budgeting during my period

I am sorting out my finances and it seems to me that there is really nothing to sort out, because my salary disappears on the first week of the month. I am confident though that I am spending it wisely. I am spending enough to keep me healthy with just enough to eat everyday, keep me clean with a few toiletries, keep me happy with some extra cash for drinks and dates, and keep me sane with small investments like short courses.

When I finally get out of this financial slump, I'd like to save and save and save until I am sure that I have enough to spend in December, when I go home and spend time with my family and friends. It's so hard being an adult. Everything I do seems to have a monetary equivalent, even just making sure that I don't lose my sanity.

Feeling so uninspired lately. I feel unproductive and sluggish. It's THAT time of the month again and I hate it. Absolutely. But it's good to know that my reproductive organs are still there, functioning and happily keeping me bloated, so that if I ever decide to have children, I can.

I am looking for a parttime job so I can have enough money to save even with all my necessary huge expenses. It's going to be a busy and bankrupt month, but I believe that this move is necessary and my efforts will pay off soon. I guess for a couple of months I've been doing the same thing and I just need a change n my life --- a struggle. Everything has been so easy to me, so easy it seems pointless.

BLESSINGS

As the end of the month approaches me with a monster mask on, I desperately try to look for money. Salary day is 48 hours away, and my hands are itching to touch a decent hundred dirham bill.

I’ve had an empty pocket for more than a week now and managed to survive.
Several good fellas fed me and entertained me and kept me company.

Sunday I had dinner with some friends in Bur Dubai and they took care of the bill as usual. Really nice Chinese food. Peking duck, nicely cooked prawns and dumplings, and of course, chardonnay.

Monday I went to a birthday party and ate pork and cake and drank Jack Daniels with gulaman, and Miss Maribel and I christened it and named it gulaman JACK! We als omade friends with the ducks nad the rabbits in Hayder's frontyard. Hi dur, pets of Hayder!

Tuesday I was invited to the launching of a mobile phone. I went with Ria, who happily picked me up in Media City. The wine was ok, the salmon was great, the hotel was perfect. I didn't get a free mobile phone, but I'm not complaining. It was at the Ritz Carlton, it was free, and the speech by the country manager was very short.

Wednesday I met with Mother Galo for coffee in Burjuman. We exchanged heart-warming stories and I felt really good about being able to share part of me with him --- uncensored, shameless, nothing but the raw truth. Plus we couldn’t help but stare at this young guy who looked like Diego Luna in Y Tu Mama Tambien. The sexy thing about him was he was awfully young --- he had a business math book and he and his friends were laughing and checking out body building supplements inside the nearby health store. I'm freaking 24 and I hate it. He must have been 19.

Thursday we had the BOD meeting at Gold Fork and Obet shared his food with me. It was fabulous. Then we went to the new Chikka Grill, and Mother Galo bought me a Breezer and we had fun just dancing. I was wearing my shittiest top that night but didn’t care. Went home with Ria.

Friday was desert safari day. It was a project of UPAA and we succeeded in raising enough funds for the scholarship program --- we reached our target this year. And we had sooo much fun! We went up and down the sand dunes and we went on a short camel ride, and the camel pissed on me, and then I wore a dish dash (Arabic dress for men) and had my picture taken with Sherry, who wore an abaya (Arabic dress for women), and then I had a huge and delectable Arabic meal --- lots of potatoes and corn and chicken and lamb and samosa and hummus. Tea time was great --- the belly dancer, who I could have sworn had a perfect body and great skin, entertained us. Ava, the cute three-year-old was sitting on my lap and later on we found ourselves dancing.
Then Sherry and I just HAD to go to Hibiki to sing a couple of songs. The bar’s mood was very depressing. A few people at a few tables, not much to drink because there was not much to spend. I sang a couple of melodramatic songs and drank only two bullfrogs. (It takes three to really get me on a roll.) At around 2 AM Sherry’s boyfriend Rami and his drunk friend Fadi followed and they insisted (like pointed a gun at us and threatened to blow our brains out) on paying for our drinks. So it was another unexpected treat!

Saturday (yesterday) was equally fun! I met up with Mother Galo, Anthon, Xernes, Ernest and Sherry in Deira City Center and we had a fun time in Noodlehouse, where we talked about gay stuff --- how gay guys fall in love and how they have sex and how they fight fairly in relationships. And of course we all agreed that men are bastards. The straight ones. Then we went window shopping and had tea and I went home at midnight and had a short chat with Craig (and a glass of his wine) before going to bed.

