Fat and Thin

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 certainly changed. They are no longer on the paper-wrapped, running-the-risk-of-UTI butong pakwan of my gradeschool days. They are now on something presumably healthy: on no-cholesterol, lactose-free, low-fat etc. etc soya milk.



One look, and I was brought back to the days of Mr. Hugo's store with the jars of belekoy, the paper balloons and the pakitkitan. The DC Sisters said the stuff were contraband, and were not sold at the school canteen. But Mr. Hugo's store was just a few steps away, and after school--when the Sisters were too busy praying--we would bully the sundo into walking the extra steps.

Oh well. It may be a long time ago, and Mr. Hugo has since passed on. But I am glad to see Fat and Thin again.

Turning SIlver

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 silver belles and boys. Aside from planning the activities for our batch, we are also expected to host the grand alumni homecoming. That's roughly 70 batches, not counting those who have since moved on to more celestial reunions.

But queasy feeling aside, there is also the heady anticipation of being with old friends once more. Some of them I haven't seen since graduation, when we sat under the scorching afternoon sun and patiently waited as 700 plus graduates marched up the stage to get the rolled-up bond paper that summed up four years of our lives.

We have all changed, that’s for sure. Most of the girls have taken on new, sometimes-hyphenated, surnames. As the years piled up, so did the inches on the waist and the excess poundage in the most unflattering places.

We have all become what our school paper painted us to be: the salt of the earth. We have taken forked roads and have since realized that graduations are merely beginnings. That high school is but one of life’s many phases.

Still and all, it would be fun to go back to the old school. Already, we have unboxed old photographs and memories. It’s like going back in time, and getting to know our mirror images of 25 years ago.

Surely, this business of turning silver is a journey worth taking.

Word Factory

Yesterday was one of those decidedly OC days. I wanted to deposit some more stuff in the bodega, but first some clearing out was in order. It was, after all, groaning from an assortment of bags and boxes, furniture and forgotten photographs.

As I sorted and piled, I found a box that held stuff from the '80s and '90s. There were yellowing copies of Tiger Beat and Seventeen and Spandau Ballet posters. There were bookmarks, scrapbooks and letters from high school and college. And there, buried along with Menudo memorabilia and jigsaw puzzles, was the forgotten Word Factory.

Looking at the obviously time-worn tiles, I thought of countless bonding moments spent and made amid the racket made by the shaking of the grid. My sisters and I spent lazy summer afternoons stringing together words. In college, "vacant" periods were spent in the V office, playing Word Factory when we should be cramming for an exam or beating deadlines. Why, we even turned the thing into a full-blown competition that stretched far beyond summer writing workshops in Balayan and in Baguio! I also thought of the bouts with insomnia made more tolerable by forming words and lining the inside of the grid with a towelette to muffle the crack of the tiles.

Now, there are online games, rendering the Word Factory almost obsolete. As I hedged between keeping the game and donating it to the neighborhood daycare (along with toys outgrown and forgotten), my niece got hold of the grid and decided that it's the perfect "cake."

Looks like the Word Factory will be here a little while longer. :p

So Much for White Rabbit

The news recently had me walking down White Rabbit- and Haw Flakes-lined memory lane. These--along with Kendi Mint, Fat and Thin watermelon seeds and plastic balloon--were my sari-sari store staples. Semi-forbidden stuff that I hoarded on the sly. I especially loved the filmy, plastic-like coating of White Rabbit and the way it melted in the mouth.

Now, with melamine casting dark clouds over just about anything and everything China-made, I feel a certain sense of loss. Goodbye, White Rabbit and Haw Flakes. No more making the side trip to the "Chinese" corner of the grocery for kiamoy and dikiam. I look at the colorful array of preserves and my inner monitor says "don't even think about it." I crave for tocinong Intsik, and an internal alarm buzzes.

