Happiness is...

balmy breeze on a mild Friday afternoon, a cup of very hot, very strong coffee, a book of beautifully-written poetry.

Life is, indeed, what you make it.

Little Mio

I honestly cried--no, sobbed--when I came across this little boy's story on his mom's blog.
He's a 5-year-old kid. Why him?

Gastronomical Blah

I have, fairly recently, given up on the Double Tall Mocha Espresso I consistently order on every Starbucks visit. I've known it all along--that this drink doesn't do anything to kindle my drowsy nerves--but have been in denial, so far. Well, I have had a change of heart and decided to switch to that most macho of macho coffees: the kapeng barako, Starbucks style. I couldn't do without the flavoring though (brewed coffee by Starbucks is E-V-I-L!), so I still make them put white chocolate mocha into the drink.

So far, that has been the only exciting thing to happen to my stomach (and my nerves) today. Lunch in the office was a bland affair of pork binagoongan (which I ordered without knowing what it was--it was too orange to be binagoongan); for snacks, it was a Strawberry-topped Danish which, due to the fact that I've been eating it almost daily for the past few weeks, has lost its excitement and novelty (such boring words!). I mean, I used to eat it with such gusto, but this morning, a third of it found its way into the trash can (the part where the custard and the strawberry jam was, to be more specific). Mom would probably berate me for throwing food away, with all the hungry people out there. Peace, Mommy! =)


I refuse to let this day end with my palate bored, or dissatisfied. After I post this, I shall whip out the Porky Best chicharon from its hiding place. There's Coke and ice in the ref, too. Ah, here comes the high-blood special, but what the heck.


What did you have for lunch?
=)

Kim

This afternoon, I lifted my 7-year-old so he could sit on the grocery cart. Boy, was he heavy! I had to do a take 2. We were both laughing during and after the exercise and as I gave him a kiss on the nose, I asked him, "when did you get so heavy, little boy?"

Does every blowing breeze take something away with it that it's gone before we even had the chance to know that a breeze had blown by? When we blink, does something get lost in the split second so that the something "disappears before our very eyes"? Are we such incognizant beings that moments get stolen from us under our very noses?

Questions.

I had to lift him out of the cart when it was time to pay at the cashier. For the briefest of moments, I held him close and took a whiff of his baby powder-scented cheek and whispered a silent prayer, "don't grow up so fast. Be mommy's baby for as long as you can."

And then he hugged me and tried to lift me. When I laughed, he said, "Mommy, when I'm older, I will lift you. Promise."

Sonnet XVII

-Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Nonsense-s

Friday was a good time to shop. Mainly because: a) lots of stores were on sale; b) I haven't shopped in quite a while; and c) the funds-available-and-nice-stuff-at-hand timing was perfect. It usually happens that when I'm on the look-out for stuff to buy, nothing good turns up in the stores or, when I spot pretty loots, the moolah is nada. what a bummer, right? Not last Friday, though. Still, I made sure I didn't overdo it. Stashed in just a pair of office trousers and a few nice tops.

Oh, and yeah, PCX is offering lotsa good deals right now with their Pond's, Neutrogena, Celeteque, etc. sale. Perfect timing because I had entered the store with the goal of replenishing my almost-empty tubes of moisturizer. It turned out they had a buy-one-take-one deal on the brand I use! Some really good and cheap buys right there.

Heehee. I've become a cheapskate. Which is a good thing, really.

Facebook application update: I am now playing Mob Wars.

to understand here was a clown

who didn’t know where he was,

a clown without a context?

What could be sadder, my friend thought,

than a clown in need of a context?


-from "If a Clown" by Stephen Dunn-

And just when I think I'm already tinkering with too many apps on Facebook,

along comes...


COUNTRY STORY!

It's so cute!
=)

My Sh_tty Week, In Review

I'm done reading The Manikin and will be moving on to Ann Patchett's Bel Canto next. I was trying to decide between that and Irene Nemirovsky's Suite Francaise but Bel's synopsis mentioned a soprano, which clinched the deal. The soprano will always come first.

Blah.

I had meant to enumerate the week's events. I just realized virtually none of them (except the book I finished) are worth enumerating, at all.

Because for some people, it would take only one dark event to cast a pall over everything else, to lend shadow to what began as a sunny morning, to cause a domino effect over the hours of a day, a week, a month. And yes, it could go on longer than that.

I will call this post "My Sh_tty Week, In Review" even if it would hardly pass for a review.

My Facebook is teeming with negative status updates. Am thankful to the friends who took notice and took time to offer consoling/sympathetic comments. I'm hoping to shake off from this rut soon.