For seven whole days I was literally penniless, and then some people just stepped up and helped me and fed me, as if the hand of God pushed them to take my hand and lead me to wherever food was. Unbelievable what the Filipino community can do. They can feed me and more importantly, keep me company even when I’m broke.

REUNIONS

Curgs went to Batangas for a family reunion last weekend. I felt envious because it’s been ages since I attended a proper family reunion. Actually it’s been ages since I’ve had a proper family, but who needs a father these days anyway, when you and your mom and sister can have fun and live happily. Back to reunions. It would be interesting to see familiar faces, catch up on things and say polite words while going on a Filipino dish binge.

Any kind of reunion is always pleasant and brings me a feeling of fulfillment. Once again I am seeing the people I met in the past and I see that we all have changed significantly, and I think about the things I went through from the time I met them until the reunion. Gives me a sense of maturity. Thinking about it, the people at reunions are just tools for me to look at the past and see where I’ve come from and how far I’ve gone.

And so at my next reunion, with whoever, wherever, I’ll probably feel like a champion. I’ve triumphed over everything that came my way and it’s good find myself still standing after bad break-ups, the worst job in the world, the end of friendship and racism.

keep on cooking

Cooking.
One of my new-found loves.
I NEVER cooked in Manila.
I never got around to doing it.
I always had Ate Joan to cook my meals for me.
And there was always good ole Maggi instant noodles.
One year and two months here in Dubai.
What have I got to show for?
My culinary expertise...as a novice in the kitchen.

If I remember correctly these are all the meals/ desserts I made in Dubai:

> Chicken adobo
> Salpicao (thanks Macy!)
> Kids' spaghetti
> Spaghetti - fresh tomatoes
> Rice (hehe)
> Sheesh Tawok (oven)
> Chicken Biryani (oven)
> Poached pears and whipped cream
> Caramelized banana ang raspberry and vanilla ice cream
> Fruit salad - yes that counts
> Fried Chicken
> Continental Breakfast - eggs, potatoes, hotdogs, etc.

Sheesh. Most of these are really easy but what the hell I was a real idiot in the kitchen when I went here and now I can cook and I will continue cooking and watching Jamie Oliver's shows and Nigella Bites and all those BBC Food programs until I master the art of chucking things in a pot and magically turning them into a delectibile sonuvagun.

Coward

Lately I've been feeling like a coward, in lots of things.
I'm scared of everything. Of taking the plunge, of risking.
I used to be so brave. What happened to me?
I know I was brave because I am here, outside my comfort zone and braving adulthood, a reality I had evaded for so long.
Now I have no choice but to push myself to do something that will make me better in so many levels. Just one small thing. Just one thing.
And I thought I was a champ.

Matter of Taste

This was posted on the UPAA-UAE YahooGroups by MR. Dan Tobias, a senior member.
It was published in 1999.
I liked it. :D

I have now been in this country for over six years, and consider myself in most respects well assimilated. However, there is one key step on the road to full asimilation, which I have yet to take, and that's to eat BALUT.

The day any of you sees me eating balut, please call immigration and ask them to issue me a Filipino passport. Because at that point there will be no turning back. BALUT, for those still blissfully ignorant non-Pinoys out there, is a fertilized duck egg. It is commonly sold with salt in a piece of newspaper, much like English fish and chips, by street vendors usually after dark, presumably so you can't see how gross it is. It's meant to be an aphrodisiac, although I can't imagine anything more likely to dispel sexual desire than crunching on a partially formed baby duck swimming in noxious fluid. The embryo in the egg comes in varying stages of development, but basically it is not considered macho to eat one without fully discernable feathers, beak, and claws. Some say these crunchy bits are the best. Others prefer just to drink th e so-called 'soup', the vile, pungent liquid that surrounds the aforementioned feathery fetus...excuse me; I have to go and throw up now. I'll be back in a minute.

Food dominates the life of the Filipino. People here just love to eat. They eat at least eight times a day. These eight official meals are called, in order: breakfast, snacks, lunch, merienda, merienda ceyna, dinner, bedtime snacks and no-one-saw-me-take-that-cookie-from-the-fridge-so-it-doesn't-count.

