Today I interviewed the "winners" of Quit and Win.
It's an incentive-based program for those who would like to quit smoking.
It went on for a whole month.
Can you imagine not doing one of the things you love for 30 days?
I can never quit anything I love.
I interviewed a young man who joined the program but didn't succeed.
He's a lawyer who, whenever faced with anything as challenging as a TV interview, has to have his cigarette fix.
So after talking in front of the camera about how hard it was to quit smoking, we rushed to the basement to have a quick smoke.
He loves smoking. So do I.
And that is why we cannot quit it at this point.
We love it.
If you love something (or someone), it is impossible to turn away from it and say goodbye.
And if you do it, you will end up coming back to it quicker than when you first tried it out.
You will get addicted even more.
And you will appreciate every single puff.
And that is why I never joined the program in the first place.
I know that cigarettes are something I really enjoy and cannot live without, and I am going to be very very sad if I quit just now.

Some of the things we love are not necessarily good for us.
If I keep on smoking like this then God only knows what could happen.
Millions of people have died because they do did things that harmed their bodies.
In short, they died doing what they loved the most.
In a twisted world, that is awesome.
Would you die for something or someone you love?
That is a very difficult question, especially for me.
I love myself too much and I hate it when I love too much because my love for a particular thing or person is essentially competing with my love for none other than myself.
Ayos ba?

OLD OLD OLD OLD SCHOOL ... Happier days

Daniela, Tita Loloy, ME :), Carlo and Tita Monette patiently waiting for Tita Nenet to wake up.
Daniella, Shobe and ME :)
I was not a very good ballerina.



Me and Daniella. This was in my school.

Daniella, Carlo, Tita Monette and ME :)

I started growing my giant teeth at this age.

And check out the insect scanned with the pic.

Me Carlo and Ninish. Jesus Christ Superstar and Jumbo days.

Cousins ko! Laki laki na nila....

Thanks Daniella for the pictures... tell Mama to give you more and scan them...

did we take a pic of Carlo at Villa Virginia when he performed a miracle by the baby pool?

Tulad ng mga bituing
Nawawala ang ningning
Hindi ko makita
Ang gusto kong makita
Sa 'yong mga mata

Tulad ng dulot na perwisyo
Ng ugong ng eroplano
Nabibingi ako
Sa mga panloloko
Sa pabibo bibo

Pag natapos ang usapan
Simula na ng kasiyahan
Huwag ka nang magtanong
At di na rin kita pagdududahan

Pang ilang tagay na ba to?
Ika'y nakakahilo
Lungo na nga ako
Napapapikit na
Napapahikab na

Pang ilang kanta na ba to?
Gawa gawang lambing
Iisa lang ang tono mo
At di ko masabayan
Di ko masabayan

Pag sumikat na ang araw
At nasilaw ka sa akin
Kusa akong lalabas
Pinto mo'y ikandado
Para sigurado

It drags on... but the more important thing is that it drags on towards the right direction.
So it doesn't matter if it takes a day, a month or ten years, as long as it goes forward.
It's a healthy way of looking at anything.
For some people it's sheer optimism.
For others, delusion.
For me, it's the only choice.
It's like your favorite softdrink, or the place you always love to visit.
I feel gooooooood.

I always thought it would be funny to have another rectum attached on my forehead.
Messy, but funny.
Honestly, I need a good laugh.

Blame it on the weather.
40 degrees and rising.
It was around this time last year that I forgot to take my brain next door.
Thank God it was still on my bedside table when I came home.
It was also around this time in 2007 when I danced with a stranger in an 18th century costume.
I realized that the dentures were not really part of the whole ensemble.
Yuck.
It was also around this time in 2006 when I dreamed of taking a sip of that especially fermented drink. The thought of smelling vanilla in my drink hypnotized me.
But I snapped out of it. I always did.
But before I did, I had to endure looking at badly decorated walls, tasting cheap wine, and smelling sweaty armpits.
So this year it's different story.
It gets interesting. Not.
Really. It doesn't.

Ok a lot of things have changed since I left Manila.
Terri is getting married in December.
That is a milestone, because she is the first in our group to get hitched, and I can't wait to wear a nice dress and hug her on her wedding day.
Will the Gigs prepare a dance number, like what we did at Charm's 18th birthday party?
I remember wearing a Coca Cola shirt that I bought in Divisoria, plus a thick vest and a bonnet.
hahahaha. Yuck.
I am guessing that my friend Charm will be the next one to say "I do".
I'm happy to wear nice dresses and witness how true love is sealed and celebrated.
But I don't think I will get married soon.
I am happy to go through that "Always a bridesmaid" phase and drink lots of champagne.