How was your week?

Lit Geek Update #18:

Last book I read: They Went Whistling: Women Wayfarers, Warriors, Runaways, and Renegades by Barbara Holland--

For the recently emancipated woman, this book further cements her being an offspring of the pains, the struggles, the glories, and the conquests of the women who, before her, had dared to wear a pair of pants and go whistling down the lanes, under the occasionally glaring, often frowning beams of the sun. Read about history's giantesses Amelia Earheart, Bonnie Parker, Joan D'Arc, Cleopatra, Isadora Duncan, Belle Boyd, the Amazons, and more than a handful of lesser known women who trod the narrow path toward the freedom to truly look the world in the face and laugh, wickedly, while doing so.

What I'm reading right now:


The Manikin by Joanna Scott

"The winter of 1846, when half of everything alive succumbed to the cold, has been stored for over eighty years in the mysterious mind common to the species, and though the owl didn't experience that winter, she remembers it--the poisonous smell of the air, the frost that pinned feathers to skin, the famine. She remembers that time the way a woman remembers her great-grandmother's death in childbirth..."

-from the novel's first paragraph, p. 3-

A "Whatever" Thought

Anne Boleyn was 5"2' and flat-chested. Bonnie Parker Of the famed Bonnie and Clyde duo was just 5" and loved wearing red.

Small--er, petite--women are really something else.

Hahaha. Still, we wear heels.
WT.

Poetry Poetry

Joel Toledo's Chiaroscuro is already in my hands. Next I'll be on the hunt for:

The Proxy Eros by Mookie Katigbak.

Somewhere
You are actual. Happen to me there.
-From “As Far as Cho-Fu-Sa”-

If it's true
That we move from one exhaustion to
Another, you are the tenor and the vehicle
Of all I cannot name in the things I do.
-from "The Proxy Eros"-

When I show you how you and I
Have more hunger than we know
What to do with, I am telling you
Goodbye before you know it.
-from "The Telling”

Such heartbreakingly beautiful, beautiful lines.
I am thoroughly enchanted.

Wind Matters

A mighty strong wind blew my way this morning. Was it a portent of things to come? A warning of sorts? Bad--or good--news being delivered?

I wasn't--and still am not--entirely sure which one of the above it was. All I knew was that it was a signal for me to tell my legs to hold fast and steady to the pavement I was walking on.

Thank the fairies I didn't get blown away, considering that I was already beginning to sway with the gale. I had a horrible fear my legs were going to give in.

Good thing they didn't.

Never Alone

The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, Trinoma

It feels wonderful to exhale after holding one's breath for so long. And with music flowing through earphones and an ice-cold coffee to cool one down on a warm afternoon, the experience is something of a revelation--the discovery and affirmation that all things, even the most difficult moments are, after all, just moments that will, fear them as we might, pass.

They are moments that will pass.

Etch those words into your heart, my friend, whoever you are and whatever it is that you are going through. We are, if you think about it, never really alone. Not me, not you, not the girl sitting by her lonesome on the table across me, flipping absently through her thick textbook, not the guard standing by the door, greeting the couple on their way into the coffee shop, not the youngish, hapless-looking fellow, clutching at his phone on his way out. None of us. We are never alone. Ever.

Perhaps one really dark day, you will forget this truth. The possibility is very high, given the weakness our natures tend to bend into. Here's a prayer for the moment to pass as quickly as it took over.

/And let me tell you now

why wings and doors and flowers really open, why
this wall, once non-negotiable, had let you in.

It is because all things want to open, that often
all you need do is ask./

-from Joel Toledo's poem, "Open Sesame", Chiaroscuro-

The Eighties

Sunday afternoon, a drive down a busy street. Fussing with the car tuner and chancing upon John Parr's "St. Elmo's Fire", with David Foster's "Just For A Moment" and Joey Scarbury's "Believe It or Not" in tow.

So eighties.

So long ago.

It was a senti moment right there for M-- and I. M--, by the way, is an 80s' baby, like me, so we were able to go down childhood lane together. The songs touched chords in our psyches and there were moments of quiet (both of us, I guess, remembering lazy afternoons, drowsy hometowns and orange twilights), peppered with small, low conversations on how the songs reminded us of our childhoods, to the loss of innocence where one became forced to say hello to gray twilights and life's dead ends.

"Wasn't there a time in our young lives when we believed in something?"

"Ya."

"When we believed in forever and the goodness in people and in hopes of bright tomorrows?"

"From that point to where we are now--it's like having gone a hundred-eighty-degree turn."

How right he was. How right. Such a cynical generation it was we belonged to.
Sad.