The short gaps in between these mealtimes are spent eating Sky Flakes from the open packet that sits on every desktop. You're never far from food in the Philippines . If you doubt this, next time you're driving home from work, try this game. See how long you can drive without seeing food and I don't mean a distant restaurant, or a picture of food. I mean a man on the sidewalk frying fish balls, or a man walking through the traffic selling nuts or candy. I bet it's less than one minute. Here ar e some other things I've noticed about food in the Philippines .

Firstly, a meal is not a meal without rice - even breakfast. In the UK , I could go a whole year without eating rice. Second, it's impossible to drink without eating. A bottle of San Miguel just isn't the same without gambas or beef tapa. Third, no one ventures more than two paces from their house without baon (food in small container) and a container of something cold to drink. You might as well ask a Filipino to leave home without his pants on. And lastly, where I come from, you eat with a knife and fork. Here, you eat with a spoon and fork. You try eating rice swimming in fish sauce with a knife. One really nice thing about Filipino food culture is that people always ask you to SHARE their food. In my office, if you catch anyone attacking their baon, they will always go, "Sir! KAIN TAYO!" ("Let's eat!"). This confused me, until I realized that they didn't actually expect me to sit down and start munching on their boneless bangus. In fact, the polite response is something like, "No thanks, I just ate." But the principle is sound - if you have food on your plate, you are expected to share it, however hungry you are, with those who may be even hungrier. I think that's great. In fact, this is frequently even taken one step further. Many Filipinos use "Have you eaten yet?" ("KUMAIN KA NA?") as a general greeting, irrespective of time of day or location.

Some foreigners think Filipino food is fairly dull compared to other Asian cuisines. Actually lots of it is very good: Spicy dishes like Bicol Express(strange, a dish named after a train); anything cooked with coconut milk; anything KINILAW; and anything ADOBO. And it's hard to beat the sheer wanto n, cholesterolic frenzy of a good old-fashioned LECHON de leche (roast pig)feast. Dig a pit, light a fire, add 50 pounds of animal fat on a stick, and cook until crisp. Mmm, mmm... you can actually feel your arteries constricting with each successive mouthful. I also share one key Pinoy trait ---a sweet tooth. I am thus the only foreigner I know who does not complain about sweet bread, sweet burgers, sweet spaghetti, sweet banana ketchup, and so on. I am a man who likes to put jam on his pizza. Try it! It's the weird food you want to avoid. In addition to duck fetus in the half-shell, items to avoid in the Philippines include pig's blood soup (DINUGUAN); bull's testicle soup, the strangely-named "SOUP NUMBER FIVE" (I dread to think what numbers one through four are); and the ubiquitous, stinky shrimp paste,BAGOONG, and it's equally stinky sister, PATIS. Filipinos are so addicted to these latter items that they will even risk arrest or deportation tryin g to smuggle them into countries like Australia and the USA , which wisely ban the importation of items you can smell from more than 100 paces. Then there's the small matter of the purple ice cream. I have never been able to get my brain around eating purple food; the ubiquitous UBE leaves me cold.

And lastly on the subject of weird food, beware: that KALDERETANG KAMBING (goat) could well be KALDERETANG ASO (dog)... The Filipino, of course, has a well-developed sense of food. Here's a typical Pinoy food joke: "I'm on a seafood diet. "What's a seafood diet?" "When I see food, I eat it!" Filipinos also eat strange bits of animals --- the feet, the head, the guts, etc., usually barbecued on a stick. These have been given witty names, like "ADIDAS" (chicken's feet); "KURBATA" (either just chicken's neck, or "neck and thigh" as in "neck-tie"); "WALKMAN" (pigs ears); "PAL" (chicken wings); "HELMET" (chicken head); "IUD" (chicken intestines), and BETAMAX" (video-cassette-like blocks of animal blood). Yum, yum. Bon appetit."

A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches" -- (Proverbs 22:1)

WHEN I arrived in the Philippines from the UK six years ago, one of the first cultural differences to strike me was names. The subject has provided a continuing source of amazement and amusement ever since. The first unusual thing, from an English perspective, is that everyone here has a nickname. In the staid and boring United Kingdom , we have nicknames in kindergarten, but when we move into adulthood we tend, I am glad to say, to lose them.