Ok Terri getting married. What else?
Hmmm Wyson falling in love.
Why the hell not?
I think she is a great woman and the man she is in love with is nothing but lucky.
Wyson is beauty and brains and happiness personified.
I wonder what's been happening to her?
She used to make fun of me when we were in fourth grade.
All the way until we were in college.
I used to drool on her shoulder in the FX on the way to Cubao, and she used to poke my urinary gland with sharp pencil to see if I could stand "pee pressure" on Taft Avenue.

Ok Wyson getting married.
What else? Kath has a boyfriend!
Yay! I love Kath.
Hmmm I think Carlo is her perfect match.
They look good together and they always have lots of fun.
Plus they're both funny.
I would like to validate that statement in our blue book (Kath, insdie joke).
So does that mean that Kath will not say "Tado" ever again?
Or maybe she'll say it to Carlo when they have petty fights.
By all means.

I love change.
It's challenging.
Either you cope or you're out.
Or you stay at home and wish you'd die.
I love change.

So random.
Cheeseburger.
Margaritas.
Aegis songs.
Jumbo Hotdog.

It's like that one night with Ria on Jupiter Street.
Music 21 from 9 PM til 6 AM.
We had half a case of Red Horse.
And chugged down a bottle of Chocolait for breakfast.

Or like that nice evening on the beach.
Mindoro sling, pot.
High school kids.
Friendship bracelets.

Or like that eventful day in the heart of Manila.
Karting race.
Wake.
Eastwood dinner.

Random things are always fun.
But to end up being a random person in some random place is not.
I like things to start out randomly, as in that movie Serendipity.
But I would like to see things fall in place eventually.
That's what makes randomness amazing.
When the craziest circumstances lead you to something that will change your life.

So if something totally out of this world happens to you and it really hasn't made a difference...
It's just a badly written part in your autobigoraphy and you should just tear it out because it's irrelevant.

I called Mama Becky to say hello today.
She said she couldn't go out to pay her Globe bill because of the heavy rain.
Rain!
Now I feel like taking the first plane headed for Manila.
Suddenly random memories of my rainy days back home flashed before my eyes.
Kath and me, at Starbucks Katipunan, waiting for her ride. Hoto chocolate. Validating all her statements in the blue book (UP speak).
Muddy water chasing my feet on the pavement as jeepneys roared past me.
Arriving at work all wet and folding my dripping umbrella in the corner.
Hot chocolate. Chai tea latter. Cello's Donuts and Dips.
I remember having to walk from Miriam to my house in Project 4 because my school bus left me and I the jeepneys were being jerks.
Spending the day indoors and watching old movies. I remember watching Along Came Polly dozens of times while the raindrops angrily knocked on my windows, calling my attention.
And I remember realizing how much of a Polly I was.
I still am, perhaps.
Rain makes me happy.
Wet cement, wet grass, wet shoes.
LIVE AIDS rehearsals at Vinzons that finished at 11 PM.
Yosi yosi on the ground floor of the ELJ building, with call center posses puffing away like zombies.
Beer after work.
Gay bars.
Trapped in a gay bar on a rainy night!
That was fun.
Doobie doobie doo. For free.
Rainy days on the beach.
Ahhh. Fruit shakes and kebabs.
Eastwood. I have fun memories at Eastwood.
I'm not sure if Cable Car still exists but that's where Charm, Kath, Fifi and I went for some drinks all the way from Sacred Heart Subdivision.
Scared Heart. Do you have any idea how far that place is?
Two words: Tungko Jeepney.
Rain on Taft Avenue is also as interesting.
Taft, Espana, E.Rodriguez.
Strong winds, flood up to my waist, leptospirosis fears putting an end to my happy commute.
And don't even get me started about Aurora Boulevard.
La lang.

Garbage - Drive You Home (Acoustic Version) [Edinbourgh 2002]

You can google everything on the surface.
The name, the number, the smile.
But never the things that matter.
The reactions, the secrets, the lies.
So no, google is not all that.

Solitario

This week I've been playing Solitaire on my computer a few minutes before leaving work. That is a bad a sign.
When my first boyfriend and I broke up, I played solitaire for hours every single night until my brain bled and I realized I had to get enough Zzzzsss.
I play solitaire when I don't know what else to do.
Why have I been at it these days?
What am I so anxious about?
Nobody knows for sure.
But Solitaire is actually a great game, because you only have to deal with yourself.
You sharpen your brain and hope that next time you win and the cards go swooooossshhh.
So if you make a stupid move, you're the first one to know you're stupid.
Not your opponent. Not the referee.
And the good thing about the game is, you can quit anytime.
No one will force you to flip the cards endlessly until you get it, or there's no way to sort out the cards.
And I appreciate it even more now.
I can quit anytime.
Unlike smoking, or a similar bad habit.
I can quit anytime.
This is true for solitaire, and only for solitaire.
It's hard to bail out of most things in life.
Not solitaire.
I can quit anytime.

