SCROOGED
I received this short and sweet Christmas greeting from "cleng", a.k.a. Cleo Barawid of Sapporo, Japan on Christmas Day, no less:
"...i wonder what your motive is for posting this here, after all it happened to you long time ago. are you still bitter about it? and there are two sides to every story, right? i just think that it's kinda superficial to attack a person's physical appearance. are you pretty? 'coz from your pix i could see that you are on the heavy side. merry xmas."
I guess my previous post, "NEMESIS", touched a nerve. I am now sharing my response to her comment with all of you, in true Christmas spirit. After all, "'Tis the season for sharing!"
"Dear "cleng", a.k.a. Cleo Barawid of Sapporo, Japan:
Obviously, you chose to ignore the WARNING disclaimer I posted at the beginning of my article, where I clearly stated my motive for writing this piece.
Nevertheless, catharsis has already taken place, and all is well in my world again, so I won't even bother to waste my time asking you where I "attacked" anyone's physical appearance.
I hardly think the words "female", "short", "dusky", "flat-chested", "buck-toothed", and "administrative assistant" are offensive. Descriptive, maybe, but not derogatory. If you happen to think otherwise, then I think you're the one who has issues here, not me.
You obviously think that one cannot be considered "pretty" if one is "on the heavy side". Don't you think THAT reeks of superficiality as well? Shame on you.
I can only guess that you took it upon yourself to attack MY personal appearance, on behalf of all the beleaguered short, dusky, flat-chested, buck-toothed, female administrative assistants out there. How very noble of you to champion their cause.
But just so you know, I also have a lot of friends who happen to be female, short, dusky, flat-chested, buck-toothed, AND administrative assistants. The only difference here is that none of them has ever tried to steal my husband.
Which brings me back to the whole point of the article, which you quite obviously missed. Self-righteous indignation sometimes does this to people.
Assuming you meant it, Merry Belated Christmas to you too."
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
NEMESIS
(WARNING: With this article, I am exorcising demons (demonesses?) from my past. If you happen to be an administrative assistant, female, short, dusky, flat-chested, buck-toothed, or any combination of the above, please do NOT take offense. I had some very definite people in mind when I wrote this, and chances are, they do not include you.)
Beware the short, dusky, flat-chested Administrative Assistant. And if she happens to have bucked teeth, run for the hills with your boyfriend in tow.
Twice in my life, I have been cheated upon, with older women sporting prominent overbites, straight from the Nora Aunor cookie-cutter, playing the much-despised role of The Other Woman.
The first time it happened to me, I didn't know what was coming. A single phone call in the middle of the night and I was broadsided with information overload that made me regret taking the call in the first place.
I knew her voice right away. She with the trying-hard English. This woman was the sort of receptionist who said "Hold on please", the "please" here pronounced "plehs". It made me shudder to hear her butcher this common phrase.
I honestly wondered what my boyfriend saw in her, although I had no doubt what she saw in HIM. After all, he was this Spanish-speaking cono-kid from La Salle who lived in SanLo, his family owning two more homes, in Dasma and Ayala Alabang no less, which they rented out to foreign diplomats. Yes, they had money.
She proceeded to tell me to "let go of A. because his girlfriend was pregnant". I thought she was out of her mind. After all, to the best of my knowledge, I was still A.'s girlfriend, and I sure as heck wasn't pregnant!
And then the sordid reality of her message hit home and my world crashed all around me.
I called up my boyfriend and broke up with him. And then I called my best friend, Coco Quisumbing, who came straight from her late-evening newscast to pick me up, ferry me over to her nearby flat, make me tea, ply me with tissues, and let me cry all over her designer jacket sponsored by ShoeMart.
Of course, when I broke up with "A.", he quickly ended his relationship with her, and proceeded to ask me back.
As for the baby? Well, Ms. Receptionist mysteriously had a "miscarriage" after that was over. I honestly doubt there was a baby in the first place. Yes, some women will stoop this low to get what they want.
Unfortunately, this pattern was repeated in subsequent relationships of mine, with Caucasian men who had dalliances behind my back with the La Aunor type. I guess, just like my former tisoy boyfriend, they also equated "short, dark and homely" with "exotic".
Since then, I have sworn off relationships with men whose skin was fairer than my own. There were simply far too many women out there who were shorter, darker, had flatter chests and no orthodontists, and who could therefore be considered more "exotic" than me.
It was my present husband who broke the mold. Lorenzo happens to be darkly handsome, sporting a rosy moreno hue which I find so sexy. And the best part of it all? He loves the fact that I am maputi.
We all have our nemeses. Mine is the short, dusky, flat chested older woman from Administration.
Bucked teeth optional.
(WARNING: With this article, I am exorcising demons (demonesses?) from my past. If you happen to be an administrative assistant, female, short, dusky, flat-chested, buck-toothed, or any combination of the above, please do NOT take offense. I had some very definite people in mind when I wrote this, and chances are, they do not include you.)
Beware the short, dusky, flat-chested Administrative Assistant. And if she happens to have bucked teeth, run for the hills with your boyfriend in tow.
Twice in my life, I have been cheated upon, with older women sporting prominent overbites, straight from the Nora Aunor cookie-cutter, playing the much-despised role of The Other Woman.
The first time it happened to me, I didn't know what was coming. A single phone call in the middle of the night and I was broadsided with information overload that made me regret taking the call in the first place.
I knew her voice right away. She with the trying-hard English. This woman was the sort of receptionist who said "Hold on please", the "please" here pronounced "plehs". It made me shudder to hear her butcher this common phrase.
I honestly wondered what my boyfriend saw in her, although I had no doubt what she saw in HIM. After all, he was this Spanish-speaking cono-kid from La Salle who lived in SanLo, his family owning two more homes, in Dasma and Ayala Alabang no less, which they rented out to foreign diplomats. Yes, they had money.
She proceeded to tell me to "let go of A. because his girlfriend was pregnant". I thought she was out of her mind. After all, to the best of my knowledge, I was still A.'s girlfriend, and I sure as heck wasn't pregnant!
And then the sordid reality of her message hit home and my world crashed all around me.
I called up my boyfriend and broke up with him. And then I called my best friend, Coco Quisumbing, who came straight from her late-evening newscast to pick me up, ferry me over to her nearby flat, make me tea, ply me with tissues, and let me cry all over her designer jacket sponsored by ShoeMart.
Of course, when I broke up with "A.", he quickly ended his relationship with her, and proceeded to ask me back.
As for the baby? Well, Ms. Receptionist mysteriously had a "miscarriage" after that was over. I honestly doubt there was a baby in the first place. Yes, some women will stoop this low to get what they want.
Unfortunately, this pattern was repeated in subsequent relationships of mine, with Caucasian men who had dalliances behind my back with the La Aunor type. I guess, just like my former tisoy boyfriend, they also equated "short, dark and homely" with "exotic".
Since then, I have sworn off relationships with men whose skin was fairer than my own. There were simply far too many women out there who were shorter, darker, had flatter chests and no orthodontists, and who could therefore be considered more "exotic" than me.
It was my present husband who broke the mold. Lorenzo happens to be darkly handsome, sporting a rosy moreno hue which I find so sexy. And the best part of it all? He loves the fact that I am maputi.
We all have our nemeses. Mine is the short, dusky, flat chested older woman from Administration.
Bucked teeth optional.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
SUNSHINE
Sunshine
in my eyes
can make me cry...
--John Denver
It was supposed to be a happy day.
After all, it was Lorenzo's first day of work for a multinational company recognized the world over.
But on that morning, I received an ominous call from my mother-in-law. Her older sister, whom we fondly called "T'ya 'Wanag" was in the hospital, and Nanay feared she wouldn't linger on for much longer.
I had always been fond of T'ya Liwanag. She and her younger sister, my husband's Mom, Ginhawa, shared nationalistic names with the rest of their siblings, Bayani, Maghirang, Ligaya and Mahinhin.
But her daughter's mother-in-law, who lives in Oregon, had such a hard time pronouncing her name that she decided to call her "Sunshine".
I received the news with surprise and sadness. I didn't even know that Lorenzo's aunt was in the hospital. Her health had been failing for the last couple of years but she always managed to bounce back. In fact, she had become such a fixture in my in-law's home that I couldn't imagine going there without seeing her familiar figure seated around the dining table.
I told my mother-in-law that we would try to get there as soon as we could, but I knew it would be difficult. With the kids off to school and Lorenzo at work, I knew it would be hours before we could even make it to San Jose, a two-hour drive from Modesto. Judging from Nanay's tone of voice, I honestly didn't think we would be able to reach the hospital in time to say goodbye.
Sure enough, we got the call at around two-thirty that afternoon. T'ya Liwanag had passed on.
I was genuinely saddened to hear this. She was a lovely person with a big, kind heart. I could still remember her, still bald from chemotherapy, fussing over us during a visit to their household, serving us food and making sure my family was comfortable when she should've been resting. We were just there to drop off an invitation but she insisted on feeding us, and wouldn't take "no" for an answer. This was quintessentially T'ya 'Wanag.
I will miss hearing her play the piano. I will miss sitting on her left at the mahjong table. I will miss her sweet, savory spaghetti with the carrots and pickle relish which I have tried duplicating but could never succeed at, no matter how many times she'd given me the recipe. But most of all, I will miss seeing her smile indulgently at my children, whom she always lavished with praise. Too bad I never got to tell her how much her kind words warmed my heart.
Last weekend, we stayed over at the Bay Area for the viewing. It's been a while since I'd seen the whole family together. The last time we had a comparable turnout was for my nephew's wedding a year ago.
It was good to see everyone again, rallying around each other as we sent off one of our own to that place beyond, where she could wait for us at the other end of the divide, free of disease and pain.
During the memorial service, I watched the kids while Lorenzo and other family members took their turns in front, sharing special memories they had of their Aunt and Mother. And after all was said, everyone congregated around her, as if drawn together by invisible arms, surrounding her in a tight semi-circle for one last cry.
As we surrendered to our emotions, feeding off everyone's collective grief, it was both cathartic and uplifting at the same time. You could literally feel the air clear as emotions were slowly spent, like the sun shining tentatively after the storm clouds have dissipated.
And then the people retreated to their own little groups, hugging and comforting each other, forgiving past mistakes, forgetting petty squabbles...
...and rebuilding bridges.
Just as she would've wanted it to be.
(NOTE: Just a few days after T'ya Liwanag passed away, T'yong Boy, her last surviving brother, also succumbed to a lengthy illness in the Philippines.
I would also like to remember my Daddy, who celebrated his sixth death anniversary on October 18th. I had been reminding myself about the date a few days before the 18th, but when the day actually came, I totally forgot about it.
Perhaps this was the way he wanted it.
I love you, Daddy, and I still miss you so much. R.)
(PLUGGING: "Color My World", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Sunshine
in my eyes
can make me cry...
--John Denver
It was supposed to be a happy day.
After all, it was Lorenzo's first day of work for a multinational company recognized the world over.
But on that morning, I received an ominous call from my mother-in-law. Her older sister, whom we fondly called "T'ya 'Wanag" was in the hospital, and Nanay feared she wouldn't linger on for much longer.
I had always been fond of T'ya Liwanag. She and her younger sister, my husband's Mom, Ginhawa, shared nationalistic names with the rest of their siblings, Bayani, Maghirang, Ligaya and Mahinhin.But her daughter's mother-in-law, who lives in Oregon, had such a hard time pronouncing her name that she decided to call her "Sunshine".
I received the news with surprise and sadness. I didn't even know that Lorenzo's aunt was in the hospital. Her health had been failing for the last couple of years but she always managed to bounce back. In fact, she had become such a fixture in my in-law's home that I couldn't imagine going there without seeing her familiar figure seated around the dining table.
I told my mother-in-law that we would try to get there as soon as we could, but I knew it would be difficult. With the kids off to school and Lorenzo at work, I knew it would be hours before we could even make it to San Jose, a two-hour drive from Modesto. Judging from Nanay's tone of voice, I honestly didn't think we would be able to reach the hospital in time to say goodbye.
Sure enough, we got the call at around two-thirty that afternoon. T'ya Liwanag had passed on.
I was genuinely saddened to hear this. She was a lovely person with a big, kind heart. I could still remember her, still bald from chemotherapy, fussing over us during a visit to their household, serving us food and making sure my family was comfortable when she should've been resting. We were just there to drop off an invitation but she insisted on feeding us, and wouldn't take "no" for an answer. This was quintessentially T'ya 'Wanag.
I will miss hearing her play the piano. I will miss sitting on her left at the mahjong table. I will miss her sweet, savory spaghetti with the carrots and pickle relish which I have tried duplicating but could never succeed at, no matter how many times she'd given me the recipe. But most of all, I will miss seeing her smile indulgently at my children, whom she always lavished with praise. Too bad I never got to tell her how much her kind words warmed my heart.
Last weekend, we stayed over at the Bay Area for the viewing. It's been a while since I'd seen the whole family together. The last time we had a comparable turnout was for my nephew's wedding a year ago.
It was good to see everyone again, rallying around each other as we sent off one of our own to that place beyond, where she could wait for us at the other end of the divide, free of disease and pain.
During the memorial service, I watched the kids while Lorenzo and other family members took their turns in front, sharing special memories they had of their Aunt and Mother. And after all was said, everyone congregated around her, as if drawn together by invisible arms, surrounding her in a tight semi-circle for one last cry.
As we surrendered to our emotions, feeding off everyone's collective grief, it was both cathartic and uplifting at the same time. You could literally feel the air clear as emotions were slowly spent, like the sun shining tentatively after the storm clouds have dissipated.
And then the people retreated to their own little groups, hugging and comforting each other, forgiving past mistakes, forgetting petty squabbles...
...and rebuilding bridges.
Just as she would've wanted it to be.
(NOTE: Just a few days after T'ya Liwanag passed away, T'yong Boy, her last surviving brother, also succumbed to a lengthy illness in the Philippines.
I would also like to remember my Daddy, who celebrated his sixth death anniversary on October 18th. I had been reminding myself about the date a few days before the 18th, but when the day actually came, I totally forgot about it.
Perhaps this was the way he wanted it.
I love you, Daddy, and I still miss you so much. R.)
(PLUGGING: "Color My World", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
PAYING IT FORWARD
He was very dear to me, and he was sick.
Nobody knew what it was. Even the doctors at the U.P. Infirmary were baffled.
He thought it might've been an insect bite. Whatever it was, the skin on his leg was getting worse. The doctors suggested it might be cellulitis, and sent him to St. Luke's Medical Center for further tests.
He ended up staying for about a week. I visited him as often as I could.
His wife was at his side for the duration of his confinement, missing work at the U.P. Islamic Center. This didn't come as a surprise. She was particularly devoted to him.
I could see that she loved him very much. I honestly thought she was one of the best things that ever happened to him. She was kind and gentle and very patient. And she took very good care of him.
I visited him on his last day at the hospital. He was in good spirits, happy to be going home again. I could see the relief in his wife's face as well.
I secretly wondered how much this hospital stay was costing them. I knew it must have been a considerable sum. St. Luke's was one of the best and most modern hospitals in the Philippines, and it certainly didn't come cheap.
Yet they weren't rich. Both of them worked for a living because they had to.
I knew they must be scrambling for any means to help pay the bill, but they never once brought up the subject of money to me. I also knew that of all the people in their inner circle, I was in a better position than most to be of any help.
I gently asked how much money was owed. She gave me a nervous smile, almost reluctantly admitting they were fifty thousand short.
