Kitty Litter
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Whimsical Companion Photo
The Polar Bearball!
For those who've been wondering (and since he refuses to have his photo taken and posted here), here's a cat who looks just like Polar Bearball! His name is Bear, and I found him on Catster when his owner Catstered me >^..^<>
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Life Bites Me In The You-Don't-Wanna-Know
Argh. How does a person who knows diddly squat about computers wind up doing the memorial Powerpoint presentation for a colleague?
On an eerie note, while meeting about the presentation, the lights flickered in the office where we were. Then when I was at home doing the presentation, my table lamp just started flickering. During the memorial itself, the lights flickered in the FC Conference Hall. Hmm.
Anyway, I apologize for not posting; have been so busy. But I can promise a post real soon about the entires I'm judging for an essay writing contest. Here's a choice sample:
"It is now the year 2005. Wow, it have been already 2005 and five years since Man were created onto this earth!"
Whoosah! Sample pa lang yan ha.
Am also working on translating Noni Queaño's lovely song for our departed
On an eerie note, while meeting about the presentation, the lights flickered in the office where we were. Then when I was at home doing the presentation, my table lamp just started flickering. During the memorial itself, the lights flickered in the FC Conference Hall. Hmm.
Anyway, I apologize for not posting; have been so busy. But I can promise a post real soon about the entires I'm judging for an essay writing contest. Here's a choice sample:
"It is now the year 2005. Wow, it have been already 2005 and five years since Man were created onto this earth!"
Whoosah! Sample pa lang yan ha.
Am also working on translating Noni Queaño's lovely song for our departed
Plus, here's some cuteness for cat lovers: I joined
Catster! Yes, and there is a Dogster too. Here are the links to our cats' pages:Click for Meow
Click for
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Emotional Disembowelment
Some time ago, I had an emotional discussion with my best friend, Goldie Golds. It isn’t easy for either of us to open up, and she chided me for having kept what I was feeling to myself for a long time. It isn’t easy to admit that you are hurt or weak or that you can’t deal with something. But even when you keep things to yourself, at some point, you have to face things, and because this is such a difficult thing, I need help. Yet I have difficulty opening up and asking for it. Sometimes I wonder: am I so babbly in the classroom because what I say doesn’t really matter? Nothing I share there is really about me; I’ve never had the taste for Kris Aquino-type revelations. Instead, I’ll tell you a story from the anime I love. And no, the fat bastard from another department wasn’t responsible for how I feel; he merely exacerbated it.
I keep going back to that “Kisa” episode of Fruits Basket. A bit of background on the series is not easy to give—I prefer to invite people to watch the series with me instead—but the gist is that this orphan, homeless girl is given a home by her classmate, Yuki Sohma, who happens to be the most handsome boy at her school. She discovers that he and certain members of his family are cursed, and though, technically, she is a maid in their house, she is the one they turn to for emotional healing. Tohru has always been an outsider, and since the cursed Sohmas are also outsiders by virtue of the curse, it is with them that she finds a home. Ironically, the curse keeps the Sohmas from seeking intimacy; if they are hugged by members of the opposite sex (except those who are, themselves, cursed), they turn into various animals of the Chinese zodiac. Trust me when I tell you that some cursed Sohmas have found a way to get around this.
Anyway, Kisa, a junior-high girl, is being bullied emotionally at school, and she retreats into silence, running away from home and lashing out at everyone who tries to help her. Her cousin Haru, who loves her very much, is at a loss to console her. When Kisa turns on Tohru and hurts her, Yuki angrily orders Kisa to apologize. She does not respond.
“Her words are trapped inside her,” says Shigure, a character who likes to appear stupid, but who comes up with the devious, insightful comments every now and them. Sympathizing, Tohru tells Kisa that she understands why Kisa lashes out—because Kisa is afraid to be hated by the one she loves most: her mother. And Tohru understands how that fear can paralyze someone into pretending that they are strong, by putting on facades of ferocity, or anger, or shyness, or even false happy faces. She proceeds to console and take care of Kisa, and develops a deep, genuine love for the child, who returns that love.
Yuki overhears the discussion, and, having been physically and emotionally abused himself as a child, resonates to what Tohru says. Kisa later receives a letter from her guidance counselor inquiring when she will return to school, and offering that advice that I find quite dubious—“who will love you if you don’t love yourself?” Clearly disagreeing with the guidance counselor, Yuki tells Kisa, “Love myself? How can I love myself when the only thing I see is my ugly side? Yet when someone tells me that they love or care about me, I learn to forgive myself a little. The only thing we can do is to love you, Kisa. We love you very much.”
And Kisa, in response to Yuki’s words, finally speaks her first words.
If Yuki were a real person, he’d be the kind of guy who would collect kittens on the road. So would Tohru. I think we all need people like these in our lives, because no matter what the psychiatrists say, I think that we learn to hate ourselves one way or another because our environment teaches us that we’re not pretty enough, we’re not good enough, we’re just inadequate in some way. And we cope in many ways which subliminally are designed to hurt and punish us for our perceived shortcomings: we turn to drugs, we overeat, we bully others, we join destructive orgs or gangs, we develop bad habits, we get into relationships with the very people whom we know can destroy us, or worse—humans are capable of such creativity when it comes to punishing themselves and others.
Certainly only we can, in the end, heal ourselves; it is the will to be stronger that matters, as Yuki says at the end of the episode. But we are social creatures; we need love, caring, and reassurance. In Dune, I remember one character saying, “One person unloved can set the universe aflame to compensate for being unloved.” A movie I saw once, starring Maricel Soriano and Richard Gomez, includes the melodramatic lines, “Bibilhin ko siya, at mamahalin niya ako para sa lahat ng hindi nagmahal sa akin, tulad mo, Itay (I will buy him, and he will love me for all those who did not love me, like you, Father).”
We need to hear it. How many parent-child, boyfriend-girlfriend relationships do we know where both partners never say the words? Reassurance makes us feel good about ourselves. Once is not enough; this is why lines like Aga Muhlach’s “I love you, forever and ever, amen!” (“Forever,” with Mikee Cojuangco) and “You complete me,” (Tom Cruise and Renee Zellweger) find their way into pop culture.
That’s why many loners go a bit dotty after a while. That’s why people go into showbiz. That’s why sales of chocolate stay constant regardless of economic recessions. That’s why we get reassurance even from karaoke machines. We find consolation where it is available. Yet many of us are afraid to ask for it openly, because we fear that someone will say to us, “Do not look for consolation here.”
When people like Yuki and Tohru enter our lives, we indeed learn how to forgive ourselves, because these people care about us despite our perceived worthlessness. And when we learn to forgive ourselves, perhaps that’s where we begin to heal and to grow.
I keep going back to that “Kisa” episode of Fruits Basket. A bit of background on the series is not easy to give—I prefer to invite people to watch the series with me instead—but the gist is that this orphan, homeless girl is given a home by her classmate, Yuki Sohma, who happens to be the most handsome boy at her school. She discovers that he and certain members of his family are cursed, and though, technically, she is a maid in their house, she is the one they turn to for emotional healing. Tohru has always been an outsider, and since the cursed Sohmas are also outsiders by virtue of the curse, it is with them that she finds a home. Ironically, the curse keeps the Sohmas from seeking intimacy; if they are hugged by members of the opposite sex (except those who are, themselves, cursed), they turn into various animals of the Chinese zodiac. Trust me when I tell you that some cursed Sohmas have found a way to get around this.