Eleven months and two days ago, I visited a small snake farm in Bangkok as part of a tacky tourist package that ripped me off. Aside from allowing a local man to wrap a giant python around me for a fee, I also cradled a diaper-clad baby monkey in my arms for the sake of a nice picture I would soon post on Facebook. The monkey held me in a tight embrace and his fur brushing against my neck gave me goosebumps. After a few seconds it lunged at my chest and its hands frantically looked for my breasts. It was hungry. I felt so insulted, but downplayed my hurt feelings because it was pointless: the only witnesses were a white couple and the local man who owned the monkey, its father. And at that moment he could well be my husband, if the monkey really thought I was going to nurse him without objection.

Number 1, I was and still am NOT lactating.

Number 2, I am not a monkey.

Never did I think that I would look back at that time and say to myself "There goes one of the happiest moments of my life." But compared to what I am going through right now, I think I was better off then, in a place where no one knew me and at a time when I couldn't care less about anything.

It's been a year since I have been mistaken for a monkey. By a monkey. Given the circumstances now, I'm more than happy to mother that chimp. Where's that monkey when you need him.

I Understand

Life is so fast-paced in Dubai that sometimes I don't have time to think about how great my December holiday will be, notice that the flat has run out of edible stuff save for rotten veggies at the bottom of the fridge, or even breathe.

I have been suffocating myself for a whole week now. I find it literally hard to breathe. Bad thoughts are the culprit. I have become so negative this week, something that I fear the most. I always fear that I will soon wave a white flag for everyone to see and just resign to the fact that I am bound to be afraid of the future.

But every day friends seem to appear from nowhere and rescue me. In many different ways. By giving me a ride to a very important meeting, buying me cigarettes, treating me to a lavish spa package, or simply saying "I understand".

When I heard someone say that, that he understood, that he knew what I was going through, I tried hard to suppress my emotions, but my tears betrayed me. How often do you hear that here, in a place where most of the time no one bothers to even try to get what someone is saying? When words come out of one's mouth, they vanish into thin air.

It's not easy to try to understand someone. It takes time and patience and a good ear to achieve that. And understanding is not the end of one task as a friend. It is only the beginning of a commitment to go through something together. And that is even more daunting.

This is why I have respect for a person who holds a friend's hand and is not afraid to say "I understand". Because I know the consequences of saying those words. I understand.

As much as I love my K800i, it is no longer working properly.
I will bring it to the service centre and see if the people behind the counter can still revive it.
I would still like to continue using it. It had never let me down until it drowned inside my bag.
My mineral water bottle decided to open itself to keep me from making very important work-related phone calls.

I finally decided to use my Nokia Navigator, after much hesitation.
I never found the need to use a GPS, and always relied on the driver's memory whenever I went somewhere.
Today though, I was pleased at myself for using it.
It told us to make a crucial exit that will take us out of Abu Dhabi and back to our office.
We must have saved an hour because of that turn.

If only I have GPS for everything, a device I can consult when I have to make decisions that would potentially change my life. Should I do this, should I do that, what do I wear, where do I go. Do I make peace with him, do I leave him alone, do I tell him off for being a jerk. Am I finally going on a diet, am I leaving town, am I drinking too much? Are they the ones I should hang out with, am I willing to sacrifice something precious to me for a person who is only a potential mate. Is this place safe, is this thing worth buying, am I not allowed to be sad for a moment. Should I go now, should I leave, should I stay, should I completely ignore it or tackle it head on.

I will never finish. Imagine the thousands of decisions we have to make. Every day.
And it all boils down to our guided (or misguided) judgment.

But maybe this is precisely why I love my K800i. It doesn't tell me what to do.

Good Night

I went home at 4 in the morning, pleased at myself for being extra sociable.
I attended two Halloween parties, not ashamed of being underdressed or irrelevant.

I had to work today and though there was not much to do in the office, I felt tired.
The mere thought (and reality) of being at work on a Saturday consumes me.

I thought a nice dinner with a friend would cap my day, and I would go to bed constipated, dreaming of some toilet action.

But like I always find out, the day is never finished until I close my eyes and start snoring.
At this very moment, a few minutes before bedtime, I find myself listening to a Russian lullaby that is gently putting me to sleep.

Good night!