Sad, but my nephews can't expect their usual from-the-Philippines hoard of Peanut Nougat and Peanut Cake anymore. "Pretend" Communion won't be the same without Haw Flakes. And White Rabbit? I now wonder what chemicals go into the melts-in-the-mouth coating. (The fine print doesn't help any. I once looked up the ingredients for Haw Flakes and guess what I found? Haw and water! As if I know what haw is :p)

There are other oriental brands that I am oh so familiar with; ointments and liniments often encountered in terminals and in airports and in piers. White Flower, Tiger Balm, Katinko and Essential Embrocation may be melamine-free, but their point of origin now makes them suspect.

Really, this melamine thing is giving most of us a bad case of paranoia.

Pinked

Gianna wanted it in her favorite color. Naturally, the papa--who couldn't resist toying with a can of paint--mixed and matched until he arrived at the perfect shade of girly-girl pink. Thus began yet another chapter in the so-called life of the garden chair.



For as long as I can remember, the garden set has been with us. It was here where many black and whites, Polaroids and circa '70s color prints were taken. It witnessed birthday parties and drinking sprees, courtships and LQs, full moons and early morning cups of coffee. Politicians and dogs (hmm, sometimes I just couldn't tell the difference, he he) sat here. Here was where a younger (and less cheesy) Chiz and his rah-rah team talked my dad into (returning to) politics. Where my dog Pusa sniffed at a bewildered Papa before deciding that she likes him.

Through many comings and goings away and moving ins and outs, the garden set has been a constant. And like the old GE ref (which my mom kept and used for sentimental reasons until she realized that it was such a power guzzler), it has changed color so many times. It has gone from white to green to white to yellow to white. And now, one fifth of it is pink. Waiting in the wings for Gianna's pink-filled, rosy memories.

Things are treasured not so much for what they are but for the value we attach to them. The spiffed-up set has cradled 40 plus years of life's ups and downs and in-betweens. And from the looks of it, it's going to cradle a lot, lot more.

Changing, Changing, Changed

I took the longer, more semi-urban route to the office today, and I noticed something I hadn't seen in years: the bahay na bato on the fringes of town. I went to grade school with the daughter of the house. I can picture her still: a haughty mestiza who had way too much of everything, from yayas to Sanrio to excess poundage.

Alas, the house is now dilapidated beyond repair: a crumbling heap of memories of days long gone. There is nothing about the structure that hints of grand parties, or of Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo. The vast acreage beyond has been sold and resold, divided and subdivided. The daughter of the house has since left for cooler climes. And from the looks of it, she will not return.

I have always had affinity for old houses. My grandpa's house was right beside the municipio, where he served as judge. On the days when we visited, my cousins and I would race through the house and up and down the town hall's twin flights of stairs. Often, we would steal away to the cathedral, which was but a quick dash away.

But for the cathedral, the structures of my childhood are but shadows of their former glories. The old municipal building has long served its purpose: it is now much too small for a growing city. Lolo's house has already traded ownerships so many times I've already lost count. What was once a respectable lawyer's house-cum-office is now a bar of the seedy kind. (How it got from prime property to red-light establishment is the stuff of telenovelas--you know, the kind peopled by stepmothers, stepsons and half siblings.)

Every time I see an old building giving in to the ravages of time--or to modernization--I always feel a certain loss. Change is always good, a friend likes to say. But there is something about old houses that makes me wish change didn't have to creep in into places of memories.

The Nose Knows

Somebody put a vaseful of rosal in the washroom, and before I knew it, I was brought back to those breezy, carefree flores de mayo days. Scents do that to me. I get a whiff of Coppertone, and I am transported to Boracay and lazing under the SPF 30 sun. A hint of musk, and suddenly, I am in high school all over again. The sea, when the tide is out, reminds me of elementary years in a school by the bay.

Sometimes, the memories are good:

Firewood and fiestas. Old Spice and family reunions. Cinnamon and Christmas. State of Mind and my "bestest" friends, Berna and Maricar. Noxzema and college at UST. Aceite de Manzanilla and Gianna's baby days. Brewed coffee and last full shows.

