Kitty Litter

Part of my job is to rewrite some of the world's worst PR, and when "Cat" at the office sent me this one without comment, I knew I was in trouble.

Also, is it a rule that the worse the PR, the more pesky and aggressive the person pushing it? "Cat" told me that not only did the perpetrator of this article text and call her repeatedly, s/he also faxed it to the office at least twice and said something along the lines of "Dapat nakuha mo na yan ha. (You better have gotten it already)"

If you work in PR, here are two free lessons: One, it doesn't do to throw your weight around. Public relations includes being nice to the whole staff, not just the editor. Pestering the staff is the best way to NOT get your piece of crap published...and I know that most PR is badly written because I'm the one who has to edit and, all too often, REWRITE it...and for no extra charge, damn it.

Two, the point of PR is to get a message across to the public. If the message of the article below is that the hotel/resort/whatever can't afford to hire someone who can write well, then I probably don't want to stay there since if they can't attend to that detail, then what more the other details like clean sheets and so on? Flowery, silly language does not attract readers. We want info, not bullshit.

That being said, I present the text here for you to, er, enjoy. I've edited out identifying details; if you figure out what the hell the "intro poem" is supposed to mean, feel free to tell me.

(PR begins below this line. I did not write this, and I am not making this up. Everything is original, although I've deleted the identifying details. I have, however, highlighted the "best" parts, which I am thinking of incorporating into my vocabulary. Side comments in green itals.)

"On white satin makeup
vibrance sets in (Uy, kabuki makeup?),
Pure and simple
caressing the high wind,
Walk in elegance of a would-be queen
March on...dream
is truth to be foreseen."

Wedding is an event that all of us aspire of having. Whether it is held with simplicity or elegance, the ritual is a once in a lifetime experience that one couple, bounded by the sacramental vows and the words "I do," treasure.

Most of us dream of a grand wedding to typify the importance of the event. Whether it is on the halls of the cathedral (Wouldn't it be hard to wed ON a hall?) or at the pure sands of the coast, the splendor of a wedding speaks out several decibels off the scene (Weddings yell? Didn't know that. Must be attending the wrong weddings). It pushes each and every one of us to dream of having or upstage the event that we saw in our very eyes.

However, reality speaks in a paper bill form (Now why didn't I think of that?). The grander the wedding is; the more fortune we exhaust. We now ponder to the truth that only the rich and famous can execute the dream wedding that most of us cannot have (Oo nga naman).

But what if I say, there is still a chance to have your dream come true? Yes, you and your couple (Wedding threesomes! Now THIS I have to see) still have that majestic march complete with accommodations and a scenic location overlooking the city. The dream can be a reality via scaling up the (name of province) knolls (A wedding march has accommodations?). To be exact, the dream is found in (name of place).

(Two paragraphs about wedding package and description of place deleted)

Labels: bad writing, rants

Kitty Litter is alive again, thanks to the closing of the July issue of Sense & Style. The new, experienced, professional editor-in-chief is in the house, and I think he was highly amused to see the relief on my face when he came in to meet with us.

Please do pick up a copy of the July issue of Sense & Style. We've got Cecile Licad on the cover, and thanks to the blog network, I have the following great writers in there: April Yap of "Stressed in the City" fame; do pick up a copy!), Yvette Tan, Luis Katigbak, Indira Endaya, Golda San Joaquin (best friend-tight hugs!), Zoe Gabe, Valerie Young, Jullie Yap Daza, Tata Francisco, Geolette Esguerra, J. Anthony Lopez, Malaya Laraya, and the famous Lori Baltazar (whew!)

At this point I have to bow to Spongemarb, without whom this issue would not have been possible. If it had not been for her, I would've been found hanging from the flagpole in front of the office last week. Despite having no reward in sight, she held my hand, organized shoots, found models, fed me, gave great advice, and was indispensable. Spongemarb, you have always had first dibs on my copyediting services; now you own me! (Big, big hug. May kagat pa!) I also want to thank my boss, code named E3, for his patience and support, and for his hilarious jokes at key points.

