moving in

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

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

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

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.