And sometimes they are not so good:

Betadine and the operating room. Herbs and Quiapo and the one time a vendor harangued me for refusing her medallion. Mud and the floodwaters of Espana. White Flower/Tiger Balm and the pre-Bonamine days, when the journey home took 14 hours, a sore butt and a losing fight with motion sickness. Sardines and EDSA. (Who would have thought that Edsa would be trivialized by subsequent "Revolutions," and that Philippine politics would forever smell fishy?)

A few years from now, my nose would probably pick out a scent and bring me back to where and what I am now. Would it be Victoria's Secret, or baby powder, or Promil Kid, perhaps? Whatever it is, I'm sure, the nose would know...

Reconnections

I graduated from high school in 1984. This was the era of Mother Lily and her Regal Babies, Bagets and the layered look. Computers were unheard of in our little pocket of the universe. Much of our school projects, in fact, moved to the rhythm of the bulky Olympia or the more portable Underwood.

On my third and fourth years, there was one room that drew me in. Here was where my love affair with the scent of newsprint began, where I spent many, many hours trying to be a writer. The Luzon Tip Press Room drew in kindred souls as well: Eden, Mel, Marissa, Cherie. We had our own cliques, but we were drawn to each other by our love of the written word--ours and others'.

After high school, we managed to see a bit of each other every now and then. But these became farther and farther apart as careers, marriages and children came and life happened. Keeping ties was never my forte, and except for third-person updates, I lost touch with my school-paper buddies.

And then I found them. Found their blogs, actually, and I feel that I am on a journey of rediscovery. And discovery. Eden gardens--and cooks. Mel is taking the road less travelled. Cherie is learning to drive. Marissa is very much Marissa: artist, intellectual, a woman of strength. All of us are players in the game of life.

We may live in different worlds now, but I feel more connected to them than ever. This blog thing has bridged the silent, in-between years. It has reconnected me with old friends, connected me with new (online) friends and given me back the joy of writing.

Ahh, Summer...

From my office window, I see perfect pictures of summer: boys flying kites, fields swaying in the breeze, deep blue skies hinting of summery days at the beach.

I remember my ice-candy summers: school-less days that also meant bottles of anti-lice shampoo. And battles with the neighborhood boys.

I remember the bahay kubo in the old backyard. It was my world for three summers--the awkward summers between The Bobbsey Twins and Gabby Concepcion. It was there, under the shade of the aratiles tree, where my sisters and I read Tagalog komiks on the sly, where we listened to afternoon dramas over AM radio, where we did nothing but play and sleep and play some more.

I could use a lot more sleep. And a lot more play.

But there's work to do. There are papers to review, and the clock on the wall says it's still three hours short of the weekend.

Bummer!

Lies My Yaya Told Me

Up until I knew better, I had a yaya who thought up answers to everything. Nilda, her name was, and she fancied herself to be the next Nora Aunor. (She was a Noranian of the diehard kind, stopping just a little short of hexing Vilma Santos.) She had ready answers to my endless questions. She also had outrageous views that, alas, I took for bible truths.

And so it was that I believed that “not for hire” meant “not for long distances” [“harayo” is Bicol for “far,” and Nilda insisted that “not for hire” literally meant “dili pwede sa harayo.”]. I also believed that “Bumbays” were scary people who particularly feasted on children that didn’t take naps, and that Coca-Cola was a concoction of soy sauce, water and Superwheel. Naturally, I steered clear of Coke.

But if there’s one childhood myth that I held on to until reality bit, it is this: that nuns and priests were not like us lesser mortals. That they were special. So special, in fact, that they didn't need to eat "real" food: they could live on the communion host alone. They also didn't have to take care of themselves or to look good or even to brush their teeth.

So when, during a kindergarten outing, I saw Sor Sonia eating a sandwich, I was really, really floored! With something close to shock, I realized that Nilda was taking me for a ride all along. Eventually, she ran off with her “Pip,” and probably had a dozen “Maria Leonora Teresas.”

