Sunday, August 23, 2009

I'd like you to meet my boyfriend..

inspired by:

I wake up to my phone ringing and I groggily pick up my cell. It's Miguel,calling me first thing in the morning like he always does. Only it's ten am and it's not really that early. He's asking me to have breakfast with him in that roadside place in Pampanga. I laugh and tell him by the time we get there it would be almost dinner. He doesn't believe me but then I remind him of how last week's breakfast trip to Tagaytay turned into merienda by Taal Vista. He insists, saying breakfast is any meal with sunny side up eggs. I agree because who can argue with that logic?

Miguel is a writer for a rival ad agency. He is eons better than I am at this job and I am in constant awe of him. He rolls his eyes at my adulation , saying he could never match my passion. I laugh derisively at this but secretly melt every time he says it. He says his real passion is fiction and I know this to be true. He has a published book of essays and two children's stories. He has Palanca's to show for the latter two. Currently, he is co-writing another short children's story, this time, with me. *heart heart*

Miguel is not only talented and witty and intensely in love with traveling for breakfast, he is also quite the looker. He's very Seth Cohen meets Chuck only cuter. He has a crookedly charming smile and constantly tousled hair. His eyes though are completely incongruent with the whole geek appeal - as they are piercing and intense. At times, he looks at me as if possessed and it sends shivers up my spine. I almost always have to avert my eyes to keep myself from pouncing on his juicy lips - just imagine how awkward a situation it would be if we're at a family brunch or church. It goes without saying that he is in bed.

He smokes sometimes out of boredom but mostly, he wastes time doing crossword puzzles or reading jokes in Reader's Digest. He can never get me interested in the former but I am all over the latter. Sometimes, we argue about who gets to read the jokes first.

Miguel loves discovering new music. He introduces me to quirky bands he finds on myspace and lastfm and wherever else one finds new bands. But he's far from being a snob. In fact, we are united for a common liking for 90's pop. And we're talking gooey mainstream pop here like Paula Cole, Backstreet Boys and Jessica Simpson.

And of course, we are also united under our common love for the Eheads - heck, we almost met during their reunion concert but we were much too busy shouting our lungs out to notice our possible love of our lives were in our midst.

It's not all roses and sunshine with Miguel, of course. We fight. We argue. We walk away. But we never shout. We never curse. And there are times when even if we are extremely mad at each other, I find we are still holding hands.

Got to wrap this entry up. Miguel just sms-ed. He's downstairs already. Pampanga breakfast here we come! I wonder if I could convince him to go to the Paranaque Dampa for dinner?

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Grocery Drama

Today, the day I had to have my passport picture taken, I broke out in hives. So before stepping into the photo booth I stopped by a grocery store to buy water so I could down my meds.

It was all pretty routine until a song played over the P.A. system.

Around five years ago, I saw Shania Twain's video From This Moment playing on MTV and without thinking I giddily reached for my phone and texted my then boyfriend that the song reminded me of him. And he texted back, promising we'd some day march down the aisle to it.

Cut to present day, and the only aisle where that song and I would meet is at the grocery.

Never has a cashier met a sadder shopper.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

I am Not Creepy

When I have nothing better to do I spend my time going over every interesting blog, Plurk, Facebook, Tumblr I can find. Google is the awesome enabler of this bad habit as it leads me link to link to link until I realize it's 4 am and I once again have forgotten to sleep. (And I wonder why my skin is riddled with pimples. :P)

It satisfies the voyeur (or more simply the chismosa) in me to be able to peek into other people's lives. You find out things that years of actual friendship may never reveal. And although I never share my piece, it feels as if I was part of a conversation.

Years ago, I found blogging to be a weird concept. It was introduced to me via and, despite peer pressure, I really did not want to join. I didn't get why I'd want to tell the whole world wide web what I was up to, what I was feeling, what I was enjoying. Journals for me were things that were meant to be secret - anecdotes shared only between writer and page. There seemed to be no sense letting big_daddy2234 join in.

But here I am, years after, the proud owner of several sites. None popular. None followed.
But fame is not the point. It is the pleasure in the probability that someone may read these entries and empathize. And in their own way, listen.

