Exercising My Writes

Which Kind of Victim Are You

2012-02-01T09:52:00.030+08:00

You can try to hurt my feelings, but that's all you can do.
You can get satisfaction out of it, but that's all you can have.
It can make you feel better for a while, but that's all that it lasts.
If by offending me you feel happy with yourself, then my dues are done.
I can look you straight in the eye, anytime, the guilt of offense isn't mine.---Espie Corpuz.

I posted this on Facebook sometime ago and not a few reacted positively to the message it brought forward. The posting was brought about by some little incidents in the past and present when certain individuals who feel that it's their duty in life to throw insults at me, did decide to be dutiful. The thing is, they're individuals whose presence or absence does not really make a dent in my own existence, even when they are being bitchy. My eyebrows raise to high heavens, my heart askance... "Now, what did I do to these people?" And that is what amuses me. They really do believe that what they have to say is a big factor in other people's lives. Call it the feeling of self-importance. I call it irrelevance.

But why a whole page on this matter? It's because, reading again the quote I made as well as the reactions to it, I did realize that this happens to everybody else in this oft-cruel world. The fact that there are individuals who enjoy hurting the feelings of others just for the heck of it, or probably because they woke up on the wrong side of the bed and fell hard on the floor that they wanted to exact revenge on whoever was in the way. Poor innocent people, the whiplash tongue spares no one.

And there are individuals who are being abrasive on purpose, because they want to create an impression of infallibility. Their philosophy, be out of character in order to build your character.

I see it as survivalism. A case of dog-eat-dog, or survival of the fittest kind of existence. But I don't believe it's moral to step on other people's feet in order to get ahead.

I see it as a feeling of self-importance. Sometimes there are people who feel that they, too, wield some power, because they are closer to God, or to the gods. "Ang langaw, pag nasampa sa likod ng kalabaw, ay mas mataas pa sa kalabaw," so goes the saying.

I see it, too, as a sign of insecurity.Why the need to prove you have character if you already have it? People who are confident of themselves do not need to keep barking in order to be noticed.

I see it, too, as escapism. People who are undergoing some emotional struggles need release. They believe the world owes them and must understand their nasty behavior because of what they are going through.

What do you call those sweet-talking maidens whose lips dripping with honey do effectively win gullible hearts, especially when up front; but as effectively up front as behind one's back, they are also able to churn out hurtful words and could easily douse off one's self-esteem?

There are some people who are subtle offenders. The lips are smiling but the tongue is wagging like some venomous snake. Well, subtle may not be the term. What could be worse that stealthy? Let me look up the proper term in the Thesaurus.

But what about the poor victims of such nastiness?

There are victims who would recoil, take insults to heart deeply, wallow in the pain and self-destruct. These are people who are weak in the core. People who have been kicked so hard they could barely stand up and defend themselves. These are the losers who are beat because they allow themselves to be.

There are those who would get hurt, but get over it and move on like nothing happened. With forgiveness or without, life goes on. They're the kind of people who are once bitten, twice shy. Or they're the kind who had become all the wiser for it.

And some even try to do better in order to show the offenders that the latter's challenges have been met, and how! These are the ones who, after having been licked, will not allow the world to see them stay that way. For them, becoming even better in life is the sweetest revenge.

And there are those who simply laugh it away, amused at the nasty people who come forward strongly like they were some demi-gods. This type of victims are not victims at all. They are victors in their own rights, and they know exactly where they stand. They know when their precious times are being wasted. And best of all, they know when to bark, especially when to bite.

Now, which kind of victim are you?

MOM ME, SOME TEN YEARS AFTER

2011-11-10T03:14:00.001+08:00

Mom Me

My children have long since grown from cute babies to cute teenagers. I would have written entries after entries of those sweet days bringing them up as infants and toddlers, and now teens, but I didn't. I feel sorry that I hadn't been able to, because my kids were each a wonder when they were growing up and reaching milestones in their developments as human beings. Oh, all the firsts were such wonders that made my heart skip a beat each time and wish I could keep those moments forever.

If you are an expectant mother, or a young mom with a first baby, you might wanna take this advice. Take time to write about those wonderful times, milestones, etc. Believe me, we all reach a point in our life when we begin looking back and missing those infant cries, innocent laughters, big round eyes, tiny arms that cling tightly around our necks, tiny bodies that fit perfectly right into our laps and our embraces, those butterfly kisses that land on our cheeks and sometimes on our lips. There will come a time when we would so wish we could go back in time...into that time...when our kids were babies, and the world was much, much simpler...despite sleepless nights and tiresome days.

Take lots of pictures, for we get to miss what they used to look like. Candid shots...taken during sleeping time, play time, school time, bath time...ups, but be careful about exposing what's supposed to stay unexposed--we don't wanna embarrass them like that in the future.

Take pictures. Create mementos. Preserve them. And when they have grown and flown the coop, those albums and memorabilia are gonna make great company.

I am now in such stage of life when I feel like reconstructing those good old days...because I miss my babies so. I hope my aging memory wouldn't fail me, but rather, give me back those times, albeit sporadically. And I shall try to put them into words as best as I could. I know in my heart this is what will help me keep going in the next half of my journey.

