Twinklings

Today, someone told me: it's not the breath you take every moment, but the moments that take your breath away. I'm not quite sure I got that right, but it's a beautiful thought, nevertheless.

There's a fairy tale-ish element in those lovely, ephemeral three winks when you simply have to gasp (in awe, amazement, or pleasure), that stay with you long after they're over, sights as simple as:

a scarlet bloom amidst luxurious green;

the twilit sky, bursting into orange and red, with velvet, ashen evening in the background, ready to wrap the world in its gigantic embrace;

a child's wide-eyed and toothy smile, full of joy and trust;

that of you, walking back home and laughing at that most recent, silly moment, your hair blowing and your chuckle floating in the afternoon breeze...

May you have one such moment today.
Have a great weekend!

Lit Geek update #11: Italo Calvino's "The Daughters of the Moon"

I read this story over at TheNewYorker.com.
It puzzled me, but this paragraph, I think, would best encapsulate what it is the story is trying to tell:

"In this world where every object was thrown away at the slightest sign of breakage or aging, at the first dent or stain, and replaced with a new and perfect substitute, there was just one false note, one shadow: the moon. It wandered through the sky naked, corroded, and gray, more and more alien to the world down here, a hangover from a way of being that was now outdated..."

And then, follows another brilliant paragraph:

"Ancient expressions like “full moon,” “half-moon,” “last-quarter-moon” continued to be used but were really only figures of speech: how could we call “full” a shape that was all cracks and holes and that always seemed on the point of crashing down on our heads in a shower of rubble? Not to mention when it was a waning moon! It was reduced to a kind of nibbled cheese rind, and it always disappeared before we expected it to. At each new moon, we wondered whether it would ever appear again (were we hoping that it would simply disappear?), and when it did reappear, looking more and more like a comb that had lost its teeth, we averted our eyes with a shudder..."

Sheer genius. Just the mere thought of the moon dying... Won't that change everything the way we've known them to be?

The story ends with these lines:

"...we realize that now is when life begins, and yet it is clear that what we desire we shall never have."

Pessimism is Ugly.

Looking at the sky still shakes my faith, at times. Its vastness warps its beauty.

Sloughing the Jigglies: Action plan #1

For breakfast, NO RICE.
For lunch, pig-out.
For dinner, yoghurt.


Yeah, sorry, I can't get rid of the pig-out thingie. I told myself that even if I went on a diet, I will have to binge on at least one meal for the day, and lunch seems like the best time to do that.

You think this'll work?

Growing Up

Some years back, the sight of a plane in flight was a beautiful sign of good luck, a portent of something pleasant about to happen. Etched against the blue sky, the plane was my beacon of hope. It lifted me from my slump.

Now, I have realized that the only reason why I constantly see airplanes is this: I live near the airport. (Well, relatively)

Poop.

Parched

I am going through a dry--no, make that very dry--blogging spell right now.

It's been eons since I last posted an entry here. It's not like I haven't tried, though. It frustrates me to look at all the unfinished drafts staring back at me from my posting box. They blink at me, waiting, waiting, waiting for me to, maybe, click on "edit" and finish them, give them the shape they think they should have.

But, for the life of me, I couldn't. It's probably the stale, dusty winds in the workplace that are sucking my creative juices dry, not that I had much, to begin with. Too much reality for li'l ol' me, I guess.

I am waiting for the rains, summoning them whenever I manage to muster the strength to do so, eventually giving up because I always fail.

So this is all I'm publishing for now, though I wish it were something else.

I really do.

(image from here)

"What if this is as good as it gets?"

(photo from this site)

Awww... moment:

"I might be the only person on the face of the earth that knows you're the greatest woman on earth. I might be the only one who appreciates how amazing you are in every single thing that you do, and how you are with Spencer, "Spence," and in every single thought that you have, and how you say what you mean, and how you almost always mean something that's all about being straight and good. I think most people miss that about you, and I watch them, wondering how they can watch you bring their food, and clear their tables and never get that they just met the greatest woman alive. And the fact that I get it makes me feel good, about me."