No one can interrupt you as you type away in your blog. Even when limited by 160 characters, all 160 characters are yours. People who choose or stumble upon your site are forced to acknowledge your thoughts. And some of them, if you're lucky or witty or both, will stay long and visit often. And then, even at your loneliest, you're really not alone.

In some Richard Gere movie, it was said that we all need witnesses to our lives. Someone who can definitively say we existed even after we're long gone. And cyberspace has given all of us a greater chance to be remembered.

So you see, I'm not a creepy cyber lurker. I'm really a witness to your life...albeit a silent unknown one. :P

image from:

Saturday, July 18, 2009

I Love You (too) Long Time

Curly: You only dated for 2 weeks so does he really count?

Officemate: (in the middle of crying over her own ex) 2 weeks? Is that enough time to have invested anything?

breakups while you wait

The problem with relationships that last as long as a blink of an eye is that everyone assumes that the grieving process will be just as quick. Everyone thinks that - even the dumpee.

The day after he broke up with me, I woke up in tears but calmed myself with the thought that I'd only be sad for a maximum of 3 days. And so, every time I felt a breakdown coming, I always started the crying fest with a vocal reassurance to myself and my friends that come Thursday, the drama will be cold and dead and buried.

Cut to 3 months later. Everyone thinks I'm long over him but -surprise, surprise- I am not.
I hide it because I feel stupid. HOW!? can I still be affected? HOW?! can I still care for him? HOW?! can I still cry at the Ortigas-Lanuza stoplight whenever I hear The Script play?

The shame doubles whenever friends begin to joke about how short-lived we were and how lucky I am to be rid of such a jerk. I laugh and agree as if it's the funniest thing ever but I don't really mean it.

But I'll keep laughing until I do.

photo from:

Friday, July 17, 2009

All Balled Up

I screamed as if my life depended on it. My heart was in my dry dry dry throat, my eyes were bulging out of their sockets as my stomach twisted into infinite knots. Knots - it's such a cliche but one of the truer ones. It felt as if a boyscout practiced with my guts.

But still, I screamed, in the hopes that decibels would generate points and blocks and rebounds and true-to-life Space Jam miracles. But all it did was deafen my seatmates.
As the shot clock dwindled to zero, I could hear the boys' hearts shatter. Our office basketball team lost. 78-76.

We went up to our players, squeezed their sore arms, patted their sweaty backs and told them the perfunctory "It's okay." But both fan and player knew as they nodded meekly to each other that it was far far far from okay. Both knew that if it were socially acceptable to start throwing benches, punching walls, and tearing off referees' heads - both would be doing just that.
Because failing at something you've put so much of yourself into is never ever okay.
And yes, even if it's "just" a game.

Don't worry's not okay now but give it some time and it will be.

above photo from

Friday, July 10, 2009

Short Skirts

I am a big fan of dresses. I think it is the easiest way to look like you cared about your appearance - even if you really did not. I love how I can just slip them on, slip into black flats and voila! I am ready to recklessly zigzag through traffic to slip into the office (barely) on time.

Today, I woke up pretty early and was about to take a quick shower when
oh look! breakfast! oh look! baby! oh look! Sesame Street!
By the time I rid myself of all distractions, I was already an hour late for work.

Without thinking or looking, I grabbed a dress from my closet, pulled it quickly over my head as I started wriggling my feet into my most high-heeled boots (because heels can also fake a lot of things).

I hobbled into the office at 10:30am, an apologetic smile pasted on my face..and the first sentences I hear as I pull out my chair were...

G: So where's the date?

B: Sinong ka-date mo mamaya? Gwapo ba, ikli ng skirt e! (Who's your date for later? He must be good-looking judging from your hemline.)

Chair in mid-pull, I grinned and self-consciously clickety-clacked into the ladies' room to look at what the heck it was I had put on.

My dress is as long as hers.

To be fair, the clothes I have on are doing a fine job of concealing the nanoseconds I took to dress up BUT they are doing a very horrible job of concealing my thighs.