RE-ZIPPING IT

2011-11-10T02:53:00.000+08:00

I've written about my first ever experience to go ziplining in Lake Sebu, with colleagues and peers. It was a BLAST in the very sense of the word. Now my next entry, what do you say, is about my second time to go ziplining in Lake Sebu, again, this time with my students. Guess what, the thrill was the same, but my behavior wasn't.

All set to fly!

For when during the first time I was with peers, I had the liberty to let it all out; this time that I was with the young ones, I had to feign control. I had to show that I was brave so that I would infect them with courage...otherwise most of them would have all backed out, as I was again first to go. In other words, no screaming! Hah, that's what you think! I was screaming as loud as I could...inside. Screaming silently...hah, such oxymoron. Now I know it's for real.

Almost there!

Anyway, the experience was different this time, too, for I was able to look down and enjoy the view somehow. (Another oxymoronic expression: I was looking down on treetops.) I reigned in my voice because I didn't wanna scare the kid I was zipping with. Yeah, I didn't wanna give him a heart attack, haha!

But y'know what, in the next trip going back, I kinda screamed a bit because I got frightened by the jolting feel that wasn't there the first time. I found out the guys operating the zipline were jerking the cable to give us a bit of a scare, just for kicks. I told them when I got off not to do the same with the kids because I didn't want the young ones scared or worried. Thankfully they heeded my request.

It was the same as when I was with my peers...the kids waited for the rest to arrive at the final landing and rejoiced at every "arrival"...tight hugs, congratulations, ecstatic smiles, wobbly knees but lifted spirits...I told you, everybody becomes fraternal after the hurdle. I'm sure it was an experience they'll never forget. :-)

VENI, VIDI, VI-ZIPPED!

2011-11-10T02:49:00.003+08:00

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.--Helen Keller

Daring, indeed...for who would try to fly hill to hill with harness on your back instead of wings? It may be just a minute or less, but hey, it's gotta be the scariest minute of your lifetime.

I'm ranting about the zipline experience I had in November, 2010 during the tour to Lake Sebu of the Faculty Union Congress delegates. Yeah, that was just late last year. I never thought I would. What's an acrophobic like me doing up there in that platform getting harnessed and all and released without warning to the loooooooooooooooooooong cable like a superhero flying in the air?

I refused to think. I just went with the flow, with the prodding of my colleagues. I had to tell myself, back out and this is gonna be your lifetime's one minute of shame. How can I look them in the eye ever again had I chickened out? I'd hate myself forever for being so jaundice. So, okay...let the moment come. It's only a minute, after all. One minute of fame? One minute of SCRREeeeEEAAAaaaAMMMmmm!!!

So I chose to go first, so that everybody's eyes are on me...so that I wouldn't have the guts to back out. Mayong wanted to go first because he had to attend to other delegates, so okay, I'd go with him.

First in line, after the photographer went ahead

as advance party

Masking apprehension with smiles.

On the platform, I felt like I was being prepped for the guillotine. My legs were going queasy. I was getting cold and scared, onset to hypertensive attack.

I put on a smile, gave a nervous laugh, practiced my screaming pitch... should I go alto, soprano, or bajo?
As it turned out, I went suuper-duuper shrill and high... and...oh, there's just no name for it. Mayong said later, earwax-shattering!

I barely took in the beauty of nature spread before me as I zipped through the air. I did look, but not long enough to really take in details. I was busy getting scared. Mayong tried so hard to divert my attention from screaming, but to no avail. I did look when he said look, but I was still screaming.

How high was high? Lake Sebu's zipline is said to be the highest in the country. Oh, God be with me, Mayong was not enough to give me courage. But his presence was more than I needed to keep my wits intact while we traversed the line from point A to point B. He didn't know, maybe, but I was praying as I was screaming. I didn't know multi-tasking could ever be possible under such circumstances when you'd rather have your mind go blank and your feelings numb just so you won't feel so terrified/petrifed/horrified and all the other -fied the great Thesaurus could ever provide. And, oh, mind you, point B was more horrifying than point A. Read my lips: MORE...than.

Well, Mayong was Clark Kent and I was Lois Lane, judging from the picture taken of us as we were nearing the other side. I was screaming still even when we've reached the end (it wasn't a peaceful ending, you'd better believe me!)...and we weren't zipping anymore but were just hanging there cooling down. Well, TRYING to cool down. Tsk, tsk, the breaks just won't bite; I kept screeeeeeeching like mad.

Okay, so there was a second cable to ride going back, and it's the same old story...only shorter. You really have no choice, if you wanna go back. Take it, or roll down the slopes to get down to the falls and climb 700 steps up back to your other colleagues who said no to zipline.

When we reached the finish line, been unharnessed and were back on our feet, I felt my knees wobble like tectonic earthquake, and I felt faint. Probably Mayong was, too. With jelly legs we hobbled on to the little shops a few meters away from the landing, and sought for water. Aaah, ice cold! Good enough to soothe our windblown nerves. After rehydrating we went back to the landing area to welcome the zipliners who dared after us. The good thing about this experience is you feel like embracing every stranger who had been there, done that. You all feel so fraternal all of a sudden.