I am waging a war against feeling ugly.
In high school I always thought being pretty was a sin.
I despised my schoolmates who wore lipstick in class and powdered their noses at lunch.
But I didn't really understand the importance of having all these beauty products until I finally bought some of my own.

They could save your life.
It's not like that age-defying cream actually has the power to stop the crow's feet from branching out around your eyes, or that moisture rich lipstick can make a guy kiss you.
It's the feeling of knowing that you are taking care of yourself.
Everytime I enter our bathroom and see the heaps of shampoos and soaps and shower gels and mud packs I have bought or have been given to me, I sigh in satisfaction.
This is how much I take care of myself.

I get a high out of taking a whiff of my perfumes and stirring the paste I use to stick on my gel bra (which is my greatest possession, they stick and seamlessly BECOME my breasts, without the fussy straps and bulky wires). I slather on my lotion like there's no tomorrow. My papaya bubble bath is a cheap thrill that guarantees a good relaxing weekend.

By the time I finish showering and get dolled up and ready to have a good time (usually at the karaoke bar), I have become a concoction of all these wonderful beauty aids that --- though manufactured by rabid capitalists for my consumption and my wallet's grief --- give me reason to think that I am not wasting away.

Blind dates don't always work out; work isn't always a piece of cake; weekends are not always as fun as I would like them to be. But I don't kill myself because I know I have done more than enough to make myself feel good under no matter the circumstances.

I just read what I wrote and it sounded downright silly. Oh well.

But silly is the last thing I feel when I peel off my citrus-scented Vitamin C mask.

Oman

From Tuesday to Thursday, I kept myself warm under the soft sheets of the Shangrila Muscat. It was a trip for work, but the organizers did such a good job at making us feel as if we were on a holiday.

My room had an excellent view. The great Omani landscape greeted me a good morning, and the weather was perfect for sun bathing and haing mojitos by the pool.

The Muscat Airport was a modest building of traditional architecture. Not many people travelled except for the holiday makers and businessmen, who are probably heading for Dubai.

The city is quiet compared to Dubai, which has a nuerotic way about it. In Muscat, I heard a spacious one bedroom apartment near the business district would not cost more than 250 Omani Riyal, which is exactly 2,500 Dirhams. Good deal. For some reason, I didn't feel pressured to think about work, even though that was what I was doing the whole time. In the evenings we had a drink or two before going back to our hotel rooms, where I read a book in the bath and watched TV to put me to sleep.

But minus the Shangrila and the mountains and the low rise Arabic establishments peppered all over town, Muscat would still be a great city. Their people are their real asset.

The Omanis are the best. They have the most sincere smiles and the genuine desire to make sure that your experience in Oman is nothing but the best. They engage in a conversation with a semi-stranger like me, a chat that goes beyond meaningless small talk and devoid of pretenses. I would love to go back there and say hello once again to the people I met and took care of us.

They don't know how much I appreciate their warmth and care. It was a much needed break from the bright lights and the cranky people, and its all I need to go back to work on Sunday with a smile on my face.

Hu Hu Hu

I discovered that right before my monthly period, I cry. Uncontrollably. Ridiculously.
The reasons are not even worth mentioning, really.
But that's not to say they're irrelevant. They're only small things, true, but when they happen right before my period, they are the last straw.

Like that time I couldn't get a cab in Media City. On a normal day in my menstrual calendar, I would simply sigh and try to find another way to reach my destination. But I was ovulating. When I hailed the last cab driver who rejected me, I raised hell. I think I told him to --- a tree, then broke down at the bus stop. Or that time I couldn't say no to a friend's party. I put on my pre-menstrual face the whole evening, complaining about the food and the music and the weather. Or the weekend nobody was free. I thought the world has deserted me, so I out on ACAMP's Song for the Leftovers while sobbing in the mirror.

But I also realized today, after shedding my September tears, that crying every month does wonders for me. I feel so much better! Calm, inspired, strong. The negative energy falls off together with the tears, and I am stripped of issues once again, or at least have managed to get rid of their dead skin, often provokingly ugly, sitting on the surface, waiting to be dispelled. Until we meet again the following month.

Next month I wonder what I'll cry about. How about the stench in International City? Or the lack of space in the office? Or my weight (crowd favorite -- and by crowd I mean hormones)?

I hope I didn't ruffle some feathers there
I only want to let myself in
If you tell me to go away
Then I don't have a choice, do I?

I hope I didn't say the wrong words then
If I used kinder ones, would you still be around?
I only wanted to see the truth
What are you afraid of?

I hope you're really busy like you said
Not hiding from me, I'm not hunting you down
No I don't want to shake your hand
I found out it's dirtier than mine