Thoughts of my childhood yaya came back when, at a grocery line, I stood behind a youngish priest. When it was his turn, he looked around, gave me a sheepish grin and piled his purchases. There, on the counter, were six boxes of whitening soap.

So much for Nilda and her myths, huh!

A Love for Books

I had one of life's most wonderful surprises when I was eight. I can no longer recall if it was Christmas, or Valentine's Day, or my birthday. Or if there was any occasion at all. All I remember is Ma taking me to the spare bedroom and pointing me toward the cabinet.

There, inside, was a wide, magical world waiting for me. No, it wasn't the 20-volume blue-and-white Grollier's Encyclopedia. It was too "grown-up" for me. Instead, it was the row of books that went along with it: a colorful set that introduced me to the wonderful world of fables and stories and fairy tales.

From Through Golden Windows' pages sprang colorful characters: Riki Tiki Tavi, Lottie, Chin Ling the Chinese Cricket, Little Black Sambo. Before the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew and eventually, the dreamy boys and girls of Sweet Dreams, they were my bedside companions.

The books, of course, are but musty memories now. But they are still well-loved because they served their purpose: they inculcated in me a great love for reading and the printed word. A love that I wish to pass on to my daughter.

Last Christmas, my sister gave me a copy of 100 Books for Girls to Grow On. It has summaries of books ranging from a 25-minute read to those that have over 400 pages. There are discussion questions as well, notes about the authors, recommended readings and suggested activities to get a feel of the book.

Some of the books are familiar: Eleanore Estes' The Hundred Dresses, S. E. Hinton's The Outsiders, Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time, Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. The rest I look forward to reading with Gianna. In time, I hope the scent of a book will also trigger in her wonderful memories of reading and of unforgettable stories.

Decluttering

One of my goals is to get organized. Unlike two of my sisters, whose spaces spell Real Simple and Martha Stewart Living, I am a certified packrat. I have this tendency to collect, amass and hoard. Minimalism, I know, has high eye appeal, but my shelves can never remain "minimal" for long. They almost always get invaded by stuff.

(My built-in clutter magnet, is, I believe the product of genes. Dad and Ma--whose early growing-up years were spent hiding from the Japanese--cannot let things go to waste. They built a two-story bodega on our Molave Street home to accommodate books, long-playing albums and 45s, 60s furniture, tools, broken appliances, construction surplus, even a mannequin. They held on to the GE fridge bought in 1970for almost 25 years. And only because the thing--which had gone from white to yellow--had turned into a power-consuming monster.)

In any case, because I am starting to feel hemmed in by my things, I declared this to be a decluttering weekend. First I tackled my "creativity" cabinet. From among the piles of scrapbooking supplies I found "dear diary" entries, idea files, yellowing lists of projects not (yet) started or not (yet) realized. There were 78 pencils harking to my Sanrio days; cards and letters that were not sent; forgotten pictures. The home-office desk drawers and a three-level shelf yielded other "museum" pieces: letters from 20, 30 years ago, raffle tickets, a tinful of State of Mind candles, handmade cards from the hubby, clippings, recipes, receipts.

To the trash went the manuals that outlived their subjects, articles that I know I'd find on the net, calendars and planners from the '90s, magazines and inkless pens. Things I'm iffy about went into the not-sure pile. If I don't use them in six months, off they'd go.

As for the rest, I'll let them be. The cabinets and shelves are not as messy anymore. There's more than enough room. For now.

Stories of Christmases Past

Story 1:

It is the (mid) 1970s. I am grumpy because I did not get the (usual) box of curly tops during our school exchange gift. In fact, I did not get anything at all because I left the (usual) soapdish at home, and the (usual) exchange gift went on without me.

Because I am (probably) getting on Ma's nerves, she decides to have an impromptu exchange gift, with all of us combing the house for "gifts." I spy a bagful of red kiamoy and I wrap it up in elementary-school fashion. Our boy comes in carrying a big, beautifully wrapped present. The brat that I am, I decide to have that gift no matter what.