I'm proud of this issue because we had only twelve days to do virtually everything. But if it's the price to pay to get rid of my ex-co-editor, for whom everything was a big ego-tripping joke, then so be it. I have discovered one thing about myself: I am truly a slogger. I may cry though a hard time or a trial, but by God I will muddle through it somehow.

And of course Wynn, who kept me sane and talked me through the whole business.

To everyone, thank you so much. And please (again) do pick up a copy and let me know what you think. Though this is my one and only issue, and we didn't have enough time to pull off all our great ideas, nonetheless it is my baby.

I think I will pass out for a day or two then get back to the writing I love :)

Labels: rants

This is for my mother, who would like nothing better than for me to become a bride…and soon. :)

“When are you getting married?” I’ve heard this question so often that I have prepared responses for it. If I feel like joshing the person, I say, “Anytime, so long as you sponsor my wedding in Venice. I need a budget of $ 1 million at the very least.” If the question has been asked in a rude fashion or in a mean spirit, I say, “As soon as you get an IQ.” And if the person asking me that question is someone I don’t want to offend, I say, “We’re saving up for it.”

My boyfriend—let’s call him Wynn—and I have been together for eight years now—longer than over half the Hollywood marriages these days—and in fairness to those who have seen us dating for so long, the question does beg to be answered.

At thirty, if you’re a woman in the Philippines—where the median marrying age is 24—you’re supposed to be married. You should also have at least one child by now, and if you’re like approximately 60% of the female population, you will have a job or at the very least, a small business of your own.

One out of three isn’t bad; I have a job. But my lack of spouse and offspring haven’t escaped anyone’s notice, and there are times when I feel constrained to explain myself, even though I think I shouldn’t have to. In the 70s, women usually married between the ages of 19 and 24; any later and she would be branded an old maid.

I’m thirtysomething, and by those standards, I should be despondent over my chances. But I’m not, and I’m not alone. More women are choosing to stay single—whether by choice (“I hate men!”) or circumstance (“How can I hate men when I haven’t had a boyfriend and I’m thirty-five already?”)—and there are many good reasons for doing so.

Let’s start with the legal side of things. Ideally, marriages are made between equal partners in the eyes of God. Note the word “ideally.” That’s because Philippine law favors men when it comes to marital perfidy; just for starters, if a woman is caught in bed with another man, her husband can get away with murder—literally. On the other hand, if he has a mistress, you can’t do anything unless he “lives with her scandalously.” (Hmm, must check with Wynn about that. Correct me if I'm wrong, dear.)

Worse, you’re up against culture. Pinoy males are expected to cheat, while women are required to remain faithful. I know my boyfriend hasn’t cheated on me, and I trust him, but the reality is that ours is not a typical partnership, because he views infidelity as a deal breaker. For being faithful to me, he is considered “whipped”. But the number of our male friends and acquaintances who cheat on their wives is such that I can only think of three who don’t…as far as we know.

Then let’s talk career. The higher the educational level attained by a woman, the more likely she is to marry late in life, if at all. It’s as simple as this—why marry someone who cannot relate to you on an intellectual level? Marriages may be made in heaven but a partner who thinks it was OK for US vice president Dan Quayle to be publicly stupid cannot maintain your respect for very long.

Add jealousy to that, and you’ve got a lethal combination. A woman I know who was rapidly climbing the ladder of success at work married to a man who couldn’t hold a steady job, mainly because he was only a college dropout. He became jealous, and his jealousy turned violent; she only found the courage to leave him when he began molesting their ten-year-old daughter, claiming it was his right because he had “made” the little girl.

You know that anecdote because it’s too familiar. Want to guess who got support from friends, parents, and the local place of worship? You know he did. And should the same thing happen to you, you’re likely to get the same treatment. In some religions, you’re expected to tolerate everything your husband dishes out—even physical abuse, in many cases, depending on the advising priest, pastor, or holy man—because he’s your husband. Too many religious practitioners are misogynistic, and favor men over women.

Then there’s the economy. I’m no expert, but it doesn’t take one to see that we’re in trouble, what with E-VAT, rising prices, and fewer job opportunities. Once women get a job, they tend to hang on and work hard because they have parents or siblings to support…and that puts a crimp on marriage plans, especially when she establishes herself and begins tasting the sweetness of success. It takes a very brave woman to give up an established career and plunge into marriage, because too many macho Pinoy males dislike having working wives.