Anyway, Kisa, a junior-high girl, is being bullied emotionally at school, and she retreats into silence, running away from home and lashing out at everyone who tries to help her. Her cousin Haru, who loves her very much, is at a loss to console her. When Kisa turns on Tohru and hurts her, Yuki angrily orders Kisa to apologize. She does not respond.
“Her words are trapped inside her,” says Shigure, a character who likes to appear stupid, but who comes up with the devious, insightful comments every now and them. Sympathizing, Tohru tells Kisa that she understands why Kisa lashes out—because Kisa is afraid to be hated by the one she loves most: her mother. And Tohru understands how that fear can paralyze someone into pretending that they are strong, by putting on facades of ferocity, or anger, or shyness, or even false happy faces. She proceeds to console and take care of Kisa, and develops a deep, genuine love for the child, who returns that love.
Yuki overhears the discussion, and, having been physically and emotionally abused himself as a child, resonates to what Tohru says. Kisa later receives a letter from her guidance counselor inquiring when she will return to school, and offering that advice that I find quite dubious—“who will love you if you don’t love yourself?” Clearly disagreeing with the guidance counselor, Yuki tells Kisa, “Love myself? How can I love myself when the only thing I see is my ugly side? Yet when someone tells me that they love or care about me, I learn to forgive myself a little. The only thing we can do is to love you, Kisa. We love you very much.”
And Kisa, in response to Yuki’s words, finally speaks her first words.
If Yuki were a real person, he’d be the kind of guy who would collect kittens on the road. So would Tohru. I think we all need people like these in our lives, because no matter what the psychiatrists say, I think that we learn to hate ourselves one way or another because our environment teaches us that we’re not pretty enough, we’re not good enough, we’re just inadequate in some way. And we cope in many ways which subliminally are designed to hurt and punish us for our perceived shortcomings: we turn to drugs, we overeat, we bully others, we join destructive orgs or gangs, we develop bad habits, we get into relationships with the very people whom we know can destroy us, or worse—humans are capable of such creativity when it comes to punishing themselves and others.
Certainly only we can, in the end, heal ourselves; it is the will to be stronger that matters, as Yuki says at the end of the episode. But we are social creatures; we need love, caring, and reassurance. In Dune, I remember one character saying, “One person unloved can set the universe aflame to compensate for being unloved.” A movie I saw once, starring Maricel Soriano and Richard Gomez, includes the melodramatic lines, “Bibilhin ko siya, at mamahalin niya ako para sa lahat ng hindi nagmahal sa akin, tulad mo, Itay (I will buy him, and he will love me for all those who did not love me, like you, Father).”
We need to hear it. How many parent-child, boyfriend-girlfriend relationships do we know where both partners never say the words? Reassurance makes us feel good about ourselves. Once is not enough; this is why lines like Aga Muhlach’s “I love you, forever and ever, amen!” (“Forever,” with Mikee Cojuangco) and “You complete me,” (Tom Cruise and Renee Zellweger) find their way into pop culture.
That’s why many loners go a bit dotty after a while. That’s why people go into showbiz. That’s why sales of chocolate stay constant regardless of economic recessions. That’s why we get reassurance even from karaoke machines. We find consolation where it is available. Yet many of us are afraid to ask for it openly, because we fear that someone will say to us, “Do not look for consolation here.”
When people like Yuki and Tohru enter our lives, we indeed learn how to forgive ourselves, because these people care about us despite our perceived worthlessness. And when we learn to forgive ourselves, perhaps that’s where we begin to heal and to grow.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Rich, Flush, and Wealthy
Original blah title of this post: Financial Rewards
Warning: I went bonkers with the links. God what I'd do for a DSL connection.
Since we’re on the subject of mindless consumerism (and I’m sorry if you were offended by the previous post…but I am mababaw…as in…so if you want deep thoughts, you may want to read another blog. May I recommend, though, that you read part 2 of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy, "The Restaurant at the End of the Universe," by Douglas Adams—a trilogy, incidentally, composed of 5 books—because I like Deep Thought there, and you might enjoy it as well. Hehe.)
“I’m rich! I’m flush! I'm wealthy! I’m financially stable!” (Daffy Duck, whenever he gets an amount of money over $ 0. What scares me is that some of you reading this are too young to remember. Argh.)
(Long intro first. Sorry about that.)
I am reminded of a friend Polar Bearball and I share (but not in the carnal sense, mind you. Puhleeze). He once arrived at a VTES card game and announced that he was treating us as he was “flush” thanks to an ad account coughing up what they owed him. His enthusiasm runneth over, one of us observed. If he could’ve, he would’ve clicked his heels; such was his joy at the prospect of treating us to something.
He then disappeared down the stairs of the place where we play cards, yelling at us, over his shoulder, to follow. Eager cheapskates that we were, we flocked behind like baby geese, with visions of Baliwag Lechon and barbecue dancing in our heads as they were the closest places where he could treat us.
But he wasn’t there. After a diligent search lasting several seconds, we found him standing next to the friendly neighborhood yosi-tingi seller, offering to treat us to a stick of the finest tobacco available (take your pick among Hope, More, Winston, and Champion) or to some delectable Storck candy. It was an offer we could refuse.
I am writing this because I am reminded of him. Not because I got a piddling amount, mind you; rather, I was informed yesterday by Jing Hidalgo, thesis adviser, object of my surreptitious worship (because she will kick me if she ever finds out!) pioneer of creative nonfiction in the Philippines, and wife of Milflores publisher Tony Hidalgo (both saints for taking huge risks on untested authors), that I had a royalty check for my book.
I think I gibbered for a bit back there, because I didn’t expect to sell many of my books; even my mother’s formidable PR skills cannot easily move 800 copies of a book priced at P 360. Yet she assured me that there was a check for me and for fellow author Bud Tomas ("Wala Lang," and some rotten ad person stole the title of his column for a chewing gum campaign. "Shish!" as Amanuensis would say.)
I had to sit down and process this. Wow, I am a published author. And even more wow, someone actually bought the books! Make that MY book!
Allow me to explain that I am not being cute. Rather, the bookstore near our house stocks my book, and they have yet to clear their supply of it. Incidentally, despite the kilometric title “Misadventures of a Disorganized Young Woman” (and if you missed it, that was shameless plugging), I still think it of as “Kitty Litter.” I haunt the bookstore regularly, pretending to ask for my book, and moving the thing around to higher shelves in hopes that some poor schmuck will be deceived by the beautiful cover by Robert Magnuson into thinking that it is literature of some esteem (other than in my mind). But the supply remained the same…or so I thought. Every time: eight books. Always eight. No one’s bought my book. Nobody loves me. Oh, the humanity...(insert some bougeoius, burgis, burgeoisie...ah, whatever...comment here that centers on angst)
Then when I received my royalty check, assuming it would be for a few hundred bucks, I noticed that it contained four figures, not counting the decimal places for the centavos. I went over the details thoughtfully provided by our publisher, and there it was: 297 people bought my book.