The second thing that struck me is that Philippine names for both girls and boys tend to be what we in the UK would regard as overbearingly cutesy for anyone over about five. Fifty-five-year-olds colleague put it. Where I come from, a boy with a nickname like Boy Blue or Honey Boy would be beaten to death at school by pre-adolescent bullies, and never make it to adulthood. So, probably, would girls with names like Babes, Lovely, Precious, Peachy or Apples. Yuk, ech ech. Here, however, no one bats an eyelid. Then I noticed how many people have what I have come to call "door-bell names". These are nicknames that sound like -well, doorbells. There are millions of them. Bing, Bong, Ding, and Dong are some of the more common. They can be, and frequently are, used in even more door-bell-like combinations such as Bing-Bong, Ding-Dong, Ting-Ting, and so on. Even our newly appointed chief of police has a doorbell name Ping .

None of these doorbell names exist where I come from, and hence sound unusually amusing to my untutored foreign ear. Someone once told me that one of the Bings, when asked why he was called Bing , replied, "because my brother is called Bong". Faultless logic. Dong, of course, is a particularly funny one for me, as where I come from "dong" is a slang word for well; perhaps "talong" is the best Tagalog equivalent.

Repeating names was another novelty to me, having never before encountered people with names like Len-Len, Let-Let, Mai-Mai, or Ning-Ning. The secretary I inherited on my arrival had an unusual one: Leck-Leck. Such names are then frequently further refined by using the "squared" symbol, as in Len2 or Mai2. This had me very confused for a while.

Then there is the trend for parents to stick to a theme when naming their children. This can be as simple as making them all begin with the same letter, as in Jun, Jimmy, Janice, and Joy. More imaginative parents shoot for more sophisticated forms of assonance or rhyme, as in Biboy, Boboy, Buboy, Baboy (notice the names get worse the more kids there are-best to be born early or you could end up being a Baboy). Even better, parents can create whole families of, say, desserts (Apple Pie, Cherry Pie, Honey Pie) or flowers (Rose, Daffodil, Tulip). The main advantage of such combinations is that they look great painted across your trunk if you're a cab driver. That's another thing I'd never seen before coming to Manila -- taxis with the driver's kids' names on the trunk.

Another whole eye-opening field for the foreign visitor is the phenomenon of the "composite" name. This includes names like Jejomar (for Jesus, Joseph and Mary), and the remarkable Luzviminda (for Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao , believe it or not). That's a bit like me being called something like "Engscowani" (for England , Scotland , Wales and Northern Ireland ). Between you and me, I'm glad I'm not. And how could I forget to mention the fabulous concept of the randomly inserted letter 'h'. Quite what this device is supposed to achieve, I have not yet figured out, but I thin k it is designed to give a touch of class to an otherwise only averagely weird name. It results in creations like Jhun, Lhenn, Ghemma, and Jhimmy. Or how about Jhun-Jhun (Jhun2)?

How boring to come from a country like the UK full of people with names like John Smith. How wonderful to come from a country where imagination and exoticism rule the world of names. Even the towns here have weird names; my favorite is the unbelievably named town of Sexmoan (ironically close to Olongapo and Angeles). Where else in the world could that really be true? Where else in the world could the head of the Church really be called Cardinal Sin? Where else but the Philippines ! Note: Philippines has a senator named Joker, and it is his legal name.

years and miles

Seven years ago we were nothing but fat asses tasting college for the first time.
Everyone called you a pothead and I simply looked awkward.
We were pals and stayed pals for as long as I can remember.
I transferred to another campus and you went on with your thing.
I was surrounded by funky gay divas and you were surrounded by your hardened brothas.
We were apart, and then we got together for a cigarette, and then we were apart again.
I found girls for you, because you said so.
I listened to your story and you listened to mine.
And we were drunk.
And we were steady.
But never together.
We played with the idea but never dared jump in.
Now after seven years, you’re still drunk, and I'm still a bit chubby.
Now I'm miles away and you’re telling me we can stay together.
You’re crazy.
I am too.
I believe you Curgs.

Way Back Into Love

From the movie Music and Lyrics. Sigh.

No Other Way

I only know one way to keep being happy.
No one has taught me any other way.
And it feels fine.
Just gets to me sometimes.

Everyone has gone through this phase at some point in their lives.
They have gone through all these things --- ecstasy, helplessness, addiction, depression, plateau plateau plateau.
Down in the dumps they find themselves.
Oh well. It's just one of those nights.
Those awfully lonely nights.