Lit Geek Update #17: What I'm Reading Now

I defined a woman's duty, "To look the world in the face with a go-to-hell look in the eyes; to have an idea; to speak and act in defiance of convention."
-Margaret Sanger, 1914

All Those Moments Passing Us By...

So, where were you on August 3rd of two years ago? What were you doing? Were you the same person you are now? How much did you have in your pockets that day? Were you happy? Was there someone special in your life that day? What were the thoughts you were thinking, the plans you were making?

Not that this date holds any significance, just so happened that I chose to write this post today, so, no, this date is not special in any way. To me, that is. But it could have some sort of specialness to some of us. Which is a problematic sentence, if we really break it down to pieces. It holds up the frequency with which we take things, and hours, and days, and people, and places for granted. Which is, after all, not difficult to do, considering the number of seconds and minutes that pass, too many, really, for us to count and too fast for us to pin down and just hold in our hands and turn over for perusal. But then, again, what of the regrets we express at letting a particular day go away without us having lived it to the fullest, and what of the sadness in the line "all those moments passing us by..."?

I read, somewhere, that waiting is a sin--a sin because the amount of time spent during the waiting is really time wasted. Makes a lot of sense to me. Think about this: if we added up all those minutes, or hours, we spent waiting for something and not doing anything as we waited, I'm almost sure we'd be able to come up with a pretty significant amount of time wherein we could have done so much more with the time we had in our hands.

But then, again, we can argue: isn't the waiting itself an act that is just as significant as the next one?

So, do you remember now where you were on August 3rd of two years ago?

I have drawn a blank. Have you?

Facebook Status: Such gray, despondent weather. The rains must be bringing on the gloom for some of us.

A room that is really a box, its walls wrapped in ash-tinted blue. Light without rays, barely illuminating a third of the place. Outside, an angry sky pelting heavy sheets of rain and wind.

Where I am, I am not there. I am somewhere else.

Though in that place, I am unsure of my presence, too.

My Sheila

I talked to my dear friend, Sheila, yesterday and after two weeks of not seeing each other, the conversation was a welcome respite from the monotony of work, work, work and the daily grind of keeping up with the colorless, unilateral world the industry we work in so easily becomes.

Catching up with her made me realize how important it is to have someone you can talk to and not worry about:


a) not being understood;
b) being over-read;
or
c)being stared at in the face and thought of as some loony person blabbering away into blabberland.

Sheila and I, we get each other. We would often:

a)catch each other's eyes and burst out laughing;
b)be in a conversation with other people, exchange glances and know what the other is thinking;
c)tell each other things we don't normally tell the greater majority of our friends, or colleagues;
and
d)keep secrets for each other, cherishing the fact that we each have someone we can release our bottled up trivia and non-trivia to.

We've agreed, a long while back, that we belong on the same wavelength. Our minds are in tune with each other. I can share my silliest thoughts with her and know that I will not be scolded, or thought of as shallow. With her, I know that I can pour the saddest and darkest contents of my heart and know that I will not be turned away or judged. And I know that she knows that she can run to me, anytime.

Thank the fairies for friends.
Such treasures they are.

Lit Geek Update #16: Neil Gaiman's NEVERWHERE

I must confess that it took me a while to sink into the novel's realm. My rule of thumb when it comes to deciding whether to finish a piece of literature or not is that I generally go by how the first few pages make me feel and then decide from there. These initial pages will make--or break--the book for me. If they appeal to me, I go on, and if they don't, back to the shelf the book goes. It was different for Neverwhere.

I gave it a chance. I curbed the urge to slam the book shut, what with the unappealing--almost trite--prose the novel began with. I told myself, hey, this is my first Gaiman novel and maybe his works do take some getting used to. Just because I absolutely adored his Smoke and Mirrors (which is a collection of his short fiction), I plodded on.

And I'm glad I did.

To the Gaiman greenhorn, Gaiman's works, I surmise (I say "surmise" because I have yet to read enough of his works to use any other verb), call for suspension of disbelief to be appreciated. As opposed to the magical realistic work, which assumes the "magic" in the fiction to be part of the "real", Gaiman's kind of fantasy employs "magic" that is more protuberant and intruding, and therefore, more difficult to swallow. I know Gaiman fans will probably protest; and that is why I started this paragraph with "to the Gaiman greenhorn."

It was all just part of the "how d'ya do" stage, though. Or, to be more exact, of the first thirty pages, thereabouts. Eventually, in this case, I gave in to the pull of the succeedingly superb, visual turn the prose took. The descriptions were something else, a quality that is most probably consequential of Gaiman's expertise as a graphic novelist. Needless to say, I found myself engrossed in the sea of words and worlds and possibilities given to me by the author. Richard Mayhew's journey(s) with The Lady Door became journeys that I wanted to follow.

