not born to a family; it is issued.

In that place no one cooks; meals are delivered at mealtimes and trays are collected afterwards at the door. All little girls are required to wear hair ribbons. There are no birthdays. When you become a Twelve, your job for life is given to you: Nurturer, Laborer, Engineer, Birthmother, Storyteller.

The genetic engineers have made Sameness possible. There is no threat, no risk, no fights, no choice, no change in routine. There are not even hills in the community, no animals, no rain, no snow, no sunshine.

There's a person called the Receiver, who keeps the memories from back and back and back. He holds a very special position in the community. He advises the Elders based on the memories he keeps. He alone knows about colors, about music, about feelings. He alone knows about war, and pain, and hunger, and death. He alone knows love. No one else.

And there's a boy, selected as the new Receiver, who will be trained to be the new keeper of memories. And the boy decides to make a difference.

the blind lady on the bus

2011-11-11T15:07:00.012+08:00

Last Monday I took the bus home. It was one of those rides where I waited 20 minutes for the bus to arrive, and when I boarded by the MRT Ortigas Station there were only five people in the bus. When we got to Crossing barely 5 minutes later, people were already standing in the middle of the bus. And Monday was a non-working holiday.

In Guadalupe a lady came to the bus, accompanied by a couple of friends. The conductor shouted, "Standing na!" One of the companions said, "Naku, hindi po sya nakakakita." Then they helped her up the bus steps and left her.

I was surprised. The lady obviously was used to traveling alone, because she boarded the bus confidently. The conductor said, "Paano yan, tatayo ka na."

The man sitting beside me, on the window side, immediately stood up and gave his seat to the lady. It would be a long ride; I would be one of the first to get off, and that's an hour away. The man was the kind of person I'd pay close attention to. He didn't look like someone I could trust. He had been eating when I sat beside him, and he was eating when he gave up his seat; empanada with catsup, peanuts, crackers. (But then, I don't trust anyone when I'm commuting. Even innocent four-year-old seatmates can vomit in your lap.)

The lady felt her way to the seat and I helped her. She started feeling around for her things; a wrist purse, a large bag from where she pulled a foldable cane, her phone. She called the phone and told someone she's on the bus; I noticed she used speed-dial.

She had a pleasant face. She had long eyelashes. You wouldn't notice that she was blind, only that she felt everything around her, the bus window ledge, the curtain, the bar in front of her, before she settled down. Then she pulled out a hundred-peso-bill. She asked me, "Ma'am, how much is this?"

The conductor eventually came, loud and overbearing, and she asked him where the last stop is. She wanted to know if the bus would stop by a certain subdivision near SM Dasmarinas. The conductor said no, the bus would stop only along the highway, and the subdivision is on the other side of the road.

It was quiet in the front of the bus as the people digested this. One person said it would be good if another passenger would take the same stop, so she could be helped. Another said that maybe there would be a traffic enforcer to help her cross.

The conductor counted out her change and gave it to me, along with her ticket. I counted the money again, told her how much it is, and gave her the ticket. She carefully put it in her purse, and thanked me.

Then the conductor said the bus could stop near the subdivision, and he would take her across the road. He then shouted to the driver if that was ok. The driver shouted back that it was.

The lady smiled and said thanks. Everyone looked relieved. Some of us were smiling.

Every now and then the lady would ask where we were now. A man, squeezed behind the bus door with his face almost in the glass, would answer. Near MOA. Coastal Road.

It was an unusual thing: a blind lady who takes the bus alone at night. But the more striking thing about it is the response of the people, people like me who are so used to the uncaring atmosphere of jampacked buses, the rude drivers and conductors who would scold you if you had too many bags, the men who looked like thieves or sex maniacs, your seatmate who gave you dagger looks if your kid wouldn't stop whimpering or-- heaven forbid-- vomited.

We all had worries, but for the moment, we were all diverted to the concern of one woman who had to get safely home, who entrusted her well-being to everyone around her. I had to get off the bus, and I told her so. I told her to take care. Another woman took my seat, and she told me that she could tell the blind lady if she was nearing SM Dasmarinas already. We smiled at each other, and I was gone.

It takes one blind lady on the bus, and you can still believe in the basic goodness of people.

do mosquitoes have souls?

2011-10-14T09:16:00.012+08:00

"Mama, do all living things have souls?"

This is the question I have from my daughter at 5am today. We just woke up and technically I am brain-dead until I've had coffee. I could have answered a quick yes, but experience has taught me to be cautious; children's questions have a tendency to crucify people thrice their age.

I said, "Some people say yes; some people say no. It depends on what you believe in." Then I held my breath for the follow-up.

"Well, then, do mosquitoes have souls? What happens when we kill them?"

Oh, God.

Let's start with pets. If your puppy dies, Mama would console you and say that he goes to heaven. Same with rabbits and kittens. I, in my thirty-four-year-old wisdom, offer a quick prayer every time I see dogs and cats run over by cars in the road. It's always "Oh-God-let-the-poor-thing-be-in-doggie-heaven-and-thank-you-that-I-haven't-had-breakfast-yet." We get outraged over videos of little animals being tortured to death, and we have PAWS to defend animal rights.

Then how about the chickens and pigs and cows that we kill for food? We don't feel guilty about that, although as a child I never could eat chicken that my grandfather has slaughtered, because I had seen it flopping headless in the dirt, spraying blood all over the yard. But in India cows are sacred, so does that mean the issue of a cow's soul is in question?

How about crocodiles and snakes? They can kill human beings, so if we kill them, does that negate the question of having a soul?

Let's go to insects. When ants and spiders bite, we swat them. I gleefully spray insecticide on a cockroach while it waves its legs in the air. But I disapprove of children who take joy in pulling off the wings of a fly.

So in our roundabout way, we have established that we perceive an animal has a soul if it exhibits intelligence. When we see that a pet exhibits emotions and can relate to us, we assume that it has the same immortal spirit. When someone refuses to step on a spider, however, we equate it to the Yuck factor rather than the morality of killing animals.

Then, my daughter has concluded, if an animal does not help humans, or it doesn't love us back, it doesn't have a soul. A mosquito brings us dengue, so its life brings us no good. It doesn't have a soul.

I could argue that somewhere in the food chain of little animals, mosquitoes probably provide nutrition, so does that make it 'good?' But I'm exhausted. I am also confused.

Now, at 11am, I'm still contemplating the question. I think I'll go around, pretend I'm ten years old, and ask people the same question.

the lovelife of gohan the cat

2011-10-12T08:23:00.013+08:00

Aside from the Siamese, we have another cat who lives in the garage. His name is Gohan, he is gray-and-white, and he has this tough, slightly dirty, kanto boy look typical of stray cats. He is forbidden to enter the house because he offends the tender sensibilities of Chloe the Siamese cat. He is sweet, though, and when someone steps on his tail he would just howl in indignation, unlike the Siamese who will bite, eyes flashing.

Well, life was peaceful until Gohan acquired a girlfriend. It was another tough, slightly dirty feline with a squinty eye who always looked pregnant. Now this girlfriend had taken to spending nights with Gohan in the garage, sharing his dinner of leftovers. And she has been with Gohan so often that my daughter has given her a name, Girlfriend. Gohan and Girlfriend would cuddle on top of the washing machine, or crowd inside the dog house with Andrew the Whippet. (The whippet is another strange dog; he actually sleeps with the cats.)

Girlfriend looks positively ugly to me. I don't know about cats' standards of attractiveness, but she must be hot, because for some reason she got another suitor, a much uglier orange tabby with an evil temperament. We called him Kalaban. This Kalaban is so shameless that he would come at night and actually drive Gohan away from his own food bowl. Sometimes I'd have to watch over the cats as they ate dinner, with a broom in one hand, while Kalaban glares at me from outside the gate.

And then they'd start their courtship. You'd be peacefully dreaming at 2 am when the cats would start to howl in discordant harmony, each one trying to outdo the other in bass, soprano, and falsetto Meeeooowwww. Since they're in our garage, it has become our obligation to go down and disrupt the proceedings.

We'd often find Gohan crouched behind Andrew the dog, howling to his heart's content, while Kalaban does his macho posturing in the middle of the garage. Girlfriend would be watching from the sidelines, purring and grooming herself. Then my husband would try to hit Kalaban with whatever is handy: a plastic chair, a slipper, a dustpan. He always missed, and Kalaban would run away, grinning. As a result of these nocturnal skirmishes, we now have a plastic chair with a broken seat, a long knife with a broken point, a chipped baseball bat, a broken pot. All for the sake of Gohan's lovelife.

Thankfully, the courtship has ended. Gohan, battle-scarred over Girlfriend, is now healing his numerous scratches. He has a sore on his neck that my nanny declares will develop into skin cancer if untreated, so we've resorted to applying Solcoseryl whenever we catch him. Kalaban rarely shows his grinning face, but it still irritates the hell out of us when we see him on the streets.

Girlfriend is, of course, pregnant. She doesn't visit so often now. The nanny has threatened to evict both cats if she gives birth in the garage. My daughter and I are waiting to see if she'd appear one day with the kittens. She'd be welcome in the garage if she comes with little gray-and-white kittens, but not little orange tabby ones.

my daughters' education

2011-10-10T10:28:00.021+08:00

A long time ago, I have decided that both of my daughters will attend Ateneo. One is ten; the other is three. And so it turns out that this particular mother is preoccupied with computing how much she has to save in the years before they'd go to university, while she still has Promil Kid in the grocery list and PSP in the Christmas wish list discreetly posted in the cork board by the library.

My older daughter often forgets to do her homework. I can sense my husband's disapproval that I am not strict when it comes to schoolwork, and it translates to my daughter's lack of discipline. Sometimes whole weekends would go by and we have not opened a single book in my daughter's school bag, but we found the time to cook together.

My three-year-old can identify letters in the alphabet, but for some reason refuses to say the letter 'E.' She can count, but she only counts going up and down stair steps. The older relatives say it's too early to send her to school, but if it means she'll learn to share and make friends I'd gladly pay her Nursery tuition for another year, and never mind if she sings the alphabet without the 'E.'

And so it also turns out that I think I will be ready for Ateneo, but my daughters might not be. I sometimes remember that at 10 years old, I was studying alone, and my art projects always got the highest grades. I also won all the Spelling contests, because my grandmother expected nothing less. I was also a stressed-out, grade-conscious, anxious child with chewed-up fingernails, but I cannot tell my daughter that. When I was 10, all I had to amuse myself were old issues of Life magazine and Reader's Digest, and comic books, which were forbidden but which we smuggled in the house anyway. My daughter amuses herself by doing Pizap on Facebook, and she has declared herself bored with Angry Birds. She spends hours practicing the flute, and when we go to the mall she stays in Tom's World while I do the groceries.

I have not asked her what she wants to be when she grows up. I do not want her to be pressured with school, but I realize that she should not grow up in the shadow of my ambitions. When she goes to university and someone asks her, 'Why Ateneo?' do I want her answer to be 'My mother had decided that when I was five years old' ?

And so it has turned out that in contemplating my desire to provide for a good education for my children, I have overlooked the necessity to provide them with a choice. My job, it turns out, is to be there whatever school they may choose, and not freak out when they decide to be deep-sea divers or hairdressers.

Their education is not the four years in Ateneo. Their education is the things I can teach them every day, as they grow up, how to be all that they can be.

dashboard special

2011-09-28T08:55:00.014+08:00

I commute to work everyday. And today, for lack of colorful old ladies and inspiring radio music, what fell under my scrutiny was the driver's seat. Specifically, the windshield and dashboard. All of us who take public transport look towards the front of the jeep. Do you actually see what's usually there, or do you gaze blankly until it's time to yell "Para!"?

1. The rosary. It's a staple. It hangs from the rearview mirror. Not only on jeeps, but also on cars, buses, tricycles, and trucks. In some cases there's also a tasselled plastic medallion of Our Lady of Good Voyage. My husband, though not particularly religious, plays it safe. The dangling rosary is from Jerusalem, and the medallion is from the church of Our Lady of Manaoag in Pangasinan.

2. The sticker. Often it's related to #1, because it reinforces the prayer of everyone on the road: God bless our trip. No matter if the driver is a loud-mouthed, foul-mannered, reckless son of a bitch, the sticker right in front of him proclaims it: God bless our trip. I often whisper a P.S. at the end: Lord, let me reach my destination in one piece.

3. The other stickers. Let's recite them, shall we? Barya Lang Po Sa Umaga, on a sticker sponsored by Hotel Sogo. No Smoking. Victoria Court. 91.5 Big Radio. Yes FM. Love Radio. That's for the jeeps. For the FX and commuter vans, let's add Every Drop Counts, Universal Studios, the logo of the Playboy Bunny. And for the cars, that's where you boast Baby on Board, Lawyer on Board, Doctor on Call, and the various universities where you studied. I had to fight to have one sticker of Ateneo Graduate School of Business somewhere in my husband's van. He didn't want any sticker anywhere, aside from the ones issued by LTO and the subdivision. I won, though, but by a slight margin. He pasted it in the van's rear window, partially obscured by the wiper. And he promised to remove it as soon as I graduate, so I'm postponing my thesis.

4. The nodding, bobbing things. There's the plastic dog that bobs its head and tail. There's the gold cat that waves its paw. And there's the little flower that looks suspiciously like what you'd see in Plants vs Zombies, which waves its leaves around. You can buy them from vendors along Roxas Boulevard, along with feather dusters and windshield shades.

5. The hanging stuffed toys. They're more common in vans, FX and buses, but yes, even jeeps sport them. They're the ones that you get from Tom's World, where you drop a token in the slot and let those claws come down on one plush toy. You used to get teddy bears and little dogs and Hello Kitty. Now you get Ben 10 and Doraemon and Spongebob. The jeep I took this morning had a Dora, so grimy with dirt it's actually gray. My daughter would have a hemorrhage if she saw it; it actually looks like a voodoo doll. And the taxis? They used to have all seven of Snow White's dwarfs! Now it's-- ehem-- Angry Birds!!

6. The painted decorations. If you've ridden the long noisy jeeps that ply the routes of Antipolo, Cainta, and Tanay, you've seen them. Flashy painting on the jeep bodies, pounding music that rattles your teeth, dark interiors with eagles and dragons and tigers on the ceiling, alongside images of Mama Mary. But the ordinary jeeps and taxis have their walls and ceilings printed with the imaginative names of all their family members. Mario and Elena and Mario Jr. and Marlena and Mario III. I've ridden one Pasig-Quiapo jeep which took it one level up; it had logos of airlines in the ceiling: JAL and Thai Airways and PAL and Emirates. And you don't have to guess it: proclaimed on the side of the jeep, in bold colors, was KATAS NG OFW! Classic!

7. The witticisms. They're so commonplace you barely notice them. They hang on those little painted boards right behind the driver's head, along with the sign that says No Student ID, No Discount.

God knows Hudas not pay. (Oh, Lord, forgive us for being predominantly Catholic.)
Ang katok ay sa pinto, ang sutsot ay sa aso, ang para ay sa tao.
Forgive me my darling, kung ikaw ang aking naging ikalimang first love.

My jeep this morning had this classic invitation: Basta driver, sweet lover!
But I didn't count on the disclaimer below it:

Miss subukan mo akong ibigin, pag ika'y nagutom saka mo ako sisihin.

so how was your weekend?

2011-09-26T10:50:00.007+08:00

They ask you that in the office on Monday morning. You grin and invariably say, "Good! I just stayed home, playing with the kids."

But, ladies and gentlemen, a real Sunday at home looks like this:

5:00 am. My 10-year-old is shaking me. She wants to jog and play badminton in the local park. I groan, tell her we’ll do it next week, and promptly fall asleep again.

6:00 am. I get up and prepare breakfast: rice topped with taba ng talangka, dried squid and fish, salted eggs, and lots of coffee. My husband has started applying glazing putty on the bare kitchen cabinets, part of the now month-long home improvement project.

8:00 am. I attack the laundry while the nanny attends to the 3-year-old who wants to jump into the soapsuds in the washing machine.

9:00 am. I go to the market with my 10-year-old while the nanny continues the laundry. The 3-year-old is now watching Dora on DVD.

11:00 am. Both kids are bathed. I am not. It’s time to prepare lunch. The 10-year-old has repeated four times that I promised we’d cook maja blanca today and has scattered Angry Birds playing cards all over the living room. I seriously consider being an Angry Bird.

1:00 pm. I sand the double deck in the children’s room, prior to repainting it. The nanny has both kids in our bedroom to get them away from the dust, where they're probably wrecking my little library.

3:00 pm. I peel and slice cassava, which I will cook in syrup and butter, for the afternoon merienda.

4:00 pm. The nanny rushes off to get a pedicure in her favorite salon while the 3-year-old is sleeping. I am applying a second coat of paint on the double deck. My husband, freshly bathed, goes into the bedroom and turns off the aircon. The 3-year-old promptly wakes and starts whining.

5:00 pm. We’re all watching Dora on DVD, and we’ve memorized the parts where Swiper the Fox appears, and we all recite “Oh, man!” so he will stop swiping. The 10-year-old, sick of Dora, hides in the bedroom with a laptop so she can download song lyrics to Korean pop songs.

6:00 pm. I prepare supper.

7:30 pm. The nanny comes back with a new haircut and purple toes, along with the ingredients for the maja blanca, which I had hoped my 10-year-old would forget.

8:00 pm. I start cooking maja blanca with my 10-year-old. We’re done in an hour, and they start eating it hot off the pan. My arms are aching.

9:00 pm. I eat my own supper while Dora (what else?) drones on and on in the background. It’s now playing in the portable DVD player so that the others could watch something else on TV. Dora and Boots get somewhat tiring after three dozen DVDs.

10:00 pm. The nanny is still returning freshly folded laundry in the closets, which means I cannot relinquish the 3-year-old to her yet. We draw lots of ABCs, count pens, and go up and down the stairs (hoping she’ll tire herself out and drop to sleep). By 11:00 pm I’m ready to drop and the kid is still bouncing around.

12:00 mn. The 3-year-old has a bad cold and cannot sleep, so I have to nebulize her. I’m only lying down on the bed when I see my 10-year-old’s PE pants that’s ripped in the crotch, which she has given me on Saturday to sew. So I bring out my sewing kit.

1:00 am. I cannot find my cellphone, which is important because I have to set the alarm for 4:45 am, so I can prepare breakfast. I realize it’s Monday already, and I remember I have not taken a bath.

elizabeth taylor's jewelry

2011-09-09T14:41:00.008+08:00

The estate of Elizabeth Taylor is putting up her jewelry collection for auction in December. Its estimated total cost is $30 million. Among others, there's the 33.19 karat diamond known as the Elizabeth Taylor Diamond, a gift from Richard Burton. It's expected to fetch $2.5 to $3.5 million.

A portion of the proceeds will go to her AIDS Foundation. Very noble.

I wonder how it feels like to wear a diamond like that, a diamond that has its own proper name.

I have a friend who keeps her jewelry in a safety deposit box in a bank. She takes out one piece to wear for a few days, gives it back to the bank for safekeeping, and takes out another one.

I have another friend who wore these nice gold ball earrings, and at P20,000 they're the cheapest thing in her collection.

Still there's another friend who asks a jewelry maker to come to the office from time to time. She checks out jewelry designs in the internet, then asks the maker to customize pieces for her, in white and yellow gold. The jewelry maker sometimes comes with finished pieces, which she allows to be bought on installment basis. The prices don't come lower than P50,000. I got tempted one time to order a piece from her, a custom-made cat pendant, in white gold.

I love accessories, but I'm not overly fond of pricey jewelry, mostly because I don't have enough money to start a collection. :-) I admire women who own beautiful jewelry, but I don't walk around carrying this hidden desire to wear Bvlgari or Cartier pieces.

The women in my family treat jewelry with reverence. I received jewelry from my mother as gifts on very special occasions, but only when I was old enough to take care of them. And the expensive ones are kept hidden, to be used only to impress relatives during weddings or old classmates during high school reunions.

I like owning things that I can use on ordinary days. In Special Things, I said that I don't have pretty dresses that I save for special occasions. I do have some nice jewelry, but they're not the kind over which I'd lose sleep if I misplaced them, and definitely not the kind over which I'd get killed if I wore them on my way to the office.

But yes, sometimes I daydream of jewelry. I'd also like to give my daughters gifts of rings and necklaces when they grow up. I'd like diamonds. They'll never go down in value, and no matter how small, they catch attention. They wink fire. I like to think a woman should be like a diamond, never insignificant or unnoticeable, and treated just as precious.

And a woman like Elizabeth Taylor? Oh, she deserves a diamond as iconic as her.

james soriano's article

2011-08-31T15:35:00.009+08:00

James Soriano wrote this Manila Bulletin article on August 24, 2011. It's about English as the language of privilege.

To say it received plenty of attention would be an understatement. It generated thousands of reactions, forwarded on Facebook, blogged about (like what I'm doing now), and shared on Twitter. The day after it was posted in the Manila Bulletin site, I could not access it. There must be so many people wanting to get in on the issue.

They said it was very un-nationalistic. They accused James of 'arrogant elitism.' They said it's a shame that he, being a Filipino, could say all those things.

Personally, I think people took notice because it struck a nerve. But isn't it true? For most of us, we're working overtime to be able to send our children to private schools, where the medium of instruction is English. The best students in class are those who have good grades in English. When they graduate from college, they get interviewed in English, and I, who's in Human Resources, can tell you that companies put a premium on excellent English communication skills. We equate good breeding by the ability to speak English, and therefore, it equates to a good life. And in the Philippines, you might want to check out how many signages along the streets are in English. How often would you see a sign that says "Tindahan ni Juana?" Oh, no, it's always "Jane's Store," with a Coke advertisement on one side.

I'm guilty of thinking in English too. When my daughter comes to me with a homework in Filipino, I translate the directions in English so we can understand what needs to be done. I tell her "pandiwa" is actually a "verb," and she gives me a pained expression. Needless to say, her grades in Filipino leave something to be desired. We exchange text messages in English, and not the "cn i wtch dvd aft skul" version, but the complete words. Definitely not Jejemon, for that matter. And I used to find it funny that my daughter entered grade school without knowing the Tagalog words for "banana" and "crab" and "gate."

So does that make me less of a Filipino? No. Choosing to communicate in English meant that I had a better chance to compete in the real world, where salaries need to be earned and deals have to be made. Speaking English will allow my children to go places and experience things beyond the place where they were born.

James Soriano wrote a come-back article on August 31, Wika Bilang Gunita. And although I applaud him for his guts to write it, I must admit it took me twice as long to finish reading it. I almost wished it had an English translation. :-)

special things

2011-08-26T13:36:00.002+08:00

A man opened his wife’s underwear drawer and found a silk paper-wrapped package. In it was something his wife got 8 or 9 years ago, but has never worn, saving it for a special occasion. He guessed it was a special occasion, so he put them with the clothing he was taking to the funeral home, for his wife had just died.

Maybe you also got that one from a forwarded email, with an inspirational reminder that if it’s worth doing or seeing, to do it now, because tomorrow is promised to no one. It goes on to say that we should live for today, and we should use our crystal glasses every day.

Here’s my take. I grew up in a house where a narra china cabinet occupies one whole wall, and Noritake dinnerware was displayed in matched sets. There were silver spoons, forks and knives, and the water glasses were so old and dainty that they shattered if you so much as tapped one with a spoon. There were teapots and teacups in fine porcelain, but I never tasted tea in that house.

My grandmother kept cans of imported corned beef and bars of imported beauty soap in a cabinet, to give as presents to visiting relatives. (I now wonder if she ever checked expiry dates; we seldom entertained and relatives rarely came.) My sister and I had Rainbow Brite dolls sent by an uncle from the States when we were little, but they stayed in their boxes and put on display for years. I stole mine when I left home to study in Manila when I was thirteen.

When I got married, I promised myself that my house will never have things set aside for special occasions. Well, we were poor to begin with, and that meant we did not have a lot of special things. The plates and glasses we received as wedding gifts were what we used in the house. We only had what we needed, from clothes to food to toys. But later, when things got better for us, we drank red wine for dinner and bought cake when we felt like eating some. We cooked special food on ordinary days, and one time we had plain grilled tilapia for New Year’s Eve, because we’ve used up the ‘holiday food’ menu in the days leading to the New Year.