A hidden statistic in the Philippines is that of marriages ending in separation (whether formal or informal) and annulment. One social worker I spoke to estimated that at least half of all marriages these days fail, whether they result in separation or in emotional estrangement. Surely women my age have seen this happen so often that they are afraid of risking themselves.

Of course who can forget the financial aspect? Marrying is no joke, and if you’re like me, your wedding will become a place to repay old debts and acknowledge your elders. Not exactly a recipe for success, and likely to be very expensive. A modest wedding these days can run up a tab of at least P 50,000…money which you might think could be better spent paying bills, buying appliances for your new home with your husband, and so on. Working for Wedding Essentials is sweet torture for me, because I see all the beautiful options for weddings which I probably can’t afford because I’m worried about buying a home and furnishing it while leaving something for me and Wynn to live on.

Sure, I dream about walking down the nave (not the aisle, please) in a frothy gown I’ll never wear again, with flowers galore and all the trappings…but when I wake up, reality bites me, literally, because I have to work for a living.

Wynn and I both believe that marriage is the ultimate commitment, and that probably explains why we’ve delayed for so long. I’ve done my share of soul-searching, and while I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t get married in a heartbeat, experience and my job has taught me that marriage isn’t a two-person production…it involves friends, relatives, and, if they arrive, children. That’s a lot of people to be beholden to, and it’s a serious responsibility.

In addition, I know I still have many issues to work out, both with him and with myself…and then perhaps I can get started with my issues with other people. That’s because I’ve seen so many impulsive marriages go wrong, with horrifying results. And when the casualties include small children, with ex-husband and in-laws holding them hostage to force the woman to do what they want, nobody wins, least of all the poor woman, against whom the deck is stacked…and how. I don’t want to be in that situation, and those women I know who are in it deserve better than that kind of putrid behavior from people who are supposed to love them.

I’m both fascinated with and afraid of romance, because it gives women too many expectations, and puts a lot of unnecessary pressure on men. While stories of whirlwind marriages fascinate me, I choose to continue working on myself to be a better person. That way, I bring something into a lifetime partnership.

When I get married, I would like to bring someone into that marriage who is stable—emotionally, physically, and financially—and willing to make the many compromises marriage entails, and that someone will be me. I also want to be very sure that my husband accepts me completely and loves me because of and despite all my faults.

That’s a lot to ask of any person, and even though nothing in this world is an absolute certainty, I want to be sure that when I append my husband’s last name to mine, it’s because I’m proud of being his partner, and not because I’m afraid my biological clock is winding down, or because it’s expected of me, or because I’m afraid of growing old alone. Marriage is hard enough without bringing unrealistic expectations into it. The bottom line is, I want to get married when I know and feel that the time is right. Perhaps then Wynn and I will be able to make a true partnership that will not wind up as a pair of broken hearts in the wayside of life.

Labels: rants, relationships

This is not a happy post.

Our neighbor's cat, a big, orange bruiser named Dexter, was brought to the animal hospital last night, and I can only wonder what kind of a human animal could have done what was done to him.

A little background. Dexter is the neighborhood bully, an incorrigible wanderer who regularly swaggered into our garage and used our cats for punching bags. But, though my dad, Matumila, and I sometimes fantasized about kebab-ing him, it stayed at that: a fantasy. We eventually resorted to throwing water on him every time we saw him to stop him from beating on our cats.

But it was hard to stay mad at the orange bugger. He would roll around and bump against us affectionately, and once, when I was subjecting him to harsh language as a result of his latest go-round with our oldest cat, he exposed his tummy and squeezed his eyes at me. He liked people; he could sometimes be seen hanging around the neighborhood drunks or the late-night workers, getting their attention and affection. He just, well, didn't like other cats, except for his own mother.