It takes a long time to get over the euphoria you feel after this experience. I felt like I deserved a pat in the back from everybody for having been so brave. I felt like, okay, I could do it better the next time around. I won't be as much afraid as I had been the first time. But...I really dunno. Let time be the judge of that. All I can say is, at one point in my life, I have dared to do something unthinkable, and I feel so proud of myself. OwSowprawdd.. No more what-ifs. Veni, vidi, vi-zipped!!!!

MT. APO: Veni, Vidi, Vici

2011-11-10T01:43:00.006+08:00

Mt Apo, Photo by Bong Maliwat

Four years ago, in April 2007, I climbed Mt. Apo with my hubby. It was a very memorable climb for me because of two reasons: first, it was my first time to go on a serious mountain climbing, not that I'd been on any non-serious climb; second, I witnessed a young man drown to death in Lake Venado.

I've written about this in my Multiply, and I am re-postingthe whole article here, with some revisions:

Ian Caasi, that's the name of the boy who drowned, according to our porter, have come down from the peak and went straight to the cold lake with his friends, probably to cool down and get cleaned up. (We ourselves had just arrived at the camp site from the seven-hour arduous walk from Lake Agco, the jump-off point where we stayed overnight. ) We saw them in the lake; they appeared to be having a great time. I saw some figures swimming to and fro, and it even seemed like they were racing. Then while we were pitching our tent we heard a commotion: people were shouting and running toward the lake. One figure in the lake was waving his hands frantically, then disappeared. The other was swimming toward him but returned to the bank for safety: he was starting to have cramps. Another one jumped into the water to rescue the drowning person, but he surfaced not long after, empty-handed. The water was too murky and too cold. And it was getting dark. They could no longer find the man who sank at the bottom of the lake. That man was still young, the son of the head of the mountaineering group that arrived at Lake Venado ahead of us. Thirty minutes after all rescue attempts had failed and the boy's body didn't re-surface, he was declared dead. Nobody could have survived under the freezing water that long.

The area where those mountaineers had pitched their tents was too quiet. Too grim. The members of the group looked despondent. Oh, who wouldn't be. The death of the young lad seemed to have blanketed the area with darkness and have snuffed off the enthusiasm that most of us brought to the climb.

I felt a chill run down my spine. The spirits in the lake had been disturbed, they said. I looked at the peak. It looked very foreboding--mighty, powerful, mysterious. Why would people risk limbs and lives just to get there? What's up there? After the seven hour trek from Lake Agco in Kidapawan, I now ask myself, why on earth am I here at almost ten thousand feet above sea level?

I didn't think I'd get through the night. It was freezing despite an overlayer of wintercoat and thick gloves we brought from our Beijing trip, as well as the double pairs of socks I had on. I kept thinking what hypothermia was like. Maybe it was like this.

(Photo by Bong Maliwat)

When I got out of the tent the next morning, white mist hovered over the lake, eerie, like ghost. I overheard a local tell her companion that she thought she heard footsteps all over the place last night. I laughed in silence: of course there will be footsteps all over the place in the night, andami kayang tao ang nandito ngayon. May military pang dumating.

(photo by Bong Maliwat)

After breakfast we secured our belongings and started our climb. We had to reach the peak by lunch time so we could get back to the campsite before dark. At first it was good, but after an hour I felt like giving up already. I was having a hard time breathing. My porter was just a few meters ahead of me. A little girl never left my side. I marveled at her stamina, despite the bottle of Royal Litro she was carrying, and a bag of goodies. She didn't really ask me to buy from her, but after some time I bought two pieces of hard-boiled eggs from her, ate one and gave the other to my porter. I would lie down on the grass or crouch under tall weeds and trees to hide from the sun, then struggle onward again. From time to time I would look back down Lake Venado to see how the retrieval down there was progressing. Two helicopters had arrived with scuba divers, and more military men. People coming down would ask people going up about the incident. Obviously, the grim story had been spread.

The climb was getting tougher and tougher every minute. I was feeling some heaviness on my chest, like something was weighing it down. It was becoming difficult to breathe. At one point when we were resting I told my hubby to just go on and get to the top without me because I was slowing him down. At least one of us could get to the top. So he went. I still continued climbing but in my mind I said I'd stop once I meet my hubby on his way down from the peak. But every person I met along the way who had been there would say, go on, it's not too far now, ten minutes more and you're there. For every ten minutes that I'd progress up another happy face would be trotting along downhill and tell me, only ten minutes more, keep on, keep on. So up I went, most of the time on all my fours, until I reached a clearing. It was just five more minutes away from the peak via a steep ascent.

(Photo by Bong Maliwat's porter)

Then I saw my hubby coming down. He was happy I made it afterall, so he climbed back to the top with me. Our porters were grinning widely. Like my triumph was theirs as well. We took pictures for our memoirs and took in all the sights our eyes could reach from up there.

(photo by Espie)

My hubby decided to conquer another peak, as there were three (?), while I stayed behind, chatting with a young fellow who plopped beside me like a worn-out flat tire.

The next challenge, the descent. Because you're now so tired, you'd rather roll down or fling yourself into the air to get to the bottom, back to the campsite in no time at all. But it was during the downhill walk that I got to notice the flora of the mountain. There were all sorts of ferns. I wanted to take some with me but I knew they wouldn't make it, they'd die before I could even get back to Lake Agco. I noticed, too, that there were very few trees around. I saw several stumps that looked burnt. I learned that those were indeed burnt stumps because of a recent fire. So that was why there were few trees around. I also learned that some mountaineers who were with us at that time were there to do clean-up and tree-planting.

