About Fireworks#1

I've seen people come and go, people in my company come and go, friends come and go. There's not much issue on the coming, it's the going and going away at that, that's much harder to get in terms with sometimes.

I've heard much of people in my company, people who are also my friends going away, especially this past few weeks. They are going away, moving on to higher grounds, to greater opportunities.

And I truly am happy for them, even ecstatic for some. How can I not be when it only means...ummm, having friends to lend you bigger bucks now. Seriously though, sometimes it really feels that their success is also relatively mine. So when I say I'm happy for them, I truly, truly mean it.

But you can actually call me happy-sad. Sad because the thought of people leaving is not really pleasant. How can being left behind be pleasant at all? It can only be when these people annoy you to no end. So you gladly smile and heave a sigh of relief that they're getting off your back, at last. *Smirk* But people leaving such as friends, not the fair-weather kind can be disheartening, disconcerting, or worse, maybe harrowing at times.

Sometimes, you go through a moment of denial before learning to accept that you just have to let butterflies fly, no matter how fond you are to keep them to yourself. However reluctantly.

Even then, when you really have accepted to let go, you also find yourself clinging to memories, albeit too tightly.

Early July Weather

An illustration of the weather this side of town.

It's pretty warm as is expected in the tropics at this time of the year.

And maybe warmer than usual because of the heat coming from...I don't know where. Or did I say radiating microwaves? No, don't look at me like that (in fact, don't look at me at all). Look at the structure at the right side of my head.


And expect a light wind to blow your hair in a gentle caress. The kind that would teasingly blow your skirt an inch above the knee.

Blow your worries away.


And yes, I know I shouldn't forget to mention about the clouds. The Cirrus clouds are such a pretty sight. Enjoy, enjoy the pretty sight.


Ayyyy no, it's not me again. Sadly, I just cannot say that to myself, no no no, not to me. Lol.

The wispy Cirrus clouds can lighten the mood, ey?

But later in the afternoon, when you look up to the sky, you'll see that they're all gone. And in place will be those dark Nimbus clouds carrying light to heavy rain. Just one click of the fingers. Just like that.

One moment it's hot, hot, hot the next ,it's dreary, dreary, dreary.


And this has been the unsmiling weather woman wanna-be trying to, just like Grover, sell the weather here . And saying, you're every bit wiser to protect your eyes from harmful glare of the sun.


But you'll be wisest and you'll find you're best off, if you don't take things -even the weather- seriously.

Have a happy heart, smile (coming from the unsmiling weather woman wanna-be herself) and enjoy life, anywhere you may be in the globe.

Fireworks # 1

We were already asked for our passports for VISA stamping by the Canadian Embassy.

Holy, holy cow! I just went stark-raving-mad.

Psssssss..Boom! Bang! Fireworks. Gee, I told you there'd be fireworks in July. And boy aren't they just loud. Pretty loud. And the smoke is making me almost teary-eyed.

But who cares, I'm happy, I'm ecstatic.. for my friend.

Blink, blink.

Yes, it's their passports. Theirs. Not ours. Owwwws.

But really, I was at a loss for words when I got that message from my friend, Che (who's also Matt's godmother and officemate before she's transferred to Ozamis late last year). Dumbfounded may even be the correct term.

And also floored because my son was perfecting one of his circus acts again, with the concentration and determination of a pro at the same time that I got the news. Or maybe my son felt he needed to do some crazy somersaulting in tune with the fireworks.

Or maybe the fireworks were meant for this heart-stopping circus act.

And I'm sure that there really are fireworks bursting in the sky at the other side of the globe, too. 4th-of-July fireworks.

But whatever.

It remains a fact that fireworks are now starting to rain from the sky.

Not really on me, on us but it's inching real closer to us.

Rain, rain

Me: It’s been raining here

Hubby: So how about letting Matt play in the rain.

Silence.

Months and months, maybe a year ago, kiddo used to cringe at the sound of rain. He would tightly hug me, duck and bury his head in the security of my chest.

I had promised myself to change all that.

Today, son looks forward to seeing a rain drop. He is so enthusiastic even if the loud clapping of thunder that accompanies it, scares him. When he hears it coming, he would excitedly scurry to our window, pull back the curtain and stand on tiptoe just to see them drop. With unmistakable sparkle in his eyes, he'd stare and stare and stare. Most of the times, he'd let out a happy shriek. It does give him a high in spirits. The simple joys of a child. Priceless.

Now back to hubby’s suggestion.

After a momentary hesitation, I said: “I think he’s still too young. Maybe when…” When what? 2? 3? Maybe 5 y/o?


Would I really want Matt to run around and risk getting colds? Am I willing to concede and let my son enjoy a day under the rain. It really sounds lovely.

But again. How about acid rain? I actually Wikied it. But is there really such a thing?

You know, I’ve had my share of rain baths when I was young. Totally awesome to the young. But Matt. I’m not really sure I want to give him that experience.

Hello. Hello..! on me. Son is not grains of salt or sack of sugar. He’s not gonna melt.

But that’s not the end of it. Not too long had passed, after that conversation with my better half, when my mother came in our room. She’s smiling and teasing my son (and I quote verbatim), “C’mon Matt, do you want to take a bath, in the rain?”

I couldn’t believe my ears. My mother. Of all people. I didn’t ask, but she must be kidding. I know she must be kidding.