Last weekend I had two strangers read my palm.
One was a lady I met at the beach.
Another was a man I met at the bar.
They both said the same thing.
And once again, after weeks of keeping it in the periphery, it came out, exploded, like a waterfall, water running hard and fast and there was no way to stop it.
Why would they see that in my palm?
They didn't even know where I had been, didn't even know what I had gone through.
They didn't know me at all.
Why would they tell me the answer that I secretly, desperately tried to find?
And how dare they tell me that?
How dare they tell me things I wished for but wanted to go away?
If it never happened I would be doomed.If it did I'd be... I don't know.

And then it would take more than Hibiki nights, more than vodka and wine and whisky, more than parties and movie dates and nice dinners to stop the nightmares.
I don't know what else I'd do.

I don't know any other way to keep being happy.

productivity

I fucked up today.
No, for the last three days.
I have been eating like a pig.
Eating white rice, pork fat, buttery stuff and lots of chocolates and milky biscuits.
I eat when I want to, even when I don’t.
I feel like shit.
I feel like a big scoop of lard walking around.

But as they say, there will always be tomorrow, and you can use it to improve – to correct your mistakes and do better.
I don’t particularly hate myself for eating too much to the point of getting constipated.
I just think I should not have manifested my feelings in hoarding food.

Yes I guess I’ve been lonely for the past few days.
Why? A number of reasons.
I’ve been a coward these past few days.
I want to take one step forward but am a bit hesitant because I am so afraid of criticism.
So afraid.
And I am a little depressed because I had someone analyze my finances and he wasn’t as great as I thought they were.
Finally I am sad because there is a person who’s been giving me the attention and care that I need, but he’s so far away, in Manila. My Manila.

But!!! I didn’t sleep sad last night.
Even though I messed up my diet, I still did a few things to make myself feel better --- an attempt to stop binge eating, binge drinking, binge smoking.
And they ARE pretty great, great enough to cover my loneliness with the blanket of productiveness.

1. I cooked pasta for dinner. I used fresh tomatoes, and with just a glance at the rough recipe on the internet I managed to make it taste like the kind of tomato spaghetti you can have at Fazoli’s. I’m NOT kidding.
2. I finished a whole episode of Nigella Bites, both inspired to make dessert for everyone, and disgusted at how she EATS every dessert she makes. Plus before the show ends she goes to the fridge and naughtily nibbles on the stuff she made. Well I’ll make the fizzy fruity drink anyway. It’s the best dessert I can make. It has sparkling wine in it.
3. I changed my sheets. I really did. After that dream about roaches and itchiness and suffocation I was bound to do it.
4. Read a few pages of A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. I want to get engrossed in it and read it until I sleep. The story is proving to be very very interesting.
5. I haven't shelled out a single cent (shall I say fil) for two days. Yes. I've managed to nick cigarettes from people and cook my own food and eat other people’s. It felt so good to be in control of something other than … well, food.
6. I only had three cigarettes today. Cool.

I always feel like compensating for things I haven’t done and I know that to a certain extent it’s not healthy, but it’s good to know that the need to be productive and brilliant is thriving in me. That’s all I need to know that I am living my life the way I want to.

I woke up in the middle of the night from a horrible dream.
I dreamt of a million little cockroaches eating me up.
They were anoyingly quiet but very very fast in eating up my flesh and irritating my skin. I was scratching everywhere, in every nook and cranny of my body, and I wanted to die because it was so itchy and the cockroaches were not going anywhere.
They were there, crept their way inside the villa up to my room to my bed and multiplied and had a sole purpose --- to destroy me.
And they were doing a good job.
I woke up sweating and so frustrated and out of breath and I immediately took the comforter out of the bed and kept it in the cabinets.
Roaches.

odd pairs

Cuban music, mojito.
One, two bearded men in strange dresses.
A friend online, a glass of wine.
A biscuit, a cup of tea with milk.
A book, a cigarette.
I am never ok with only one thing to do, one thing to consume at any given time.
I am restless and I need things to preoccupy me.
They all come in pairs.
Is it because I am not part of one?