But even if we could now afford bottles of perfume instead of supermarket-bought cologne, we only got what we needed. We're not yet filthy rich, after all. :-) We don’t have boxes of unopened underwear in our closet. My daughter has very few pretty Sunday clothes to hand down to her cousins, because all her clothes had been used well. We buy imported bath soap when we run out of them. We use wineglasses and water goblets for dinner, and my daughters have never broken one. We have Barbie dolls in the house; their hair is all mangled and they have missing shoes. One of them had already gone topless and had purple eyeshadow drawn with glitter pen before I realized it was a Collector’s Edition Barbie.

It doesn’t mean we’re leading an extravagant life by our standards, or that we’re not teaching our children how to treat valuable things well. I prefer to think that we chose to enjoy the nicer things so that we’ll have as few regrets as possible, so that we can get more out of life, learn more, be more. My daughters know spaghetti and ice cream is something they can have when I’m in the mood to cook and run to the store on a weekend, and not something they only eat at a friend’s birthday party, like when I was growing up. (Well, these days it's drive-thru food.) I wear my pretty dresses on Mondays.

We have special things, but only a few, and we use them well. If you had started a life of simplicity, it’s either you stuck with it by force of habit, or it made you greedy and you started hoarding imported corned beef.

to kill a mockingbird

2011-08-23T15:34:00.003+08:00

I finished Lee Harper’s ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ today.

Atticus Finch just became my hero. His children were motherless, and he raised them rather wild, but they grew up reading newspapers and discussing editorials with him. He was a lawyer, and it was said he was the same man inside the house as he was on the streets. He spoke to the children as if they were grown-ups, and he listened to them.

His daughter, Scout, was seven, but he taught her to ‘wear someone else’s skin and walk around in it’ if she wanted to understand people. He taught her how to act with dignity, and how to fight her own battles. He asked an uncle to teach his son Jem to shoot because he said he was too old to bother with guns, but Jem would later discover that in his youth, he was a respected sharpshooter, and he can still shoot, and that sometimes it is wise not to flaunt what you have every chance you got.

Atticus is a work of fiction, but his life, in the eyes of a little girl, teaches you what it means to be a good person. Being good does not mean faultless. It means trying your best to uphold what you value, being brave enough to acknowledge your mistakes and catch the lessons, and standing up for something even in the midst of adversity.

As children, we are raised to never challenge the wisdom of parents. Parents are the absolute authorities, and we believed without question. But as parents, when do you start teaching your children that even parents make mistakes? As parents, how do you acknowledge that you may believe you are acting on the best interests of the child, but in the end, each person, even a little person, has to live his own life? How do you teach your child to stand up for himself without compromising the rules of the world he lives in?

Tough questions. The book does not answer them. The book made me evaluate some of the convictions I held, and some of the practices I do as a parent, simply because I thought it was expected of me. The book made me aware of what my child sees when she looks at me.

Atticus also taught his children that it was a sin to kill a mockingbird. You’d have to read it to find out why. It’s beautiful.

rain, rain, go away

2011-08-04T15:08:00.009+08:00

I love the sun. I like doing outdoor chores, even if I got hot and sweaty. I would go to the beach in the summer not to frolic in the water but to roll around in the sand. I love the smell of freshly-washed laundry drying in the hot afternoon sun. I even like going out during my lunch break to get away from the constant 22 degrees in the office. I love being slightly baked and browned (and not just because my Western friends envy my color).

Consequently, I'm one of those people who get depressed by rain. And in the past two weeks, it seemed that we've had nothing but rain. Today turned out to be bright and sunny, so I'm celebrating the return of the sun by blogging what I hated about the rainy days.

1. I spend my lunchtime inside the building. Although I mostly eat alone and I often eat in the cafeteria anyway, it somehow makes me feel cheated that I don't have the choice to go outside and look at shoes.

2. I leave my umbrella in the garage to drip at night, and I find out in the morning that the cat has peed on it. Not the Siamese cat, but the stray ones that come at night, and I don't have the heart to kick them out. I feed them food scraps before I go to bed, and that's the thanks I get in return. The maddening thing is that I usually discover it when I start to stink in the van, on account of the umbrella in my office bag.

3. I rush around in the morning, getting my daughter ready for school, and I can't find her frigging rubber shoes on P.E. day. I search high and low, and just as the school service comes beeping, I find them behind the refrigerator, where the nanny has hung them to dry.

4. When it's raining we have clothes hung all over the house. They won't dry right, so the nanny hangs them on door handles and cabinet handles and towel bars and stair railings in the evenings. It's a strange sight when you emerge from the bedroom at 5am and there's a line of underwear hanging from a hook in the ceiling. Clothes that did not dry in the sun just don't smell right, no matter how much fabric conditioner you used and even if you spin them in the dryer for two hours.

5. I can't wear nice shoes when it's raining. I usually wear my five-inch heels on the rides to the office and going home. I feel good in them and (I think) I look good in them. But those shoes are too nice to get ruined in the rain, so I have to wear ordinary wedge sandals (but of course, with three-inch heels).

6. Now this one I don't hate so much. I get to wear little dresses on rainy days (but then I wear little dresses four days a week, so I guess it doesn't matter). It's because I don't like wet clothing. I don't like the feeling of wet pants plastered on my legs in the one hour it takes me to get to the office, and I don't like damp pants in the eight hours I sit on my desk. I must be the only passenger in those vans who wear sleeveless dresses on rainy days. All the rest are wrapped in jackets with hoods, bulky pullovers, and pants. If I wear a dress, I can just wipe off the water from my arms and legs, then wrap myself in a thick pashmina in the office.

Some people like rainy days, because it's cooler and you can putter around the house and get all the sewing done and you can snuggle in bed and download movies to death and read a book or make love the whole afternoon. You can cook champorado at 2pm and eat it in front of the TV.

Well, yes, you can enjoy them when it's raining, but I'll take a sunny day to read a book with the cat in my lap in the garage, and eat champorado too. For me, sunny days make the colors brighter, the people more cheerful. Hot days can make tempers boil faster too, but let's not go there. :-)

It's just as The Carpenters sang: 'Rainy days and Mondays always get me down...'

my daughter's music

2011-08-02T09:18:00.002+08:00

When I was a little girl, a 'musically inclined' child was someone who had a piano and a guitar in the house, took music lessons, belonged to the school drum-and-lyre band, and was asked to actually sing in school programs, instead of standing at the back and just mouthing the words to the song.

My grandmother was very determined that me and my siblings would grow up to be cultured (sounds like bacteria to me), socially well-rounded persons, so aside from the summer painting classes, we had tutors for classic ballroom dancing, we recited (and wrote) poems, and we had piano lessons from the pianist in the church choir.

Let's jump to 2011, to my musically-inclined ten-year-old. She has 4GB of MP3s in her desktop computer, another 4GB of MP3s in her mother's laptop (as a back-up), and a little pink MP4 player with earphones featuring the Angry Birds. She downloads music videos on YouTube, watches the Myx countdowns at 6am on weekdays while eating breakfast, and could sing those funky Korean pop music even if she does not understand the words.

We have a videoke in the house. We sing together on weekends, and she has the nerve to laugh at me when I’m off-key. We have about six dozen DVDs of concerts and music videos. We don’t have a single musical instrument in the house.

And occasionally, she would hand me a piece of paper before I leave for work in the morning. It would contain a list of songs that she wants, with a careful little note to include the lyrics.
1. Bituing Walang Ningning
2. Greatest Love of All
3. Grenade
4. Closer You and I
5. Funkhouse
6. Danger
7. Fire
8. Lazy Song

By now I would be familiar with my daughter’s current taste in music that I know Grenade and Lazy Song are by Bruno Mars, but Bituing Walang Ningning and Greatest Love of All were a surprise. I didn’t realize she’d go for Whitney Houston, but then I didn’t know she knew Bonnie Tyler as well until she sang If I Sing You A Love Song on videoke. I agonized over Danger and Fire, until I found out they were K-pop. I pestered my other music-loving friends until they coughed out the MP3s they had. The others I downloaded at night.

I’d hand her the complete list, along with a flash drive and a print-outs of the lyrics. She would transfer the songs to the MP4 player, and sing along. She would mouth off those Korean words that sound like tongue-twisters, and I have a happy ten-year-old for about a week… until she hands me the new list. Sometimes there would be five songs; sometimes fifteen.

I do it because I want to know the kind of songs she likes. I do it because it’s fun when we sing together, when most of my friends don’t know Next To You by Chris Brown. I can smile with officemates who, like me, have little girls, and who, like me, have managed to memorize Justin Bieber factoids. I like knowing that there are two versions of Inside Your Heaven, and Carrie Underwood’s take is better. I like listening to Ordinary People by John Legend, both when Markki Stroem sang it in Pilipinas Got Talent two seasons ago, and when my daughter sings it in the morning. Singing my daughter’s songs, learning her kind of music, gives us a connection.

But sometimes the years between us show.

There was one time that her list contained Take A Bow. I was so pleased. I came home armed with the MP3 and the lyrics, and I started to tell her about how I liked the song too. I told her about the song This Used To Be My Playground, and a movie called ‘A League of Their Own.’ I told her I think it was good that she could appreciate songs from another era.

She listened to my ravings and nodded along, then she played the song. Her face fell.

She meant Take A Bow by Rihanna. Not Madonna.

motherhood 101

2011-08-01T12:13:00.003+08:00

This morning my daughter and I got off to a rough start. We were both dressing when she asked if a flash drive would get a virus if it got wet. I was immediately suspicious.

Last month she told me that her Computer teacher required the class to bring flash drives for their computer exercises. The flash drives would be collected in a box, to be kept in the classroom. I bought her one, then told her flash drives are expensive, and if her classmates are not submitting theirs, she should keep hers in her bag. I had visions of the computer teacher greedily collecting 40 flash drives at the end of the school year.

She did not submit, and neither did her classmates. So after using her flash drive in class last week, she put in her skirt pocket, where it lay forgotten, until Ate Malou did the laundry on Friday, and was returned to her, dripping.

I was mad. I got the flash drive and was scolding her about being careless as she went out to her school service. I was also mad at Ate Malou for not checking the pockets of clothing before she started the laundry. I was also mad because I was running late on a Monday morning, and it was starting to rain.

As I was walking out the subdivision gate I saw the school service ahead. My daughter was in one of the windows, looking back at me. Her face was small and serious, and I could see her hesitating to wave goodbye. The van turned the corner and was gone.

And on the ride to the office, I was of course consumed with guilt. Too much of a fuss over a small thing. I could easily have said, ok, let’s check if it’s still working, reminded her to be careful next time, and we could have kissed each other goodbye like we usually do.

Being a kid is not easy, and I say that as I look back at my own childhood. I never got into trouble for losing my things in school, but I also didn’t have anyone to sew a button back in my blouse if I lost one. My daughter is so finicky about her skirts that I get to adjust the hook at the waist almost every week. One day it would be tight; the next time it would be loose, and she would hitch at it till I lose my patience and bring out the sewing kit while she eats her breakfast in her underwear. I remember going to grade school with socks that were held up at my ankles by rubber bands, because my grandmother could not be bothered to buy new ones; I got tired of asking her.

I could say my daughter is luckier than some, because her parents could buy the things she needs for school, and the things she wants as well. But I wonder who of us was luckier: me for being largely overlooked (and so learned to take control of her little life), or her for being so closely watched she sometimes feels the need to ask for permission to take a nap.

There has to be a balance somewhere, between telling children what you think is good for them and teaching them to stand up for their choices, needing to know what your children are up to and knowing enough to give them space, teaching them to fly and letting them test the wind on their own. We grope for the balance every day. Parents, as well as children, are always walking the tightrope, hoping love will be the net to catch them if they slip and fall.

As a child I also don’t remember being apologized to. Adults don’t say sorry, even if they’re wrong. I remember resenting the hell out of the unfairness of it all. Now that I’m an adult, I find it hard to say sorry to a kid, because when you’re a grown-up, it’s humbling to admit you’re wrong to someone half your size.

So now I take a break to send my daughter a text message:

Hi, honey. Your USB is working. Sorry for being mad at you this morning.

Love, Mama.

And if I’m lucky, we’ll get to do crosswords together tonight.

run away

2011-07-27T13:01:00.008+08:00

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

2011-07-22T08:12:00.004+08:00

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

2011-07-13T12:55:00.000+08:00

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!

2011-07-11T16:23:00.000+08:00

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

2011-07-11T14:39:00.000+08:00

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

2011-07-01T14:05:00.000+08:00

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

2011-07-01T11:39:00.001+08:00

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?

the psp issue

2011-06-28T14:44:00.000+08:00

My daughter wants a PSP. Her cousin has one, one of her friends has one, and two of her other friends are discussing about asking their OFW fathers to buy them one. She asked whether we'd buy her one when we had some extra money.

I said no, because I think she has enough toys. We have a regular Playstation where she consistently beats her father at Street Fighter, a commercial quality videoke which actually came from those huge boxes in malls where you put five-peso coins to be able to sing really loud, a desktop PC (uh, ok, so it needs upgrading), and my laptop. She has her own cellphone with a postpaid line. Shall we count the Barbies and the current craze among her friends, the erasers shaped like food?

My daughter is not one to pester us about the things she wants. She knows we're not rich, so she's ok with one 'No.' Of course the question of getting the PSP is open for discussion, so after some consultation with the man of the house and various friends whose kids own one (I can't believe the number of two-year-olds who own PSPs!), I relented and brought up the subject again after a week, and told her she could have a PSP... if she saves up for it.

My daughter got excited. She designated a special wallet for the 'PSP money,' and negotiated for an amount that she would save every day, considering the fact that her allowance comes from me. She then proceeded to convince her father to add some more, to make the saving go faster. We're looking at getting it for Christmas, but at the rate of P20 per day, I think we're likely to buy it for Christmas 2012. Sigh.

I could easily have said, Ok, we'll buy it for Christmas. But she understands that we don't buy things just because we can afford them. She knows that a PSP will cost as much as an aircon unit for their bedroom, or equivalent to a dozen Barbie dolls, or her sister's milk for three months. (She doesn't know that it's equivalent to six pairs of her mother's pretty shoes.) Not because I'm trying to make her feel guilty about an expensive toy, but because she will put more value in the PSP if she saves up for it. Because I'd like to teach her that even a child has priorities, and the sweetest things in life are those that you work hard for. That applies to PSP, job promotions, and relationships.

I wouldn't want her to come to me after her college graduation and say, 'Mama, can you buy me a car?' But well... I can loan her the down payment. :-)

the amazon kindle!

2011-06-28T11:28:00.000+08:00

I have lusted for this gadget for over a year. I have checked Amazon a hundred times (to see if the price will go down), read dozens of reviews, followed blogs dedicated to it, chased other bank staff who are Kindle owners and asked them questions about it, and finally, when they became available in the office library, queued myself to borrow it, loaded with e-books related to education and poverty reduction. Waiting time was usually two weeks, so as soon as I returned a Kindle to the Library, I promptly put myself in the queue again. And then the Kindle was mine again for a month.

The Kindle can store 3,500 books. Imagine that. My little house will not be able to accommodate that number of books, even if I kick out the cat, the dog, and my daughter's pet rabbit. The choices in Amazon's Kindle Store is simply overwhelming, with almost a million books. Add to that the other hundreds of e-books floating around in the internet, to download to your heart's content. It has built-in Wi-Fi too. For all other wonders this little thing holds, see the Amazon Kindle page.

I'm not a gadget lover. I have no intense desire to own an iPad or the Samsung Galaxy Tab, simply because there are just too many things to do with them. Goodness, I get a headache trying to get ahead of my 10-year-old daughter when we do Plants vs Zombies in my laptop. The laptop exists so I can (i) write stories; (ii) check my email and very occasionally update my Facebook account; and (iii) read Pdf books. My daughter, of course, uses my laptop to check YouTube, Facebook, and all the online games she could get her hands on during weekends (she never goes online unsupervised).

So why the Kindle? Because I love books, period. I have books in the living room, in the bedroom, Stephenie Meyer's The Host in the bathroom, Harry Potter 7 and Maeve Binchy's Quentins in the office for my lunch break, and a Readers Digest in my office bag for when I'm stuck in traffic. I can queue in the bank, supermarket checkout lane, or a local government office without losing my temper, if I have a book to lose myself in.

I have to wait a long time before The New York Times' bestsellers become available at bookstores. Remember Under The Dome? It also took me over a year to complete Stephen King's Dark Tower I to VII, by raiding Booksale, Powerbooks, and National Bookstore. In 4shared, all seven are available in Pdf, which took about half an hour to download. Add another 15 minutes, and your Kindle is loaded.

I also discovered that you can play MP3s in it. Although I'm one of those people who can block out conversation when I'm immersed in a book, it's a nice touch when you want to take a break; say you're in Kennon Road and you're just about to puke from reading all the way from Manila, you can play a couple of songs. Or you can click Text-to-Speech, which means your Kindle will read aloud to you. While you puke.

There isn't a lot of accessories to pretty up the Kindle. There are some very nice Kindle skins in Amazon, and of course they sell the covers too. The lighted cover costs $59.99, but you can always buy an Energizer reading light for P400 that works the same way. But if you worship your Kindle, there's a Kate Spade cover that costs almost the same as the Kindle itself -- $125. Cole Haan's Kindle cover is a bit cheaper at $119, but there's a Special Offer Kindle at $114.

Now the bookssss are just a couple of clicks away. And to quote my officemate Hasmin, it looks like an oversized calculator. You can read it while riding a jeep, and you won't get held up for that. That, fellows, is something you can't do with an iPad.

My entire library in a device that's 8.5 ounces and less than half an inch thick. I got it today. It's enough to keep me grinning for a week. :-)

on the road to infanta

2011-04-25T13:42:00.000+08:00

On Easter Sunday I decided to go to the market.

My mother-in-law’s house is in a little fishing village with a fantastic beach, and I wanted to go to Infanta, which is two towns away. Its market is huge and the produce is very fresh, and I could fill my laundry basket on a 500-peso budget (as opposed to the same full laundry basket in Cavite at P1,000.00).

I got up at 5:00 am and took pictures of the sun rising in the sea, then started to wait along the highway for an Infanta-bound jeepney by 6:30.

After fifteen minutes the back of my neck was warm with sun, and no jeepney in sight. I started feeling like I had to go to the bathroom, but I had this suspicion that the jeep would pass as soon as I went back to the house. So I waited.

One of my husband’s little nephews soon came to stand by me, and he started to throw pebbles at the highway, where a tricycle or a band of motorcycles would occasionally pass. Twice a group of chickens crossed the road, and how’s that for a joke? I started wanting to throw pebbles too.

After a 45-minute wait, a jeep came along. It was almost full, but you don’t know what a full jeep means in a provincial highway. I boarded, and in the middle of the jeep were two huge sacks of what looked like giant sweet potatoes. There was a spare wheel for the jeep, and assorted boxes and luggages of the passengers. There were about a dozen kids, sleeping on laps and sitting on the sacks. I got wedged between a man who was clutching a basket of pastillas and another who was clutching a bunch of brooms. My feet were up on the sack of sweet potatoes, and my basket was between my legs. My knees were almost to my chin, and the brooms were tickling my right ear. Lesson Number One: Wear a dress on a jeep ride like this, and you're risking a major scandal.

After about a kilometer, the jeep stopped to unload passengers… from the roof. Down they came, men with sacks and some coconuts. They lifted down a dog too, who, with his tongue out and his eyes sparkling, looked like he had the ride of his life. Or maybe he did it everyday.

Then the jeep wouldn’t start. The driver got out to tinker with the engine, and the passengers started to chat. Across me sat two old women who were loudly exchanging notes on raising grandchildren. One of them was wearing blue knee-length pants studded with sequins, and over it a blouse with a riot of Hawaiian flowers. She had dangling earrings. She gestured wildly. She crossed her legs, and I noted that on her feet were orange Havaianas, properly misspelled. Oh, I love funky grandmothers!

Nobody seemed to be in a hurry. It looked like my trip to the market would take me the whole morning, when I could do it in an hour back home. Lesson Number Two: Forget that time is gold. Enjoy the trip since everyone seems to be doing just that.

After a while we moved again, and we reached the first town. Now we really had to stop. The sacks of sweet potatoes would be unloaded. We had already learned that they would be made into camote cue, and that the supply would last a week, and that it was a delivery, meaning the owner wasn’t with us but already waiting for the sweet potatoes since early morning. But since everyone was practically sitting on them, half of the passengers had to get off, along with their luggages, so that the sacks could be pulled out. The other half had to lift their feet even higher (and I thanked God again I was wearing shorts).

Oh, and did I mention that the passengers don’t pay as soon as they board the jeep? They pay the driver when they get off, so we have to wait while the driver counts out the change or, on one occasion, had to dash off to a sari-sari store to exchange smaller bills. And the people continued talking. Some of the women would offer to seat the smaller children on their laps; some were exchanging opinions on the merits of plastic flowers; and the grandmother in the blue sequined pants had progressed to the food she would serve in her house during the Infanta town fiesta the following day. She still had her legs crossed.

I got to Infanta after an hour and 15 minutes, on a trip that took about thirty minutes in a car. Everybody smiled when they got off the jeep. I’ve never had a more interesting time. I was sure I could finish raiding the market in about half an hour, but I was even more sure that I would get back to the house by noon.

And that the trip back would be worth another blog.

...and on the way back.

2011-04-25T13:36:00.000+08:00

I told you it would take another blog.

This is what I love in little towns. People are so involved in each other’s lives that they could not resist the chance to talk to each other, when they met on the streets, when they bought fish, when they rode on jeeps.

The tricycle driver noted the results of my trip to the market, and he inquired how much I bought the Indian mangoes for. I said P20 per kilo (and I was proud of it). He mournfully shook his head and offered his opinion on where I could have gotten fresher mangoes at 15 pesos per kilo. He lifted my basket and took me to the right jeep. The driver’s assistant positioned my basket in the middle and reminded me not to sit too far in front, since my destination was closer.

The jeep mercifully left after fifteen minutes of waiting for passengers. I saw the other passengers looking me over shamelessly, so I checked them out too. It was certainly more interesting than my rides to the office, where the office girls and boys slept all the way to Ortigas, and the only means of entertainment was to wonder whether the bank employee beside me was carrying an authentic Louis Vuitton bag, and to count how many were not wearing earphones.

Beside me was a teenager. She had a bag, but she chose to hold her two cellphones, a comb, and a handkerchief in one hand. She was texting on the cellphones alternately, and smiling as she did it. Said teenager would later forget where was supposed to get off, and would squeal for the driver to stop when she realized she was past her destination. The older men would laugh at the folly of owning cellphones when she was gone. I dared not check my cellphone.

I wonder why there are so many kids in these jeep rides. There was a mother across me with three little kids. She was breastfeeding the fourth. All three kids, I presumed, weren’t paying passengers. As the jeep stopped to pick up more passengers along the way, the children were asked to give up their seats, one by one. They did, and they either sat on the jeepney floor, or on one of their bags, or on another person’s lap if it was offered.

Farther along the seat was another baby, who was gleefully plucking the leaves of some vegetables from another passenger’s basket and eating them, while his mother chatted with the basket’s owner. While I was doubtful about the benefit of raw pechay leaves on the baby’s digestion, I was sure the other woman did not mind cooking shredded vegetables.

Two little boys got on. I guessed they were about five and eight, or maybe they’re small for their age. They each had a small bundle of firewood, which the older one said they were selling in the next barangay. One of the relatively well-dressed men on the jeep (well, he had shoes), clucked and offered to pay for their fare. An old woman who was eating bread gave some of it to the smaller boy. He kept his eyes down but said thank you. I felt like applauding.

One rather pretty young girl got on. She smiled at everyone, and when she was paying her fare a brash young man proclaimed that she should get a free ride, on account of being pretty. The driver, an old man, looked at us from his rearview mirror, smiled, and obliged.

And of course there were the grandmothers, who saw everything and gave their opinion and nodded approval in all the right places as the conversations eddied around them. I think it’s mainly these old women who anchor the jeep rides in their places for me, with their calm faces, unselfconscious words, and expansive moods. The presence of old women in the jeep tells me that there is no need to hurry, I’ve been there, done that, life is indeed tough, so let the jeep take us where we want to go and in the meantime let’s enjoy each other. You can breastfeed your kid, you can text on all three cellphones if you have them, you can wear blue sequined pants and misspelled Havaianas and to hell with whoever noticed, but we’ll get there when we get there. (Or maybe I'm fixated with grandmothers.)