What do you think? Yes no? Yes? No? Yes. Ahh, no. Yes. No. Maybe yes. No, maybe not. Yes? It cannot possibly harm the kids, right? I mean I see a lot of kids playing in the rain.

So would you let your kids bathe in the rain?

no fireworks, but still a good news

I've long lost taste watching news on TV.

Wanting to keep abreast with current events is a good thing.

I'm just not sure if I can say that to the news I'm mostly getting these days. I really feel I'm not getting much news, positive news on TV (at least not in this side of the globe). Except kidnapping, terrorism, murders, drug syndicate and corruption. And there's still a dispute over a senatorial seat. Arrgh. Excuse me, I'm going to puke.

But honestly, I easily get affected with what I see on TV.

But two, three days ago, I saw some light in a dark tunnel. Although there's, still, no fireworks but a local TV network held a nationwide job fair. Commendable.

And I think that's just nearest thing of getting fireworks in early July.

That's truly one great news to help our kababayan out of the economic rut. And cut down the 7.4% unemployment rate of this country (as of April 2007).

Kudos!

Phone Moan

Somebody in the house demands “Papa ta” everytime he sees my phone in idle mode. The kid means to talk to Papa. What was I to do?

These days, it’s so hard to get through two sentences over the phone to my husband. Or even to officemates and friends because dear son would instantly think it’s Papa at the other end. And then that rascal named Matt would try to reach and snatch my phone and say “Papa…Pops...Hallo” even before he could grasp it.

I always try to dodge from his attempts but there are just times. Times when I’m on the phone with hubby, times when I get soft because I know he surely sorely misses Papa. I’d be damned but I’m not that tough cookie who can stand seeing excitement, longing and that wanting-Papa look in my boy’s eyes, without doing anything about it.

But tell you what, I’m really not so keen on letting Matt use my mobile phone. Any cellphone, for that matter. I don’t completely trust its safety, radiation-wise. No matter how much I try to be all-accepting, all-believing, there’s just this niggling doubt that refuses to get squashed.

Maybe I’m the only one who works in the telecoms who is cagey on letting her kid use a cellphone. I’m cagey, I’m crazy, I’m wary. Maybe I am overly, overly, overly cautious. No. not maybe. I AM overly, overly, overly cautious. I’m crazy, I know. It’s okay if it's me, but not if it's my son. Don’t ask me why.

For someone who works under radiating microwaves 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. It’s funny. I’m funny. Certainly ridiculous.

This is my son's phone. An LG model, previously displayed at our business office as sample. Identical to the original thing, except for the LCD screen, battery and circuits. Scale 1:1. Almost real.

The picture on its screen is real, that's Papa. I taped it a couple of days ago. The best I can do.

July High

After posting Caramel, I just can't help smiling. The title is so yummy and foodie that I am, I can't help feeling hungry although that must be just mentally or whatever. But really, I noticed that I'm starting the month right, and starting it in a high note, a very positive bang.

July may truly bring lovely, lovely surprises. God willing. What can it be? I'm already so excited. I hope there'd be fireworks before the month ends, without the loud crashing noise of course because that would scare me and my son.

Off I scoot now...

Caramel

I might never get tired of this one I love you. Hearing it or writing about it. Actually, it’s Bah-bu, a two-syllable sentence which in my dear son’s vocabulary means I love you. And which is officially his first sentence.

It’s life-sustaining, and I’m breathing it like clean sanitized oxygen. It’s an analgesic, the magic salve to my sore, aching muscles and joints. Music to the ears, sweeter and more pleasant than any of Jose Mari Chan’s. I’m so addicted to it. Everyday, I’m sinfully craving it like the heavenly Haagen Daaz.

To-die-for, that one line (but then I don’t wanna die just yet because I still wanna hear it over and over again). And coming from a chaste one-year-old kid, it’s even made more special, it’s sooo endearing. So moving. I’m always swept off my elephant-skinned feet and blown out of my wits every time I hear him say it. I’m inclined to think that it must be powerful enough to melt all metals.

It’s a magnet that pulls you back home. When I’m in the office and I call my mother and she gives me the chance to talk with dear tot, hearing him say Bah-bu makes me want to abandon my work and go rushing back home. That powerful. And my theory is, it makes hubby want to come rushing home, too. It certainly is even meaner than my killer mango float (shameless ad!).

Although I‘m raised in a happy, loving home, I just wasn’t brought up saying I-love-yous all the time. My parents unquestionably showed love to five of us sibs in all different ways other than saying it. No, it’s not a taboo or something like that. It’s just that saying it is not really on a daily basis, it’s somewhat limited to certain occasions like a birthday or Christmas and the like. Or when you’re away and you call the folks at home, you sometimes end the call with that. Or it’s just seen scribbled on notes and cards. It surely felt awkward saying it just-because. You’d only get the are-you-okay-or-has-the-alien-from-mars-gotten-into-you kind of look on their faces.

But no, I’m not blaming my parents. They are just like that, and my environment is like that, so that’s just that. I have no issues whatsoever with that because I understand them. Maybe not completely, but I understand their ways.

Now with Matt, it’s a different story. Hubby and I silently agreed, and we really are one in showing dear tot affection verbally, and even physically to some degrees. Maybe because we’re just *throat clearing* naturally affectionate *wink* Is it called teaching by example? I hope so.

