Rainy Saturday

Pong bended the blinds strip and saw it raining hard outside. Bored of watching TV with me and his younger brother Robyn, he wanted to stretch his muscles and play basketball in the garage.

“Ay, umuulan. Gusto ko pa naman play ng basketball.”

There was a tinge of disappointment in his voice. His babysitting aunt (i.e. me), wishing for a streak of color to brighten up this gray Saturday, had a quick thought. I heard the words stumble out of my mouth before the rational part of me reasoned against the idea.

“Gusto mo maligo sa labas?”

It was like asking a chocoholic if he wanted a bar of Toblerone. His face lighted up and he loudly replied, “Sige!” When it registered to the mind of 3-year-old Robyn what would soon be happening, the excitement immediately rubbed on him.

And so outside we went—They, half-naked, with only their shorts on, and I, uhm, well, let me just say I “dressed for the occasion” too. Robyn opened his mouth wide and turned his head up, drinking the water from the sky. Pong dribbled the basketball and made more than a few successful shots. Seeing me by the side, they cajoled me into joining them where all the action was happening. They passed me the ball and watched me fumble with it (I’m no match for them but I think they were happy just to see me try.)

Soon, the heavy rain started to turn into a drizzle.

“O, pag tumigil na ulan, pasok na tayo ha.”

“Bakit wala nang rain, Tita Beng?”

Chuckling, all the answer I could muster was, “Eh wala na eh. Sige pray kayo na mag-rain pa.”

Little Robyn folded his hands and followed my advice, “Loooord, tenk yu por dis fud…”

My chuckle turned to laughter. Meanwhile, Pong’s contribution was an adaptation of a popular children’s rhyme. He sang,“Sun, sun, go away, come again another day. Little boy wants to play…”

But then all good things must come to an end. Finally, I convinced them that our time's up. I dried their feet and we headed towards the shower where they imagined they were still outside, playing in the rain.

There are some seemingly irrational things we adults shouldn't mind doing: Eating dirty ice cream in the street where our officemates might see us. Risking looking silly (don a giant goldfish costume, anyone?) in the name of good fun. And playing in the rain with kids. It's refreshing to revive the body; much more refreshing to revive the soul.

Table for One

I had a late lunch at 3pm, that is, if you could still call that lunch. This Saturday, I decided to take it easy. After all, I earned this lazy Saturday after almost being swept away in a whirlwind of weeklong activities which I logged in at work and out of work.

While sipping my iced tea, I told myself that I don’t want to get used to this. This, the independent, carefree single life.

Most people look at a single woman and blurt out, “Why are you still single? Maybe you’re too picky.” Based on the expression registered on their face, you could almost read the unspoken message: “What’s wrong with you?” And sometimes, you don’t even need to have a face-to-face conversation to decipher this message. Three days ago a married friend called me at the office. After exchanging how-are-you’s with her, she broke the news: “Our friend L is getting married. When will yours be?” My first reaction was surprise. I didn’t even know that L had a boyfriend (it turns out to be a long-distance relationship). The second was irritation, due mainly to the way she asked it. It was as if she was irked that she couldn’t hear any change-of-status news from me. My saner side stopped me from saying, “Thank you for giving me a reason to gripe to God this day about my singleness. I definitely needed that boost when I am days behind my editing projects because I’ve been helping my boss with her presentation.”

If she (and the rest of the world wondering why I’m still unattached) had the time, I would probably whip up a presentation worthy to be delivered in an international forum. Let me answer two points usually brought up when my singleness is the topic:

Maybe you’re too choosy.

Will you play Russian roulette on something that will affect the rest of your life (and your future children’s as well?) Don’t get me wrong. I’ve given up on the illusion of meeting Piolo and him finally seeing the light that I’m the girl for him. “You're too choosy” in your language could translate “I just know what I am waiting for” in mine. When he turns around the corner (or makes his presence felt more deliberately), this seemingly-choosy girl will finally make her choice.

Maybe you’re intimidating men because you’re too smart.

Do you think I hand books to guys and ask them to submit a 50-page book report? Or that when somebody gives me a love letter I will edit it using a red pen? No, of course not. I’ll use blue. Kidding aside, I can enjoy shallow conversations as much as I do the mentally stimulating verbal exchanges. Yes, we could talk about books and ideas but we could talk about popcorn and the weather too.