Beginning to regret my outfit? Not really. The length of my top..errr..dress may almost be NSFW. But it' seems that dress length is indirectly proportional to the amount of compliments received. Let's just say, I am raking it in and I am far from bothered.
In fact, all the attention is beginning to make me feel vampy. LOL.

What I am beginning to mind is my lack of a date for tonight.

Everyone is assuming there must be a man behind the hem, when really all that's behind this dress is me. And really is it such a waste if it is just me?

she's alone and in a dress but she doesn't seem to mind at all.

If tonight, as I skip though town, my dress and I manage to bait us a boy then yey!

But if it does not, my dress and I will be utterly fine welcoming the weekend, just the 2 of us.

Besides, the less people there are, the less need there is to share my vodka.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Babies and Baby Fat

*picture from

In the course of two days, I have fallen deeply and madly in love.
His name is Vincent and he can never be mine. I know he will leave me and that his affection for me will never equal the affection he feels for the woman who left him. He is going to hurt me but it doesn't matter - I love him. And there is nothing you can say that can change it.
I love love love my little 1-year-old boy.

Vincent is our family's foster child. My mom and dad agreed to help him out while complicated and confidential things about his parents are sorted out. We know that the chance he will grow up with us is slim but it is next to impossible not to get to attached to this amazing boy.

He has made my arm muscles sore from all the carrying but I do not mind. Lord knows my body needs the exercise.

My mom has gently been trying to tell me I need to lose some weight. And although that usually drives me nuts, she's so right that there's no room to be offended. The past few months have seen me growing bigger. Thing is, I know I'm fat but can't seem to bring myself to care. Which says great things about my confidence level but bodes very badly for my vital stats.

I think my ladida-ness may be because there's no one I want to impress. I have bowed out of the dating scene a few months ago and am not really in the hurry to go find a boy I can seduce with a Red Light Special striptease - hence the lack of pressure to be Red Light presentable. (I still have cute underwear though. :P clothes are clothes and they should always be cute.)

However, I do need new shorts. I have spent the week trying some on and have so far found 3 pairs I really love but can't wriggle into despite grabbing the largest available size. And boys or no boys, I think it is sad that my legs have to be trapped in jeans just because I don't fit into shorts.

This is the part where I grudgingly admit that diet and exercise have got to make a reappearance. Vincent being my step one to having amazing new arms.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Achingly Ordinary

Break ups are ordinary.

In the past six months alone, you'd probably need more than one hand to count all the broken hearts you've needed to mend with vodka and would probably need a Great-Wall-of-China- sized abacus to count all the used Kleenex you had to help throw away.

You'd expect that we'd be so used to break ups by now that we wouldn't even mind it that much. That the whole process would take no longer than this:

"Oh, you're leaving? Ah, yes of course it is you and it isn't me. I know, I know. Yes, run along now, I have to call (name of best gal pal) and ask her to buy me (brand of vodka). Oh! And can you return my (insert valuable item here) tomorrow? And would you mind if I kept your (insert ex's items here)? What about the (insert gift you've given him in the past)? Oh, just burn them. Sure, thanks. Have a nice life, fucker."

We could print those lines on an index card and just fill it up and hand it over the next time we are at the receiving end of a dump.

But no matter how ordinary it is, how terribly usual and predictable, we still seem to be so shocked by the whole thing. The first thought in our heads is usually "How could this be happening?" despite knowing that, statistically, it was bound to have happened.

My very first relationship lasted for 7 years. I thought we'd go the way my parents did and beat the odds. (My parents are freaks of nature who fell in love in high school and never broke up. ) When he finally broke up with me, I was devastated.

And at the moment, it didn't seem to matter how many rescue-missions I've staged for girl friends who were wallowing in self-pity and Boys 2 Men CDs, it didn't matter how many blind dates I've helped set-up, it didn't seem to matter the mountains of consolations I kept in my head, it didn't seem to matter that I had a wealth of experience nursing back other people's hearts...I found myself still at a loss with what to do with my own.