A few days ago, his owner summoned me in a tizzy; I have a somewhat undeserved reputation in our area as an animal health expert. Dexter was a sorry sight; his fur had been scraped off in several places, exposing the pink skin under it. He was limping, and could only utter a faint meow when I checked on him. I thought he'd been run over; but two details didn't compute. His whiskers had curled and kinked, almost as though someone had crimped them with a hot iron. And he had a strange injury around the butt area. I gave the owner some vitamins and advised her to feed him more protein for healing. I also asked her to check on his bowel and urination movements.

Last night, they rushed him to the animal hospital. Dexter could not, had not moved his bowels since he came home injured.

I won't mince words. The vet said he'd been sodomized, possibly with a knife. Hot water had been poured on him, and he'd been scalded as well. He had some broken bones to boot.

Why didn't they just kill him? This just proves that I am right when I say that there is no such thing as human dignity as far as some people are concerned. They're worse than animals; animals don't rape or torture other animals (although a mouse in the clutches of a playful cat might disagree with me).

Those creatures just like to pretend we're better than other animals. I firmly believe that one of the reasons why this country cannot pull itself out of the mire its in is its citizens' inability to respect life. Pinoys pollute. Pinoys mistreat animals. Pinoys prey on those who are perceived to be weak : we make fun of the handicapped, the hurt, the fat, the unhappy...anyone they can lord it over.

My best proof that there are those among us who are truly lower life forms? I once had to work with a woman who had been raped by her husband in front of their eldest son. I saw the pictures of what they'd done; they'd not only split her wide open, they'd also used her vagina for an ashtray. That man--his last name was Magat, and if you run a hotel, do NOT hire this bastard--then invited his son to join the "festivities" when he was done. The boy happily joined in. Their case is pending at the QC RTC right now. The ugly part is, this man has turned all four children against the woman, and her children believe that she "asked for it." Animals follow the strong, and human animals are no better; that's why the Marcoses got away for so long with their rape of the country.

I feel angry and helpless, and that's a horrible feeling. Polar Bearball told me that I couldn't save all the animals who are abused in this country. But damn it and fuck it all. Why do people have to do these things? The Koran teaches us to respect animals; a lovely story I heard once was about the Prophet cutting off his sleeve instead of disturbing his sleeping cat. The Bible clearly states that we are responsible for all life on this planet. I know of no legitimate religion that teaches people to hurt animals. Plus, in my studies of abnormal psychology, nearly every serial killer started out by abusing animals.

It's a very short leap from abusing that cat to abusing a human being. I am angry and frustrated because tonight, I will go to bed, and, just a few houses away, so will a lower life form who will, someday, decide to set his sights on bigger prey. I can only pray that it won't be me.

I curse you, lower life form who abused Dexter. I curse you to suffer greatly in your life. May you always be disappointed in even your smallest hopes. You will always be shunned by people and animals alike, and you will die alone. This curse can only be lifted once you devote at least one lifetime to taking care of animals, and once you understand what you have truly done.

Labels: animal abuse, rants

(This one's coming out in a book, but I would love to hear reactions to it from fellow oppressed fatties. Or oppressed thinnies-who-think-they're-fatties.)

You Know I Know I’m Fat (So Stop Telling Me That!)

You know what bugs me during social occasions, or random run-ins at the mall, grocery, and other places? When some distant relative, former colleague/classmate, or acquaintance comes up to me and says, “Ang taba-taba mo!” (You’re so fat!) in the same tone of voice s/he would use to exclaim over news of a deadly disease (yours), or a juicy social scandal (involving you), or faux pas (guess whose?). Others decide to give you an insult and a “witticism” in one go, something like, “So, has the pavement cracked under you lately?” Aforesaid wit then cracks up with laughter, while you feign a smile and think happy thoughts to keep from being locked up for Murder One.

You’re not supposed to get mad; if you do, you’re a poor sport, because the joke was about something that was true—after all, you are undeniably big. Apparently, for these kinds of people, the comment is intended as a social greeting, a substitute for “Hello, how are you?” The victim of such remarks is supposed to smile and pretend to be ashamed of his or her size, even when undertones of derision and malice accompany the aforesaid comment on his or her weight.