I’ve had occasions when somebody would introduce a guy to me. The guy starts a conversation: Asks me where I live, where I work. His extra attention signals interest. Then drops the axe that will kill it: “So what do you do?” I tell him and then a few seconds of silence. Suddenly, he’s tongue-tied and feels the urge to check if his subject and verb agrees. Almost hilarious, really, if you’re not me.

If God wills it, I’d take the greatest risk of my life. But first, he, whoever he is, must also think I’m worth the risk. And then I can start writing from the other side of the fence.

But for now, I've got to finish my lunch in my table for one.

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Check out the amusing (and serious) travails of some single friends:

1 The top ten ickiest remarks made to singles
2 Singular perorations
3 Random thoughts of a single gal
4 Ano ba talaga ang type mo?

Times are bad, God is good

It was too early to cry. But as soon as I swiped my card to log in for work, I felt the tears well up in my eyes. By the time I reached my desk, there was no stopping me. I sobbed and cried like any brokenhearted gal. But can you blame me? We’ve been together for twenty months already—the longest I’ve stayed with somebody of his kind. Sure, he was acting a bit weird lately: not doing what I wanted him to do, conking out on me in the middle of a task. But I’ve grown to love him. I consider myself faithful and didn’t even think of replacing him on a whim. Not even if there were others out there more attractive, taunting me, tempting me to try them.

Now "he" is actually an it: my Nokia 6600 phone. And the last I saw it was yesterday.

Our parting happened on my way to work. When I was getting off the non-airconditioned bus, a man wearing a sports cap blocked me on my way down. Irritated, I asked him, “Bababa ka ba (Are you going down)?” Little did I know that his hand was already in the outside pocket of my backpack, getting my treasured cellphone. I’ll stop here with the storytelling. The memory of the violation still stings. (That word, violation, encapsulates what was done to me. I felt violated and it deserved a good cry.)

My tears yesterday were of anger and frustration. Ian, who was just a few steps away from my workstation, just stood by my side while I was sobbing on my desk. He had also once lost a cellphone and so understood how I felt. “It’s OK to grieve,” he advised. And so I did—for fifteen more minutes. My teammates (and other officemates) did a great job cheering me up. My boss, Ate Yna, ordered an extra Chicken inasal for me for lunch (I told her afterwards that it was the best chicken I’ve tasted ever). Marian graciously offered to wash my plates. Ruben gave me a Mr. Donut chocolate twist to sweeten my afternoon. The rest offered words of encouragement like, “You’ll get a better phone” or would sincerely check up on me, “Are you feeling better now?” They, my burden-sharers, made it easier for me to go through the rest of the day. In fact, by lunchtime I was already laughing and joking about my loss, thinking absurd thoughts such as “What if I offered to buy my cellphone from the snatcher? I could probably haggle for a discount.”

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Mine is a safe and sanitized world. The people I work with love God, pray before meals, and don’t cuss or swear. Outside work, I spend time with others who likewise love God, pray before meals, and don’t cuss or swear. Over time, maybe I’ve been falsely conditioned that the Fall of Man didn’t happen and that the Garden of Eden was still pristine and perfect. This one incident jars me back to reality that ours is a wicked world longing to be redeemed. Yes, there are cellphone snatchers out there whose hands are too calloused to feel their crime burn through their skin.

“Times are bad, God is good,” a line from Psalm 100:5 on my bedroom whiteboard reminds me daily. In the context of this truth I am praying—and yesterday, prayed more fervently—“Lord, even if bad things happen to me, please don’t let me sin against you. Don’t let the circumstances happening around me fool me into thinking that You are not good. That You are not loving. That You are not in control." I remember Job, the biblical character who had experienced exponentially greater losses yet did not sin. Tell me, what is losing a cellphone compared to losing your children, your livelihood, your health?

God is good—still is and always will be. All I have, material or otherwise, is His. God has already surprised me with extraordinary blessings before. He has answered more prayers than I can count. He has made me feel special with people in my life who are actually angels in disguise. The love of God is with me and no thief—a cellphone snatcher or even the Devil himself—can steal this from me. (Romans 8:5,38-39)

at the airport

A man beside me is holding a magazine, hoping that whoever needed to see it would glance his way. Patiently, he holds it up while scanning the sea of faces flowing his way, checking if one would flash a hint of recognition. “Ayun siya, para nang Amerikana!” I hear another excitedly call out. Floating on top of the giggles and high-pitched conversation is the distinctive sound of happiness. A part of me feels I could share the hope and happiness of these strangers that the corners of my lips turn up for a smile. I’ve got a great vantage point from where I am—at the greeters’ area. It affords me a ringside view of the faces of the arriving passengers that suddenly light up at the sight of their loved ones.

