tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73603678355578123952012-01-30T16:48:39.518+08:00A brew of random thoughtsAnnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.comBlogger2911100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-12842320622272720402012-01-30T13:50:00.001+08:002012-01-30T14:57:27.078+08:00

Is it just me or did the Holidays just zip by? I feel as though I had just put up the tree, and now it's time to take it back down. I don't think I even completed my shopping list this year. Not that I wasn't into the Christmas spirit. I was as wrapped up in the excitement as the little girl who had her own countdown. So many non-holiday things cropped up between the countdown and the real

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-6595833003054628662011-12-21T08:15:00.001+08:002011-12-21T08:17:04.047+08:00

I had my first Grade One party in a looong, loooong time. Since Grade One actually, which was decades ago. It was hard squeezing into a pint-sized armchair, and with 40 or so fellow stage mothers around it was one crowded affair. But it was quite a happy way to start the party season. And since it was held in the room where I spent my original Grade One party, it was like teleporting back to

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-3009793686861371242011-11-10T10:46:00.000+08:002011-11-11T09:49:33.606+08:00

Today, I decided to put some semblance of order into my desktop. Make that desktop of the not-so-techie kind. I have been running out of horizontal space, and retrieving things are approaching production-number proportions. Heck, for all I know, I can probably make it to an episode of Hoarders. Some of the stuff--useless and useful and in-between--that I found: A letter holder from

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-74259693477112191122011-10-18T11:34:00.000+08:002011-10-19T10:52:41.429+08:00

The ate worked on the daughter, and the daughter worked on me. Of course, I had heard semi-horrific stories about Miss Gays, but because it was a Friday, and the "pageant" was just a few blocks away, off we went to watch Miss Gay Sorsogon Earth 2011 (!!!) for what I hoped to be a brief, after-dinner walk. By the time we got to the makeshift venue, people were still milling about. Nothing ever

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-36051174594313089282011-09-20T15:39:00.000+08:002011-09-20T15:39:18.971+08:00

Somewhere in the pre-digicam days are ads and signs that are permanently etched in my otherwise selective memory.  I can picture them still: hastily scrawled, without regard for advertising 101 aesthetics.  These signs, recently spotted from my neck of the woods, deserve a place in my mental collection.  They certainly belong to the ranks of  Uling for Sales,  Hauze for rint,  We accept

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-61761994888764149712011-08-03T15:00:00.002+08:002011-08-03T15:07:27.567+08:00

These feet were made for walking, and walk they did one fine day!  The more or less ten kilometer walk (should have been 20, but I cheated :p ) took me through fields of green, roadsides waking up for the day and mist-cloaked rivers and ponds. I have always enjoyed walking.  There is something about taking to the open road on foot that clears the head (and the sinuses) of its many clogs and

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-78371233247502702132011-07-26T23:30:00.002+08:002011-07-26T23:30:56.417+08:00

Today, I am thankful because ... Despite the sticky keys and the slower-than-slow connection, I am still connected, Despite the driving rain, I am safe and warm, And the roof is not leaking, Despite the power outage, I am not in the dark Despite a memory that needs some serious upgrading, I still remember the things that matter. Despite the different time zones, we are still friends who

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-54590797487352404302011-06-01T12:13:00.000+08:002011-06-01T12:13:17.634+08:00

I wasn't particularly excited about our grand "clan" reunion.  Of course, I have fond black-and-white memories of summer bonding with cousins.  Make that lots and lots of cousins.  But the way two recent reunions ended somehow soured me to the idea.  After civil warlike quarrels broke out over such a petty thing as a Christmas star, I kinda believed that there are reunions that are better on

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-37046071342309180362011-04-13T11:47:00.000+08:002011-04-13T15:07:14.640+08:00

In December, I was given the Loyalty Award.  Before I hear canned applause, however, let me qualify that loyalty is relative.  In my case, it means that I have been on the job for ten years.  Nothing more, nothing less. Come to think of it, the fact that I am able to hold the same job for ten years is a personal victory of sorts.  (Applause, applause) A well-meaning boss once said that I thrive

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-61429227683166881022011-04-09T14:26:00.007+08:002011-04-09T21:06:07.165+08:00

I've never been really mindful of numbers.  Mathematics and I--we have a serious relationship gap made worse by horrible grades in college algebra. Two things had me thinking numbers recently, though: my blog archives and car plates. Of course I know that I've been neglecting Anna's Tasa. I just didn't realize I am down to virtually one post a month until I happened to scan the archives part.

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-30912125895583648402011-03-11T22:11:00.000+08:002011-03-11T22:11:13.146+08:00

At our latest family reunion, Tita's eyebrows rose to the 30th floor when Cousin barged in with her obviously-not-on-the-guestlist friends. They made a beeline for the buffet table, stripped the poor lechon of its crispy skin, and after eating and making the requisite we-have-to-go-back-to-heaven-knows-where exit line, proceeded to dump food into their capacious bags. Tita naturally came close to

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-26959537912685509322011-02-25T22:42:00.000+08:002011-02-25T22:42:13.614+08:00

I wasn't at EDSA in 1986.  It was more a matter of close but not quite; of being so near and yet so far.  I was 18, and home was an aunt's house in Little Baguio.  For some reason, Tita N worshipped Marcos and imposed a semi-martial law ban things un-Marcos.  My inkling then of the storm brewing at EDSA were Joe Taruc excitedly announcing to one and all that JPE and FVR have bolted Malacanang,

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-7941923354186239732011-01-25T15:33:00.030+08:002011-01-25T16:27:35.325+08:00

After days and days of relentless rain, the sun finally shone on my little pocket of the universe. For weeks, it's been nothing but dark skies, driving rain and dampness and dourness all around.  It was as if a humongous faucet had been left open, and we were but a few inches more of rainfall away from national disaster proportions. Now the sun is up, and everywhere I turn, it's drying-up time.