-Melvin Udall to Carol Connelly, As Good as it Gets (1997)-



Sigh.

Running in Heels (or something like it)

One of my greatest fears is to trip on my heels in front of a crowd. (Oh, heaven forbid!)

Because of this, I try my best to be careful when I walk, as I am almost always in heels during work days. No casual spectator would notice, though, that I am being very ginger when I walk. As a result of constant practice, I have mastered the art of walking--even running--in heels.

When I was still working in Makati, there was this one lunch time where, with a single-minded goal to be in on time, a paper bag of burgers and fries in hand and my hair flying in several directions, I had to run a block in three-inch stilettoes, nudging strangers along the way, ejecting mumbled apologies here and there.

Now, thanks to the relative laid-backness of Alabang (though it's fast on its way to rivalling Makati in pace), I have somehow avoided having to run a block in a race against time. The most I do right now is to sprint from the car to the office elevator, muttering expletives (to myself) for not having woken up earlier than the 75 minute-allowance which should have been, at least, an hour and a half, if I had wanted to spare my feet from more varicose veins and my shoes from premature wear-and-tear.

I am aware that I am a walking recipe for foot and leg injury, but this is the point I really wanted to make, and which I will pose in question form: how do you equate running in heels to the highs and lows of life?

:)

Poor Dolphins!

Did you hear about the hundreds of Melon-head dolphins who got stranded in the shallow waters of Manila Bay?

Such sad news, the poor creatures. Hope they get back to safe waters soon.

(Thanks, Wowoo, for the update)

I am a Wolf

That's according to Native American astrology. This is my first contact with Native American astrology and I must say I'm intrigued.

I visited what's-your-sign.com and it has this to say about people like me:

Wolf: Feb 19 – Mar 20
Deeply emotional, and wholly passionate, the Wolf is the lover of the zodiac in both the physical and philosophical sense of the word. The Wolf understands that all we need is love, and is fully capable of providing it. Juxtaposed with his/her fierce independence – this Native American animal symbol is a bit of a contradiction in terms. Needing his/her freedom, yet still being quite gentle and compassionate – we get the picture of the "lone wolf" with this sign. In a nurturing environment the Wolf is intensely passionate, generous, deeply affectionate, and gentle. Left to his/her own devices the Wolf can become impractical, recalcitrant, obsessive, and vindictive.

Hmm... "impractical, recalcitrant, obsessive, and vindictive."

Very interesting.

Go, visit the site to check out your sign:

Otter: Jan 20 - Feb 18
Wolf: Feb 19 – Mar 20
Falcon: Mar 21 – Apr 19
Beaver: Apr 20 – May 20
Deer: May 21 – Jun 20
Woodpecker: Jun 21 – Jul 21
Salmon: Jul 22 – Aug 21
Bear: Aug 22 – Sep 21
Crow/Raven: Sep 22 – Oct 22
Snake/Serpent: Oct 23 – Nov 22
Owl: Nov 23 – Dec 21
Goose: Dec 22 – Jan 19

Vapors

I still feel like I'm teetering on the edge of some high place. After the hell I had surpassed, I've begun to think of myself as someone who will steadily face each setting of the omnipresent sun.

Lately, the feeling that this may not be the case has been nagging me like some persistent echo.

In January 7, 2007, I wrote:

You probably know how it is, when that tiny wail clamped inside your chest balloons into a huge lump of painful, ear-splitting screams. For some of us, it's easy to let it out. Never mind that the odds of being heard by the people two doors away are ninety-nine to one. It's as easy as one, two, three, scream! Then it's all over and you feel a thousand times better where it used to hurt like needle-pricks.