When we got back to the camp, as we emerged from behind tall green grasses, we were met by a loud applause from people who were already in the clearing. A great welcome from those who themselves had conquered. It was a moment of affirmation. So everytime somebody would emerge from behind the tall weeds and giant fern fronds, I would also welcome them with a clap, like everyone was doing. It was a very sincere moment of appreciation from people you didn't even know. Everybody shared the same feeling of triumph: Veni, vidi, vici.

Caasi's body had not been found yet. The rescuers said the water was too cold and murky, and they lacked certain equipment. The helicopter had left and would be coming back the next day.

The next day was our schedule to leave Lake Venado and head back for home. It was like a great exodus. So many people trailing one another, some silent, some chirpy. I found particular trails extremely difficult, like that part they call 80 degrees, or something. I have fear of height, somehow, so to look down was a great source of horror for me. There were also some kiss-the-wall trails. You have to hug the cliff as you trudge along narrow ledge made of bamboo: one slip and you fall down a bed of boulders some ten meters below. But despite all these difficulties, which was actually deja vu on the reverse (I'd been through the same trail going up), the thought of getting back even to Lake Agco gave me so much to look forward to and be happy about. Because Lake Agco meant only a few hours away from home.

On our way down we met reporters from GMA-7 going up to get a scoop on Caasi's death. My hubby teased them for going to such great length as trekking seven long hours just to get a story. It was indeed what you call legwork!

Along the way we passed by some pipes spewing fumes, obviously some geothermal activity by PNOC which operates in the area. Likewise there were some very shallow brooks bubbling with hot water that emitted an unpleasant sulfuric stench.

Soon we were seeing the bend leading to a clearing that led to the main road. Some teenagers who had gone ahead of us already converged in the bukana, resting or waiting for transport. We passed them by and walked straight on to Lake Agco, where our car was parked waiting for us faithfully.

When we got there a lot of people who were non-climbers were using the cold pool (a naturally- flowing cold spring which was turned into a tiled swimming pool) and the hot pool (dark murky hot water which they said was good for the body). We didn't go into any of the pool; instead, we headed for the cold showers, but since there were too many people using the showers I decided to wait till I got home to clean up.

Anyway, I was too, too, too tired to even bother how I looked or smelled. But amazingly, we didn't smell of sweat. Our clothes were heavily soiled, though. After a round of beer for the boys (hubby and the two porter-guides), we drove back home. Along the stretch of highway in Kidapawan, there were lots of eateries that sold goat dishes. We stopped at one such place to eat. As we ate, we heard the news on TV: the body of Ian had been recovered.

How sad and tragic indeed that such a very young person's life should be wasted, of folly, just like that.
______________________________________________

One of our porters, himself son of a veteran porter and climber of Mt. Apo. A talkative young man who told of jokes to keep us cheerful along the way.

Mt. Apo Joke

-----as told by our porter-guide: An American asked his porter how long it will take to get to Mt. Apo's peak. The porter was a native of the place, and he didn't have a wide English vocabulary. But somehow they two understood each other. Here's how their conversation went:

American: What time should we start our trek?

Porter: Sir, good morning, sir!

American: So what time are we going to reach the peak if we go straight on?

Porter: Sir, good evening, sir!

__________________________________________________This one I got from here:

http://www.dyoks.com/jokes/joke.cfm?jokeid=18330

Mt. Apo Jokes

Guro: Juan, saan makikita ang Mt. Apo?

Juan: Aba, ewan ko sa inyo sir! Kung saan-saan nyo pinaglalalagay, tapos ako tatanungin nyo! Umayos nga kayo sir!

On Fishing and Organizing: I Shall Teach Thee How Not to Fish

2011-11-10T01:37:00.001+08:00

This article is also a re-post from the blog account I will be closing down soon after this transfer.

I've never been an OC, if you know what those two letters stand for. As a matter of fact, my workplace is an OC's worst nightmare ever. Well, of course, I tidy up once I'm done with my projects, but never during. I tend to lose things when my stuff are organized within my creativity period. Believe it or not, I can be very well-organized with my things. That is, if I don't need them within the month, they go to their respective shelves or organizers. Yes, I've got not too few organizers--various types: plastic mini-drawers, plastic folders, wooden trays, bucket organizers, storage trays, file racks, etc. etc. etc. I even have corkboards to hold my memos and reminders and other stuffs that need immediate attention but certainly go unnoticed till after they have become obsolete.

I have a lot of things. As in. I'm a craft-hobby person and I collect a lot of small things. I even carry a lot of things in my bag whenever I go out. That's right. I take my home with me wherever I go; hence, small bags are not really my friends. Well, we're BFF when I pick up my groceries, because I only need to bring my most basic essentials or kit A (you heard it right): a dozen Excedrins, a pack of wet-tissue, my driver's license, a credit card and an ATM card, and my cellphone.

But for most of the time, I need to lug a big bag to carry my next most basic essentials (or kit B) which would include all of kit A, my pressed powder, my Mary Kay basic make-up case, a hairbrush, a tiny jar of lotion snitched from a recent hotel stay, ballpens and paper pad, a dainty fan, a cardholder, my school IDs, a USB and a bunch of keys. A water bottle, too.