I’m sure jeep rides in that place aren’t always so pleasant. As in other places, there would be drunk passengers, or passengers who argue with the driver about the fare, or jeeps being held up by thieves. Maybe I got lucky, it being Easter Sunday and all.

At the end of that day I would be heading back to my ordinary life in the city, but at that particular time, with a basket full of fruits and vegetables, wearing muddy slippers instead of high heels, not worrying about reports and documents for signature, the jeep was a happy place to be.

fate or choice?

2011-04-15T10:14:00.000+08:00

Antonio drove a van for a shuttle service. He was a relatively new driver; been there for only a few months. And although his van was often hot and problematic, he was usually courteous and cheerful.

But because of a pending issue with his membership fee, he had to discontinue driving for a while. It was expected that he would return.

After a couple of weeks with nothing to do, he teamed up with a motorcycle-riding buddy and snatched bags from unsuspecting women waiting for a ride: the famed riding-in-tandem snatcher modus operandi.

One night, they snatched the bag of an old woman by the highway. It should have been easy: women mostly held their bags loosely, and they couldn’t chase you. But the old woman held on to the bag, and Antonio was pulled off the motorcycle. He fell, and he hit the old woman to make her let go of the bag. The he mounted the motorcycle again and they sped off.

The bag had no money. He threw it away and they rode on. After a while, for some reason or another, Antonio asked his buddy to turn back.

Antonio returned to the bag he had thrown on the roadside, while his motorcycle buddy stayed a prudent distance away. And while he was busy, the townspeople came, carrying weapons. Antonio ran. The open land on both sides of the highway was very dark, dotted with trees, and covered in tall grass. The riding buddy heard a couple of shots, and he went away. After a while Antonio’s phone would just keep ringing.

The following morning Antonio’s friends started going around the police stations to find out if the robbery—or the possible lynching of Antonio—had been reported. It was not. On the fourth day someone tipped off the family that a body had been found in another place, far from where Antonio was chased down. So the family started checking the funeral parlors.

And they found Antonio. His body had been discovered on the side of another highway the morning after he disappeared, a short distance from a police station that they had checked before. He was shot several times—all in the back of the head. The mortician tried to repair his face with wax and makeup, but it was misshapen and still bulged in the wrong places.

There was no blotter report in any police station of a body being found. There was no case.

At the wake, you could hear the whispered conversations. The woman who was grieving was not the wife but the girlfriend, and it was she who would not stop searching until he was found. The wife was abroad, and he had a son. The riding buddy was still around, and do you think he would just get another partner and go on snatching bags merrily?

Some say Antonio didn’t have too many breaks, and life had not been kind. Some said not everyone who faced the prospect of unemployment became outlaws. And still some shook their head and said that in Cavite, justice was often swift, and nameless, and silent.

Antonio was buried yesterday, along with his van-driving days and his hopes for a good life. And the circumstances of his death would be just a story told in the future, on nights when his former friends would drink beer and wonder whether his fate was sealed that night, or if he could have made another choice and lived.

heartbreak

2011-03-23T11:46:00.000+08:00

Olivia is heartbroken today. So let’s collect all the tried and true, and the cliché, and my own pearls of wisdom to help her through it.

Eat. I have a voucher for Free Delicious Oklahoma Baby Back Ribs at Burgoo in Podium. You can have it (Terms and Conditions apply). Experience tells me that it's hard to be sad when you're full.

Don’t wallow in misery, like a pig in a mudhole. Stop the ‘Poor me!’ litany. You’re not the only miserable person in the world. The death toll for the Japan earthquake is now at 9,000+, they had an earthquake, a tsunami, and it’s snowing over there, so what’s their loss compared to yours?

Do something that usually makes you happy (but doesn’t necessarily remind you of the good times with him). Something that’s only for you. Buy a nice pair of 5-inch-heels. Get a Powerbooks overdose. Get a new guitar. Cut your hair and dye it purple.

Take some time alone. Check in a hotel, get a single room, and soak in the bathtub. Take a long drive to where there isn’t so much pollution and you can actually see the sky. Take a book and hit the beach. (But don’t stare at the half-clothed couples while they’re necking; it will make you feel worse.) It will give you space to think and listen to what your heart really says. After a while, it will tell you that alone doesn’t mean lonely.

Stop hunting Mr. Right. Sometimes it’s better to be content with Mr. Right Now. You cannot equate every man you meet with visions of sitting side by side on rocking chairs when you’re both 80 and happily senile. Men will always fall short of your expectations of forever, because they’re human. What life often gives you is the chance to live fully in the present, because now is the only time you own.

Don’t hate the happy people around you. If you can’t stand the sight of lovers entwined in SM Megamall’s escalators at lunch time, don’t throw dagger looks at them. Go eat somewhere else, or spend your break Unfriending people at Facebook. Jealousy is a social disease, so quit it.

Allow yourself a good cry, then move on. Every loss deserves a tear, but there’s no sense wetting the pillow night after night over it. At some point you have to stop, because all it leaves you is puffy eyes in the morning and a pile of laundry. Go get drunk with friends instead.

Love yourself. A break-up diminishes your self-esteem, but it does not diminish your worth as a person. Remember all the reasons why you were loved in the first place, and that is your assurance that you are worthy to be loved again. You are smart, you are financially independent, you are talented, you have good friends, you have a car that doesn't break down in the middle of Edsa on a Monday morning. And so what if you don't feel so beautiful today? That's why they have Avon. :-)

Life is like a wheel. You’re heartbroken today, maybe tomorrow you’ll meet the next man who will make you laugh. Ever think why the sky looks so much nicer after a hard rain? The rain washes off all the grime and dirt and gloom, and the sunshine lights up the world again. So it is with the loves of your life. A heartbreak comes. You cry to wash away the hurt and pain. And it leaves you free so you can feel warm again.

for carla

2011-03-04T11:59:00.000+08:00

Hi, Carla.

You said you’re considering being a full-time mom, now that you have a small kid and another on the way. Let me tell you a little about the choices working mothers make, for the sake of perspective.

My two-year-old is sick today. Her tonsils are infected, and she’s been running a fever for the third day now. I took a leave from work a day ago so I could take her to the doctor and have antibiotics prescribed.

She hates taking medicine. It’s like a wrestling match every time we have to give her antibiotics and fever medicine, even at two a.m. She ends up looking like she took a shampoo and body wash in sticky, orange-flavored goo, and we use up about three towels, only to repeat the whole thing because she managed to throw up. Then it takes her about an hour to calm down and go back to sleep, then we wake her up again for the next dose.

I lose sleep, but I have to wake up at 5 a.m. to get her older sister ready for school. I go to work and battle paperwork that was pending because I took a leave. And I call home six times to check whether she still has a fever, or if she has eaten, or if she threw up the medicine again.

I feel like I should take another leave, but my supervisor is leaving for Viet Nam on Monday morning, today is Friday, and we don’t have a visa yet. There is a 106-slide Powerpoint presentation to check, three meetings this afternoon, and plane tickets for release. I will worry the whole day about the visa and about my kid, but the only thing to do is to hope that both will be fine.

On one hand, I wish I were home right now taking care of my child. I also wish I could stay home to help my older daughter with her homework, or bring her to school in the morning and chat awhile with her class advisor, or cook my husband’s meals in the evening, or sew curtains in the afternoon while the little one is taking a nap. I long for things like that. I resent it when I come home in the evening and the baby has a new trick to show (like dancing along with Willing Willie), and it’s the yaya who taught her to do it.

On the other hand, I am thankful that I have a job, because my daughter has a health card, and that means I can bring her back to the doctor tomorrow without worrying about the doctor’s fees and the new set of prescription. Because I’m working, my other daughter goes to a private school, has a computer at home, has an iPod (that she lost a week ago), and can collect Barbie dolls. Because I’m working, I can dream about sending both girls to Ateneo for college, or give them cars as graduation gifts.

A child doesn’t care if you plan to send her to Ateneo for college. She cares that you’re there when she’s sick. But you, as an adult, weighs the option of being able to afford medical care when your child needs it.

Working to help provide for the family, or staying home to take care of the kids, should not be how you measure love as a parent. It’s a balancing act, and you tread a fine line for the choices you make. It’s there, every day. Had I been the mistress of a millionaire, and I receive fifty thousand pesos as shopping money every week, I wouldn’t even blink. I’d stay home and raise kids. But then, we don’t know the choices such a woman would make, or whether that makes her a better mother than I am.

So you see, Carla? It’s never an easy call to make. I chose to continue working, and I try to make it light by saying I feel good about putting on eye makeup and wearing heels every morning, but it also makes me look forward to the evenings when I come home to my daughters. And if they’re asleep by the time I get home, I’d still kiss them and tell them how much I love them.

bed of roses

2011-02-22T10:16:00.000+08:00

I heard an old song on the radio on my way to work this morning. It was Jon Bon Jovi’s Bed of Roses. (Well, it isn’t really that old, but these times the number one song changes every week, and gone were the days when you could remember a song with a year.)

I had to smile, because I remembered that song being played in the dances in my hometown, when I was maybe sixteen. The dances happened about four times a year: on Valentine’s Day, during the town fiesta, Halloween, and before New Year. The dances were usually sponsored by the Senior Citizens, those grand old ladies who collect the tickets at the hall entrance, sell nuts and candies, and watch like hawks over the gyrating teenagers on the floor. The dance hall was usually the covered basketball court in the town plaza, with loudspeakers set up on all four corners and glittering disco balls strung on wire along the ceiling. They would play four or five dance tunes to “rock with,” and the lights would flash, and then a couple of love songs for the “sweet” part, where the lights would be dimmed. It was sufficiently dark to pull your dancing partner a bit closer during the love songs, but not too dark that the watching grandmothers would see if you actually tried to kiss.

Those small-town dances were occasions for the teenagers to officially mingle, when the boys-turning-to-young-men who were away at college in Manila could come home and see which of their friends’ little sisters actually grew up pretty, and those little rituals of courtship could be done in a relaxed, friendly manner. In those dances a girl could refuse to dance a sweet song with you, and you knew she was turning you down, but you could still keep your face in front of your gang and say no big deal. That was lots better than suffering through the formal “ligaw” one evening in the girl’s living room, with the girl’s grandmother glowering from the kitchen, and you couldn’t say anything better than “Isn’t the moon beautiful tonight?” In little towns, when you court a girl, not only her whole family knows, they have also investigated your ancestry, and her girlfriends would have listed down all the misdemeanors you have done since preschool.

In those dances, you were allowed to run a little bit wild (but remember the watching grandmothers). You could step out a while and freshen up in some friend’s house, drink spiked punch or a bottle of beer shared three ways, then come back to dance the night away. And it was like being Cinderella. The party would be tapering off by one a.m., and the wise ones would leave before their grandmothers could appear at the edges of the dance floor, toting flashlights. It was total embarrassment to hear an announcement like this over the loudspeakers:

“Could Jane please come to the door? Her grandmother would like to go home now.”

I remember that after those dances, my sister and I would stay out awhile with friends, boys allowed, outside our gate. We’d sit there, slightly drunk, playing the guitar, playing cards, eating junk food, exchanging stories, letting all that good dancing energy ebb away before we parted. My own grandmother knew, and understood that such things were necessary if you wanted to stay sane in a house with teenagers who wouldn't stay exactly innocent.

At sixteen you didn’t care about Fidel Ramos or Bill Clinton being president, or that the exchange rate is 27 pesos to a dollar, or that Mayon Volcano erupted. You cared that Jurassic Park was a big hit, and that your mother did not allow you to watch Schindler’s List (but you watched it anyway and was properly sickened), and that Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You will be dedicated to your current boyfriend, if you had one. And on the radio, there’s Aerosmith and Radiohead and Ace of Base and Cranberries and Jon Bon Jovi.

“I wanna lay you down on a bed of roses… for tonight I sleep on a bed of nails…”

You remember a song like that blaring from the loudspeakers of your old hometown’s dance hall on a summer night, and you so young with your high school crushes and rose petals pressed between your diaries, you finding out that the boy who you didn’t dare believe likes you actually likes you, you slightly drunk with spiked punch and good friends and happiness… Oh, baby, you can almost believe that love lasts forever.

story: the lucky wife

2011-02-18T16:20:00.000+08:00

Kate woke up and realized that she had fallen asleep on the armchair. Some sound had woken her, and she realized that it came from the other room. Violet probably had a dream.

She opened the child’s bedroom and found Anna, the live-in nanny, already up and patting the child, making shushing sounds. She knelt beside the bed, smoothing the hair back from Violet's face, trying to soothe her. But Violet, half awake, scooted away from her touch, squeezing into the nanny's side. She felt a stab of resentment and, for a moment, wanted to pull the whimpering child by her feet back to her.

But she sighed, and stood up, and fussed around the room, while Violet gradually fell asleep tucked under Anna’s arm. She checked if Violet had enough bottles for the night. But of course. Anna had them all ready when she put the child to bed. She kissed the top of her daughter's head and left.

She went back to their bedroom. Mike has not come up yet. He watches the late-evening news to relax before going to bed. Sometimes he’d crawl in beside her at 2 a.m. Sometimes he spends the night in the living room. She picked up the book she had dropped when she dozed, and put in in the pile on the nighttable. She noticed that her shelves are already overflowing.

She had floor to ceiling bookshelves along one whole wall of the bedroom. She reads inspirational books, historical novels, horror, mystery, science fiction, erotica, humorous books, and those weepy love stories. She has books on emotional intelligence, black magic, corporate leadership, child psychology, and the anatomy of an F1 fighter plane. She wondered how long had those books been her bedfellows. She wondered, briefly, whether her books were the reason her husband preferred to unwind in front of the TV, whether all these evidences of forced intellectuality were too overwhelming. Then she went to bed.

The alarm woke her up at five, same as always. She went down to the kitchen and put on the coffee. She’d wake Mike up at five-twenty. She checked the refrigerator and saw that there were three small microwave dishes in there, prepared by Anna the night before. One of them had meatloaf. She took that one out for Miranda’s lunch bag.

Miranda came down at five-thirty, as Mike was having coffee. She went straight to the bathroom.

She packed Miranda's lunch and checked her schoolbooks. She gave Mike a final once-over, checking wallet, phone, and keys.

Miranda came out combing her long hair.
“Do you want me to do your hair, honey?” she asked.
“No, Mom. I’ll leave it down.”
“I could braid it.”
“I’ll just put it up in a ponytail when it dries,” Miranda said. Her tone suggested that she did not want a discussion about her hair. Miranda was ten. She had asked to have brown highlights in her hair. Kate had refused; Mike had said yes. That was last week. Miranda now has highlights in her hair and would not allow Kate to fix her hair in the morning.

Mike gave her a look that she could not read, then bent to kiss her on the lips and Miranda on the forehead.

“Bye, honey. I’ll see you tonight,” he told Miranda.
“No, you won’t. Violet and I will be asleep when you get home,” Miranda said.
“Well, okay. Maybe I’ll see you tonight.”
Miranda shrugged.

Kate did the breakfast dishes and went back to the bedroom, looking at her wall of books. Anna and Violet would not come down until seven.

She had been the envy of her friends when she married Mike. He was an up-and-coming lawyer, and his family was old money. Her mother was so puffed up with pride at the 500-guest hotel wedding that you'd think she was the bride. They had their own townhouse, two little cars, a maid who comes twice a week to do the cleaning and pick up the laundry, and of course, Anna.

When Miranda was born, she told Mike that she would like to take care of the child herself. He said, "Let's see, love," and a week later, her mother-in-law sent Anna, the trusted nanny. When Miranda was three, she told Mike that she would like to get a job. Mike said, "Let's see, love." He introduced her to his friends' wives, and they made her a member of some giggling women's club, and they exchanged recipes and raised potted plants and gossiped and shopped together. When Miranda was eight, she again mentioned that maybe she could work. Mike said, "Let's see, love," then got her pregnant with Violet.

Her mother-in-law named her children, hired the decorator for the house, took her shopping for the designer clothes she had to wear on family functions and Mike's dinners with other lawyers. Mike had all the house bills on automatic debit arrangement, made the pediatrician's appointments, paid her credit cards.

She went to the salon every second week to have her nails done, attended her children's school performances, did the Christmas shopping. Yes, she was the envy of her friends.

She looked at her books and sat there, thinking, for a long time.

In the morning she woke up a little earlier, and when the coffee was ready she woke Mike—on the sofa—with a sound kiss on the cheek. When he was ready to leave she kissed him again, firmly on the lips, and he looked surprised, but pleased. He gave her a little wink and said, “Tonight?” She smiled.

She also gave Miranda a kiss when the school service came.

“Be good, honey,” she said, and let her hand linger on her daughter’s hair.
Miranda, in one of her rare good moods, smiled. “I am, Mom.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “I love you.”
Miranda looked at her. Then she said, “I love you too, Mom.”

She knocked on Violet's door.
“Who!” said Violet.
Anna was tying the child's hair in ribbons. Violet saw her mother and skipped to the door, trying to climb her leg.
“Down!” said Violet, meaning she wanted to be picked up. Kate hoisted her up, smelled her baby-sweet hair, kissed her plump cheek, and hugged her tight.
"Anna!" said Violet, and squirmed out of her embrace.

Kate went to the bedroom, got a bag, and packed three days' clothes and some toiletries. She took all the credit cards out of her wallet and placed them in Mike's sock drawer. She took all the cash in the room, but left her jewelry in their boxes. She looked at her books, but took nothing. She thought she might write a letter, but did nothing. She thought she might call someone, her mother perhaps, but she left her mobile phone on the night table. She thought there would be tears, but there was none.

Anna was feeding Violet her breakfast in the kitchen. She gave them a wave and went out the front door.

Kate did not look back.

the valentine hangover

2011-02-18T16:05:00.000+08:00

Three days after Valentine, the prices of flowers have gone down. Most of those lovely bouquets in office desks (to impress the officemates) and in living rooms (to impress the neighbors) have wilted and gone to trash. Jilted suitors wonder why they bought a dozen long-stemmed roses at 600 pesos on Monday, when on Wednesday the same dozen costs 150 pesos, and regretfully think of all the beers they could have bought. And pretty sixteen-year-olds would have a half dozen additions to their collection-- teddy bears clutching little pink hearts printed with sugary sentiments like ‘You’re in my heart!’

I refused to write this on Valentine’s Day because it’s pretty much sensationalized anyway, and it’s so… juvenile to moan about how much love there is on that day. But then I was going to write about Valentine flowers.

When I was in college, Valentine’s Day was characterized by dozens of flower vendors along the streets of University Belt. And in the afternoon, when most of the classes ended, the sidewalks would be thronged with young men clutching flowers, some of them hidden in brown paper bags (the flowers, not the men), some of them proudly holding a bouquet, waiting for their girlfriends or girlfriends-to-be to emerge from the university gates. The girls would come out, freshly powdered, and take their flowers, then allow the boys to peck their cheeks and carry their books. The ones who got bigger bunches of flowers would of course walk prouder, and they’d look around to see who noticed. And the unlucky ones who had neither suitors nor boyfriends would try to slink past those damned blushing girls.

I was one of the unlucky ones. I didn’t really mind, and I wouldn’t buy myself a rose just so I wouldn’t go home empty-handed.

Then I had this professor in a Psychology class who had what I thought was a brilliant idea. We were discussing things like self-esteem and complexes and group dynamics, and his class fell on Valentine’s Day. He made us bring three red roses to class. Then we gave one rose to the person you’d like to know better, one rose to the one you liked most, and one rose to the one you liked least. And since you weren’t supposed to tell whether you liked the person or not, we ended up assuming the rose we received was for being liked most. I remember that there wasn’t a person in class who was not holding at least two roses at the end of the exercise. I also remembered that there were quite a few loveteams that were made on that class.

And the roses felt good. And I thought I understood the roses on Valentine’s Day. They reaffirmed all the good feelings associated with love. You understand your worth, you feel important, you feel desirable, you feel special. At the most basic level, you feel appreciated. And isn’t being appreciated one of the most important emotional needs of a person?

Valentine roses when you were young and beautiful makes happy memories when you’re middle-aged. But I don’t think that we unlucky ones became nymphomaniacs or something like that just because we did not receive roses on Valentine’s Day in college. For whatever it’s worth, I think it made us appreciate love as we grew older, in forms more subtle and more complex than roses.

I think some of us planted our own gardens and beautified our own souls, instead of waiting for men to give us flowers. I think some of us became wonderful women, and some of us gave our all for love.

And well, of course, some of us bought ourselves chocolates.

lunch today

2011-02-09T13:01:00.000+08:00

Today I have lots of paperwork, it's very hot outside, and I have no errands to run. So I had lunch at the cafeteria by myself.

I got a big bowl of Vietnamese noodles, which has large chunks of fried tofu, halved tomatoes, spring onions, shrimp and crab fat. Yummy. I also got a fruit cup for 20 pesos, which has watermelon, papaya, mango, pineapple, and orange slices.

I sat in a long table. Have I told you I enjoy eating alone? It gives me space to think (as if I don't do enough of it) and I get to observe people. Ok, so on my right is a group of women, all Filipinos, who were discussing the suicide of former defense secretary Angelo Reyes. One said it's too bad the secrets have died with him. On my left were two Westerners, who were praising the virtues of the Helsinki airport, because when airports in England would shut down due to extreme cold, Helsinki would still be running smoothly.

By the time I'm halfway through my bowl of noodles, the women's discussion has progressed to the merits of bronze eye shadow and the men were on to the Philippine stock market while they mopped up their pasta. I also noted that the men had slices of chocolate sacher torte for dessert, so I decided I would also buy one to take back to my desk. When I stood up the women were exchanging views on Kris Aquino's opinions on P-Noy's birthday car, a 3rd-hand Porsche.

It has been a very interesting lunch.

I'm back in my workstation by 12:45. The temperature is a constant 22 degrees, which means I'm waiting for the coffee service to show up so I won't fall asleep. Maybe I'll try bronze eye shadow tomorrow morning. And maybe I'll do a profile check on Helsinki, in case I'd land there in the distant future.

the (imaginary) simple life

2011-02-07T10:05:00.000+08:00

I just wondered what I would have been had my life been simple. Let's imagine that I had chosen to live in my old hometown when I got married.

My grandmother's house comes free for whoever will decide to live there. There would be no monthly amortizations, but it'd be hell to clean four bedrooms, two terraces, two bathrooms, and a living room with two sala sets and the complete set of ancient carved narra furniture. Very much like a haunted house, and no airconditioning.

I'd wake up in the morning to the crow of roosters, because the back of the compound could house a 2-dozen rooster condominium, and I'm willing to bet my husband would install complete rooster amenities. I think we'd also have an assortment of cats inside the house, dogs by the front gate, and African lovebirds and cockatails in the front terrace. Remember too, the six-foot aquarium in the living room.

I'd dress my two kids for school; my nine-year-old would walk to the public school I had attended as a child, and I would caution her to watch out for tricycles and horses on the way. In that place, farmers on horses still trot the town streets in the morning on their way to the fields. Should the horse poop on the street, the farmer would dismount and neatly scoop the poop up, deposit it in the roadside drainage ditches, and gallop merrily away. The town folks frown on horse and dog poop in their immaculate streets. My two-year-old would be in the local day care center, and I'd chat with the other mothers while I plan what's for lunch.

I have a degree in Psychology, so I'd probably be working in the local cooperative, or in the rural bank, or in the municipal hall. Those are the only places where there are offices. Or I could be the local seamstress, specializing in fancy pillowcases and gowns for senior citizens' ballroom nights. I'm beginning to shudder.

I'm assuming that my husband would have some job of his own, perhaps a store for motorcycle/tricycle parts. And we'd have a ricefield or two to oversee, so we'd have a little income on the side, for when the roof needs repairs, or the dalmatian gets sick. (The dalmatian is, of course, a status symbol.)

I would bring my children to SM Lucena (3 hours away) for the occasional sightseeing, and they'd go to Manila Zoo on field trips (or maybe they do Manila Ocean Park now), and they'd dream of going to Manila for college, while I worry about saving up for their tuition and boarding house expenses. I'd do my vegetable buying on Thursdays, which is traditionally Market Day in town. And occasionally, in the evenings, you'd find me drinking lambanog with my girlfriends while I dispense fashion advice.

And would I be happy? Maybe. But what wouldn't change is the fact that here, in my daily 5-inch-heels and mini-dresses and dreams of an Italian vacation, or there, in the imaginary little-town life where I'll probably wear something nice when I go to church, I'll always want something more. Maybe I'll be a seamstress, but I'll probably want to become barangay captain. Or I'll pester town officials to build a town library.