For the less fortunate ones (namely, the repressed), shouting is out of the question. The thought of it just never comes, simply because it's not the natural instinct. We probably never learned the trick as children.We feel the gargantuan pain (and we're talking physical pain) shooting up from the chest to the throat and we push, push it downwards so that the effort makes breathing difficult. But we don't stop until we know for sure that we've dug deep enough to bury the scream.

And, with it, the pain.

And then the tears never really come.They have retreated, pushed down, as well. And we think, what a feat it has been, what sweetness in the strength of temperance, one more victory for the taking.

If it's victory or something else, I can never really be certain.

Wanderlust: 0%

People talk about scheduling (or coming back from) a trip to Singapore, Hong Kong or LA, climbing mountains and cruising down oceans, driving out of town, sunbathing in Galera, girl-watching in Bora, etc, etc.

People go places (or at least express the desire to) like it were the most wonderful thing in the world to be somewhere other than where one is.

And I wonder: why can't I be like them?

Yeah, I do want to experience what that eagerness to gallivant feels like. Truth is, there is an element of envy here (the innoccuous kind, that is), some sort of "can we trade places for a day?" thing.

Friends have invited me for a day or two at the beach, a trip to Phuket, a shopping pilgrimmage to Hong Kong. I've always had some difficulty saying "no," because with the "no" comes the prerequisite explanation why. How do I explain that the prospect of toasting in the sun has absolutely zero appeal to me, that the thought of skin aging (few of us are aware, and we will only see the effects later on, but skin aging does start early and the sun is one of the biggest culprits!) makes me shudder and avoid the sun as much as I can. A long trip, on the other hand, or one that would require me to pack and board a plane and land in a place where everything is strange, has never been a part of my life's itinerary.

This is not to say, though, that I am as boring as I sound. There is that occasional longing to go out (aside from the proverbial coffee with friends and shopping at the mall) and have a good time somewhere new. But again, the word is "occasional" and the supplementary adjective is "fleeting."

And people, of course, would start preaching about how I am missing half of my life and all that good stuff. How do I explain that I'd much rather stay where I am, that a real break, for me, means sleeping for 12 straight hours in my warm, cozy bed (just because for the longest time, I haven't really had enough sleep), that a cup of coffee and a good book, movie or magazine are enough to keep me company to the places I want to go to, and that, through the words I've read, I've actually already gone to the places I want to visit?

How do you explain that to people and expect them to understand? In the same way that I respect their desire--and need--to go to far places and satisfy that itch to see the world (or the blue of the beach, for that matter), I expect them, too, to respect my wish to be left at peace and, when prodded to accept an invite, not have the need to launch into an obligatory, lengthy (because too few words would mean not getting yourself across and having to explain even more) explanation and, worse, be forced to say yes to something I don't want.

I appreciate the fact that I still do get asked to go, proof that my friends do not hate my company all that much (lol).

Well, who knows, one distant day, in a cafe in Prague, you'll look up and feel a jolt to see me offering you a cup of coffee. Or, one Friday in Bora, you'll catch a glimpse of me, bikini-clad and tanned, cavorting with my friends under the hot, glorious sun.

Now, that'll be the day. I'm in stitches, just thinking about it.

;p

LITTLE VOICE

Buy it, buy it, buy it!

All the songs are gorgeous!

Work-o-rama

Work has been--still is, and will continue to be--insanely stressful.

I cannot believe that after a super hectic January, February promises to be just as loaded! I'm finding it maddening, trying to fit all my deliverables (plus ad hocs, to boot!) within an 8-hour shift. So far, I have been able to catch my breath every now and then, thank you, but tomorrow, I'm positive, will be different. I'm almost sure I won't have the time to exhale!

So, does the paycheck justify the stress?

Facebook na lang!
Weehee!

:)

Don't you just love these men?

How to Read a Poem

...
when I recall how I've dipped tenderness
into blood, into that never startled
soundless heartblood of things so loved

Toledo, November 1912
p. 25, Rainer Maria Rilke: Uncollected Poems
translated by Edward Snow



Revisiting Rilke, I realized that I'd almost forgotten how achingly beautiful poetry can be--how reading the words make images float, leaving one transfixed after taking them in.