And are we successful? Let’s just say we’re working on it. But what do you call, waking up in the morning with dear kiddo poking and saying “Mownin!” or shoving a battery-operated car while saying, “Mama, e on” but because it’s too early and you’re feeling lazy, you refuse to budge and move a muscle and then dear kiddo devices something wicked that would make you pry your lids wide-open. And that, my friends, is to finally reach out and plant a big wet kiss on the face double with a sweet “Bah-bu.” Rewarding. Gloriously fulfilling.

Even when you’re too tired and sleepy, you just have to really wake up and return the gesture. Otherwise, he’ll go on and on like that. At times, I just love teasing him a bit more and play stiff and still as a log because I know exasperated Matt would give me MORE than a once over! Hah, one scheming Mama, that I am.

Anyway, this whole thing is slowly changing a family who’s not accustomed to all this sweetness. When Matt says Bah-bu to my mother or my sister AJ, she just have to reply. Because as I’ve said to ignore him means to suffer the consequence of not hearing the end of it. Until he can coax an acceptable response from you, he’d tail you and say the line over and over again. I even heard my mother coaching and prodding my son (as if he needs prodding) to say I-love-you to his Papa, who’s on the other end of the phone. I’ve been hearing people in the house saying I love you more and more.

I’m just concerned when Matt says it to people who are not used with this kind of talks. Because one time he said it to my niece (his cousin) over the phone but got no response from her. And so I explained to her but she didn’t get it and so she didn’t say it. As expected, Matt said it again and again and for long. Still nothing, so he just stopped. That kinda bugged me because I’m not sure kiddo Matt can already take in the complexities of the love-begets-love concept.

But then let love worry about love, because soon or sooner, he will learn the complexities and all and then he will know by himself that love certainly begets love. For now, I truly hope we’re giving him a good start because that's all that really matters .

I remembered

I'm posting this late. But I'll post this anyway. Because forgetful me considers this triumph over something ,ummm let's say, I have no control of. Sounds dreadful. Or is that just an excuse?

Anyway, I did it. I really, really, really did it. I remembered a friend's birthday and I was able to greet her in time. Clap, clap, clap.

This friend of mine, whose birthday I remembered, is a old college friend and I have not seen her for ages. No big deal, no?

But for me to remember. Even if hers is not on my phone calendar. That is such an achievement, not extraordinary but achievement nonetheless. And don't tell me I'm singing loony tunes now for making a mountain out of this mole hill. Just don't.

Birthdays come only once a year. And for someone, a friend at that, to forget. Ahh, just horrible, terrible.

And here's some prayers for her that wherever she may be -and she said she's in Japan now, I hope for best things and so much more. For happiness. For good health. For magic.

P.S. In case I go forgetting again, consider this greeting to be valid til next year and the years to come. And friends, consider this as my greeting on yours, too.

Actually, I'm thinking of automating this greeting to coincide with all entries in my calendar-slash-alarm. But that would be tedious work and I just don't have the time. Just yet. What with all this blogging and all...grin, grin

But friends, consider this as my greeting on yours, too.

Sin-cerely, HAIR

So I visited a salon to have my hair done last Monday. A long overdue hair job, but one which I kept on postponing because of time and $ issues. And all because I’m not one of those gifted with a natural long, straight tresses or a glorious wavy hair.

Mine is curlier than the usual wave, to say the least. But to be straightforward, mine is kinky and spongy, the type that defies the gravity. Buhaghag. Really. Really, really so.

And with that hair, a trip to the salon would be way too expensive and I was just not ready to shell out some cash. Plus, the fact that a process for that kind of hair, my hair would take toooo long like 4 hours or so… And under some 120C heat. Shockkks. With two, three pairs of hands pulling the strands, left and right, east, west, north and south! It really is hardly encouraging.

But I needed it. Of course I can live without it, but be prepared if I live without it, be prepared to see the Old Hag in person. In flesh and blood. In its Asian persona, brown, stout and short and sporting a Bob-Marley hair (okay, I’m exaggerating but that’s closer to reality). I can hear my son say "Yuck" already. Really yuck. So so yuck.

Also, I really don’t want my dear son to scamper and dart off across the room in panic when he sees me, especially when all the lights are out. Yup, no mother in all her senses would want to give kiddo the scare of his life. No mother! I repeat, no mother.

So I finally pulled all the ropes together, actually I pulled off all the strings of all my pouches, to raise enough cash for that hair job. Cash all in, I was out of the door before you can even say “Hello.”

Here’s my first shot.

Edited (to tame the THE RING look).

I’m really flaunting it because I just spent much mickey-mouse money including all my centavos from my old purses, my alkansiya, and all the cash I collected out of the sale of old plastic bottles (no kidding!). And only to leave it under the wraps of a bandanna, hair/head band. Or a ponytail holder (not to mention that it would ruin the job). No way!


And after almost three long days without washing my hair (upon the hairdresser's advice), make it 67 hours of carrying all that grime, sweat and dust in the head (with the last 7 hours was spent asking whether all that not-washing is really necessary), I finally felt the refreshing coolness of water in my scalp. Just today, this noon. Heaven. It felt like heaven.

(And yes, I dare to go to work in an all-male office without washing my hair. I don’t know if they know, but it feels like they don’t. Or maybe they are pretending not to know.)