I’ve had it with both approaches, and I have a question. Why is it “socially acceptable” to insult an overweight person in this manner, while it is bad manners to tell someone, “You’re crippled?” Following the logic of the joker in the situation above, if that joker has a noticeably huge wart, then shouldn’t it be funny to tell that person in return, “You have a wart!” because it is true? I’ve been told that it’s not the same; physical defects and handicaps aren’t funny. Furthermore, retaliation is “mere revenge,” not “true wit.” If you can pry apart the logic in all that, do drop me a line; I know I can’t fathom it.

Why is fat funny, and why is it OK to make fun of fat people while expecting them to be good sports about it? The same people who laugh heartily at fat jokes, however, often refuse to make fun of the handicapped or the ugly to their faces, invoking “decency” and “good manners” as their excuse. Last time I checked, everyone, regardless of race, creed, gender, or avoirdupois, was entitled to a fair amount of decency and good manners from their fellows.

I believe in keeping my country beautiful, so I don’t spit, fart, or urinate in public. I don’t litter, and neither do I run around naked. Yet the way the self-appointed “fat police” talk, you’d think I’d befouled the atmosphere in some singularly unpleasant way.

I’m offended when someone tells me that I am fat in a way that makes fun of me, or in a snotty manner, or in a way calculated to put me down in front of an audience. (By this please note that I exclude those who tell you you're fat but are just tactless and/or clueless. See below for details)Ever notice how people who tell you that you’re fat will do so in a loud voice at a public place? Seems they want people to know that they know I’m fat. Little do they know, I know I’m fat too.

I also know that I am an intelligent and fairly objective person; therefore, my opinions are likely to be well-thought out. So when I say that being fat is also a handicap, be assured that I have a good reason for saying so. I’ve done the research, and I’ve gone to the experts.

People who tell you that you’re fat by way of a social greeting labor under several misconceptions, and one of these misconceptions is that being fat is a deliberate choice rather than the result of a medical condition or some cosmic accident. While chocolate addictions, junk food habits, and overeating certainly do not fall under either category, I’m pretty sure that most people have a reason (albeit maybe not a good one) for being fat—and this certainly isn’t to offend other people with their fatness. (If your sole reason for being fat is to make life miserable for others, trust me, you need help.) So for the enlightenment of those who don’t know why the “taba” comment is offensive (and can’t understand why), here are my explanations. Caution: Harsh language ahead. Bring smelling salts if you like telling people that they’re fat.

a. I am oblivious to the spare tire/s bunched up under my 24-inch waist and am enjoying being fat way too much

Like being fat is easy? Does anybody here think that I gained weight just for the joy of offending everyone who thinks fat people are a travesty? That I looked at my 130 pound self a few years ago and decided that it simply wouldn’t do and I just had to gain an extra 1, 2, 300 pounds? When a person I barely know (or haven’t seen in over a decade, and am not close to) suddenly blurts that “Taba!” phrase, s/he wants me to reply, “Thank you ever so kindly for your help. I never noticed how my resemblance to a killer whale is becoming patently obvious. I am forever in your debt.”

What do these people expect me to do? Smile sheepishly, say, “Oh, you caught me!” then wriggle out of the 44-42-48 fat suit that’s concealing my 36-24-36 body?

Is there anyone out there who seriously believes it is always fun to be fat? Then let me tell you about one of my (many) problems with being fat. When the only places to find ready-to-wear clothes in my size are the Surplus Shop (where the choices are between “tacky but fits” and “looks good fits lousy”) and expensive maternity salons, I know I have a serious problem.

Some friends advise me to try men’s sizes, insisting that unisex can now be feminine (a contradiction in terms if there ever was one). But men’s clothes are built differently for a very important reason: men buy them. Hence, polo buttons strain at the breasts or result in strange necklines. Crotches in men’s slacks that pinch and nip in exactly the wrong places. You get Bozo The Clown denim jeans hems you’ll never be able to pass off for hip-hopping style.

I have a theory about dressing rooms: they were invented by the fashion mafia to shame unsuspecting fatties like me into losing weight. Why else do they reflect an extra 10, 20, 100 pounds? Plus, who is that lumpy person in the mirror? Oh drat, it’s me. I’ve got gravity to thank for that.
When gravity interferes with the body, the effect is called “sagging,” and for some reason, sagging appears to occur best in the breast, stomach, upper arm, and butt regions. These are, by the way, the least flattering places for sagging to occur, and when one is unable to conceal said effects of gravity in aforesaid places, disaster results.

