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 yesterday rushing and cleaning. I don't know, but there's something about leave-takings that always makes me want to empty out the Zonrox. It actually feels good to disinfect, never mind if it stings.
And so, smelling faintly of disinfectant, I greet 2011 with a cup of coffee, a prayer of gratitude for family and friends, and the wish to streamline and be more organized this year. Bob Dylan and I have one common friend: Chaos.
I really, really hope I can break the connection this year :p
January 1, 2011
December 29, 2010
Happy New Year!
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? Despite the frequent name-calling and the occasional cat fights over turfs and visiting cousins, we grew up as friends. Friends who shouted "siato" during siestas, played "iloy-iloyan" under the full moon and trooped together to Mrs. Amador for the komiks.
As I spend yet another year away from Molave Street, I remember the neighborhood boys and girls, some of whom I still meet. I remember friends as well: friends far, near and in-between who remain friends nonetheless. Who knows, I might just light a fountain for you guys!
And a happy 2011 to you, too!
I didn't complain, of course. Why would I, when I had it a lot better than Bibi Ilay, Toto Maloto and Ella Botelya? Despite the frequent name-calling and the occasional cat fights over turfs and visiting cousins, we grew up as friends. Friends who shouted "siato" during siestas, played "iloy-iloyan" under the full moon and trooped together to Mrs. Amador for the komiks.
As I spend yet another year away from Molave Street, I remember the neighborhood boys and girls, some of whom I still meet. I remember friends as well: friends far, near and in-between who remain friends nonetheless. Who knows, I might just light a fountain for you guys!
And a happy 2011 to you, too!
December 20, 2010
Candy Candy
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 then, and the 12-hour night trip past rice fields and coconut plantations shimmering in the moonlight was a cinch. The Paco Station--our final destination--would be teeming with people, an indication that we have arrived in the big city.
Of course, Manila wasn't as sweltering then. Depending on arrangements, we would be shunted from Makati to San Juan to Quezon City, getting our fill of pop culture. We'd take afternoon strolls to Cash N' Carry, Unimart, or COD, see a movie at the Coronet and ride the Ferris Wheel at the Fiesta Carnival. Most days, though, we would just bond with a coterie of cousins in front of the TV screen.
And so it was that I learned to wash the dishes courtesy of Kulit Bulilit and Imee Marcos (!), sat through endless screenings of LVN black-and-whites and gushed over the younger and slimmer Sharon Cuneta. But what I really looked forward to--other than Voltes V, Mazinger Z and Ronron the Flower Angel--was Candy Candy.
Candy Candy defined my big city summers. The midday walks to Dairy Queen or UniMart would be made to the tune of the Candy Candy Theme. And my first cartoon heartbreak was over Anthony!
Over time, I outgrew TV and realized I liked summers in Sorsogon more. I could have outgrown Candy Candy, too. Except the theme song is sticking to me like the amorseko of those carefree summers.
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 then, and the 12-hour night trip past rice fields and coconut plantations shimmering in the moonlight was a cinch. The Paco Station--our final destination--would be teeming with people, an indication that we have arrived in the big city.
Of course, Manila wasn't as sweltering then. Depending on arrangements, we would be shunted from Makati to San Juan to Quezon City, getting our fill of pop culture. We'd take afternoon strolls to Cash N' Carry, Unimart, or COD, see a movie at the Coronet and ride the Ferris Wheel at the Fiesta Carnival. Most days, though, we would just bond with a coterie of cousins in front of the TV screen.
And so it was that I learned to wash the dishes courtesy of Kulit Bulilit and Imee Marcos (!), sat through endless screenings of LVN black-and-whites and gushed over the younger and slimmer Sharon Cuneta. But what I really looked forward to--other than Voltes V, Mazinger Z and Ronron the Flower Angel--was Candy Candy.
Candy Candy defined my big city summers. The midday walks to Dairy Queen or UniMart would be made to the tune of the Candy Candy Theme. And my first cartoon heartbreak was over Anthony!
Over time, I outgrew TV and realized I liked summers in Sorsogon more. I could have outgrown Candy Candy, too. Except the theme song is sticking to me like the amorseko of those carefree summers.
December 5, 2010
Blast From the Past
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, grab ice cubes from the fridge, crank the handle and presto: halo-halo! And then, it would be off to the corner sari-sari store for a peek at the (contraband) komiks-for-rent or to the streets for a game of "football" or siato.
Thirty or so years later, Blue Teddy still works. The blades are as sharp as ever, and the eyes still roll, much like Tita T's, when she is about to spew some hush-hush family chismis. The daughter has somehow staked her claim on the shaver and has since resurrected it from the kitchen cupboard.
A blast from the past, the thingamajig may be. But it looks like it'll still be around for very, very long.