Work was very productive today.
I hope tomorrow it'll be better.
And then I can just take a seat and see things happen.
This is how I want it.

in vino veritas

For ten straight days I've been drinking.
Alcohol has always been available to me and it's hard to resist it.
It's even harder to resist its effect on me.
It gives me a high, gives me confidence to sing to a crowd, puts me to sleep.
Makes me happier in general.
The shallow kind of happy. The kind that makes me shake everyone's hand and laugh at every joke and graciously accept compliments. Strips me of inhibitions and makes me think that the world is a perfect place.
When I'm sober I am quiet, even when I want to say a million things and have a lot of ideas that I want to share with others.
When I am sober I am lonely, and I think about bad things, I worry and I have all kinds of reservations about all kinds of things.

When I am sober I am weaker.
No matter where I am, come evening, I drink.
I have a glass of wine while cooking, a bullfrog when I'm singing at the karaoke bar, a vodka when I'm dancing.
Wine, vodka, bullfrog, whisky, cheap Russian Breezer imitations.
I am queen because I think I am queen and I can say anything I want to say because when the alcohol invades me body I don't care about other people.
I care about myself and I am more open and honest and free.

I first heard the phrase "in vino veritas" from Maggie my orgmate.
It means "in wine there is truth".
And I have proven it to be true.
The most important thing in the world is myself, and that's all I ever want to tell the world. And with a little liqour slowly making its way down my throat, into my stomach, into my brain, I can do that.
Cheers!

the beach missed me and my fat belly

comfort women, comfortable men

I’ve been reading a lot about Japan and Shinzo Abe and their forefathers’ crime during the second World War. And so came about comfort women in Korea, among many countries that Japan invaded. In the Philippines some of our grandmothers also failed to escape the cruelty of those evil chinks.

But these evil chinks weren’t really different from today’s modern men. You. Yes you in the khakis pants, crisp white shirt and shabby Chucks. You love comfort women don’t you. Women to you are but bus stops that you can just stop by along the way and never return to again. No looking back. Forward always forward.

And you say this is how we live these days; that this is really how men are supposed to act, that you’re just having fun and enjoying life, and while women aren’t your priority that doesn’t mean you can’t have them once in a while.

Whatever helps you sleep at night, bastard.

feel it

Sitting out here in the front yard.
Wine.
Wifi.
A fag.
Nachos and salsa.
Nothing special...
but myself.
I forgot all about myself.
I was out for a couple of nights.
And I missed this.
I missed talking alone.
Writing alone.
Feeling alone.
Feeling it.
Just feeling it.
I had no time to feel it.
Now I have no choice, and it's a good thing.

I read about James Frey on the net.
Some site says they investigated his life story and it turned out to be an exaggeration.
A hoax.
But I like James Frey and his writing inspires me and I don't care if he made all that up.
I'll still keep reading his book and feeling his fears and mourning his loss and celebrating his recovery.
So what if he wasn't a hardcore drug addict and wanted in several states.
If he felt that there was a need to make things appear bigger than they are then he should express it in writing.
If he felt absolutely shattered then he should let his readers feel it.
I didn't have a tragic break-up.
It was just SMS that broke the bad news to me.
But it shook my insides and I felt like I died.
And even after that death it was still painful.
And it still haunts me.
Every inch of me aches when I think about it.
And no matter how much I drink and how many songs I sing and how many friends I spend my time with I still grieve.
Sad.
So a quiet text message destroyed my spirit and it's just so hard to rebuild it.
Wherever James is, send him my love.

Ok that was just a glass of wine.
But paired with solitude the truth just flowed like a stream.
From my mind, to my fingers, to the keyboard.

So here's a toast...
With no one...
To feeling it!

Little Miss Can't-Miss-Anything

Ethel commented on our restlessness. We’re sooo… out and about, just thinking about what we do for a whole week, even on a weekend, made her tired. I said I wanted to drown myself in things before loneliness caught up on me. She advised me to say no more, learn to shake my head and just stay home in solitude. I dismissed her advise, saying that YES was a very powerful word, and it can take me places. Many opportunities are waiting to be seized, by agreeing to go some place, meet someone, do something. And then she said… “You should also understand that it’s okay to miss things”… because missed opportunities will always be replaced. Don’t force the time, the place, the person.
Powerful powerful words that I’d like to remember and take with me wherever I go. Together with Colin’s “You have to choose to be happy” and Craig’s “Men are bastards”, Ethel’s “It’s ok to miss things” is now a tool for me to become better, wiser, less tired and with more money (saying yes to everything CAN be expensive).