My Kit C would include all of Kit A and B, plus my blue foldable-umbrella, my Canon cam, my laptop and its charger and mouse, my handy broadband units, my binder-notes, sheets of paper, etc. etc. etc. (Uh, okay, you can easily say I throw in my whole computer table into my bag, minus the printer). Yes, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce to you the modern-day Mary Poppins.

So can you imagine how the interior of my bag would look like? My bag usually gets to be very, very profound. It teaches me how to fish. I need to answer my cellphone that keeps ringing as if it commands attention from all other people around me, go fish. Ring-riiing! Fumble. People stare. Curse. Fish, fish. Ah, finally, found ya ( but it has decided to clam up now). *#@&%$.... I need to do re-touch on my lips, go fish. Now where is that damn key??? Fumble, fumble, go fish. Deeper dear, as keys are known to love to inhabit the bottom of the ocean...err...bags, I mean.

I used to have lots of tiny purses in my bag. Coin purse. Make-up purse. Pencil case. Miscellaneous purse. So I was only too happy when I got a freebie bag organizer from the National Bookstore one post-summer time, when we were buying loads of school stuff for my three boys. Plus a few books for me, always. It's a black mini-bag with lots of inner side pockets. Put in all your things there, and put the mini-bag inside your handbag.Yeah, I got to have an organized bag with it. I got to change bags conveniently. But still I had to do some fishing whenever I needed something in it. And I still had to cry "Waaiit!!! Don't hang up on me!" whenever my phone rang incessantly (yes, as if my caller could hear me, 'no!) Hmp! I still had that Midas touch: phone got frozen the moment I laid my hand on it...oh, if only it would work for real, like, really turn things into gold, I'd touch every person and cat that comes near me!)

But that's all history now. (It's nearly 2 am so I really have to get to the point now.) Bearhugs to my friend Lynette, the pretty yuppie (young-Preneur) who introduced me to her wrap-around bag organizers. It is truly a magnificent idea. Double bearhugs to the inventor, too, squeeze-squeeze!

So these days, I am truly proud to present my bag for inspection at the malls. And everything's so easily accessible, like, at one glance I see where my phone is, where my lipstick is, etc. etc. etc. Yes, my big bags are no longer profound and my fishing days are over. (Seven minutes before my hubby gets up and reprimand me for staying up eyes wide open at this unholy hour,so just take a look at my bag and see for yourself. Uploading...uploading...ears straining for my hubby's dreadful footsteps, sssshhh!)

My bag, with Kit A.

Am using a medium-sized wrap around

to hold my most basic stuff. See how neat?

And how it leaves so much room

for other things to be placed in the middle.

Here, I have two wrap-arounds for my Kit A and B.

The medium-sized goes in the center,

wrapped around by the large organizer

that contains more pockets.

So easy to find things because they're all like

staring at you when you open your bag.

Medium, animal-print.

Outer: Large, animal-print.

Same cloth for unity and cohesiveness.

Together they hold all of my personal stuff.

And look, they even prop up my floppy bag.

So you see, I am not an OC, and NEVER will be, with apologies to my hubby who squeezes toothpaste tubes from the bottom ( I wring the neck!) but with this look of my bag, I could pass for one. Makes very, very good impression. Just beware, don't leave your bags gaping wide and unattended with this set-up because if it makes it too convenient for you, well, then it serves a very good purpose for shoplifters as well.

If you wanna have a bag make-over just like mine, drop me a message and I could help you get one or a pair for you. Makes great present, too, especially that the gift-giving season is here right now na na. Search for my bellissima fwendship's Facebook account: Lynette's Unique Finds. She has more great stuff in store for you.

So bye for now, good morning. I have been staying up too la....errr...early, gotta catch a wink till five. Ciao!

THE ENTREPRENEUR

2011-11-10T01:33:00.001+08:00

This article has been re-posted from my other blog which I intend to close down soon.

FRUIT VENDOR. I have always been a minute-scale entrepreneur. When I was in the elementary grades I would sell my grandfather's fruit harvests to my classmates, and I would be very happy if I went home in the afternoon with pockets heavy with coins-my sales for the day. You see, every time my Mamay (grandfather) would trade his fruits and crops, he would come to our house to drop off something for us--usually sacks of 'lukban' (pomelo), santol, green mangoes, starapples, dalandan, 'langka' (jackfruit), 'saba', 'lakatan', or 'tundan' (banana varieties), and lanzones (not in sacks but in 'kaing'--large basket made of woven bamboo or nito strips).

Yes, I took advantage of what was supposed to be 'for private consumption only.' I would pack three of the small round fruits in a cellophane bag and sell them to my classmates and teachers. They always did sell like hotcakes! On weekends when I had nothing to do in the afternoon, I would fill a small basin with whatever fruits there were, and I would go house-to-house in our neighborhood, with any of my two little brothers tagging along. My playmates' mothers would always gladly buy my fruits because they were fresh. In fact, they would ask me to bring them some more in a day or two, when what they bought from me would have already been consumed. What did I do with my sales? I remember my brother and I would run off to the 'tindahan' and buy candy or rent 'komiks', or wait for when the 'sorbetero' comes along. Save? Naah!