Everyone subscribes to the belief that beauty is only skin deep. Inner beauty and all that yadda-yadda. If that is so, then fat is merely the camouflage under which I conceal my goddess-like interior (and in that case, be afraid. Be very afraid; there’s room in my skin for a pantheon of goddesses).

An interesting comment I get often is this: "Sayang, ang ganda ng mukha mo, pero ang taba mo. (You're pretty but you're fat)" I have no idea what to make of it, so I take it as a compliment. But why should my fatness be the focus of attention instead of my allegedly pretty face?

If the Orca-sized human trash on the Jenny Jones and Jerry Springer shows are convinced that they are beautiful, and that the problem lies in the eye of the beholder, then certainly walrus-sized me can be considered better-looking. Plus, I know I’ve got a better attitude; I don’t feel the need to bare my jumbo-sized booty on national television to find self-fulfillment.

But it is depressing to live in a society where liposuction is a status symbol, and “Salamat, Dok!” is a popular catchphrase. There are no large women who can be looked up to as icons of style, fashion, or whatever in Philippine society, and women like Nanette Inventor are considered objects for ridicule, regardless of their obvious talent. Here, “fat” is right up there with “easy,” “palengkera,” and “nagger” on the list of undesirable traits in a woman.

I think this is because fatness is seen as a sign of weakness, particularly the inability to control one’s appetite for the sake of “looking good.” Animals see weakness as a sign to attack; human animals aren’t much better, except the weapon of choice is the phrase, “Ang taba-taba mo!”

Wish I were in America. There, you can sue McDonald’s for making you fat. (But let's be real here. Like they had a gun to those kids' heads when they ate those burgers and fries?) Pretty but plump women have a viable career as plus-size models. There are plenty of big women (and women considered big but who are simply normal-sized) getting media attention and respect over there: Queen Latifah, Drew Barrymore, Camryn Manaheim, Rosie O’Donnell, Star Jones, Kirstie Alley, and Liv Tyler (Note that I skipped Roseanne Barr. She's scary). I don’t think of them as having “lost” the battle of the bulge; rather, they have decided that the love of one’s body is an important part of the love of the self. I’m sure they still have issues to work through, but what is important is that they’ve decided that their humanity does not rest in how low they can drop the needle on the weighing scale.

b. It is so easy to lose weight!

The immediate corollary to this is, “Any idiot can do it!” Thus, following the same logic, are skinny people idiots? I think not; I happen to know a lot of skinny people. Those who are my friends are blessed with several important things: brains, the ability to overlook my size, and the wisdom to shut up when it comes to giving me advice on losing weight. It is, after all, my body, and they never assume that I’m not trying hard enough. They’ve seen me try. Hard.

I’ve wrestled with trainers and machines in gyms, then gotten shoved into Turkish saunas to sweat out the fats and toxins in my body. I’ve been mauled with “cellulite-dissolving massages” from women who must have been hired from some S&M parlor. I’ve been hooked up to machines that send out mild electric shocks in hopes of banishing my appetite or dissolving fat, and drunk herbal teas that make me set up camp in the bathroom. I’ve gone on diets where packaging of the “food” items tastes better. I’ve been to psychologists; attended seminars; surfed the Net for information; and in desperation, I’ve bought books on weight-loss and followed them. It was only later that I discovered that I have a hormonal imbalance that defeats most of my efforts to lose weight. But good luck explaining that to those kinds of people; they think you’re making excuses.

I know more about weight loss and healthy lifestyles than these Taba-mouthing louts ever will. One ill-intentioned idiot once told me to skip one meal a day, preferably breakfast, to save calories. Another one told me that it was unladylike to exercise; I’d get all these "icky bulges" on my body; it was some time before I figured out she meant “muscles.” I wanted to explain to the former that skipping meals is part of what made me fat in the first place, and to the latter that noticeable muscles are generally taken to be a sign of good health, but decided to save my breath. Pearls before swine, you know.