Two hundred and ninety seven, as of December 2004. I know what you’re thinking; pathetic! Even Fabio’s romance novels and Arnel Salgado sold more than that. But considering that a thousand copies sold makes a book a major bestseller in this country, I can’t help but feel a small glow of pride. I certainly don’t have 297 friends; if I did, I’d be in multilevel marketing, and gawd help you all. It means that there really were people out there whom I don’t know who bought the book, despite the fact that it is encased in plastic to prevent looky-Lous before buying. 297!
Of course I had to celebrate. Though my royalty check will not feed a family teetering on the poverty level for a month, it is still a royalty check. For my book. For me. For my writing.
I once wrote that “we truly do find consolation where we can.” Well, this is beyond consolation. I feel pride in my work, and the net result is, I get to torture more people who stumble across my blog because hey, there is one person out there who wants more of what I write! And I have proof of this. Last week, two Friendster requests arrived from people I don’t know. Both referred to my book, and one gushed, “You are so funny! Call me a fan. When’s the next one coming out?” You bet I accepted the friend requests immediately; I do after all need to bump up my quota of friends. Kidding! But when someone opens a friend request with a compliment plus a detailed reaction to one of the essays in your book, by god that person IS my Friendster. And what ho? I have a fan! A real one; not my mom, or Polar Bearball, or Goldie Golds. Some person who actually picked up the book from the pile of books at National and decided, hey, maybe this is worth a read.
And I begin to understand why people go into showbiz. There are similarities in the highs one receives from the firsts in both businesses, though I bet the showbiz paychecks run several figures over my own. Ah, who cares?
Pardon my French. I’m still high, and no amount of “That’s a piddling amount,” is going to keep me from saying, “I’m rich! I’m flush! I’m wealthy! I’m financially independent!” And I think I’ll add this: “And it’s all because of my writing!”
Whimsical
If the photo above amused you, then this entry is for you. ^_^
One of the joys of having a new computer is the new software that goes with it. As I type this on Word, for example, I am playing with the Word Assistant—sort of—that goes with it. I naturally chose the cat. (Was there any doubt? ^_^) It amuses me, and makes me feel that I have company as I (I got this from Marjorie Evasco) “…tread the lonely, luminous path of words.” God, I love poets and their unexpected turns of phrase.
I also enjoy games like Text Twist and Bookworm (Aside: If anyone has a licensed copy of Bejeweled 1 and 2 and Bounce Out, let’s talk. Please. I will offer you a cat’s ransom in siopao for a copy.) I like driving past the wide open areas next to the College of Fine Arts in UP at night to see the fireflies, and I am gathering up the nerve (and the firepower, just in case) to fulfill my little fantasy of lying down in a field surrounded by fireflies. Chalk it up to my being a born city rat.
I am secretly amused by silly songs, and though I would never say it out loud, I think that the Masculados and the Sexbomb Girls are fair tradeoffs for one another. I like clicking on random blog links. I like getting happy messages on the phone from friends I think of but rarely get in touch with. I like finding hundred-peso bills I’ve tucked into books and forgotten. I like being told by Polar Bearball to pay for the drinks when we go out, because that way, I don’t spend too much, yet I can still pretend that I’m contributing my share to dinner.
I keep a bubble blower handy, and I have several marks on my hands from when the cats got a bit overeager whenever I tease and play with them. I like big, ugly dogs, the kind that are so ugly, they’re cute. I like finding things on sale. I like sitting down to a hot, cheap breakfast I cooked. I like being hugged, and I like seeing my Polar Bearball, even on the worst of days. I like getting intelligent answers from my students. I like the feeling I get when my room is clean, the dishes are done, the cats are fed, and the people around me are happy.
I think it’s when we lose our appreciation for such small things that we begin to lose our humanity. When you become so jaded that only a “sophisticated” vice turns you on, then you probably have emotional issues to deal with. If you cannot see the joys in picking up a Happy Meal for the sake of the toy—and all you can think of is how the giant corporation is making a commercial killing out of the mindless peddling of overpriced petty trifles that contribute to the burgis consumerism of today’s children, then perhaps you need something more than one lifetime to appreciate the myriad interpretations of the text that is life. Me, I'm happy with my Hello Kitty toys. It's someone else's job to worry about the critical ramifications of the toy anyway, and who am I to put someone out of a job?
I hope I never become that jaded. Jaded, to me, means, "has to pay real big to amuse self." And when fights on the street, accidentally leaving the house with reversed clothes, and other random acts of silliness get priced, taxed, fined, and analyzed, count me out of this life. ;p
One of the joys of having a new computer is the new software that goes with it. As I type this on Word, for example, I am playing with the Word Assistant—sort of—that goes with it. I naturally chose the cat. (Was there any doubt? ^_^) It amuses me, and makes me feel that I have company as I (I got this from Marjorie Evasco) “…tread the lonely, luminous path of words.” God, I love poets and their unexpected turns of phrase.
I also enjoy games like Text Twist and Bookworm (Aside: If anyone has a licensed copy of Bejeweled 1 and 2 and Bounce Out, let’s talk. Please. I will offer you a cat’s ransom in siopao for a copy.) I like driving past the wide open areas next to the College of Fine Arts in UP at night to see the fireflies, and I am gathering up the nerve (and the firepower, just in case) to fulfill my little fantasy of lying down in a field surrounded by fireflies. Chalk it up to my being a born city rat.
I am secretly amused by silly songs, and though I would never say it out loud, I think that the Masculados and the Sexbomb Girls are fair tradeoffs for one another. I like clicking on random blog links. I like getting happy messages on the phone from friends I think of but rarely get in touch with. I like finding hundred-peso bills I’ve tucked into books and forgotten. I like being told by Polar Bearball to pay for the drinks when we go out, because that way, I don’t spend too much, yet I can still pretend that I’m contributing my share to dinner.
I keep a bubble blower handy, and I have several marks on my hands from when the cats got a bit overeager whenever I tease and play with them. I like big, ugly dogs, the kind that are so ugly, they’re cute. I like finding things on sale. I like sitting down to a hot, cheap breakfast I cooked. I like being hugged, and I like seeing my Polar Bearball, even on the worst of days. I like getting intelligent answers from my students. I like the feeling I get when my room is clean, the dishes are done, the cats are fed, and the people around me are happy.
I think it’s when we lose our appreciation for such small things that we begin to lose our humanity. When you become so jaded that only a “sophisticated” vice turns you on, then you probably have emotional issues to deal with. If you cannot see the joys in picking up a Happy Meal for the sake of the toy—and all you can think of is how the giant corporation is making a commercial killing out of the mindless peddling of overpriced petty trifles that contribute to the burgis consumerism of today’s children, then perhaps you need something more than one lifetime to appreciate the myriad interpretations of the text that is life. Me, I'm happy with my Hello Kitty toys. It's someone else's job to worry about the critical ramifications of the toy anyway, and who am I to put someone out of a job?
I hope I never become that jaded. Jaded, to me, means, "has to pay real big to amuse self." And when fights on the street, accidentally leaving the house with reversed clothes, and other random acts of silliness get priced, taxed, fined, and analyzed, count me out of this life. ;p
Monday, January 17, 2005
What Is Strong?