SARI-SARI STORE VENDOR. In my sophomore-high, my parents put up a little store that sold softdrinks, chichiria, cigarettes, bar soaps and some other little things that one of the nearby households might be needing in an emergency. Our helper tended it during daytime, and when I got home from school in the afternoon, I took over well into the night, with my father keeping me company. One time, a good-looking guy bought some cigarettes. He gave me a paper bill, I gave him his change. Having gone a few steps away, he came back and returned some coins...apparently I gave him extra. I said " it's ok di bale na," and he said "malulugi ka nyan" and left the coins on the counter. My father emerged from the outside of the tiny kiosk (for it was indeed a kiosk given to us by Coca-Cola, my father just hammered it up with a door and all the enclosures of screen and plywood panels). My, I received a good scolding for that! (Hehe!)

I hated it during weekends, though, because since our apartment was near NDDC (it was still a college back then), and well, Saturday meant ROTC, it would always be a riot when the college guys took a break. Taking orders for snacks and collecting payments and giving back coins for change would always send me to a panic. Plus I sometimes had to cross the street to help the helper deliver the 'pambara' and the 'panulak'. I would also feel harassed because the guys would give me unsolicited his and hellos and what's-your-name-regards-daw-ingon-ni-blahblahblah...with uber pa-cute smile and gooey eyes (eww!) Tsk tsk, total pandemonium. Good-looking just couldn't cheer me up.

So that was the downside of it: I didn't like the pressure that came with the business. And I was glad our kiosk had to close at the end of the year because our helper left and the demand for manhours was too much for us, my parents being full-time teachers and me, a full-time students and my siblings too young for the business.

MINI-CONVENIENCE STORE PROPRIETOR. When I was in college, I had a dorm-roommate, Coco, who hailed from Lebak. She always brought from home several native bags, tubao, etc. She placed these items on display on her native cabinet with open shelves, if you are familiar with such kind made of palm ribs. I would always be amused each time somebody came to buy an item or two. And when she was not around, I would take care of her business for her. Soon after that we co-ventured into a 'tiendesita' in our room. We would pool together some cash and with it, buy some chichiria, nuts, sanitary napkin, tissue, and the yummy bear's claw (!!!) ...and our buy-and-sell business got replenished on weekends. It was fun! Our business partnership ended when we got assigned to different rooms the following semester.

TOYSTORE MANAGER. I had a cousin who knew people in Marikina. She would get shoes and stuff toys from them and sell the stuff to her neighbors and friends. One time I went with her and got some stuff toys for myself, too. I lined them up on my bed, and when my new roommates' friends saw them, found them cute and bought them. I parted with my toys only too happily. But I spared two of them, one very big monkey I called 'Ewok', and a small one that I called 'Baby Ewok'. These stayed with me until after college and two kids. They were afraid of Baby Ewok but the big Ewok became their wrestling victim until it got so filthy and stinky I decided to give it away. (Eh, sayang naman itapon eh, and the kid who got it was so happy with it he was grinning from ear to ear and squeaking in delight as he was hugging it and running back home to show it off to his playmates.

My entrepreneurial activities got shelved when my hands got full with kids and other things. But deep inside I was always wondering when or if ever I'd have that chance again.

I know I should have taken up a business course. But my parents wanted to make sure I had a big chance to get admitted to UP that they wrote AB English as my first choice and AB Filipino as second choice (!!!). Why I didn't shift to BA was a sad story bordering on culture shock, emotional and economic reasons.

Anyway, my mind never really wandered off from business, after all these years. The desire remains to this day. Proof of that is my magazine collection of back issues of Entrepreneur...and late-night surfings of alibaba, sulit and tradekey...and getting frustrated at the pricelists (affordable but unattainable) and the overseas location of suppliers of the good and beautiful things to sell. Maybe someday. ###

SUNSETS ARE ELUSIVE POEMS

2011-10-09T13:01:00.005+08:00

I love sunsets, who doesn't? Poets use it to symbolize a going-over-to-the-verge, like aging, or death. But as beautiful as sunsets are, so are aging and death. Though as yet, of course, I still wanna be where I am today, gathering rosebuds while I may.

It's true one may experience a sinking feeling looking at the sunset as it transforms from soft pastel to raging brilliant to dark. But it also gives a feeling of serenity, of home.

I am so fortunate to be living where I have lived in the past ten years because I see sunsets from my windows. The sky gradually turns orange just beyond, behind the thick leaves of the Norfolk trees, or on top of the mountains.

I love it so when the orange and the purple interplay with the clouds. Just because of this scenery I resolve that the world is a beautiful place to live in, and I don't wanna leave just yet. I wanna witness a million more sunsets, anywhere.

Sunsets are elusive poems, they are never the same each time I look at the western skies. How do you preserve the memory of a sunset when it changes everyday? ##

Turning to Page 7

2011-09-17T04:09:00.006+08:00

My book of life has added a new page and it's called Page 7.

I was never really into spa soirees. Body massage to me means Mercy...my alalay who knows how to do pressure massage so well. Well, that is, if we mean simple masahe, not the Thai/Swedish type. Hers is the turu-turo type, turo ko, massage nya. And she's available any time of the day, or night, except of course when she has just finished ironing clothes.