I went out of the room to make a phone call. And then I wrote St. Luke's Medical Center a check for fifty thousand pesos. It wasn't a debt, it was a gift.
She smiled her shy smile and held me close, her voice breaking as she thanked me.
I could see he was touched too, and that was enough for me.
Six years later, I was the one in dire straits.
My husband had just lost his job. We were relying on our savings to tide us over, and they were dangerously getting depleted.
But despite our financial worries, we were still rich in love and blessings. Indeed, during our darkest moments, The Lord would always help us clear the hurdles somehow.
And then two people very dear to us came to visit. We sorely missed the presence of another to make us complete, but she was unable to make it from the Philippines.
Nevertheless, she sent some money over, not just to my kids (who were her godchildren), but to me as well.
And when the others told her of my financial situation, she went ahead and sent me a thousand dollars more. Just like that. I was touched at her kindness.
I never asked her for money. I don't even remember mentioning any of my problems to her when we spoke on the phone.
The irony of it all didn't escape me. While most of my kababayans sent money back to their families in the Philippines, here I was, one of the few exceptions where the opposite was true.
I could only see it as a gift from The Lord. And she was the vessel He used to deliver it.
Just like He chose to use me on that day, more than six years back.
(To YOU...you know who you are...thank you so much for your kind and selfless gesture, which meant so much to me and my family. And to YOU, who helped, using your own money to send it via Western Union, our sincerest thanks as well.
I love you guys so much. R.)
He was very dear to me, and he was sick.
Nobody knew what it was. Even the doctors at the U.P. Infirmary were baffled.
He thought it might've been an insect bite. Whatever it was, the skin on his leg was getting worse. The doctors suggested it might be cellulitis, and sent him to St. Luke's Medical Center for further tests.
He ended up staying for about a week. I visited him as often as I could.
His wife was at his side for the duration of his confinement, missing work at the U.P. Islamic Center. This didn't come as a surprise. She was particularly devoted to him.
I could see that she loved him very much. I honestly thought she was one of the best things that ever happened to him. She was kind and gentle and very patient. And she took very good care of him.
I visited him on his last day at the hospital. He was in good spirits, happy to be going home again. I could see the relief in his wife's face as well.
I secretly wondered how much this hospital stay was costing them. I knew it must have been a considerable sum. St. Luke's was one of the best and most modern hospitals in the Philippines, and it certainly didn't come cheap.
Yet they weren't rich. Both of them worked for a living because they had to.
I knew they must be scrambling for any means to help pay the bill, but they never once brought up the subject of money to me. I also knew that of all the people in their inner circle, I was in a better position than most to be of any help.
I gently asked how much money was owed. She gave me a nervous smile, almost reluctantly admitting they were fifty thousand short.
I went out of the room to make a phone call. And then I wrote St. Luke's Medical Center a check for fifty thousand pesos. It wasn't a debt, it was a gift.
She smiled her shy smile and held me close, her voice breaking as she thanked me.
I could see he was touched too, and that was enough for me.
Six years later, I was the one in dire straits.
My husband had just lost his job. We were relying on our savings to tide us over, and they were dangerously getting depleted.
But despite our financial worries, we were still rich in love and blessings. Indeed, during our darkest moments, The Lord would always help us clear the hurdles somehow.
And then two people very dear to us came to visit. We sorely missed the presence of another to make us complete, but she was unable to make it from the Philippines.
Nevertheless, she sent some money over, not just to my kids (who were her godchildren), but to me as well.
And when the others told her of my financial situation, she went ahead and sent me a thousand dollars more. Just like that. I was touched at her kindness.
I never asked her for money. I don't even remember mentioning any of my problems to her when we spoke on the phone.
The irony of it all didn't escape me. While most of my kababayans sent money back to their families in the Philippines, here I was, one of the few exceptions where the opposite was true.
I could only see it as a gift from The Lord. And she was the vessel He used to deliver it.
Just like He chose to use me on that day, more than six years back.
(To YOU...you know who you are...thank you so much for your kind and selfless gesture, which meant so much to me and my family. And to YOU, who helped, using your own money to send it via Western Union, our sincerest thanks as well.
I love you guys so much. R.)
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
A.S. STEPS
Home: 87 Gentle Street
(Note: "A.S." refers to the U.P. College of Arts and Sciences in Diliman, which used to be housed in Palma Hall alone until it was split into three different colleges, the College of Science, The College of Fine Arts, and the College of Social Sciences and Philosophy, which Palma Hall came to be known as.)
You all know her.
The Girl We Love To Hate. Not because she's skinny and gorgeous and her Daddy's rich, but because she was everything we ever hated when we were in school: sinungaling, chismosa, intriguera, sumbungera (later known as chu-chu) and iyakin.
To those of you who don't understand Tagalog, those words roughly meant "liar", "malicious gossip", "tattletale" and "crybaby". Not a charming combination any way you look at it.
I have had the misfortune of knowing a few of these girls. I'm even related to some of them by affinity. Believe me, they don't get better with age.
These girls are always crying for attention. And if you don't give it to them, they try tugging at your heartstrings by feigning illness. I once had a neighbor who mysteriously turned epileptic overnight. What was more mysterious about it was the fact that she would only get her "seizures" when the neighborhood girls were around. We were all alarmed at first, but it didn't take long for the savvier ones to see through the act.
One day, she decided to put on a show again, pretending to have convulsions. All of us who were around were used to the display by now, and no one batted an eyelash. She decided to up the ante and began to cry and drool at the same time. It was really getting to be quite annoying, but we just rolled our eyes behind her back and continued to ignore her.
Finally, she couldn't stand it much longer. She jerked and shuddered her way to one of our friends, gasping a tearful request: "Ging, sampalin mo ako!"
My friend gladly obliged. More than once.
I don't know if hypochondria is a feature of this personality disorder, better known as "KSP", or "Kulang Sa Pansin", but it certainly fits the profile.
I once had a classmate in High School who claimed she had rheumatic heart disease. She mysteriously forgot about her serious malady whenever it was time to play volleyball, but since this was the same person who boasted she had a swimming pool inside her house, nobody really took her seriously.
I didn't let her bother me, even when she stole my former best friend away from me. I honestly wondered what my friend, who was pretty and popular, saw in her, but I just rationalized it as taking a less fortunate soul under one's wing. much like Jane Austen's "Emma", or her modern version, Alicia Silverstone's Cher in "Clueless".
But when this same person had the effrontery to suggest to my friends that my boyfriend at the time was courting her, it was the final insult. I never spoke to her again.
Fast forward two years. I was now a college freshman at U.P. Diliman, with new friends and a brand new boyfriend who happened to be picking me up after my last class for the week. As I waited for him patiently at the A.S. Steps, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find my former best friend, whom I will refer to as "Emma". I was delighted to see her. The roots of our close friendship hailed back to elementary school, and I honestly missed her company.
After a few minutes of catching up, I invited her to sit down with me, telling her I'd introduce her to my cute LaSallista boyfriend when he came. To my dismay, she declined, telling me "Miss Smith" was waiting for her, motioning to a now-familiar figure, sitting a few steps in front of me.
Oh well. It wasn't long before my boyfriend drove up anyway. I can still remember my heart quickening when I saw the familiar Toyota Starlet parking in front of us. He climbed out of the driver's seat, scanning the steps, wearing the Goggle T-shirt I had just given him for our monthly anniversary. When he saw me, a smile lit up his face and he ran up the steps to meet me, greeting me with a huge kiss before leading me back to the car.
I fairly floated down those steps, catching a glimpse of the faces of my friend and Miss Rheumatic Heart, their looks of surprise barely registering in the kilig-induced haze before my knight drove me away into the sunset.
After the weekend, I saw my friend again and she had this story to tell:
Apparently, she and Miss RH were talking on the steps when they noticed this cute Toyota Starlet pull up with an even cuter mestizo driving it. Miss RH nudged her when he alighted, muttering "uy, cute" under her breath. They kept their eyes on him as he walked past, following his progress as he climbed the A.S. Steps, all the way up to...
me!
Miss RH quickly turned away as he planted his lips on mine. But I knew she saw it, and that was enough for me. I had my pound of flesh.
I'd like to see her allege this boyfriend was secretly courting her too!
Ahhh...revenge is sweet.
(PLUGGING: "Baby Steps", the latest in "The Prada Mama Chronicles".)
Home: 87 Gentle Street
(Note: "A.S." refers to the U.P. College of Arts and Sciences in Diliman, which used to be housed in Palma Hall alone until it was split into three different colleges, the College of Science, The College of Fine Arts, and the College of Social Sciences and Philosophy, which Palma Hall came to be known as.)
You all know her.
The Girl We Love To Hate. Not because she's skinny and gorgeous and her Daddy's rich, but because she was everything we ever hated when we were in school: sinungaling, chismosa, intriguera, sumbungera (later known as chu-chu) and iyakin.
To those of you who don't understand Tagalog, those words roughly meant "liar", "malicious gossip", "tattletale" and "crybaby". Not a charming combination any way you look at it.
I have had the misfortune of knowing a few of these girls. I'm even related to some of them by affinity. Believe me, they don't get better with age.
These girls are always crying for attention. And if you don't give it to them, they try tugging at your heartstrings by feigning illness. I once had a neighbor who mysteriously turned epileptic overnight. What was more mysterious about it was the fact that she would only get her "seizures" when the neighborhood girls were around. We were all alarmed at first, but it didn't take long for the savvier ones to see through the act.
One day, she decided to put on a show again, pretending to have convulsions. All of us who were around were used to the display by now, and no one batted an eyelash. She decided to up the ante and began to cry and drool at the same time. It was really getting to be quite annoying, but we just rolled our eyes behind her back and continued to ignore her.
Finally, she couldn't stand it much longer. She jerked and shuddered her way to one of our friends, gasping a tearful request: "Ging, sampalin mo ako!"
My friend gladly obliged. More than once.
I don't know if hypochondria is a feature of this personality disorder, better known as "KSP", or "Kulang Sa Pansin", but it certainly fits the profile.
I once had a classmate in High School who claimed she had rheumatic heart disease. She mysteriously forgot about her serious malady whenever it was time to play volleyball, but since this was the same person who boasted she had a swimming pool inside her house, nobody really took her seriously.
I didn't let her bother me, even when she stole my former best friend away from me. I honestly wondered what my friend, who was pretty and popular, saw in her, but I just rationalized it as taking a less fortunate soul under one's wing. much like Jane Austen's "Emma", or her modern version, Alicia Silverstone's Cher in "Clueless".
But when this same person had the effrontery to suggest to my friends that my boyfriend at the time was courting her, it was the final insult. I never spoke to her again.
Fast forward two years. I was now a college freshman at U.P. Diliman, with new friends and a brand new boyfriend who happened to be picking me up after my last class for the week. As I waited for him patiently at the A.S. Steps, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find my former best friend, whom I will refer to as "Emma". I was delighted to see her. The roots of our close friendship hailed back to elementary school, and I honestly missed her company.
After a few minutes of catching up, I invited her to sit down with me, telling her I'd introduce her to my cute LaSallista boyfriend when he came. To my dismay, she declined, telling me "Miss Smith" was waiting for her, motioning to a now-familiar figure, sitting a few steps in front of me.
Oh well. It wasn't long before my boyfriend drove up anyway. I can still remember my heart quickening when I saw the familiar Toyota Starlet parking in front of us. He climbed out of the driver's seat, scanning the steps, wearing the Goggle T-shirt I had just given him for our monthly anniversary. When he saw me, a smile lit up his face and he ran up the steps to meet me, greeting me with a huge kiss before leading me back to the car.
I fairly floated down those steps, catching a glimpse of the faces of my friend and Miss Rheumatic Heart, their looks of surprise barely registering in the kilig-induced haze before my knight drove me away into the sunset.
After the weekend, I saw my friend again and she had this story to tell:
Apparently, she and Miss RH were talking on the steps when they noticed this cute Toyota Starlet pull up with an even cuter mestizo driving it. Miss RH nudged her when he alighted, muttering "uy, cute" under her breath. They kept their eyes on him as he walked past, following his progress as he climbed the A.S. Steps, all the way up to...
me!
Miss RH quickly turned away as he planted his lips on mine. But I knew she saw it, and that was enough for me. I had my pound of flesh.
I'd like to see her allege this boyfriend was secretly courting her too!
Ahhh...revenge is sweet.
(PLUGGING: "Baby Steps", the latest in "The Prada Mama Chronicles".)
Saturday, August 13, 2005
WHISTLE STOP
A Birthday Story
Home: Marbella 2, MALATE
It was going to be a surprise.
For the past few days, I had been calling our friends, all of whom were in cahoots with me, enlisting their help so I could pull it off without a hitch. I was also in touch with Whistle Stop, choosing our favorite items from their faxed menu and finalizing arrangements for Lorenzo's surprise 29th birthday party.
Venue was at the Thai Room, the glassed-off function room off the entryway at the Whistle Stop in Makati. Whistle Stop was a favorite haunt of ours after hours. I would only order one thing from the menu, their Chicken in Hot Pepper Sauce. Lorenzo, on the other hand, was more adventurous with his main courses, but he was a staunch loyalist when it came to dessert. It had to be halu-halo. Nothing else would do.
The concept was that of salubong, literally welcoming his birthday as it arrived. This meant that I had to assemble our nearest and dearest at an unforsaken hour so they could wait for us to arrive, just before midnight, and spring their surprise at my unsuspecting boyfriend. Good thing most of our friends were also night-owls like us.
On the day of the event, I rushed to Kink Cakes after my six o'clock newscast to pick up the bodybuilder cake I ordered specially for the occasion. Then we headed to Makati so I could check on the venue. Dal Lagdameo-Pedero, wife of my former boss, Mike Pedero, was already there, stringing balloons all over the Thai Room. Another friend, Hazel Serrano, would take care of the decor and the party hats, so that was two less things to worry about.
I also brought the souvenirs we finished earlier, tiny cork-stoppered glass vials filled with multi-colored tic-tacs, covered in tulle, and tied in place with satin ribbons. We were working furtively on those that morning, telling Lorenzo it was for someone's wedding, when he offered to help. I quickly told him we were done, hiding the bottles, sporting LARGE Robee stickers announcing his nickname, "Jojo", from view.
After arranging the souvenirs on the tables and entrusting my cake to the staff, I went over the final details before rushing back home, trying to slow down my heart rate so my appearance would take on a semblance of normalcy by the time I arrived. Lorenzo was waiting for me, wondering why I took so long. I muttered something about traffic and hoped my acting was convincing enough to fool him.
All throughout dinner I was racking my brain, trying to figure out how to get him out of the house at 11:30 PM on a week night. I had my job cut out for me. He seemed to be perfectly happy to just stay at home, ready to turn in after dinner, expecting me to follow suit. When he started giving me a foot massage, I had to resort to desperate measures, literally jumping out of the bed and asking him if he wanted to go out.
It took some convincing on my part, but he finally agreed, albeit reluctantly. We dressed up in similar outfits while I purportedly sent Belen, our alalay home. In truth, she was the advance party being ferried to Whistle Stop in great haste, warning the guests of our impending arrival.
When we went down the elevator to meet our driver, I nonchalantly asked him where he wanted to go. Ironically, his answer was "Whistle Stop". Of course by then, there weren't too many places that were open anymore, but I was nevertheless relieved that I didn't have to work too hard on that one!
When we got to Whistle Stop, I saw that the lights at the Thai Room were off. So far so good.