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-68460904743896370782011-01-01T04:51:00.001+08:002011-01-01T04:54:56.968+08:00

It's 3 a.m., and I am enjoying the lull. The last of the fireworks has since fizzled, and I am almost sure the dogs are thanking their gods. In a few hours, I would have to deal with the "Tia, Tio maki-New Year" crowd which will no doubt make the rounds of the village. It's a tradition that can be exasperating, but tradition nonetheless. In keeping with tradition, I spent the better part of

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-23339882582359586432010-12-29T13:22:00.000+08:002010-12-29T13:22:34.228+08:00

They called me "Fountain." No, make that "Pawn-teyn." It was New Year's Eve, and the neighborhood brats heard me asking for the darn fireworks. The nickname stuck, and for the better part of my awkward teen years, I was known as Pawn-teyn on the street where I grew up. I didn't complain, of course.  Why would I, when I had it a lot better than Bibi Ilay, Toto Maloto and Ella Botelya?  

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-20722909478995680532010-12-20T14:45:00.000+08:002010-12-20T14:45:40.743+08:00

This is yet another blast-from-the-past post :p The change-your-profile-pic-into-a-cartoon-character campaign over at Facebook has certainly brought back happy memories of growing up in what I thought to be a big, big world. It was the late '70s, and so that we could wise up to the ways of the world, our parents would pack us off to Manila every school break. There were aircon PNR coaches

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-25724672461723893282010-12-05T16:20:00.001+08:002010-12-06T12:10:43.701+08:00

To me, nothing spells childhood summers more than this ice shaver. It was my going-on-sixth-grade summer when this thingamajig became the rage in our kitchen. You see, except for my dad, all of us weren't Bobby Flay clones. In short, we thrived on instants. Blue Teddy made our protracted summers super easy. We only had to raid Ma's mini grocery for a can of fruit cocktail and Frisian Girl

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-56885279469219526872010-11-10T15:46:00.001+08:002010-11-10T15:46:00.738+08:00

My Wednesday-afternoon-at-the-internet-cafe ritual started innocently enough.  Between chatting up a storm with parents-turned-yayas and spending quiet me-time at the museum, I took the road frequently traveled by Counter Strikers and took up a corner at the internet cafe.  Considering my addictions (coffee, Farmville and eavesdropping), I was naturally hooked: life does have a way of happening

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-52363915872522150552010-11-09T15:25:00.000+08:002010-11-09T15:25:58.192+08:00

While I was away... ... Baby James has morphed into Bimby ... PNoy has gone from Shalani to Liz And the world turned ... and turned. Meanwhile, I was--and am--left to deal with raging issues.  Issues like: why, oh why am I suddenly in a beauty-pageant mode? And why do I have to sit through three-hour meetings every other day to get Miss Sosogon off the ground? Me, who had my major, major

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-78750361895430708032010-09-29T14:08:00.000+08:002010-09-29T14:08:00.267+08:00

A couple of months ago the house where my parents keep tons and tons of stuff was broken into. Bakal-bote boys must have been eyeing the house for the longest time. It was, after all, unpeopled and most often unattended. Why my parents need a whole house for things that have long outlived their purpose has always been the subject of debate. All this hoarding could very well be a projection

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-26399576592667719482010-09-20T20:00:00.002+08:002010-09-21T08:53:06.378+08:00

This I have to say: the e-census service of the National Statistics Office is really efficient. Three days after completing my online transaction, I got a copy of my official birth certificate. I didn't have to do the requisite table hopping that is the norm in most government offices, I didn't have to wait in line and I certainly didn't have to wait out the lunch break in the virtual company

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-86661778084108289042010-09-13T22:55:00.001+08:002010-09-13T22:55:00.156+08:00

I am a certified last-minute shopper. Stores--especially the part where the clothes are--sting my eyes and I end up all red-eyed and puffy. So I usually wait, and wait, and wait, for that now-or-never moment to venture into a clothing store.Last week had me weaving in and out of places that I haven't been to in a long, long time. The daughter needed tights for a school program, and I guess I

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-52068187768208436842010-09-11T16:22:00.003+08:002010-09-12T17:18:39.006+08:00

In memory of Sir Yeto--he who lived, loved and laughed well. And left us with memories of high school, a dreamy kitchen and growing up in a small town.Sir Yeto generously shared this in a feature in Food: The Magazine of Good Cooking. 2 kilos stewing beef, cut into pieces10-12 cups water1 kilo pork liver2 cups grated Cheddar cheese2 cups tomato sauce1 cup vinegar1/4 cup brown sugarsalt to taste2

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-91682408706515101922010-09-05T00:30:00.002+08:002010-09-05T01:38:35.410+08:00

Still giddy, perhaps, from the Miss U high, the talent scouts in my neck of the woods are all agog about the "Search for the Little Kasanggayahan Princess." The event is trying to market itself as a beauty-and-brains-and-talent thingy, but I am not keeping my hopes up.Not after my nowhere near perfect vision zoomed in on the poster, which requires the little misses to "be able to understand,