Someone once told me, "teach me how to read this poem," and I said, "I cannot teach, nor show you, how to read poetry. You have to learn it on your own, and that would mean a lifetime of reading. Got that? A lifetime. Read. Drink the words in, turn them over in your mind, sketch and paint them in the colors that they speak to you. You may, or may not, see the story there is in the poem, the nuances in the language, the gradations in its meaning; your well of experiences, in turn, will be the scale that will measure the depth with which it speaks to you. Read, read the words, and love them. And then you would have taught yourself poetry."

Rabbit at Rest

"A & P," Rabbit, Run--I will best remember John Updike for this story and this novel.

He was one of the most prolific writers who lived and the Literary World will surely mourn his passing.

Lit Geek Update #10

Last book I read: Soledad's Sister by Jose Dalisay

This book ended my (relatively) long reading hiatus. Poring through its first page at a bookstore roused my slumbering lust for print on paper. I finished the novel in a jiffy because putting it down without having read it to the last page was difficult. The pepper was as much the absurdity of the image of a dead woman in an erroneously labeled casket brought home aboard a plane and the numerous, similarly absurd stories it brings together to its unlikely wake, as the author's signature masterful hand at language, plot and characterization. Butch Dalisay is "old school"-- and it is a school all lovers of Philippine Literature had better keep themselves in.

For some strange reason, the book made me think briefly of George Eliot's Middlemarch, what with the seemingly random lives that really interlace, the vivid introspection of life's sad ludicrousness and the seamlessness with which the novel's junctures are brought together.

The caustic wit and humor are all Dalisay's own.




What I'm reading now: Babel Tower by A.S. Byatt

Revisiting Rilke

For I don't think back; all that I am
stirs me because of you. I don't invent you
at sadly cooled-off places from which
you've gone away; even your not being there
is warm with you and more real and more
than a privation. Longing leads out too often
into vagueness. Why should I cast myself,
when, for all I know, your influence falls on me,
gently, like moonlight on a window seat.

Duino, late autumn 1911

p. 15

Wanted: Ella

Been scouring Amazon for Ella Fitzgerald albums. Oh, but there are just so many that I like!

Pure Ella: The Very Best of Ella Fitzgerald



Oh, Lady, Be Good! Best of the Gershwin Songbook



The Best of the Song Books: The Ballads



And these ain't even half of 'em yet!

Tequila, Sheena Easton, Caldereta

I am 28 years old; in a couple of months, I'll be 29.

Last night, over at Mae's place, I had my first taste of Tequila. Can you believe spending 28 long years in this planet and never having had Tequila?

Tequila made me grab the mic and sing Sheena Easton's "For Your Eyes Only."

I woke up this morning with a headache. I guess Tequila doesn't agree with me. Made me belt out the above James Bond theme, though. And I remember grinning stupidly for most of the night.

I turned in early. I really am so not the "let's-party-and-get-drunk" type.

The caldereta was awesome. I should have had more.

Soledad's Sister Over Coffee

I dropped by Greenbelt's Powerbooks yesterday and, instinctively, found my way to the Filipiniana section (love your own!). I spent quite some time browsing through Dean Alfar's A Kite of Stars, making a mental note to buy it the next time I visited a bookstore. I was still, due to time constraints brought on by work, in a reading hiatus and knew that I had to practice restraint if I didn't want one more book to gather dust on the shelf.

I gazed around to look at the other titles, saw a copy of Butch Dalisay's Soledad's Sister on a nearby shelf, picked it up, read the first page, checked the cash in my wallet and promptly headed to the cashier.

So much for restraint. It was just too good to resist.

I read a fourth of it at a nearby Starbucks (the lighting was poor, but I didn't care), sparing a couple of minutes to preach to my friend (who's not that into Philippine Lit.) that he should read the book I was reading if he wanted his opinion of Filipino writers to change. "Read Dalisay, for heaven's sake. This book was shortlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize!" I told him and, satisfied that I had made my point, happily slouched back into my chair to read.