We ventured into the restaurant, where I noticed my friend, Sonny Antonio, drinking coffee in one of the tables. Sonny was one of the people I had invited to Lorenzo's party. I started questioning myself if I remembered to tell him it was a surprise.
I headed for the nearest table, hoping Lorenzo wouldn't see Sonny. No such luck. As soon as we were seated, he said, "Isn't that..." and before he could even finish, Sonny saw us and headed for our table. I motioned a warning with my eyes, hoping he wouldn't blow our cover. Sonny, the old pro, didn't.
Next I pretended to cough from all the cigarette smoke, calling a waiter and asking him if he could transfer us to the empty room by the entrance. He was my contact waiter, whom I had already met earlier, so of course he said yes. He led us to the dark, seemingly empty room and paused before opening the door for us...
"Surprise!", yelled all our friends.
The look on Lorenzo's face was priceless. At first, he was startled, taking a half-step back. But when he recognized all of the people there, the realization finally hit him and all he could say was "Oh, Baby...", flashing me the biggest smile ever before he was mobbed by everyone in the room.
After his cheeks were showered with birthday kisses by the women and his hands were squeezed in birthday handshakes by the men, we all sang "Happy Birthday". Then it was time for a speech from the celebrant, who hadn't quite gotten over his surprise yet.
I was touched at the large number of friends I was able to assemble on such short notice. There were over thirty people in the room with us, including his showbiz friends, Nino and Allan Muhlach and Michael Vera-Perez. They even brought Richard Merck with them. Scattered amongst the other tables were Lorenzo's bodybuilding buddies, his modeling contacts, and our other personal friends including Marcy Malonzo, whom I assigned the task of making his birthday board. She did a wonderful job.
I will always be grateful to those people who made it there late that night, many of whom had regular jobs to report to the following morning. Even after the yummy buffet was decimated, they still lingered on, taking pictures and socializing among themselves. It was a lovely evening, and nobody was ready to break the spell just yet.
And then the girls saw Joey Generoso of Side A eating at a table, and they flocked to his side, one by one, chatting him up and asking for autographs. This was the cue for the guys in the party to look slightly revolted and say their goodbyes. By the time our girls left poor Joey alone to his food again, he had heard about the surprise party so many times, he actually greeted Lorenzo "Happy Birthday" when he came to round up the giggling groupies.
After that, it was a matter of paying the bill and making transportation arrangements for everyone in the party. And then we headed home, comforted in the knowledge that we had the best friends in the whole world, still basking in the warm embers of their friendship.
This is dedicated to my husband, Lorenzo, who is turning 36 today. We may be thousands of miles away from Whistle Stop, or the Tivoli Grill and Ratsky (where we celebrated the next day), but, seven years down the road, we aren't thousands of miles away from each other, as people have predicted. And that's the important thing.
Happy Birthday, my love. Here's to many more for us to celebrate, together.
(PLUGGING: "Super Kulit", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
A Birthday Story
Home: Marbella 2, MALATE
It was going to be a surprise.
For the past few days, I had been calling our friends, all of whom were in cahoots with me, enlisting their help so I could pull it off without a hitch. I was also in touch with Whistle Stop, choosing our favorite items from their faxed menu and finalizing arrangements for Lorenzo's surprise 29th birthday party.
Venue was at the Thai Room, the glassed-off function room off the entryway at the Whistle Stop in Makati. Whistle Stop was a favorite haunt of ours after hours. I would only order one thing from the menu, their Chicken in Hot Pepper Sauce. Lorenzo, on the other hand, was more adventurous with his main courses, but he was a staunch loyalist when it came to dessert. It had to be halu-halo. Nothing else would do.
The concept was that of salubong, literally welcoming his birthday as it arrived. This meant that I had to assemble our nearest and dearest at an unforsaken hour so they could wait for us to arrive, just before midnight, and spring their surprise at my unsuspecting boyfriend. Good thing most of our friends were also night-owls like us.
On the day of the event, I rushed to Kink Cakes after my six o'clock newscast to pick up the bodybuilder cake I ordered specially for the occasion. Then we headed to Makati so I could check on the venue. Dal Lagdameo-Pedero, wife of my former boss, Mike Pedero, was already there, stringing balloons all over the Thai Room. Another friend, Hazel Serrano, would take care of the decor and the party hats, so that was two less things to worry about.
I also brought the souvenirs we finished earlier, tiny cork-stoppered glass vials filled with multi-colored tic-tacs, covered in tulle, and tied in place with satin ribbons. We were working furtively on those that morning, telling Lorenzo it was for someone's wedding, when he offered to help. I quickly told him we were done, hiding the bottles, sporting LARGE Robee stickers announcing his nickname, "Jojo", from view.
After arranging the souvenirs on the tables and entrusting my cake to the staff, I went over the final details before rushing back home, trying to slow down my heart rate so my appearance would take on a semblance of normalcy by the time I arrived. Lorenzo was waiting for me, wondering why I took so long. I muttered something about traffic and hoped my acting was convincing enough to fool him.
All throughout dinner I was racking my brain, trying to figure out how to get him out of the house at 11:30 PM on a week night. I had my job cut out for me. He seemed to be perfectly happy to just stay at home, ready to turn in after dinner, expecting me to follow suit. When he started giving me a foot massage, I had to resort to desperate measures, literally jumping out of the bed and asking him if he wanted to go out.
It took some convincing on my part, but he finally agreed, albeit reluctantly. We dressed up in similar outfits while I purportedly sent Belen, our alalay home. In truth, she was the advance party being ferried to Whistle Stop in great haste, warning the guests of our impending arrival.
When we went down the elevator to meet our driver, I nonchalantly asked him where he wanted to go. Ironically, his answer was "Whistle Stop". Of course by then, there weren't too many places that were open anymore, but I was nevertheless relieved that I didn't have to work too hard on that one!
When we got to Whistle Stop, I saw that the lights at the Thai Room were off. So far so good.
We ventured into the restaurant, where I noticed my friend, Sonny Antonio, drinking coffee in one of the tables. Sonny was one of the people I had invited to Lorenzo's party. I started questioning myself if I remembered to tell him it was a surprise.
I headed for the nearest table, hoping Lorenzo wouldn't see Sonny. No such luck. As soon as we were seated, he said, "Isn't that..." and before he could even finish, Sonny saw us and headed for our table. I motioned a warning with my eyes, hoping he wouldn't blow our cover. Sonny, the old pro, didn't.
Next I pretended to cough from all the cigarette smoke, calling a waiter and asking him if he could transfer us to the empty room by the entrance. He was my contact waiter, whom I had already met earlier, so of course he said yes. He led us to the dark, seemingly empty room and paused before opening the door for us...
"Surprise!", yelled all our friends.
The look on Lorenzo's face was priceless. At first, he was startled, taking a half-step back. But when he recognized all of the people there, the realization finally hit him and all he could say was "Oh, Baby...", flashing me the biggest smile ever before he was mobbed by everyone in the room.
After his cheeks were showered with birthday kisses by the women and his hands were squeezed in birthday handshakes by the men, we all sang "Happy Birthday". Then it was time for a speech from the celebrant, who hadn't quite gotten over his surprise yet.
I was touched at the large number of friends I was able to assemble on such short notice. There were over thirty people in the room with us, including his showbiz friends, Nino and Allan Muhlach and Michael Vera-Perez. They even brought Richard Merck with them. Scattered amongst the other tables were Lorenzo's bodybuilding buddies, his modeling contacts, and our other personal friends including Marcy Malonzo, whom I assigned the task of making his birthday board. She did a wonderful job.
I will always be grateful to those people who made it there late that night, many of whom had regular jobs to report to the following morning. Even after the yummy buffet was decimated, they still lingered on, taking pictures and socializing among themselves. It was a lovely evening, and nobody was ready to break the spell just yet.
And then the girls saw Joey Generoso of Side A eating at a table, and they flocked to his side, one by one, chatting him up and asking for autographs. This was the cue for the guys in the party to look slightly revolted and say their goodbyes. By the time our girls left poor Joey alone to his food again, he had heard about the surprise party so many times, he actually greeted Lorenzo "Happy Birthday" when he came to round up the giggling groupies.
After that, it was a matter of paying the bill and making transportation arrangements for everyone in the party. And then we headed home, comforted in the knowledge that we had the best friends in the whole world, still basking in the warm embers of their friendship.
This is dedicated to my husband, Lorenzo, who is turning 36 today. We may be thousands of miles away from Whistle Stop, or the Tivoli Grill and Ratsky (where we celebrated the next day), but, seven years down the road, we aren't thousands of miles away from each other, as people have predicted. And that's the important thing.
Happy Birthday, my love. Here's to many more for us to celebrate, together.
(PLUGGING: "Super Kulit", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
SLIDING DOORS
An Anniversary Story
Home: Traders Hotel, Manila
"Pupunta daw si Allan sa Motions mamaya. May gusto sa 'yong ipakilala."
I was on the phone, talking to my friend, Tetet Dy. "Allan" was Allan Muhlach, the younger brother of her boyfriend at the time, Nino Muhlach.
"Cute ba?", I asked in curiosity.
"Malaki ang katawan" was her enigmatic reply, which said it all.
So it wasn't with great anticipation that I waited for Allan's arrival at Motions, the ballroom dance club I used to frequent at the Centerpoint Hotel in Manila, because my dance instructor, Boyet Hidalgo, worked there.
But in spite of it all, I was still mildly curious, glancing every now and then at the glass door entrance to watch out for the younger Muhlach's arrival. I had the perfect vantage point: the center table, raised on a dais, at the far end of the room. It was the table usually occupied by the hotel's owner, who happened to be elsewhere that night.
Suddenly, I felt Boyet stiffen. "Ayan na sila," he said.
I tried to look as nonchalant as possible, openly disinterested, but inwardly eager to find Allan's face from the crowd of patrons and matrons. I didn't have to exert much effort. All I had to do was follow the wake of craning necks to see the new arrivals.
Boyet's eyes were quicker than mine. "Ay Papa!", I heard him mutter under his breath, just as the crowd parted to let Allan and his friend through. And since I wasn't expecting someone particularly good-looking, I was practically bowled-over by the stranger's darkly handsome good looks, his Armani glasses failing to curb his unmistakeable sex appeal.
He was built like a god too, but I didn't find this out until later.
How much later I will leave you to guess...
At that particular moment however, I was trying my darnedest to look cool and casual while an inner voice screamed...
"Ang gwapooo!"
"Kamukha ni JEREMY IRONS!"
"Kiliiiig!"
On and on it trilled, in a decidedly irritating sing-song manner, voicing thoughts which grew progressively nonsensical by the second.
Believe me, it takes a lot to unleash my inner colegiala, especially since I didn't even know I had one, until it unveiled itself that evening.
But outwardly, I maintained a modicum of reserve, inviting them to join me at my table, the long-ingrained manners kicking in, as if on autopilot.
Poor Boyet was the only hapless witness to my inner distress, which had to outwardly manifest itself in some way or else I would go into meltdown. I pinched my dance instructor so many times that night. He was a good friend. He understood it was all I could do to stop myself from transforming into a simpering idiot.
But he wasn't as forgiving on the dance floor.
Boyet was an excellent instructor, grooming and polishing my ballroom skills for months until he was proud to call me his star pupil.
And indeed, on good days, we were a sight to behold. I was fairly decent at swing, I did a very mean reggae, and he was starting me on the Argentinian tango, where a misplaced kick could do effective damage to the nether regions, so it spoke volumes of his esteem for me, dance-wise.
He probably second-guessed himself that evening, and I don't blame him.
For indeed, I was so flustered, I kept messing up even our most basic steps, inconveniently at a time when he so wanted to show off. It was no secret in the club that he had a soft spot for Allan.
I could feel his mounting irritation, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought came, unbidden, that he might have been just a little bit jealous of all the attention spilling over to this newcomer.
It was a portent of things to come. Indeed. he saw less of me after that night.
And then I ceased to come altogether.
When Lorenzo first met me that evening, he told me I looked familiar.
It was something I was used to hearing, being a TV News Anchor at the time.
Little did I know it then, but there was another reason why he recognized me, and it would surface much later on in our relationship.
It was triggered by, of all things, a black outfit.
It was a casual getup, my favorite bootleg black jeans and a black v-necked sweater. But when Lorenzo saw me wearing it, he asked me a very unusual question.
"Were you in Euphoria sometime in April, and were you wearing black?"
Sure enough, I was.
I remembered that night exactly, since I don't usually go to Euphoria at all.
It was the day of my first radio broadcast in years. There I was, at the newscaster's booth, delivering the weather forecast, "brought to you by Che-Vital," for 99.5 RT.
I was pinch-hitting for Lily, who was on vacation in the U.S.. Later that evening, the on-air staff would go to Euphoria for a remote broadcast, coinciding with the launch of some vodka or another, I don't particularly remember which brand since I don't drink.
I went home after my last newscast to change from my TV clothes to something more casual. I also invited my dance instructor, Boyet, to come along. It was hard to forget the color-combination he was wearing that night: chocolate brown slacks and a purple polo shirt, way before Albus Dumbledore made the palette fashionable.
We entered Euphoria, quickly heading for the RT table, trailed by my bodyguard, Ed. Everyone was there, friends and former colleagues from my radio days: Dicky Aracama and Eric Eloriaga, Dada Carlos and Thelma Bowlen, and the remote jock on board, Boo Mayuga.
Boyet and I hit the dance floor, not knowing a familiar pair of eyes were already sizing me up.
Of course, they were still stranger's eyes back then, but incredibly, Lorenzo also happened to be at Euphoria on the very same night!
How do I know?
Because months later, he would recognize my black outfit and tell me exactly who else was with me the last time he saw me wearing it, down to my bodyguard in the navy-blue safari suit, my flamboyantly dressed dance partner, and the tall, bearded fellow I was talking to (Dicky A). He even remembered the exact spot where I stood to greet Dada and Thelma.
Obviously, my future husband was much more familiar with Euphoria's interior than I was.
I was flattered that he had noticed me back then. More flattered still when he told me that he wanted to ask me to dance with him that night, more than three months before.
But somehow he didn't.
Perhaps it wasn't the right time for us to meet just yet?
Indeed, I was still married to my ex-husband at the time, with no inkling whatsoever of our impending divorce, which would ironically come less than a year hence.
And now I ask myself: what would I have done if this incredibly handsome stranger (who, by some funny twist of fate, was also dressed all in black) would've approached me and asked me to dance?
I would've probably said yes, danced awkwardly to a song or two (I don't do disco well), and then properly said goodbye.
It would've been the polite thing to do.
I sometimes wonder how different our lives would be now if we would've met back then, in Euphoria. Certainly, the right ingredients were there: him and me. Heck, he even saw me and actually took notice, enough to recognize me and remember pertinent details, many months down the road.
And yet, I guess conditions weren't really conducive for a first meeting back then. Indeed, things would've certainly been a lot more complicated.
But somehow, I have a feeling that, convoluted or not, our paths would've still met at some point in time, whether past or future. Just like that Gwyneth Paltrow movie.
Because I believe that we were meant to be. And I take comfort in that knowledge, looking no further than my three beautiful children for The Lord's undeniable stamp of approval.
And on Sunday, July 31st, we will be celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary, which means it's been five years since we last saw our good friend Allan Muhlach...
...who also happened to be our Best Man.
(PLUGGING: "School Daze", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
An Anniversary Story
Home: Traders Hotel, Manila
"Pupunta daw si Allan sa Motions mamaya. May gusto sa 'yong ipakilala."
