Kitty Litter

(This begins a series of randomly posted vignettes about cliches in action.)

Stuck in traffic along EDSA this morning, I saw a small but plump tricolor kitten leap out from under the Santolan station of the MRT, and begin running for its life along the narrow "sidewalk." The little kitty knew how to avoid traffic, and wove in and out of barriers and railings to get to the other side of the station.

Right after the kitty bolted out, a security guard wearing a very puzzled look and holding a small plastic bag of what looked like cooked rice leaned over the railing, staring after the cat. He all but scratched his head as he watched the kitten's progress.

Had he shooed away the kitty and exposed her* to danger? Startled her? Or was the kitty his charge and she'd somehow misinterpreted his movements? Or was there another, stranger story somehow?

It's a story I would love to hear, but will probably never find out.


*Tricolor cats are generally female; only 1 in every 100,000 tricolor cats is male. It's a genetic thing.

Attempting a “Why I Write” at this time is futile, because no one who loves writing will ever finish saying her or his piece on the subject. It is easier, though, to talk about why you work. There’s the basics: you work for a living, to survive, to save up, to help the country, to whatever.

But then there are other factors that make you stick to your work, and make you do a good job. I realized it was time to leave UP when I began snapping at incompetent students, becoming dismissive of the slow ones, and being openly partial to the brilliant ones; effective teachers should not even go there.

Now that I have other work, I begin to understand the seduction of the UP schedule for someone like me: the freedom. Of course the sidelines kept me fed and above water. But it also allowed me time with myself.

I now understand that I am a bit of a plodder. I am not a magnificent jill-of-all-trades, and accepting that I am very good at some things and hopeless at others (you should see me play badminton; imagine a female Mr. Bean) helps reduce my insecurities and gives me a level of contentment that keeps me happy. When you quit striving for the impossible, and learn to go for what you’re good at may kill some people, especially those who were born to reach for the stars. But not me; I like knowing my limits, and working as well as I can within my limits gives me great satisfaction.

Currently I’m up to my neck in work (and look at me typing away at this blog post, nyaha). I’m copyediting for Sense and Style, writing a business/marketing plan (who, me?) for the NYTimes to plug it to advertisers, doing several articles, closing the next issue of Tales from the Enchanted Kingdom, and checking through student papers. Looming over me are the regular copyediting deadlines for Taste, Weddings, Moms Babies Dads, and proofing the NYTimes. At times, unless I constantly refer to my badly battered (this early in the year) planner, I may forget things.

But when I finish slaying the grammar demons and make sense out of a badly written article, or catch typos in the formerly invincible NYTimes sample PDFs, or see the light of comprehension on an English 1 student’s face when I explain the difference between the use of “which” and “that,” I feel like Superwoman.

Sure that’s really mababaw, but I’ve long since learned that when you take joy in the smallest of things, you’re happier. Which is not to say that I don’t have my downs; me sniveling on my wonderful boss Marbee last Christmas from work stress wasn’t one of my finest moments, and I believe I still owe her and my best friend a couple of shirts to replace the ones I got tears, sweat, and snot on. Seems that when you occasionally break down and ask for help, things become much easier. I’ve learned that I don’t have to do everything myself, and that I can say no. (Now if I can only curb my brutally honest mouth, things would be much better!)

Plus there’s the pride you take in a job well done. I’m a very good copy editor (perhaps because pintasera ako?), and I can get the job done quickly. Badly written articles are tossed to me so that I can save them and the writer in one go. Knowing that I am the go-to girl for crucial copyediting gives me a boost, and makes me want to work harder. Regardless of your profession, knowing you’re doing a good job is one of those unspoken benefits that you need to get from any job…and it makes you want to try harder.

The reason why I work very hard is because I value my free time. I like reading, attempting to stay fit, and snuggling with Wynn. I like curling up with a cat on my belly “making bread” as I read a Mrs. Murphy mystery. I like going to Tagaytay and just enjoying the clean cool air. I like shooting the bull with friends, and a week without laughter for me is a death sentence. If I get my job done well and done quickly, then I get to do all these things. It’s like paying my dues so that I can go home and get on with the real business of living.

Sure, it sounds like a boring life. No one is ever going to take me on an adventure, or call on me to save the world. (Of course anyone who tries is out of their gourd.) Someone once told me I was too passive, and it’s true; but it’s who I am. I think it was Collette who said that we should stop trying to be great so that we can be happy. And it’s not an underachiever philosophy. It’s just that, as you get older, you learn what’s important to you…and it’s not what the magazines or other people say is important. It’s what you learn over time that is important to you.