There’s a good reason why people are told to consult their doctors before beginning a diet, an exercise routine, or some other hazardous activity: because losing weight is a serious undertaking, not for the proverbial faint of heart. The last time I reported to my doctor about my gym activities, she gave me a long lecture on what I had done wrong. I got my period all of a sudden after beginning exercise; several expensive tests later, we discovered that I had polycystitis and needed to ease off on the exercise until I could take the medication which would keep me from bleeding. Unfortunately the medication made me fat and homicidal. Can you can see the merry-go-round this situation ends with?

Motivation is for weight loss is fairly easy; all I have to do is go to a dressing room and try anything on. Or I can try sitting down in your standard movie theater seat. Failing that, I can also strip in front of a mirror and look at my backside (I happen to like the front view, though). Thinking my problem was motivation, my mom offered me a premium of five hundred bucks per pound lost. I made about ten thousand in one month, but I blew it all on whirlwind trips to a doctor (for the dizzy spells), a chiropractor (for those nagging back pains), and a masseuse (for everything else that hurt). My doctor told me to take it easy and to lose, at most, only three to five pounds a month.

Another thing to think about is that it is more expensive to lose weight than it is to gain or maintain it. Take breakfast, a meal which no serious weight-loss aspirant can afford to skip. Low-fat/carbohydrate and sugar-free meal replacements cost the equivalent of a good blouse at Greenhills; is it any wonder that the cheap meals at KFC are hard to resist in these times?

Gyms cost about one-fifth of my monthly salary per month, and don’t get me started on personal trainer’s, nutritionist’s and doctor’s fees. Phooey on fat-reduction pills and treatments; does the word “quack” mean anything to you?

No, the best way to lose weight is to exercise regularly and eat healthy under the supervision of a medical professional. The exercise is free; vigorous housework and walking will do the job fine. But the “eating healthy” and “competent medical supervision” part is no joke to someone on a shoestring budget. Just walk through any Healthy Options store and look at the prices. I bet you’ll find yourself wondering if you can just laugh yourself skinny. (Been there, done that, doesn’t work.)

c. Their comment is made in the spirit of “knowing what’s best” (for whom?)

Doctors are eminently qualified to tell me what’s best for me when it comes to my fat. I have yet to hear one say “Ang taba-taba mo!” in the same spirit as the know-it-alls who think I need help when it comes to my weight. When a friend of mine, Tatel, who is a doctor, found out that I had a high blood sugar level, he advised me to have a full checkup, ultrasound included. He told me to tell my doctor to test for polycystitis, underactive thryroid, and depression, and concluded with, “We doctors cost money. I’m just giving you the shortcuts, to save time and money.”

This guy obviously knew what I needed, and had the best in mind for me. Yet he certainly didn’t feel the need to make a joke at my expense. Words are never louder than actions; people who have to insult you in the name of “what’s best” for you really do not care about you.

We know the truth: the featherbrains who think this way and talk down to you usually want you to understand one thing: you are inferior to them, and they want you to know that. Telling someone they’re fat under the guise of knowing what’s best is, at best, the verbal equivalent of crocodile tears. They are mean-spirited because they are signs of gloating. Hypocrisy by any other name is just as offensive.

If someone wants you to lose weight, s/he can’t do better than my mom. She paid for my medical, food, and gym expenses, and praised me when I lost weight. Now that is good for my body and my soul. I will never subscribe to the belief that an insult can be something good in disguise. I know me better, and I’m telling those know-it-alls now that insults and mocking laughter cannot be seen in any way by an intelligent person as a form of help. If someone feels the need to laugh at me, insult me for my being fat and judge me based on a single aspect of who I am, guess what: I also have the same right. My conclusion is, that kind of a person is soulless and shallow. I can afford to be magnanimous, though, and if you’re ever confronted by this kind of buttwipe, remember that s/he only uses the “Taba!” phrase to put you down as a stopgap for their rampaging insecurities. Take pity on their inability to see that people are worth more than the sum of their parts. Fat is only a single part of what a person is. There’s still the heart, the soul, and the sense of humor…and even then, these only touch the tip of the iceberg of what a person truly is.

Labels: overweight, rants