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In a brief conversation,
a man asked a woman
he was pursuing the question:
“What kind of man are you looking for?”
She sat quietly for a moment before
looking him in the eye and asking,
“Do you really want to know?”
Reluctantly, he said “Yes.”
She began to expound…
“As a woman in this day and age,
I am in a position to ask a man
what he can do for me that I can’t do for myself.
I pay my own bills. I take care of my household
without the help of any man…
or woman for that matter.
I am in the position to ask,
“What can you bring to the table?”
The man looked at her.
Clearly he thought that she was referring to
money.
She quickly corrected his thought and stated,
“I am not referring to money.
I need something more.
I need a man who is striving for perfection
in every aspect of life.”
He sat back in his chair, folded his arms,
and asked her to explain.
She said “I am looking for someone
who is striving for excellence mentally
because I need conversation and mental
stimulation.
I don’t need a simple-minded man.
“I am looking for someone
who is striving for excellence spiritually
because I don’t need to be unequally yoked…
believers mixed with unbelievers is a recipe for
disaster.
“I need a man who is striving for excellence
financially because
I don’t need a financial burden.
“I am looking for someone
who I can respect. In order to be submissive,
I must respect him. I cannot be submissive to a man
who isn’t taking care of his business.
I have no problem being submissive…
he just has to be worthy.
“God made woman to be a help mate for man.
I can’t help a man if he can’t help himself.”
When she finished her spiel, she looked at him.
He sat there with a puzzled look on his face.
He said, “You are asking a lot.”
She replied, “I’m worth a lot.”
I was in a cab, on my way to work. The weather outside seemed to threaten me with a downpour but didn’t have the cojones to do so. MMDA was up and about, cleaning the streets. Then, Trisha Yearwood came on the radio ..
how do I get through one night without you .. if I had to live without you .. what kind of life would that be ..
Cabbie: Hi, Ma. Naririnig mo ba? (Can you hear it?) Cabbie’s Ma: Oo. (laughs) Bakit? (Why?) Cabbie: Wala lang. Gusto ko lang sabihin, ay lab yu. (giggles) <— yes, he actually giggled (Nothing. I just wanted to say, I love you.) Cabbie’s Ma: (laughs) Cabbie: Anong ginagawa ninyo? (What are you doing?) Cabbie’s Ma: (inaudible) Cabbie: Ah, sige. Yun lang. Bye. Ay lab yu. (Ok. That was it. Bye. I love you.)Cabbie (to me): Si Kumander. Tinatawagan ko siya kapag may naririnig akong kanta sa radyo. Kahit matanda na. (The commander. I call her whenever I hear a (love)song on the radio. Even though we’re old.)
I am jaded.
Lola Giling only has two grandchildren. Me and my sister. I can’t even be there for her funeral.
It’s official. Depression has set in.
I used to spend summers between both sets of grandparents. My Lola Giling lived in a small island called Camiguin off the main shores of Mindanao with her second husband. She lived simply and without wants. She ran a little sari-sari store that sold canned goods, hard cookies, cigarettes, and rubber bands. Whenever my sister and I visited, she gave us free reign of the little store. Unabashedly, my sister and I abused it and ate all the cookies we could get our hands on. She never reprimanded us for a single thing.
In the little island that she lived on, there was only one main road. And that road separated us from the white beaches of Camiguin. There was this one summer, long ago, when the waves from the beach would reach the main road, flooding it a good inch / inch-and-a-half. Lying on the road was like lying on a shallow river bed. And there was never a fear of getting run over. The road was so narrow, that you could just roll over and be on the other side. We would wake up to the sound of the waves on the other side of the road. A tsunami couldn’t stop us from playing at the beach. That was the summer when I burned myself to a crisp. We were up before the sun (and the chickens). When my Lola would come looking for us, she didn’t need to ask the neighbors our whereabouts. We would always be at the beach. My sister and I were never picky eaters. We ate what was served. No matter what it was. Raw fish, marinated squid, sea planktons, you name it, (they caught it) we ate it. But Lola would always ask us. And the only response we could give was Pork and Beans. Imagine that, a whole summer of nothing but pork and beans.
My Dad loved my Lola. More than any of us, I take it. She was the only woman in his life that never disappointed him. In a way, I was jealous. She could never do anything wrong simply because she was his mother. Having him was enough. My Dad wasn’t lavished with the comforts of a stable family and childhood. He had to grow up very fast with different people in different places. Lola was a young, unwed, mother who was trying to make it for the sake of her child. There was no husband beside her. And back then, this was such a great shame. Thus, she had to “pawn” him off to relatives to look after him. It’s a little bit sad. But we do what we all must do to survive, right? We make sacrifices and choices and pray that in the end, we made the right ones.
There is no relevance to these stories whatsoever. I just needed to write them down. I don’t want to dwell in the past, but I’d like to think that I’ll still remember some of it.
It’s almost dinner time. I think I’ll go have a can of pork and beans.
My dad’s cousin’s husband (complicated, I know) died last week due to lung cancer. I can’t say that I’m surprised. He was persistent with his smokes. No matter what you told him, he’d just brush you off. It’s not like I didn’t try. So I don’t feel guilty about his death. I’m terrible, right? I mean, I lived with him and his family for half a year in New York and I sound like I haven’t even met him. Well, the time I spent with them weren’t exactly the best days of my life. But I’ve never wished them harm .. only what they deserve. And sometimes there’s really no one to blame.