“It’s not good to be weak. But maybe, it’s not good to be strong either. The strong feel that they are compelled to pick on the weak to prove they are strong. But are they, really?” Yuki (rough translation), from Fruits Basket.
It bugs me how many Fruits Basket episodes can make me cry. I mean, here I am, a thirtysomething woman, and I get reduced to a sniveling ball of weepiness when I hear a character say something I resonate to.
Yet I can’t help but wonder: don’t the weak who want to be seen as strong turn on others whom they see as being weaker than themselves?
During the Faculty Follies in December last year (and yes, it took me this long to write about it), a famous person from another department walked up to me during the dress rehearsal and in a bombastic, loud voice calculated to carry across the theater, declared, “Darling, I love your poker face. You should be in comedy!”
And I could’ve scooped up the insincerity with a tractor. I was a miserable performer, and I knew it. I was going through the motions, and I put no energy into my lines—mainly because the psychic vampires in his department spent their time sucking all the energy out of the theater into themselves. Remind me never to require their plays of my students ever again. It’s not like THEY require their students to buy our books.
What the short little bastard didn’t understand is that I didn’t want to be there in the first place—so why put any effort into it at all? I was humiliated by what he’d done, and when I mentioned it to my colleagues, one of them told me that he’d told her not to appear in the show because people might go home.
A professor from another department overheard this, and piped up, “Hey, at least you don’t have to pay to get laid.” Ooh.
But this cattiness was small consolation; the damage had been done. I’d been yelled at for being late, I was being treated like some stupid kid by a bunch of theater majors a decade younger than me who needed six tries to pass Math 1, I was sick, I didn’t like what I was doing, I’d been missing my classes for what most of my students thought was a flimsy excuse…and then the short fat bastard just had to get his knife in too. He claims it’s just part of his “strong personality.”
Since when has insecurity been defined as strong?
People with these personalities tend to pick on me, as I have a mild demeanor, look like I’m easy to fool (and if you aren’t a student, then perhaps you have a bridge to sell me?) and I get flustered easily, despite all my bark. I think of retorts hours, days, even years after the original insult. I also have a long history of picking the wrong kind of friends (“bloodsucking user” is a charitable term best applied to the last woman—Material Spice—whom I thought could be my best friend in addition to Goldie Golds—and Material Spice is another story unto herself) or men to date (i.e. a model who chose me because I had a car and he didn’t). It’s like these people are human sharks; they smell blood, and move in for the kill. Too bad I seem to trail blood much of the time without knowing it. My fondest wish is to look like a bitch; you could call it protective camouflage.
I also think of something else. You see a tiny kitten on the road, and some of us will want to take it home and take care of it. There are people—mostly female, in touch with their feminine side, or gay (and if that sounds like gender bias, well, tough titties to you)—who feel the need to take care of people they see as being weak or broken. Sure, it can be seen as an ego boost, but who are we to say that’s not what compelled the people we revere as saints? I know some of these people; one of them is my best friend Goldie Golds.
Others will turn their noses up at the kitten’s commonness and sneer at anyone who thinks it is worth saving. Or they will say, “Eee, kadiri,” because the kitten is likely to be scrawny and dirty. Who, after all, wants to care for something someone else threw away? Still others will want to kill it, and kill it slowly and painfully.
Not because they hate cats. Not because the cat has done anything to them. Not because they want to put it out of its suffering and misery.
Because they can—and because they want to—add to its suffering and misery…because doing so takes their minds off their own.
But I don’t want to understand these people. Fuck them, and with a ten-foot pole up their asses sideways; god knows they deserve it.
I am more worried about the kitten—because sometimes I wonder just how much we have in common. But the kitten is lucky. It doesn’t have days in which it wonders what it is worth to others.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
At Seventeen, I Was
I heard the song "At Seventeen" today, and since something happened that's connected to it (and since I gotta update my blog anyway ^_^), click here for the lyrics.
I resonated to this song even as a girl of—you guessed it—seventeen. Why did this come up? Polar Bearball swiped an old photo of me with a famous songwriter/singer* and showed it around his office, rather proudly. (I’ll scan it sometime; I like it too, and I wish I still looked like that.)
*Hint: he inflicted many, many beautiful songs about beautiful girls on us and enriched the karaoke experience forever. Many of my friends want him dead, incidentally.
His officemates, Buddy Bear among them, were amused by it. But the most drastic reaction came from Hazel, who is married to The Grey One, and is Buddy Bear’s sister-in-law. Polar Bearball told me that she gaped at the photo, looked at it more closely, then finally said, “Are you sure that’s her? She looks so…fresh!”
Ouch. But a valid point. I’ve been told that I look much sadder and older (no kidding? There’s an age gap of over a decade between the me in the photo and me today).
Yet when I looked at the photo, I was surprised to notice that I was a very bright-eyed, pretty girl. It was like looking at an alien. I was slender, smooth-skinned, and my big, round eyes sparkled with good health and a hint of mischief. Hell, I wouldn’t mind looking like that now.
But I remember how I felt back then; no need to go back to my diaries. I thought I was ugly, unwanted, and unloved.
Allow me to explain this drama queen statement. I was in my first year at the university, and having been a colegiala—stuck in a school where the only men were priests, rent-a-cops, and janitors—all the boys alternately frightened and thrilled me. I was a sucker for romance, and I wanted romance now! (On a side note, I look at my students now and notice that the intake of handsome boys has plummeted over the years. Is it just me? In my first few years of teaching, by God, I had crushes on several students, especially one who resembled a dark-skinned version of the Statue of David. Remember HIM, Goldie Golds? Yummy (although I believe your tastes ran briefly towards tocino. Inside joke, sorry. Goodness me, where was I?)
I didn’t have a boyfriend in high school whom I could show off to my friends, and I was never courted the way Molly Ringwald was in Pretty In Pink. My high school “boyfriend” was ten years older than me, and worse, I’d gone after him. (That he was desperate enough to hook up with a sixteen year-old says something disturbing about him. I was not mature for my age, and I certainly wasn’t a trophy girl.)
Movies like St. Elmo’s Fire showed me that romance—make that ROMANCE, all caps, came in college. The bastardized version of my high school fight song contained the line, “My goal as a ___ (fill in name of a girl’s school)/Is this/To screw all the boys/And get all their toys/Especially the ___ (fill in name of a boy’s school)”
But nothing ever comes the way they do in movies, or in the novellas I wrote in grade seven (yes, I am dinosaur enough to have been subjected to that) and in high school, then tore up when I decided I was going to be THE Filipino writer. I got to know the cute guy in my block, and he became like a brother to me. (Hi, James!) The boy from Kalayaan whom I went after blew me off so callously, my friends lovingly christened him “The Jerk.” What’s worse, he never knew how he’d hurt me.
I had the requisite crushes—none of which were requited—and now that I look back on it, it was as if I never noticed the guys who did like me. I found the “love of my life” after Christmas, when I was seventeen, and promptly lost him in three weeks. None of this was good for my ego, especially since I fervently believed that love had to come to a teen…as in true love. As in now.