And introducing, another kind of heaven. This was recommended by the hairdresser at David’s and I was really skeptical. And not only skeptical, I was bowled over when I heard its price. It costs as much as 2 cans of dear Matt’s 900kg formula! (I know darling hubby would be aghast when he reads this). A fortune, really. A month salary for some hired help in this third world country. DO I dare to be so vain?

Nonetheless, I bought it and I am guilt-stricken now (but going on guilt-trips is my fave pastime). How could I be so vain?

Anyway, my hair felt smooth to the touch. (And as I write this, I’m instinctively combing my hair with my fingers and it still feels smooth and soft. Or maybe it’s just my imagination). And my olfactory glands are not complaining either.

After that salon trip and all that treatment, I do expect my hair to turn dry, brittle and coarse. I just hope this costly creamy mud would do the trick and feed the thirst and hunger of my newly permed hair. And all throughout the year (I hope I'm that lucky *cross my fingers*). With that price, it has got to be. Otherwise, I’ll sue the company. Hahah.

*alkansiya means piggy bank

STOP

We all need stops in our lives. Everyday. On the roads. That RED light can spell a whole lot of change in one's speed. The NO ENTRY sign can make a difference in traffic situations. The humps, that Early Warning Device you see far ahead. These are signs (of what? :D) that guide us on what appropriate course of action to take.

And in this journey called Life, the STOP sign comes in not too pleasant packages called frustrations, failures, disappointments and/or even less palatable truths. But in our lives, let's count it as a blessing. In this frantic, crazy, selfish and dog-eat-dog world, let's count it as a blessing. Because we need it. Because it could be a guide to living our life in a more meaningful, more fulfilling, more beautiful and simpler way.

So really GOD provided us with stops. For so many reasons, maybe only HE knows. Or maybe we do know of (and I so believe in this), if only we just take time to stop and look within us and then think. But it certainly is one of GOD’s mysterious designs.

Maybe He simply wants to break the frantic cycle of our day-to-day living. For us to glance up and appreciate the clear blue skies. To listen to the maya sing in the backyard trees. To notice the abundant kaleidoscopic blooms of the flowers. To really feel the soothing wind that blows our hair in a gentle caress. And so much more.

So here I am posting a STOP sign, that made me more than STOP. It made me think so hard because for the life of me, I just couldn’t get what it meant. Funny sign. But really, a pretty confusing one too. But then, it - it maybe, just maybe - is one of GOD’s STOP signs.

This is the original road sign, right next to a manhole.

What?!? What did it say?

Happy Birthday Sis!

Happy Birthday Sis!

-beggar-ing-

Tell me I suck, tell me I'm boring , tell me I'm pathetic (and I'm really todo pathetic now!), tell me I'm wrong, tell me you like me or love me but that's just expecting too much, but hey if you do, tell me so. Tell me anything. Puhleeeeaaaase.


Correct me. Tease me. Criticize me. Berate me. Patronize me. Post me a comment. Say anything you want.


Brothers and sisters. Do me a favor again. And I know you're tired of doing me that first big favor I asked, to visit my plain and boring blog. Friends and best friends. I oblige you to do me the favor or I sulk and hold a grudge. Anyone. I need to hear all of you. Please make yourself heard. Shout. Holler. Don't leave me wondering. I'm on my knees now, groveling. Please, please, I beg you, don't walk away in silence. Yell. Honk. Yodel. Leave me a tune. Just don't leave me hopelessly staring at all the dust flying after you zoom away. Or breathing the toxic carbon monoxide that you left behind. (Gasp! Pls do Mother Earth a favor and visit the nearest casa to have your car examined ASAP.)


Drop me a line, a word, an article. Just don't drop me a rock because that would stunt my already stunted growth and at tweerty (gasp!), I still want to grow taller. Honest.


Come now, don't be shy. I may not know you. Or I may. It really doesn't matter. What matters is the truth...the I'm-gonna-get-a-tissue-now-and-blow-my-nose-hard truth. So you really, really want the truth, huh? I'll give you the truth. I could count my readers with only the fingers in one hand. But really, it's barely a hand, it's just two fingers anyway. No kidding. Who am I kidding? No, I really am not kidding. And so you'd be encouraged to click the comment link and go tapping the keyboard, I'll let you in on a secret, the secret as to who are those two readers. But promise me, you'll start pressing the keyboard as soon as you see the last period.


Well what do you know? Because for all you know, it's just you and me who read this blog. *sob* Just the two of us. Imagine that, in the whole wide Cyberworld, there are just two people reading this. T-W-O. Just you and me. *sob* Only two! Arrrrggggh! Good heavens, I need CPR!


So humour me now and drop me a word. Seriously now, I would really love to hear from you. Would really, really, really love it. You're really doing an old hag like me a big favor. Grin, grin, grin.


(And thanks to my friend G for consistently dropping a line. Mwah!)

Blog tool: Sitemeter

My sister mocked me for adding a counter to my blog. *wink* She slurred the word counter like it's synonymous to baduy. But that's okay, I'm baduy anyway. *wink*

Or maybe she thought I can do without it because I'm not getting that much traffic anyway.

I know I'm not getting that much visits to this blog. I can really use just my fingers to count visitors. So do I really need Sitemeter?