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-82346669197371867162010-08-24T10:03:00.005+08:002010-08-24T12:00:51.042+08:00

I am naturally curious. Make that naturally Uzi. Just a hint of "breaking news" and my ears stand at attention, my eyes turn semi-bionic and my feet take me close to where the action is.Make that close, but not quite. As in out of harm's way, and definitely not within sniping distance. And when "the event" occurs in the middle of the night, I snoop with the curtains drawn, the lights turned

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-52559972686349376562010-07-26T00:20:00.004+08:002010-07-26T00:56:44.532+08:00

I turned 43 21 minutes ago. If I were the me of a thousand denials ago, I would have wanted the sentence to be "I turned 21 43 minutes ago." It doesn't matter now, of course. I am older than my Mom was when I was in high school. Older, in fact, than most of my teachers were back then. And I thought they were ancient!But I have come to accept the fact that age is nothing but a number. That

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-26324761878154678082010-07-02T14:42:00.005+08:002010-07-03T15:58:59.356+08:00

This week, I came face to face with my inner claustrophobic. En route to my sister's place, with four of us squeezed in the backseat, I felt a shortness of breath followed by something close to panic. It was like being sucked into a black hole, like the time I came this close to drowning. It took me a couple of minutes to get past the panicky stage. Come to think of it, I am the type who needs

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-88011975762070381712010-06-23T20:48:00.005+08:002010-06-26T00:08:59.975+08:00

Two months ago we talked about high school the way we were and the way we are. We compared notes about life, about children, and where our separate roads took us. There were about 40 of us then, and we laughed well into the night.Today, a fourth of that group sat in stony silence as Msgr Pax echoed our collective--if unspoken--goodbyes. We had come to pay our last respects to one of our own,

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-54976770087765179312010-06-01T15:59:00.006+08:002010-06-17T18:45:57.861+08:00

My head is swimming in figures right now. With budget season almost up, I am literally drowning in forms, payrolls and numbers, numbers and more numbers. To think I barely squeaked past Math 101! And so pardon me for thinking in numbers. Unless you want to put up with (boring) bureaucratic jargon, I can only think in terms of the tangibles. My life thus far:1. As of 4:19 pm, I am 22,557,618

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-19444613500373615112010-05-28T18:44:00.000+08:002010-05-28T18:44:00.582+08:00

So okay, I have a beef with self-indulgent, self-absorbed, egocentric people. People who think it's all about them. That they have the right to spread their dourness like a virus and expect the rest of us to be in a bad mood just because they are miserable. Unfortunately, my universe seems to be peopled by these types. "Hardened" me-myself-and-I types who think the world owes them a favor.

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-55527867189996103732010-05-12T19:07:00.003+08:002010-05-12T22:32:33.593+08:00

At 8 a.m. on election day, I wheeled my dad to the voting precinct. It was not easy maneuvering the wheelchair to the farthest corner of the school, but I was touched by the collective display of kindness. Long queues parted to let us through, and we were hustled right inside precinct 57A. Within minutes, we were done.The day before, when campaigning was no longer legally allowed, our quiet

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-85448048101756851452010-05-08T21:04:00.003+08:002010-05-11T00:37:49.637+08:00

Yesterday I scrubbed the bathroom tiles. I never thought I’d grow up to be the Queen of Chlorox. Or that I’d insist on manually drying the dinner plates. But I am. And I do. Forty plus years later, I can categorically say that I have morphed into my mother.The physical signs are secondary. The hips, knees that tend to knock against each other, forever size 32B cups—I knew I was destined to

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-39708961915259994842010-05-07T22:19:00.000+08:002010-05-08T09:10:55.620+08:00

My hometown is all decked out in yellow. A few weeks ago, orange was the dominant color. Before that, it was green. The ribbons, of course, are the campaign runners' way of welcoming "our" next president.I wonder: when has a certain color become the "sole" property of politicians and political wannabes? I know there is such a thing as political color, but for them to claim a color as their

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-87813834295503614282010-04-22T10:35:00.004+08:002010-04-22T11:11:22.304+08:00

Dearest Auntie--she who is the nightmare of every balikbayan--sent out a text message telling of the arrival of a relative and that that relative has tons and tons of stuff.Dearest Cousin got the message and was naturally uber excited. After all, it is in her genes to salivate over things "imported." Her mom is the type who would ask a homecoming relative to please, please, please give her

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-52938986502351094582010-04-16T13:35:00.000+08:002010-04-16T14:22:09.522+08:00

I haven't been to the post office in a long, long time. With everything going high speed these days, there just isn't room for taking time anymore. For taking it slow. There is also the matter of location. It used to be that the post office was right in the middle of town, within walking distance from everything. Five--or was it ten?--years ago, PhilPost gave up prime real estate in the name

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-19492291467838970582010-04-09T23:01:00.000+08:002010-04-09T23:03:14.509+08:00

So many things--er distractions--have taken my mind off Blogger for the longest time now. It's not that life hasn't been happening. Fact is, life's been zipping so fast I barely have time to process the "happenings." Something always gets lost between planning to write and actually writing, and most of the time I end up planting virtual tomatoes and blueberries instead.In any case, the blogging

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-71754304765600112672010-03-09T11:32:00.005+08:002010-03-09T15:12:28.879+08:00

Strange things happen to me. A set of (obviously false) teeth once fell on my lap, courtesy of a colleague who laughed himself into a state of hysterical toothlessness. In the (hopefully, bygone) days when women fancied themselves as football legend wannabes, I sat next to one who had a couple of flying saucers standing from her shoulders. Either she was a rare breed who didn't own a