But that afternoon when I went out with girl friends for our monthly treat...I was introduced to Page 7. Not a book, dear, it's a spa. Where people go for relaxation of a different kind. This business is just picking up in this part of the country. So going there is like novelty (though I'd been to one such place in Cebu some years back). Page 7 is nestled in one of the buildings at SunCity Complex, here in GenSan.

Anyway, we ladies had different options for treatment...some went for body scrub, some went for dry massage. I opted for dry massage, it's without oil, of course, because I didn't want to go smelling like aromatic oil when we go shopping in the mall later.

The interior of Page 7 is impressive. The floor is laid out with squares of cream marbles and white pebbles. It is dim, not dark enough not to see where you're going. Piped in music adds a touch of tai chi feel to the ambience. Plus the smell of lemon grass oil simmering from somewhere. (It's exotic, and very relaxing, and very "meditative").

The whole area is divided into several cubicles with heavy cloth partitions, and inside each is a mattress covered with crisp white linen. A blanket, some towels neatly arranged, and a pair of soft shorts.

The masseuses are petite ladies (there were male options which we dared not to try despite offers) who obviously got some training in the routine of it all...they know how much time to spend on each section of the body such that in one hour they have covered the whole of it, front and back, top to toe, except of course the tummy area.

The pressure was good, tensed mucles were relaxed and mental stress relieved, albeit temporarily. But hey, one hour of pampering is all one needs to be reinvigorated. You know, just lying there being soothed is like being a baby again. The dark and quiet room is like a solace from life. I could lie there all my life.

One hour seemed scant. But when the masseuse gave me the final tap-tap in the back, that was the signal that one hour is up. Great feeling!

I put back on my "laag" clothes and power-heeled shoes and went out to the reception area (where the other girl friends emerged one after the other, all smiles!). I left my lady a good tip, and vowed to go back there someday soon for another afternoon delight. Yes, Virginia, this is one page that's great to be going back to over and over again.

THE LITTLE KITCHEN That Was Once My Home

2011-01-03T20:40:00.043+08:00

THAT SUNDAY being my two elder boys' last day with us before they fly back to the university, we decided, after church, to eat out--in a new diner perhaps. We drove to Little Dubai, but the place was reserved for the night for some alumni homecoming. So hubby said let's hie off somewhere else. My sense of direction fades with the twilight, so I didn't know where the car steered off.

We soon parked in front of a classy diner. The Little Kitchen, the sign said. I immediately liked it. I liked the facade, the fancy grills. I liked the homey ambiance, especially once we were inside. I liked the blue-topped tables and the low-backed chairs. Yeah, the place was small. The interior could accommodate at most twenty-five people, seated. And probably, once it's full, the room would feel cramped. Can the aircon handle such a big crowd?

Inside we came upon familiar faces, the Calderons, already halfway with their dinner. I sometimes go to Dr. Dina for facial treatment. And the Calderons were my neighbors when I was seven. They lived next door...the doctors. I remember they had a small bakeshop, too, that smelled good all day, particularly in the early mornings. I could almost smell their pandesal that very moment...fresh from my childhood memories.

While waiting for our orders, my eyes wandered. The interior decor was simple, neat...minimalist. I so loved the Christmas-colored votive candles hanging on the wall, cupped by the wrought candleholder. The al fresco area just outside the door...wonderful! My eyes panning back to the main door,(is it called french door?), darting across the street, I thought the scenery outside was familiar. Isn't that...my late aunt's...night spot? The old beer garden called Rudestell? Am I where I think I really am? In my old house back when I was a first grader? I felt a bolt of deja vu hitting me in the heart. Just to be sure, I asked hubby, where are we...isn't that...outside...what I think it is??? We're in Quirino!

Nostalgia washed over me. The Little Kitchen is standing where the Magpantay residence used to be! I used to live here, in this very spot...and this very spot where I was seated with my family...used to be the living room.

We were renting one of the upstairs room, and below it were sort of basement rooms. Our room was little, and it housed the five of us: My parents and my siblings and me (our youngest was Amel then). We were new in the city, having moved from Marbel and from two other houses in so short a span of time. And yes, the Calderons were our next-door neighbors. I knew about them because I would often hear my mother mention the name to us...probably whenever one of us got sick, or no, I'm sure it was whenever she'd send me or one of my brothers to go buy pandesal.

I remember we had to move out of the house sometime after, to live in an apartment. And I was so sad and blue when we got to our new house because I left my dining set toys in one of the closets at the Magpantays'. So every time I'd pass by this place, I'd always wonder what had happened to my dinner set toys.

Well, the house I was seeing in my mind is no more. What is there is a totally different structure. Modern, commercial, a restaurant (!) ...but still very homey inside. Just like the old times.

I vowed to go back there again, and next time, I would concentrate on--and blog about--the food, as others do, rather than muse on some childhood reminiscence. And take pictures...lots of it. Yeah, the food was good. But I had no time to really focus on the menu. But one thing I know, my boys loved the food and asked to be taken there for dinner again someday. So, Little Kitchen, till we meet again.