Maybe not, but so what. I love SiteMeter. Really, really love sitemeter. I oh-so love sitemeter. I just loooooove sitemeter. Oh la-la!

Period(.)

B, M..

I felt sorry that I failed…Though how much I tried…

ILYVMH.

Heartbreaking, that note. And a sandcastle crashing is…simply crushing. A dream gone to the drains. Disappointing. More so because we were expecting…hmmm, maybe expecting a little too much.

Okay, okay this will be the last of it. Promise. This will really, really be the last of it. Because we’re moving on. We’re bouncing back to reality, to the present time with a silent resolve to do better next time. Because really, we have no other choice but to move on. Wallowing in misery is just pointless. Right, Pops? Wallowing in misery over something we have no control of is really pointless. Simply just a waste of time and energy, which when used wisely can go a long way in securing other things. To ferry our lives in the proverbial greener pastures.

Yes, we can only try. And he did try with what was his best at that time. But that’s as far as we can go, he can go. Because we have no control of other people’s judgment, other people’s decision. And yes, we will leave it at that.

I know in the future, when we look back at this time, we’ll only smile. Maybe we’ll get a little more nostalgic and there’ll be a couple of tears in our eyes. But we’ll surely smile. Maybe even laugh over this one sandcastle, laugh at ourselves for feeling sad.

And with strong conviction, I believe there’s something better stored for us in the near future. All we have to do is start building again. And all we need is here and now, us.

finding solace in green

Great expectation is a sandcastle on a beach. The waves may run through it and it comes crashing down, until all you have left, is some heaps of sand. Or you're left with nothing but just traces. Traces of what you once built.

But enough of this. Enough feeling low. I'm dusting imaginary specks of sand in my hand and I am heading to the bath. I will find refuge in the green paints and tiles.

I will don my moss green vintage pants, which my sister bought from ukay-ukay and gave me, and don a nice top with its stripes in different shades of green.

To finish the look, I'm borrowing my mother's colored bangles, wearing them will surely pep me up.

Now, I'm prancing around town with my hand clasp in my better half's.

Tagged!

INSTRUCTIONS: Remove the blog in the top spot from
the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then
add your blog to the bottom slot, like so.


BlondeMomBlog
Holly's Corner
An Island Life
Sandier Pastures
Verb

Next select five people to tag. But I decided to skip this one out.


What were you doing 10 years ago?
* Getting a diploma.

What were you doing 1 year ago?
* I was rushing to work and back because I only had my father to take care of my son Matt, who was still an infant then

Five Snacks You Enjoy
* Mango Float (self-made!)
* Boiled saba bananas (with a self-made cream dip)
* Yogurt
* Bread
* Fruits

Five Songs That You Know All The Lyrics To
* Greatest love of all
* A Love to last a lifetime
* Love moves
* Twinkle, twinkle little star and some nursery songs
* Some songs from Dido, Sarah M..etc..

Five Things You Would Do If You Were a Millionaire
* Visit India or go country-hopping
* Invest in real estates
* Share, share to others (my community, my family)
* Go to school again (yikes!)
* Feed vanity (double yikes!)

Five Bad Habits
* laughing too loud, a former officemate once said that I laugh like a peacock
* going on guilt trips when I spend much on myself
* temper tantrums
* brushing my teeth more than usual before a visit to the dentist (as if it matters)
* cracking up under pressure

Five Things You Like To Do
* getting silly with my son
* eating!
* reading!
* sweating it out with some outdoor activities
* holding hands, getting mushy with hubby

Five Things You Would Never Wear Again
*I don't know because I might say something that could end up trendy in the future and then I would only eat my words
* but maybe, a skimpy swimsuit would be a no-no because it would show all my stretch marks.
* high heels, more than 2 inch high (would just be too stressful for the legs and feet)
* wala na..
* can't think of anything else

Five Favorite Toys
* Remote controls! Aircon, tv, dvd...
* The PC
* My cam-phone
* Screw drivers
* And a remote-controlled car supposedly for my son

If you wanna do this in your own space, go ahead and copy-paste!

******

Happy Birthday, Pa!

It's okay

I've heard it all the time. Casually. With the air of nonchalance. Tinge with sarcasm. To spite someone. To sympathize. To comfort. I even say it all the time.

Sometimes, it just leaves the lips without our meaning to, or without any clear intent.

But it's okay.

And it really is okay. I'm saying it now with all intent to soothe, to comfort, to reassure, to boost the morale.

It's okay that you expected. Or hoped. We expected and hoped. We will keep on hoping.

It's okay that you tried. At least you tried. We tried. We will keep on trying. It's okay.

Even if you failed. Or I failed. You hurt and I hurt. Shed a tear, or buckets of tears. It all means we're okay because we are human after all. Then it's okay to leave things at that.

Or to go beyond our limits. Go beyond our comfort zones. There are far greater things waiting for us. To conquer. To experience. To enjoy. To soar. To love.

It's all okay.

We'll just keep on testing our limits. We'll keep on conquering. On trying new things. On enjoying. On soaring. On loving.

It is all okay.

Have faith that it's all okay.

Go Dakak!

If the moon and stars will permit, I might end up de-stressing in this place one day. For free. Woooot! Yup, all expense paid.

It's just too bad I cannot bring my son and my hubby with me. But then you cannot just have everything for free. But trooper that I am, I won't let that fact dampen my excitement.