Though my presence in this place is business-related [to fetch a Thailand-based author slated for a weeklong speaking engagement], I don’t want to let this moment slip by uneventfully. While waiting for my own passenger to arrive, I still want to see the world around me spinning. And then I started my wondering. With every cart of baggage being wheeled out, a story of life is being written. The long-haired teen sporting a backpack with white buds on strings glued to his ears, might have a life sprinkled with adventure. I see a young mother, with a 3, maybe 4-year-old in tow while a younger boy was nestled in her arms, and wondered if hers is a life of contentment and domestic bliss.

I’ve been to many airports—from the most sophisticated where overhead trains could take you from one terminal to the next, to the most simple where signs are still done in crude, handwritten lettering. But whatever its location, there’s something about the air in the arrival area in airports that smells and feels the same. Maybe it’s the fragrant smell of hope, and the fuzzy feel of love.

For don’t you think that the airport’s arrival area could easily be named as the happiest place on earth? What with every reunion it has witnessed—lovers who endured months, or years, of loneliness can now revel in each other’s gaze and embrace. Families once separated and limited by geographic boundaries can now experience the warmth hardly simulated by a thousand phone calls.

And last night, at the airport, the lines of a new song aptly played on my ears:

When love takes you in everything changes
A miracle starts with the beat of a heart
When love takes you home and says you belong here
The loneliness ends and a new life begins
When love takes you in, it takes you in for good
When love takes you in

I’m beginning to like airports. Not the runway, not the duty-free shop, not the departure area. The best spot in all airports in all of the world is where travelers are embraced and whispered, “You’re home.” Yes, you're home.

when the answer is silence

Is there a divine blueprint stacked somewhere in heaven which details the course each of our lives must take? If we pray—hard enough, long enough, fervently enough—will a scroll magically fall down from the sky, land on our feet, and then reveal a message that will erase our uncertainties about the future and make us grasp the present with the firm grip of courage?

I could ask a thousand and one more questions and still get an answer not different from what I got the first time I asked: the deafening sound of silence. Cloaked in the fine linen of mystery, silence can alternately be disturbing and calming, induce fear and hope, appear as black and white.

So how does silence reveal itself to me: as friend or as a foe? Does the answer of silence to all of my questions rattle me? Do I stomp my feet in impatience or wring my hands in despair? Or can I take silence as a companion and realize that silence can purge my ears of the unintelligible ramblings of the world and its litany of worries and woes?

Here in my room, where the hands of time seem to be frozen and the boundary of the Milky Way is confined to my room’s four corners, I distill my thoughts. Revel in the sound of silence. Waiting. Praying. Patiently hoping that it won’t be long until silence is dislodged in my heart by what would best take its place—the sound of a still, small Voice.

The "G" word

geek:’gēk/:noun:1: a carnival performer often billed as a wild man whose act usually includes biting the head off a live chicken or snake;2: a person often of an intellectual bent who is disliked;3: an enthusiast or expert especially in a technological field or activity [computer geek]

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I can’t be a geek. It’s bad for the reputation. The geeks I know are the underdogs in B-movies whose glasses are as thick as windowpanes, with hair rarely visited by a hairbrush, and with a social life confined to the front and back covers of a book. Okay, so I'm not willing to wear the tag. Yet another thought challenged my initial apprehension: But who says we can’t break the stereotype?

And so ended—with minimum struggle—my stint in the geek denial stage which lasted all five seconds (though it necessitated a confirmation from a “greater geek” who answered my “Am-I-officially-a-geek-already?” question with a simple, and relatively painless reply: need u ask?? :-B).

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Today I accompanied Jenny, a Mac-user, to one of their monthly mac gatherings. They might not make a people-power crowd but what mac users lack for numbers they make up for passion. Mac-using geeks (there’s that word again) intently listen to the speaker/forum moderator as if he was teaching them how to survive WW III. But then again, if they were willing to give up a weekend afternoon to be sitting in wooden blocks at the Powerplant Mall, is it any wonder how they could stay glued to the seminar?

