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 whatever tube of lipstick the relative might have. Or to give her the shoes that the bewildered relative is wearing.
Dearest Cousin's excitement was dashed an alert tone later when Dearest Auntie sent an unapologetic message that the earlier "text" was not intended for Dearest Cousin. That it was, in fact, "wrong send."
Dearest Cousin is now inconsolable. She says Dearest Auntie could have said that a flying saucer swooped down and carried the stuff away. Or that the nonexistent family dog suddenly developed a liking for chocolates. Or that the BFAD raided Dearest Auntie's house and confiscated the stash because of high melamine and mercury content.
Anything, she says, but the darn "wrong send." :p
April 22, 2010
April 16, 2010
Post It
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 of commerce. What used to be very accessible became relatively remote and--eventually--forgotten.
Today had me going back to once-familiar ground. Despite the five-year lull it looked as though nothing had changed. The old postmistress is there--still as smarmy as ever. The post-office boxes evoked the same mystery, and there was this musty scent that I have always associated with parcels waiting to be claimed.
Before cable, before the net and before cellulars made the world a lot smaller, Mr. Postman was our link to the outside world. He made summers a lot more exciting, and there was practically a world inside his mysterious brown bag. At one time, the bag yielded an autographed picture from the Debby Boone Fan Club!
My business at the post office took some time. It could have taken a lot less if the office workers clocked in on time, or if they did not do everything in slo mo.
Not that I minded, of course. Suddenly, I longed for the romance of snail mail, and for once, it felt good to take a little side step to a world that moved a little slower.
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 of commerce. What used to be very accessible became relatively remote and--eventually--forgotten.
Today had me going back to once-familiar ground. Despite the five-year lull it looked as though nothing had changed. The old postmistress is there--still as smarmy as ever. The post-office boxes evoked the same mystery, and there was this musty scent that I have always associated with parcels waiting to be claimed.
Before cable, before the net and before cellulars made the world a lot smaller, Mr. Postman was our link to the outside world. He made summers a lot more exciting, and there was practically a world inside his mysterious brown bag. At one time, the bag yielded an autographed picture from the Debby Boone Fan Club!
My business at the post office took some time. It could have taken a lot less if the office workers clocked in on time, or if they did not do everything in slo mo.
Not that I minded, of course. Suddenly, I longed for the romance of snail mail, and for once, it felt good to take a little side step to a world that moved a little slower.
April 9, 2010
Malaise
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 malaise must also be due to the oppressive heat. No amount of Freon can seem to recharge my already frying brain. The beach used to be an option. Now it hints of heat stroke and sunburn and oil all over my face.
The heat is so bad that I am compelled to do nothing. It’s just that this space is already looking a little lonely. And I feel that I have to start posting again to get me back on track.
If it doesn’t, I can always blame it on the heat. Or on things that require minimum brain power. :p
In any case, the blogging malaise must also be due to the oppressive heat. No amount of Freon can seem to recharge my already frying brain. The beach used to be an option. Now it hints of heat stroke and sunburn and oil all over my face.
The heat is so bad that I am compelled to do nothing. It’s just that this space is already looking a little lonely. And I feel that I have to start posting again to get me back on track.
If it doesn’t, I can always blame it on the heat. Or on things that require minimum brain power. :p
March 9, 2010
Aaaargh!
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 full-length mirror, or she was simply lost in space.
There, too, was this one lazy afternoon when I and three girl friends literally stopped traffic along Quezon Avenue. The reason? Because the mah-jongg set that entertained us during those tedious days of Ramos-era brownouts decided to go berserk just as we were "escaping" to our Mah Jongg 101 lessons. And so it was that the four of us scrambled to recover the tiles while all around us, bystanders and drivers were jeering "Pong!" and "Todas."
Well, today isn't my moment either. Just as I was leisurely surveying my laugh lines in the powder room a colleague suddenly popped in, let it rip, mumbled an apology and left me in a cloud of carbon dioxide.
This is so NOT my day :p
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 full-length mirror, or she was simply lost in space.
There, too, was this one lazy afternoon when I and three girl friends literally stopped traffic along Quezon Avenue. The reason? Because the mah-jongg set that entertained us during those tedious days of Ramos-era brownouts decided to go berserk just as we were "escaping" to our Mah Jongg 101 lessons. And so it was that the four of us scrambled to recover the tiles while all around us, bystanders and drivers were jeering "Pong!" and "Todas."
Well, today isn't my moment either. Just as I was leisurely surveying my laugh lines in the powder room a colleague suddenly popped in, let it rip, mumbled an apology and left me in a cloud of carbon dioxide.
This is so NOT my day :p
February 24, 2010
Reality Check
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 as a teenager pregnant with her third child. Sometimes it can be as funny as a little boy named "Brownie." Or as grounding as a daycare center making do with "toys" that our children take for granted.
And sometimes, reality can come in the form of a prescription advising the patient to "increase fluid and take."