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-24792774583077799472010-02-24T21:58:00.002+08:002010-02-24T21:58:00.335+08:00

Most Wednesdays finds us on the road less travelled. We trade recycled air for fresh air, we eat fish and gulay na langka and newly harvested rice. We leave our modulars and unplug ourselves from the net and from the comforts of free-flowing coffee. Wednesdays, in short, is our reality check.Sometimes, reality can be as jarring as children who should be in school but aren't. Or as disturbing

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-17147303025625610052010-02-19T00:19:00.000+08:002010-02-20T11:19:35.057+08:00

I knew I was in trouble the moment my daughter insisted on signing up for her (pre)school pageant. Having been "stage-mothered" at one point into joining the neighborhood Santacruzan in my awkward teens, I promised myself (and my then future imaginary daughter) that no way would I ever trade places with Anabelle Rama.Alas, the future imaginary daughter turned out to be a 100% girly girl with a

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-3551804562795681292010-01-22T17:35:00.001+08:002010-01-22T17:35:00.344+08:00

It's three weeks into the new year, and I'm still stuck in the old. I have leftover work from last year, and I have yet to make space for things that should be filed but are now unceremoniously piled in one corner. My planner is groaning with hastily scribbled "plans." Maybe, there really should be a break between the old and the new. Time enough to sift through the accumulations of the past

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-13697755142223426822010-01-17T16:30:00.000+08:002010-01-17T18:17:51.575+08:00

We're back to the familiar: the cars prowling the streets are the same familiar cars. The faces are the same familiar faces. It is back to just us, and Sorsogon is ours once more.On new year's eve, I made the mistake of going downtown for the usual last-minute rush. It was bedlam, and the really thick crowd made me wish I had body odor in a bottle. Or skunk spray. How wonderful to be some

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-81396512942272552322010-01-05T14:02:00.003+08:002010-01-08T14:55:12.848+08:00

While waiting for the muse of blogging to settle in for the new year, here's something from the great Maya Angelou:The bells are a-clamorchimes have been loosed there is a banquet of Hosannas in the air. We have endured endless peaks of pain and valleys of loneliness; We have lost beloved's we could not live without; yet we have lived. We have encountered unforgivable cruelty; yet we have

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-83661431786069479412009-12-31T06:07:00.001+08:002009-12-31T09:09:47.984+08:00

The last time I saw Mr. Fat and Mr. Thin, I was probably still in pigtails and happily hopping along to Jack Sprat. It was a time when “gay” meant “happy,” when minimum fare was 50 centavos and when teachers can disfigure their pupils’ ears without civil rights groups breathing down their necks. In short, it was a long, long time ago.A few weeks back, I met up with Fat and Thin. Things have

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-72236045775843154232009-12-24T15:45:00.003+08:002009-12-24T16:56:19.554+08:00

It's one of only two times in a year when people outnumber dogs in my little corner, when the house rings with the sounds of overpopulation. The house is a mess, and the best-laid plans are nothing but plans. Christmas Eve dinner (and Christmas lunch and dinner, for that matter) will, as usual, be a testament to the convenience of take out. And despite 360 plus days of leadtime, I guess I will

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-9962696445537583452009-12-14T16:13:00.002+08:002009-12-14T16:25:44.193+08:00

The tree needs to be dusted, and the checklist is getting longer by the day. The first of the Christmas parties is up in a few minutes and I am nowhere near Holiday mode.Oh yes. 'Tis the season when my nerves get frazzled, my hair gets even frizzier and my wardrobe screams "diet!" I am near screaming myself. I can only wish that the stress of having to put up with the "compulsory-ness" of

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-85668583778543616592009-11-30T23:19:00.001+08:002009-12-01T11:55:53.135+08:00

Like any 70s child, my introduction to the entertaining (and puzzling) world of Engrish came with free trade. With the deluge of cutesy stuff from predominantly non-English speaking countries, I had pencil boxes that had me "lookiking out the window," stationery with lost-in-translation messages and how-to manuals that were far more complicated than actually putting together seemingly

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-5119366262985248282009-11-24T06:33:00.001+08:002009-11-24T06:33:00.054+08:00

It’s that time of year, when departments realize that there’s enough budget left for planning and team-building and looking for ways (at least on paper, hehehe) on how to improve the bureaucracy. And so I’m off, expecting nothing (but good food, hahaha). Meanwhile, here’s something from my days as a corporate slave that pretty much says it all. Corporate Life 101 1. In the beginning was the

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-15266787724806760102009-11-22T15:09:00.004+08:002009-11-22T15:17:27.937+08:00

Not since Tamagochi and Super Mario have I been this much into techie gaming. Rice fields, fallen leaves, the vegetable patch out back. I look at these and I think “FarmVille!” I have taken to waking up really early so the strawberries won’t wilt. (At one point I forgot to turn down the volume and had to convince a grumpy husband that a cow didn’t stray into the backyard; that it was, in fact

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-45722011780088194452009-11-14T14:03:00.000+08:002009-11-14T14:30:13.920+08:00

There's a raging "comment" war over at my little corner of the universe. I don't know how a seemingly between-friends post about--uh hum--politics turned into an irritatingly immature free for all, but it's all there on Facebook--for all the digital world to see.Now I don't really have this all-consuming desire to be on FB in all of my waking hours. I'm there for FarmVille, and to see what my