We draw lots, and I see that I'm about to get a "thing" wrapped in brown paper bag. My younger sister is about to get the gift. I bully my sister into trading lots with me.

The sister opens the brown paper bag and gives out a delighted yelp: there are sweets aplenty--Kendi-Mint, Bravo, White Rabbit, N-Nut, Big Boy Bubble Gum. I open the gift and I roar.

Inside the beautifully wrapped package is a bunch of freshly harvested kamoteng kahoy!

Story 2

It is 1989. My sister and I are at the bus terminal, trying to wheedle tickets for the trip that would take us home to Sorsogon for Christmas. All seats for the air-conditioned coaches are taken, the booking agent tells us. There is an extra trip, though, she continues.

And so we clamber aboard the rickety, ordinary bus, picking our way past cans of biscuits and baggage. The bus is packed. And smells of sweat and who knows what else. But there is an undercurrent of happiness, of excitement over going home for the holidays.

Four hours into what is projected as a twelve-hour ride, the engine coughs, then dies. We spend four hours in the middle of nowhere as mechanics try to resuscitate the otherwise dying bus. When it is clear that it won't go any farther, the conductor flags the next Bicol-bound bus, and asks if it would take us in. Or if we would take it.

We take the equally packed bus, and we are crammed--along with two others--into a three-seater. We are among the lucky ones. Others are standing along the aisles, separated from their travelling companions. The bus is so crowded that when someone is left behind at a pitstop his companion doesn't find out until four hours later, at the next pitstop.

For the entire trip, the tale of the lost companion becomes a running joke.

The bus breaks down twice, and we are--again--stranded. Somebody passes around a tin of biscuits, and soon, there is a mini roadside party of sorts. We watch as locals out to attend the dawn masses file past.

We transfer to yet another bus, and we spend the rest of the journey home standing. The twelve-hour ride stretches into a full 24 hours.

It is the longest bus ride of our lives. But it is worth it. After all, what is Christmas if it is not spent in the comforts of home?

Note: this is a Christmas meme I picked up from An Apple A Day.

What to do: Just share a warm, fuzzy Pinoy Christmas story or anecdote or photo or whatever it is you love about Christmas (as a Filipino). Link to this blog post for details.

Bookmarked

Before my bookmark-crazy sister took them, I had two bookmarks that screamed "psychedelic!" As in, 1970s! One had Andy Gibb on it; the other, Peter Frampton. I distinctly remember having Shaun Cassidy and Leif Garrett bookmarks, too, but they seem to have disappeared into "Da Doo Ron Ron" and "Surfin' USA" oblivion.

The '80s heralded new "themes": Shirt Tales, those feel-good, if sappy Hallmark stuff, quotations that spurred me to either read, reach for the stars, love or be the best I can be. I had one made of cloth from Nepal--a souvenir from a jamboree.

My '90s bookmarks had a sense of coming of age, of coming back to the comforts of home. I have a gold-plated nipa hut bookmark and a collection of stuff that hinted of Faith Popcorn, Martha Stewart and Oprah.

More than just marking pages on books, I now realize that my bookmarks are by themselves memory markers as well. I know that a couple of years from now, I would look at this, my latest, and remember the heady, caffeine-loaded days of Anna's Tasa:

Catching Up

Last Saturday, CM Batch 80 had a mini meet-up. I had initial misgivings about going. It's been way too long--27 years to be exact--and I wondered if we'd ever find something to talk about beyond the requisite how are yous.

As it turned out, we did have a lot to talk about. Not just remember whens and stories about former classmates but stories of the here and now. Over lunch--which strecthed for three hours, we did some catching up. Kiko, he who slugged it out with the class bully, is now Padre Kiko. Rudy and Ayi, the big boys, are now much, much bigger. Philip, Larcy and Patrick are the constant contacts, providing updates on the others.