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 as a teenager pregnant with her third child. Sometimes it can be as funny as a little boy named "Brownie." Or as grounding as a daycare center making do with "toys" that our children take for granted.
And sometimes, reality can come in the form of a prescription advising the patient to "increase fluid and take."
February 19, 2010
Stage Motherhood
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 thing for the spotlight. And so it was that in the initial meeting with parents and the "creative" directors, I was lost in the pageantry of it all. While the more stagey of the parents were debating on the merits of the "creative" gown versus the "formal" gown, I was mentally calculating the investments. And wondering why the kids need makeup in the first place.
The day of the pictorial was a harbinger of the real thing. As the kids were waiting in line for a dab or two of pictorial foundation, one (obviously stage) mother corralled a portion of the library and surrendered her daughter to the ministrations of her own, exclusive makeup artist. Talk about imeldific!
At last, after two weeks of incessant rehearsals, I had reached the point of no return: I would have to have my day as Annabelle Rama. The day of the "Search for Super Duo Models" turned out to be "Bring Your Own Bading Day," with fairies of all shapes and sizes fawning over the little girls and boys. Bedlam reigned backstage as parents and the coterie of alalays elbowed each other out for precious floor space. Imeldific, she who commandeered the library a few days back, was back with a vengeance. This time, she had the entire dressing room to herself, her alalays and her daughter, who didn't seem too happy with all the fuss. The sister—who also had to be forced to be stage mother for two weeks—did a McGyver and had to pick the lock to the props room so the rest of us mortals would have a semblance of a dressing room.
As the night wore on (do pageants ever start on time on these islands?) and the kids were weighed down by heavy makeup and heavy "creative" gowns, I was transformed into a literal stage mother. I had to "lurk" in the wings because Little Star was getting sleepier and sleepier by the minute.
But in the end, not even the heels, the constricting clothes and the put-on “adulthood” could stop the kids from being kids. While the host droned on and on about Judge Number One being this and that, the kids turned the stage into one huge playground, trading mock flying kicks and playing hide and seek.
Just as I was about to say my so longs to the innate Anabelle, the little girl—giddy perhaps from two trips to the centerstage—surveyed the scene and calmly declared that she won’t be a doctor anymore.
That she will, in fact, be an “artista.”
Ayayay!
Alas, the future imaginary daughter turned out to be a 100% girly girl with a thing for the spotlight. And so it was that in the initial meeting with parents and the "creative" directors, I was lost in the pageantry of it all. While the more stagey of the parents were debating on the merits of the "creative" gown versus the "formal" gown, I was mentally calculating the investments. And wondering why the kids need makeup in the first place.
The day of the pictorial was a harbinger of the real thing. As the kids were waiting in line for a dab or two of pictorial foundation, one (obviously stage) mother corralled a portion of the library and surrendered her daughter to the ministrations of her own, exclusive makeup artist. Talk about imeldific!
At last, after two weeks of incessant rehearsals, I had reached the point of no return: I would have to have my day as Annabelle Rama. The day of the "Search for Super Duo Models" turned out to be "Bring Your Own Bading Day," with fairies of all shapes and sizes fawning over the little girls and boys. Bedlam reigned backstage as parents and the coterie of alalays elbowed each other out for precious floor space. Imeldific, she who commandeered the library a few days back, was back with a vengeance. This time, she had the entire dressing room to herself, her alalays and her daughter, who didn't seem too happy with all the fuss. The sister—who also had to be forced to be stage mother for two weeks—did a McGyver and had to pick the lock to the props room so the rest of us mortals would have a semblance of a dressing room.
As the night wore on (do pageants ever start on time on these islands?) and the kids were weighed down by heavy makeup and heavy "creative" gowns, I was transformed into a literal stage mother. I had to "lurk" in the wings because Little Star was getting sleepier and sleepier by the minute.
But in the end, not even the heels, the constricting clothes and the put-on “adulthood” could stop the kids from being kids. While the host droned on and on about Judge Number One being this and that, the kids turned the stage into one huge playground, trading mock flying kicks and playing hide and seek.
Just as I was about to say my so longs to the innate Anabelle, the little girl—giddy perhaps from two trips to the centerstage—surveyed the scene and calmly declared that she won’t be a doctor anymore.
That she will, in fact, be an “artista.”
Ayayay!
January 22, 2010
Stuck
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 year, keep what must be kept and discard the rest. Time to take stock, to take a breather before plunging straight into the new.
As it is, the frenzied days of December have quickly blurred into equally frenzied January. I am hopelessly stuck, reeling from the blows of unresolved resolutions and giddy with the prospect of making new ones.
And it is close to February already!
Maybe, there really should be a break between the old and the new. Time enough to sift through the accumulations of the past year, keep what must be kept and discard the rest. Time to take stock, to take a breather before plunging straight into the new.
As it is, the frenzied days of December have quickly blurred into equally frenzied January. I am hopelessly stuck, reeling from the blows of unresolved resolutions and giddy with the prospect of making new ones.
And it is close to February already!
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