I was on the phone, talking to my friend, Tetet Dy. "Allan" was Allan Muhlach, the younger brother of her boyfriend at the time, Nino Muhlach.
"Cute ba?", I asked in curiosity.
"Malaki ang katawan" was her enigmatic reply, which said it all.
So it wasn't with great anticipation that I waited for Allan's arrival at Motions, the ballroom dance club I used to frequent at the Centerpoint Hotel in Manila, because my dance instructor, Boyet Hidalgo, worked there.
But in spite of it all, I was still mildly curious, glancing every now and then at the glass door entrance to watch out for the younger Muhlach's arrival. I had the perfect vantage point: the center table, raised on a dais, at the far end of the room. It was the table usually occupied by the hotel's owner, who happened to be elsewhere that night.
Suddenly, I felt Boyet stiffen. "Ayan na sila," he said.
I tried to look as nonchalant as possible, openly disinterested, but inwardly eager to find Allan's face from the crowd of patrons and matrons. I didn't have to exert much effort. All I had to do was follow the wake of craning necks to see the new arrivals.
Boyet's eyes were quicker than mine. "Ay Papa!", I heard him mutter under his breath, just as the crowd parted to let Allan and his friend through. And since I wasn't expecting someone particularly good-looking, I was practically bowled-over by the stranger's darkly handsome good looks, his Armani glasses failing to curb his unmistakeable sex appeal.
He was built like a god too, but I didn't find this out until later.
How much later I will leave you to guess...
At that particular moment however, I was trying my darnedest to look cool and casual while an inner voice screamed...
"Ang gwapooo!"
"Kamukha ni JEREMY IRONS!"
"Kiliiiig!"
On and on it trilled, in a decidedly irritating sing-song manner, voicing thoughts which grew progressively nonsensical by the second.
Believe me, it takes a lot to unleash my inner colegiala, especially since I didn't even know I had one, until it unveiled itself that evening.
But outwardly, I maintained a modicum of reserve, inviting them to join me at my table, the long-ingrained manners kicking in, as if on autopilot.
Poor Boyet was the only hapless witness to my inner distress, which had to outwardly manifest itself in some way or else I would go into meltdown. I pinched my dance instructor so many times that night. He was a good friend. He understood it was all I could do to stop myself from transforming into a simpering idiot.
But he wasn't as forgiving on the dance floor.
Boyet was an excellent instructor, grooming and polishing my ballroom skills for months until he was proud to call me his star pupil.
And indeed, on good days, we were a sight to behold. I was fairly decent at swing, I did a very mean reggae, and he was starting me on the Argentinian tango, where a misplaced kick could do effective damage to the nether regions, so it spoke volumes of his esteem for me, dance-wise.
He probably second-guessed himself that evening, and I don't blame him.
For indeed, I was so flustered, I kept messing up even our most basic steps, inconveniently at a time when he so wanted to show off. It was no secret in the club that he had a soft spot for Allan.
I could feel his mounting irritation, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought came, unbidden, that he might have been just a little bit jealous of all the attention spilling over to this newcomer.
It was a portent of things to come. Indeed. he saw less of me after that night.
And then I ceased to come altogether.
When Lorenzo first met me that evening, he told me I looked familiar.
It was something I was used to hearing, being a TV News Anchor at the time.
Little did I know it then, but there was another reason why he recognized me, and it would surface much later on in our relationship.
It was triggered by, of all things, a black outfit.
It was a casual getup, my favorite bootleg black jeans and a black v-necked sweater. But when Lorenzo saw me wearing it, he asked me a very unusual question.
"Were you in Euphoria sometime in April, and were you wearing black?"
Sure enough, I was.
I remembered that night exactly, since I don't usually go to Euphoria at all.
It was the day of my first radio broadcast in years. There I was, at the newscaster's booth, delivering the weather forecast, "brought to you by Che-Vital," for 99.5 RT.
I was pinch-hitting for Lily, who was on vacation in the U.S.. Later that evening, the on-air staff would go to Euphoria for a remote broadcast, coinciding with the launch of some vodka or another, I don't particularly remember which brand since I don't drink.
I went home after my last newscast to change from my TV clothes to something more casual. I also invited my dance instructor, Boyet, to come along. It was hard to forget the color-combination he was wearing that night: chocolate brown slacks and a purple polo shirt, way before Albus Dumbledore made the palette fashionable.
We entered Euphoria, quickly heading for the RT table, trailed by my bodyguard, Ed. Everyone was there, friends and former colleagues from my radio days: Dicky Aracama and Eric Eloriaga, Dada Carlos and Thelma Bowlen, and the remote jock on board, Boo Mayuga.
Boyet and I hit the dance floor, not knowing a familiar pair of eyes were already sizing me up.
Of course, they were still stranger's eyes back then, but incredibly, Lorenzo also happened to be at Euphoria on the very same night!
How do I know?
Because months later, he would recognize my black outfit and tell me exactly who else was with me the last time he saw me wearing it, down to my bodyguard in the navy-blue safari suit, my flamboyantly dressed dance partner, and the tall, bearded fellow I was talking to (Dicky A). He even remembered the exact spot where I stood to greet Dada and Thelma.
Obviously, my future husband was much more familiar with Euphoria's interior than I was.
I was flattered that he had noticed me back then. More flattered still when he told me that he wanted to ask me to dance with him that night, more than three months before.
But somehow he didn't.
Perhaps it wasn't the right time for us to meet just yet?
Indeed, I was still married to my ex-husband at the time, with no inkling whatsoever of our impending divorce, which would ironically come less than a year hence.
And now I ask myself: what would I have done if this incredibly handsome stranger (who, by some funny twist of fate, was also dressed all in black) would've approached me and asked me to dance?
I would've probably said yes, danced awkwardly to a song or two (I don't do disco well), and then properly said goodbye.
It would've been the polite thing to do.
I sometimes wonder how different our lives would be now if we would've met back then, in Euphoria. Certainly, the right ingredients were there: him and me. Heck, he even saw me and actually took notice, enough to recognize me and remember pertinent details, many months down the road.
And yet, I guess conditions weren't really conducive for a first meeting back then. Indeed, things would've certainly been a lot more complicated.
But somehow, I have a feeling that, convoluted or not, our paths would've still met at some point in time, whether past or future. Just like that Gwyneth Paltrow movie.
Because I believe that we were meant to be. And I take comfort in that knowledge, looking no further than my three beautiful children for The Lord's undeniable stamp of approval.
And on Sunday, July 31st, we will be celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary, which means it's been five years since we last saw our good friend Allan Muhlach...
...who also happened to be our Best Man.
(PLUGGING: "School Daze", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
MANG BEN
Home: 87 Gentle Street
His name was Ben.
He always smelled of cigarettes and wintergreen.
And Green Cross Rubbing Alcohol.
He was a former boxer, I was told, and a good one too. But all that was left when I met him was a man who walked with a slight limp and looked too old for his age. He was also poor, but he carried his poverty with a certain dignity which commanded my respect.
I always referred to him as Mang Ben, even though my younger sisters and the maids sometimes called him "Ben-tot".
This was because he had a speech impediment. Mang Ben was what was known as "ngo-ngo" in Filipino parlance. It was very difficult to understand what he was saying, so most of the time we would just let him talk and pretend to understand.
He also developed the habit of laughing at his own jokes, probably because he was the only one who could understand the punch lines.
Mang Ben was way into his forties when I first met him as a little girl in my grandparents' house. He was my Lolo Maning's masseur, or masahista as we called it back home. He came regularly at a certain day of the week, I now forget which, but I always knew when he was there from the unmistakeable odor of alcohol and wintergreen emanating from upstairs.
And then I knew my Lolo would be laying in the massage cot in his room and I would make myself scarce, knowing he was just in his karsonsilyo, as boxer shorts were known in his generation.
When they were done, Lolo Maning would invite Mang Ben to stay for some "cafe", and the two would proceed to my grandmother's cozy kitchen and make themselves a cup of Blend 45 and sandwiches out of "tasty" bread and a jar of Lady's Choice Sandwich Spread, talking about the latest gossip from the radio or Johnny Midnight's "toning" session the night before.
And then Mang Ben would leave, catching a tricycle to take him to Philcoa, where he would catch a jeepney to his next massage appointment, or to his humble home.
During these weekly sessions Mang Ben would sometimes service my grandmother too, and even my Mom, I think, but he was devoted to my Lolo, whom he called "Atoni", his own version of the word "Attorney".
And when my Lolo died, he walked all the way from our house in Quezon City to the funeral parlor in Araneta Avenue, because he didn't have money for transportation.
I still remember him, in the elegant confines of Arlington Funeral Homes, tired and dirty from his long walk under early March's scorching sun, his sad face a sorry sight amidst the well-dressed guests during the wake.
I greeted him at the door, touched at this final gesture. His humble tribute to a man he had known and respected for over a decade, and who treated him with the same fondness and respect.
And then he was gone.
I never saw him again after that.
I don't know if Mang Ben is still alive today. In all probability, he has already succumbed to the hard life fate had chosen for him to live. But even if he hasn't, I have no doubt that when the time comes, he will be reunited with his old friend and mentor, his old "Atoni", my Lolo Maning, who will welcome him through the Pearly Gates with open arms...
This time as equals.
(PLUGGING: "Funtastic Four", an account of Troy's fourth birthday party, in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Home: 87 Gentle Street
His name was Ben.
He always smelled of cigarettes and wintergreen.
And Green Cross Rubbing Alcohol.
He was a former boxer, I was told, and a good one too. But all that was left when I met him was a man who walked with a slight limp and looked too old for his age. He was also poor, but he carried his poverty with a certain dignity which commanded my respect.
I always referred to him as Mang Ben, even though my younger sisters and the maids sometimes called him "Ben-tot".
This was because he had a speech impediment. Mang Ben was what was known as "ngo-ngo" in Filipino parlance. It was very difficult to understand what he was saying, so most of the time we would just let him talk and pretend to understand.
He also developed the habit of laughing at his own jokes, probably because he was the only one who could understand the punch lines.
Mang Ben was way into his forties when I first met him as a little girl in my grandparents' house. He was my Lolo Maning's masseur, or masahista as we called it back home. He came regularly at a certain day of the week, I now forget which, but I always knew when he was there from the unmistakeable odor of alcohol and wintergreen emanating from upstairs.
And then I knew my Lolo would be laying in the massage cot in his room and I would make myself scarce, knowing he was just in his karsonsilyo, as boxer shorts were known in his generation.
When they were done, Lolo Maning would invite Mang Ben to stay for some "cafe", and the two would proceed to my grandmother's cozy kitchen and make themselves a cup of Blend 45 and sandwiches out of "tasty" bread and a jar of Lady's Choice Sandwich Spread, talking about the latest gossip from the radio or Johnny Midnight's "toning" session the night before.
And then Mang Ben would leave, catching a tricycle to take him to Philcoa, where he would catch a jeepney to his next massage appointment, or to his humble home.
During these weekly sessions Mang Ben would sometimes service my grandmother too, and even my Mom, I think, but he was devoted to my Lolo, whom he called "Atoni", his own version of the word "Attorney".
And when my Lolo died, he walked all the way from our house in Quezon City to the funeral parlor in Araneta Avenue, because he didn't have money for transportation.
I still remember him, in the elegant confines of Arlington Funeral Homes, tired and dirty from his long walk under early March's scorching sun, his sad face a sorry sight amidst the well-dressed guests during the wake.
I greeted him at the door, touched at this final gesture. His humble tribute to a man he had known and respected for over a decade, and who treated him with the same fondness and respect.
And then he was gone.
I never saw him again after that.
I don't know if Mang Ben is still alive today. In all probability, he has already succumbed to the hard life fate had chosen for him to live. But even if he hasn't, I have no doubt that when the time comes, he will be reunited with his old friend and mentor, his old "Atoni", my Lolo Maning, who will welcome him through the Pearly Gates with open arms...
This time as equals.
(PLUGGING: "Funtastic Four", an account of Troy's fourth birthday party, in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Saturday, July 09, 2005
THE LIZARD OF OZ
Home: Marbella 2, MALATE
(photo courtesy of delish, taken from
Mec's Long and Windang Road.)
"Ay butiki..."
"Ay lizard..."
"Ay Lacoste!"
So goes the famous punchline of a TV spiel from the "Champoy" of my High School days. It featured a lizard suddenly falling from the ceiling, and the varied reactions of three girls: one masa, one edukada, and one sosyal.
I found it quite funny when I saw it on TV, yet if the same thing ever happened to me, I wouldn't be quite as stoic. In fact, I would've probably bolted straight to the stratosphere the minute that wretched thing landed.
Yes, I'm terrified of lizards. I don't like the way they look, I shudder at the way they feel and I startle at the sight of their wriggly, jerky movements. Even their trademark clicking noises raise a primal fear within me, a fear borne out of countless encounters during my childhood.
Indeed, how many times have I been roused from slumber by a dull thud on my blanket, only to find a panicked little gecko trying to battle its way out of the covers? And how many times have I been trapped in our bathroom because a lizard was stuck on the door, refusing to leave?
And my most terrifying memory of all...the day I came home from school hungry, spying a paper sack of pan de sal on the kitchen table. Somebody else had been eating before I arrived because there was still a jar of Cheez Whiz beside it with a butter knife perched on the lid. I was just about to put my hand in the sack when a flesh colored butiki jumped out and headed straight for me, its soft, rubbery body just grazing the tips of my fingers.
By the time my heart rate went back to normal, there were sinister shards of glass, a big, lonely lump of Cheez Whiz, scattered pieces of pan de sal and a lone butter knife on the floor.
With such unfortunate experiences, it's no wonder I avoid encounters with the little beasts. Oh, I can hold pet iguanas with no problem, but my tolerance level of other members of the lizard family corresponds with their size.
In other words, the smaller they are, the higher the fear factor.
But I was born and bred in a tropical country, where lizards are a necessary evil. In fact, when I moved to Florida, I discovered to my dismay that they had a thriving population there too, except here in the United States, geckos are considered cute enough to act as mascots and spokeslizards for large insurance companies.
But, from Miami, we moved to Cincinnati, then to Toronto, then to the Netherlands, which was the farthest from the tropics I'd ever been. And even when we moved back to the Philippines, we lived in five-star hotels, where the closest encounter you got with the lizard kind was sharing the same room with men wearing crocodile leather belts and women bearing Hermes alligator handbags.
And so, by the time we moved into our Roxas Boulevard condo, my harrowing memories of gecko encounters were shadowy things of the past. Oh, I was still terrified of them, but I was living in a building with a snooty clientele who didn't mind paying for security, hot running water, and monthly fumigation, which effectively rendered the building pest and vermin-free.
And there, warmly enveloped in First World comforts, I lived happily under the delusion that I was safely cocooned from terrifying monsters such as lizards and frogs. After all, our condo was on the second highest floor, just one floor below penthouse level. Marauding frogs and lizards would have to battle their way through the ground floor guards, figure out a way to operate the elevator, and make it all the way up sixteen floors in order to attack me.
But one such lizard did.
I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a Sunday afternoon. Belen, Sam and Regan had the day off, and Lorenzo and I were enjoying the langorous weekend together. I was lounging on the bed, already pregnant with Lance, when I saw a quick movement by the bedroom door.
I didn't know what to make of it, since we were never really plagued by insects and pests in that building. It was hard to see what the thing was against the dark parquet flooring. I immediately assumed it was an ipis and told Lorenzo about it, unalarmed. Cockroaches don't bother me. Even the huge, fat, flying ones don't send me into a panic. I just wait for them to alight somewhere and squash the living daylights out of them with my trusty slipper.