However, my friend and I had another agenda: Can we wi-fi and surf? Scouting for a hotspot, we zoom in on the outside tables at Figaro. But before we order anything, first things first: does it have signal? It does! Two 12 oz. iced tea please!

And so after folders of music and picture files were shared, a Q&A discussion on some websites took place, and all the battery power was drained (mine), we sipped the last drop of our drink and felt satisfied with our virtual victory. [On the left is an evidence of my satisfaction. Thanks for the picture, Jen!]

Yes, Merriam-Webster. You can call me a geek.

Finding "the one" in (cyber)Promised Land

The Promised Land seemed so near—an MRT ride and a hundred or so steps away from our Mandaluyong office. Initially, I wasn’t sure if it held what it seemed to promise for me but I was hopeful. There was bound to be “the one” for me somehow. You see, it was my first time to buy a brand new computer, a laptop, and a thousand butterflies were dancing in my stomach.

My six-footer technical guru Aleks (who multitasks and acts as my voice coach and pianist in some instances) and I trekked to Cyberzone in SM Megamall. It was a Friday night and there was a midnight sale ongoing. We expected the two-kilometer mall to be bursting at the seams. Thankfully, we arrived before the people frenzy began.

All I wanted was for it to be white. I didn’t care if it had an expandable memory or if it could write DVDs or if it could accommodate multiple USB ports. Sounds Greek to me, really. Call me simplistic, or better yet, call me naïve who is fixated on a color [At least I still had enough sense to ask somebody else to act as my common sense!]. Aleks would laugh at me when he would see me obliviously walking past the non-white laptops which didn’t deserve a nanosecond of my time. In retrospect, it was like me looking for shoes: “I need brown shoes,” which eliminates all the other hues in the color spectrum. Going back to the laptop, we finally found the one I liked—a Taiwan-made Twinhead 12.1” notebook with features that seem excellent for its price. And needless to say but I’ll say it anyway: It’s white, shiny pearl white. I’m one happy camper.

Over dinner, Aleks asks me what name I’ll give my newly-purchased gadget. I laugh and answer, “I haven’t named any of my things before.” But then again, why not? I’ll be spending days and nights with this piece of machine I might as well humanize it. “Do you want it to be a boy or a girl?” he asks. “A boy,” I answer. I mull it over and after a quick trip to the restroom I confidently state my laptop’s name: “April Boy.” With a silly grin on my face I explain, “Well, it’s a boy and I bought it in the month of April.”

And so the next time I hear “Di Ko Kayang Tanggapin” over the radio, you know why I’ll be smiling.

All about days

Twenty-five days. This is the longest time I’ve waited since the last entry I wrote (not counting the Peanuts comics strip I’ve posted). I hope my fingers haven’t grown stiff with their under-exercise. I’m missing every nook and cranny of this spot in cyberspace so much that during idle moments, I’d relish in my mind the thought of blogging again.

Four days. That’s the number of days I’ve spent with my officemates during our annual company retreat last April 23-26. Ilocos, Bicol, Cebu, Boracay, Banaue—we’ve been to these faraway places before but this time, we hied off to somewhere nearer: Laguna. This year’s theme had me thinking about risking and trusting God more about the future; considering who my only comfort is; wishing He’d take me to higher ground in my spiritual life, career and personal life.

One day. This is the day I am waiting for. I am praying for the day when I could do more than just pay lip service and prove to God that I love Him. Wondering when I won’t use the currency of words anymore but pay Him the love He deserves with more of my time, energy and thoughts. Whether that happens here on earth or only when I get to heaven is only for Him to tell. All I know is that I’m waiting for this day.

I have a strong feeling there’ll be better days ahead.

fishy me

Yes, some nights I get fishy. The giant Styrofoam goldfish (now left rotting in a trash bin in Laguna) was a product of several trips to National Book Store, a few late-night sessions of cutting and taping, a couple of hours’ worth of brain activity and a big dollop of silliness.

For a publisher, we’re pretty much relaxed, don’t you think? Let this picture dispel all notions that we brood over books each time we meet. On the contrary, you’ll find us some nights disrobing of our normalcy, donning an alter ego and fluttering (or in my case, swimming) the night away.