When we were in grade school,we went by our "given" names. Kiko was Francisco, Obet was Roberto, Rudy was Rodolfo, Bong was Aruello. I went by the rather unwieldy name of Anna Carmencita. Maturity has made for shorter names. And for overcoming the Catholic-school imposed boys-with-boys-and-girls-with-girls restrictions. In a sense, it has also made us kinder--especially on ourselves. Having seen much, we are no longer embarrassed by soiled-underwear episodes. Such, are, in fact, now sources of endless amusement.

And so, this business of growing up--and older--isn't so bad at all.

Radio Days

Before FM and Cable TV, there was AM Radio. Its cackling sound--coming from the neighbor's transistor--used to herald a new day. Along with the crowing of the cocks would come the reporter's running-out-of-breath voice, telling of the terrors of the night.

But it wasn't the news I was interested in. I got my news from Junior Citizen, from Bulletin Today or from the Daily Express. To the ten-year-old me, radio was proof that there was a world out there--a world of serialized melodramas, of variety shows--the Search for Superwheel Singing Stars, ha ha--of requests and dedications, of celebrities endorsing products--and in Bicol, too.

BetaMax and FM put a damper on AM Radio's entertainment value. Suddenly, Mga Kwento ng Lagim seemed less scary. What I pictured to be hairy tikbalangs and green-eyed monsters were, in fact, prosthetics. What I imagined to be beautiful, if long-suffering Esmeralda, turned out to be Matutina. All the hit songs of the day sounded better on FM--or could it be that the cassette player replaced the turntable, the thing that you had to put a fifty-centavo coin on to stop the needle from skipping?

Almost a year ago, though, I was forced to reconnect with AM. It became, again, the only connection to the post-Milenyo world; a companion that told of the devastation of Legazpi and Bicol and the coming of yet another typhoon.

Despite an absence of over 20 years--broken now and then when the taxi I would ride home in tuned in to Kuya Cesar and Tia Dely--I realized that AM was still, well, AM.

It still crackled, it still had a string of panicky reporters. And commercials still ended the way they did: with two people--probably gossiping over the gumamela bush--hastily saying goodbye to rush to the grocery to buy all the pancit canton in the world. Or to the water district to avail of the free reconnection. Or to the appliance store to splurge the Christmas bonus on the latest videoke machine.

Yes, AM still keeps us connected.

Linggo ng Wika

Among the more memorable school activities that spiced up my otherwise humdrum academic life was the commemoration of Filipino Week. The nuns at school took it to literal heights. For one week, English and Bicol were forgotten. Lessons (except in Language and Spelling and Reading and Phonics) were conducted in Filipino, and we had to converse in nothing but pure Tagalog. There was a price to pay, too, for every wayward work spoken: five centavos.

And so for one week, we were forced to write on our kuwaderno, we borrowed books from the aklatan and we had our lessons in the silid-aralan. The nuns made like hawks, ever ready to swoop down on pupils who violated the all-Filipino rule. They had as assistants the pupils who "told."

Back then, you had to be a nerd or a cad to go running to Sor Teresa to tell on the violators. Nerds, by their very nature, were easily forgiven: telling, after all, was the closest they could get to having fun. Cads, on the other hand, took some time to forgive, especially since they deprived most of us with our precious Coke-and-Chippy money.

Not that I was on the watchlist. My textbook Tagalog passed, stilted though it was. Besides, there were "bigger" fish out there: The nuns and their minions constantly tailed the couple of FilAms, who eventually resorted to being miserably speechless for one whole "Linggo ng Wika."

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Another "disciplinary" tool that the nuns imposed on us in between subjects and on breaks was the NSP Roll: a monitor (okay, a nerd) listed down the noisy, "standing" pupils on a section of the chalkboard. Any pupil caught standing and chattering got a stick. Five sticks meant a fine of--ta dah--five centavos, which went into the pot as "floorwax" money.

Most times, when the monitor went on a power trip, the list would be expanded to include pupils being "absent" (not on one's assigned seat), eating, laughing, and just about any gerund the monitor can think of. Once a bully punched a classmate, so the list included "punching" as well. Before the monitor could add "erasing," though, the bully went up front and erased the entire list. So much for floorwax money, huh?