The funny thing is, I can almost see myself doing just that. I'll probably be just as fine with that simple imaginary life, but I'll almost certainly succeed in making it complicated. (What ricefield? I'll probably wonder why we can't have a greenhouse and grow tulips.)

living small

2011-01-31T09:29:00.000+08:00

I hate running out of things in the house. It upsets me when I realize that I'm down to the last three cotton buds in the vanity box, or the toothpaste tube is three-squeezes-and-gone, and we don't have any stock. And I hate it when I get up in the morning and find out that I have to run to the sari-sari store to buy Nescafe 3-in-1 coffee in sachet before I'm even properly awake.

So I stock. In my tiny kitchen there's a shelf with a dozen transparent plastic containers, for the things I think we'd need for cooking: raisins in little boxes and sinigang mix and pork cubes and chicken cubes and gelatin mix and tea bags and brown sugar and not-so-brown sugar. In the bathroom there's a rack for extra tissue rolls, two kinds of hair conditioner, three kinds of bath soap, baby bath and body wash, and other assorted bottles and tubes dedicated to feminine glory. The laundry area would tell the same story, and so would the desk-cum-vanity-cum-catch-all in the bedroom.

So one day I took a look and decided that it's getting kinda cluttered, and I went to http://www.bhg.com/ (a favorite site of mine) to see if I can get some pretty shelving ideas for tiny houses. And one of the slides there said to keep it simple, and avoid overstocking.

Overstocking! Now there's a new word! I grew up in a house where all things-- from sacks of rice and candles to canned sardines and laundry detergent-- were stocked. In my grandmother's house you'd think a Signal No. 4 typhoon would hit every weekend. I thought a decent house was one where you know you have the things you'd need-- all the time. I was understandably flabbergasted. It had simply never occurred to me that I don't have to turn my kitchen into a sari-sari store extension.

But no, I don't have my grandmother's house, and what I have is tiny... 'space-challenged,' according to the home-decor sites. And no, I don't have to be depressed every time I see an empty container in the kitchen shelf, just begging to be filled. So instead of getting new shelves, I got myself a new mindframe and started to let myself run out of things a little. I watch the lotions and the noodles and see which one will run out first, fill up a list on the refrigerator door, then I buy a few groceries on my way home from work. It cannot beat the joy of two full grocery carts on the supermarket checkout lane, but a neat shelf, with just a couple of shampoos waiting in line and some space for flowers-- it's a restful sight.

So I also got a new word: replenish.

Besides, there are two sari-sari stores about fifteen steps away from my front gate. I guess it wouldn't kill me if the neighbors see me, fresh from the bedroom, darting out for a 3-in-1 coffee sachet on a Saturday morning.

eat pray love

2011-01-24T16:40:00.001+08:00

I finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert's 'Eat Pray Love.' It's a deeply satisfying book; it was profound, it was funny, it was enlightening. It tackled food, faith, culture, local customs, sex, friendship, and a whole lot of things under the sun.

These are the things I learned:

1. I want to go to Italy to find all the little restaurants she wrote about, where you get pizza with a chewy dough and melted cheese running all over your fingers. Consequently, I would like to learn the language so I could say "Figlio di mignotta!" with flair.

2. You cannot believe absolutely in either destiny or free will. Each person has half-and-half. There are things that are meant to be, and there are things that's a matter of choice.

3. We have the right to take it up with God the best way we know how. The rituals of religion are good, but what matters is the quietness of your own heart when you talk to whatever supreme being you believe in.

4. You must fall in love with the man, and not the potential of the man. Also, you must love, not because you expect to be loved back, but because you CAN. That's thought-provoking.

5. Go do what you like. Life is short. Love yourself.

I'm not saying the book spells out these lessons. They're what I picked up, and what stays with me when I'm done reading. And I'll probably read it again, for the sake of Luca Spaghetti, the philosophies of Ketut the medicine man, and the love of Felipe the Brazilian. Go find out about them.

shoe therapy

2010-11-03T11:48:00.000+08:00

When things go wrong as they sometimes will, when you're stressed or unhappy, or when it's raining and you can't go back to the office because you have no umbrella... what do you do?

I hit the shoe stores. Charles & Keith in particular, where the heels can be five inches and you still feel like you can run to the copy room for a print-out that's needed five minutes ago.

People think I have a couple dozen shoes hidden under my workstation. I don't. But the shoes I do have are pretty ones, and none of them have heels below three inches. The last one I bought last week, white, wedge, and has a funky white buckle, has... let me take out a ruler... 4.5 inches! Lovely!

I bought the white shoes last week because I was due to report in MBA class that night, I wasn't prepared, and the professor asked tough questions. So I figured if I had no chance to finish the presentation unharmed, at least I had pretty shoes while I was doing it. Ha ha.

I don't buy shoes every time I'm upset. Most working mothers out there can tell you that they usually equate a purchase with what they could buy for the kids. Me, I usually end up thinking that a pair of new shoes would be equivalent to two cans of baby formula. But I go to the stores anyway, and I check out the new ones on display. I would scheme about buying one, and how soon I can get it if I just eat Sky Flakes for lunch for three weeks. If I end up dreaming of the shoes on weekends, you can bet I'm on my way to acquiring it. Some conditions must be met, though: (a) it should be able to match at least five outfits in my closet; (b) it should be a color I don't yet have; (c) it should have at least three-inch-heels.

I used to raid the book sales when I'm down. But it's difficult to gloat over five new novels when you're dreading an MBA class presentation. The shoes, well, they're different. You see them on your feet and you feel good about yourself. The books would probably come after the presentation is done.

What I'm driving at is, when you're down, you should have some pick-me-up thing. Some people run to clear their minds (run in marathons-- not run from the problems). Some people get drunk. Some people will do videoke for thirteen hours straight. I look at shoes. Life will not always give you good times, but there are always Band-Aids for little hurts.

I'm beginning to wonder how many pairs of undeclared shoes there will be when my thesis defense comes around.

the name game

2010-09-27T15:09:00.000+08:00

I have a Siamese cat named Chloe. I have a two-year-old daughter with the same name.

The cat goes ecstatic at the sight of a fly trapped in the window screen. The kid sneaks up on the sleeping cat and prods her behind with a long-handled spoon, and laughs wildly when the cat jumps up in terror. Both of them love soft bread. Both of them have evil tempers.

When we call out “Chloe!” both cat and child look around to see which one is guilty. To solve the problem, we added a description at the end of the name. Now we have “Chloe the Cat” and “Chloe the Kid.”

But it’s such a mouthful, so we tried calling one just “Cat” and the other “Kid.”
They wouldn’t respond. Maybe it felt like we grown-ups weren’t according them the proper dignity befitting the name, which is one of the many names of the Greek goddess Demeter.

My elder daughter suggested that we change the name of her little sister, so that the cat can lay claim to the name. The nanny argued that it didn’t seem proper for a child to give way to a mere cat. The cat sniffed and looked insulted.

Finally we came to a solution. We’re sticking with Chloe, and we just wait to see which one jumps. We’re also checking closely which one nibbles on the cat biscuits.

unfinished houses

2010-09-27T13:51:00.001+08:00

When I was growing up, we did not live in our own house. We lived in my grandparents' house, a grand affair in marble with three bedrooms, terraces front and back, heavy narra furniture, and huge cabinets filled with expensive china.

So where was our house? It was in an isolated little village where my parents' teaching posts were. In those days, you went to wherever the school superintendent sent you. They sent public school teachers to godforsaken places to spread education. We went there only during the summer, because my grandmother thought we were too good to live in a place with no electricity and the only source of entertainment at night was watching fireflies converge on trees.

For the child that I was, I thought our house in the little barrio was the grandest, but in all the summers I spent there, it was always a work in progress. In a place where most houses had walls of wood and roofs of thatched coconut fronds, ours had a stone foundation and concrete walls. It was also elevated, because it had a basement. The basement, my parents said, was going to be a family room. There would be a little library in it. Imagine!

My father had a fishpond in the front yard, but we all begged him to turn it into a swimming pool. There were fruit trees around the fish pond, and we had a tree house. Well, the river was just across the road, but how many kids could sit in their own tree house while fishing?

My mother loved plants and had an enviable collection of orchids. She also grew vegetables in over a dozen plots in the backyard. My father loved animals; he kept pets that weren't exactly ordinary. He had a couple of dozen geese, a family of turkey, and assorted birds. He had pigs in a pen, fighting cocks, and lots and lots of hens that chased children. At any given time he had three fierce hunting dogs, and when he told his friends that his dogs were trained to kill, we children looked at the drooling sonsabitches with respect. At one time he also kept a deer, a hornbill, and a hawk. He hunted; it was his dream to kill a wild boar single-handedly.

And we spent those summers in the not-quite-a-house, with rough timber all around and steel bars in the backyard, piles of hollow blocks and pails of nails. It was fun, like being at camp, like pretending you were Indians and you lived in the wilderness.

My parents saved a little, built a little. One summer we didn't have stairs; the next we had balusters. Maybe my parents looked at tile samples together, or talked to carpenters together to know if the basement walls could withstand seeping water.

But somewhere along the line something went wrong, and they stopped building. Perhaps they stopped loving. Who knows? Then they started to accept teaching assignments in other places, and they left the house. It was the start of their marriage's decline, although we kids were blissfully unaware of it.

My parents separated when I was twenty. My father died when I was thirty-two. The house stood there over years, slowly rotting. The steel bars in the basement rusted, and it was said that there lived large snakes. The bedrooms became the territory of a colony of bees. The large hardwood panels were brought to various neighbors' houses for safekeeping. Until when, they did not know. Maybe they're still there, or already a part of the furniture.

I don't like looking at unfinished houses. They look so much like unfinished stories. You see the beginnings of something good and wonderful, and you know that someone took the time and effort to start building it. It was planned, and there was love in it.

It was sad to look at that unfinished house. You see the beginning of a dream, but you will never know why the dream turned sour. You will never know the many stories that will be told inside the house, the meals to be shared, the laughter in the morning, the comic books on hot afternoons. You will never know if it will have walls in a shade called robin's egg blue, or if the library will have warm yellow light from wall lamps. You will never know if the orchids in the garden will be the envy of everyone, or if the father will run out of exotic pets to keep. You will never know if there will be visiting grandchildren in the summer, and how many of them will fight over the privilege of sitting in grandfather's knee. You will never know all that could be, in that house.

Unfinished house, unfinished love. It's all the same. Left untended and neglected, all it will be is an empty, sad ruin.

talent

2010-09-24T16:37:00.000+08:00

I'm currently reading Stephen King's 'The Dark Tower VII' for the third or fourth time. It's 1,050 pages long, and a third of the way through, on page 349 to be exact, there's a statement that I love. Ted Brautigan was explaining how he was using telepathy.

"Because talent won't be quiet, doesn't know how to be quiet," he said. "Whether it's a talent for safe-cracking, thought-reading, or dividing ten-digit numbers in your head, it screams to be used. It never shuts up. It'll wake you up in the middle of your tiredest night, screaming, 'Use me, use me, use me! I'm tired of just sitting here! Use me, f**khead, use me!'"

The only thing talent wants is to be used. Check out the auditions on Pilipinas Got Talent, Pinoy Records, and all the various talent contests on TV. People from all walks of life, trying their luck. No, let's be honest: showing off. And some of them impress you so much it makes you want to stand up and cheer, for talent cannot be denied.

Ask the real artists, the masters of their craft. The ones who can reach glass-shattering notes when they sing, the ones whose paintings go for million-dollar auctions, the ones who twirl and dance like they have no bones. Ask the authors whose books are on the New York Times Bestseller List. They'll say that at the bottom of their hearts, they don't do it for money. They do it because they can; they do it for love. (Of course you get a kick out of being paid, but it's just icing on the cake.)

All of us have talent, be it deep-sea diving, putting babies to sleep, cooking a mean pasta puttanesca, or, as Ted Brautigan says it, dividing ten-digit numbers in your head. It gives us a nice kind of high when it is used, and used well. What is it that I want to do, the one thing I know I can do well, the one thing that makes me happy and at peace with myself? I want to write. So I think I will keep writing—in diaries, blogs, scraps of paper—as long as I can.

And what happens if I can't write anymore? Then something in me will die.

Let's take the lyrics from The Guitar Man by Bread:

Then the lights begin to flicker and the sound is getting dim
The voice begins to falter and the crowds are getting thin
But he never seems to notice, he's just got to find another place to play
Fade away, got to play.

That's what talent is.

thursday morning

2010-09-24T15:09:00.001+08:00

I was standing by the side of the road, waiting for the van that will take me to the office. This was inside a Camella Subdivision, where the houses are mostly large and there are cars parked in front.

I was idly counting tricycles when I noticed a small woman walking towards me, with three little girls in tow. I thought the woman was old; when they got closer I saw that she was much younger than me, but she was a bit haggard. The three little girls seemed 2, 3, and 4 years old. They were all freshly bathed and had clean clothes, but mother and children did not look like they lived in a house with a car out front.

The three little girls all looked like they did not want to walk. The smallest was actually stamping her foot, and the other two were frowning mightily. As they passed me, the mother cheerily said that if the girls wanted bread for breakfast, they'd better walk. She saw me looking, and she flashed me a little conspiratorial smile. Her smile said, "You know how kids are." I gave her a little "I know" smile back. I saw her eyes take in my going-to-the-office clothes, nice shoes, and pretty bag, then they passed on.

I looked at their backs. Given another set of circumstances, the three little girls would have had fun growing up together. I imagine they'd go to school together, borrow each other's bracelets, and be close pals, giggling over the same handsome movie stars and having the same kind of music in their iPods.

But in reality, if my guess was right about how they lived, there's probably very little chance that all three would finish high school. In reality, there may be days when they're still hungry and there's no more rice in the pot. Maybe the mother stays home to take care of the little girls, while the father drives a jeepney or a tricycle, never earning enough to allow his daughters to dream of iPods.

It is a source of wonder to me how the marginally poor can live in railroad shanties, with a dozen children they can barely feed, and grin and say "God will provide." Three little girls are not too many, but to a couple with a sole breadwinner, three may be too much. I have two children seven years apart, my husband and I both have jobs, and sometimes I still worry about my two-year-old's university tuition 12 years from now.

But at seven in the morning, with a fresh day ahead, it is difficult to contemplate the issue of poverty and overpopulation and children who may want, but cannot, go to school. It is hard to imagine the reasons that would make a woman choose to marry young, bear children every year, and raise her children to grow up like her.

And maybe I was wrong about them. Maybe the woman had an SUV in the garage, and maybe her youngest kid would one day be First Lady of the Philippines. But the encounter provoked a thought, and is now worth a blog.

The woman and her three little girls were now further up the street. The smallest girl was now skipping, perhaps at the prospect of her breakfast. From a distance, they look beautiful in the sun.

under the dome

2010-09-06T08:40:00.000+08:00

I waited half a year for this book. Powerbooks had this on hardcover last January, and I waited for someone to give this to me as a birthday gift... then Valentine... then anniversary. No luck. I figured I had to buy it for myself. Then it went out of stock.

Last week, I saw this in National Bookstore. Paperback. It was the display copy, and the salesladies weren't sure when the next delivery would be. I happily grabbed it, missed my lunch devouring the first few pages, and finished the whole book over the weekend.

It reminded me of The Simpsons Movie, where their whole town was enclosed by a dome (engineered by the government) because it was so badly polluted it was toxic. Then the government decided to blow the whole town out of existence, and of course Bart and Homer Simpson eventually saved the day.

Under The Dome was no kids' story. The dome came down inexplicably, and of course the town of Chester's Mill underwent some drastic changes. Our heroes, an ex-soldier, three computer whiz kids, a lady reporter, and a few others, sought to discover what made the dome (and how to get rid of it, if possible) while battling an evil town selectman.

It is a horror story, but not of the kind that has zombies, vampires, and things that go bump in the night (and perhaps eat you). In the situation of Chester's Mill, the horror came from what happened to ordinary people inside the dome. Alongside those who became heroes, there were people who killed themselves, who killed others, who went crazy.

There was Junior Rennie. He killed two women, hid them in a pantry, and helped hide two more bodies there. But he met two lost children while on patrol, and he was very gentle with them. He made sure they were alright and that there was someone to take care of them. In the end, as he was losing himself, he remembered the children and wanted to keep them safe.

And that's the real horror, isn't it? That we never know how black a man's heart is-- even our own-- until he comes face to face with it. I think there is a blackness in every heart, a germ, a seed. Most of us keep it tucked away, and it lies there sleeping. But in some, it takes root. If you water it a little, why, it flourishes. And it blossoms hate. Sometimes it bears black fruit, perhaps called murder. When it is very ripe, it bursts open and spreads its poison. The blackness clouds the brain, and by the time it clears again, we would have done something regrettable.

A wise man, once he recognizes that the seed has become very comfortable in his heart, would perhaps keep it pruned, to trim away the poison. And he learns to live with it. It is there, like a dark twin of all the kind intentions, all the goodness a man is capable of being, but he is master of both.

It's what makes the story a good story. You recognize the emotions there, it reminds us how fragile life really is, it shows us how powerful the mind is. It gives you a glimpse of black hearts.

It forces us to say hello to the monsters inside us.

when i grow up...

2010-08-25T16:45:00.000+08:00

It just struck me that I'm 33 years old and I have never quite decided what I would like to be when I grow up. There were so many things I wanted to do, and how many people can truly say 'This is it, this is where I'm meant to be, this is the purpose of my life.' ?

I read somewhere that the purpose of life is life itself. To be in the moment, to be aware of beauty, to be open to all the possibilities-- that is happiness in itself. But so many of us run around in circles, searching for meaning, looking for the things that they think will bring fulfillment.

So I try to do all that I can, in the hope that one of those things will resonate within me, strike a nerve somewhere, and I'll be able to say 'This is what makes me happy.' But I can't have everything. There is only so much I can do. Happiness is a conscious choice. If I were forever looking, forever searching, I miss the point. I will always be lonely, because there are things around me, within my reach, that are beautiful sources of happiness in themselves, and I will fail to see them.

I didn't have too many grand aspirations. I wanted to design clothes. I wanted to travel. I wanted to live for a while in a trailer to chronicle life in little towns and write stories about fascinating ordinary people. I wanted to crochet pillowcases, build a library, and raise my children well. I wanted to take pictures of clouds and dragonflies, do artwork in pointilism, paint cherry blossoms on my bedroom wall.

You see, I guess I will not decide what I really want to be, because the possibilities are endless. I guess I'll list down all the things I want to do, sort of like "100 Things to Try Before I'm 60," and do them just for the heck of it. I'll have fun with it, and I will not take myself too seriously. And I guess I'll enjoy myself so much I will think of another 100.

So I will tell my children to say this: When I grow up, I will be everything that I can be. Yes, why not?

maids

2010-04-15T13:34:00.000+08:00

I ate my lunch alone at Red Ribbon today. While I ate my dinuguan I observed three teenagers at the next table. I liked them for their freshness and youth and unselfconscious cheeriness; I was thinking, had I been that pretty? They looked like they got together for an afternoon at the mall, and their day was just starting. How nice for them.

They chatted about their various friends, then they started talking about their household help.

One of them, the one with a short bob cut, said that their maid was unbelievably stupid. Can you imagine, she asked her friends, she started cleaning my room while I was in bed?

The other girl, this one very fair and wearing very short shorts, said their maid was so thoughtless. She arrived after midnight and the maid did not even ask her if she had eaten, or if she needed anything. So she told the maid, "Hoy, ikaw, hampas-lupa ka talaga, asikasuhin mo muna ako." Or something to that effect.

They all laughed. Little Miss Short Shorts added that she would not hesitate to insult the maids if she felt they deserved it.

The third one said they had resorted to numbering the canned goods in the pantry, so that the maid would not be able to take one without them knowing. Since they have a LOT of items in their pantry, it was easy to see if Corned Beef Number 8 had disappeared before Number 7. Maybe they had imported brands, and of course they were not bought for the lowly household help.

They went on, tall-taling each other about their misfortunes in their maids. I stopped liking their fresh faces because of what came out of their mouths. I wished I was their mother, or that I was as rude as them, so I could give them a proper tongue-lashing. It was an ugly thing, to hear them belittling the people they take for granted, the people who help make their lives comfortable.

If that is what being privileged does to those girls, I hope we don't get rich enough to afford maids. I hope my daughters would grow up knowing how to do housework, and that they would know enough to appreciate people as they are, with enough respect, no matter what they do for a living.

And maybe next time I will just sit next to some more old ladies who look interesting.

the good daughter-in-law

2010-04-15T10:36:00.000+08:00

My mother-in-law has seven children. With daughters- and sons-in-laws and fifteen grandchildren, you can imagine the noise and general confusion when we get together. My husband and I are the only ones who live farthest from them. We have to travel five hours to visit them. All the others live close by; if you don't like what's for dinner you could check the other houses what they cooked.

Such proximity has allowed them to be a tightly-knit family. No problem is small enough to be shared, and you're free to offer solutions, whether it's for a four-year-old who's a picky eater, or a loan to finance a new van.

Such proximity also causes little troubles. With the exception of my children, the other grandchildren are always together. So when they fight, or when someone gets hurt, the mothers get into the fray. Then there are the favors given to the siblings. My husband is the youngest son and the self-proclaimed favorite, and so he jokes that my mother-in-law loves us more than the others. Sometimes the others don't find it funny.

Coming from a small family, I am often dazed at the level of activity in the houses and the depth of their involvement in each other's lives. I check and double-check my gifts at Christmas to make sure I don't miss anyone, and when we visit, I am careful to go to each house and stay to chat so I won't offend the various family members.

I am the chronicler of my mother-in-law's family. Any occasion that we are invited to, all the birthdays and wedding anniversaries that came to pass while we are in her house, I get to be the unofficial photographer. Until recently, I was the only one who owned a camera in the family. And it being digital, I was the only one who used it with abandon. After all, I was also the only one known to spend half an hour taking pictures of a plate of chili.

Being a part of my mother-in-law's family is tough. I prefer to deal with them like I'm taking pictures. I frame each shot carefully, making sure I get everyone in the frame. I provide minimum distraction. I don't zoom all that much; I take closer shots. And I try to see each person in a good light.

the smell of love

2010-03-12T16:10:00.000+08:00

Last Valentine, for the first time in my life, I bought myself a bottle of perfume. It has a little story behind it.

In the little town where I grew up, perfume was something your grandmother and aunts received when a seaman uncle came home or a State-side relative sent a balikbayan box. And that was when you were special. (If you were an ordinary relative hell-bent on getting pasalubong, all you got was soap. Heno de Pravia, Lux, or Camay. And perhaps a can of corned beef.)

I only remember two of my grandmother's perfumes: Tatiana by Diane von Furstenberg and White Shoulders by Evyan. The little bottles lasted a long time because she used them sparingly. She forbade us to touch them and kept them in their boxes in her knick-knack cabinet, to be taken down only on special occations. When I had to be a flower girl, I would be given a tiny little spray of the perfume, and when I sweated I got nauseated by my own smell.

I rarely saw my mother when I was growing up, but when she came, she was always well- dressed, and she smelled good. She loved Tea Rose perfume, and Giorgio Beverly Hills in its pretty yellow bottle. Still, her perfumes were all gifts.

When I started working, perfume was something you bought on installment from officemates who also sold Avon bras and imitation signature bags. It's not something you just grab off the SM display counter, because it costs so much. To an ordinary employee, a 100ml bottle of Bvlgari Rose Essential is one payday's salary. So you say the hell with it and get a P50-peso bottle of baby cologne that smells suspiciously like those bottles with their thousand-peso labels. If you're raising kids, there's more reason to stick with baby cologne.

I also got my perfumes from my brothers-in-law, who are all seamen, and from aforementioned aunts in the States. And I forgot what I got over the years, except for one: Ralph. I positively love it; I even hoarded the two bottles of Ralph Goodbye Dry lotion I was given as gifts (it has body glitter!). There used to be a Johnson's baby cologne variant called 'Playful Tickle' and it smells like Ralph, and I'd buy them a few bottles at a time.

I figured that a bottle of perfume is an expensive present, even for seamen and dollar-earning relatives. It was a measure of your worth in the eyes of the giver. So you see, perfume was something special your grandma wore when she attended graduations, weddings and funerals. Perfume was glamorous, like my mom. Perfume was a luxury. I have bought perfume as gifts for only two people: my husband and my youngest brother.