And so I confidently got out of bed to go to the bathroom. It was when I was halfway there that I saw it on the floor. A scrawny little lizard with dark bands around its tiny body.
I screamed and ran back to the bed, half-hysterical in fright. Lorenzo calmly tried to soothe me, but I was pregnant, hormonal, and needed to go to the bathroom FAST. I was also terrified half out of my wits, refusing to leave the bed until I knew the lizard was at a safe distance away from me.
Lorenzo threw a slipper at it so it would go away. The scrappy little thing disappeared under my shoe closet. When I had finally reassured myself that the coast was clear. I set foot on the floor only to scream once more. For indeed, there it was again, in the same spot, this time with its mouth wide open, as if to scare us into submission.
It was a feisty little creature all right, and this show of defiance was quite admirable coming from such a diminutive animal, but my partner had had enough. Lorenzo was already concerned about my pregnant bladder, and was getting quite impatient, both with me and at the lizard. He grabbed a broom and was about to swing at it when he heard my voice behind him:
"Don't kill it..."
Despite the fact that I was dead scared of the little thing, I didn't want its life on my hands.
By then, I was already crying, my pregnant hormones pushing me on the verge of hysteria. I could feel my fiance's exasperation, but I couldn't help myself. I could not, for the life of me, stop the tears from falling. The situation would've been comical if I didn't have a painfully engorged bladder to empty.
When he saw the tears, Lorenzo's look became murderous. I could see he wanted to chop that lizard into little pieces already, but he demonstrated great restraint, calmly sweeping the lizard out through our bedroom door and into the hallway.
I fairly jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, finally emptying my bladder with a great sigh of relief.
Lorenzo was gone for quite a long time. i was wondering if he had somehow lost sight of the butiki. For a single panicked moment I imagined it, hiding outside my bedroom door, waiting to ambush me. And then the door opened, and my future husband walked into the room, tired but victorious.
He had swept the luckless little thing down the stairwell, where it was safely esconced more than two floors down.
He must've been a sight to the two people who got off the elevator on the fourteenth floor. Imagine this handsome, hunky model-actor, wearing a tank top, wielding a broom like a golf club, swatting at a hapless little lizard, blocking its progress hither and thither in order to check its course, making sure it was headed the opposite way from his unborn child.
Sure, it was harder going about it this way, but it was the humane thing to do.
And I appreciated him all the more for it.
Ironically, to this day, I still scour the perfume places I visit for a hard-to-find scent, my favorite of all the fragrances I've smelled on Lorenzo so far.
It's name? Booster by Lacoste.
Whose trademark logo is a crocodile the size of a common house lizard.
With its mouth wide open.
(PLUGGING: "The Forgotten Five" in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Home: Marbella 2, MALATE
(photo courtesy of delish, taken from
Mec's Long and Windang Road.)
"Ay butiki..."
"Ay lizard..."
"Ay Lacoste!"
So goes the famous punchline of a TV spiel from the "Champoy" of my High School days. It featured a lizard suddenly falling from the ceiling, and the varied reactions of three girls: one masa, one edukada, and one sosyal.
I found it quite funny when I saw it on TV, yet if the same thing ever happened to me, I wouldn't be quite as stoic. In fact, I would've probably bolted straight to the stratosphere the minute that wretched thing landed.
Yes, I'm terrified of lizards. I don't like the way they look, I shudder at the way they feel and I startle at the sight of their wriggly, jerky movements. Even their trademark clicking noises raise a primal fear within me, a fear borne out of countless encounters during my childhood.
Indeed, how many times have I been roused from slumber by a dull thud on my blanket, only to find a panicked little gecko trying to battle its way out of the covers? And how many times have I been trapped in our bathroom because a lizard was stuck on the door, refusing to leave?
And my most terrifying memory of all...the day I came home from school hungry, spying a paper sack of pan de sal on the kitchen table. Somebody else had been eating before I arrived because there was still a jar of Cheez Whiz beside it with a butter knife perched on the lid. I was just about to put my hand in the sack when a flesh colored butiki jumped out and headed straight for me, its soft, rubbery body just grazing the tips of my fingers.
By the time my heart rate went back to normal, there were sinister shards of glass, a big, lonely lump of Cheez Whiz, scattered pieces of pan de sal and a lone butter knife on the floor.
With such unfortunate experiences, it's no wonder I avoid encounters with the little beasts. Oh, I can hold pet iguanas with no problem, but my tolerance level of other members of the lizard family corresponds with their size.
In other words, the smaller they are, the higher the fear factor.
But I was born and bred in a tropical country, where lizards are a necessary evil. In fact, when I moved to Florida, I discovered to my dismay that they had a thriving population there too, except here in the United States, geckos are considered cute enough to act as mascots and spokeslizards for large insurance companies.
But, from Miami, we moved to Cincinnati, then to Toronto, then to the Netherlands, which was the farthest from the tropics I'd ever been. And even when we moved back to the Philippines, we lived in five-star hotels, where the closest encounter you got with the lizard kind was sharing the same room with men wearing crocodile leather belts and women bearing Hermes alligator handbags.
And so, by the time we moved into our Roxas Boulevard condo, my harrowing memories of gecko encounters were shadowy things of the past. Oh, I was still terrified of them, but I was living in a building with a snooty clientele who didn't mind paying for security, hot running water, and monthly fumigation, which effectively rendered the building pest and vermin-free.
And there, warmly enveloped in First World comforts, I lived happily under the delusion that I was safely cocooned from terrifying monsters such as lizards and frogs. After all, our condo was on the second highest floor, just one floor below penthouse level. Marauding frogs and lizards would have to battle their way through the ground floor guards, figure out a way to operate the elevator, and make it all the way up sixteen floors in order to attack me.
But one such lizard did.
I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a Sunday afternoon. Belen, Sam and Regan had the day off, and Lorenzo and I were enjoying the langorous weekend together. I was lounging on the bed, already pregnant with Lance, when I saw a quick movement by the bedroom door.
I didn't know what to make of it, since we were never really plagued by insects and pests in that building. It was hard to see what the thing was against the dark parquet flooring. I immediately assumed it was an ipis and told Lorenzo about it, unalarmed. Cockroaches don't bother me. Even the huge, fat, flying ones don't send me into a panic. I just wait for them to alight somewhere and squash the living daylights out of them with my trusty slipper.
And so I confidently got out of bed to go to the bathroom. It was when I was halfway there that I saw it on the floor. A scrawny little lizard with dark bands around its tiny body.
I screamed and ran back to the bed, half-hysterical in fright. Lorenzo calmly tried to soothe me, but I was pregnant, hormonal, and needed to go to the bathroom FAST. I was also terrified half out of my wits, refusing to leave the bed until I knew the lizard was at a safe distance away from me.
Lorenzo threw a slipper at it so it would go away. The scrappy little thing disappeared under my shoe closet. When I had finally reassured myself that the coast was clear. I set foot on the floor only to scream once more. For indeed, there it was again, in the same spot, this time with its mouth wide open, as if to scare us into submission.
It was a feisty little creature all right, and this show of defiance was quite admirable coming from such a diminutive animal, but my partner had had enough. Lorenzo was already concerned about my pregnant bladder, and was getting quite impatient, both with me and at the lizard. He grabbed a broom and was about to swing at it when he heard my voice behind him:
"Don't kill it..."
Despite the fact that I was dead scared of the little thing, I didn't want its life on my hands.
By then, I was already crying, my pregnant hormones pushing me on the verge of hysteria. I could feel my fiance's exasperation, but I couldn't help myself. I could not, for the life of me, stop the tears from falling. The situation would've been comical if I didn't have a painfully engorged bladder to empty.
When he saw the tears, Lorenzo's look became murderous. I could see he wanted to chop that lizard into little pieces already, but he demonstrated great restraint, calmly sweeping the lizard out through our bedroom door and into the hallway.
I fairly jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, finally emptying my bladder with a great sigh of relief.
Lorenzo was gone for quite a long time. i was wondering if he had somehow lost sight of the butiki. For a single panicked moment I imagined it, hiding outside my bedroom door, waiting to ambush me. And then the door opened, and my future husband walked into the room, tired but victorious.
He had swept the luckless little thing down the stairwell, where it was safely esconced more than two floors down.
He must've been a sight to the two people who got off the elevator on the fourteenth floor. Imagine this handsome, hunky model-actor, wearing a tank top, wielding a broom like a golf club, swatting at a hapless little lizard, blocking its progress hither and thither in order to check its course, making sure it was headed the opposite way from his unborn child.
Sure, it was harder going about it this way, but it was the humane thing to do.
And I appreciated him all the more for it.
Ironically, to this day, I still scour the perfume places I visit for a hard-to-find scent, my favorite of all the fragrances I've smelled on Lorenzo so far.
It's name? Booster by Lacoste.
Whose trademark logo is a crocodile the size of a common house lizard.
With its mouth wide open.
(PLUGGING: "The Forgotten Five" in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
SUMMER LOVE
(ILIGAN, Part 1)
Home: Sunset Court, Iligan City
His name was Josh Blanco.*
I met him in the boat on the way to Iligan. He told me he was a cousin of Jackie Lou's. He didn't seem particularly meztizo to me, in fact the only resemblance between him and Pilita's daughter was the fact that they were both short.
Nevertheless, I took his word for it.
And, in the two days and two nights we spent together at sea, eating in adjacent tables at the First Class dining room and bumping into each other at the sun deck, I managed to develop a semi-crush on him.
I was 13 and overly-romantic, developing crushes seemingly overnight and dropping them shortly before dinner. But my interest in this guy somehow stuck. He was, after all, Jackie Lou's cousin, and a much older man at 17!
And so it was with a heavy heart that I watched our boat dock into the pier at Iligan. I knew it wouldn't be long before we had to part. Oh sure, I hardly knew the guy but I strangely felt sad, knowing I would never see him again.
And I rejoiced when he made his way to our quarters to say goodbye. I noticed that he was at ease talking to my grandmother, unlike boys my age who almost seemed terrified of grownups when introduced to them.
He told us he would be staying with an uncle, Atty. A. Lola Luz said "Oh yes, (Atty. A's first name). I know him." I could see she was already starting to approve of him. And when he left, I heard her say "He's a nice boy."
Too bad I would never see him again.
But I did see him again, later that morning, this time with his uncle, who boarded the ship to help him with his belongings. I was with my Lola Luz at the time, and was quite surprised when she and his uncle started talking. I guess they did know each other!
We both stood and listened, sometimes making faces, pretending it was so uncool to be hearing all this, but secretly enjoying the reprieve. And at the end of their conversation, he actually asked me for our address in Iligan in front of the grownups, and I shyly gave it to him.
The next few days were spent in breathless anticipation. Until finally one day, I heard the doorbell from my room, and then a knock on my door.
"You have a visitor".
I came out, my heart all a-flutter, my knees like jelly. And then I saw him!
We stayed in the veranda, in full view of my two younger sisters, who were throwing me teasing looks when he wasn't looking. It was plain to see I was super-kilig. I couldn't even wipe the silly grin off my face.
The visits continued over the next two weeks. Sometimes we would walk to the nearby Redemptorist Church and watch kids play soccer, sitting in the shade. Sometimes the ball would come our way and he would kick it back. I could see he also played the sport.
I had come to look forward to his visits, my heart jumping whenever I heard the doorbell chime. I even endured the relentless teasing from my sisters. Every moment of the day was spent in anticipation of his coming. And on those days when he didn't come, I would wander around the house, trying to hide my disappointment at not seeing him.
And then came the day when he told me he was going back to Manila. His vacation was over. He told me this in the same patch of shade, at the wide expanse of grass in front of the Redemptorist Church, where kids played soccer. And I felt my heart crumble at the words.
I never saw him again after that.
I spent the rest of my summer vacation making new friends and developing new crushes. But I somehow reserved a space in my heart for him.
We never even kissed, him and I, although he did shyly take my hand when we crossed the street and I was happy that he continued holding on to it even after we were safely on the other side.
Those were the days when boys visited girls, safely chaperoned in their homes. When they addressed elders as "Sir" and "Ma'am", and if they did it sincerely enough, maybe they would even be invited to stay over for dinner.
(In retrospect, I guess all my suitors had nerves of steel, to be able to endure my Lolo Maning's foreboding presence as he sat with us in the living room, reading his newspaper, listening to every word we said.)
It is a sweet, innocent time in every girl's life, when she first blossoms into womanhood, eager to experience her first love, still untouched by pain and disillusionment and regret.
When love was all about emotions, having nothing to do with sex.
And all its grown-up complications.
I will always remember that last summer in Iligan, when I was still caught in that awkward stage just beyond childhood but not quite into womanhood yet. An age when the slightest gesture made you blush and a simple song could make you cry.
One particular song, sung by Pops Fernandez during her ingenue days, received heavy airplay that summer. The music video showed her singing longingly on the beach, presumably for a lover lost.
It is the only song of hers that I really liked. Perhaps because it reminded me of that bittersweet summer, when I pined for someone I barely knew, watching the ocean, remembering how I first met him.
Ironically, if I ever bumped into the same guy today, I would probably not recognize him at all.
DITO
sung by Pops Fernandez
Dito sa batuhang ito
Dito may naririnig ako
Sabay sa paghampas ng alon sa bato
Tinig mo'y tumatawag sa 'kin, giliw.
Dito, wala ka na, di ba?
Wala at di na makikita
Bigla at 'di ko kagustuhan
Ating tampuhan
At ang 'yong paglisan.
Bakit kung ika'y wala na
At di na magbabalik pa
Ba't kita naririnig nakikita?
At bakit ikaw ay narito lang sa tabi
Nakaakbay, kausap
Kaulayaw sa tuwina?
Ba't kapiling pa kita?
Dito'y kapiling ka.
*name altered
(PLUGGING: "Tickled Pink", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
(ILIGAN, Part 1)
Home: Sunset Court, Iligan City
His name was Josh Blanco.*
I met him in the boat on the way to Iligan. He told me he was a cousin of Jackie Lou's. He didn't seem particularly meztizo to me, in fact the only resemblance between him and Pilita's daughter was the fact that they were both short.
Nevertheless, I took his word for it.
And, in the two days and two nights we spent together at sea, eating in adjacent tables at the First Class dining room and bumping into each other at the sun deck, I managed to develop a semi-crush on him.
I was 13 and overly-romantic, developing crushes seemingly overnight and dropping them shortly before dinner. But my interest in this guy somehow stuck. He was, after all, Jackie Lou's cousin, and a much older man at 17!
And so it was with a heavy heart that I watched our boat dock into the pier at Iligan. I knew it wouldn't be long before we had to part. Oh sure, I hardly knew the guy but I strangely felt sad, knowing I would never see him again.
And I rejoiced when he made his way to our quarters to say goodbye. I noticed that he was at ease talking to my grandmother, unlike boys my age who almost seemed terrified of grownups when introduced to them.
He told us he would be staying with an uncle, Atty. A. Lola Luz said "Oh yes, (Atty. A's first name). I know him." I could see she was already starting to approve of him. And when he left, I heard her say "He's a nice boy."
Too bad I would never see him again.
But I did see him again, later that morning, this time with his uncle, who boarded the ship to help him with his belongings. I was with my Lola Luz at the time, and was quite surprised when she and his uncle started talking. I guess they did know each other!