If you're keen on exploring places in the Philippines, take a peek here.

Sad Feet

I won’t be wearing slip-ons for a little while. I’m switching to running shoes, or anything that will cover the skin ankle down. I feel I needed to do this ASAP. Badly.

No, I haven’t really sworn off from strutting around town in those airy nothings called slippers (how could I?). It’s just that I have to give some time for my footsies to recover. And no, I haven’t contracted scabs or something unsightly and awful as that. Maybe lesser by some degree.

The thing is, I’ve brought the two good fellas who almost uncomplainingly brought me to places in a sad plight by getting them burned into toast. What with the slipper-almost-everyday attitude for more than two years. And without much protection, I might just add.

I'm so guilty and so sorry.

In all their naked glory: rough, wrinkled, dry and discolored.

Poor feet! So helpless.


Had it not for my sister, who told me the other day that I’m getting an "elephantsy" quality to my skin in that region, I wouldn't have thought twice of wearing slippers again. I was really caught off guard but ah, you've gotta trust somebody like a sister to bluntly give you the truth when you least expected it and ironically, when you most needed it.

So now, I'm trying to make amends hoping to reverse the effect of all my neglect.

Antidote

Work spares us from three evils: boredom, vice, and need.

-Voltaire

I'm posting this because I want to remind myself of the eventual dark pits one can get in when idle. This is going to be a mantra, my mantra.

(title forgotten)

I’ve been forgetting a lot lately. Alarming. Annoying. And every bit frustrating. I know it's not the OS-US thing! And I hope I'm not symptomatic of the dreaded Al*! God forbids!

There’d been last-minute changes of my work sked for the next day last Wednesday, something which I was totally aware. But as it happened, I completely forgot about that that I dragged my butt off the bed to work soooo early Thursday morning (when I was supposed to work in the PM). Dang! In the end I had to work 16 hours straight because no one could take the PM shift (which was really the reason of the change of work sked in the first place). Double dang!

And last week I forgot to post some reports, which prompted an officemate to call me and my shift buddy's attention. A crime! 'Tis so humiliating. The first time really. But given the normalcy of network operation at that time, no excuse could justify this omission. And to add to my guilt was the terrible truth that I didn't really have any excuse at all. Arggghh!

And last month, I missed greeting a friend on her birthday. Simply unacceptable! Actually, days before the date, I was already looking foward to greeting her on that special day. But to my horror, weeks had passed before I was jolted into realization that I did fail to check on her on her special day. Some friend she got there hah! I should be chucked to prison. Or get a good lynching.


*AL- Alzheimer's disease

Greetings!

Happy Father's Day to my husband and to my father.



My mother is also celebrating her birthday. Happy Birthday Ma!

No more tears

I've been crying. And crying so bad. In reality, I've cried all my eyes out. I've been so excited to hop in the bath, with plans to get all dolled up and prance around in my fresh-est glory. But how can I do the Ms. U strut when I look horrible terrible everytime I come out of the bath with my eyes all red and swollen?

I've been so disappointed. Countless times. I've sought for one after the other's company. Gentle and mild. Tough and strong. And so many others. I've juggled optimistic thoughts like 'this is it', 'this could be it', 'I couldn't possibly be wrong.' But time and time again, I was bitterly wrong. I've only been heading to Heartbreak Hotel each time. How could I allow myself to be carried away by half-empty promises only to be crushed to a hundred and one pieces later? I only worked myself up to frenzy over nothing. I've got to get rid of them all, quick.

I then figured it was time to seek advice from the wise. But all he said was I'm okay. I came out of the visit still none the wiser. So well and good, I better look for the answers in other places. Like maybe I could go see somebody else. Or just take a good look deep within me hoping to find the answers.

I've been so fed up already. One day, when I couldn't take no more of this bath product affairs, I took a good towelette by the arm. Under the steady spray of cool water, naughty me got it sleek wet because it's more useful to me when wet.

And after working up a good lather, I carefully wiped my face to remove the suds. And it did work. Now why didn't I think of that before? I could have saved myself from the hurt and all the tears.

Birthdays

Someone very close to me will be celebrating her birthday tomorrow. Someone who’s all the reason why I'm here. Someone who's sacrificed a lot for all of us sibs…(Hmm, no..I really hate it when I start to get like this. I’ve gotta stop my melodrama otherwise I spoil the moment. Birthdays are supposed to be happy and festive, with all the balloons…este, fireworks bursting in the air, ayt?)

To my anchor. My light. My mother. *Mwah* Happy Birthday Ma! May you have more fanta-bulous years ahead of you.

And my sister and father’s birthday are all coming up in a week’s time, too. Happy, happy birthday!

Grinningly Green

I used to grumble about my mother’s choice of colors. She’s so partial to greens. No, I retract that. She seems too obsessed with green.

I could boast of numerous knick-knacks crazily scattered at home, and in shades of green. Kitchen wares. Home accessories. I remember our old furniture: the cabinets; a bench; and a table were all curiously painted green. And there’s the light green curtain to complete the look. The matrimonial kama*, which has undergone so many repairs and repaints but is blessedly alive and still able to offer good rest for our tired backs, was previously in mint green (and now still in green --but a shade darker).There was even a time in the past that she had the part of our walls painted in dark green!