High School: A Tag

This meme--which came from my friend Marj--has been in draft mode for the longest time. I guess I have been too busy re-living high school (thanks to snhsbatch84@yahoogroups.com) to write about it. In any case, here's the me of 23 years ago, to the tune of the Bagets soundtrack...

1. Who was your best friend? From first to third year, my closest friends were Gina, Annie and Memen. For some strange reason, I ended up in a different section in 4th year. For something like a week--until I found Oti--I felt lost and "friendless," which was, of course, fodder for my high-school angst. :p

2. Did you play any sports? I was never the sporty spice, and intramurals were really wasted on me...

3. What kind of car did you drive? Me? Drive? Heck, I even learned to "bike" at 21.

4. It’s Friday night. Where were you? At home. It was our official hang-out, and the gang usually slept over in preparation for Saturday-morning jogging.

5. Were you a party animal? I was allowed to party, but it wasn't like there were that many parties to attend.

6. Were you considered a flirt? Nope. I'm actually more on the "manang" side.

7. Were you in the band, orchestra or choir? I was a choral group reject. Ha ha ha. The chorale master told me that I would have made the cut, but the PTA decided to have "only one member of the family in the choir" so that the parents won't have to be burdened with expenses for costumes, etc. She should have told me that I just wasn't choir material. I mean, my two other sisters auditioned and they were taken in...

8. Were you a nerd? I was in the top ten, and I was quite "studious."

9. Were you ever suspended or expelled? No. But there was this one teacher who got so mad at the whole class he started cursing all of us.

10. Can you sing the fight song? I can't sing. Period.

11. Who was your favorite teacher? My Pilipino teacher in second year. She was a character, but she made Florante at Laura really worth studying for.

12. What was your school mascot? Didn't have any unless the more memorable teachers counted.

13. Did you go to the Prom? Of course, but only until 9 o'clock. The prom, though, was an improvement on the first dance I went to. The first time, Dad was with me all throughout so I ended up going home before 8.

14. If you could go back, would you? Would I still be wearing Grosby shoes and sporting a siete hairstyle? Why not?

15. What do you remember most about graduation? Me wearing a lacy white dress copied from something that the younger Janice de Belen wore :p

16. Where were you on Senior Skip Day? Don't even know what a Senior Skip Day is.

17. Did you have a job during your senior year? Nada. I mean, studying was already a job in itself.

18. Where did you go most often for lunch? Home.

19. Have you gained weight since then? Eighteen kilos and counting...

20. What did you do after graduation? Left for Manila to take the UST entrance exams.

21. What year did you graduate? Ahem. 1984

22. Are you going/did you go to your 10 year reunion? I did, and it was a lot of fun. Now we're prepping for the 25th...

How about you? How was high school?

Lost Brands

The upside to our office cleaning frenzy is that we made a lot of discoveries. Or, to put it in the proper perspective, re-discoveries. On a long-forgotten hospital cabinet were bottles and flasks that could very well be the stuff of Shabby Chic. One look, and conversation shifted to Choco Vim and Melon Milk and the brands of thirty something years ago.

Remember these?

1. N-Nut coated peanuts
2. Prawn Curls
3. Mini Mallows
4. Manor House chocolate
5. Lem-o-Lime
6. Mountain Dew
7. Big Boy Bubble Gum
8. Veto Deodorant
9. Prell, Pretty Hair, Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific and Halo shampoos
10. Stayfree Feminine Napkins
11. Life Buoy soap
12. Kao Biore facial wash
13. Wakasan Komiks
14. Funny Comics
15. Jingle Extra Hot
16. Kislap
17. Lasting Songs Digest
18. The Daily Express
19. Bic, Kilometrico and Haba-Haba Ballpens
20. Spartan, Bantex, Mighty Kid and Grosby Shoes
21. Made in Heaven fashion
22. Syvel's Department Store
23. My Melody, Tiny Poem, Patty and Jimmy and Kokuryo characters
24. Beautifont