My Grandma passed away last night. I feel guilty for not having picked up Dad’s call. I thought it was his annoying routine callup. He just probably wanted to tell me the bad news. I’m sure my Dad’s pretty broken up about it, which makes this ordeal all the more awkward to deal with. My Dad always said that there’s nothing else that will matter in the long run more than family. Cliche but true. My Dad’s been through a lot and he knows the sacrifices his mother made for him. And he never let his daughters forget the sacrifices he made, in turn, for her. I want to go to the funeral. But I can’t. I’m stuck at work. And for this, I feel guilty. At least my sister will be flying out there for the burial. My Lola didn’t even get a chance to meet Isabella.
I’m just surrounded by tragedy this week. It’s making me feel awful.
There’s been a lot of hullaballo and name calling and cussing .. *sigh* Blogging is an ugly, ugly business. It becomes such a lie especially when you can’t bitch about someone that is a (somewhat) regular reader. Do I keep my mouth closed? Do I just bottle up the anger and the profanity? Or do we play Ken and Barbie and be plastic about it all? Do we write in codes, like when musicians (not emo) write theirs with a melody? Of course, we shant name names. We give acknowledgement to their presence with a praise-full name (ie. Papa Canna or Super Stevie) or something simply derrogatory and common (ie. ho), much like their actual personalities. Oh, what to do, what to do.
I suppose I can come off as harsh .. but there are people way more wicked than me. They’re just much more clever at disguising how evil they are. I, on the other hand, write from my (cold, cold) heart. I DID NOT DRAW FIRST BLOOD. I didn’t even take revenge. I simply chose to “react” in a passive-agressive manner. Now, if they choose to really duke it out, then the gloves will HAVE to come off.
Whoever said, “Stick and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me”, surely cried themselves to sleep at night.
Last night wasn’t so bad. My sister had to supervise the destruction of our condo so she decided that she’d rather sleep over there than commute back and forth everyday. I, however, took this opportunity to get away from that house and live where someone else did the cleaning. In any case, I caught up on sleep before Lolo came home and proceeded with his rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons .. or Andrew E’s Alabang Girls .. you know, I couldn’t really tell. It all sounded the effin’ same to me .. NOISE. Why, oh why, did I have to be a light sleeper?
But it’s all good because I decided to sleep in and arrive at work after lunch. I knew Lolo left early for work, giving me extra time with the pillows without the urge to smother myself to death in my sleep. Ah .. just me and the A/C and pillows and bed and .. WTF?! Wouldn’t you know it, the room, directly upstairs from my Dad’s condo, was undergoing construction. *proceeds to tear out hair*
I mean, really. What are the odds of me getting kicked out of my house, staying over in Makati, with my Dad’s worsened snoring conditions, and a goddamn construction happening in the same fucking week? IN. THE. SAME. FUCKING. WEEK?!
Somebody up there REALLY loves me.
Finally, an away win. And a little reason to rejoice.
Even without Stevie. HA! In your face Jose! In your face Sir Alex!
We are NOT a one-man team!
The Beanpole a header in the second half to win the match.
Who’s your daddy?
Riise and Reina rejoice for Crouchie.
Number 1: I’m homeless.
As we speak, my house is being ripped up. They’re tearing up the old flooring that had been water logged due to storms and putting in new floors. Parquet no less. Last night, I came home and found my bed in the hallway. All my crap took up the entire downstairs living room. Of course they just had to be flung aside and piled on top of each other. Ugh. My sister got her guy friends to move all that furniture. Finally, these “band people” were put to good use. These strapping boys towered over me and double of my width. And now that I’m pregnant, that’s saying something. I can’t believe the ton of crap I’ve accumulated over the years. And I can’t believe that Lolo was making me throw out my magazines and books. My clothes, I might consider throwing out. But my books?! I’d rather live in a Balikbayan Box selling pencils. I ended up sleeping over at his swanky (and I do use the term loosely) bachelor pad. Que horror. Mi papa. Bachelor. *shudder* *shudder*
Number 2: I am seriously lacking sleep.
Between the baby and the pillow situation (there weren’t enough at Lolo’s condo; let us all take note that I need between 4 and 6 pillows, just for myself) I was already in hell trying to get some shut eye. But of course, sleeping over the Furher’s place (syn. my college quarters) brought back all the reasons why I never liked studio-type condominiums in the first place, Snoremaster 2006 Remix. I drove myself crazy trying to block out the noise but it’s only gotten worse over the years. AAARRRGGGHHH. The clock reads 4:03 am. Not an ounce of sleep. So I retreat. I know when I’m beat. I surrender and take to my familiar college sleeping/ studying/ typing/ researching/ bathing/ brushing of teeth grounds, the bathroom. Surely that tiny fan was still in there. Indeed it was. I turned it on and sat on the toilet bowl to cool myself off. Ah .. memories. The bathroom where I did all the thesis and cramming for Hell Week. The bathroom where I stayed up all night preparing for an early morning PR presentation. Oh, how familiar your cold tiles feel under my feet.
Number 3: I think I turned on the idiot magnet this morning.
I managed to get an hour’s worth of “sleep” before being woken up by that dreadful sun. The roosters crowing from down the street did not help at all. You’d think I could escape the cocks now that I was in the city. Ihodela .. There was nothing else left to do but get my whale of an ass off to work. Today just turned out to be one of those days where you think you’re going to escape mad conversations about books and godparents, but noooo. Somebody just had to get on your nerves even when you’ve told them not to. Why don’t people just listen? Especially to deranged, psychotic, pregnant women? Do they think we’re kidding? Do we LOOK like we’re kidding?! We’re carrying 6 pounds of another human being in us. There is NOTHING funny about THAT. Maybe I’m just cranky from not having slept well for the past few days .. maybe I just nee .. nope .. they’re idiots.