I’ve since discovered that love isn’t just for beauty queens. Neither is it something that’s all doves, ribbons, and confetti; storms do occur, mainly because you care enough to get that affected by someone else. Polar Bearball has shown me more than once that he cares for me regardless of what I look like, and I’m happy about that.
I just wish someone could’ve told me that back then. Given that I am a spoiler kind of girl, and I read reviews and ask other people about what lies ahead in movies, TV shows, and other such things, I would love to go back and tell that girl who was me that she needn’t have let herself go in the belief that no one was ever going to come and love her…and that she wasn’t the only one who felt that way. I remember a line from Buffy The Vampire Slayer, in which Buffy is trying to talk a guy out of suicide (Season 3, the first one with Jonathan in it), and she says that the reason why no one has time for anyone else’s pain is because people are wrapped up in their own pain.
Time to trot out the old clichés about time healing all wounds, about hindsight being 20/20, and whatever else you can think of. Small comfort, definitely, to tell someone who thinks s/he is suffering, that s/he does not suffer alone.
But for people like me, who might have been willing to listen back then, it would have been enough of a comfort. But then, that’s what songs like “At Seventeen” are for, provided we can understand what they really say.
I resonated to this song even as a girl of—you guessed it—seventeen. Why did this come up? Polar Bearball swiped an old photo of me with a famous songwriter/singer* and showed it around his office, rather proudly. (I’ll scan it sometime; I like it too, and I wish I still looked like that.)
*Hint: he inflicted many, many beautiful songs about beautiful girls on us and enriched the karaoke experience forever. Many of my friends want him dead, incidentally.
His officemates, Buddy Bear among them, were amused by it. But the most drastic reaction came from Hazel, who is married to The Grey One, and is Buddy Bear’s sister-in-law. Polar Bearball told me that she gaped at the photo, looked at it more closely, then finally said, “Are you sure that’s her? She looks so…fresh!”
Ouch. But a valid point. I’ve been told that I look much sadder and older (no kidding? There’s an age gap of over a decade between the me in the photo and me today).
Yet when I looked at the photo, I was surprised to notice that I was a very bright-eyed, pretty girl. It was like looking at an alien. I was slender, smooth-skinned, and my big, round eyes sparkled with good health and a hint of mischief. Hell, I wouldn’t mind looking like that now.
But I remember how I felt back then; no need to go back to my diaries. I thought I was ugly, unwanted, and unloved.
Allow me to explain this drama queen statement. I was in my first year at the university, and having been a colegiala—stuck in a school where the only men were priests, rent-a-cops, and janitors—all the boys alternately frightened and thrilled me. I was a sucker for romance, and I wanted romance now! (On a side note, I look at my students now and notice that the intake of handsome boys has plummeted over the years. Is it just me? In my first few years of teaching, by God, I had crushes on several students, especially one who resembled a dark-skinned version of the Statue of David. Remember HIM, Goldie Golds? Yummy (although I believe your tastes ran briefly towards tocino. Inside joke, sorry. Goodness me, where was I?)
I didn’t have a boyfriend in high school whom I could show off to my friends, and I was never courted the way Molly Ringwald was in Pretty In Pink. My high school “boyfriend” was ten years older than me, and worse, I’d gone after him. (That he was desperate enough to hook up with a sixteen year-old says something disturbing about him. I was not mature for my age, and I certainly wasn’t a trophy girl.)
Movies like St. Elmo’s Fire showed me that romance—make that ROMANCE, all caps, came in college. The bastardized version of my high school fight song contained the line, “My goal as a ___ (fill in name of a girl’s school)/Is this/To screw all the boys/And get all their toys/Especially the ___ (fill in name of a boy’s school)”
But nothing ever comes the way they do in movies, or in the novellas I wrote in grade seven (yes, I am dinosaur enough to have been subjected to that) and in high school, then tore up when I decided I was going to be THE Filipino writer. I got to know the cute guy in my block, and he became like a brother to me. (Hi, James!) The boy from Kalayaan whom I went after blew me off so callously, my friends lovingly christened him “The Jerk.” What’s worse, he never knew how he’d hurt me.
I had the requisite crushes—none of which were requited—and now that I look back on it, it was as if I never noticed the guys who did like me. I found the “love of my life” after Christmas, when I was seventeen, and promptly lost him in three weeks. None of this was good for my ego, especially since I fervently believed that love had to come to a teen…as in true love. As in now.
I’ve since discovered that love isn’t just for beauty queens. Neither is it something that’s all doves, ribbons, and confetti; storms do occur, mainly because you care enough to get that affected by someone else. Polar Bearball has shown me more than once that he cares for me regardless of what I look like, and I’m happy about that.
I just wish someone could’ve told me that back then. Given that I am a spoiler kind of girl, and I read reviews and ask other people about what lies ahead in movies, TV shows, and other such things, I would love to go back and tell that girl who was me that she needn’t have let herself go in the belief that no one was ever going to come and love her…and that she wasn’t the only one who felt that way. I remember a line from Buffy The Vampire Slayer, in which Buffy is trying to talk a guy out of suicide (Season 3, the first one with Jonathan in it), and she says that the reason why no one has time for anyone else’s pain is because people are wrapped up in their own pain.
Time to trot out the old clichés about time healing all wounds, about hindsight being 20/20, and whatever else you can think of. Small comfort, definitely, to tell someone who thinks s/he is suffering, that s/he does not suffer alone.
But for people like me, who might have been willing to listen back then, it would have been enough of a comfort. But then, that’s what songs like “At Seventeen” are for, provided we can understand what they really say.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Up With Love 1
Up With Love! Part I: A Wedding to Remember
(Aside: I am listening to 70s disco music as I write this. Somehow it is so appropriate. I love disco, and I love dancing!-this from what is probably the only 100% nerd to ever make it onto a champion cheerleading squad. LOOONG story, but suffice it to say that I am literally twice the woman I once was.)
I tend to avoid weddings; they either make me depressed or envious. Often, there's nothing for me there; I'm either obliged to be there, or have to sing, or don't know a soul. When my friends get married, they're usually big affairs, and I get lost in the crowd.
But this has to be one of the few weddings I've enjoyed. Other happy weddings I've been to were those of Robert and Shirley Magnuson, Don and Donna Villaver, and my friend Kathleen's wedding to longtime love Robert last July.
The invitation was the first inkling that something else was in store for us. It invited us to witness the "swinging happening"--the marriage of a cool couple. The wedding even had a title: Up with Love, which I borrowed for the title of this entry.
Up With Love 2
Though I met Danz first in 1994, and I introduced him to Polar Bearball in 2000, he took to Polar Bearball so well, they sometimes get mistaken for brothers. Odd, since Danz is the proverbial tall, dark and handsome slender type, while Polar Bearball is tall, fair, and bulkily built. Danz isn't dense, despite the fact that he discovered (after two years of knowing us together, mind) that Polar Bearball and I were an item. Rather, he is a kind, discreet person who does not make unwarranted assumptions.