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-44904618598817393812009-11-06T17:13:00.004+08:002009-11-07T00:20:07.806+08:00

At my grandpa’s funeral procession many, many years ago, the scratchy strains of “Theme from The Godfather” blared from the funeral car. I was too young to question why Lolo, a respected town judge, would make the final journey with something decidedly mafia-ish, but for years I couldn’t bear to listen to that song.It was the same when an uncle’s friend died. His “farewell music” was “Don’t

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-30541304405128316722009-10-29T15:10:00.000+08:002009-10-29T13:56:49.314+08:00

Two weeks ago, Sorsogon celebrated its 115th anniversary as a province. There was the threat of yet another typhoon, and rains threatened to spoil the parade. But the skies cleared just in time, and we were treated to yet another traffic-stopping parade. (Traffic stopping is, of course, literal. The city has only two major streets, and everything and everyone stops whenever there is a parade.

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-13007059398941542302009-10-21T15:59:00.002+08:002009-10-21T15:59:00.207+08:00

I would have sent these from the conference room, but I had to pretend that I was so into the meeting. Maybe they really should come up with bureaucratic Oscars. :pUnsent tweets hastily scribbled on scrap paper:3:21 p.m. At a meeting, and all I can think of is harvesting my digital farm.3:28 p.m. My view from under the table: white pumps that went out of style with sheena easton3:29 p.m.

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-57846340171731469152009-10-15T20:52:00.002+08:002009-10-15T23:11:19.700+08:00

I thought I had some semblance of kitchen experience. That all those years of by-the-book cooking made me some sort of a kitchen goddess. I thought culinary disasters were behind me. That never again would I show up for work with oil splatter turned blister, or oven burns, or tales of kitchen mishaps.My wanting to learn to cook has nothing to do with inner Julia Child aspirations. I just

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-54076016306440413832009-10-09T22:27:00.001+08:002009-10-10T08:54:04.636+08:00

I am at the school's Yaya Row, waiting for the bell. I don't want to burden the "regulars" with thinking up topics to lure me into their conversation, so I am pretending to write. Which is actually an excuse for doing what I do best: eavesdropping. :pThe yayas are, as usual, doing the cellphone talk, their dialogues peppered with "unli talk," "textmate," "callmate." They are obviously setting

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-56055266138200865972009-10-03T04:36:00.001+08:002009-10-03T05:43:12.967+08:00

It’s a little past 4 a.m. There’s a hint of orange in the horizon. There is no trace of the Typhoon Parma, and the siling labuyo is safe. For now. In the quiet stillness, I say this:A Sioux PrayerGrandfather, Great Spirit, you have always been, and before you nothing has been. There is no one to pray to but you. The star nations all over the heavens are yours, and yours are the grasses of

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-44595790209398622142009-09-27T16:50:00.007+08:002009-10-01T11:49:34.717+08:00

My best friend Maricar and I once waded in thigh-deep murky waters near the Trabajo market. It was getting darker and darker, and we had no choice but to walk the entire stretch from Espana to Sta. Mesa. There was filth everywhere. At one point we had to navigate past a dead cat. Needless to say, it was a downright disgusting experience--one that forever opened our eyes to the horrors of

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-49509232833755758222009-09-25T23:39:00.002+08:002009-09-26T05:00:22.236+08:00

After basking in the singles scene for so long, my friend A finally put a period on singlehood. She got married in a quaint, middle-of-the-ricefields chapel in the best way she knew how: in style.At the reception, the speeches were all about good wishes and hopes for a happy future. About living with and accepting (hah!) each other. Take away the good lucks, the fair warnings and the mild

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-75586944755822574742009-09-22T09:57:00.002+08:002009-09-22T10:20:33.172+08:00

I am by my lonesome in a cold, cold office and all I can think of is "Zombie, zombie, zombie hey hey hey." Bad case of last-song syndrome really, blame it on the next-door videoke queen who is probably maxing her Video Singko rental.And bad for me, because two clients are already here. It's an effort to keep a straight face while scanning the death certificate and trying really hard to shake

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-46772048412780957812009-09-21T22:21:00.004+08:002009-09-21T22:47:06.997+08:00

For two days, the neighborhood came alive with fireworks, parades and all things festive. The next-door videoke queen sang her signature "Happy Birthday Dear Heartache," announcing to everyone that the Video Singko machine is back on track. Cars crowded our otherwise empty streets, and afternoons rang with shouts from the makeshift cockpit just a block away.It's all quiet now. There is nothing

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-22928678127132816512009-09-20T14:47:00.003+08:002009-09-20T20:19:50.807+08:00

Weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless.Bill WattersonSome of the "pointless" things I might do this long weekend:1. cultivate my digital farm2. stalk Wil Wheaton on twitter3. scrub the tiles4. put up with unlimited texting (no thanks to "unli," the help barely gets anything done. except "texting," of course.)5. convince Gianna that there is no such thing

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-80087122914685889052009-09-17T20:49:00.002+08:002009-09-18T10:28:26.050+08:00

Ever since I fell asleep during yet another attempt to tame my hair and woke up with an ugly burn on my forehead, I have totally shunned beauty parlors. Make that parlors run by gays who can talk up a storm and categorize things and people into "chaka" and "bongga."Last Friday, though, I put traumatic (beauty) experience aside. Friend A was getting married and there was a collective thought

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-16637445782803432862009-09-15T20:31:00.002+08:002009-09-15T22:51:46.189+08:00

I signed up for FB because I so wanted to play Farmville. And because Arni tipped me in on the picture taken more than a decade ago. Five minutes or so after (finally) getting the codes right, my inbox suddenly came alive with friend requests and confirmations. It's as if some portal opened, and techie-unsavvy me was sucked into an otherwise digital blackhole that nonetheless made the world a

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-1141840308073557472009-09-14T11:47:00.004+08:002009-09-14T13:35:08.939+08:00

The daycare center's "Jack feel down" found a cousin. Posted on the high school's fence is this streamer proudly proclaiming some population-related activity. And the theme?"Educating the youth to FIGTH against poverty."Hmm. Maybe we should educate our youth on the rudiments of spelling first.