I am in the book's final pages.

I'll be reading American Gods next.

Darkness

Victor Hugo:
"Darkness is dizzying. We need light: whenever we plunge into the opposite of day we feel our hearts chilled. When the eye sees darkness, the mind sees trouble. In an eclipse, at night, in the sooty darkness, even the strongest feel anxiety. Nobody walks alone at night in the forest without trembling. Darkness and trees, two formidable depths--a chimeric reality appears in the indistinct distance. An outline of the Inconceivable emerges a few steps away with a spectral clarity. You see floating in space or in your brain something strangely vague and unseizable like the dreams of sleeping flowers. There are fierce shapes in the horizon. You breathe in the odors of the great black void. You are afraid and are tempted to look behind you. The socket of night, the haggard look of everything, taciturn profiles that fade away as you advance, obscure dishevelments, angry clumps, livid pools, the gloomy reflected in the funereal, the sepulchral immensity of silence, the possible unknown beings, swaying of mysterious branches, frightful torsos of the trees, long wisps of shivering grass--you are defenseless against all of it. There is no bravery that does not shudder and feel the proximity of anguish. You feel something hideous, as if soul were melting into shadow.
-Les Miserables, "Cosette" book 3, chapter 5 "The Little Girl All Alone" pp 388-389-
*this section of my copy is shamelessly dog-eared and has been so for the past eleven years*

Neil Gaiman:
""Darkness is happening," said the leather woman, very quietly. "Night is happening. All the nightmares that have come out when the sun goes down, since the cave times, when we huddled together for safety and for warmth, are happening. Now," she told them, "now is the time to be afraid of the dark." Richard knew that something was about to creep over his face. He closed his eyes: it made no difference to what he saw or felt. The night was complete."
-Neverwhere, chapter IV, p.103-

*Painting: Sunflower by Gustav Klimt*

Overheard:

A: Did you know that The Great Pyramid of Giza is the only one of the 7 Wonders of The Ancient World still standing today?
B: WTF? The hell I care for your pyramid. duh.
A: I'm just saying. It's a nice-to-know. Plus...
B: Oh, spare me.
A: Almost all of 'em were destroyed by earthquakes. How tragic.
B: I am so interested. Leave me alone, you geek.

Hmm. Cool.

When I think of all that has been taken from me--
countless white spaces between time's black hands--

Sign of MY times: age masks

When I flip through a fashion magazine, I generally find myself going past the beauty section (i.e. make-up and beauty products, for those not in-the-know). Lately, though, and most recently, this morning, I've noticed that I've been lingering--and I did linger--far longer than I used to on a feature on moisturizers or, as they are called, "age-defying" creams in botttles or tubes or what-have-yous.

Uh-oh.

I'm fast approaching my thirties, that's probably why. They say that the best time to start lathering up on those "miracle creams" is when a woman is in her twenties. I've been using moisturizers religiously, but only the kind that you may call "basic" and not one of 'em "miracle" ones. hahaha. What's with this word? Perhaps it's time to bid the basics adieu and say "bonjour!" to the more "intensive" creams. blech

I never thought I'd see the day but here I am. I am starting to dread the time when people would actually guess my age correctly. For now, most of them take me for 24.

Hee. Good enough for me.
=)

I was in one of my pensive moods this morning and a line from Wordsworth's "Ode: Intimations of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood" blew across my thoughts, as the line was connected to the chains my mind was piecing together. I decided to look the poem up and I found myself starting to feel sad upon reading the first lines of the first verse and grew even sadder as I moved onward...

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more...

Oh, to be a kid again! Adulthood is such a sad affair.

In the room, everyone was beautiful.
Silks rustled with tulle
and toad's skins
kept very quiet
under lavender and lily.

Harry, Harry

Once again, I must ask too much of you...

"Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" was a real winner. Kids probably won't enjoy it as much as they did the first couple of episodes, as this one is much, much darker. The themes it explores--and the way with which the movie is executed--are, decidedly, for the older crowd. A few have complained about its lack--well, compared to the first ones--of scoring and, dig this, "too much dialogue"! Whoa! So what were they expecting--all spells and fights and flying?! Exposition, folks, exposition!

There may be a few tears waiting to fall for the soft-hearted ones--I know I felt a lump in my throat in the movie's final scenes--and adults forcing themselves to "grow up, grow up!" might end up with some double-taking and mulling over to do. The magic of Harry Potter is that its magic almost always gets to people. Even non-fans have confessed to have been moved by it. Impeccable cinematography and an almost flawless casting are, of course, very essential pluses.