Up With Love 3
Racking our brains for the perfect gift, Polar Bearball and I went through with what seemed a silly idea at the time: industrial fans. When we went to buy the presents, though, the ones I wanted were out of stock. We decided on two regular fans instead-our rationale being, no matter how well-heeled Danz and Rachelle were, at some point they'd start using fans. So, along with Eric and Aya, we picked up two fans, and as usual, I got the wrapping chores (Odd aside: for such a klutz, I appear to be very good at wrapping presents. Go figure.) Then Polar Bearball came up with the clincher: since they billed themselves as a cool couple, what better way for them to stay that way? (And if you didn't find this funny, gawd help you if you ever have to hang around us as we descend to these profoundly silly depths on a regular basis)
I note with childish delight at this point that our presents were the biggest of the bunch, and among the prettiest. ^_^ It was too dark to take photos, so I have to content myself with the memory of the looks on the faces of the other guests when Polar Bearball and I arrived with one huge package-covering the upper halves of our bodies-each!
But that's getting ahead of my story.
Up With Love 4
The color scheme was warm, funky, and fun-something we would encounter repeatedly during the ceremony and the reception. But the surprises were just beginning.
The best laid plans of mice and men always fall through, and this we proved today. Eric, Aya, Polar Bearball, and I were supposed to meet at 2 pm, a full hour before the ceremony, at my office in UP. Aya was delayed by his boss, Eric thought he was late and headed for the De La Strada Church, and I got ambushed by my lola, who was curious as to why I was lugging two gigantic, gaily wrapped presents. Rather than try to explain myself, I made the outrageous claim that two people were getting married today, to save on costs. Of course, logically, this is correct, but don’t tell her that.
We arrived at the church and were startled to see only a few people. The bride arrived ahead of the groom, who—it appeared—drove himself to church! Later we found out this wasn’t true, but his beloved yet battered Civic was parked outside, leading to the wrong conclusions on our part.
Danz, looking snazzy in a uniquely designed suit (zippers everywhere, goodness. But they looked so smart on him; he has the ability to make even tsinelas look good! Photo later, but there won’t be too much detail) and joked that he had a “tough crowd”; he’d invited a veritable Who’s Who of advertising—all of whom admired and respected him. Whoosah!
(Odd aside: several days earlier I dreamt that he’d organized an Oprah giveaway production for his wedding. It came close, come to think of it.)
The joys of marrying in the LOOOONG Pinoy Christmas season are plentiful, or so they say. Me, I saw how the lovely white and silver parol décor for Christmas was still up, and accented the red-orange theme of the wedding.
During the nuptial mass, I was delighted to see that the tiny priest looked like Aiza Seguerra! (My photo is blurry, argh. Can't post it but trust me on that.) He delivered a homily that did not bore me: he showed us things like the first newspaper rose Danz ever gave Rachelle. Amazing how much those two loved each other; they managed to store 16 years worth of life, laugh, and love for us to see.
Up With Love 5
When the mass was over, they gave out orange cones filled with red, peach, and orange flower petals. These, I discovered, were to be sprinkled on the happy couple.
Then they added another element: tiny plastic popping party favors! Polar Bearball and I were so delighted, we squirreled away two as souvenirs.
Up With Love 6
Ready for the recessional! We were well-equipped with party poppers and flower petals. I discovered something today: I'm not the only mababaw person around. That's comforting. *_*
Up With Love 7
Here's a photo of the couple and their friends. From left: In white barong, Prof. Emil Flores, a colleague of mine, who also loves comics and pop culture.
I have no idea who the woman in yellow is, though. But next to her are Arnold (white barong, next to Cynthia) and Cynthia Arre (slender woman in the lovely orange dress). I've always admired their work, and I have the privilege to work with Cynthia on Wedding Essentials.
Again I have no idea who the woman in black is, but next to her is the beautiful bride. Rachelle used to come with Danz to CCHQ where we used to hang out, and at first I thought she was standoffish. But she gradually warmed to us apes, and I realized what a beautiful smile she had! The first time I saw her smile, I even thought she was a new girlfriend of Danz's! BTW, I love her goddess-style dress; so simple and comfortable.
I have no idea why Danz is bending down in the photo, but even from the side you can see how good the mook looks.
That's Eric looking off into the distance beside Danz.
Next to Eric is Danz's friend Victor, then Gidong, one of his best friends and our erstwhile VTES co-player.
You can see clearly that Danz is very attentive to Rachelle, and unlike other grooms, he never left her side at all, not during the ceremony and never during the reception. Aww...Polar Bearball joked that he was relieved that she agreed to marry him!
At the reception, which was held at Danz's place nearby, we were greeted by a bubble blowing machine. I had to resist the urge to stand there and just let the bubbles blow over me. There was a pasta bar (mmm!), a wrappings bar, an open bar (where I got my first Cosmopolitan), a meat bar, and a pilaf/mashed potato bar. Whew! They served Coke Light too, and this was very thoughtful. The lights strewn around the venue, plus the personalized music disc playing in the background, made me want to beg Polar Bearball to slow-dance. Here we were joined by Danio and his friend Millette, who just came from work.
At our tables, orange paper was provided for us to write wishes for the couple. I just wish I kept a copy of what I wrote; I liked it.
Up With Love 8: Parting Shots
I just wish the average wedding were smaller, sweeter, and truly intimate-somewhere you can enjoy the pleasure of the couple's company and those of good friends and family, instead of being awash in a sea of aliens.
Ah well. Up with love then, and until Monday, when I attend another wedding--this time as the wedding singer. ^_^
Friday, January 07, 2005
A Little Kabaduyan
I've turned into the official wedding singer for my high school barkada, and for several of Polar Bearball's friends. Though I do get bugged by being asked to perform on command (strangely, for someone so verbally exhibitionistic in class--nakaLBM ang bibig magkwento, as one student once put it when she didn't know I was within earshot), I also got to thinking of the songs I like to sing. The newest bride-to-be, Toni, only asked for one song: "Ikaw" by Sharon Cuneta--and she left the selection of the rest of the songs to me. Oddly, it's a song I've sung at ALL weddings I've sung at. But don't get me wrong; I love the song. It did get me thinking of how baduy a lot of the songs I like are.
Do I have to be "deep" just because I teach lit and creative writing? To that I say, Bullshit. I like songs for many reasons, and just because a song's somewhat overplayed on the airwaves doesn't mean it can't hold some significance for me. For one, I like the opening theme to the anime "Fruits Basket." I don't really understand it, but the melody is bittersweet, capturing an essential mood of the story.
Legal stuff: These lyrics are quoted without permission of the writers and artists. No challenge whatsoever is meant to be presented to any and all rights that can and may belong to the writers and artists. They are simply quoted for the entertainment of the author of this piece. Should there be any objections, please notify the author, who will remove the lyrics from this site.
Click on another link (I suggest the Cat Files!) if you want to avoid girlie stuff. That being said…
I like baduy stuff. If that means I have a lack of taste, so be it. But really, I don’t like pretending to be profound. It takes too much effort, and it’s much easier to just be “jolog.” (whatever the term truly means). I like to sing, and songs are a way of expressing myself which does not give me too much pressure. I prefer to sing to myself; while I do sing well, I don't like being told to perform like some dumb dog--command performances are just not my style.
Anyway, here are some of the songs I like. These are mostly love songs--guess why? (Hint: I've been to way too many weddings. Plus, Toni wants me to come up with 4 songs for the reception, so hey.)
* “You” by the Carpenters.