Guess this means the reading is on again. And, boy, does it feel awfully good!

Happy Birthday, Mommy

“Youth fades, love droops, the leaves of friendship fall; a mother's secret hope outlives them all.”
-Oliver Wendell Holmes

Remembering Heath

A year ago, he said goodbye.

More Mercury Retrograde Spoils

Last night, in the office, everyone was going crazy over how much work there was for us, as the on-shore team had sent word that they were experiencing "heavy" technical difficulties. As if we didn't have enough system issues, ourselves.

I spent much of the day running around, making sure that everything was in place.

And the rest of the time, I preached about how all these shit was happening because of Mercury Retrograde.

By now, I've pretty much become a pseudo-expert at explaining the said phenomenon to people who were interested enough to listen. And you'd be surprised at their number.

I'd loudly put the blame on Mercury Retrograde and then someone (or two, or three) would go, "Mercury what?" And then I'd launch into an exposition of what it is and then, prodded on by the interest in their eyes, I'd give examples of actual incidents related to it and then they'd go, "really?" and I'd go on some more.

La-la-la.

Thank heavens it's the start of my weekend.
Don't buy a new cell phone just yet, folks. Wait 'til February 2nd.

Happy Thursday!
:)

I love: Mika Dress by Rachel Roy

The black lace and bow detail are just lovely!



*photo from Shopbop.com, via Just a Formality.

Movie on my mind: Slumdog Millionaire

Ignorant fool that I was, I had fully expected a "small" film, so the grand scale of the movie that greeted me (and lingered long) was anything but. The vividness of the story was breathtaking (the squalor! the beauty!) and the path it took certainly had me glued (very Dickensian, according to a friend).

I had no plans of watching and was, initially, just taking peeks at the screen, but the poetic depiction of the ugliness in the brutal, truer-than-life scenes--slaughter, the slums, hunger, crime--turned the peeks to awe-struck (no exaggeration intended) attention. And the rest, as they say, is history.

The unconventional treatment of the material and the cinematic effects employed were some of the tell-tale signs that it was fiction. The acting, though, was so superb, it didn't seem like acting, at all. Until now, I am still prodded to ask whether, indeed, Dev Patel, et al, were really just acting.


(Dev Patel as "Jamal Malik" and Freida Pinto as "Latika")

Could it have been their lives that were being lived in those frames?


(Director Danny Boyle and actress Freida Pinto)

This Danny Boyle film deserved its Golden Globe Award and you'll definitely be missing a lot if you don't watch it.

So, go. Watch. Now.

Tagaytay Friday

Friday, January 17, 2009: It was freezing in Tagaytay and my team braved the cold... but only for so long.
Philstar.com says, "Tagaytay City temperature is 15.8 degrees Celsius" and Chuvaness contemplates the extra chilly weather "...in what must be the coldest night of the year." And we had chosen this day, of all days, to go up the highlands! Brrrr!

@ Picnic Grove: It was tolerably chilly in the early afternoon.

And we stuffed ourselves silly with Amber's pichi-pichi and barbecue.

The wind started to get really fierce as the afternoon wore on, though.

And the wind blew on, angrier, as evening drew near. My hair became extremely tangled you could hear the crunch when I combed it.

Solution: a cap. (My cam was acting up at this point)

Tagaytay by twilight. Photography by Wowoo Rañada.

Dinner at Dencio's capped the night for some. Here, Val and Cha were prodding me to look serene for a candid shot. In truth, I was shivering to my bones. Through chattering teeth, I was muttering, "hurry up! Shoot already!"

The real night cap was coffee at Starbucks. By then, though, we were too cold to take pics and one of us asked, in jest, of course, "is this Tagaytay or Alaska?"

Imagine what the Eskimos' life must be like!