I heard the last book will be broken down to 2 movies. We have some waiting to do, then.

Meanwhile, let's all kindle that child-like belief in magic. I know it'll get us through the long wait.
;)

***

I'm glad to note that Roger Ebert who, so I'm told, is not really a Harry Potter Fan, still thinks it a good film. Click here to read his thoughts on it. I had to shake my head, though, when I read what he had to say about Daniel Radcliffe's acting, though he did have a point. Being "the chosen one" in the middle of such a powerful cast and standing up to the expectations coming with and tailing after such a role is a tall, tall, order.

So, if only for that, I'm completely with ya, Daniel.

Rewind

4 posts in close to 3 weeks. I definitely have some catching up to do.

The problem with Facebook is that it takes up too much of one's time and easily thwarts one's resolve to do other things, especially when one has low EQ, like me. I stare back at the days and think, but so much has happened and begin to wonder where to start stringing them into words and lines. Ugh. Problem.

But then again, one can always start where one is. And it just so happens that beside this window are 5 Facebook windows, each one opening to a different FB application, all with pending stuff--energy fill, time before one can work a job again, or harvest a crop, or stamina to fight. Heehee. So, it's all FB, FB, FB. One thing I've sworn off, though, is one game I used to be so addicted to, which is Bejeweled Blitz. I swear, I was on it for days and hours in a day. I grew cranky and impatient when each game gave me a paltry score, and angry whenever someone else beat me to a level, or several levels. Losing is not my forte. I am a sore loser. Well, at least, I'm admitting it. Right.

The same goes for arguments. Work is one of the best venues for sharpening one's arguing claws. Recently, I found myself in a 3-day battle of sides with someone who, so some have said, I was better off giving up on. And I was like, why? I saw no reason not to dig my heels just because people saw this person as someone not worth wasting one's time in pushing back on because he would never give in. I knew I had a point and I was determined to make it.

By the end of the third day, I found that my determination had paid off. I had him where I wanted, which was: on the ground where I stood. The cause I fought for were to benefit quite a number of people, and so we all shared the victory and its advantages.

Sweet. =)

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: Darkening Themes

A student's blind faith in his mentor.
Unfathomable guilt that drives a man to tamper with his own memory for fear of discovery.
A villain's steady, gradual descent into darkness.
Trust and betrayal.
Death.

Still, in all of these: magic.

Go, watch.

Peer AJ was singing "Puff The Magic Dragon" the wrong way and I corrected him. I said,"it's "lived by the sea" not "living by the sea"". He, ever so stubborn, insisted it was "living" and not "lived".

My dad taught this song to me when I was a kid and I knew it well enough to stand my ground.

"Wanna bet on it?" I had my right eyebrow raised. A hundred, let's get it on. He pretty much just shrugged, looking up the lyrics on the net, then turning to me with a huge grin on his face and saying, with that annoyingly smug tone of his, "I am never wrong. Peter, Paul and Mary wrote the song wrong."

Hah.

Still, I won.
Heehee.

My Very Bad Habits:

1. wearing heels five days a week;
2. buying heeled shoes when I already have one too many;
3. playing Mafia Wars, Sorority Life, Farm Town, YoVille, and Barn Buddy on Facebook instead of sleeping (got dark circles around my eyes to show for it);
4. dwelling on a problem for too long (a peer once said, "anything that you let last for more than 5 minutes is self-inflicted");
5. drinking coffee in lieu of having a decent meal;
6. preferring Starbucks coffees over any other kind of coffee (bad to the wallet, tsk, tsk);
7. not saying "no" to what my darling kiddos want (bad, I know, but surely moms out there would understand);
8. grabbing a bag of chips every so often;
9. preening in public;
10. arguing for the sake of winning (especially when it's the male vs. female kind of debate hahahaha).

I'm spending too much time on Facebook. LOL.

What are your bad habits?
;)

I'm just saying.

If you don't know much about something, I say step down and stop pretending that you're an expert on that particular topic. You'll come out looking like a fool, honey, so just quit it. If you're gonna compare the Harry Potter series to "The Da Vinci Code" movie, I say, stop. It'd be like, well, putting a smocked bed spread beside a smocked pillow case and trying to decide which one is prettier. Saying that "The Da Vinci Code" is way better because it "tackles real life" (eww) and that the Harry Potter movies are corny because they are "unrealistic" is, like, duh, lady. Where've you been?

And to tell me that you have every right to give your opinion on the matter because you "studied literature for two years"? Come on. I'd bet my next pay check you didn't even pay attention to your English 1 class.