We both stood and listened, sometimes making faces, pretending it was so uncool to be hearing all this, but secretly enjoying the reprieve. And at the end of their conversation, he actually asked me for our address in Iligan in front of the grownups, and I shyly gave it to him.
The next few days were spent in breathless anticipation. Until finally one day, I heard the doorbell from my room, and then a knock on my door.
"You have a visitor".
I came out, my heart all a-flutter, my knees like jelly. And then I saw him!
We stayed in the veranda, in full view of my two younger sisters, who were throwing me teasing looks when he wasn't looking. It was plain to see I was super-kilig. I couldn't even wipe the silly grin off my face.
The visits continued over the next two weeks. Sometimes we would walk to the nearby Redemptorist Church and watch kids play soccer, sitting in the shade. Sometimes the ball would come our way and he would kick it back. I could see he also played the sport.
I had come to look forward to his visits, my heart jumping whenever I heard the doorbell chime. I even endured the relentless teasing from my sisters. Every moment of the day was spent in anticipation of his coming. And on those days when he didn't come, I would wander around the house, trying to hide my disappointment at not seeing him.
And then came the day when he told me he was going back to Manila. His vacation was over. He told me this in the same patch of shade, at the wide expanse of grass in front of the Redemptorist Church, where kids played soccer. And I felt my heart crumble at the words.
I never saw him again after that.
I spent the rest of my summer vacation making new friends and developing new crushes. But I somehow reserved a space in my heart for him.
We never even kissed, him and I, although he did shyly take my hand when we crossed the street and I was happy that he continued holding on to it even after we were safely on the other side.
Those were the days when boys visited girls, safely chaperoned in their homes. When they addressed elders as "Sir" and "Ma'am", and if they did it sincerely enough, maybe they would even be invited to stay over for dinner.
(In retrospect, I guess all my suitors had nerves of steel, to be able to endure my Lolo Maning's foreboding presence as he sat with us in the living room, reading his newspaper, listening to every word we said.)
It is a sweet, innocent time in every girl's life, when she first blossoms into womanhood, eager to experience her first love, still untouched by pain and disillusionment and regret.
When love was all about emotions, having nothing to do with sex.
And all its grown-up complications.
I will always remember that last summer in Iligan, when I was still caught in that awkward stage just beyond childhood but not quite into womanhood yet. An age when the slightest gesture made you blush and a simple song could make you cry.
One particular song, sung by Pops Fernandez during her ingenue days, received heavy airplay that summer. The music video showed her singing longingly on the beach, presumably for a lover lost.
It is the only song of hers that I really liked. Perhaps because it reminded me of that bittersweet summer, when I pined for someone I barely knew, watching the ocean, remembering how I first met him.
Ironically, if I ever bumped into the same guy today, I would probably not recognize him at all.
DITO
sung by Pops Fernandez
Dito sa batuhang ito
Dito may naririnig ako
Sabay sa paghampas ng alon sa bato
Tinig mo'y tumatawag sa 'kin, giliw.
Dito, wala ka na, di ba?
Wala at di na makikita
Bigla at 'di ko kagustuhan
Ating tampuhan
At ang 'yong paglisan.
Bakit kung ika'y wala na
At di na magbabalik pa
Ba't kita naririnig nakikita?
At bakit ikaw ay narito lang sa tabi
Nakaakbay, kausap
Kaulayaw sa tuwina?
Ba't kapiling pa kita?
Dito'y kapiling ka.
*name altered
(PLUGGING: "Tickled Pink", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Monday, June 20, 2005
SANTACRUZAN
Homes: Marbella 2, 87 Gentle Street
The merry month of May signals the start of the Santacruzan season.
Now, I have to admit that in all my 37 years, I am still in the dark as far as Santacruzan is concerned. I am not deeply religious, or even Catholic for that matter. In fact, my father was a devout Muslim while my Mom was an agnostic-turned-follower of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, which left us children pretty much clueless in the way of quasi-religious Roman Catholic processions.
Nevertheless, I thought they were pretty. I remember seeing my first Santacruzan when I was about four or five. The procession filed slowly past 87 Gentle Street as I craned my neck to see the many beautiful maidens and their handsome beaus, their smiling faces illuminated by candlelight. I secretly envied the little sagalas, wishing I was one of them just so I could finally wear make-up. My parents didn't even have to buy me a new dress, I could just wear the one I wore as a flower girl to my uncle's wedding!
I thought it was unfair that nobody asked my Mommy to make me a sagala. Why, I was prettier than most of those little girls I saw, even without makeup! Some of them even missed their front teeth. (I was vain, even as a child.)
It was only a few years later when I realized why. See, even though my Lolo Maning and Lola Elvie religiously went to mass every Sunday (well, my Lolo Maning anyway!), they seldom brought us with them. And since it was the parish which organized the annual Santacruzan, that effectively reduced our chances of being sagalas to close to nil.
Oh well, by then we were spending most of our summers with our grandparents in Mindanao anyway, so I never really missed it after that. Besides, I dismissed the whole lot as hypocritical, since year after year, my pretty next-door-neighbor, Joy , would be marching as Emperatriz. The same Joy who usually sneaked out in the middle of the night to engage in some pretty heavy petting and necking with the rich boy next door. (I lived in the other side of their house, with an unobstructed view of their nocturnal trysts.)
And so life went on, and I grew older, eventually accepting Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, which effectively closed the door at my chances of reigning as Reina in any of the Santacruzans at my village.
My social circle also grew to accommodate many boys and girls from the area, mostly schooled in nearby Claret and Holy Family, where the parish usually harvested its latest batch of Reynas and escorts. But by then, I was already starting my career as a radio newscaster and, at the ripe old age of 17, couldn't be bothered with such trivial pursuits.
Fast forward fourteen years, one ex-husband, and one son later.
It was 1999 and Lorenzo and I were living in a chi-chi Roxas Boulevard condo, far far away from the old parish in 87 Gentle Street. I was enjoying my prime-time stint as co-anchor for RPN's "NewsWatch EveningCast" while Lorenzo had so many commercials under his belt, they would sometimes run back-to-back with each other during station breaks. We were deeply in love, both with each other and with life. And did I mention expecting our first baby, whom we would eventually name Lance?
You could imagine my consternation when some officers of a community organization in Malate approached me, asking if I could be Reyna de las Flores in their Santacruzan! I don't know if they already had an escort in mind, but the organizers took one look at my hunky fiancee and immediately asked him to be my escort as well!
I was still in my first trimester, so I wasn't showing yet. In fact, when I invited them to our condo in Marbella, they wouldn't believe that I was pregnant. But I assured him that I was very much in the family way, and was surprised and flattered that they wanted me anyway.
"That's all right", they assured me, "we'll work around it."
And so preparations were under way for my first Santacruzan appearance. I didn't mind it happening this late in my life. I was just flattered that they would even consider me, at the ripe young age of 31! They told me this year's Reyna Elena was Glydel Mercado. Heck, I didn't mind playing second fiddle to her!
But there were the logistics of accommodating my growing waistline. Obviously, the measurements they took down for fittings wouldn't stay the same for long, and since fashion designers rarely stock clothes with sizes above anorexic, we were in a real dilemma as far as wardrobe was concerned.
Enter long-time designer Tony Galang, who fortuitously had the perfect baro't saya in my size, pregnant tummy notwithstanding! He even had a beautiful Sarimanok-inspired barong for Lorenzo which matched my dress perfectly. And the best part of it all? I had comfortable shoes to match.
And so, on that Sunday afternoon in early June, we set out for an undisclosed place in Malate (actually it's more unremembered than undisclosed). We parked in a quiet street and proceeded to the beginning of the procession. My octogenarian grandmother, Lola Luz, tagged along to watch the festivities, and so did my alalay, Belen, who was also pregnant at the time. My driver, Sam, doubled as videographer, while my bodyguard, Regan, reprised his duties as "hawi-boy".
I never realized how much hard work it took to march in a procession AND look pretty AND smile at the thousandth time somebody said "Don't Forget the muffins" to Lorenzo, all the while pretending your feet are all right when in reality they feel like a couple of bricks. And then there is the odd firecracker or two exploding nearby which causes you to nearly jump out of your skin. By the time the procession ended, Lorenzo was practically supporting my weight.
But there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and it came in the form of a delicious buffet at the four-storey home of one of the community leaders. I felt bad that only VIPs could avail of the food. Even the ordinary rank-and-file of the community organization weren't allowed inside. Sadly, after a few hours of co-mingling and rubbing elbows, the haves and have-nots were separated once more.
But I had the added responsibility of eating for two, so I settled down to the task at hand: nourishment for me and my baby. Besides, I had to fortify myself because our duties weren't over. Earlier that day, the organizers asked Lorenzo and me if we could act as judges in choosing the best korona among the different barangays. Designer Tony Galang, whom we thanked profusely for providing our wardrobe, was one of the judges as well.
(Glydel didn't stick around for long after eating her VIP meal.)
And so we proceeded to the contest site. There were speeches and presentations, and, (I was happy to notice), food as well. It was good to know provisions were made for the rest of the community, not just for us "VIPs".
Lorenzo and I sat and visually dissected each korona , dazzled at the display of creativity from our neighbors in Malate. In the end, our choice was also that of Tony Galang's and we declared the winner. It was touching to see the barangay's members rejoice and congratulate each other, the very picture of teamwork and pagkakaisa.
It was a heady experience, one that I would always remember. I will forever treasure the memory of my one and only Santacruzan, which came late in the day, but at just the right time when I could appreciate it most.
Best of all, I was able to share it with the man I love.
(PLUGGING: "Pop-sicles", my Father's Day offering in The Prada Mama Chronicles. Also check out my newest blog, Sightings.)
Homes: Marbella 2, 87 Gentle Street
The merry month of May signals the start of the Santacruzan season.
Now, I have to admit that in all my 37 years, I am still in the dark as far as Santacruzan is concerned. I am not deeply religious, or even Catholic for that matter. In fact, my father was a devout Muslim while my Mom was an agnostic-turned-follower of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, which left us children pretty much clueless in the way of quasi-religious Roman Catholic processions.
Nevertheless, I thought they were pretty. I remember seeing my first Santacruzan when I was about four or five. The procession filed slowly past 87 Gentle Street as I craned my neck to see the many beautiful maidens and their handsome beaus, their smiling faces illuminated by candlelight. I secretly envied the little sagalas, wishing I was one of them just so I could finally wear make-up. My parents didn't even have to buy me a new dress, I could just wear the one I wore as a flower girl to my uncle's wedding!
I thought it was unfair that nobody asked my Mommy to make me a sagala. Why, I was prettier than most of those little girls I saw, even without makeup! Some of them even missed their front teeth. (I was vain, even as a child.)
It was only a few years later when I realized why. See, even though my Lolo Maning and Lola Elvie religiously went to mass every Sunday (well, my Lolo Maning anyway!), they seldom brought us with them. And since it was the parish which organized the annual Santacruzan, that effectively reduced our chances of being sagalas to close to nil.
Oh well, by then we were spending most of our summers with our grandparents in Mindanao anyway, so I never really missed it after that. Besides, I dismissed the whole lot as hypocritical, since year after year, my pretty next-door-neighbor, Joy , would be marching as Emperatriz. The same Joy who usually sneaked out in the middle of the night to engage in some pretty heavy petting and necking with the rich boy next door. (I lived in the other side of their house, with an unobstructed view of their nocturnal trysts.)
And so life went on, and I grew older, eventually accepting Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, which effectively closed the door at my chances of reigning as Reina in any of the Santacruzans at my village.
My social circle also grew to accommodate many boys and girls from the area, mostly schooled in nearby Claret and Holy Family, where the parish usually harvested its latest batch of Reynas and escorts. But by then, I was already starting my career as a radio newscaster and, at the ripe old age of 17, couldn't be bothered with such trivial pursuits.
Fast forward fourteen years, one ex-husband, and one son later.
It was 1999 and Lorenzo and I were living in a chi-chi Roxas Boulevard condo, far far away from the old parish in 87 Gentle Street. I was enjoying my prime-time stint as co-anchor for RPN's "NewsWatch EveningCast" while Lorenzo had so many commercials under his belt, they would sometimes run back-to-back with each other during station breaks. We were deeply in love, both with each other and with life. And did I mention expecting our first baby, whom we would eventually name Lance?
You could imagine my consternation when some officers of a community organization in Malate approached me, asking if I could be Reyna de las Flores in their Santacruzan! I don't know if they already had an escort in mind, but the organizers took one look at my hunky fiancee and immediately asked him to be my escort as well!
I was still in my first trimester, so I wasn't showing yet. In fact, when I invited them to our condo in Marbella, they wouldn't believe that I was pregnant. But I assured him that I was very much in the family way, and was surprised and flattered that they wanted me anyway.
"That's all right", they assured me, "we'll work around it."
And so preparations were under way for my first Santacruzan appearance. I didn't mind it happening this late in my life. I was just flattered that they would even consider me, at the ripe young age of 31! They told me this year's Reyna Elena was Glydel Mercado. Heck, I didn't mind playing second fiddle to her!
But there were the logistics of accommodating my growing waistline. Obviously, the measurements they took down for fittings wouldn't stay the same for long, and since fashion designers rarely stock clothes with sizes above anorexic, we were in a real dilemma as far as wardrobe was concerned.
Enter long-time designer Tony Galang, who fortuitously had the perfect baro't saya in my size, pregnant tummy notwithstanding! He even had a beautiful Sarimanok-inspired barong for Lorenzo which matched my dress perfectly. And the best part of it all? I had comfortable shoes to match.
And so, on that Sunday afternoon in early June, we set out for an undisclosed place in Malate (actually it's more unremembered than undisclosed). We parked in a quiet street and proceeded to the beginning of the procession. My octogenarian grandmother, Lola Luz, tagged along to watch the festivities, and so did my alalay, Belen, who was also pregnant at the time. My driver, Sam, doubled as videographer, while my bodyguard, Regan, reprised his duties as "hawi-boy".
I never realized how much hard work it took to march in a procession AND look pretty AND smile at the thousandth time somebody said "Don't Forget the muffins" to Lorenzo, all the while pretending your feet are all right when in reality they feel like a couple of bricks. And then there is the odd firecracker or two exploding nearby which causes you to nearly jump out of your skin. By the time the procession ended, Lorenzo was practically supporting my weight.
But there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and it came in the form of a delicious buffet at the four-storey home of one of the community leaders. I felt bad that only VIPs could avail of the food. Even the ordinary rank-and-file of the community organization weren't allowed inside. Sadly, after a few hours of co-mingling and rubbing elbows, the haves and have-nots were separated once more.
But I had the added responsibility of eating for two, so I settled down to the task at hand: nourishment for me and my baby. Besides, I had to fortify myself because our duties weren't over. Earlier that day, the organizers asked Lorenzo and me if we could act as judges in choosing the best korona among the different barangays. Designer Tony Galang, whom we thanked profusely for providing our wardrobe, was one of the judges as well.
(Glydel didn't stick around for long after eating her VIP meal.)
And so we proceeded to the contest site. There were speeches and presentations, and, (I was happy to notice), food as well. It was good to know provisions were made for the rest of the community, not just for us "VIPs".
Lorenzo and I sat and visually dissected each korona , dazzled at the display of creativity from our neighbors in Malate. In the end, our choice was also that of Tony Galang's and we declared the winner. It was touching to see the barangay's members rejoice and congratulate each other, the very picture of teamwork and pagkakaisa.