I have bought myself expensive shoes and bags, but the perfume is different. When I was looking at the bottle, I smelled all the good things that it has come to represent. And I thought that if there's one person who deserved it, it would be me.

So every morning I come to work, I look forward to smelling Ralph on myself. It smells like love.

for senen

2010-02-05T08:33:00.000+08:00

Our classmate Senen is getting married!

I'm not going to give him any wishes for a peaceful married life. Get real. Instead I'm giving him this list, compiled over my own ten years of (mostly) peaceful marriage. If he takes this by heart, I can guarantee a measure of peace until at least his tenth wedding anniversary. :-)

Here goes:

Things I Wish Men Knew About Women:

1. Women need to be listened to.
2. They do not encourage rapists.
3. Perfume turns them on.
4. They crave romance and tenderness like drowning men crave life rafts.
5. They do flirt.
6. They like hearing 'I love you' but they have an ear for the words that ring true.
7. They need to have birthdays and anniversaries remembered with the same enthusiasm as boxing fight dates.
8. Their breasts need to be fondled, not mauled.
9. They do not get immense joy from cleaning kitchens and bathrooms.
10. They understand children intuitively, because the children grew under their hearts.
11. They cry, not because they're weak, but because they're in touch with their feelings.
12. They think with their minds but act with their hearts.
13. They can be like cotton candy -- sweet and soft outside, a hard stick inside.
14. To have husbands who are unfaithful is an injury to their souls.
15. They are all mothers at heart -- for small children and big men.
16. They like it better with a foreplay.
17. Menstrual periods do not make them crazy, unclean, or prone to attacks by rabid dogs.
18. They would sometimes like to give the flowers.
19. They like to be held when they're happy, when they're sad, and in-between.
20. They may not have looks that kill, but they can kill with a look.
21. They can feign indifference but can never hide pain, nor love for that matter.
22. They like having their new haircut noticed and commented on favorably, if not enthusiastically.
23. Making love thirty seconds after a woman has gotten dressed to go out is not spontaneous and fun.
24. They sometimes need to be left alone.
25. They need to be loved, desired, trusted, and respected, not just during courtship, but forever.

the luckier one

2010-02-01T14:26:00.000+08:00

My problematic daughter had one of her issues again. We were peacefully eating spaghetti last weekend when she announced, out of the blue, that her classmate Taketoshi said she was lucky because her mother was around. I said, Why, where is Taketoshi's (or was it Matsunori?) mother?

In Japan, she said. Like Robelyn, whose mother is in Dubai.

I see, I said. I vaguely remember that Robelyn was the classmate who had really neat toys, and had pretty dresses. Taketoshi-or-Matsunori was one of those little boys who usually had the latest gadgets and knew all the anime characters on Saturday-morning tv.

So they think you're lucky because you're with your mother? I asked. I was checking back how many mornings I brought her to school this year and socialized with her classmates. They were quite few. I was also remembering all the times I forgot to buy her pad paper or a plastic globe, or forgot to pay for her class picture, and of course I had guilt attacks.

These thoughts occurred in a matter of seconds, because her next statement was this:

Yeah, but Melissa is luckier. Because you see, her mother doesn't work. Then she looked at me meaningfully.

I could have spent the next hour equating kids' luck, and explaining the advantages and disadvantages of a working mother, but I lost heart and attacked the pasta instead.

She's a long way from the four-year-old who wanted to send her yaya to the office in my place so I could stay home and take care of her, but the issues remain the same. It's one of those things that kids will not really understand, no matter how much their parents try to explain. The funny thing about life is that she will learn all about it... when she has kids herself.

So I nodded and said that like her, Taketoshi-or-Matsunori (I never did get that kid's name straight), Robelyn, and Melissa all have mothers who love them, and mothers have different ways of loving, so one kid is not luckier than another.

Being lucky, like being loved, is a matter of perspective. But try explaining that to a kid.

raising kids

2010-02-01T13:58:00.000+08:00

In one of my blogs, When Death Do Us Part, I described my daughter's preoccupation with death. I thought we had finished the discussion. Then one morning last week, as I had finished fixing her ponytails before her school service comes, she burst into tears. I was startled and I started asking why. The more I asked, the harder she cried. My first thought was that her computer broke down again, then I thought someone had hurt her. Then I became worried that she'd go on crying until we're both late, and I was thinking of excuses to tell my boss.

She said, between sobs, that she did not want me to die. Oh, so that's it.

I sat her down and asked for more details. Apparently, one of her classmates informed her that all parents would die. I explained, carefully, that yes, all parents die. But hopefully, not too soon. I said I understand that she did not want me to die, and I myself do not want to die yet. But we never know when death will come. I did not add that I could easily die on my way to work, or never wake up at all one morning. I don't think I can handle a hysterical eight-year-old.

I said it's okay to get upset about it, but she has to understand that death is part of being human. And she cannot go on thinking about me dying. I told her I hope to see her children before I die. And I hoped her school service would be late while I explained further and fixed her face.

I think we did fine. Now whenever she hears things from other children, she clears them with me. Mama, is it true that when you take a bath at night, you'll become sickly? No, you'll just sleep better because you're fresh and cool. Mama, my friend said if I lay down at night with wet hair, my eyes will cloud over, and I'll get white hair. No, honey, it's just an old wives' tale. You have weak eyes to begin with, and no third-grader ever grew white hairs. Mama, what's an old wives' tale? Honey, it's a long explanation. Ask me about Facebook instead.

I'll take those eight-year-old tears and gladly explain why people die. But with it came the realization that before long, she'd come to me in tears because she'd broken up with her boyfriend, and it would be harder to explain why hearts break.

In time, she would learn that as much as mothers love their kids, mothers do not have all the answers, mothers are not always right, and yes, mothers die.

growing old, part 2

2010-01-14T16:05:00.001+08:00

I had lunch at Sbarro today. In the next table sat two old ladies, obviously old friends, and they had been shopping. Seated a little farther away was a woman who wore something that looked like a maid's uniform. She carried various paper bags and shopping bags for the two old women.

The two old women were sharing a slice of pizza, a salad, and a carrot cake. Sbarro's servings are large by my standards. They ordered their assistant the same thing I was eating: baked ziti. One of them was instructing the woman to sprinkle some granulated garlic in her baked ziti; the other inquired if she found the food delicious. The woman politely said yes, but her face carried an expression of slight distaste.

The old women were dressed simply. They were wearing blouse and pants and flat sandals. They had also dyed their hair light brown. But their manner was very refined, and I noted that one of them wore a Rolex watch. The other had earrings with stones that sparkled too much to be anything but real. They discussed old friends and what to do in the evening.

Okay, maybe I watched them too much, but they were very interesting. It seems I am preoccupied with old women these days.

I often associate old age with being alone. I did not grow up in a household that takes care of old people. My grandmother never made us feel like it's an obligation. She lived in her big house all by herself with a caregiver for company.

I learned from her that alone doesn't necessarily mean lonely. When I get to be an old woman, I hope I still have a girlfriend or two who can go shopping with me. Said girlfriend had better be addicted to books as well, for the sake of intelligent conversation. I cannot see myself discussing the merits of a particular well-muscled DI over lunch.

I hope I will be a gracious old lady, maybe not with a Rolex, but with a few sparkly things to wear when I attend my granddaughter's debut. And I do hope I discover soon what it is with old women, light brown hair, and blouse-and-pants ensembles, so I can plan my wardrobe accordingly.

And I hope one of my daughters will marry an Italian, so I can have someone who will cook me good pasta and make a mean pizza. I cannot afford a lifestyle of eating at Sbarro every day!

growing old

2010-01-13T17:28:00.000+08:00

I was on my way to buy a bacon sandwich earlier when I met an old woman along the corridor. She had mostly white hair, a pale kind face, a dowdy (in my 33-year-old opinion) blouse-and-pants outfit, and flat brown sandals. She was wearing a retiree's ID, and as she passed me she smiled.

It suddenly occurred to me that I, in my short dress, braided hair and three-inch heels, would one day look like her.

I too, would retire from work. I wonder what I'd be like at 60. Of course by that time I'd have given up my high heels (oh, the prospect of it breaks my heart), but I'll still wear pretty shoes. I'd still like to wear dresses, but perhaps by that time I'll discover the wonder of slacks and tailored pants. The credit cards in my wallet will be replaced by snapshots of my grandchildren.

Here's what I'd like to be when I grow old:

I'll have a library that I'll open to public school children. I'd like to have children around me who can argue whether Tom Sawyer was smarter than Huckleberry Finn. Unlike my mother and my mother-in-law who are so fond of plants, I cannot grow gardens. Even a cactus withers under my care. So my retirement home will probably be a condo with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

I'll have a cat, of course. Maybe not a Siamese cat with an attitude, but something clean enough to bring to bed and behaved enough that my husband won't kick it out.

I will have travelled to other places, other countries. I would like to see cherry blossoms bloom in Japan, go to a safari in Africa, eat crepes in Paris while visiting my friend Monette. I wouldn't want to climb Mount Everest or ride the world's biggest roller coaster, but I'd like to have tried things that I dreamed of doing when I was in my 30s and writing blogs. He he he.

And I'll write lots of stories. By 60 I would have learned enough of the world to write about it. When I write I will leave the city; I will go to a beach, sit under an umbrella, and write with my toes in the sand. Then I'll go back to my condo and publish what I wrote.

One last thing: I will decide to like being old. Most of us (especially women) desperately fight old age. Our weapons are cosmetics, loud clothes, juvenile behavior. But that's inevitable; the wrinkles will win anyway. The important thing is to welcome each day as if you'd live to be a hundred years old, to not forget to have fun, to surround yourself with people and things you love. Because, you see, Mark Twain was right. He said, "Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter."

the beauty queens

2010-01-08T13:36:00.000+08:00

You see the shoes? We didn't talk about wearing the same style today. We three met for lunch to celebrate Milette's birthday. Two weeks from now we'll have lunch again to celebrate mine, and again in October to celebrate Irene's.We three friends are so different from each other. Milette is a saint, but she wears hot lingerie; Irene is a self-proclaimed pokwang and is determined not to marry, but she gives the soundest advice on marital problems; I am me. :-)

We three love books. Irene and I both love Pat Conroy, and... uh, we're not sure about what Milette loves to read.

We three work in the same building, but we eat lunch together only thrice a year. During lunch, we talk about anything under the sun, under the stars, under the blanket. We exchange views on topics that would make other women blush. And we ask the waiters to take pictures of us after lunch, in the same place, every year. For lunch today, we have 26 pictures. I guess we'll laugh about it for the next couple of days.

More than the companionship, the lunches, the gifts on birthdays and at Christmas, I love the simplicity of our friendship. I laugh a lot when I'm with them. They taught me to work more patiently on my husband, to be tough at work, to buy expensive bags and shoes. I learn a lot from them, but most of the time I learn things about myself.

We call ourselves the beauty queens. It's a private joke in the ordinariness of our everyday working lives. There is happiness in our uncomplicated acceptance of each other.

These lunch dates on our birthdays, they are not just to eat an expensive lunch together or to giggle over our sex lives. They are celebrations of our friendship, and the conviction that in our own right, in our own worlds, we are beauty queens. Because when we're 70 years old, we'll look at our albums of our lunch dates, three times a year, and we'll sigh and say,

"Shit, weren't we beautiful?"

for gemma

2009-12-01T11:48:00.000+08:00

My best friend from college is getting married next week. We met again after about four years, and over pizza we talked about marriage.

Girl, I am truly happy for you that you're getting married. I wish with all my heart that your man will bring you only happiness. I wish you a good life together. I wish that your new family will bring you fulfillment.

I wish there were fool-proof, 100% guaranteed-to-work seminars on how to stay happily married. Your mother and sister could give you good advice, and I'm sure I'll have lots of opinions, but in the end, what matters is how much you care for each other. I've been married nine years, and still I cannot tell exactly how you can keep loving the same man if you wake up with him morning after morning, after you've gotten used to all his good points and all his faulty mechanisms. What I know is that I want the marriage to work because of all the love that was there in the beginning, because of all the effort we put into living our life together, and because of the children.

But it doesn't stop there. You have to always remember that you promised to love him till death do you part, and hello, walang divorce sa Pilipinas. There will always be rough times in any marriage, there will always be little fights, minor and major irritations, and it is part of the deal that your foundation (the reason you married him in the first place) should be strong enough to withstand all that.

And one last thing: leave something for yourself. You could give him all the love in the world, but you should also love yourself. Your whole world should not revolve around him. There should be enough respect for yourself, enough value, enough space, to keep you from being just a shadow. If you feel that it's your job to keep him happy, it's also your job to keep yourself happy. There should always be something for you. Gemma the person is just as important as Gemma the wife and the mother. It gives you your dignity, so that when the kids leave the home or (let's hope not) the marriage falls apart, you have enough to go on.

Congratulations, and good luck.

jagey's list

2009-11-25T11:02:00.000+08:00

Before class one night, I shared my sentiments over husbands who check too much. This progressed to the little irritating things that men do. Later, my classmate Jagey offered to share a man's POV. These are the things I learned:

1. A man's ego is a big deal. It's hard-wired in him. If you are an intellectually superior wife, you should be bright enough to understand that it's not something you flaunt when the husband's with you, unless you want to pick a fight.

2. Talk to him. A man can't take hints. When you want him to change a lightbulb, you have to tell him exactly when you want it changed. You can't go on pretending to bump into things in the darkened kitchen for a month. He just doesn't get it until you actually say, "Right now." And use simple words. If you talk for an hour, the actual request gets lost in the translation.

3. Men are pigs (Jagey's actual words). They're just different. You'll just get tired of asking him to hang his towel on the hook after taking a shower, or to be careful when pulling a shirt from the closet because the whole pile gets messed up. He will always be looking for socks. I'm taking this lightly. I'm not even talking about farting on the dinner table.

4. Don't rub it in. If you earn more than he does, you can't just buy P5,000- peso shoes every two weeks and say "Well, I can afford it" when he finds out. Better to hide the shoes under the office table. :-)

5. Relearn the loving look. Jagey says to get past the minor irritations, you should try to remember how you looked at him when you realized you loved him already. You should recall the HHWW sessions (if you don't remember what that is, you should seriously re-think why you fell in love with him in the first place).

Okay, so I had a few days to reflect on this. And last night, he had a couple of beers with his friends before dinner. It was one of the things that piss me off. I was looking at him across the table. I knew I was frowning, but I tried to remember how the dog looks adoringly at him. I tried to remember the night we got drunk around a campfire on Good Friday, and how I thought he looked good enough to eat.

He looked up.

"What's with the look?" he said.
"What look?" I said. I thought I looked lovestruck, staring at him over the bowl of adobo.
"You look like your cat contemplating the murder of a mouse."

Oh, Jagey, I have a long way to go.

when death do us part

2009-11-11T08:23:00.000+08:00

Last weekend my daughter asked for money to buy cookies with. As I handed her some coins, she asked, "Mama, when you die, who will give me money?" I said she didn't have to worry, I don't think I'm going to die soon, but when I do, Papa will give the money. She nodded and went her way.

Later, she came to me again. She asked when I'm going to die. Then later, if I will die when she's grown up.

I told her that we don't know when we're going to die, but mostly people grow really old and get sick before we die. As she can see, I'm not yet old, and I'm not sick. I could tell she was anxious, but she was relentless. She asked who's going to take care of her baby sister if I die.

My daughter knows death as something that happens to old relatives, like my grandmother and my dad, but she was too young then, and she has never seen a dead person. She knows it happens to pets, but she has not wept tears over a puppy or a bird. I think she was trying to come to terms with death as a personal thing, as something that forever takes away someone she loves. And she was finding it difficult.

I could not explain that even adults such as me have trouble coming to terms with death. Oh, would that I could tell her I'd be around forever. To an eight-year-old, it would be an assurance that her world would be safe, but the lie would hurt her when it happens.

I hope I'll be around a long time, for her sake. But I also hope that I have helped her understand the inevitability of death, so that when it happens and it breaks her heart, she could smile again later and live on.

Salma Hayek's curls

2009-11-06T10:21:00.000+08:00

I went to the parlor yesterday to get my hair permed. I wanted to look like Salma Hayek.

I have natural curls in my hair, but they don't bounce and form ringlets. I had a perm some two years ago and I thought it looked fine, so I breezed into the parlor and announced my intention.

The gay stylist said no. Imagine my outrage.

After I had insisted a couple of times that yes, it's what I wanted, and yes, I already know how I'd look like with curls, the stylist sat me down. He explained that I had very fine hair and perming would damage it. He said I had nice wavy hair, and what I could do instead was to have it styled and load it with conditioner. When I had calmed down I asked if he didn't believe in 'The customer is always right.'

No, he said. His job is to make hair look beautiful. If he had given me a perm and my hair started to look ugly after a couple of days, I would have been disappointed and he would have failed in his job. He said he was not after the money I'd pay, but that I should be satisfied enough with the service to make me want to come back.

I liked that. How nice it would be if we all worked the same way: knowing what our job is and doing it the way it should be done. Sometimes we forget that it's not always about the money. And yes, sometimes what matters is not that the customer is right (and gets his way), but that you give what is good for the customer.

He gave me a trim and a hot oil treatment. I got his name and shook his hand. I am not a fan of beauty parlors, but you know, I think I'll go see him again in a couple of weeks. Perhaps I'll let him try the 'hair spa' on me. I may not end up looking like Salma Hayek (I have serious doubts now), but I bet I'll end up liking myself more.

the time traveler's wife

2009-10-26T17:25:00.000+08:00

I finished Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife last weekend. It was amazing. I am thoroughly absorbed by the story of Henry and Clare, of his jaunts in time, of how their love carried through. Henry is called a 'chrono-displaced person,' and it is thoroughly entertaining to read about his misadventures, although I could see how it could be frightening. Henry had a very keen survival instinct, aided by his uncanny skill in picking locks, running fast, pickpocketing, and imaginative lying.

And it is, at the core, a love story. Most of the feelings ring true for lovers, and it perfectly captures the sense of insecurity in every relationship. With love, we are never sure. We don't know how it starts, where it ends, why it hurts, when the other goes (or is taken away), what comes after. What we only know is that when we love with all our heart, everything else will come to pass. Even time.

rotten apples, spoiled kids

2009-10-26T17:07:00.000+08:00

I was making small talk with our new Japanese consultant this morning, and she asked me how my weekend was. I said me and the husband took one of the kids to the dentist. She said, "Together? What, did each of you hold her hands while the dentist was working on her teeth?" I said no, we were in the waiting room.

"You shouldn't do that. I can't believe how spoiled the kids are in the Philippines. They have drivers, they have maids, they have adults who do all sorts of things for them," she said. "In Japan, most children have working parents, and they learn very early on that they should do things on their own."

I said (a little defensively) that here, both parents also usually work, and weekends are chances to make up for lost time for the kids. "So you spoil them," she said.

I remember another Japanese lady who seemed shocked that most Filipino kindergarten students have separation anxiety. I reassured her that the anxiety is shared (and magnified) by the mothers who bring them to school for the first time. I went so far as to tell her that the separation anxiety is often carried to the first grade, so that's about a couple of years of heart-wrenching scenes in the classroom doors every schoolday morning. In a tone that carried a slight (but noticeable) layer of ridicule, she informed me that Japanese children are not upset about school. She said she remembered riding the school bus on her first day of school when she was 5 or 6 years old.

Are Filipino children spoiled? I will speak of my own children.

My older daughter is eight and doesn't know how to cook. I don't remember ever being allowed to cook in my grandmother's house either. I learned to boil an egg and cook rice when I was 14 and had to live in a boarding house.

She knows how to comb her hair (of course), but I fix it for her every morning. I like the little routine. We talk about Barbie and green hair clips and her friend's new bike while we get her ready for school.

I think she learned to bathe by herself only last year. Her nanny had always given her a bath because (i) she wasted too much water; (ii) she used up too much shampoo; and (iii) she always came out with bubbles still in her hair. One point for the Japanese.

She has packed lunch most mornings. No big deal, even my 59-year old Japanese boss carries a bento box with him, which he eats at 4pm. The packed lunch is prepared by the nanny, though, and the love with which she prepares them surpasses mine. She will cook rellenong bangus in the previous afternoon so my kid can have it for lunch the next day. Rellenong bangus is usually served during fiestas and weddings, next to the embutido, because it's so troublesome to make.

I could go on. Weekends at home are usually exhausting, because I try to do so many things with, and for, the kids. I come to work on Monday with sore arms from carrying the one-year-old. When I'm home she usually climbs all over me. I take it to mean that she misses me, so I oblige. No one carries her around five days a week. We play a lot, and the house is often messy from toys and paper cuttings and clothes. On Saturday evening we sleep all together in the living room, watching late-night TV and chatting. By Sunday evening everything will be tidy and we go to bed early.

So do I spoil them? I prefer to think that I'm making the most of their childhood. I love doing things for them. Very soon they'll grow up and will choose to spend their afternoons locked in their rooms, surfing the net or playing their kind of music, and on weekends they'll have sleepovers with friends, giggling over the likes of Jonas Brothers. I sometimes wish I could hold on to their being kids.

I prefer to think that it's my kind of love. I am not an overprotective mother, and I will not be able to teach them everything, or do everything for them. But you know, I wish I could remember my mother combing my hair, or my mother knowing I hated yellow dresses, when I was eight. I'd like to think that my daughters will remember that I was not always around when they were kids, but whatever time I had, I loved to spend it with them.

For other points of view, I'll go talk to some more Japanese.

i remember the boy

2009-09-25T16:42:00.001+08:00

I was chatting with an old friend earlier today, and she mentioned that John was back in the old town.

"Really?" I said. "What is he doing now?"

John is married, with two kids. He sells snacks in the canteen of the local public school.

John was one of my boardmates in the months after my college graduation. He was also my first love.

He was the local heartthrob and I was a nerd. It didn't help that I was studying in Manila and he was in the province, but when you're 14 you think that love like that can last forever. I'd go home whenever my allowance would allow me, then sigh over him. He was the sole topic in about six of my teenage diaries.

But John was never my boyfriend (a fact that my husband would not probably believe). I guess that was why he stayed my crush for about eight years, because he was the one person I could not have, and I despaired over that fact for a long time, but I never really understood why.

Now I work in a bank, buy shoes every two weeks, and studies MBA. I have a husband who does not blink when I wanted to buy a laptop after lunch, although he doesn't know about the shoes. :-)

Hearing about John, I now think, what would I have been had I become his wife? An employee in the local cooperative who sells Avon cosmetics during lunch break?

No, I don't gloat over his present state. It's just that in the heart of every woman (and man) who had once loved and been heartbroken, a small part will always wonder about a past love, where the person is, what he is doing. And perhaps, when they meet again, there will be a little spark, a little racing of the pulse, in remembering what you once had.

For some, there will be nothing. And still for some, it's "How the heck did I fall in love with him?!"

heroic leadership

2009-08-06T08:39:00.000+08:00

Can you believe what I'm reading these days? Heroic Leadership by Chris Lowney. Last week it was Emotional Intelligence by Daniel Goleman.

I'm reading them for my class on Leadership. And I look with longing at my bookshelf, with John Grisham and Stephen King books winking at me.

I have to groan, but I also have to admit that I have learned a lot from these books. My learning logs, required after every session, have been moments of self-discovery. Some are not pleasant. Some force me to confront the kind of person that I thought I was not. Some make me re-think the ways I have been raising my children.

So yes, I don't enjoy them as much as I do the novels, but they do expand my reading list, and sometimes Corelli's Mandolin gets stale. And if I want to be entertained, there's always the International Herald Tribune in the morning.

a cup of coffee

2009-08-06T07:51:00.000+08:00

I got to the office very early today, so to wake myself up I got a cup of Cafe Americano at San Francisco Coffee. Now I'm drinking it with some peanut butter cookies, and I burned my tongue already.

Most days it's Cafe Americano with milk and sugar, but sometimes-- when I didn't get enough sleep the previous night, or it's shaping up to be a looong day-- I get a Hazelnut Latte. It's good enough to make me look forward to bad days. :-)

These morning coffees are expensive. My small cup costs more than my Meal-of-the-Day lunch at the cafeteria. Which means that my coffee budget for a week will buy me 53 sachets of 3-in-1 hazelnut coffee mix. (Hmm. This is actually the first time I computed it. Makes me think twice about next week's coffee.)