Pffftt.

The girl puts a bookmark on the page she's been reading and thinks, the woman in the story is me. I am in the story. This is my story. The valleys and plateaus in the story's plot are the valleys and plateaus of my life. The rivers she almost drowned in, the fires she escaped--they are the same rivers and fires I have survived. The sky that enclosed her world and the stars she gazed at night after night are the sky and the stars of my world.

But the volume is much too thin, she thinks. How will the woman's story end? She is afraid.

She put the book carefully on her bedside table and lays her head on the orange thread-embroidered pillow, knowing fully well that sleep is not about to come anytime soon, no matter that the rest of the neighborhood is quiet and her own room dark as the night outside her porch.

She curbs the urge to reach for the book once more. She is afraid.

Happiness is a pair of killer heels.

Drag Her To Hell

This movie



is hilarious.
If you're bored and are looking for a no-brainer movie to see, this should be a good choice.

The Week That Was

Tsk, tsk. Been blog-hopping again and saw several posts on deelish food and here I am, hankering for shellfish pasta. Tsk, tsk. What a shame because it's barely been an hour since I ate breakfast. What's new, right?

I've been away for quite some time, this blog is starting to give me the cold shoulder. I've been spending more time with its neighbor (aka Facebook hahaha), you see. My farm has prospered so much I was able to buy a small house and a magenta-painted barn, which is such a cutie I couldn't stop staring at it. My daughter told me she couldn't wait to become a grown-up so she can have a Facebook account and she can play Farm Town, lol.

Other highlights of my week include having watched Dave Matthews Band's performance on Late Night With Jimmy Fallon, seeing "Drag Me To Hell" at Festival Mall (been ages since I last saw a horror flick, though this one was more funny than scary), eating yummy carbonara at Rack's, devouring slice after slice of Starbucks' Raspberry Mango Cheesecake (try it, it's to-die-for!)with the kiddos, and finally, finally, getting rid of one big thorn on my side. Let me talk in riddles for this particular topic--one isn't supposed to gloat over someone else's loss, after all, though when it's a jerk-slash-psychopath who's involved, it's hard not to. Let's just say it was all for the best, and end it right there.

This crazy weather is insane, don't you think? And the allegedly spreading virus is alarming, it's a good thing classes have been suspended for a week. Which leads me to ask, how about working people? Are we less at risk of catching the dreaded sickness?

Oh, but that's life. Gotta work, or else.

Enjoy the week ahead, folks!

The Alpha Female (part 2)

*continued from here

6. dress to kill. Go put on that black, long-sleeved turtleneck top, those crisp, gray pants and three-inch, killer stilettos. Nothing like power-dressing to boost a woman's self-esteem sky-high. Those heels should force you to power-walk, too;

7. don't forget to be courteous and polite, to male and female alike. Being a leader doesn't mean you have to be--or have the license to be--rude and unrefined;

8. when a problem is given to you on a plate, stay calm and composed. Do not, in any way, panic, or if you must, don't ever show the world that your feathers are in the least bit ruffled. Know that you can solve whatever challenge is thrown your way. You are a woman and you are capable and competent;

9. there is nothing wrong with asking for help, should you need it, and when that time comes, go ahead and...

10. work those charms, lady. Remember, when all else fails, you can always count on your smile to put sugar on whatever is bitter. Melt those walls with your softness. You can be both fire and water because you are a woman!

Am so lovin' this... the alpha female roaring... teehee!


*Photo from LeLove. (photo caption: "Because it wouldn't be love without the fighting" hahahahaha)

This Morning, A Firefly

At 7:38 this morning, I saw a firefly blinking its yellow glint against a nearby calamansi tree. It was alone and I stared at it, wondering what it was frolicking in the tree for, it being morning and all. It was a very pretty sight, not the kind one saw everyday, so I stared on.

I thought I saw another firefly on the bush under said tree, but it turned out to be a giant dewdrop perched and glistening on a leaf, beautiful, too, to behold. It would have been asking too much to see two fireflies on the same morning.

Plus, after two days of rain, the sun was smiling mildly upon the half-roused earth, so there was really nothing to complain about.

Here's to a beautiful day.
(Raising my cup of coffee)
Cheers!

The Alpha Female

Putting her foot down and assuming the role of alpha male are a couple of the tricks an emancipated woman soon learns after stepping out of her shell, and these talents, she soon finds out, are quite useful in making it in this "man's world" (which, I suppose, is fast on its way to becoming a "woman's world," but we'll get there soon enough).