Break ups are ordinary. The pain they bring, not so much.

photo above from:

Monday, June 29, 2009

Just Another M-alcoholic Monday

Forgive trhe blunders, sloshing in my system is 37% alcohol. Is that how it works? Do you add up the percentages contained in all the alcohol you drank to ascertain just how much alcohol you have? I digress.

It's a Monday. And yes it was Manic. Projects were losing steam left and right and steam had to be blown back into them. And I didn't know if I was doing a good job of that as I was lost in my own lack of steam. (If you don't know me, let me admit that I get caught up with my own diva-problems a lot as I tend to swim in a world created in my head - thus this blog.) So, despite my efforts to be peppey and cheerful and as perky as my yellow hoodie, I don't know if I was actually doing my team any service. Thankfully though, The Boss stepped in and his steam propelled what I could not. Then taking pity on me, (because I stood there unprofessionally pouting) The Boss gave me permission to hang around his office for a bit.

And that's when the party started.

See, the nice thing about The Boss is that he is one of the coolest male species I have ever met. He (along with my dad) should be the rulers by which I should measure "date-ables" against. (And yea, quote me on that.) And being part of the cool psecies, he had a whole rack of alcohol ready for the taking. And take them I did.

Glass upon glass, shot upon shot I drank - until I found myself dancing in a cubicle full of bemused co-workers. Soon, all the girls in yellow joined in. And we looked like some sort of deranged chorus line. A Yellow Cabaret composed of the uncoordinated. IT WAS FUN. We were partying like it was 1998, Halls-like Limoncellos (yellow as we were) , dripping down our frocks as we marched, twirled, and Tubthumpped away.

And as I type this, I can still feel the burning in my chest. And I know. I just fucking know that I deserve this happiness.


Saturday, June 27, 2009

I Blame Tina Arena (and 90s pop in general)

I blame them ...

for turning me into the spineless googly-eyed anything-for-love female I am today.

They formed me. Their lyrics burning into my 12-year-old brain so deeply that I can still recite the lyrics of their propaganda with feelings. (And sometimes replete with actions :P)

"But EVERYONE has been stupid for love", you say, patting me consolingly on the head. That may be true. But I think when your dating life can be summed up by songs similar to those cited above, then the stupidity has reached levels of low Satan hasn't even discovered yet.

Cases in point:

1. It's your birthday. You've just come home after several days of being out-of-town. You have just been robbed of nearly 1000 US dollars. Your boyfriend of nearly a decade not only fails to buy you a gift or a card but proceeds to shout at you because HE forgot to cook you dinner.
You try to appease him (yes, you read that right) and tell him dinner is not as important as his company, he calms down for two minutes then starts yelling again.

What do you do?
a) Leave. For good.
b) Slap him across the face then piledrive him to kingdom come.
c) Hear Tina Arena croon: "If I didn't love you, if I didn't love you like crazy,
if I
didn't love you baby as much as I do, I would walk out that door...if I
love you." as you hug him and comfort him and ask him to calm down.

Guess what my answer was.

2. A guy you were set up with finally asks you out after one month of vague texts. On the night of your date, he texts that he'll meet you "8-ish". You know that isn't an actual time but decide to let it slip since he's a friend of a friend (mistake number 1). Cut to 9:00pm and Mr. 8-ish is still "on the road." Note that you do not even have a smidgen of a crush on this guy, so what do you do?

a) Stop replying and call your gfs. The night is young.
b) SMS him that you're leaving then wait for him to call and grovel.
c) Just wait. For another half-hour.

Again, guess which letter I encircled?

3. After 2 weeks of dating you, a guy claims to want to be with you for the long haul. He makes all these speeches that ultimately convince you that it's time to take him seriously. So you do. And after 12 days, he dumps you. More specifically, a day after he introduces you to his friends, he dumps you. Citing reasons such as: "We're too happy that I am unhappy." "My heart's not into it." and "I am damaged goods." A week after this flumoxxing break-up you hear rumors that he's back with his married geriatric ex. You message him online and ask if it's true, he answers you a curt "no" and never signs on again.

Do I even need to post a multiple choice query?

I should sue Tina Arena.