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-53407060615459537552009-09-09T21:57:00.001+08:002009-09-10T11:38:39.512+08:00

While silently lamenting my fate at having to work on a Sunday to spread PGMA's charity virus, my proofreader's eye zoomed in on thisand thisand this.The misplaced apostrophe syndrome, it seems, starts here. In Daycare.

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-83727203068318854622009-09-06T17:18:00.003+08:002009-09-07T21:56:12.557+08:00

Buday's tongue-in-cheek take on the industriya had me mining my brain neurons for "scintillating" moments in (mainstream) Philippine cinema. The last time I sat through an entire screening was in the late '90s, when I was "peer" pressured to watch TGIS the Movie. I can no longer recall what the movie was all about--save for the fact that it was an almost two-hour spectacle of hysterical and

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-18687692159567617152009-09-02T22:58:00.006+08:002009-09-03T06:54:12.822+08:00

Business must be bad for funeral parlor A. While its competitor two buildings away never seems to run out of "customers," there it was, almost always eerily empty. The space where "mourners" usually nurse their grief over (rowdy) rounds of gin and poker remained just that: a dead spot.Three weeks ago, a parlor of a totally different kind suddenly sprouted on the dead spot. Feng-shui experts

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-70937706816373722692009-08-25T06:36:00.000+08:002009-08-25T09:53:13.343+08:00

The laptop that has seen me through almost two years of late-night blogging conked out two weeks ago. I am no gadget freak, but I am close to heartbroken. You see, I have this really, really bad habit of not backing up. Maybe it's faith of the wrong kind. I always seem to think that technology will take care of itself, and so my techie friends' advice to regularly back up my files always goes

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-7737677108558102022009-08-20T15:33:00.001+08:002009-08-20T15:33:00.165+08:00

We wore yellow, never mind that it was quite unbecoming. We thought Kris was cute, and rallied her on to her dream of becoming the next Sharon Cuneta. We sang Bayan Ko and flashed the L sign, even though we were weaned on KBL and the New Society.We were in high school, and in an era of defining moments, Ninoy's death changed the world as we knew it. As teenagers who wore angst as a badge of

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-40247356360960503602009-07-28T16:31:00.002+08:002009-07-28T16:43:07.158+08:00

Seen at the entrance to a government office:"Punching not your own time card is not allowed."I get the drift, of course. And I'm sure you do, too. But this at a government agency that is supposed to educate our children? Ayayay! I guess someone deserves some punch(ing).

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-1169953101942366202009-07-25T22:19:00.003+08:002009-07-25T23:00:13.864+08:00

... I laughed, danced, drank and walked down memory lane with friends who had seen me at my pimple-sprouting worst;... I finally had the courage to do the videoke thing (and failed miserably, too);... I became a school mom;... I bought cellulite-erasing cream, which did anything BUT erase the cellulite;... I paced the hospital floor while waiting for the medics' reassurance that the ugly wounds

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-17475680427026707982009-07-17T23:31:00.004+08:002009-07-20T16:04:37.037+08:00

This being my year of reunions, I had yet another. A month ago, I was with boys and girls who I thought had been consigned to the distant past. I hadn't seen most of them since we sang "Alma Mater" 29 years ago, when we stood stiff in our starched gala uniforms and said goodbye to grade school. I went to "the other" high school soon after and promptly identified myself as un-Milagrosinian. I

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-24123021998908708352009-07-15T22:04:00.000+08:002009-07-16T11:52:06.799+08:00

Oversized butts crammed into kiddie chairs. "Moving" the nominations closed after naming just one candidate. Economical introductions, the better not to get nominated.This was my first official homeroom PTA meeting, and I'm glad I sat at the back. I'm not really the gung-ho extra-curricular type, and I refuse to stress myself out from too much "responsibility." Fact is, I have perfected the

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-42398699350590086312009-07-10T10:24:00.004+08:002009-07-10T21:28:11.576+08:00

I love wooden furniture. You see, I grew up hanging around my grandfather's home-office, where a stately, polished narra table held his neatly-filed legal briefs. The table never seemed to run out of surprises. Just when I thought I had opened just about every drawer, there would be one more secret compartment--an extended writing drawer perhaps, or yet another drawer within.Because I am

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-33641575747099695492009-06-25T16:23:00.000+08:002009-06-25T16:27:52.501+08:00

I am now officially a school mom. For the past few days, I have been "stealing" time off work to see how my daughter is faring in not-so-big school. I have been in the company of moms and yayas, some of whom have been through countless first-day-of-school fever. The "friendlier" ones have exchanged contact numbers. Somebody has already fished out a catalogue and has since been convincing me

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-28264045282586716372009-06-13T23:16:00.003+08:002009-06-13T23:37:33.899+08:00