I bagged the second prize of our Retreat Fun Night Costume Awards (the theme: creation) with the grand prize going to an officemate who came in as a tree (She wrapped her body in brown cardboard and used a green umbrella as her leaves). You might be wondering what would compel me to sweat it out looking this silly. Here's what: Seldom do I get the license to be outrageously playful, I might as well give it my all and enjoy the experience. And enjoy I did, not just mine but the costume of my equally creative and playful officemates! [Temporarily curly me with Ian the angel, Lea the butterfly, Gladys the ladybug and Ate Glo and baby Nathan.]

Ever lost a library book?

A Gypsy and a Geek Poet

A gypsy and a geek poet have been added to my blog roll.

The gypsy, I’ve been egging to start her own blog since she visited mine. I’m thinking what a waste it is for her random thoughts to be lost in oblivion because she doesn’t write them down. Her blog will surely be interesting, I tell myself. And I convince her of the same. Now with three posts to her week-old blog’s credit, my persistence has not been in vain.

I warn her, though that her life will be changed. Her fingers will be doing demanding calisthenics on the computer keyboard, she might as well be preparing for the blogging Olympics (that is, if there was one). In a recent email, this writer-slash-new blogger tells me, “You’re right, it’s addicting.” Very recently, she wailed about her life as a pedestrian. Yes, she wrote about her ordinary walking days because this gypsy ain’t riding a caravan. More like surviving EDSA, really. She shares, “I find myself a hair’s breath away from speeding buses and motorcycles. If they swerve just half an inch on my side of the road—well, we will then have to include ‘humans’ somewhere in the definition of roadkill.” Funny! I can tell, this early on, that I'll be inspired and entertained to read what is dancing in the gypsy's mind.

As for the geek poet, no, I had nothing to do with his blog. A friend from way back (we worked on several projects—a newsletter, an interactive CD, book covers), some of his posts remind me of what I knew about who he was while others reveal for the first time who he now is. Who could miss his blog’s unique design, with tabs not usual to blogger.com templates? Go figure—he designs websites for a living (Check out his other baby, the Crossover Singles website).

Among many things about his life, this geek poet writes about a "bloody" dating book, his nephew Iko and his life as a singleton. A paragraph of his what’s-my-type-post reminds me a little of Chandler in his pre-Monica days. An amusing line from this particular post reads, “I don’t want to end up with a cow eh! (he's referring to a real cow here)” This from the guy who, though considers himself as nice, would rather be known as something else. He laments, “Don't you hate it when you hear people say what they think about you and you hear... nice?”

I'm looking forward to adding more links on the right side of this screen. Because there are other bloggers out there whose lives and adventures merit a few clicks on my mouse, and a couple of rolls on my scroll. If the worldwide web is a street, then am I glad to be running into a gypsy, a geek poet and all the other characters in between.

The Dorian Society

Vice-President. That’s the position I’m occupying in this not-so-secret society I and several of my officemates have established (at least in our imagination). We could be holding regular meetings but why bother? We’d probably forget we’re supposed to meet.

Our group’s name, in full, is “The Dorian Society of People Who Regularly Suffer from Temporary Amnesia.” We are naming ourselves as such in honor of a fish, Dory of Finding Nemo, who’ve brought to light the plight of those of us who have this uncanny ability to obliterate details from our consciousness. Details such as you have to take out the key from the ignition before getting out of the vehicle and locking the car (the current president confessed to this). Or that you can stop worrying that your cellphone got stolen because you actually left it at home (the secretary’s case).

Among us bonafide Dorians, we share the same anguish and self-loathing after a particularly frustrating forgetting episode. We all want to knock ourselves in head for forgetting such seemingly consequential things. How could I forget where I left it?!But most of us are making progress. The president told me that he’s installed automatic locking system in his vehicle and trained himself to push the button to lock/unlock. The secretary, I think, is improving as I haven’t heard of any more of the false alarm Oh-no-I-think-I-lost-my-cellphone instances.

So it is with much sadness for me to admit that I might soon be up for the presidency. Today, I’ve had three strikes against me. Strike one, I dial-an-order for pancit from a nearby eatery. The delivery comes. Halfway through our mid-afternoon meal, I discover the sixty pesos from my wallet didn’t make it to the deliverer’s hand (she also forgot to ask it from me). Strike two, I pencil in a piece of paper the subscriber code I needed for a bank transaction tomorrow but then I couldn’t find where I put it (This case too common!). And Strike three, on my way home tonight, I buy an astringent from a small drugstore right next to Ang Barbecue ni Alex (The Pride of Davao) [For a second I wondered if it was the business of somebody I know!]. This time I paid. I gladly handed the storeclerk my payment. So what did I forget? The astringent. Because I was more excited to check out the barbecue I ordered which was grilling at the adjacent store. (But I eventually remembered the astringent, after I got the barbecue.)