It was a heady experience, one that I would always remember. I will forever treasure the memory of my one and only Santacruzan, which came late in the day, but at just the right time when I could appreciate it most.
Best of all, I was able to share it with the man I love.
(PLUGGING: "Pop-sicles", my Father's Day offering in The Prada Mama Chronicles. Also check out my newest blog, Sightings.)
Monday, June 13, 2005
PASALUBONG
Homes: Modesto, CA, The Brown House, BAGUIO, 87 Gentle Street
Part of the pleasure of having visitors from the Philippines are the pasalubongs you get from home.
I am a simple girl with simple tastes. When it comes to pasalubongs, just give me gourmet tuyo and pastillas de leche and I'll be happy as a clam.
I got hooked on gourmet tuyo when a former fiancee gave me a small jar of the Kalipayan brand as pasalubong. I hoarded that jar for months, miserly picking at each bit of fish and savoring its sweet saltiness. When I finished it, I found use for the leftover olive oil too, drizzling it on steaming hot rice to give it some flavor.
I later discovered that they sold it duty-free on PAL flights. I used to buy jars of the stuff, even though I thought the six dollars they charged for each tiny jar was outrageous.
Alas, I didn't get any gourmet tuyo this year. I got gourmet bangus and gourmet tinapa instead. The tinapa wasn't bad but the bangus was a disappointment.
The pastillas de leche I got weren't too hot either. I like the ones coated with granulated sugar, but this particular brand (Sevilla's) was too sweet. I prefer the ones from Red Ribbon, or my childhood favorite, Merced Bake Shop. But, since I'm more than a hop, skip and jump away from the nearest Red Ribbon and oceans away from the Merced of old, I just settled down to enjoy my too-sweet-treats.
However, my Auntie Evelyn sent me something which more than made up for the disappointment: GIANT versions of the yemas I used to love when I was a child, made in that familiar pyramid shape and wrapped in the same colored cellophane.
It's almost impossible to come by these delicacies in this day and age. In fact, when I was a teenager, the yemas they were already selling were the round kind, with a hard coating of caramelized sugar. They were okay, but I didn't like them as much as the simple yemas of my younger days.
Auntie Evelyn also sent us a box of polvoron. Polvoron has certainly gone a long way from the days my Mom and yayas used to make it in our kitchen in Baguio. I remember them packing the flour-and-sugar powder into little oval molds, and pushing them out into the center of colorful little squares of papel de japon.
Through the years, I saw the lowly polvoron get dolled-up and fancified in commercial bake shops, the tiny oval shape giving way to bigger circles with fluted edges. The papel de japon has all but disappared from the stands too, giving way to the hardier colored cellophane.
Now, I happen to be one of those people who like their polvoron PLAIN. Whoever got the bright idea of adding pinipig into the mix just ruined the formula as far as I'm concerned. But I'm a purist, and not always in tune with the times, which was why I wasn't surprised that the fancy-schmanzy polvorons in my pasalubong sported snooty pedigrees of kasoy and cookies and cream.
Evolution or devolution?
Well, the jury's still out on that one.
I, for one, am happy with the way tuyo and tawilis evolved from poor man's fare to their present stature, their names elevated side-by-side with gastronomic giants such as olive oil and capers.
But I declare a downturn when it comes to my childhood favorites. Just like my Mom and mother-in-law lamented the disappearance of heko from the manggang hilaw of their younger days (now replaced by bagoong alamang), I decry the devolution of the yema, the polvoron and the pastillas de leche.
Is it just me who thinks all of these native delicacies tasted much better, way back when they were still produced in small homemade batches? Or sold in no-name bakeshops in nondescript cardboard boxes, sometimes wrapped in festive holiday paper around Christmas?
Have time and commerce corrupted the simple formulas of the past? I hope not. Indeed, the return of the simple yema has restored my faith in those small cottage industries and enterpreneurs who still cater to quality over commercialism.
If only I could speak to the owners of Sevilla's pastillas de leche right now, I would praise them for their packaging and chastise them for their formula. For what is the good of having a glossy, tourist-catching uniform box a la Hawaiian Holiday when your wares inside harden to rock sugar within days of opening?
I am a simple girl of simple tastes. And I speak for every Pinoy and Pinay, both at home and abroad, when I say that the quickest way to our hearts, (and to our WALLETS), are through our taste buds.
As to those old, original, time-tested recipes? It's simple, really.
Don't fix them if they ain't broke.
(PLUGGING: Another kind of "Pasalubong" in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Homes: Modesto, CA, The Brown House, BAGUIO, 87 Gentle Street
Part of the pleasure of having visitors from the Philippines are the pasalubongs you get from home.
I am a simple girl with simple tastes. When it comes to pasalubongs, just give me gourmet tuyo and pastillas de leche and I'll be happy as a clam.
I got hooked on gourmet tuyo when a former fiancee gave me a small jar of the Kalipayan brand as pasalubong. I hoarded that jar for months, miserly picking at each bit of fish and savoring its sweet saltiness. When I finished it, I found use for the leftover olive oil too, drizzling it on steaming hot rice to give it some flavor.
I later discovered that they sold it duty-free on PAL flights. I used to buy jars of the stuff, even though I thought the six dollars they charged for each tiny jar was outrageous.
Alas, I didn't get any gourmet tuyo this year. I got gourmet bangus and gourmet tinapa instead. The tinapa wasn't bad but the bangus was a disappointment.
The pastillas de leche I got weren't too hot either. I like the ones coated with granulated sugar, but this particular brand (Sevilla's) was too sweet. I prefer the ones from Red Ribbon, or my childhood favorite, Merced Bake Shop. But, since I'm more than a hop, skip and jump away from the nearest Red Ribbon and oceans away from the Merced of old, I just settled down to enjoy my too-sweet-treats.
However, my Auntie Evelyn sent me something which more than made up for the disappointment: GIANT versions of the yemas I used to love when I was a child, made in that familiar pyramid shape and wrapped in the same colored cellophane.
It's almost impossible to come by these delicacies in this day and age. In fact, when I was a teenager, the yemas they were already selling were the round kind, with a hard coating of caramelized sugar. They were okay, but I didn't like them as much as the simple yemas of my younger days.
Auntie Evelyn also sent us a box of polvoron. Polvoron has certainly gone a long way from the days my Mom and yayas used to make it in our kitchen in Baguio. I remember them packing the flour-and-sugar powder into little oval molds, and pushing them out into the center of colorful little squares of papel de japon.
Through the years, I saw the lowly polvoron get dolled-up and fancified in commercial bake shops, the tiny oval shape giving way to bigger circles with fluted edges. The papel de japon has all but disappared from the stands too, giving way to the hardier colored cellophane.
Now, I happen to be one of those people who like their polvoron PLAIN. Whoever got the bright idea of adding pinipig into the mix just ruined the formula as far as I'm concerned. But I'm a purist, and not always in tune with the times, which was why I wasn't surprised that the fancy-schmanzy polvorons in my pasalubong sported snooty pedigrees of kasoy and cookies and cream.
Evolution or devolution?
Well, the jury's still out on that one.
I, for one, am happy with the way tuyo and tawilis evolved from poor man's fare to their present stature, their names elevated side-by-side with gastronomic giants such as olive oil and capers.
But I declare a downturn when it comes to my childhood favorites. Just like my Mom and mother-in-law lamented the disappearance of heko from the manggang hilaw of their younger days (now replaced by bagoong alamang), I decry the devolution of the yema, the polvoron and the pastillas de leche.
Is it just me who thinks all of these native delicacies tasted much better, way back when they were still produced in small homemade batches? Or sold in no-name bakeshops in nondescript cardboard boxes, sometimes wrapped in festive holiday paper around Christmas?
Have time and commerce corrupted the simple formulas of the past? I hope not. Indeed, the return of the simple yema has restored my faith in those small cottage industries and enterpreneurs who still cater to quality over commercialism.
If only I could speak to the owners of Sevilla's pastillas de leche right now, I would praise them for their packaging and chastise them for their formula. For what is the good of having a glossy, tourist-catching uniform box a la Hawaiian Holiday when your wares inside harden to rock sugar within days of opening?
I am a simple girl of simple tastes. And I speak for every Pinoy and Pinay, both at home and abroad, when I say that the quickest way to our hearts, (and to our WALLETS), are through our taste buds.
As to those old, original, time-tested recipes? It's simple, really.
Don't fix them if they ain't broke.
(PLUGGING: Another kind of "Pasalubong" in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
MUSIC 21
Home: Traders Hotel
It was getting chilly out, the cold night breeze blowing in from Manila Bay.
Luneta Park had already woven its magic upon us. The night was still young. We wanted to savor it some more.
But we had to savor it someplace else. My denim sundress was a little too flimsy to protect me against the elements. Even with the mild weather, I still felt exposed somehow.
So we decided to head for familiar territory.
Our first stop was Ratsky in Greenhills, his old watering hole. Ratsky is owned by his cousin, Randy Santiago. He used to be a regular there, during its early days. But Ratsky is worthy of its own detour on The Long Way Home, so I won't talk about it much on this post.
Next, we went to my old watering hole, Motions at the Centerpoint Hotel in Manila. Again, this place has its own stop on The Long Way Home, so all I'll say for now is that we saw my good friend, Pol Antonio there.
There wasn't much going on in Motions. Even my dance instructor, Boyet, wasn't there, which was just as well. I was feeling so giddy from the first blush of love that I was in no mood to dance anyway.
We hooked up with Pol and decided to head over to Music 21 in Makati. Music 21 is where my karaoke journey began. I used to go there with my friend, Dada Carlos, along with other members of our barkada, the Rub-a-Dubs. We used to sing up a storm until the wee hours of the morning, fueled by calamares and iced tea. Through many return visits, I finally learned how to compliment my voice through proper positioning of the mic, tricks which were alien to me during my choir days.
Pol was another karaoke bar denizen. He even had a signature song, "Paradise", which never failed to leave the audience in stitches. I knew Pol was game when it came to singing, but I wasn't sure about my new beau. I was just happy that Lorenzo didn't object to going to a karaoke bar, which was a promising sign.
When we got to Music 21, Lorenzo was relieved to see the location's setup. He did express apprehension about singing in front of strangers when we first mentioned karaoke, but we reassured him that it would take place in a very private setting.
We ordered our food and drinks and started choosing our numbers from the song books. We insisted that Pol do the first song, since we were still in the shy stages of our relationship. And then it was my turn. I don't remember what I sang anymore, but I'm sure it was a noisy song from either Pat Benater or Heart, or maybe even Joan Jett and the Black Hearts. (Is it obvious I'm a frustrated rocker as well?)
Maybe I DID sing "I Love Rock-N-Roll" because I remember his surprise at the uncharacteristic choice of music, and his loud claps of approval after.
And then it was HIS turn to sing and I remember it just like it was yesterday. He sang "Just Once", and he sang it well too, James Ingram growl and all.
We sang late into the night and I was happy as a clam, content in the knowledge that we had found one more thing we had in common.
Both of us loved to sing.
But the biggest surprise that night was yet to come. And it came in the form of a song. I had programmed "With You I'm Born Again" into the system, hoping Lorenzo knew it. I have always loved this song, and used to sing it with Dada all the time. She was versatile enough to make the duet sound good, even though we were both female.
I didn't have high hopes at first, and was surprised that Lorenzo seemed to know the opening verse. I sang the next verse on cue, thinking (hmmm...so far so good), and we continued taking turns, singing our respective parts.
And then the chorus came. He sang "Come bring me your softness..." and I blended my voice with his, being used to the harmonization from my many practice sessions with Dada. My senses were fine-tuned to listen for any hesitation on his part, but Lorenzo continued just like it was the most natural thing on earth.
And then it was my turn to sing the following verse, and to my surprise, he sang second voice. Flawlessly. It was like we had been singing this song all our lives. And the feeling was awesome. Giddy. Hair-raising even.
We finished the song beautifully, blending and all, still in our own little world together until the final notes faded.
The spell was broken by Pol's applause. He was dumbfounded when we told him it was the very first time we ever sang that song together. He even expressed doubt, saying there was no way we could sing it that well unless we sang it before, but the look of happy surprise on our faces must've convinced him in the end.
This is why, to this very day, we still consider it our song.
Pol would later be found murdered in his own house, just seven weeks after that karaoke date. They still haven't found his killer to this day.
I would like to dedicate this song to my dear departed friend, Pol Antonio, and to my former singing partner, Dada Carlos, who is dealing with a recent loss of her own.
WITH YOU I'M BORN AGAIN
Billy Preston & Syreeta
Written by David Shire and Carol Connors
Come bring me your softness
Comfort me through all this madness
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again
Come give me your sweetness
Now there's you, there is no weakness
Lying safe within your arms, I'm born again
I was half, not whole
In step with none
Reaching through this world
In need of one
Come show me your kindness
In your arms I know I'll find this
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again
Lying safe with you I'm born again
Come bring me your softness
Comfort me through all this madness
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again
Come give me your sweetness
Now there's you, there is no weakness
Lying safe within your arms, I'm born again
(Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again)
I was half, not whole
In step with none
Reaching through this world
In need of one
Come show me your kindness
In your arms I know I'll find this
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again
Lying safe with you I'm born again
(PLUGGING: "Art For Heart's Sake", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Home: Traders Hotel
It was getting chilly out, the cold night breeze blowing in from Manila Bay.
Luneta Park had already woven its magic upon us. The night was still young. We wanted to savor it some more.
But we had to savor it someplace else. My denim sundress was a little too flimsy to protect me against the elements. Even with the mild weather, I still felt exposed somehow.
So we decided to head for familiar territory.
Our first stop was Ratsky in Greenhills, his old watering hole. Ratsky is owned by his cousin, Randy Santiago. He used to be a regular there, during its early days. But Ratsky is worthy of its own detour on The Long Way Home, so I won't talk about it much on this post.
Next, we went to my old watering hole, Motions at the Centerpoint Hotel in Manila. Again, this place has its own stop on The Long Way Home, so all I'll say for now is that we saw my good friend, Pol Antonio there.
There wasn't much going on in Motions. Even my dance instructor, Boyet, wasn't there, which was just as well. I was feeling so giddy from the first blush of love that I was in no mood to dance anyway.
We hooked up with Pol and decided to head over to Music 21 in Makati. Music 21 is where my karaoke journey began. I used to go there with my friend, Dada Carlos, along with other members of our barkada, the Rub-a-Dubs. We used to sing up a storm until the wee hours of the morning, fueled by calamares and iced tea. Through many return visits, I finally learned how to compliment my voice through proper positioning of the mic, tricks which were alien to me during my choir days.
Pol was another karaoke bar denizen. He even had a signature song, "Paradise", which never failed to leave the audience in stitches. I knew Pol was game when it came to singing, but I wasn't sure about my new beau. I was just happy that Lorenzo didn't object to going to a karaoke bar, which was a promising sign.
When we got to Music 21, Lorenzo was relieved to see the location's setup. He did express apprehension about singing in front of strangers when we first mentioned karaoke, but we reassured him that it would take place in a very private setting.
We ordered our food and drinks and started choosing our numbers from the song books. We insisted that Pol do the first song, since we were still in the shy stages of our relationship. And then it was my turn. I don't remember what I sang anymore, but I'm sure it was a noisy song from either Pat Benater or Heart, or maybe even Joan Jett and the Black Hearts. (Is it obvious I'm a frustrated rocker as well?)
Maybe I DID sing "I Love Rock-N-Roll" because I remember his surprise at the uncharacteristic choice of music, and his loud claps of approval after.