If any of these ring a bell, you and I are nowhere near old. But if they don't, well, you probably won't remember Lala Aunor and Arnold Gamboa and the Apat na Sikat either. :p

Thursday Thirteen #1: The Me of the '80s

This is my first foray into the world of memes. It's supposed to be viral or something--in the context of blogs, says meme guru Gary LaPointe, "it's some kind of list of questions that you saw somewhere else and you decided to answer the questions. Then someone else sees them and does them and so on and so on. " I'm doing this "Thursday Thirteen" meme as some kind of initiation. And since I've been going on a trip down memory lane these past weeks (thanks to e-groups and Music and Lyrics), I might as well start with--ahem--stuff that remind me of the '80s. Join me as we take the road oft travelled... 1. Aquanet. The 80s was all about hair--the bigger and higher, the better. In the era of gravity-defying bangs, a can of Aquanet provided the height and the style. Other '80s hair musts: mousse, mineral oil, gel, petroleum jelly even. Obviously, we were so into "hair," or why would there be a group called "The Gelboys"? 2. Falcon Crest and Knots Landing. The Channings and the MacKenzies injected primetime Sunday nights with just the right mix of mystery, intrigue and an intricate web of not-too-real relationships. 3. "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" and "Walking on Sunshine." The former was the ultimate party perker-upper; the latter, the ultimate happy song. 4. SNHS Batch 84. We laughed some, cried some and basically winged it through four years of high-school superficialities. Twenty-three years later, our batch is still mostly intact, thanks to e-mail, blogs, and all the trappings of the high-tech universe. 5. Pops and Martin and Penthouse Live! I happened to watch the episode where Martin swore undying, everlasting love to Pops. Good thing most of us don't get proposed to on live TV, ha ha ha. 6. That's Entertainment. Back when Billy Crawford was still Billy Joe, there was this college kid who just had to go home early on Wednesdays to catch Romnick on the tube. Don't give me that look: I liked the Monday Group (think Jestoni and Lotlot and--heavens--Ronel Victor) better. 7. The Catcher in the Rye. I read this in the summer of '85. Like Holden Caulfield, I, too, had noble ambitions of erasing the unmentionables from the walls and protecting the kids from the cuss words of the world. Unlike Holden, though, I grew up and realized that ignoring the unmentionables is just as effective as wiping them out. 8. Balayan, Batangas. Starlit nights, bonfire by the beach, sketching souls and building castles. Ah, who can ever forget those wonderful, wonderful bonding moments with The Varsitarian? 9. Menudo. Weird Sister wangled a hotel room pass, and promptly learned everything she could about Puerto Rico. She also bought just about every album--including the obscure Spanish recordings. Which is probably why she aced her Spanish subjects... 10. People Power and sardines. Rumors of food (and toilet paper) shortage were heavy in the days leading to the EDSA Revolution. So that we wouldn't starve, we hoarded two boxes of sardines. The Revolution was done in a matter of days. Not our sardines, though. EDSA 1 has since been trivialized by succeeding EDSA revolutions, but to this day, I still can't get myself to eat canned sardines. 11. Crushed. For three years, I had this major crush on a neighbor: a law student who was also a "congressional" son. I thought I really had it going when he asked me to dance. One question, though, effectively put a period on three years of pining. On learning that I was in journalism school, he asked, in the most serious of tones: "So, you wanna be a newspaper?" Really, I wanted to be a television... 12. The Ricefields of Gerona. Picture two girls and a boy on a moonlit midnight, walking three (or was that ten?) kilometers with the end nowhere in sight. The ricefields of Gerona in Tarlac, shimmering amid the surreal glow of moonlight and echoing the creepy baying of farm dogs, did provide the perfect backdrop for college friends out for a weekend of discovery. 13. Reyna Elena 1986. Hilarious, but Ma "volunteered" me for the Search for Reyna Elena in our subdivision. Even more hilarious, but I won. If you must know, it was a money contest.

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
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