Lovelines: “You are the one who makes me happy/When everything else turns to gray/…Sorry if sometimes, I look past you/There’s no one beyond your eyes/Inside my head the wheels are turning/If sometimes I’m not so wise/…You are the crowd that sits quiet/List’ning to me/And all the mad sense I make…”
I think of Polar Bearball when I hear this. I have a very silly, childish streak that he brings out in me, and he pretends he finds it silly and rolls his eyeballs. Then he gives me big hugs. I’ve always loved Karen Carpenter; I think she has one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard. Prior to giving birth to my sister, my mom could do an eerily similar singing voice to hers.
* “Save The Best for Last” by Vanessa Williams. Lovelines: “Sometimes the snow comes down in June/Sometimes the sun goes 'round the moon/...Just when I thought our chance had passed/You went and saved the best for last/...Sometimes the very thing you’re looking for/Is the one thing you can’t see...”
Polar Bearball and I started out as friends. He was still hung up on an ex and I was trying to convince another guy that I was the right one. This song reflects the progress of our relationship so closely, it's creepy.
* “Love Always Finds A Reason” by Glenn Medeiros and Elsa (?), a Japanese singer.
This song is so 80s! But it is so appropriate for me and Polar Bearball, so I reproduce many of the lyrics here.
Sometimes, I think of me and you/And every now and then, I think/We’ll never make it through/We go through some crazy times/And there are times/I wonder if I’ll keep loving you/But I always do/Seems that/Love always finds a reason/To keep me here/Believing when I feel our love/Is slipping away/Seems that love always finds a reason/To make me stay/And even through the darkest night
The feeling survives/Seems that I can just look at you/And I’ll find the reason/In your eyes/I know sometimes you wish/That you’d be free/I know sometimes/You wonder what you’re doing here with me/But something keeps you by my side/Through all the times/We disagreed/You keep loving me..."
The best explanation for this is found in a previous entry. Click here to read it.
* First Time (From an incredibly romantic--and corny, oddly enough--Coke ad in the 80s)
Lovelines: “First time, first love/Oh, what feeling is this/Electricity flows/With the very first kiss/...It’s a not open door/And you gotta reach out/And you gotta explore/Even though you’re not sure/Till the moment arrives/There it is/And you know you’re in love/For the very first time...”
The first time I fell in love was such a fairytale. Perhaps that’s why it didn’t last, and that it didn’t last may be the reason why it still feels a little magical when I remember it. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever been with, and one night, after taking me home, I escorted him to our gate. He was reluctant to leave, and with all the coyness and cuteness I could muster at seventeen, I tried to pry it out of him, thinking he was going to tell me something sweet. And he did. “I want to say that…no, I mean, I like…no, I really like…ah, I…I love you!” And with that he kissed me. I had been kissed before but nothing prepared me for the kind of kiss that makes your hair stand on end, the kind where you literally become one, the world stands still, and all those other cliches. I still remember the song playing on a radio nearby: “Summer Nights,” by Richard Marx. Given how briefly our affair lasted, that song was an omen. But this song, “First Time,” is what I think of when I remember those glorious days with him. I actually don't want to know where he is now and what he looks like; the memory is, I think, going to be more beautiful than reality. And that's how I prefer to remember him. That's a part of me that is still, somehow, young, innocent, and someone who believed in all those lovely cliches about love.
* “You Got It All” by The Jets
Ooh, this is so prom-goody! Plus the lyrics are lovely. I must be getting old because few pop songs catch my fancy nowadays. They’re just not sweet enough! I dare you to listen to this song without wanting to sway from side to side with your head on some special someone’s shoulder ^_^
Okay. By now you should be reaching for the insulin or wiping the ants off yourself. Heh heh. As usual, more when I remember more...or when I remember...or when I get around to it. Choose one.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Renovation Virtual Tour IV: The Yang of Blue
It was a bit too sunny when I took this photo, hence the glare from the windows. Oopsie. Am new at this, sorry.
This bed looks like a nest, and I like it that way. Polar Bearball is bugged by the sheer quantity of the pillows!
Nice and neat, huh? Ironically I can't find my stuff since I cleaned the room. And yes, the color scheme is so blue. The weird part is, my mom decided to renovate my sister's room in Parañaque at the same time. We wound up with the same color scheme. Polar Bearball, when he saw it this New Year, remarked, "Magkakadugo talaga kayo!"
Hence you've seen my three biggest Christmas presents to myself this Christmas. 1: Room renovation 2: My new computer 3: (well, you didn't see it, but my new phone was used to take these photos) ^_^ Giving is such an underrated pleasure--especially when it's to yourself!
Renovation Virtual Tour III: My Workstation
I know the photo's a bit skewed but I wanted to get some detail in. This is my workstation, and due to Diablo II installed on my new computer, it is Polar Bearball's favorite place. The brown blob on the carpet is Doc Ling. He's helping me work. ^_^ Incidentally, that's the same trash can. I have two in my room and barely stopped myself from putting three in. Dunno why. Am thinking that my next project is to fix up my office in UP but I think I'll wait till I get tenure; they might suddenly move me out kasi.
Renovation Virtual Tour II: View From A Door
This is the view from the door (which needs repainting but I was too cheap to buy more paint). Yes, I know the trash can is in the wrong place. This was taken at night. Note how the highly polished floor gleams ^_^ The power of the bunot!
Renovation Virtual Tour I: Le Bed
The Bed: Can you tell it's my favorite place? The thing in front of the electric fan on top of the small side bureau is an arnis stick; Polar Bearball has one in my bedroom and one in my car. Says it's for self-defense, although I suspect the worst I'll be able to do with it is whack myself or some innocent bystander. And yes, that's another fan on the floor. There's a total of three in my room!
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Cat Files 3.1: Doc Ling Again
Here's Doc Ling again, as he likes posing for photos and holds still for them, in fact! This is one of his favorite positions--on someone's bed, right on top of the pillows you use for your head. If you sleep with this cat, be prepared to stay on the floor; he pushes you off the bed, and if that doesn't work, his mighty purring will keep you awake!
Cat Files 3: Doc Ling
If you're not Pinoy, the joke in this cat's name is that it sounds like the word "dokleng," which is slang for cross-eyed. This cat is quite cross-eyed, and the effect is to make him look a bit daffy, and perfectly loveable. Polar Bearball likes this cat.
Cat on Carpet: This is the "fake" Annabelle, whom we call Doc Ling. He lives with us here in QC, and is in love with feet--the smellier, the better. (He loves my lola's feet best.) My mom rescued him from a heartless animal vendor at the Ruins in BF Parañaque. He took one look at my mom while he was in the cage and started making pa-cute to death. When my mom asked to have a closer look at him, he leaped out of the cage and clung on to her for dear life, purring for all he was worth. Of course my mom *had* to have him.
He's quite a "catacter" and likes to hold conversations with us. He loves my carpet and often hangs around when I work on the computer. The reason why he's the "fake" Annabelle is because we told my lola that he was, in fact, my sister's Siamese, banished to QC due to my sister's "allergies."
In truth he was banished because he tried to rape my mom's dog. Trust me when I tell you you don't want to hear the story.