Here are some tips that we can all use to make a man cower into submission:

1. Hold that stare, steady and steely. Trust me, you'll get your point across and win that argument/debate with this simple stroke;

2. make it a habit to put your hands on either side of your waist when speaking in front (or in the middle) of a pack of males, be it a business meeting or a team huddle;

3. shoulders on the level, back straight as an arrow--mom's reminders to keep your posture in check should come in handy now. A woman is more formidable when she is standing up straight. It wouldn't matter if you are petite. You can be as tall as you feel, so go ahead and feel tall!

4. put a mild swagger to your walk, though be careful not to overdo it, otherwise, you'll end up coming across as too self-assured, and that can't be good, as too much of anything is bad. Just walk like you always know where you're going (even if you don't) and focus your eyes on an invisible post. Don't walk too fast, and remember that swagger.

5. brush up on your reading and practice your speeches. There's nothing like a smart, intelligent and well-read woman to make a man realize that he is not the better gender. They might get their way with physical strength or force, but hey, let's make sure we win through sheer sharpness of wit, presence of mind, some French or German, and a little biting sarcasm.

Obviously, this is not all. I'll be back with more.

So, what wiles do you practice to put that punch to your touch?
=)

*part 2 here

Status Updates

Have gotten in touch with High School best friends over at Face Book.

Very recently, someone's status update about putting one's foot down and being an alpha male (we are all female) and another's video link of Paul McCartney's "Singalong Junk" sparked up (online) conversations about girl power and dressing up in a black suit-and-daggers ensemble for when those "kickin' ass" moments come up, and wanting to be thirteen or sixteen again and going to the places one used to frequent when one was young, doing the things one used to do a lot when one was yet unwary of how beset with worries adulthood could be.

Are these signs that one is growing old?

Or maybe it's just the rain. Was scorching hot early in the week, and now, these downpours.

Or is it because Mercury has turned direct?

Let me make a mental note to type that on my Facebook status update space.

On second thought, I think I've already done that.

To See or Not To See:

hmmm...

Pause

and the one thing that might cause me to shift
is the dancer's step.
-From "Vase Painting," by Rainer Maria Rilke-

I am waiting for Mercury to go direct. There is so much tension in the air, suspended tautly in this hot, dry weather; lying in silent, stagnant pools inside my brain.

All this waiting, and waiting, and waiting isn't good for repressed people. The possibility of an implosion--or implosions, if one may, because there are many repressed people--rises to dangerous heights.

May 30th.
I wonder what's in store.

Cuckoo Over Farm Town

I have, officially, become a Face Book Farm Town addict. I never would have guessed, as I've never been a gamer my entire life. This age of virtual gaming was unheard of when I was a kid. Back then, my brother and I played real--though this term would vary in meaning, depending on which generation you belong to--games under the sun, with other kids our age, or close to our age. Even with the advent of the family computer, the PSP, the DS, and other what-have-yous, I have managed to steer clear of the gaming bug.

Until now. Or, last Monday, to be exact.

Now, I am on level 11 of Farm Town, which makes me a farmer, teehee. Make that "Tamsen The Farmer"--yes, I do get to name myself "Tamsen," which happens to be my second favorite name (next to my name, of course). I plow the fields on my green grass-bordered, apple-tree-and-orange-tree-and-lemon-tree-lined farm, go to the store to buy various seeds, plant them on the plowed grounds and voila, after some time, I get to harvest grapes, strawberries, tomatoes, potatoes, lemons, apples, and oranges. I am still waiting--very impatiently, if I may add--for the coffee, wheat, sunflowers, and rice to be ready for harvest. A bountiful reaping would mean lots of coins to be had after a trip to the market to sell the crops. Then it's back to square one, only this time, you have more moolah, more sophisticated, expensive seeds sown and a promise of an even more bountiful harvest which translates, of course, to an even richer, ever growing coffer.

Ah, such a sweet life it is. My Lola would have been proud of me. Mama, this one's for you.



Alors, gotta visit my farm, folks. Hope we can be neighbors, soon. Click here to read on how Farm Town has overtaken Pet Society on Face Book. =)

A great weekend to y'all!

P.S. My daughter is envious and itching to try it. I promised her we would farm tomorrow. =)

Survivor Tocantins: J.T.

Everyone in the jury voted for him.
Yeah yeah yeah!
Sorry, Stephen.

The Other Boleyn Girl

Nothing really spectacular about this film, except Natalie Portman, the costumes (loved 'em) and the lengths they went to to romanticize the story of Anne, Mary and that philandering Henry VIII. Well, the latter (the romanticizing, not Henry VIII's philandering) might've been Philippa Gregory's fault. Anyway.