So I contemplated for a while why this coffee tastes better than my morning coffee at home. I can make it as strong as I want, or load it with cream, and I can choose what bread to go with it. Also, my 8-year-old daughter makes a mean cup of coffee, but with the effort and love she puts in it, it's already lukewarm by the time it's served.

So after 30 minutes of drinking this expensive cup, I figured out why.

I take this coffee at a leisurely pace, when I'm already in the office and not rushing to get dressed for work. I get to savor every sip, and I don't have to gulp it down because I'm next in line for the bathroom. And since it costs a pretty penny, I drink it to the last drop.

This is printed on every table napkin of San Francisco Coffee: Life is Good. Learning for the day? Like my coffee, life should not be taken at haste. We cannot always be running after things, like a bigger house, a promotion, a nicer car. There should be a moment to savor little joys, small wins, even waiting for the rain to stop, if it means a few more minutes to kiss the baby before going out of the house. Like my coffee, life is expensive. We have to cherish every last drop of it, even if it burns us at times.

society

2009-05-15T10:58:00.000+08:00

An ant colony has a single queen, plenty of workers, and some alates or male ants. The queen, of course, does nothing but lie down and have kids. The workers maintain the underground chambers, collect the food, groom the queen, and feed the larvae. The drones fertilize the queen, and as far as I can tell, do nothing else afterwards but die.

The ant colony lives underground in a series of interconnected chambers and tunnels. Each chamber is dedicated to a certain function, such as food storage or nurseries. Ants from different colonies are aggressive towards each other.

Each ant has his own role. Perhaps there are ants who are assigned to guard the colony from attacks by other ants. Perhaps there are troublemaker ants who bite others without provocation. Perhaps there are lazy worker ants who sleep when they think no one is looking.

So it is with human society, whether they live in tribes or in cities. Humans co-exist to fulfill their needs within the group. Each member has his own role, and each one contributes for the continued existence of the group.

When I am asked to describe Philippine society, what comes to mind is the Lifestyle section of the broadsheets. Perhaps it does not give an accurate picture of everything that our society is, but it gives one a slice of what makes us what we are.

A society is largely dependent on its particular culture. One good thing about Philippine society is that due to the many cultural influences from the time of Spanish colonization to American and Japanese occupation, we have become like a sponge. We soak up and absorb influences from other nations and cultures, and make it part of our own. Back to the Lifestyle section: you see raving reviews of Japanese restaurants, where to buy the latest French fashion trends, and a dissection of Swiss watches or German cars. We embrace Korean telenovelas and the American Idol with equal passion. But we are not confused about who we really are. Look at us when Manny Pacquiao has a fight. We even have ceasefires in war-torn Mindanao so both sides could watch on tv.

You could watch documentaries until you're blue in the face and you will get a list of all that ails Philippine society. Crooked politicians, drug traffickers, child labor, people who kill cats just for kicks, prostitution… it goes on. What is sad is that Filipinos have this amazing capacity to grin and bear it. Ok, so we had a dictator. Took us two decades to throw that one out. So the President cheated in the elections? She apologized and the people let it go. The ZTE Broadband deal is just so much big words in the back issues of newspapers.

I ride "kolorum" vans to work. You ask, why don't they apply for a franchise? Because it's so tough to process the application. Why is it so tough? Because you have to go through so many people and get so many signatures, and by the time you finally ask for approval, it has been over a year, you have already spent a hundred thousand pesos, and then the officials get re-shuffled. What happens to the papers? Well, you have to start all over again, because now there are different signatories. And in the meantime, the kolorum vans play patintero with the traffic enforcers every day. They pay these officers a certain fee every month so that they will not be apprehended. The protection money goes all the way up to the bosses, so as long as the papers are not approved, these officers have a steady source of income. You hear all these, and you are indignant. But the drivers who make a living will say, "Talagang ganyan ang buhay." The officers who receive the money (and the occasional lechon or bottle of Johnny Walker) will say, "Talagang ganyan." The passengers shrug and say, "Talagang ganyan."

That's what's wrong. It's not "bahala na." It's the cheerful, almost careless acceptance that it is the way of life, and we take it because it is too much trouble to buck the tide.

the nature of man

2009-05-15T10:54:00.000+08:00

I have three premises about the nature of man.

First, man is a creation of choice. Everything that happens to man is governed by choices. You were late for work this morning? It's not because traffic was bad; it was because you chose to leave the house late. You have a happy married life? You chose the person you married. You have a ton of paperwork; you can choose to get upset about it or you can just attack your desk and get it done. You have a choice, down to the attitude you wish to to take every day. Given that, to me it means that man is ultimately responsible for his life's purpose and direction.

Second, man is the fulfillment of life. If man was created in God's image, then man carries with him all the potential. Every person naturally wants to become all that he can be; the desire to live more is inherent in each one of us. Man will always seek to learn more, do more, and be more, because it is the truest expression of all that he can be, all that he is given. Everything that he will need is already inside. In life, the possibilities are endless. These possibilities exist so that man may affirm life.

Third, man is essentially good. Everyone is capable of kindness, love, and compassion. I think this capacity for goodness is hard-wired into each person. Yes, there are evil people, but even the most hardened criminal carries with him a little goodness. You help an old lady cross the street; you give directions to a lost person inside the Mall of Asia; you smile at babies in buses. Why? You don't get headlines for sharing an umbrella in the rain. Most of the time, the simplest acts of goodness are driven by the simplest pleasures. You feel good about yourself.

Given these three, I now come to the reason for man's being. I believe that man, given his free will and the power of choice, should become all that he can be, to achieve good things not only for himself but for all humanity.

Profound? Not really. Over a glass of wine or over the course of my 31 years on earth, I choose to believe that the purpose of my life is the realization of all that I can be. It is only when I become more, when my life is rich and full, can I do more for myself and others. It is not a goal you work for, like finishing MBA, but a thing you do every waking hour. You make a difference when you give your best in everything that you do.

[This is a reflection essay for my Ethics class. I wrote; I liked; I posted.]

my cafeteria lunches

2009-05-13T16:13:00.000+08:00

I wanted an orange belt today. Not just your traffic-light orange; I wanted an exact shade of metallic burnt orange. So on my lunch break I set off for St. Francis Square to find one.

I came back with two mini-shorts, two blouses and a mermaid ref magnet, but I did not find any orange belts. Then, with 10 minutes to spare on my lunch hour, I went to the cafeteria to find food.

For some reason I've had this craving for salad these past two weeks. The salad counter in the cafeteria is nice: you have a selection of ingredients, you toss it all in a bowl, you add some dressing (olive oil, vinaigrette, thousand island, and a couple more I cannot pronounce), then the food attendant weighs it in a scale and prints the price of the salad. I have learned that a P60-peso bowl is enough to keep me full until 5pm.

My usual salad is this: some lettuce leaves, crisp and fresh; two spoonfuls of cheese cubes; some cucumber cubes; 3 or 4 pieces of whole olives (I've taken a liking to these little devils); shredded carrots; some pineapple chunks (fresh, not canned); steamed broccoli; some macaroni; lots of crushed bacon; and just a little thousand island dressing. There are weirder things in the counter: spinach and red beets and onions. Perhaps in a year I'll try them.

I also like Vietnamese food in the cafeteria. On Thursdays I eat cha gio, which is fried spring rolls, fresh noodles, crushed peanuts, and fresh beansprouts in a special sweet-sour broth. Sometimes I get pad thai noodles, when it's Thai food day. And everyday there's Japanese food: California maki is always nice; I pair it with a coffee bun that tastes just like Roti Mum's, only cheaper.

There's also the Meal-of-the-Day, which is usually Filipino fare. They serve ginataang tilapia, chicken afritada, boiled okra with bagoong, dinuguan... and it comes with rice, soup, a side serving of vegs, and dessert.

Then desserts galore! Leche flan, fresh fruits, buco pandan, and cake slices. I love blueberry cheesecake.

There's also a lot of drinks to choose from, but in my 2 years here I have taken softdrinks only a couple of times. They have fresh fruit shakes, see.

After lunch? Coffee. We have Figaro, Starbucks, and San Francisco Coffee concessionaires. Or brewed coffee for 10 pesos, and there's fresh milk if you like.

I have eaten P350-peso lunches at Italianni's and P170-peso-per-slice pizza at Sbarro, and I love good food. I ate at Megamall the whole time I was pregnant; I made the rounds of Italian restaurants there. But really, I don't have to leave the office at all to eat well. Often my lunch here does not exceed a hundred pesos (well, if I get blueberry cheesecake that's a different story).

Salad for lunch. My daughter would look at me like I'm eating soil. And I actually like it.

que sera, sera...

2009-05-13T10:15:00.000+08:00

There was a provincial 13-year old girl who was small, skinny, and very shy. Her grandmother told her that she was quite intelligent but she was not beautiful, both of which she believed. She loved reading stories from her textbooks. She had few friends and she did not do well in sports. In fact, she hated Physical Education. She wanted to sing, but her grandmother frowned upon singing (perhaps because she herself could not sing), and had her learn to dance swing and cha-cha instead. She drew little comic strips and made paper dolls, and she wanted to be a fashion designer.

This girl believed she was in love with a local heartthrob. She would carry this infatuation for most of her high school and college years, and she did not have a single boyfriend because she thought she was not beautiful enough. She cried easily and she hated confrontations.

There was this woman in her thirties who knew she was not really beautiful, but she was very attractive. She also knew she was smart; she will write books, and after a masters' degree in business administration, she will study Law. She had just a couple of close friends, but she was popular and well-liked. She did videoke sessions on weekends and will try belly-dancing... or perhaps pole-dancing. She dabbled in photography, did drawings in pointilism, and wrote blogs in her free time, while keeping old-fashioned diaries in the bottom of her closet.

This woman was married to a kind, good-looking man who understood that women have wings, and sometimes needed to fly on their own. She looked at love with a critical eye and believed that life needed to be lived fully. She preferred to fight quiet battles, but she was a formidable opponent of discourteous service crews and rude credit card agents, and she itched to sue crooked subdivision developers who sold substandard townhouses.

The 13-year-old girl would have been pretty amazed if you had told her that she will grow up to be the tough woman. In fact, she probably would not have believed it. But the little girl was tough, and even then, perhaps a part of her knew that one did not have to wait for the good things to come. One had to go for it and claim those good things for her own.

Because if one believed hard enough, nothing is impossible. Ask the woman.

my reading list

2009-05-06T11:24:00.000+08:00

I bought a hardbound Nightmares and Dreamscapes yesterday, one of Stephen King's collection of short stories. It is an understatement to say that I thoroughly enjoy all of his books, and my daughter looks mystified when her father tells her that her mother loves horror novels. I tell her, "Someday, you'll read all of them. Then you can tell me which one is a good read and which one is not."

I can only wish that Stephen King writes a book every month, so I will never run out of things to read. But then it's probably a good thing; otherwise I would never have been acquainted with John Grisham, Amy Tan, Anne Rice, and all authors great and small in between.

My reading list now includes the following:

(1) Wallace D. Wattles' The Science of Getting Rich

(2) L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future, Book XX

(3) Louis de Berniere's Corelli's Mandolin (for perhaps the 20th time; I love the writing style)

(4) Stephen Covey's 7 Habits of Highly Effective People (browsing half-heartedly)

(5) The International Herald Tribune (daily, from my boss' subscription) along with the Philippine Star (headlines only)

(6) Managerial Accounting textbook (groan... groan... for my MBA subject)

And yes, I do pick up two different books at different times of day and enjoy them both. The new Stephen King will be for my lunch breaks, so I will keep it in the office.

The next books on my list?

John Grisham's The Appeal and The Associate. I keep resisting the temptation to buy them at the same time, because I will probably finish both in a single weekend, and declare myself hungry for more.

the man in the bus

2009-05-06T10:35:00.000+08:00

Though sometimes inconvenient when commuting to the office, I like riding buses. I like observing people (not to mention that I'm on the sharp lookout for pickpockets and bad men), so I don't really mind being caught in traffic.

I rode a bus to work yesterday morning because I missed the shuttle again (woke up early but took my time dressing up). I sat beside a man who probably thought he was a hunk. He was wearing muscle tee and jeans, and he had his cap fastened to the backpack strap. Must be some fashion statement, as I usually see caps on heads. He must be in his mid-thirties, and he sports an extremely short haircut.

At some point I noticed that he was holding a piece of paper. What was curious was that he did not seem to be reading it, he just seemed to scan it over and over. And he must have been farsighted, because he was holding it almost at arm's length, enough for me to see 'Philippine National Police' on the top line, and 'Payee's Name' on the left side, then all these numbers with peso signs. After a while he put it back in his wallet, then he took it out again. After doing this three times, he then proceeded to inspect his wallet's content, taking out various cards and putting them back again, then... ah! He extracted one card with care. It was an official ID card, similar to a driver's license, and it had 'Philippine National Police' on top. He did his routine again, smoothing the ID (perhaps to remove specks of dirt), turning it this way and that (perhaps to see if it reflects light), and holding it closer to me than to his face (perhaps to determined if he was cross-eyed).

From the corner of my eye I could see him taking quick glances at me. I pretended to doze off, but by that time I was thoroughly amused. I waited to see what he would bring out for exhibit next.

He did not disappoint. Next he took out his mobile phone, a shiny thin Samsung. It must have been a source of infinite wonder for him, because he started to check all the features of the phone. The top part slides up, and it had a camera, and he even decided to see if the FM radio works! Oh, golly, it did!

But since I, the audience, did not have any remarkable reaction to this display of credentials, the man pocketed the phone and... took out the police ID again.

Thank heavens the bus was already in Megamall. Five more minutes and I would have burst laughing.

I then asked the driver if he would stop at Building A or at MRT Ortigas Station. He said no, sorry, but I would have to get off at the Mega bus stop or at Robinsons Galleria. Whereupon this ID-laden, shiny-cellphone-carrying male specimen decided it's time to strike a conversation to show his mastery of bus routes.

"Naku, sa Ortigas ka na nyan... dun ka na lang bumaba," he said with a rueful shake of his head.

"Malayo na yun sa Mega, dun ka na lang. San ka ba papunta nyan?" he added in a tone that suggested I was helpless and lost and needed guidance on navigating the Ortigas Center.

At that point I really did begin to wonder if he was desperately seeking attention. Well, I also wondered if I looked like someone who would bat my eyelashes at the sight of a police trainee's ID.

the persistence of memory

2009-04-01T14:11:00.000+08:00

I remember Daddy.

I remember him as he was before he got old and bitter. He was a teacher, and once in a while he would take us on trips to Lucena City when he was submitting reports to his division office. He would tell us to sit quietly and behave while he went to this office and that, and he would point out the various bosses that he would have to give gifts to in order for his promotion to be processed. If we were really good, he would take us to eat chicken barbecue and coleslaw in one of the upscale restaurants there.

I remember him bringing home a large vanity mirror in a carved narra frame. It was sleek and beautiful, and I thought it was for my sister and me. After we have proclaimed our admiration, he said that it was a gift for the aforementioned boss who processes promotions.

He would tell the same jokes over and over, till you would cringe at the end of the telling because you knew no one would laugh but himself.

I got a score of 99+ in the NCEE as a high school senior (back then, it was a big deal if you were going to college). He made a lot of copies of the exam result, and he showed it to all the relatives. He thought I was going to be either a doctor or a lawyer. So did I.

He knew I could write. That Readers Digest submission was about three years too late. If I had gotten around to doing that sooner, I would have been forced to buy 3 dozen copies for him to distribute.

I remember his rusty sidecar. He bought that for us kids when I was around eight years old. He kept it and used it till the day he got his last stroke. So many kids got to take a ride in it, including mine.

I remember his face when he would see that we had arrived for a visit. The visits were always unannounced, because it was difficult to keep promises to visit. I remember his face when we came with the new van. He cried because he thought he would never see us again.

He wasn't always mean and disagreeable. There are so many things about him being a father that I did not know because I did not grow up with him, but I remember that there had been times when he tried so hard to give us what he thought we wanted.

You know why I don't want to go home? Because a part of me will always insist that he is there, in his sidecar, waiting for us. And his face will be as I remember: excited, and half-hoping we would stay a bit longer.

the bus ride

2009-03-18T11:50:00.000+08:00

I wrote this on February 27, on the bus ride to go to my father.

I took an ordinary bus from Alabang to Lucena City because (1) there was no aircon bus in sight; (2) I had been waiting for a bus for over half an hour; (3) it was already 8am and the trip would take over 4 hours; and (4) I have always enjoyed riding ordinary buses on long trips to the province. Let me tell you why.

As you get farther away from Manila, the air gets fresher, there are more trees, and the people get more relaxed. Of course the bus stops get longer, but no one really seems to hurry. Along the highway lay little towns with interesting houses, where you judge civilization with whether there is a Jollibee or not. I look at the passing scenery as the bus takes me farther away from my 8-month-old daughter who's barely learning to walk, towards my 64-year-old father who will now relearn how to walk.

At periodic stops the food vendors board the bus: boiled corn at 3 for P10 pesos (I note with amusement that the same corn sells at 3 for P20 pesos where I live), bibingka and buko pie, boiled and fried peanuts, buko juice and C2, boiled quail eggs and greasy chips. When I travel with my daughter I spend a lot on these vendors. Now I note my fellow passengers with kids and I think that parents on road trips all wear the same expression of frustration-mingled-with-amusement.

The bus is filled with a fascinating mix of people. A teenage girl beside me has a paper bag filled with teenage-girl makeup, and she is holding a bubble-gum pink cellphone. I see her sneaking looks at my Palm Treo, and she probably thinks it's a gray, ugly, bulky gadget compared to hers. There's a mother with two kids on her lap, all three of them eating corn and shing-a-ling, sharing a single bottle of water. They look like they're having the time of their lives, while beside them a young man frowns. The bus seats are only for two people, and the mother has squeezed in one of the kids between her and the young man. Now the kid is falling asleep almost on the lap of the young man. The young man looks pissed off, but says nothing. It's a long trip; if I were the mother I would have paid for the kids' seats, but then I probably should be thankful that I can afford to pay for my child's seat when we travel.

The bus radio is playing 25 Minutes by Michael Learns to Rock, and to my surprise, when the chorus came, almost half of the bus started to sing along, even the bus inspector. It's enough to make you smile. (And yes, I know the song too.) I look out my hot window. On the asphalt is what looks like a rat, squashed flat by all the passing wheels in the highway. There's nothing left but a blot of black with a scrap of gray fur and a tail.

I'm hungry and I wish I had bought the bibingka. Vendors would probably swarm the bus again later... yes, the fourth batch of vendors boarded on my second hour in the bus. I bought the bibingka, and although the vendor boasted that it has buko, I'm well half into the bibingka and I haven't tasted a shred of buko. It's good, though, in the way that roadstand food tastes good. You can't buy food like that at home or in the malls. Part of the good feeling comes from the experience. You ask anyone who grew up as kids in the province if eating balut from the vendor at night is the same as eating balut aboard one of the provincial buses.

In airconditioned buses the passengers keep to themselves. They are mostly well-dressed, wearing sunglasses and carrying neat little bags. They buy bottled water and they have brought takeout food and donuts in boxes, which they eat with measured bites. They carry muted conversations and they don't look at their fellow passengers. There is probably a foreign action film playing in the bus video. In this bus, the floor is already littered with candy wrappers, half-eaten corncobs, rolling plastic beverage bottles. The FM radio is blaring (Boy, I miss your kisses... all the time, but this is... twenty-five minutes too laate...). Luggage is piled in the aisle. I can see a sack of rice, a couple of fighting cocks in a box with holes, boxes tied with twine, backpacks. A kid smiles at me across the seats, his face half-smeared with vomit (looks like he overdid the corn). The man seated on my other side mumbles an apology about being slightly drunk on the bus: he says it's his wife's birthday so he has to go home. He keeps his hands clasped around his hotdog bag (it's shaped like a hotdog and seems to be universally favored by construction workers) and calls me 'Ma'am.'

I will get off the bus a bit sticky with sweat, with my hair in stiff tangles and my face gritty with road dust. But the other passengers smile at me as they walk past, hopping over the luggages and the trash. The conductor makes little jokes about slow old women while he carries their bags and help them off the bus. The mother drags her two kids and four bags, and the smaller kid picks off a corn kernel from the seat and pops it into his mouth. Amazing.

For some, four hours of this would be sheer misery. For me, it was fun. It somehow reconnects you with humanity. For four hours, each one of us was immersed in this experience, buying food when the vendors came, fanning ourselves when we're stuck in traffic, watching each other, making little talk when it got boring. Each of us has our own respective destinations, and when we get off, we scatter. We will go home to the wives, visit relatives, conduct businesses, enjoy cockfights, sell wares, meet friends, take care of sick fathers. But the bus ride allows us to share each other, to experience other people, to do things that we otherwise overlook or ignore in our ordinary lives. We let the four hours carry us away to where we are going, and it is a fine ride. For me, it always feels like coming home.

one day...

2009-03-11T11:21:00.000+08:00

Ever had a full day? Here's mine:

Worked for eight hours in the office, battling about 150 emails, answering calls, drafting reports. In the middle of it all I had to pick up the books I ordered, requested new ID pictures, and filed a loan. I ate lunch with Susan at Yoshinoya in SM Megamall, then we went to the home section, where Susan somehow convinced me to buy 30 neon green dinner plates for when we entertain at home. (I had not stopped to think that 30 people will not actually fit in my house.)

At 4pm I opened my notes for my Management class. I missed the first session last week because I was taking care of my dad's wake, and we had a case analysis to submit. By the time I progressed to the list of my assignments for Managerial Accounting I was seriously rethinking the wisdom of my decision to get an MBA at Ateneo.

Had class from 5:30 to 9:00 pm. I declined my husband's offer to fetch me because I thought there'd still be a shuttle--- but there was none. So I took an aircon bus to Alabang. But the bus stopped at the queue in Ayala. After half an hour people were muttering their annoyance, and since it was already quite late I started asking the driver how much longer we are staying in the queue.

The driver would only say that it's the way it's done; they have to queue and pick up passengers, and if we're in a hurry, so is he. He even said that if we were such in a hurry we should have taken a taxi home. The nerve! So I decided to get off and transfer to a new bus. The driver was outside. I asked him if they would charge a different fare for my ticket since we were only in Ayala, but he said they don't allow refunds, and I could complain to authorities if I wanted to. Besides, he said, his conductor was somewhere else at the moment, so we could not discuss the ticket. We started arguing, and I realized that it was 10:30 pm, I was wearing a nice dress and high heels, I was hungry and I needed to pee, and I was fighting with a loud-mouthed, ill-mannered, long-haired driver over a P46.00 fare.

So I transferred to an ordinary bus that bounced and roared and rattled, but I could have kissed the old sweat-smelling, road-grimed driver when we reached Alabang in 15 minutes. I got there ahead of my husband and had to wait 15 minutes more. I cursed the aircon bus driver all the way home.

When we got home I thought of eating only some oatmeal, because it was already 11:30 pm and I had to wake up early, but the food on the table was ginataang alimango at kalabasa, and in the fridge was buko pandan. I forgot the bus driver and the oatmeal. I was still eating one hour later.

Since I was afraid to sleep on a full stomach I rearranged my clothes cabinet, and by 1:30 am I decided my digestion process is well on the way, so I went to bed.

Then the baby woke up at 3 am for her bottle. And again at 5 am. I have to get up at 5:30 am because I have to bring my 7-year-old to school.

Sometimes you have to sigh. :-)

death (2)

2009-03-09T11:30:00.001+08:00

There is one image I keep pushing away. It is my dad's face when the doctors were trying to revive him in his hospital bed, and a part of me knew that he was gone.

The end wasn't melodramatic. No doctor came in to tell us he was failing and it was time to say goodbye. In fact, he was already scheduled for physical therapy that afternoon, and after his second session he was going to be discharged.

It wasn't like he gasped or struggled for breath. One moment he was lightly snoring in his sleep, the next moment he was turning gray. When I called the nurses the realization that he might be gone was like a thump in the chest. They tried to revive him twice, but the heart monitor was flat.

The same thump in the chest would come at odd times: when we cleaned out his room and I saw his sandals, and there was the thought that he would never wear them again; when I checked the row of canned goods and powdered milk in boxes that he had stocked, and I found out that half of them had already expired in 2008; when I saw my address from the letter I sent him, stapled to the wall; when I took back the picture of my youngest daughter from his things, the grandchild he never got to see in person.