Now, unlike some petite women in the Philippines like me, I am not position-hungry. I don't want to be the president of the Dorian society! Forgetful I might be but hopeless I am not. Now, if I could only remember that.

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Meanwhile, Jenny's take on forgetfulness, it being a curse yet a gift, is interesting.

if loneliness were a road

The wooden sign sitting atop a rusty metal pole with crudely etched letters read, “Loneliness.” She takes tentative steps, her gait—wobbly, unsure, unsteady. Isn’t there another way? But in her heart she knew, she must pass this way—even just once in her life.

And so she enters the road and lets her eyes take in the sight. The horizon looks bleak; with the skies overcast with dark clouds, threatening heavy rains. But where would I go to shelter myself when the downpour comes? A drop falls but not from above. A lone tear makes its way down her cheek, which she quickly wipes away with the back of her hand.

She draws a deep breath and decides to resume her walking. The terrain, constantly changing, seems painted in gray—not one streak of yellow, not a hint of red. Will I survive the lonely journey? The few steps multiply but not the courage in her heart. While treading through the rocks of insecurity, she didn't know where to plant her feet. While braving the sandstorm of unfulfilled longings, she wasn’t certain where to hide. And after surviving yet another near-fall in the cliff of compromising, she pauses for a moment. Tired, she’s almost ready to give up.

She drops to her knees, buries her face in her hands and asks, How many more steps? I can’t go on anymore. Her eyes finally succumb to the fatigue in her heart and release a flood of emotions. The tears, now flowing freely, are salty with frustration, despair. Hopelessness.

In between sobs, she lifts her head and sees an outstretched Hand in front of her. Its fingers, calloused. Its skin, a deep brown, tanned under the hot Jerusalem sun. And the Hand, showing a scar as a heavy nail once spiked through it.

This time, it is this Hand that wiped away her tears. With her head now lifted, she scans the horizon again and realizes that the gray suddenly doesn’t look as gray anymore. Maybe I can take His Hand, she mutters to herself with a weak smile. Maybe she’ll make it through this road after all.

The (Non) X-(Rated) File

I’m thinking about sex.

You can recover from your shock now. Heave a sigh of relief or wipe that silly grin from your face because (thankfully) it’s not what you think.

Percolating in my mind lately is this talk on sexual purity I’m giving to the young people’s group of a Chinese church tomorrow. (I got invited by the virtue of my being a True Love Waits [a sexual abstinence campaign] trainor and a Sunday School teacher for college students in my church.) For the past several days I've been logging in hours reading reference materials, archived notes, internet articles. Also, clipping newspaper ads to prove that ours is a sexually charged society using the lure of the flesh to sell almost everything—from health food to cameras, to slippers even!

How can a fish swim against the current? And how can a person keep his way pure while living in a world that promotes instant sexual gratification? How can one overcome the carnal struggles to feed romantic fantasies or to entertain lustful thoughts? Difficult? Yes. Impossible? No. For how can a person not trust an All-powerful God for battles he cannot win on his own?

But make no mistake: I have learned that God is pro-sex. The idea was His; this masterpiece designed in His own drawing board. God's Word celebrates sexual love. For tell me, why else would Song of Songs make it to the Bible's table of contents? Or how could a sentence like "May your kisses be as exciting as the best wine, smooth and sweet, flowing gently over lips and teeth" be found in the same Book where we could read "I am the LORD your God; consecrate yourselves and be holy, because I am holy"?

When I said that I am thinking of sex, it’s not that there’s an X-rated movie playing in my mind. It means that I’m thinking, and thanking the All-Wise Creator who officiated the first ever wedding, of Adam and Eve, in a garden named Eden, and who spared nothing in ensuring that a husband and wife enjoy the most intimate relationship a man and a woman can have on earth.

Day 12

It’s everywhere. I watch TV and I see this Goldilocks ad with a woman taking out a black forest cake from the ref. I scan through today’s Philippine Starweek and a feature on The Last Chocolatier greets me. Why is it that after you’ve decided to swear off something, this very thing taunts you and makes its presence felt as if saying, “Hey, don’t you miss me?”