Portman as Anne Boleyn was perfection--history writes Anne off as dark-haired, 5 feet and 3 inches tall, flat-chested, well-educated and headstrong, and Portman's portrayal of the role was more than satisfactory. Anne Boleyn must've been--or rather, was--an advocate of girl power, long before it became the fashion to be one. Imagine twirling the king of England around her little finger and being one of the pivotal figures in transforming the country's history! Oh, the feats women take on! I'm hoping Scarlett Johansson (Mary Boleyn) learned a thing or two from both Portman and Anne. You think Mary Boleyn wore only two expressions her entire life?

And Henry VIII, oh where do I begin? He's always been portrayed in paintings as this very heavy-set, very fat and sour-looking king. And then here comes Eric Bana. Like, hello? Didn't make sense at all. Plus he, too, worked on jut two facial expressions in the entire length of the movie. I think it might've worked if he had ended up with Scarlett, heehee.

Lots of blood in the movie, too. So a lot of women back then either died in childbirth or had stillbirths. Probably because they didn't have pre-natal care yet, in those times. I feel lucky.

And there you have it.

Ho-hum. Definitely not a movie I'd recommend.

Monday Morning Thoughts

I think it's sad, the way people get scared when parcels of themselves get exposed, bits and pieces they'd rather keep stuffed inside, parts of them that, if other people found out about, would really ruin how they are perceived to be.

In the workplace, we have this concept called "perception management" where it is posited that "perception is reality." Up to a certain point--and a certain point only--I would have to agree. But the line has to be drawn between perception and reality because, at the end of the day, after all the sad, mad, pretensions we have to keep up and go through in our sad, little lives, perception and reality are two very different things.

We are all guilty of judging people for sundry things: for being glum and morose and keeping to themselves three-fourths of the time; for sucking their thumbs during stress-filled moments; for liking Bjork, or Amy Winehouse, or the Backstreet Boys; for looking for a paper bag to breathe into during anxiety attacks (we snicker at the phrase--he/she is just faking it, we would say, what drama); for being happy three-fourths of the time; for being happy, period; for muttering to themselves; for having short, violent tempers; for being sloppy in dress and speech; for being too well-dressed. In short, we judge people for virtually anything. If there is anything discrepant in someone's behavior, our fangs take over. Then our capacity for seeing the bad in others goes up to tremendous heights.

But what do we know of their griefs, and what do they know of ours?

And that is why people in the low have nowhere else to go but farther down.

Or, perhaps, we are merely scared?

Enough said.

Have a great week ahead!
=)

Not Just the Coffee

Good thing the 7-Up can was empty, else a good portion of the table cloth would have ended up soaked in the sweet, chemical-rich liquid. Still, the knowledge that it was empty escaped me for a split second and, in that wink of a moment, my heart walloped so hard I felt like wanting to reel from its aftermath. I sat there, steadying myself, awed by the Pacquiao-like (but painless) punch my heart had thrown against my chest.

I am easily startled. A handful of people at work know this and have taken to sneaking up from behind me and shouting "boo!" or "hah!" quite often, making me do any, or all, of the following: jumping, shrieking, shouting an expletive or two, and, always, that hard thump in the chest.

It could be the coffee.

Or not.

I am aware that it's natural to be startled when, well, we're caught off-guard, but lately, the intensity of the pounding in my chest whenever it happens has made me notice that it has, indeed, gone from natural to too much. A friend and I talked about it after the 7-Up episode and he agreed that it can't all be just the coffee (I like mine light on the caffeine, anyway, I mostly order mocha-flavored ones, except for those occasional really drowsy times when I have to force myself to be on the go, then I'd request for an extra espresso shot).

Perhaps I've built my wall piled too high with rocks that when it crumbles because I forget to stand guard, it crashes really loud and hard?

(clip art from clipart.com)

People are breaking, breaking, breaking... Dear God, please help them get through whatever it is they need to get through.

Meanwhile, I stand silently by, a mere observer, calm and steady; a witness following scenes with eyes that see too much from looking, and a heart saddened by the confusion, the griefs that friends try hard to keep between folded hands, yet which push themselves out, even so.

And in the middle of this seemingly aimless, static wait, I remember thinking how I was once where they are now, how I was them, once. And I remember how it felt, only, now, because I have learned how it is to keep oneself detached, the pain feels very faint, like a sigh on one's palm, a murmur in one's mind.

Remembering--and always remembering, because forgetting will not be possible--how it was and how it is, I find myself inching forward and reaching out a hand. I cannot, cannot keep looking and remain a bystander.

Because turning my back on them would be like keeping the door shut on my knocking, pleading self.