I’ve learned to listen to my body, especially when it says “No freaking way you’re gonna do THAT to me!” I am a very slow starter; I am no longer capable of leaping out of bed in the morning, jumping in the bathroom for a quick bath then setting off for a long day at work. I sleep seven to eight hours a day, drink lots of water, try to curb my rampaging appetite, and so on. The plus side is that I don’t need an alarm clock anymore. My body sleeps its fill nowadays; I’m careful to make sure that it does, because otherwise I become stupid and careless.

And because I know these things, I can head off to work, do my job well, and come home, both to bed and beloved, to get on with the rest of my life.

Either I'm hormonally imbalanced again or I am truly mababaw. This made me laugh yesterday as I watched this kiddie gag show on Channel 2: (will translate for non-Tagalog speakers upon request)

Bata: 'Tay, 'Tay! May nagawa po akong kabutihan ngayon!

Itay: Talaga? Ano 'yun?

Bata: Alam mo si Mang Berto, yung kapitbahay natin? Na-late po siya kaninang umaga, naghahabol ng bus.

Itay: E di pinara mo ang bus para sa kanya?

Bata: Hindi po, Pinakawalan ko po si Tagpi, 'yung aso nating nangangagat.

Itay: Ha? E bakit?

Bata: Para po bumilis ang takbo ni Mang Berto!

(I am such a dork, I swear. At least I didn't pull the "greatest blonde joke" stunt on you guys. Heh heh.)

BTW I'm responding to all the comments as fast as I can. Gyahh. I can't believe that now that I actually have a fast net connection at work, that's when I slowed down on reading blogs, updating my own, and responding to comments. Argh! Sorry po!

There is something intimately personal about a portrait, especially if it is drawn by people you admire and who know you personally. It's both an idealized and realistic portrayal of who you are, and it tells you how people see you.

For me, looking at this drawing was like reading a well-written profile, or some other art form in which you are depicted; it's like being blessed with the ability to look at yourself from the outside.

Like many other people, I've always wished I could draw, or create any form of visual art. I cannot draw a straight line, and the best I can do is to rearrange a room fairly artfully. But I can't even draw a cartoon, and looking at the work of visual artists, especially those whom I can watch at work, makes me sad and happy at the same time. You wish you could do the same thing...and yet you know that doing it yourself would be much, much different. This may be why I tend to coddle my Fine Arts students who can write; it's like teaching elves, for me.

Wonderful artist husband-and-wife team Arnold and Cynthia Arre just sent me the best Christmas gift I've gotten so far. This is how they see me; Cynthia's concept, Arnold's art. You can see a link to Cynthia's blog on my sidebar; she's the sorceress responsible for the magnificent layout of Wedding Essentials. (Shameless plug: buy it! Next issue comes out in a week!)

I'm still very giddy at the thought of my second portrait by a comics great (the first being by Robert Magnuson. Though the portrait doesn't hide my, er, size, it still captures what Arnold and Cynthia (and Wynn and I!) think I am like. Plus this is perhaps the only time anyone will EVER see me in a strapless outfit...practice for a bridal gown? Oooh! (I am a dork; go ahead, throw tomatoes at me now.)

(If you know of similar stories--or have your own story to tell--please e-mail me or post a comment so that I can interview you. The three best stories will be published in Sense and Style, and I'll send you a free copy ^_^)

1. Lucy and Wynn: “What’s Your Name Again?”

When Lucy met Wynn, she was shocked, because Wynn was the guy she’d spent an entire semester in college loathing completely because he blocked her view of Prince Charming in the auditorium where their GE class was held. He turned out to be friendly, and they began spending time together at an org which Wynn was a founding member of.

Lucy saw his name, “Wynn Gangrel,” on a reviewer and realized he had the same unique surname as Wynona, one of her high school classmates. She asked him if they were related, and he said, “Yes, she’s my sister.”

Lucy’s classmate Wynona (who came from a family whose members had the same initials) had spent her high school years complaining about her masungit older brother Wyvern. Lucy also knew that Wynona’s siblings consisted of two brothers and a sister, and assuming Wynn was the younger brother, she brightly asked, “So you’re related to Wyvern? Wynona said he was super sungit. Was he like that with you too?”

Long pause. Wynn then grimaced and answered, “Uh…Wynn is my nickname. Wyvern is my real name.”

Lucy and Wynn have been dating eight years now and plan to get married in Vienna.