And then it was HIS turn to sing and I remember it just like it was yesterday. He sang "Just Once", and he sang it well too, James Ingram growl and all.
We sang late into the night and I was happy as a clam, content in the knowledge that we had found one more thing we had in common.
Both of us loved to sing.
But the biggest surprise that night was yet to come. And it came in the form of a song. I had programmed "With You I'm Born Again" into the system, hoping Lorenzo knew it. I have always loved this song, and used to sing it with Dada all the time. She was versatile enough to make the duet sound good, even though we were both female.
I didn't have high hopes at first, and was surprised that Lorenzo seemed to know the opening verse. I sang the next verse on cue, thinking (hmmm...so far so good), and we continued taking turns, singing our respective parts.
And then the chorus came. He sang "Come bring me your softness..." and I blended my voice with his, being used to the harmonization from my many practice sessions with Dada. My senses were fine-tuned to listen for any hesitation on his part, but Lorenzo continued just like it was the most natural thing on earth.
And then it was my turn to sing the following verse, and to my surprise, he sang second voice. Flawlessly. It was like we had been singing this song all our lives. And the feeling was awesome. Giddy. Hair-raising even.
We finished the song beautifully, blending and all, still in our own little world together until the final notes faded.
The spell was broken by Pol's applause. He was dumbfounded when we told him it was the very first time we ever sang that song together. He even expressed doubt, saying there was no way we could sing it that well unless we sang it before, but the look of happy surprise on our faces must've convinced him in the end.
This is why, to this very day, we still consider it our song.
Pol would later be found murdered in his own house, just seven weeks after that karaoke date. They still haven't found his killer to this day.
I would like to dedicate this song to my dear departed friend, Pol Antonio, and to my former singing partner, Dada Carlos, who is dealing with a recent loss of her own.
WITH YOU I'M BORN AGAIN
Billy Preston & Syreeta
Written by David Shire and Carol Connors
Come bring me your softness
Comfort me through all this madness
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again
Come give me your sweetness
Now there's you, there is no weakness
Lying safe within your arms, I'm born again
I was half, not whole
In step with none
Reaching through this world
In need of one
Come show me your kindness
In your arms I know I'll find this
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again
Lying safe with you I'm born again
Come bring me your softness
Comfort me through all this madness
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again
Come give me your sweetness
Now there's you, there is no weakness
Lying safe within your arms, I'm born again
(Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again)
I was half, not whole
In step with none
Reaching through this world
In need of one
Come show me your kindness
In your arms I know I'll find this
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again
Lying safe with you I'm born again
(PLUGGING: "Art For Heart's Sake", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
LUNETA PARK
Home: 87 Gentle Street
Luneta has always been a symbol of home for me.
When I was a child, a trip to Luneta was a big deal to us, probably because it was quite a distance away from our childhood home, 87 Gentle Street, which was in Quezon City.
The Luneta of my memories was a lot cleaner and greener. We used to ride bikes there in the daytime, befriending other children playing in the swings and slides so they would agree to take turns with us. When we got hungry, we usually ate at the famous restaurant which hired deaf-and-dumb people as waiters and waitresses.
We used to go to Luneta at night too. Indeed, after Manila Bay's famous sunset was spent, the park would turn into a magical fairyland. I remember gawking at the talented skaters rolling their way around the lighted globe fountain while vendors noisily plied their wares.
Baluuuut!
When we got hungry, our parents would take us to the many kiosks conveniently scattered here and there, ordering ice-cold bottled Royal Tru-Orange and those delicious sandwiches, cut in wedges and wrapped in plastic, usually bearing ham, tuna, chicken or egg salad in their moist and chewy centers.
When we got older, Luneta would always be a destination for school field trips. There was the planetarium, just across the street, and the Rizal monument, so dramatically depicted in those ubuquitous "Jose Rizal" books written by Camilo Osias, which was required reading when I was in Elementary school.
And then there was Manila Bay, always the finale of our trips to Luneta. No matter what we would be doing, we would eventually find ourselves drawn to the water's edge.
Indeed, how could anyone resist the siren call of the waves as they crashed upon the rocks at the bottom of the sea wall?
LUNETA PARK
Home: Traders Hotel, Manila
Luneta has always been a place for lovers.
When I was a child, I used to steal glances at couples kissing on the sea wall, or gaze at them frankly as they lounged on picnic blankets, one's head usually perched on the lap of another.
Little did I know back then that love would cast a spell on me on that very same spot, decades hence.
For indeed, Lorenzo and I had our first date in Luneta.
I was a TV news anchor on primetime news. He was a struggling AmBoy, trying his luck in Philippine showbiz. I had bodyguards and lived in a hotel suite. He had his good looks and the last of a measly movie paycheck.
He had yet to embark on his modeling career, which would eventually bring him success and recognition. But during those first days together, my husband-to-be was an aspiring actor whose biggest thing he had going for him was his heart.
Yet he asked me out. I didn't know how much money he had then but I knew, being the gentleman he was, that he would insist on paying the tab. He asked me where I wanted to go. I told him I was craving for Chow King food and suggested we take some out and eat at Luneta.
So there we were, him with his beef stew, me with my sweet-and-sour pork, both of us sharing an order of Kangkong with Chinese Bagoong. We even had enough money for dessert, halu-halo!
And after our meal, we strolled along the sea wall hand-in-hand like lovers of memories past, sitting on a bench under the Manila Hotel's shadow, whispering sweet nothings to each other. We were in our own little world, unmindful of those around us.
I wasn't afraid. I knew my bodyguards, former members of the Presidential Security Group, would shield me from potential snatchers and hold-uppers, that's if the sight of my muscle-bound beau didn't scare them off first.
But there were other eyes following our slow progress by the sea wall. Eyes of curious, gawking children. And yes, we let them stare.
Because on that night, I had graduated from gawker to gawkee.
And it was time to pass the baton.
(PLUGGING: "When Words Are Not Enough", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Home: 87 Gentle Street
Luneta has always been a symbol of home for me.
When I was a child, a trip to Luneta was a big deal to us, probably because it was quite a distance away from our childhood home, 87 Gentle Street, which was in Quezon City.
The Luneta of my memories was a lot cleaner and greener. We used to ride bikes there in the daytime, befriending other children playing in the swings and slides so they would agree to take turns with us. When we got hungry, we usually ate at the famous restaurant which hired deaf-and-dumb people as waiters and waitresses.
We used to go to Luneta at night too. Indeed, after Manila Bay's famous sunset was spent, the park would turn into a magical fairyland. I remember gawking at the talented skaters rolling their way around the lighted globe fountain while vendors noisily plied their wares.
Baluuuut!
When we got hungry, our parents would take us to the many kiosks conveniently scattered here and there, ordering ice-cold bottled Royal Tru-Orange and those delicious sandwiches, cut in wedges and wrapped in plastic, usually bearing ham, tuna, chicken or egg salad in their moist and chewy centers.
When we got older, Luneta would always be a destination for school field trips. There was the planetarium, just across the street, and the Rizal monument, so dramatically depicted in those ubuquitous "Jose Rizal" books written by Camilo Osias, which was required reading when I was in Elementary school.
And then there was Manila Bay, always the finale of our trips to Luneta. No matter what we would be doing, we would eventually find ourselves drawn to the water's edge.
Indeed, how could anyone resist the siren call of the waves as they crashed upon the rocks at the bottom of the sea wall?
LUNETA PARK
Home: Traders Hotel, Manila
Luneta has always been a place for lovers.
When I was a child, I used to steal glances at couples kissing on the sea wall, or gaze at them frankly as they lounged on picnic blankets, one's head usually perched on the lap of another.
Little did I know back then that love would cast a spell on me on that very same spot, decades hence.
For indeed, Lorenzo and I had our first date in Luneta.
I was a TV news anchor on primetime news. He was a struggling AmBoy, trying his luck in Philippine showbiz. I had bodyguards and lived in a hotel suite. He had his good looks and the last of a measly movie paycheck.
He had yet to embark on his modeling career, which would eventually bring him success and recognition. But during those first days together, my husband-to-be was an aspiring actor whose biggest thing he had going for him was his heart.
Yet he asked me out. I didn't know how much money he had then but I knew, being the gentleman he was, that he would insist on paying the tab. He asked me where I wanted to go. I told him I was craving for Chow King food and suggested we take some out and eat at Luneta.
So there we were, him with his beef stew, me with my sweet-and-sour pork, both of us sharing an order of Kangkong with Chinese Bagoong. We even had enough money for dessert, halu-halo!
And after our meal, we strolled along the sea wall hand-in-hand like lovers of memories past, sitting on a bench under the Manila Hotel's shadow, whispering sweet nothings to each other. We were in our own little world, unmindful of those around us.
I wasn't afraid. I knew my bodyguards, former members of the Presidential Security Group, would shield me from potential snatchers and hold-uppers, that's if the sight of my muscle-bound beau didn't scare them off first.
But there were other eyes following our slow progress by the sea wall. Eyes of curious, gawking children. And yes, we let them stare.
Because on that night, I had graduated from gawker to gawkee.
And it was time to pass the baton.
(PLUGGING: "When Words Are Not Enough", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)
Monday, May 23, 2005
VICTIMS
Home: 87 Gentle Street
I am a genuine MTV Baby.
I was in High School when MTV first burst into the music scene during the eighties. And just like every impressionable teenager who wore Go-Go skirts and Madonna curls, I openly embraced the media revolution which would eventually change the music world as we knew it.
During that time warp when LP's were getting passe and CD's were largely unknown to the general public, I amassed quite a compilation of cassettes from groups like, well, General Public! Of course I had the standard-issue Duran Duran, Tears for Fears, DePeche Mode, Thompson Twins, and Howard Jones, among many others. But my personal favorite was far removed from the cookie-cutter British invader: Culture Club.
Indeed, the band, particularly their lead singer, Boy George (nee George O'Dowd) was so unique that it couldn't be pigeonholed into any single genre. Okay, so I confess to being a true-blue Boy George junkie in High School, still innocent of the fact that Boy George, even then, was already a junkie.
The first song I really liked from them was "Time (Clock of the Heart)" from their "Kissing to be Clever" CD (oops, I keep forgetting they were called LP's back then!), which received heavy airplay from the popular mobile DJ's at the time.
Ironically, it was through my involvement with one particular mobile outfit that I was able to convince them to play a rarely-heard song, "Victims", the obscure last track on the B-side of Culture Club's "Color By Numbers" CD. It was one of the rare ballads tthat would come from the group.
I can still remember slow-dancing to it on our Graduation Ball, with someone who would eventually be my first serious boyfriend. Listening to its haunting melody and Boy George's plaintive singing, it's no wonder a spell was cast upon us that night, within the dark, strobe-lit confines of the ballroom at the Valle Verde Country Club.
Listening to the lyrics now, the song's dark undertones of obsession and unrequited love are quite obvious. Even the title "Victims", should've clued me in at the very beginning. But I was bright-eyed, bushy-browed and barely out of High School, and did I mention infatuated with a cross-dressing British pop icon who was obviously misunderstood and heterosexual to boot?
Little did I know back then that my beloved song, that romantic ballad which would eventually become our theme song, was written by Boy George specifically for his on-again-off-again lover, the group's drummer, Jon Moss.
Oh shattered innocence of youth.
VICTIMS
Culture Club
Written by George O'Dowd
The victims we know so well
They shine in your eyes when they kiss and tell
Strange places we've never seen
But you're always there like a ghost in my dream
And I keep on telling you
Please don't do the things you do.
When you do those things
Pull my puppet strings
I've the strangest void for you.
Oh...hmmm...
Pull the strings of emotion
Take a ride into unknown pleasure
Feel like a child on a dark night
Wishing there was some kind of heaven
Oh I could be warm with you smiling
Hold out your hands for a while
The victims we know them so well.
So well.
We love and we never tell
What chases our hearts to the wishing well
Love leads us into the stream
And it's sink or swim like it's always been
And I keep on loving you
It's the only thing to do
When the angels sing
There are greater things
Can I give them all to you?
Oh...hmmm...
Pull the strings of emotion
Take a ride into unknown pleasure
Feel like a child on a dark night
Wishing we could spend it together
Oh I could be warm with you smiling
Hold out your hands for a while
The victims we know them so well.
So well.
(Taken from The Prada Mama Chronicles, May 23, 2005 entry.)
Home: 87 Gentle Street
I am a genuine MTV Baby.
I was in High School when MTV first burst into the music scene during the eighties. And just like every impressionable teenager who wore Go-Go skirts and Madonna curls, I openly embraced the media revolution which would eventually change the music world as we knew it.
During that time warp when LP's were getting passe and CD's were largely unknown to the general public, I amassed quite a compilation of cassettes from groups like, well, General Public! Of course I had the standard-issue Duran Duran, Tears for Fears, DePeche Mode, Thompson Twins, and Howard Jones, among many others. But my personal favorite was far removed from the cookie-cutter British invader: Culture Club.
Indeed, the band, particularly their lead singer, Boy George (nee George O'Dowd) was so unique that it couldn't be pigeonholed into any single genre. Okay, so I confess to being a true-blue Boy George junkie in High School, still innocent of the fact that Boy George, even then, was already a junkie.
The first song I really liked from them was "Time (Clock of the Heart)" from their "Kissing to be Clever" CD (oops, I keep forgetting they were called LP's back then!), which received heavy airplay from the popular mobile DJ's at the time.
Ironically, it was through my involvement with one particular mobile outfit that I was able to convince them to play a rarely-heard song, "Victims", the obscure last track on the B-side of Culture Club's "Color By Numbers" CD. It was one of the rare ballads tthat would come from the group.
I can still remember slow-dancing to it on our Graduation Ball, with someone who would eventually be my first serious boyfriend. Listening to its haunting melody and Boy George's plaintive singing, it's no wonder a spell was cast upon us that night, within the dark, strobe-lit confines of the ballroom at the Valle Verde Country Club.
Listening to the lyrics now, the song's dark undertones of obsession and unrequited love are quite obvious. Even the title "Victims", should've clued me in at the very beginning. But I was bright-eyed, bushy-browed and barely out of High School, and did I mention infatuated with a cross-dressing British pop icon who was obviously misunderstood and heterosexual to boot?
Little did I know back then that my beloved song, that romantic ballad which would eventually become our theme song, was written by Boy George specifically for his on-again-off-again lover, the group's drummer, Jon Moss.
Oh shattered innocence of youth.
VICTIMS
Culture Club
Written by George O'Dowd
The victims we know so well
They shine in your eyes when they kiss and tell
Strange places we've never seen
But you're always there like a ghost in my dream
And I keep on telling you
Please don't do the things you do.
When you do those things
Pull my puppet strings
I've the strangest void for you.
Oh...hmmm...
Pull the strings of emotion
Take a ride into unknown pleasure
Feel like a child on a dark night
Wishing there was some kind of heaven
Oh I could be warm with you smiling
Hold out your hands for a while
The victims we know them so well.
So well.
We love and we never tell
What chases our hearts to the wishing well
Love leads us into the stream
And it's sink or swim like it's always been
And I keep on loving you
It's the only thing to do
When the angels sing
There are greater things
Can I give them all to you?
Oh...hmmm...
Pull the strings of emotion
Take a ride into unknown pleasure
Feel like a child on a dark night
Wishing we could spend it together
Oh I could be warm with you smiling
Hold out your hands for a while
The victims we know them so well.
So well.
(Taken from The Prada Mama Chronicles, May 23, 2005 entry.)
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