Even without actually getting in our bahay-kubo**, one could correctly assume the owner’s favorite color. It was so so nauseatingly obvious! The jumble and tumble of greens –plants and trees-- said it all. Our place was without a doubt one forest full of greens inside-out!

Like Kermit the Frog, I thought green was too ordinary. So commonplace. For God’s sake, the whole wide world is already colored green. The leaves. The grasses. So so plain, and soooo booooring. I never thought of green as refreshing, or relaxing. How could it be relaxing when it already gets in my nerves? Or that it symbolizes life, birth and all that? Excuse me. Why couldn’t she just get something more colorful? More attractive?

One day in my teenage years, when one could easily be uncaring and crudely upfront, I bravely stood up against authority and blatantly voiced distaste over my mother’s color preferences. I had enough of it. I really had more greens than I could handle. (I do not know if most of my clothes she bought were in green too; because half of my life, I was wearing hand-me-downs) But I had developed an aversion to greens THEN. Quite understandably.

But now, look at me. Mock me then. Me, who acted so bratty and know-it-all. Mock me, because some years later, I ate all my rotten words, swallowed them whole even. I do not know what happened. You know what they say when girls get bad on their mothers and they get the curse? That must be that, huh? So mock me once again.

With me and my mother, you’ve gotta expect something like this will happen.

Oh boy, am I certainly cured with my past aversion! Totally, totally cured. Blessedly cured (!).

When we were deciding which sofa to buy, I picked a green sofa over all other available colors. Not the neat black kind. Or the cool neutral shades. I just had to have that green one. Pillow cases. Cushions. The fridge. The jumble of greens are endless. My son’s toy basket is colored green. His potty trainer. A green non-spillable cup. A green spoon.

And to drive home my point, I edited my blog to hideously refreshing greens. As if the title of this entry was not enough!

I know. I've gone overboard, alright. But truth is, I am happily overdoing it. I know it’s already becoming nauseating.

Madness. Madness. Such madness. I wonder what buddy Matt thinks of all this when he gets older and more than ready to speak his mind.

*kama is a bed made of wood

**bahay-kubo is a small house made of wood, usually from dried bamboo poles

(another forgotten entry)

I do not read blogs. Liar! No, I only read blogs of people I know. Liar! But really I read blogs especially of people I know. And I would love to read more of other people's beside my friends' if given more free time but someone, with an iron will, limits my internet time at home to something like 20 minutes. (And beyond that would be disastrous. Trust this someone whom I also call dear son to spring some surprises.) So I usually leave other people's blogs unread, though tempting as it is.

But when one is in an office like mine... and bored to the bones... one could think of so many things, stupid things...even entertain thoughts of jumping off the roof to pry the eyelids open or something like that. And then do a lot more crazy things.

Anyway, I came upon this blog -of someone I do not know. Hands down. I will give it to him..err, her..hmm, whatever. But I know whatever I say here will never do justice to what BryanBoy did and still does in his blog. "Verbal diarrhea* at its best" from "the gayest gay that ever gayed" this town. Read on and tell me I'm silly and stupid and screwed up and all that crap for staying more than 30minutes in his site. (How can I not love his honesty however vulgar and maybe bastos he may sound at times?)


*I've seen people use these two words a lot but never really thought I'd use it in my blog. Ever. But I feel it's so fitting when used in the bryanboy-context.

Idly

I am currently deciding what apt job title I like after my name.

ZAM

Junior Worm-digger

Junior Mother

Junior Househelp

Junior Wife

Junior Blogger

Junior Trooper

Senior Bench-warmer

Senior Testcall Queen

Senior Wanna Be

Above are meaningful enough, but I need something with a corporate-y sound to it...

Senior B(sw)itch Engineer (lovely!)

Senior (s)Witch Engineer (maybe!)

Senior (si)Wretched Engineer (not so!)

Senior (sw)Ri(t)ch Engineer (in my dreams!)

I’m afraid this is something you have to expect when you, like a good mother that you are, warmly take wacko comrade in your wing when you see her knocking in your doorstep. Because you think that wacko comrade is thoughtful enough to show up her lovely head and pay you a timely visit. And you still hang out with her and never complain even when she jokingly pokes you and nudges you in the rib, rather too strongly. After all, she is just out doing you one big favor by giving you much-needed company. Haaaaay, that wacko comrade named Boredom is driving me nuts once again!

joyride

I am back to commuting to work until the state of affairs at home is settled. (State of affairs ? Intriguing hah? No it’s nothing.. big).

It’s really no big deal. Commuting, that is. You may find it hard to believe but I do miss getting my bum in a jeepney. Funny hah, but it’s true. I miss the fun and adventure of every single ride to work. I miss the casual chitchats with commuting neighbors, who like me tries to patiently wait to get a ride, which takes too long in the area where I live esp during school days.

I miss sharing a ride with countless strangers – students, employees, laborers, out-of-school youth, vendors, etc… and observing the changes of expressions in most faces every time the driver pulls over at almost all corners to take in more passengers (even if already fully loaded). Was it anxiety written all over their faces? Impatience?

And to stop myself from checking the time (and peering over other people’s timepieces!) every 2 seconds and feeling anxious and agitated at the sluggish passenger pick-up, I do olfactory nerve exercises when I smell the faint scent of a shampoo in the hair of the person getting in or with the one sitting beside me. Sunsilk? Pantene? H&S? Or is that a hint of a perfume or cologne? Kenzo? Benetton? Bench? I enjoy playing guessing games.