And if I may answer back, “You know I do.” Like crazy.

The first few days after I’ve declared my self-imposed 30-day choco fasting were peanuts. For two consecutive days, I’ve had opportunities to sink my teeth into two varieties of chocolate and I’ve turned my back on them. How hard can that be? After all, my tongue can still remember the taste of the three months’ worth of chocolates that has passed its fibrous road. Now, on my twelfth day, I’m miserable. Miserable enough to wonder, “Why did I ever decide to give it up in the first place? Is there anything inherently sinful about chocolates? It’s not as if I’m taking Ecstasy or smoking marijuana. Did God even want me to do this chocolate fasting?”

I count the days, like a little girl counting the days till Christmas. Day 12 of 30! I’m not even halfway through. How will I possibly make it through the next eighteen days when thoughts of McDonald’s hot fudge sundae, Nestle crunch, chocolate cake—any kind, and other eatable chocolates dance in my head like John Travolta doing his signature moves in Saturday Night Fever? (Now where did that metaphor come from? I plead temporary insanity, your honor.)

Forgive my ranting. Withdrawal symptom, I guess, alongside the headaches and depression. Yet my fleeting doubts notwithstanding, I know I am still convinced why I'm doing what I'm doing. If this small sacrifice can help me honor God with my body, then I know He will honor the heart behind it and give me the strength to make it. I love God more than all the chocolates in the world.

So when you see me in the hallway and you’ve got a chocolate, do me a favor: Don’t let me see it. :-) I’ve got a serious chocolate battle to win.

when words shouldn't be like gold

beautiful, loving words
are as precious
as a chest full of gold
or an endless string of pearls

but . . .

the analogy of words and treasures
should end with their worth.

for words,
unlike a chest full of gold
or an endless string of pearls,
should not be kept hidden
in a cold, impenetrable place
where they are
unseen,
untouched,
untold.

so how could you ever be happy
until you free your fingers
to glide across the keys,
to let words precious to you show
for all the world to see?

and how could i be writing about a "you"
when this is really about me?

About a boy

What is the national food of the Philippines?
a. Turon
b. Adobo
c. Chickenjoy
d. None of the above

If that question was asked of me five months ago, I wouldn't know how to answer. But now, courtesy of a five-year-old nursery student, I can. It's D, none of the above!

"Ang pambansang pagkain ng Pilipinas ay lechon!" Well, at least, that's what my nephew Pong tells me. But when I follow up with a trick question, "Anong klaseng lechon, baboy o manok?", he just shrugs and says, "Di ko alam."' How irrational of me. Of course, he wouldn't know. They learn that in Kinder. It's unbelievable what they teach kids nowadays. (I'm suspecting that Aling Mila and Mang Tomas are somewhat involved in cooking up this national fact.)

Pong also loves knock-knock jokes. Here's a sample:
Knock, knock(which sounds more like nak, nak).
Who's there?
Titanic.
Titanic who?
"Tay-ta-nik ay di biro, maghapong nakayuko. Di man lang makatayo . . . "
(The joke gets lost in transcription. Believe me, it's funnier listening to it.)

This rice-loving, basketball-playing fella is one of the few people who can make me do what I don't want to do. Like play catch football when I should be finishing a parttime editing job. Or make me watch TV with him when I'd rather be catching up on much-needed sleep. But you can't really blame me. For how else can I discover that lechon is the national food of the Philippines? :-)

* * * * * * * * * *
I actually asked some people if they knew about this national-food-fact. Surprisingly, two out of three answered in the affirmative. Maybe I just wasn't listening when this was discussed in my preparatory school class light years ago.

*picture taken very recently at the Enchanted Kingdom.

Chocolate Chronicles

“So you can’t eat ice cream?”
“No.”
“And you can’t eat chocolates?”
“Nope.”
Gasp! “What kind of life is that?” I smiled and rhetorically asked D whom I spent five days with in our most recent conference. What elicited my shock was her declaration: "I'm allergic to sugar." I enumerated all the sugar-laced food I can think of, leading me to mention ice cream and chocolates. Ice cream, I can manage not to see for a month or two but chocolates. Now, that’s a different story.