a walk to the park

A walk in the park.
More like a walk to the park.
A long gruesome walk to the park.
Definitely not a walk in the park.
I walked all the way from my house (near the Fairmont) all the way to Safa Park on Friday noon.
I have no idea what came over me.
I just wanted to walk around aimlessly and see where my feet would lead me.
Also I wanted to do my groceries.
I just put on my rubber shoes and jogging pants and iPod and walked out of the compound.
The sun was killing me, burning my face and piercing my eyes.
But I went on walking until I was in the middle of Satwa, heading to Al Wasl, which I treaded for what seemed like an eternity.
I was sweating profusely.
Singing along with Mariah and Jacko and Beyonce and Gwen.
Doo doo doo doo doo doo.
La la la la la la.
Moderate walking, with my ever-reliable Dragon bag.
I walked one, two, three, maybe 20 km?
More. Definitely more.
I walked for one and a half hours.
For those who are in Manila and therefore have no idea how far I walked, it’s probably a Katipunan-Cubao type of pilgrimage. Diliman-Robinsons Galleria even.
I'm not kidding. Nor exaggerating.
I started at 12:45 PM.
So I walked and walked, stopped once to buy a bottle of water, and kept on walking.
On the pavement, around the flowers, crossing a petrol station, passing by laborers, tourists, expats, locals.
I reached Safa Park at 2:15 PM, and went inside Union Cooperative, the supermarket parallel to it, screaming more water.
I took a kart and walked around to buy the cheapest delicacies and meat and fruits and drinks in town.
I took a carlift home panting.
I took out my groceries and placed them in the fridge, in the shelves, in the cupboards.
And then I slept for three and a half hours.
It was the first time I slept like a baby in months.
No shit.
It felt sooo good.
So good.
I felt like a new woman.
I didn’t even do it consciously, but I did it and it felt good.
It’s an achievement.
Another achievement.
I’ll have to find out how far I walked.
And then I can boast of the number of kilometers I conquered and the amount of willpower I had inside me.
Will power. Control.

Take a walk from Fairmont to Safa Park.
Check.

a new conquest

I have a new goal and achieving it is proving to be very very exciting.

Last Thursday the guys had dinner at my place… because it was Sherry’s birthday! Afterwards we went to Hibiki and I was my usual high self.
In fairness to me, I was getting better and better at Underneath Your Clothes. And Joan, the waiter who controls the song list, knew that it was my last song, paired with the last bull frog I had for the midnight. They obviously decided that I was already a regular. Regular is fine, at least a notch higher than a nameless face in the crowd, but of course regular is what it is --- plain, same old fellow, hi hello, come and go.

I want to be a VIP. One of the UPAA UAE members, Sir Cheng, is definitely a VIP. He goes there and gets served his usual drinks, and he doesn’t have to wait to sing his song… they play it immediately. Nanginginig pa! And I had the pleasure of singing with him. He was actually mastering the rap in Where Is the Love, just as everybody had forgotten about it. That was a bit of a laugh, but it was soooo much fun. I sang the chorus parts --- all five of them, over and over again…
Where is the love, where is the love, where is the love, the love, the love????
And we sang it again last night. And we will sing it again next time.

The highlight of last night’s karaoke was the great showdown. The bartenders just made each one of us come up on stage and give it our best shot.
I didn’t. I was pathetic. I sang Dilemma by Nelly and Kelly Rowland.
But I won. And I think everyone believed that I deserved the gift certificate from Hibiki. Why? Because I was both Nelly and Kelly, didn’t let anyone do the rapping. And I even showed off my moves, moves that no fifty-something lonely white man could showcase in front of a crowd and actually impress them.
Yes, it was bloody awful. I rapped like a gangsta wannabe from Vaseco Compound and sang like an aspiring diva from Sampaloc.
But I did both. And I finished the song. And I won.

Yes, my friend. I’m definitely on the way to where I want to be. And my VIP status at Hibiki will be the greatest milestone in my Dubai life, aside from my professional achievements (they’re not much but I almost sold my soul to get to where I am now).

Now someone to sing with is going to be my next Zeena project.

baguio, december, mama, zoe

I can't believe my mother used the word "bling bling". I almost called her brotha after that. she was telling me how much Zoe enjoyed their Baguio trip and how nice our cousin Rupert was. And that Zoe found it funny that Rupert should wear some Baguio-made silver bling at the age of 12. Tita Amy wanted to wear funky native head dresses with Zoe and Rupert for the sake of a nice picture. Zoe and Rupert of course didn't think it was cool but they didn't really have a choice.