Cat Files 2: Ewood, a.k.a. Elwood
Ewood is our token black and white cat. He was left on my mom's doorstep in December 2003 by his mother. We found him, crying piteously, under one of the cars. The next day, we found his mother on the road outside the house, dead. Some asshole ran her over. Poor Ewood originally was given to one of my mom's neighbors, who--a few days later--saw Fomfom and returned him in exchange for her. My softhearted mother couldn't find it in her heart to give him away, ("baka matrauma kasi siya, nareject kasi, kawawa naman!") and he remains with her to this day. He is usually found with his face in the food bowl; methinks he overeats to compensate for his sad kittenhood (heh heh). He's crapped on me twice already; the first time as a kitten, when Polar Bearball still called him "Ratcat."* The second time was this New Year, right at the stroke of midnight. He'd been sedated, and I picked him up to cuddle him. Poor thing--like most of our other cats, who were also sedated--lost control of his bowels and thus, naputukan ako. So I rang in the New Year cleaning crap. I wonder if that's an omen of sorts?
*Why "Ratcat"? He was a skinny, scrawny, bald pink thing with a rattail. Now he's fat, sleek, and sweet. He has a huge two-catpower purring engine which he activates whenever anyone shows the slightest interest in petting him.
Cat Files 1: My Meow
Cat Files: With apologies to DC Comics, which first used this title for a Catwoman miniseries which I loved. This series of posts I've always wanted to upload but only managed to do so now.
This is my baby Meow. I found her crawling across Scout Tobias corner Scout Gandia in September of 2003, and I brought her with me to class. Originally meant for adoption, she won me over rather easily. She was banished from our QC house for breaking a very old Magnolia bottle belonging to my lola which contained water that was older than my younger sister. (And in case you missed it, that WAS sarcasm.) Shes a very silly, crazy cat. My mom jokes that her eyes are like flashlights: wide open, they're twice the size of the eyes of our other cats. She hasn't grown since I was forced to relocate her to my mom's house in Parañaque, and my sister playfully calls her "Lampayatot." This is the cat who had to suffer through the combined snoring of myself and Polar Bearball last Halloween. ^_^
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Proof of Humiliation
This came from the blog/photostream of butasnachucks (thanks!) who was aiming for Noni Queano (in the foreground, wearing yellow leaves) and colleague Jessel Duque (the pretty fairy in orange) but caught me (fat mama in black in the back) looking miserable in the background.
And A Whatever To You All
First off, merry new year and happy Christmas. The less said about it, the better.
Okay, I am sorry I haven't posted for so long. I had good reason: I spent the entire holidays sick. Apparently the Faculty Follies is hazardous to one's health, both mental and physical. I went down with a fever that night (missed the finale of the show, which I later realized was merely a tribute to the egos of Theater faculty, really).
I had barely recovered when my mom sent over my new bed, prompting a storm of renovation. (Will download the photo thing in a bit because I want to start posting photos ^_^) My room is now a lovely sky-blue, and for the first time in my life, I have a neat bedroom and have kept it so for almost a month now. A big thanks to Polar Bearball for insisting I buy the good quality paint to cover the hideous wall whatever in my room.
Then I went down to food poisoning. As soon as I recovered from that, the flu. Now I'm still shaking off the weakness that goes with that, and a nagging cold to boot, when my asthma, unseen and unfelt for nearly a year, decides to kick in. Apparently misery truly does love company, and my asthma decided to join forces with my cold to make breathing a Darth Vader affair.
The only good part is that my goddamned period is FINALLY, after two months, over.
More misery in a bit. Heh heh
Monday, January 03, 2005
Hoppy Hellidays
This is my version of the standard children's back-to-school essay, "How I Spent The Holidays/Summer Vacation."
FUCKFACE
Got insulted on the 25th and picked a fight with this relative I’ve never seen before. I greet the fucker Merry Christmas at a Cruz family get-together and the fucker returns with “Ang TABA TABA MO!” What the fuck happened to Christmas spirit? My mom invoked this as a defense for the guy. My reply was, the same goes for the fucker. He should have thought of the Christmas spirit first for him to deserve being treated with mercy.
I gave the ugly fuck a cold stare and proceeded to stare at him the rest of the afternoon. What gave him the right to return an insult to a greeting made in good faith? What did he intend to accomplish? Like I haven’t noticed I’m fat? Stupid fuck.
Later I realized that on that side of the family, my sister and I come in for some jealousy. We’re two of only three? Four? Cruzes who have finished college, and with good grades. We have good jobs, and drive cars. At the reunion, there were three cars parked outside, the oldest being my 97 Mazda, which—if I may say so—is still spanking pretty. When my mom, sister, and I left, all the cars disappeared.
My mom is the prettiest in her family, and no other females in my generation compare to me and my sister, both in looks and brains. I may be fat, but I can be fat-cute. I have a loving, successful boyfriend who is also one of my best friends. I’ve never been knocked up, don’t intend to get pregnant, and I’ve never brought shame and scandal down on my family the way the rest of the Cruzes--who have a penchant for unprotected premarital sex--have.
Am I bragging? Of course. The fuckface, who was married at an early age, never got through college, still lives with his parents (along with his wife and children!), and would die to be me. Fat I can deal with, and I can try to lose weight. Otherwise, I’m pretty happy with me. Stupid, ugly loser is something he’ll have to live with. So he lashed out the only way he knew how. Too bad for him I know a thousand different ways to lash back, and this is one of them.
Of course this is like nuking the house to get at a cockroach. That is such an underrated pleasure.
DOWN FOR THE COUNT (To use a phrase from Neil Garcia, “ickypooh” stuff ahead)
Later that night, I felt a coup d’etat in my stomach. My sister and a few other relatives at the reunion went down with what is delicately called “stomach flu” (in Tagalog, nagtatae. You were warned, so don’t wince. Hey pasigraver, I’m on your turf now!). I just hope D'Fuckface got a huge amount of misery, perhaps twice mine.
I spent the night moaning in bed as poor Polar Bearball alternated between playing Diablo (okay, I know it’s a 4 year old game but NOTHING beats hack n’slash for stress relief!) and comforting me. He later prescribed a cocktail of Diet Coke, bananas, and Imodium…something which became my staple food for the next few days. It worked.
But not before I spent the night virtually hugging the toilet bowl. The only relief was remembering that last time I was ever downed this badly, I took to sleeping while sitting on the bowl. I’d been poisoned by a Burger Machine chicken mushroom sandwich (which, I notice, is off the menu now). When I finally burped and farted the next day, I knew my trials were probably over.
Too bad something else was around the corner.
STRIKE TWO: The Flu (More ickypooh stuff)
I managed to fight off the flu, which visited me as soon as my tummy went off the critical list. I wavered between 37 and 38 on the thermometer. (Interesting side note: it was only when I started dating Polar Bearball that I learned how to correctly read a thermometer. Pathetic.) The flu vanished but not in time for me to enjoy any food over the holidays. I subsisted on bananas, Diet Coke and Neozep…yes, the same thing I consumed for the “stomach flu” incident.
The cold stayed on as an unwelcome guest and is still with me.
Had enough? Trust me when I tell you I have even more misery afoot. And I do plan to inflict it on you, dear reader, so that you can enjoy your day. @_@