Independence Day came with a memo directing us to attend the usual ceremonies. As these things go, the memo had the unspoken "or else" masked by the usual bureaucratic jargon and went on to prescribe the attire for the activity.Permanent employees are supposed to come in in their Monday uniforms while those on job-order status had to be in "casual" attire.Naturally this raised quite a stir on

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-16872875236722864692009-06-02T10:10:00.004+08:002009-06-02T10:21:39.040+08:00

I am no swimmer, but I do love the sea. That and boat rides. There is something about being in the middle of the sea--right smack in the middle of nowhere--that evokes a certain calm. As long as the sea is calm, of course.And last Wednesday, it was. En route to Sto. Nino, a smaller-than-small island that is only accessible by banca, the sea was at its summer best. Mount Mayon was

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-33130448303469351452009-06-01T15:04:00.004+08:002009-06-01T15:53:06.030+08:00

In Church yesterday, I was distracted by this young girl--probably around eight--wearing a red shirt. The print was easy to make out even for my nowhere near 20/20 vision. It said:sex.ysexually arousing, exciting or interestingradiating sexuality, alluringas an illustration, see attached personI'm no regular church-goer, and I won't even attempt to understand if it's appropriate or not. But

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-72339751744278568802009-05-29T15:32:00.003+08:002009-05-29T16:17:25.086+08:00

On the way to the office this morning, I rode with a woman and her (elementary) school-age daughter who were into some sort of argument over the opening of classes. The girl recited her must-haves: scissors, eraser, ruler, construction paper, etc.The mother was unconvinced. They'll buy the supplies, she said, when they are already needed. Or when the teacher asks for them. She launched a (

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-7377491311738467822009-05-21T16:23:00.000+08:002009-05-21T18:16:29.795+08:00

My phone met an unsanitary death while we were out on field, and for something like two days, I was cut off from the digital world. For two days, there were no urgent "txt bak pls" messages, no truncated, virtually indecipherable SMS, no calls at the most incovenient hours. I was incommunicado. And happily so.I would have preferred a much longer mobile-phoneless existence. The thing is, even

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-57825588346838012172009-04-20T20:35:00.001+08:002009-04-20T20:35:00.089+08:00

School's out, and somebody I know has loaded her kid's schedule with activities, activities and more activities. There's Kumon, speech and art classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. And there's taekwondo and swimming on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. All these, she says, so that her tweener won't get bored during the two-month lull.I wonder: whatever happened to carefree, school-less

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-30098115002430780652009-04-15T22:15:00.003+08:002009-04-20T16:35:04.052+08:00

On Black Saturday, we celebrated our 25th batch reunion.I wouldn’t say that it was perfect; that it went according to plan. It wasn’t and it didn’t. At the last hour—or was that last minute?—we learned that the singing was the finale: we had to change into our dance “costumes” fast and back into our “ball” attire faster. There were frayed nerves and flaring tempers. There were snags and

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-57837518442422114442009-04-07T17:52:00.000+08:002009-04-07T17:52:00.228+08:00

For two weeks now I've been going home at 9 p.m. In Sorsogon, this is already quite late: most of the stores close at 7 p.m., and by 8 the two main streets are literally asleep. Barring the times when I can bully the Papa into picking me up, my new-found friends (and former classmates) walk the quiet stretch to the terminal, where we each go our separate routes.The evening walks have

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-50124878065540489812009-04-02T11:13:00.001+08:002009-04-03T16:41:41.127+08:00

Having survived those horrendous Edsa jams, I am naturally patient when I happen to be caught in the middle of a pileup. After all, traffic in these parts translate to nothing more than five minutes on the L-shaped business center. Barring the usual rush-hour traffic--caused mostly by tricycles in an illogical rush--our main streets get clogged only when there are parades and processions. Or

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-50353488146507497212009-03-23T00:16:00.002+08:002009-03-23T00:19:21.109+08:00

There are so many subjects that I’d probably get a C- in, and dancing just happens to be one of them. I barely scraped past PE 2, and I’m not exactly dance troupe material. Sure, I can pick up a step or two. But the thing is, I just don’t have the passion. And the grace. So when I got a message inviting those who cared to join to a production-number practice, I was a no-show. Apparently, so

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-43163191340358336492009-03-20T14:19:00.000+08:002009-03-20T14:43:46.074+08:00

Summer started while we were out on field. All throughout the morning, the beach was a constant presence. We could hear the waves--could even feel the soft breeze--from where we were. But there was work to do, and the beach had to take a backseat.At 1p.m., when the crowd started thinnning out and nothing remained of the just-in-from-the-sea lunch, we rounded the corner and there it was: the

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-28158146796226825842009-03-16T20:35:00.002+08:002009-03-16T20:35:00.132+08:00

I blew the dust off a boxful of 25-year-old photographs, and now I am quashing the urge to max my imaginary credit card on all the slimming gadgets on Home Shopping Network. Having gone from skinny to solid--and altogether missing "sexy" by a mile--I now understand why people actually worship Belo and Calayan :p The slimming frenzy going on in the office does not help any. Girls who think

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-4076677581660433192009-03-14T19:59:00.002+08:002009-03-14T21:27:57.156+08:00

Our 25th high school reunion is up in a few weeks. I thought it would be a cinch: we've been working on the homecoming for over a year now. But with reality staring us in the face, I am having some sort of a panic attack. As I'm sure the rest of the class are.The panic comes mostly from the details that we have to wade through. Reunions are a tall order in these parts, especially for the