I Love: Escada Moon Sparkle

From nordstrom.com:

Escada 'Moon Sparkle' Eau de Toilette Spray -- A fruity floral fragrance, with sparkling strawberry and red apple notes. Top notes: strawberry, blackcurrant, citrus cocktail, red apple. Middle notes: sweet pea, freesia, jasmine, rose. Base notes: raspberry, musky notes, sandalwood, dry ambery notes.

Could it be Mercury Retrograde?

PCs in the office have been going bonkers, with people complaining about system issues coming up more frequently than before. I'd usually shrug it off and say "must be Mercury Retrograde. Restart and if it doesn't work, call IT and use a different PC in the meantime."

And they'd usually go, like, "Mercury what?"

As per Dictionary.com, the word "retrograde," in astrology, means: a. moving in an orbit in the direction opposite to that of the earth in its revolution around the sun; or b. appearing to move on the celestial sphere in the direction opposite to the natural order of the signs of the zodiac, or from east to west.

According to astrologyweekly.com, Mercury goes retrograde 3 times a year, with each event lasting for 3 weeks; one such event is happening now, from from January 11, 2009 to February 1, 2009. The site further has this to say about the phenomenon:

"Mercury rules over the mind's processes, studying, communication, businesses, travels and the like. When Mercury reverses its direction, all these areas are affected as well.

The mind turns naturally inwards and people tend to analyze more the own thoughts and follow the common thinking patterns, rather then be curious and eager of new intellectual experiences or challenges. This helps the meditation or the thorough lonely long-term study of a specific matter, but it affects the study of new subjects, the communication with the others, the attention oriented outwards.

Businesses, travels and communications tend to experience delays and different problems. Computers and other processes that work with information may experience crashes, unexpected failures.

Don't enroll to courses, don't buy expensive Mercurian items (books, cars, mobile phones etc.), don't sign important contracts and do not marry."

Cool.

Except that things have been happening lately that made me think twice about this "phenomenon" (is it the real thing?). Aside from the unusually slow PCs in the work place, a friend's PS2 recently conked out on him. My Dad mentioned that their PC at home isn't working. Plus, it's been especially difficult to turn my mind toward positive thinking (not that this is new, though, but the level of difficulty has noticeably gone up, and I am not pleased).

Be warned, then. Should either your phone or your significant other start going berserk, don't be surprised.

It's Mercury Retrograde.

Beef Stroganoff with Portobello Mushrooms

YUMMY! Gimme my lunch!

(click here for the recipe)

Lovin' Amel Larrieux

In one of my web-surfing frenzies, I discovered American indie soul and R&B singer-songwriter Amel Larrieux's music and, eventually, I got hooked. I can't get enough of her album Lovely Standards (my faves are "If I Loved You," "Younger Than Springtime," "Shadow of Your Smile," and "Something Wonderful"). Equally addictive are Infinite Possibilites ("Infinite Possibilities" and "Make Me Whole") and Morning ("No One Else"), which is her highest-charting album to date.

Larrieux is jazz and R & B and funk, an artist to reckon with, one of mah gurlz, a gem of a musical find.

Try her.
:)

Check out: NACION

Another Win

Last night, I collected my prize for another bet I had recently won against one of my favorite opponents in debates, Wowoo. The deal was that if I won, he was gonna buy me coffee, so I asked for a tall (I should have asked for grande, darn it) cup of Starbucks latte in White Mocha Mocha.

We were arguing, last Saturday, about The 38th Parallel, the dividing line between North and South Korea. Wowoo said its name was "38th degrees Parallel" while I stuck to my guns with "The 38th Parallel."

Oh, how sweet victory is.

And bragging rights, sweeter.
:)

Lovin' Angie Stone

Today I discovered Angie Stone's 2007 album The Art of Love and War and am currently falling in love with it.