I died inside when I saw their pictures. I badly wanted to be with them and go around the Philippines with my family and relatives.

December, December. So near yet so far.

dees eez ze moment

I had my varicose veins treated today.
After almost ten years of thinking about doing it I finally went ahead with it.
Cosmesurge is a nice place to have your varicose veins treated.
The doctor was a specialist in veins, whatever you call the science.
I just know that he made me feel very comfortable and gave me a good discount because his housemaids in Beirut were all Filipino and they were all dear to his children.
He's actually based in Beirut and France, hence his name Antoine.
He also spoke with a funny French accent, and like most French I know, he never let me talk. I just wanted to thank him for solving my problem and I never got around to uttering any word that made sense before, during and after the treatment because he kept on talking.
I think it's a good thing. Before I knew it the syringes were in the bin and my legs were reborn.
I love it!!!!

Sick

Last night I felt really sick.
I went home at 11 feeling like an old hag.
Today I’m feeling worse.
And I can just imagine what I’ll look like tomorrow.

I am scheduled to have my varicose veins treated tonight.
Yes, I’ve got varicose veins.
I’ve had them since time immemorial and it would be best to banish them before Sherry’s beach thing on Saturday.

I’ve had enough this March and I swear I’m going to take it slow in April.
I’d like to have more “me” time, with lots of journal-writing and window shopping alone and blogging and reading and taking long walks and sleeeeping.
Yes that’s definitely on my list. Sleeping.

I also plan to steer clear of … tadadada . . . dating.
It’s a big joke, I know but I’d really like to be a little less out and about.
Not like I slag around.
It’s just that in a city like Dubai, no matter how many high rises tower over me and bright lights they put up, I’m always going to be lonely. Well, a little less happy than when I was in Manila.
And dating is really tempting because nice dinners always make me feel like a special woman, and great conversations with a nice man are what I live for… but then again I have to take a break and make sure to get rid of the skeletons in my closet.
I am crossing my fingers that it is not a big joke.
I really want to be alone.
I was alone when Guillaume swept me off my feet.
He made me happier for two and a half months but the break-up he initiated was the worst ever. The most traumatic, terrible, unethical, one-sided break-up ever.

With that always in mind… yes I think I do want to be alone.

Lying

Lying is such an easy way to forget.
Say you’re not affected, you weren’t up for it anyway.
That he wasn’t all that and you could do better than be with him.
Say things like, well, he turned out to be Mr. Wrong and I wouldn’t settle for him.
And then, as days go by, these lies become true, thanks to reinforcement by friends and the healing process that all heartbroken girls go through.
If you say these things over and over again until you believe in them, they magically happen.
And this is one of the very few excuses for lying.
Because in this case it is very, very helpful.

Weekends are always the best.
Weekends are the time to stop thinking.

THURSDAY
A seemingly endless karaoke night… in the morning Yolanda handed me a 50-dirham bill. I left it out in the front yard when I was opening the door the night before. What?!

FRIDAY
We all went to Jumeirah Beach Park last Friday afternoon and had a snack.
Sherry and I went to my place to take a nap.
And a few hours later we were in the company of several US Navy officers at the Fairmont Hotel.
We would have painted the town red to the tune of In the Navy and YMCA, but it was Prophet Mohammed’s birthday, meaning it was officially a dry night for all the places in the UAE, except for Nad Al Sheba, because of the Dubai World Cup.
And so we had at least three kinds of coffee on our table and a nice conversation that was really small talk stretched until the bar asked for our last order.
I brought them home to our villa where cold Carlsbergs were waiting for them.
(I meant to tell Craig, still haven’t, but will.)
I waited until I was sure they were good guys and were not going to get rowdy upon consuming alcohol. Each of them only had one, two beers.
Good boys.

SATURDAY
Taebo. Hardcore taebo and then a nice fruit platter for late breakfast with Sherry.
And then we took a looong nap and watched a movie.
300 was good! Really nice. It moved me. To tears. To big fat tears. I was sobbing until I didn’t know if I was crying because Leonidas died and left his queen with only a choker that resembled the ones they make in Boracay, or because I missed Guillaume and was disgusted at myself for having the courage show pain only inside a movie house, where it’s dark and no individual is ever noticed.

To be very honest, I did so many things during the weekend just to tire myself, so that sleep was the only alternative to fun, and breaking down was not an option.