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-43798439670988022982009-02-14T19:48:00.006+08:002009-02-17T11:46:42.667+08:00

In the era of Teen Beat and Tiger Beat, Rex Smith was my all-time poster boy. His posters--magazine centerfolds, of course--adorned my bedroom walls, crowding out my sister's Scott Baios, Shaun Cassidys and Leif Garretts. We were young and TV-less, and magazines and second-run movies were our only connections to the world outside. Albums, singles and cassettes, too. "Forever" and "Let's Make

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-90865845847021850852009-02-08T16:30:00.000+08:002009-02-08T17:16:49.110+08:00

Gianna saw it first: the tree house on Seventh Street. Sitting on the sturdy branches of a mango tree, it hinted of blustery summers: of kites and blue skies and magical childhood days. Checking on the tree house became a routine--and Gianna and I would often dream of the time when our own mango tree is big enough to hold up our own tree house. The other day, though, there was no more tree

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-88170419326110793882009-02-04T05:56:00.005+08:002009-02-04T06:09:23.994+08:00

Yet more reasons why I love traveling this road: blue mountains, green trees and zero traffic. Going home at the end of the day is one stress-free ride.

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-37180915052622592652009-01-31T16:12:00.004+08:002009-02-01T00:05:59.799+08:00

I would like to believe that my daughter came out into the world to the tune of "La Chupeta." In the four days that I stayed in the hospital after my C-Section four years ago, this makes-no-sense-to-me song supposedly about pacifiers kept ringing in my ears. I tried muffling it with earphones and a dose of post-partum Alanis Morisette. I tried thinking up the lyrics to a super jologs song that

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-39510369900628839052009-01-29T20:30:00.001+08:002009-01-29T21:33:44.578+08:00

I went to church last Sunday and went home with a migraine. No, it wasn’t from the homily. It wasn’t from the pressure of being “good,” either. Instead, it was from the squeaky heels of this toddler whose parents obviously do not know the difference between cute and irritating. As if the toddler with the squeaky shoes was not enough, there was this little girl who walked up the altar and

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-2723718372567200722009-01-29T16:33:00.002+08:002009-01-29T16:38:45.113+08:00

A participant leafing through a catalogueSlippers shared by two participants – and wayward shoes unceremoniously shoved under the chairA stifled yawnHeels, heels, uncomfortable heelsKnow-it-alls biting more than they could chewMe shuttling between two windows when I should be documentingBUT really, this seminar on ethics and accountability is NOT boring. How can it be, when it is peppered with

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-28756930951532213652009-01-22T19:37:00.002+08:002009-01-23T16:33:06.177+08:00

In my restless 30s, I fancied myself to be a kitchen goddess. Blame it on an overdose of Jude Law and Music from Another Room, but I had romantic visions of me slaving away in a small bakeshop with huge display windows. I wanted to bake fancy cakes, make truffles, cook up a feast. For a time, I did good on the baking part. I took lessons, tested recipes, basked in the wonderful scents of

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-34101549488503793922009-01-16T19:33:00.003+08:002009-01-16T21:26:59.028+08:00

The relentless rains of the past months finally took its toll on my cashew tree. While there were no storm signals up over Sorsogon, we have been bombarded with heavy rains and strong winds since the first day of December. And now what passes for my side garden is a mess.The cashew tree is but the latest in the long line of "natural" casualties. The aratiles tree that shaded the front gate was

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-51813869693557537942009-01-06T19:10:00.000+08:002009-01-06T19:10:01.015+08:00

Here's the upside to this taking-down-the-trimmings thing that used to give me the blues:Finally,they're getting rid of the hideous thingamajigs passing for Christmas decor in front of the City Hall.Yehey!

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-81823914917467332022009-01-05T17:48:00.003+08:002009-01-05T21:08:15.744+08:00

2009 is not supposed to be my year. Astrologers and new age gurus making the rounds of pre-new year talk shows have all been harping about the sheep/goat not being "friendly" with the ox. Consequently, they concluded that the year of the ox won't be a breeze for those born in the year of the sheep/goat.The Chinese New Year is still weeks away, but I can't say that the first day of 2009 had been

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-84985969382588048582009-01-03T22:07:00.001+08:002009-01-03T23:28:27.008+08:00

The last of the guests had been seen off, and the madness that spilled over to the living room is now a manageable mess. The street is back to being quietly normal, the dogs are no longer jumpy and the fridge is groaning with calories and cholesterol. I will deal with the leftovers tomorrow. Tonight I will allow myself to wallow in post-holiday blues.I guess this is the downside to being--and

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-69605169904781916542008-12-25T00:08:00.004+08:002008-12-25T00:58:01.156+08:00

The Papa is snoring, and the little girl is curled up under her pink blanket, fast asleep. I have finally given up on nudging them awake. And so it's just me, the Christmas lights, the spread that will soon turn cold (and untouched) and the distant sound of firecrackers. Christmases are simply not the same with most of the family not home for the Holidays. Over the years, they have taken on

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7360367835557812395.post-77183587591121203392008-12-24T22:13:00.001+08:002008-12-25T00:03:03.419+08:00

It wasn't exactly singing for supper. But as we braved the high notes and the December chill, the realization was clear: we had joined the ranks of those who made money out of Jingle Bells and Silent Night.Now singing is not really my thing. Whatever "musical" dreams I had were effectively doused when my high-school music teacher ixnayed my audition to the choral group. I have since developed

Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16609395980195523684noreply@blogger.com1