November 10, 2010
Internet Cafe-ing
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 at the internet cafe.
Today, my wandering ears zeroed in on this girl who was giving her (I presume) husband a running and tiresome documentary of their financial whatnots. The husband couldn't probably get a word in, because for the better part of an hour, it was just her talking about budgets and expenses and the high cost of living. And how his remittance would be most welcome. blah blah blah.
A group of college kids came in and drowned out the girl's protracted soliloquy. They're talking Counter Strike, terrorism and weapons of mass destruction here. Before I could morph into the Goddess of Strife, however, they run out of internet-cafe cash and leave, plotting, perhaps, their next terror attack.
I am now left to eavesdrop on the guy who is chatting away in hopes of coming up with the perfect Super Lotto combination. He has 30 minutes, he says, before he has to stand in line at the lotto outlet.
Alas, I had to leave before he could spew out the "perfect" numbers.
Today, my wandering ears zeroed in on this girl who was giving her (I presume) husband a running and tiresome documentary of their financial whatnots. The husband couldn't probably get a word in, because for the better part of an hour, it was just her talking about budgets and expenses and the high cost of living. And how his remittance would be most welcome. blah blah blah.
A group of college kids came in and drowned out the girl's protracted soliloquy. They're talking Counter Strike, terrorism and weapons of mass destruction here. Before I could morph into the Goddess of Strife, however, they run out of internet-cafe cash and leave, plotting, perhaps, their next terror attack.
I am now left to eavesdrop on the guy who is chatting away in hopes of coming up with the perfect Super Lotto combination. He has 30 minutes, he says, before he has to stand in line at the lotto outlet.
Alas, I had to leave before he could spew out the "perfect" numbers.
November 9, 2010
Major, Major Mode
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 heyday in the forgotten '80s and whose only "titles" were Miss Thailand in my school's United Nations week celebrations and the Reyna Elena '86 (which I won because, as my sisters would always remind me, it was a money contest)!
As I am in the habit of debating with myself, I had two ready answers: The office order that is now tucked in my 201 File and karma. I won't get into the workings of the bureaucracy so let us leave the office order alone. As for the karma part, I think this is what I get for taking to the streets GABRIELA fashion in the '90s in jeans, sneakers, batik and tubao. And for causing monstrous traffic jams in the periphery of the Quezon City circle.
Karma is, of course, inescapable. And so excuse me while I powder my nose and hie off to the conference room.
... 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 heyday in the forgotten '80s and whose only "titles" were Miss Thailand in my school's United Nations week celebrations and the Reyna Elena '86 (which I won because, as my sisters would always remind me, it was a money contest)!
As I am in the habit of debating with myself, I had two ready answers: The office order that is now tucked in my 201 File and karma. I won't get into the workings of the bureaucracy so let us leave the office order alone. As for the karma part, I think this is what I get for taking to the streets GABRIELA fashion in the '90s in jeans, sneakers, batik and tubao. And for causing monstrous traffic jams in the periphery of the Quezon City circle.
Karma is, of course, inescapable. And so excuse me while I powder my nose and hie off to the conference room.
September 29, 2010
Just Stuff
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 of their war mentality: they don't like the idea of throwing anything away. And so the stuff kept piling up: furniture from five houses ago, wedding presents (oh yes, those dreaded punchbowls) that none of us wanted, clothes that have gone out of--and back in and out again of--fashion, books, long-playing albums, videotapes and things that I forgot we had.
Oh well, most of the stuff are gone now. I don't exactly mourn for the lost things, but I cringe at the thought of other people invading and breaking into our turf. I haven't checked in on the house since the burglary, knowing that I would feel a degree of violation. The thought of strangers rifling through things that are supposed to be private can be very unsettling, although by now I should be used to people poking their noses into other peoples' lives.
The stuff are just stuff. They have been forgotten for so long, and the universe has found a way of getting them out of our lives. I just wish, though, that the loss didn't come with this sense of invasion.
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 of their war mentality: they don't like the idea of throwing anything away. And so the stuff kept piling up: furniture from five houses ago, wedding presents (oh yes, those dreaded punchbowls) that none of us wanted, clothes that have gone out of--and back in and out again of--fashion, books, long-playing albums, videotapes and things that I forgot we had.
Oh well, most of the stuff are gone now. I don't exactly mourn for the lost things, but I cringe at the thought of other people invading and breaking into our turf. I haven't checked in on the house since the burglary, knowing that I would feel a degree of violation. The thought of strangers rifling through things that are supposed to be private can be very unsettling, although by now I should be used to people poking their noses into other peoples' lives.
The stuff are just stuff. They have been forgotten for so long, and the universe has found a way of getting them out of our lives. I just wish, though, that the loss didn't come with this sense of invasion.
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