I also miss tightening an imaginary seatbelt and bracing myself when the jeep, brimming of passenger heads, takes off at lightning speed. You’ll definitely learn to memorize the saints and martyrs they taught you during Sunday school. No kidding! I’ve learned to call the saints and ask for divine intervention every time the famous (or infamous) king of the roads snake their way in and out of the traffic jam @ a record speed of 120kph! It’s so interesting to watch the flying hairs (mine included!), the hands that shoot upward- all at once and as if on cue - to hold on to the rail and the play of emotions of the faces (who looks so impatient one moment and fearful, the next) infront of me. All these, while I hold back myself from practically shrieking and letting out unheard-of expletives. But when you do get off alive and in one piece, you’ve got to give them the credit for bringing you to your destination as if without much delay.

And then I miss daydreaming on my way to work. What? You must have thought I’m insane to allow myself this when I just described the terror of riding a PUJ awhile ago. Go chill, I’ve been riding PUJs all my life! *shrug* I am just so used to this hair-raising scenario I can afford to daydream while aboard any public transpo. And it’s such a pity I cannot indulge in this favorite past time when I’m the one driving. Being a new driver, I cannot risk getting my eyes off the road even for just one sec! And I still do not trust myself to engage in lengthy conversations while I’m behind the wheel. But the past 3days, I have been gloriously getting my head in the clouds, away from some aging-accelerating concerns of everyday living.

Gawker that I am- although I try hard to foil this very bad habit or try to conceal every intention to (I don’t wanna be gawked at too), I sometimes fancy myself (must be a product of the daydreaming!) to be a member of the fashion police (although I’m really far from being a fashionista myself). Under the pretext of anything, I’d momentarily scan other people’s outfits and accessories. I’d take note of their tops, dresses and bags. And then more often than not, before disembarking in my destination, I’d single out best dressed people in the public transpo, shake their hands and hand out trophies to them, albeit just mentally.

Walking Away

I’ve always loved arguments in whatever form and either delivered good-naturedly or passionately. In blaring verbal sparring. Or the soundless yet lethal way, in writing. I am only human enough to succumb to the temptation of retorting. And ruefully I must admit, it is not so above me to throw back icy remarks. :-( I prefer these over chilling and unnerving silence. In both directions.

But maybe as one grows older…and maybe itsy-bitsy wiser (which is not always the case!), walking away becomes the sensible thing to do. They always say be man enough to walk away from a fight. To me, it really means be humanely human enough to let things pass, to let it go, to walk away. In a dignified manner, in silence. I find good reasons to pick which battle to take on, which to let go. Sometimes it works for the best to not necessarily make a mad dash to each and all. And that walking away is not exactly a bad idea. If one says you lost that battle by walking away, then so be it. Does it also come to mind that it also forfeits a chance to severing ties, to hurting people?

Letting loose torrents of words, that one doesn’t really mean but is -at times- only a product of an emotional upheaval, can do more damage than keeping one’s silence. Even permanent damage to relationships. When people say that comments, barbed or not, are just words that don’t wield enough power to hurt, I beg to differ. Words hurt, not as much – to some- as any physical blow. But to me, they hurt all the same. Alright, with time and maybe some great effort, the open wounds heal. But things may never be the same again. And to me, they even leave deeper scars. Keloidal scars.

But self-righteously, I -and others- also ask why not, why can’t I defend myself (hurt back)? I am also human enough to have these battles within me, to find excuses to lash out. I lose some because I let it go and walk away, but I lose more because I give in.

My husband, he would always tell me to guard my tongue at the height of my anger lest I end up regretting everything or anything that comes out of it. Guess, I'm better off without saying a word then.

So let me just calmly walk away now and retreat to my mental space.

Goldi-looks

Remind myself to not say never again. Ever.

I’ve always had this never-buy attitude towards something I can live without- jewelries. Okay, that's not totally true if you count the wedding bands. But let's exclude it.

For years, I have adhered to this self-imposed yet unspoken no-can-do code. For years, I have only used the pieces given to me by my mother or some cousins as presents. And the occasions to adorn myself with these jewelry pieces are hard to come by. Indeed, very rarely do I have a need to put these on. Minimalist me find it sensible to dress for work without these sparkly little things (not even my wedding band!) because with my line of work, I fear they would only attract current to easily lick my body (and then if I strip these ornaments off in the workplace, there's a high risk of misplacing them - trust the forgetful me).

Of course there were times when I would have wanted to -buy and then wear some, but this girl's longing is simply quelled with the disturbing thought of only bedazzling desperate snatchers who might just be waiting for an easy prey (already been a victim of this incident 2 decades or more ago). So for years (since earning my very first paycheck), I have kept my word.

But Sunday, I allowed myself to splurge into buying jewelry pieces made of gold (cute little pieces brought -on my prodding- by a cousin who came from the KSA). I am already calling it splurge because I've always been stingy when it comes to myself, or my wants (much more to material wants). I could go on a food trip, binge all I want, but that’s food - a very basic need [although an excess of it wouldn't exactly be called basic :-)].

So do not ask me why. And I am clueless myself as to when I'd be able to use them.