The thump in the chest is a reminder that he is gone. I dreamed of Daddy last night. It was his birthday, and we all went home. He was pleasantly surprised and he was so glad to see all three of his granddaughters. I woke up with his lopsided smile in my mind, and then, again, there came the image of his face in the hospital. His eyes had been half open, and they remained that way, even when they left him covered with a blanket and allowed us to say goodbye.

death (1)

2009-03-09T11:12:00.000+08:00

I read somewhere that the sad thing about the death of a loved one is that it absolves the dead from all the guilt. The living is left grieving for all the things left undone.

Daddy died on February 27, after he had a double stroke. He was 64. From then, until now, there doesn't seem to be any correct way to say goodbye.

I cannot seem to function well. I am distracted, and everything I touch seem to remind me of all the things I failed to do for Daddy. I listen to my iPod and I think of all the music CDs I was supposed to bring him. I arrange my Readers Digests and I think it is good that I finally got to show him the November 2008 issue where I wrote a story about Nanay. He was so proud. I wish there had been more moments like that, while he was still alive.

I wish I had cooked more meals, visited more often, tried harder to understand the man he had become. But it is always like that, isn't it? We always think there is enough time, so we keep putting off the things we could do, the little things that in the end would mean so much. Memento mori. So true.

So we all punish ourselves with guilt, and call it grief. I will probably mourn for him in my own way, in my own time, but for now all there is is this heaviness.

moving in

2009-01-07T11:29:00.001+08:00

The year 2008 has been a very good one for me. I had published my writing (yahoo!), had a new baby, and bought a new house.

I have a label fully dedicated to writing and motherhood, so this one is about the house. Much as it excites me to have our very own house, where I will hopefully grow old, and where I can do anything I please (like paint the walls red, should the mood strike me), I am currently in a state of freak-out.

You see, when we moved to Cavite, I had all the moving boxes properly packed and labeled as early as three months before the moving date. This time, my husband decided to move last night-- and I haven't even finished sorting my own clothes cabinet. He had four friends and a truck, and they emptied the big house in two trips. The men put everything in sight in large black trash bags and put everything in the truck. I got home from work and the bed, dining set, and fridge were gone. My toiletries, mirror, office clothes, and shoes were also gone, hauled off while I was still on the road. Of course, my daughter's underwear and socks were also gone, and it's a school day today. Lastly, my baby's stroller was also gone, and that stroller is where she spends half of her waking hours. It wouldn't have been so bad, but we're staying in the old house for two more days!

The new house is also much smaller than where we're staying now, so we had to drastically downsize. Even now, when we have disposed of much of the furniture, old clothes and toys, and plenty of plastic microwavable containers, we still have too many things. I will probably spend the next two months sorting and sorting and sorting. It doesn't help that everything is in trash bags. I feel like leaving them there.

And then there's the problem with decor, storage, and furniture. I cannot walk through the home improvement section of the department store without checking the color-coordinated curtains and pillowcases, dinnerware, and cookware. Somehow, having a new house puts one in an everything-new mode. I can almost hear the yaya saying we need a new chopping board... well, we do. My Visa card is winking at me.

Oh, and we have the birds. I forgot to check if there are cats in the new neighborhood! I also forgot about Bernard the dog. I wish they had brought him to the new house in the truck. But he needs a bath before he moves.

I also have to check the hardware store for mosquito-repellent devices. The mosquitoes in the new house are BIG, and boy, are they thirsty.

I also have to find out where they put my blue bangles. I'm wearing a blue outfit tomorrow. Oh, and of course, my daughter's underwear.

I hope, when I get home tonight, that they have found the dinner plates. I ate from a dessert plate last night, and there wasn't a fork in sight.

It looks like I need a new label. I'm beginning to feel that I will soon post before-and-after accounts.

But first, to the hardware. And on the way, I might as well check if there are any pink electric fans for my daughter.

writing letters

2009-01-06T15:16:00.000+08:00

I used to love writing letters. I loved sitting down with pretty stationery paper, a good pen, and a good mood. I would write letters that ran for two or more pages, closely spaced, on unlined paper. I liked seeing my thoughts in print, and because I had a pretty penmanship, I wrote with care. There would be no erasures. I always wrote my letters in English, because my grandmother taught me that way. I would often end up with numb fingers, but I loved bringing my letters to the post office.

I wrote faithfully to pen-pals, to my aunts and uncles in the States, to my girl friends in the old town. I did not often get letters in return, but I did not care. I was happy writing.

Aside from letters, of course, I wrote in diaries. Pages and pages of heartbreaks, teenage angst, happy moments.

And then technology interfered. People learned to use email. It was faster and more convenient. And there's chatting online. Much more faster and much more convenient. And of course, texting. Suddenly there were too many ways to keep in touch.

Instead of diaries, I blogged. I wrote stories that I filed in the computer and kept back-ups in CDs.

In the midst of all this, letter-writing suddenly became a lost art. It took days before a letter would reach a friend. Thick envelopes would get lost (thieves at the post office would think you enclosed money, when all you sent were funny pictures of your beloved cat). And yes, it was easier to tap the keyboard than hold a pen for two pages' worth of chitchat.

I was opening late Christmas cards for my boss this afternoon. There were about 20 cards, from all over the world. And I realized that I was completely absorbed in it, even though the cards were not mine. I would check the envelope, slit it open carefully, and stack the cards for his inbox. Then I would cut the stamps for my scrapbook.

There is a joy in receiving letters by mail. There is a quiet anticipation in seeing the envelope, the postmark, then opening it. And then there is the thrill of reading. Be it a few lines or eight pages, when you think that the person actually sat down and wrote all that for you, the simple joy of it cannot be matched by the message alert in your email inbox.

Maybe I will teach my daughter to write letters. She is seven years old and knows how to compose and send text messages. It may be old-fashioned, but in communicating with people, the simplest thing of all is sometimes the sweetest. You choose a pretty paper, you sit down, you compose the tale in your head. Then you take the time to write. It is a real pleasure.

beautiful women

2009-01-06T10:25:00.000+08:00

I received a Powerpoint show in my email today, with the title 'The Girls We Loved Before.' It featured the sex symbols and internationally known beautiful screen women of the fifties and sixties: Elizabeth Taylor, Brigitte Bardot, Jane Russell, Sophia Loren, Shirley Temple. Not only that, it showed how they look now, when they're already in their seventies and eighties.

They are still beautiful. Well, cosmetic surgery and plenty of money may have played a hand, and they still lead public lives, so they still have to look good.

What I think is that they are no different from the ordinary woman. Everyone grows old, including beauty queens and film stars. Firm breasts will sag, glossy hair will turn white, alabaster skin will get liver spots. The women who remain beautiful are those who learned to age gracefully, those who carry their age with dignity, and those who do beautiful things everyday.

And it's not in the clothes you will wear or the jewelry you drape around yourself. I guess it will show in the people you loved, the lives you touched, the acts of kindness you gave. It will not matter so much that you have more wrinkles than the grand old lady next door, but that those wrinkles were caused by smiling more often.

I am a bit afraid of getting old and helpless. I would not want to be an invalid, senile old hag who pees on the bed and thinks that the cat is an enemy. But you know, to know that someone will remember that I have been a kind person, that would be a good way to face old age. To know that as you go through life you have tried to make a difference even in the smallest way possible, that would be an act of grace. And I would happily grow old, remembering that once I had been young and beautiful, and I could do so much.

christmas past and presents

2009-01-05T14:27:00.000+08:00

I love the Christmas season because I love getting gifts. I am also one of those people who cannot resist wrapped presents. You cannot tell me to wait till Christmas morning to open it. I have to at least peek, the moment I receive it. Then I bring it home, where my daughter will rip it open.

She also cannot wait for Christmas Day.

In the office, one starts receiving gifts on the second week of December. They land on your desk with regularity, until December 24. If you file a leave on the week of Christmas, you'll find them piled up when you return to the office the next year.

Perhaps because of the financial crisis, I received fewer gifts in the office in Christmas 2008 than the year before it, but still I got about 30 of them. So imagine my glee. Let's list some of them:

1. A bottle of perfume from Qatar

2. A pair of chopsticks and chocolates from Japan

3. Swiss chocolates

4. Fruitcake from Australia

5. A pretty violet pashmina

6. 3 bikini panties in neon colors, with a glittering heart in front

7. A white embroidered blouse

8. Stationery set

9. Fancy earrings

10. Cleaning cloth

11. Native table runner

12. Luggage tag with my name embroidered on it

13. A pretty notebook from Ayala Museum

14. A scrapbook

15. A Starbucks thermal mug

16. A set of tiny Post-Its

17. Lots and lots of cookies and brownies

18. Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns

There's plenty more, but there's a couple that I truly loved: a small wooden clip for holding notes with a painted cat in it, and a wooden carving of an angel cat singing carols.

Some of the gifts I received-- and gave-- were expensive. But there's an old truth in gift-giving: it's the thought that counts. I thanked all those who cared enough to give me a present, but like with the cat clip, I loved the person who took the time, or remembered, to find what I will truly appreciate.

That is the reason some of us get really stressed out come Christmas, especially when we're getting gifts for the ones we love. It's not the price of the thing. The joy on their face when they open it-- that is priceless. It's what's on my daughter's face when she got her three Bakugan. Heaven help me; I did not know what a bakugan is and had to harass toy store attendants.

what's in a name?

2008-12-30T11:08:00.001+08:00

My daughter has a quirky sense of humor when it comes to naming pets. Our family is attached to an assortment of animals, and so it has become her solemn job to conduct the naming ceremony.

We adopted a stray puppy when we moved to Cavite. It was ugly, but it looked like it had the potential to bite thieves, so it stayed. My daughter named it Bruno. We soon realized that Bruno is actually a girl, and my daughter promptly changed the name to 'Brunei.' Soon Brunei had puppies, and they were named Brownie (because it was brown), Whitey (because it was white), and Cutie (because... you guessed it, it was cute).

She also had a pet white rat, named Stuart Little (from the movie, of course). Stuart Little was left in the terrace one night, and in the morning we found the overturned cage, with the culprit still napping beside it. The criminal is Blacky the Cat, whose picture also graces this blog. You don't have to ask me why he is named so.

We also breed African love birds. We have Mulan and General Shang, Jack and Jill, Ariel and Prince Eric. When the birds multiplied, she said it was too much trouble to keep track of all of them, and so they became generically identified by color: Blue and Green, Yellow-Green Pair, White Pair.

And yes, we have Gohan the cat, so named because my husband and daughter are avid fans of Dragon Ball Z, and also because Gohan has this capacity to fly when kicked. For that, he earned one blog post dedicated to him.

My husband also keep fighting cocks. My daughter would inspect them and briefly considered naming each one, but they all looked the same and weren't very friendly, so she gave them up for a lost cause in the order of names. They were just "Hoy, Manok! Kumain ka na!"

She bought a fighting fish for Christmas, bright red, and named it Cutie. She also recycles names, you see, since Cutie the dog had been given away when it turned out to be another girl (and therefore had the capacity to reproduce, which is undesirable in our house). Cutie died of overfeeding one week later. I have a suspicion it also died of exhaustion, because my daughter sometimes stirred the fishbowl with a straw so Cutie could exercise.

Because she did not want to be heartbroken over the demise of Cutie the fish, my daughter got a guinea pig for New Year. It is white, with brown ears. It eats a whole carrot in a single afternoon and pees with abandon. My daughter insists that each pet be called by their proper names. So yes, I cringe whenever I refer to the darned guinea pig.

You see, she named it Angel Locsin.

memento mori

2008-12-05T15:37:00.000+08:00

I saw an accident yesterday morning while I was on my way to work. A car hit a woman who was crossing C-5 Road. The road was slippery because it was raining; C-5 is notorious for road accidents because the road is so wide and people constantly disregard warnings not to cross.

The impact was hard enough for the woman's body to totally break the car's windshield, then she was thrown over the car. When we stopped she was lying crumpled behind the car, and people were just running over to help.

I saw too many details. Her hands were fisted and they were gray. She was wearing a blue-green blazer and skirt. She was wearing stockings, and the bottom of her feet were dirty. When we passed the car that hit her I saw her shoes, flat black ones with bows, lying where her feet must have been when the car struck her. And a few feet away, her little pink purse that must have contained makeup, toothbrush, and office keys.

I didn't see her face (thankfully). But the thought that struck me was that she could be a mother who forgot to say goodbye to her kids that morning because she was running late (otherwise, why would she cross the road on a rainy morning when there was a pedestrian overpass some distance away?). And I wondered if she would see her family again.

It also struck me that life is really too short. In a moment you could be gone, never mind if you planned a really grand anniversary trip to Singapore next year. You never really know if you're still coming home in the evening. You never know if this morning's kiss is the last kiss you'll ever plant on your baby's face.

It's funny how the human mind processes these things. One road accident seen up close, and I start thinking of 'Carpe diem.' Yes, seize the day. There's even a better one: Memento mori. Remember that you are mortal. Life is short and time is fleeting.

for monette

2008-11-21T14:32:00.000+08:00

The Things My Best Friend Taught Me:

1. Two people can work side by side together, even if one is listening to Maroon 5 and the other to Air Supply.

2. It is all right to go crazy about a guy if one has a friend nearby.

3. A father can cry. (That's a whole different story.)

4. A woman with no kid can dispense the soundest motherly advice, if she’s taking up an M.A. in Teaching in the Early Grades.

5. One can juggle a masteral degree, an obsessive-compulsive boss, a globe-trotting husband, blogging, laundry, and thrice-weekly swimming sessions, and still be beautiful.

6. Best friends finish each other’s sentences, whether you’re drafting minutes of the meeting or talking about sex.

8. Best friends look beyond huge mistakes.

9. Brutal honesty can hurt, but coming from a friend, it can heal.

10. You may part ways, but time and distance matter little. The heart will always remember.

Because Monette is very different from me, having her as a best friend is like living another girl's life. Read her blog at http://monette.sumulong.com/ She writes beautifully-- like me. :-)

Why do girls need best friends? They will be there when you cry over philandering boyfriends (and later, husbands); they will help you with your term paper if it meant staying up the whole night; they will get drunk with you on your bridal shower and become your child's godmother; they will convince you to wear two-piece bikinis, bulges and all, and even make you feel good about it; they will celebrate your first published work and promote you in their blog. Hihihi. The best friend tells you to be tough, to take chances, to stop being stupid, to laugh some more.

Yes, there's a best friend so you can have someone to giggle with about the funnier things in life. But more importantly, there's a best friend because she will allow you to be you.

be hands on!

2008-11-07T10:49:00.001+08:00

Last night I attended the book launch of Be Hands On!, a book sponsored by Hands On Manila Foundation, Inc. (http://www.handsonmanila.org.ph/). It was held in Powerbooks Greenbelt. Hands On Manila held a writing contest last year for the most inspiring volunteer stories. They received about 120 entries, then they decided to publish a book that contains the ten winning pieces.

I was not feeling well, but I came. I also had not taken my lunch. But I forgot my flu and my hunger when I saw the names in the book. Aside from the winning entries, the book featured celebrities and well-known people who were involved in volunteer work. A broadcast journalist, a beauty queen, a surgeon, a stage actress... and they are real people, selfless volunteers whose stories are testimonials of the power of giving.

And they were there for the book-signing. I was starstruck. I was also in awe of the people who attended the by-invitation-only launch; they were high society, and they were so passionate about Hands On Manila. I tried to act cool; I had every right to be there. But by 7pm I could not resist it-- I had my picture taken with Marc Nelson and Chris Tiu! Hihihi.

And why was I there? My contribution is in page 149.

It was my first book-signing. It felt good to be up there on stage with all the others whose names are in the pages of the book. We signed about 150 books and none complained of tired fingers.

The book is now available at all Powerbooks branches. It would make a perfect Christmas gift, and you'll be helping a worthy cause.

As for me, for four hours I knew what it felt like to be a celebrity. I would like to believe that the day would come when I will autograph my own book and give it to my friends for Christmas.

One can dream on.

on writing

2008-11-07T10:01:00.000+08:00

When I was in high school, I told everyone that my dream was to become a Nobel Prize winner in Literature. Big deal. Most of my classmates have not even heard of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. My grandmother was outraged and told me that writers die of hunger, and I should be a lawyer instead.

And since my parents would be the ones to pay tuition, I obediently took up Psychology in college.

But I wrote. I still think that some of my best stories and poems were written when I was in high school. True, most of them were influenced by Mills & Boon love stories, but I also read Gabriel Garcia Marquez when I was 14.

And so time and fate interfered, and my forays into writing were little adventures, depending on who I read: The Guardian was done after I read Pet Sematary. I wrote less poetry as I grew older, and the stories matured. I also got married and had children, and by that time I was keeping my diaries in the computer. I also blogged. :-)

But I kept them all hidden. I wrote for my own pleasure, and very few people knew about them.

Then last year, I came across an article written by Butch Dalisay in Philippine Star, about 'Writing for Others' (see http://www.penmanila.net/). I wrote him an email and he wrote back. He inspired me to submit what I wrote. He said that the real recognition would come from my readers.

On Monday, November 3, I went to National Bookstore to check out the November issue of Readers Digest. My story is in page 11.

And yes, I bought five copies for posterity's sake!

working mom blues

2008-10-16T15:03:00.000+08:00

My friend Ann is 27 years old and is not yet ready to get married. She says it is daunting to raise children these days. I agree. Most girls don't realize what mothers go through until they become mothers themselves.

I am a working mother. I have often envied those mothers who stay home and take care of their kids, the ones who know exactly why little Lisa hates the color yellow and can recite the names of all Lisa's 25 friends in kinder class. I am with my kid exactly 2 1/2 hours per day. I get up in the morning and her yaya has already prepared her for school; I get home at night and she's fed, washed up, and ready for bed. By the time I finish dinner she's already sleepy. For the rest of us who work, it's always a choice between raising the child ourselves and helping provide for the needs of the family. When my daughter asks me why I need to work every day, I tell her it's so we will have enough money for her food, clothes, and home. She goes to the mall on weekends and has a Barbie doll collection because her parents have good jobs.

My daughter's friends tell me that I'm always glamorous and their mothers are not. My daughter says it's because I go to the office, and the other mothers don't look so good because they stay home and take care of the kids. Very early on the children get this sense that when both parents work, their parents look good and the children enjoy more luxuries. Stay-at-home parents are less dignified. But you ask my kid if she's happy that she only sees me in the evening. You ask her if a dozen Barbie dolls is enough companionship in the afternoons after school.

And it goes beyond providing for the children. Every day you're faced with the realization that everything you do is shaping her personality and character. And every day you're put to the test: your patience, your judgement, your sense of what's right for her, your stand on discipline. You cannot reason out that you cannot play because you're dog-tired at the end of the day, because then your seven-year-old would ask if your job is more important than her. And you cannot buy new shoes on impulse because a little voice is telling you that the price of the shoes is equivalent to a can of baby's milk.

When tempers run short and I feel like throwing the girls out of the window, I think about how lovely it must be to be single, earning my own money, and living as I wish. I daydream about condo living, weekends at the beach, and writing. But you know what? It's tough, but I will not exchange my daughters for a life like that. It's worth every dragging second of my office-girl-life, to come home in the evening and smell a well-fed sleeping baby in my bed.

Even if the baby wakes up screaming at 2 a.m. because she does not recognize you.

the wish for a library

2008-10-13T16:24:00.000+08:00

You know what I've always thought of when I daydreamed about having my own house? Having my own library. I will have my own little room with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, and no one can enter without knocking. The room will have soft piped-in music. It is where I will do my writing.

All the places I lived in had a little corner designated to display my books. In my grandmother's house, my three-hundred-or-so pocketbooks gather dust. They are the product of my high school and college years, when I would patiently raid the book sales (because I could not afford brand-new paperbacks) and I would grab a frayed and yellowed copy of Firestarter because I was dying to read all the books Stephen King wrote. That first library also display how my taste in books 'matured,' from the Mills and Boons, to the Readers Digest Condensed Books, to Sidney Sheldon and Danielle Steel, to John Grisham and Robert Ludlum. Surprisingly, I've had Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov and Gabriel Garcia Marquez even then.

When I went to college and had to live in a boarding-house, I kept piles of paperbacks under my bed because I didn't want my mother to find out that that's where my allowance goes. I sometimes went without lunch if I found a book I had particularly searched for.

When I got married and had to run a boarding house to keep ends meet, I kept a few of the books near the bed, handy for when I couldn't sleep. Some are in huge plastic boxes under the bed. The rest I would periodically send to my grandmother's house when there was no more space. Eventually my books sat side by side with my daughter's Little Golden Books and Winnie the Pooh stories.

We moved to a nicer, bigger house in Cavite three years ago, still renting, and I was in heaven. The master's bedroom had a corner-- no, a little room, that was perfect for my library. It even had an open shelf along the wall. That was when I started buying brand-new paperbacks. I read them once, then I displayed them. It felt good to have them because I could already afford to buy the new ones that would take years to get to the book sales.

Now we're moving again, this time to a house all our own. It is a tiny townhouse, and although I'm excited to have a house truly our own, my biggest disappointment is that I will not have a library. With two daughters to raise and barely enough space for the queen-size bed, somehow a library sounds superfluous. Again I thought of shipping my present collection to my grandmother's house.

But then, I'd be living in the townhouse until I grow old (unless I'll get myself a condo unit that I can fill with books!). Perhaps in a year or two, I'll convince my husband that we really need a third floor. I will outfit it with glassed-in shelves all around, and haul all my books from wherever they are scattered. I can hide there when I feel like screaming, or when the kids drive me crazy. Then I will lock the door, play me some The Corrs, and reeeeeaaaaaaddd.

little children

2008-10-13T15:46:00.000+08:00

I finished the novel "Little Children" by Tom Perrotta the other day. It was the story of young parents in a suburb, all of them with little children. They meet in the playground, exchange notes on parenthood and the impossibility of raising kids, and they either make friends with each other or they secretly hate each other.

Sarah stays home and takes care of her problematic little Lucy. She is not exactly sure of what she wants from life, but she thought she had it easy until she discovered her husband hugging mail-order woman's underwear-- another woman's used underwear.

Mary Ann was some sort of a control freak that even her lovemaking nights with her husband are scheduled on Tuesdays.

Todd was a stay-at-home husband whose wife is a high-profile woman. He is quite handsome and is nicknamed the "Prom King" by the playground regulars. He has failed the bar exam twice but his wife still thinks it is the ticket to a better life.

Sarah and Todd strike a friendship that soon leads to an affair. They then plan to run away, leaving what they perceive as miserable family lives behind: Sarah's husband's fixation on online pornography and Todd's wife's too-high expectations.

All this is complicated by the return of a convicted child molester to town, and one ex-cop's almost obsessive hounding of the man.

It is not your ordinary love story. It is a very real tale of how marriages get broken for a host of little reasons that accumulate and become bigger than one can handle. It is about raising children, teaching them how to love, and loving them to distraction. It is about how, despite all the love in the world, things still go wrong between married couple.

I found it good reading because one can so easily relate to the characters. I am of the same age range as the young parents in the story; I have little children. The troubles that beset them are too common in the household. And in every page I could stop and wonder, What if it was me? What would I have done? It makes you re-think, in the deeper recesses of your heart, if all your right reasons for marrying your husband will remain true for the years to come. It makes you think about the many times your heart was broken by the ones you love most. It makes you think about the things you would give up, and the things you would do, in the name of love.

the guardian (1)

2008-10-10T13:02:00.000+08:00

The cat sat there, its long black tail swishing lazily on the Persian rug. It watched as the little girl wound up the toy car and released it, sending it careening against the leg of the coffee table. The girl ran after the car, picked it up, sat down on the floor and wound it up again.

The girl squealed with glee when the toy car shot off again, running over the cat’s tail. The cat sprang up, now whipping its tail back and forth. Then with a little purr, it settled down again and seemed to grin indulgently.

After a while, the girl got bored. She kicked the toy car under the couch and ambled to where the cat lay. She scooped him up in her arms.

“Oof, you’re heavy,” she said. “Mom would have said you need a little exercise, Marshmallow.”

The cat flattened its ears a little. The Mistress had called him Duke. A grand, stately name for a grand, stately cat. But the Mistress is gone, and now he serves the Little Mistress who refuses to call him Duke. Although there was nothing marshmallowy in him—he was pure black from the tip of his pert ears to the end of his sore tail, with a temper to match—the name stuck. When her father complained, the girl patiently explained that he was the softest cat in the block, in the whole city perhaps, and it was actually an honor for him to be renamed Marshmallow, really.