From Amazon:

"There's something of the Barry White's and the Marvin Gayes', the Aretha Franklin's and the Stevie Wonder's about the musical arrangements, but she avoids the nostalgia pitfall, and makes cool classy sensational soul music for a new generation.
This album -- sure to be marked down as one of the year's most genuinely soulful -- is consistently good throughout but highlights are The steppers "Baby", featuring Betty Wright, the duet beat ballad "Half A Chance'" and the hypnotic mid tempo "Make It last" are all excellent on this great album."

Some of my favorite tracks: "Take Everything In," "Play With it" and "Wait For Me."

Benjamin Button

Fitzgerald's 1921 short story is much more poignant and infinitely sadder than the movie.

I loved both, though a friend and I agreed that the film needed some cutting down on some parts.

Read and watch!

Goodbye, Gimli

My brothers' Dachshund, Gimli, died today of Kidney failure. He was confined in the animal clinic for 3 days, where he, according to my Dad, fought bravely.

He will be missed.

He was loved, was a source of delight to my kids, and I'm almost sure my brother, Earl, shed tears for the little creature, in the same way that he cried when his beloved Golden Retriever, Neo, died some years ago.

Farewell!

Marvelous Mac and Cheese

I did a double-take when I saw this mac-and-cheese pic over at ontheflyingtrapeze. And there's a recipe, to boot.



Mouth-watering!

Looking at the picture made me crave for mac and cheese but the closest I could have was a bag of chiz curls (shaped like macaroni and coated with cheese). lol

Snagged: How to Dress Like a French Woman

There's this ultra chic post from Joanna about a recent correspondence she had with Garancedore, which I couldn't resist posting here. It's a delightful exchange (Q and A) about what makes the French woman different, about what makes the French woman. Period.

Stuff like: having a penchant for wearing stripes, black and gray; the love for clothes-layering; the choice to wear their hair long; being partial to wearing jeans, skirts and dresses over leggings; choosing heels over flats (loved this bit!); how to achieve "that French je ne sais quoi."

Not that I have a secret longing to be French, though. I just find them tres chic et mystérieux!

Isn't this illustration just lovely?



Click on the links! They're both superb bloggers.
;p

Shoes-ing: The death of the favorite pair

This morning, I woke up with the darkest, most hideous-looking under-eye circles ever. I mean, I've always had dark circles under my eyes but today's were fabulously ash gray! Oh, but the rice-Spanish sardines-white bagoong from Bicol combo breakfast made me forget them for a while. Yummy! (oh, but the pounds, ulk!)

Anyway, the above was a totally unrelated topic to the true subject of my post, which is something I had meant to blog about for the longest time, but just never came around to actually doing so. I'm talking about my all-time favorite shoes, which died a few weeks ago. They were actually dying many months before but I was in such a state of denial that I refused to acknowledge this fact and insisted on still wearing them even if they must've already been crying in agony for rest.

See, this Janilyn pair has been with me for years and years now and we've been through so many ups and downs together, seen tough times and happy times, rain and shine. I mean, we haven't always been the best of friends (the first few times I wore them, my feet spelled pain and blisters) but after the breaking-in period, everything became smooth-flowing. This pair had been my salvation whenever I found myself late for work and with no time to look for the shoes that matched my outfit as it looks good with practically anything.

I must've worn them to death, and now they're dead. Dead as dead can be, with no hope of ever coming back.

Just two weeks ago, I tried them on after dressing up, thinking, maybe it'll still work, just one last time. But sadly, when I slipped them on, I had the horrible feeling that the shoes were about to crumble so I gave up. Finally.

So I bought myself a new pair with the same color to make the grieving period a little easier.

It's a Charles and Keith pair, this time.


(left-the dead shoes; right-the new pair)

And while we're on the subject of shoes, the holidays brought me 4 pairs (3 pumps from Charles and Keith and dirt-cheap lace-up espadrilles from Artwork).



The maroon pair on the right was a gift from my co-wroker and dear, dear friend, Sheila. I love!

I still miss my old fave, though. But I know I have to move on, and move on, I will.