COLOR IT CHRISTMAS: THE UNIFIED WAY

2010-12-14T18:57:00.012+08:00

UNIFIED refers to a big cooperative that renders engineering services in a little town called Polomolok. And since it's into engineering, it features the coop's trade services every year-end in a grand showcase: an ultimate Christmas display that so woowws everybody. Its headquarters’ frontage has now become an object of excitement come -ber months. Just a month ago it was fully covered with tarp, signaling that work was on-going and, of course, how it would look like was being kept a secret from everyone. And when all the work is done and the time is right, there is the Unveiling which has also become ceremonious. The powers-that-be in the-only-tiny-Philippine-town-that's-in-the-map-of-the-US are invited to grace the unveiling and lighting ceremony.

This year's theme.

People flock to the Unified frontage to enjoy the display and pose for pictures.

The traditional Belen
will always be present.
It's a very Filipino tradition.

Snow and snowman and an American shop.
Our concept of Christmas is never without these. Commercialism or colonialism?

Wonderful Tonight. ColorfulAttractions
for kids from 9-92.

A ferris' wheel and a carousel.

The town that the pineapple built is never complete sans the pineapple. Only Unified can outdo its own creativity, as is shown in this delightful pineapple carousel.

More snapshots from Unified's display:

The Color Of Christmas

2010-12-10T22:53:00.008+08:00

Red and green have always been associated with Christmas. They have been the traditional hues for the Yule season. For many years past my home had been decked with bells and balls and hollies, mistletoes and wreaths accented with these colors, with a touch of gold and silver here and there. Later on I added blue. In fact, last Christmas, my smaller Christmas tree was decked with blue and silver stuff. A neighbor of mine commented on it, rather "disapprovingly." Blue is sad and never a color for Christmas, said she. But who cares, I wanted it blue. And my Christmas was not at all sad. My Christmas was gay.

This year I was feeling a bit more daring. Dare to be different. So my Christmas tree is again non-traditional. But I kept it gay, anyway. As a matter of fact, very gay. Take a look!

My femme Christmas tree.

Gay bells.

I don't know about you, but I think my tree is muy magnifico. Well, I also thought this year was for me, so I'll use the motif of my own choice. As in my own. With no one else taken into consideration. Because if I did, I'd end up with the usual colors again, i.e. politically-correct-according-to-men. Anyway, this tree is technically mine. Hubby bought it for me to cheer me up after an accident some years back. Because prior to that, he knew I was yearning for a taller tree to put up in the lanai.

When my youngest son came home from school and chanced upon me putting the finishing touches on the tree, I asked him what he thought of it, and he said ... it's ... nice ......but ... it's ...... PINK!!! Please don't do this on the other tree upstairs. (Hahaha, oh, well, boys will be boys.)

Have a gay...err...merry Christmas, everyone!

The Color Of Life

2010-12-05T16:24:00.012+08:00

I've just started this blog running on the theme of how we color our own world. Then I chanced this photo by a young lad I've known to have an obvious depth in character.

The subject of his art is very simple. Clothespins on a clothesline left all wet and shimmery after a downpour. The droplets actually make the picture extraordinary. They add a touch of drama that appeals to one's sensitivities. If one could give this much attentive interest to something as seemingly insignificant as 'pang-ipit', then, hey, how much more of things that really matter? May the artist in you not "obliviate", lad.

From Ian Villares' album @
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=69852&id=1066318395

I marvel at this perspective of life...very simple, very positive. The colors of life are brilliant after the rain. The leaves are greener, the flowers daintier, the birds chirpier after coming out of their shelters, and the rainbows that issue in the skies...they fail no end to cheer us up despite the overcast.

It is not the form that dictates the color,

but the color that brings out the form.

---Hans Hofmann

Life Is About Creating Yourself

2010-12-04T16:32:00.012+08:00

Life is not about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.

TOO OFTEN do we hear people say "I gotta go somewhere far and quiet to ponder over things.; I need to find myself." I've never found the need to say that to myself, about finding myself. Despite the odds, I never felt I've ever been lost. But too many times have I found the need to go somewhere far and quiet to ponder over things. Of course, we all need a clear mind in order to arrive at wise decisions. Quiet places and fresh air always seem to work like magic in helping us regain our forbearance, as well as peace in heart and mind.

TO LOSE one's self is to lose the zest for life. Like, wherever we cast our eyes things simply turn gray and bleak. But our life is a canvas, and we are its artists. The colors of our lives depend on how we wield our brushes with whatever shades and strokes we choose. It's pretty much impossible to come up with perfectly-organized patterns, because life is spontaneous. Surprises often paint our lives the brightest colors and the wildest ~~strokes~~. Whatever portrait comes out, well, hey, that's our masterpiece.

A life well-lived is a life well-tinged with a kaleidoscope of colors. That's our life. That's who we are. We don't lose ourselves in the making. We create ourselves. We design our lives. Indeed, life is what we make it.

"Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be." --Abraham Lincoln

On Life

2010-11-27T23:11:00.008+08:00

Life

is a great big canvas,

and you should

throw all the paint on it you can. ~Danny Kaye

Carpe Diem.
Seize the day.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.
Strike while the iron is hot.

You cannot erase it all once the paint is thrown, but the magnificent work of art that is presented before your eyes is all your own, and that's the beauty of it. Only you can create such masterpiece. You alone, yours alone.