On top of my desk is a bank of chocolates that allows me to make daily withdrawals. This bank, in the form of a canister, currently holds the following assets: a mini-Nestle crunch (the last piece from the bag of chocolates my sister gave me), a tiny bar of Hershey’s milk chocolate, generic chocolate bites wrapped in foil, Harry and David’s chocolate almonds, and the chocolate raisins I bought from Toby’s house of nuts last night.

Since I came back from my month-long vacation in the US and reported back to work in January, I have not missed a single workday when I did not eat chocolates. Not one. It’s March already. You do the Math, and figure out how much chocolate has tickled brown my tongue. By the way, did I tell you that I couldn’t donate blood? With the amount of chocolate I’ve ingested, the RBC, the WBC, the hemoglobin and all the other components of blood officially adopted cocoa as one of them and made it the leader of their team. So now my blood type—C (for Chocolates)—wouldn’t match anybody’s.

But I don’t intend to let chocolates rule my life this way anymore. I am declaring Proclamation 0-choco-30. No chocolates for one month. Thirty days, I think, is long enough to convince my brain that this body is not made for and of chocolates. Thirty days can help me clean my palate of the sweet, smooth taste of this brown piece of heaven. With God’s help, I know that I’ll survive the thirty chocolate-less days. In fact, I can’t wait to be free of my addiction that I’ll start not eating chocolates—tomorrow.

As for today, I will seize the day. I have some serious clearing of assets to do.

Unbloggable

The common apprehension I hear from people who I know would make good bloggers is this: "I don't think I can share personal stuff about myself."

And I tell them, "That's how I felt too." If I had time, and their interest, I would tell them that I once compared blogging to stripping. That is, peeling off layers--but this time, not clothes that cover your body but pieces of armor that protect your heart. With a hundred or so keystrokes, you suddenly become vulnerable. Open to understanding or misinterpretation, admiration or ridicule. Risking to be thought of as wise or foolish.

I have taken eighty-six risks, the number of posts which have appeared on this site. And so far, the risks have worked in my favor. Save for a single post I unposted because I felt it wasn't true anymore, I have not regretted any single article I have written. Yet I have this one regret.

That there are unbloggable topics. That there are still places in my life I could not lead you into to take a peek. That there are still emotions I could not bring myself to share. That I am, still, after a year of "stripping," guarded and careful. The "S" in my middle name should stand for "Safe."

Q & A in a state of emergency

“State of emergency signed by GMA.” A text read which I received 11:39 am of February 24. I was then in a building somewhere in Makati, attending the second day of a two-day forum. Mixed with the alarm over the state of our country was the alarm I felt over an event I was supposed to attend that night. Will it push through or not?

“It” was a post-valentine event sponsored by a professionals group based in Quezon City, a good one hour away (sans traffic) from where I was. I received the invitation to sit on a panel weeks earlier; the panel consisting of a married couple, a single guy and me. To help remind me in the future that this is how I once felt about love and the single life, let me post and abbreviate a few of the Q & A's:

How would a guy know if it’s the right time to court?
Do you know enough about the girl to say what makes her happy and sad; what makes her laugh and what makes her cry? Think of yourselves as a student of the girl. If an exam was given about her, would you pass? If not, then it might not be the right time. We women want to be loved for who we are; not for who you think we are.

Previously you had a relationship (and a close friendship) . . . was it a good closure? What important lesson did you learn from it?
You enter into a relationship with the hope that it'll be for keeps. But in our not-so-perfect world, breakups do happen. What I learned from these aborted attachments is simply this: what it means to love and be loved. I’ve realized that the best way to learn how to love is by actually doing it and not just by reading about it. When the relationship ended, it doesn't have to necessarily mean that the other is a bad person. It's just that the relationship didn't work out. I was telling somebody who broke up with his girlfriend that it was okay to still talk with her. Time and a forgiving heart can help you sift through the rubble of a failed relationship.

What advice can you give to unattached singles?
Don't spend your days thinking,"If only I'm married, I would..." Refuse to live your lives on hold. Jim Elliot said, ''Wherever you are, be all there." Fully engage yourself in the moment and don’t be halfhearted about life. Married people sometimes envy us because we have a lot of time in our hands. Let's put this privilege to good use: develop ourselves, discover what we're good at, learn new skills, polish our character, make a difference.

Thank God for making me "me," and not the president of a crises-crazy country such as ours. In a state of emergency, this is the state of my heart. Life's still good after all.