Now they went upstairs, the girl becoming a little short of breath, cradling the cat a little too tightly in both arms. The cat did not wriggle, did not demand to be put down. They reached the door of her room. “Down, you heavy baby,” she said.

The girl pushed the door open, went in, and then held the door for the cat, who entered with his tail in the air.

She plopped down on the bed.

“I miss Mom, Marshmallow,” she said. And suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

The cat moved quickly. He rubbed himself against her, rumbling. He put his face under her chin, leaned against her chest, nosed her hands and legs. The girl did not cry in great gasping sobs. The tears just ran silently down her cheeks, with a hitched breath and a few sniffles. She looked older than her five years.

“I miss Mom,” she repeated, “why did she have to die?” The cat rumbled more loudly, twining himself around her.

“And I love her, and I miss her, and it hurts here.” The girl put one fist against her heart. The tears kept on falling, wetting the cat’s fur in spots.

The cat sat in front of the girl, watching her face with glittering green eyes.

“Who will take care of me now?” the girl asked plaintively. “Daddy says he loves me, but he goeas away everyday, and then there’s Miss Rose, but she leaves at night.”

Still the cat watched her.

“And then there’s you.” A pause. “Yeah, and you never leave.”

The sniffles tapered, then stopped.

“And you will take care of me, right, Marshmallow?” She gave a tentative watery smile. She held out her arms. The cat jumped right into them.

The father came about an hour later, and when he peeked in the girl’s room, she was sleeping peacefully. The cat sat at the foot of the bed, watching.

“Well, Marsh, don’t you think you could leave the princess and go chase birds or something?” The cat paraded past the man, his tail stiff with indignation, and went downstairs.

The father sat talking with Miss Rose, the part-time nursemaid.

“How is Christine these days?”

“Very quiet, and very sad.”

“Does she say anything about… ah, her mother?”

“She does not speak much. Sometimes she seems to forget herself and plays a little. Then she goes all gloomy and goes up to her room to cry.”

“I wish I could spend more time with her,” he sighed.

“You are doing the best you can,” she consoled. “You have your job, after all. And she seems to be coping very well.”

“You have no problems with her?”

“None. Well…”

“What?”

“The cat. I am only concerned about her health. He leaves fur all over her bed, her clothes. Sometimes she kisses him.” She gave a delicate little shudder.

“Oh. Him. They’re very close, that’s all. She feels he’s all she has left of her mother, and I don’t have the heart to separate them.” He smiled apologetically.

“Yes, they are very close. Maybe I just don’t like cats that much.” And he watches things too much, she didn’t add. He watches people too much, it sometimes feels creepy.

“Well, you are good to her,” said the father. “Thank you very much.”

“She will get over it. Give her a few months. Too bad she doesn’t have any grandparents, or cousins to play with.”

“Too bad,” he agreed.

the guardian (2)

2008-10-10T12:58:00.001+08:00

Christine was outside, watching five or six of the neighborhood kids at play. The cat sat at her heels.

“Hey, look at the cat,” one of the kids said.

“I don’t want to look at no cat,” another said.

“Well, he’s Christine’s cat, and I bet he’s nice,” said a third. One by one the kids drifted to where Christine stood on the sidewalk.

“Is he black all over?” a girl with a missing front tooth asked.
Christine shook her head. “His tummy is all white.”
“I want to see,” said a bigger boy.
“I bet he doesn’t want you to. I bet he won’t let you pick him up,” a small boy in a too-big shirt piped in.
“Maybe not,” Big Boy allowed, “but I still want to see.”

“Don’t touch him,” Christine sai. “He’s mean.”
Big Boy squatted before the cat and poked a dirty finger in its ear. “Kitty, kitty, do you have any titty?”

Some of the kids giggled. The cat looked at the boy with flat green eyes.
“What an ugly cat,” the boy said. He straightened up. “Do you know what they say about ugly black cats?”

“He’s not ugly!” Christine said, hotly.

The boy ignored her. “Black cats are witches’ familiars.”

“What’s a familiar?” asked a girl. “An assistant,” Big Boy explained. “The witch sends it out to spy on people, and to bring back something that belongs to a person, say hair or nail clippings, that she can use to make spells. Like make all your hair fall out in a clump.”

“Ooh, scary.”

The boy now had an audience. “Does he go out at night, hey, girl?” he asked Christine. “Does he come back smelling all funny and looking all tired?”

“No,” said Christine. “No.”

“Where did he come from, Christine?” the gap-toothed girl asked.
“He is my mother’s cat.”
“Does that make your mother a witch?” the girl asked again.

“I heard her mother is strange. Talked to birds and sang to plants and all that,” the small boy said, plucking at his too-big shirt.
And she sang to me too, thought Christine. Now she could feel tears starting.

“My mother’s not a witch!” she cried.

“How would you know?” snickered Big Boy. “She’s not from around here. My mother says she likes to fool around with leaves and roots. If your mother’s a witch, then you’re a witch too.”

Christine was angry. “Take that back! My mother is a bot—botanist and I’m not a witch!”

The cat, unnoticed, was now standing alertly, its ears flat against its head, its eyes glittering. It was looking keenly at Christine.

“Witch! Witch!” Big Boy started to chant. The others took it up. “Christine’s a witch! Witch! Witch!”

Christine suddenly rushed at the capering boy, hitting his chest with one balled-up fist. “I said take it back, take it back, you jerk!”

The boy stopped chanting. He took a menacing step towards Christine. “Be careful who you’re calling a jerk, pig-face.”

Christine stood her ground. “Be careful who you’re calling a witch and a pig-face.”

“I’ll call you a witch and a pig-face and a turd anytime I want to.”

Then he pushed Christine roughly. The girl sat down hard on the sidewalk, her teeth clicking. She bit her tongue and tasted blood.

And then the cat launched itself on the bigger boy’s back, spitting and growling. The boy gave out a startled, pained yelp and tried to shake the cat loose.

Marshmallow held on, his claws deep in the shoulders of the bully. He was puffed up and he looked wild. The other kids stayed a respectful distance away from the prancing boy, now screaming for his mother.

Miss Rose came out the front door to see what the commotion is all about. She saw a burly boy, waving his arms wildly and screaming incoherently about the devil. There was something black on his back. She saw Christine stand up. She said, calmly and without emotion, “That’s enough, Marshmallow.”

The black thing unlatched from the boy’s back, dropped to the ground, and walked towards the house. Miss Rose stepped aside to let the cat pass. She thought it might be the sun, but the cat’s eyes looked too bright, too green.

The children scattered. Christine’s shoulders slumped. Miss Rose waited by the door until the child came nearer, then enfolded her in a soft hug.

“I want my mom,” Christine said in a small, hurt voice.

the guardian (3)

2008-10-10T12:56:00.000+08:00

The father came home with a woman. She was slim and beautiful, and she wore tasteful clothes. Christine looked at her suspiciously. Her father introduced the woman as his friend. Then they retired to the living room while Christine was sent upstairs to play with Miss Rose.

She was the first. All the women were nice to Christine. They smiled a lot, they brought her candies and toys and books. They stayed for dinner, and had coffee afterwards. Some smoked, some did not. They did not talk to Christine a lot, but they pecked her on the cheek before they left. They all smelled nice. They all said she was a pretty girl.

One woman came for dinner more often than the rest, and after a while she was almost always at the house. When Christine and her father went out to the park, or to the zoo, or watched a movie, she sometimes came. Her name was Laura.

One afternoon Christine came in from play, and Laura was in the kitchen, wearing Christine’s mom’s old apron, making cookies, with flour up to her elbows. Her father was sitting on a stool, and when Christine entered the kitchen he had been laughing, his head thrown back.

For some reason Christine had not liked it. She had not liked the way her father laughed, and she did not like Laura wearing her mother’s apron. She fled to her room and refused to come down for dinner.

Miss Rose sat her down for a talk. She talked about loneliness, about how a man needs a woman to look after him, about how a five-year-old child needs a mother to take care of her.

Christine insisted that she already had a mother, and she did not need Laura. She did not love Laura. In fact, Laura could go to hell.

Miss Rose said that it did not matter if Christine did not love Laura. Christine’s father loved Laura, and he might marry her. And she reminded Christine, gently, that her mother had been dead—been gone—for almost a year now.

Christine cried herself to sleep, rocking Marshmallow back and forth. Marshmallow listened to every word, to all her hurt and confusion and nameless fear.

the guardian (4)

2008-10-10T12:52:00.000+08:00

Marshmallow sat on the arm of the sofa. Laura eyed him.

“What an ugly cat,” she muttered.

The cat got up and stretched, sinking its claws on the upholstery. Then it yawned, showing a mouthful of teeth, small but sharp.

Laura was looking at it warily. She moved a little farther away. “Shoo, cat,” she said. Then she picked up the glass of tomato juice.

Perfect.

The cat snarled. It flattened its ears, shook out its tail so it looked like a huge black brush, and made the fur along its back stand up. Its eyes flashed green fire and its claws were out. Laura thought the cat looked ready to kill. Marshmallow hissed at her for good measure, and took a step closer.

Laura shrieked and jumped up. The juice spilled down the front of her white summer dress. She started screaming for Christine’s father.

Marshmallow sauntered nonchalantly away. The voices followed him.
“PATRICK! Your daughter’s cat hates me!”
“Hates you? That’s absurd!”
Then: “Oh, my God, whatever happened to your clothes?”

Miss Rose met the cat in the front hall on its way out. It looked as if it was grinning.

Christine’s father married Laura soon after. Once her things had been moved to the house, she stopped being nice. One by one, Christine’s mother’s things disappeared. The curtains were replaced. In the living room, there were now metal sculptures where there used to be vases of white roses. The plates were now blue, with matching blue water glasses and blue placemats on the table. To Christine, the worst thing was that the potted plants and ferns disappeared from the house. It was as if Laura was erasing every trace, every bit of her mother from her father’s memory, from the house itself.

And she did not like Christine. When they were alone, she became a little bit mean. Laura was a writer for some fashion magazine, and she did most of her work at home. She squinted at the computer for hours and sipped mug after mug of bitter coffee.

It seemed to Christine that Laura was always waiting for her to do something wrong, to slip, so that she could give her a piece of her mind. Or a little pinch. Or a little slap on the bottom. Of course, it never showed when her father was around. Laura was then very sweet and would often kiss Christine’s hair.

The little pinches, the little slaps, came more often. Now Christine was afraid of Laura. When Christine cried after a slap or a pinch that was a little harder than the one before it, Laura warned her not to tell her father. Or she would hurt Christine for good.

Marshmallow watched everything, and snuggled close to Christine at bedtime.

the guardian (5)

2008-10-10T12:47:00.000+08:00

Christine was pounding away at her mother’s old piano. Marshmallow was dozing in a patch of sunlight from the open window, looking as if he was hearing Chopin or Mozart. Laura came out of the study, a pencil stuck in her coiled hair, her eyes squinted against the bright afternoon light.

“For God’s sake, can’t you shut that racket up? I’m trying to work in here!”
Christine recoiled. She stopped playing and put her hands in her lap. She sat there, not moving, not looking at Laura.

“It’s not music, Christine,” Laura continued. “It’s noise. Noise. Honestly, one would think your mother taught you something useful.”

Christine looked at her clenched hands, and a small flare of anger—no, of hatred—blossomed in her chest. That hateful tone. That hateful voice. That hateful woman.

Mom, her heart cried out. Mommy!

Marshmallow, half-lidded and drowsy, suddenly shot to his feet. A strangled little meow! came out of his mouth and his fur stood on end.

Laura, about to go back to the study, stopped in mid-turn and gaped at the cat.
“What in hell has happened to that stupid cat?”
In spite of herself, Christine began to giggle. “He sees his pet dinosaur. It’s invisible.” And she giggled again.

Now Laura looked quite cross. “Nonsense. You have cotton for a brain.”

“No,” said Christine, serious now. “Sometimes he looks at nothing and rumbles for hours, like a motorboat. Daddy says he looks like he’s in love when he does that. Marshmallow sees things we don’t see.”

“You would want to stop it, kid,” said Laura. “That’s a lot of bullshit. I might be in a hitting mood today.” She walked over to where Marshmallow crouched. The cat’s muscles were taut, trembling. It stared at her with a fierce intensity that Laura did not like one bit.

Laura kicked the cat. It was hard enough to send him tumbling, sprawling across the living room. He landed near Christine’s feet, looking comically surprised.

Seemingly in one motion, Christine was up and in front of Laura. “You don’t kick Marshmallow! You are mean! My mother would not do anything like that to a cat!” she screamed.

Laura stepped back, and a flicker of unease crossed her face. Then it took on a calculating look. A hating, hurting look.

“Your mother," Laura said, "I’m sick of hearing about your good, kind mother. If she was so bright, then maybe she wouldn’t have been run over by a truck in the middle of the morning, would she? And I wouldn’t be your father’s wife. Which brings me to the point. You watch your mouth. Your mother is dead, and I run the house now.”

Christine felt something bitter come up her throat, seemed to see Laura through a film of red. Her face was flushed and her fists were clenched so tight the knuckles were white.

“You can never be my mother,” she said. “You might be Daddy’s wife, but you can never be what she is. You can never take my Mommy’s place, even in this house.”

For a moment, Laura was totally, unexplainably afraid. Then, pale and shaking, she hit Christine openhanded across the face.

The child fell, stunned. Her hands groped and found Marshmallow, tugged at him, held him close. Laura’s fingers were imprinted on her cheek. The tears were not coming yet.

The cat stared at Laura, its green eyes momentarily flashing fire.

the guardian (6)

2008-10-10T12:39:00.000+08:00

That evening, while the house lay quiet and sleeping, something moved in the upstairs hallway. In the dark it was unseen because it was black, but its eyes glowed in the dark. It was pushing at something, pawing something that slid on the floor with a light scratching sound, pushing it towards the stairs. It nosed the thing over and it made a pattering sound as it fell and rested on the fourth step from the top.

It was there when Laura got up at two a.m., because Laura was an insomniac and had the habit of getting a glass of water when she woke up and could not sleep again.

It was there when she started down the stairs.

Laura screamed as she fell, but her scream was cut short as she hit the landing. There was a dull crack, like a brittle branch breaking.

The lights came on, Christine asking “Dad? Daddy, what is it?” Patrick rushing around, calling Laura’s name, was she alright, was it a thief, and Laura-Oh-my-God-Laura-CHRISTINE-CALL-THE-POLICE-OHMYGODMYGOD!

The police came, and then the ambulance, and the cat watched serenely from under the coffee table as he pawed at some toy, a broken wind-up toy car that looked like somebody stepped on it. The men in blue clothes carried something wrapped in a white sheet on something that looked like a bed with handles on both ends.

Voices eddied and ebbed around him.
“…wonder what scared her so bad…”
“—such a fall from so high up—“
“…broke her neck cleanly, though she didn’t have any other scratch—“
“—poor guy. And the kid so silent, man, it’s creepy.”

Marshmallow batted the toy car lightly. It skittered across the floor and went under the couch, where it will lay undiscovered, to be batted out again by a playing cat when morning comes, pushed and nosed towards the door, towards the sidewalk, towards the storm drain.

Yes, Mistress, I took care of that. I take care of the Little Mistress all the time. As I promised you before you went to the other world, I will let no harm come to her. Nobody will hurt her again.

Yes, Mistress, I understand. I will watch over her until she is old enough to fend for herself. And you will give me more strength, isn’t that right? I will live beyond my time. I will be with her when she cries, we will laugh together, like we did when you were just a little girl yourself.

The cat sat there, staring dreamily at the piano stool with his strange green eyes. He purred and purred. Miss Rose watched the cat from the doorway. Her hair was standing up on end, and goosebumps were running down her arms.

once there was a whore (4)

2008-10-02T15:16:00.001+08:00

I told myself I was relieved. My pad returned to its normal, rather disheveled state. I immersed myself in paperwork and stayed late in the office. I started going out with Iris, and there were nights when Iris would come home with me. By the time Iris’ clothes started appearing alongside mine in the closet, my mother became ecstatic and started hinting at the prospect of grandchildren.

I was also very unhappy and I did not exactly know why.

One night after dinner, I found Iris browsing over Jane’s pictures on my laptop.
“You know, you should delete these,” she said.
“Leave that alone.”
“So tell me. What did you see in her? I always wondered about that, your call-girl girlfriend.”
“I’m not in the mood for a discussion.”
“She must be good in bed. How much did you spend on her?”
I surprised myself by being angry. “I did not pay her for the sex. Let’s not talk about her.”
“Touchy, touchy,” Iris said, twining her body around me. “So, can she carry an intelligent conversation?”
“Why? So you could congratulate yourself for being a high-handed bitch?”

Iris looked at me long and hard. “Oh, forget it, Mike. Let’s go to bed,” she said.
I removed her arms from around my neck. “Maybe you should go home tonight, Iris.”

Iris then laughed, and her laughter was mocking. “Oh, my God, you’ve fallen in love with a whore!”

I could not say anything. I guess I was stunned. “And you’re not even man enough to admit it. Some kind of hotshot lawyer you are.”
She started to walk away, then she turned to me.
“You know, I’m not here for the sex alone. Get over her, then call me. If you can’t get over her, you’re too smart to be just sitting here doing nothing about it.”

And finally I had to face the truth. I hurried back to Jane, hoping I wasn’t too late.

But of course I was too late. Jane had killed herself. She had thrown herself from an overpass, taking with her all her silent dreams. I cursed the heavy rain that hid my tears; I cursed the briefcase of work that caused me to arrive at her house only three hours late. I cursed the society that damned the Janes of this world to indignity and humiliation. I cursed myself for being weak, for being ashamed, for holding back.

Her note was short. It said, ‘You shouldn’t have taught me to dream. Fuck you, Mike, but I loved you.’

I’m back at the bar, nursing a drink in a little tribute to her. I’m half drunk and half praying to see a lady in a tight black dress, alone and beautiful in the smoky dark.

And if I did, God, I will walk up to her. I wouldn’t care so much about what people would think or say, about my nice little lawyerly world, about educated guesses and social standing. I would worry less about bad sexual habits and more about singing in the shower. I wouldn’t be so scared to accept all that she is.

And I would dare her to dream. I would dare her to fall in love with me. And I would tell her I love her.

once there was a whore (3)

2008-10-02T15:11:00.001+08:00

What surprised me more was my immediate pleasure at the thought of having Jane near, all the time.

Jane moved in with me. The change was, to say the least, cataclysmic. She left her underwear in the most inconvenient places: under the seat cushion, in my pants pockets, served beside my morning coffee. She laughed too loud. She sang horribly off-key songs in the shower. She washed my clothes and sorted my shirts by color. She redecorated my living room in pink and orange and was amused by my outrage. She poked around in my files and pretended to be fascinated with legal talk.

I hurried home in the evening to a hot supper and good sex afterwards. I woke up in the morning with a smile and a warm woman wrapped in my arms.
I told my friends Jane was a long-lost sweetheart. I made up her background and painted a sorority sweetheart with the correct connections. Jane’s eyes would grow wary, but her smile remained brilliant.

Somehow my mother found out about her. She knew I was living with a woman, but she thought it was Iris. Jane, who never learned the correct manners, opened the door to her in her underwear while I was out. Mother later stormed the law office and extracted a confession from a terrified secretary about the ill-bred, half-naked woman in my house. She then threatened to tell all her ballroom-dancing friends, my tied-and-tucked lawyer friends, and my father’s politician friends if I didn’t send Jane packing. A week later, she investigated and found out that Jane was still at the house. She told everyone as promised, and then she sent Iris.

Iris had polished nails, designer clothes, and a character backed by twenty years of exclusive schools. She had a sharp mind and a sharper tongue. She also placed third in the bar exam we took together, and we slept together the day the bar exam results were released.

Jane fled. Before she left, she broke every single plate in the house and smashed a dumbbell through the tv set.

once there was a whore (2)

2008-09-22T17:36:00.000+08:00

She did not like flashy gifts. It was always hard cash, which she put away in the bank. She explained that she would not be beautiful forever, and when she settled down, she would need the money. If a client were especially generous, she would allow an afternoon at the spa and salon, or membership at a gym. The client would then be rewarded with a special night with the fresh and revitalized Jane.

Jane was especially fond of an aging congressman who wanted to give her a car and was persuaded to convert it to cash. He had considerably fattened her bank account. Jane indulged herself with a weekend in Boracay and caught herself three ‘big fishes’ in the bargain.

She was bright and funny. I went to see her often, sometimes just to share a drink at the bar, sometimes to bring her back to the pad. Jane always looked ready to have an orgasm when she saw me, but then perhaps she could do that to a dozen other men.

One night, several months after we met, I asked her why she wouldn’t marry. “There must be men who have offered you marriage,” I said.
She looked at me with tired, sad eyes. They were eyes that had known a thousand rejections.
“In the real world, Mike, girls like me get fucked. Then the men leave. I can’t dream of loving men like you.” But I could see that she did want to dream.
“Don’t you love me?” I asked.
“Of course I love you,” she teased. “You pay well.”
“Then why can’t you live with me?”
“Because then I wouldn’t be able to earn, and you won’t pay me anymore.”
“You can afford to do that for a while. Remember your fat bank account?”
She looked at me. “Why would you want me here?”
I said, half jokingly, “So you could cook me dinner and I could be your dessert.”

To my complete surprise, she said, “I would like that.”

once there was a whore (1)

2008-09-10T14:40:00.000+08:00

She sat alone at the end of the bar. She was wearing a black dress, cut low in the back and cut high at the hem. Her legs were shapely and smooth in the dim light. A lone gold bangle glittered in her arm when she lifted her drink. She caught my eye and smiled slightly. Her makeup made her eyes huge and mysterious.

That was how I met Jane. I brought her to my pad and paid two thousand pesos for the night. She was, as she called herself, ‘a first-class call girl.’

I saw her again a month or so later. It was a particularly difficult day, and I longed for female companionship. I remembered the bar, and I remembered the girl.

She chose her ‘clients,’ she said. She was careful not to get pregnant, and she had monthly check-ups to make sure she did not get STDs. Most of her clientele came from the professional working class. She preferred bankers, lawyers, and senior college students with flashy cars and money to spend. She attended social gatherings as an escort of not-too-important politicians. She read the newspapers a lot; not tabloids, but major dailies. She said it helped her English vocabulary, for when her clients were foreigners. She was also discreet. She has never told me a single name of her clients, though she regaled me with outrageous stories about the men.

Dyesebel

2008-04-28T13:36:00.000+08:00

Channel 7 starts its newest television series 'Dyesebel' tonight. The media hype in the past few weeks has been intense, with unveiling of billboards along Edsa, nightly teasers, and yesterday, a launch in their noontime variety show. Needless to say, children of all ages who became avid fans of the Marian Rivera-Dingdong Dantes loveteam from 'Marimar' can hardly contain their excitement.

Including my daughter. It is her seventh birthday this week, and she has been doing her countdown, crossing out the days in the calendar, adding and subtracting guests to her hypothetical birthday party, listing down the gifts she would like to receive, . As is customary, she is allowed to request for one gift (aside from the surprise ones). It is usually a Barbie, which means she now has 6 Barbies from her 6 previous birthdays. She is torn between a new winged Barbie, a robot, and a bike. That is, until Dyesebel came along.

After watching the Dyesebel launch yesterday, she announced that she would like a tail. Not just your ordinary costume, thank you, but something that she could use in the pool. And so this harassed mother rushed through her lunch to drop by at Toy Kingdom in search of a tail. The only one there is Ariel's tail with a matching little bra, from Disney's The Little Mermaid. I almost choked when I saw the price tag: P1,000.00. The saleslady helpfully said that it's been selling like crazy, and the one in my hands is the last on stock that would fit a 7-year-old.

After a serious consultation with two girlfriends and an exchange of text messages with the nanny, it was decided that it would be better to buy the cloth and create the tail ourselves. Of course we needed a bra, and Dyesebel did have a pearly headdress. I seriously considered having mussels for dinner so I'd have some real shells to work with, then I remembered that Kultura Pilipino sells pre-packed polished seashells. Then by way of sharing the misery, my girlfriends agreed to create tails for their own daughters as well. At least we could compare notes.

My daughter's birthday party is on Saturday. Today is Monday. One could sympathize with the crazy things mothers put themselves through, all for the love of their children. I know I'll try my damnedest to create the nicest tail , even if I also know that in a week's time it will probably be in the farthest corner of my daughter's closet.