Can’t be just a glitch …

I just discovered that since we, or more accurately, my sister, last posted in July (“Condo hunting”), this blog has acquired 600 new followers! Yahooooo! I’m seriously loving all 682 of you right now!!! (So much so that I am sending each one of you big, big hugs!  OOOOOOOO x 682) And I can’t believe y’all are also loving us! But that must be it, mustn’t it? I mean, I don’t think I have that many family members (though I am Filipino and proud of my über-extended family from all over the world), or that many friends (My mom hardly goes out. My sister does nothing all day but play Cityville. And I’m, well, shy.). Thing is, though, this extraordinary increase in readership occurred while I was, er, sleeping, i.e., while I was busy doing everything but posting. So our new 662 followers must have been really blown away by my sister’s “Condo hunting” post (must admit, it was pretty awesome) or must be encouraging me to sleep more often. Or longer. Or forever?!!! Don’t say it. I’d rather think it’s a wordpress glitch.

 

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We’re in Business, Baby!

Not too busy to blog…

Been busy with work. (Not an excuse for not writing.) More specifically, with establishing my “practice”. I have a new (virtual) office  (Hoot! Hoot!) and a new email address with a domain exclusive to moi!  So I’m in business, y’all! Thing is, though, with these new fixed costs, this “business” (I should say “noble practice”) could be at risk of being unviable. The only surefire way to keep afloat is to get more clients! Which will make me busy busy busy. Using up a substantial amount of my me-time to service other people doesn’t excite me much, but, hey, I figure re-gaining my financial independence (principally from Hubby who has been mighty kind and generous throughout my “hibernation” period) should make up for any downside. And I’m finding that working again is actually quite stimulating. And with the added perks of being able to work from home, and being able to choose what work to take on, has made this venture thus far quite enjoyable.

3 clients to date. I’m the man! Or the girl. Or the it. I’m the It-girl. Whatever. I’m back. Can’t wait to get paid so I can go shopping!

NAMES

My friend Gilda thinks I have a decided “bakli ng utak”, an irreverent take on things. However, relative my husband Manny and my daughter, Oya, I am quite conventional. Take the case of names. My grandaughter Martina calls me Abu which is simply short for the Spanish “abuela”. On the other hand, Oya has taught Martina to call her Fairygod Oya. Manny, she calls Aga. No, not after Aga Muhlach but as she used to explain, short for “aga,aga buwisit”, until someone more proper and less humorous told her that “buwisit” is a bad word.

My English Canadian friend , Tim’s grandchildren, like everybody else call him simply Tim. “Because”, he says, “that is my name”. Very sensible, but I had to inform him that unfortunately, the use of honorifics are part and parcel of Filipino culture.

Then, there is the case of our recently acquired Belgian Malinois puppy. After Martina was introduced to the new dog, she went running to her mom. “They have a new pet,” she cried, “she is a huge dog, and Mommy, she is called Kitty!” She has yet to learn that people and names are not always reasonable. They can instead be funny.

Yoga is not a competitive sport… Ohm

I try not to pit my skills against any other person when in yoga class.  But no matter how many times I tell myself to “Keep your eyes on your own mat,” as my yogi instructs, I sometimes fail in the endeavor. Like in last week’s ashtanga class.

Picture 20 people crammed in a ~40 square meter room. Mats virtually on top of each other. Not very pleasant, that. And all that ujjayi breathing warming the shala on what was already an extremely hot and humid summer day.  A young guy positioned his mat (and himself) beside me. In Manila, few men I know have adopted yoga (which has only recently gained some popularity here) as their fitness regimen of choice, you see. So I thought, beginner, probably. No sweat.

I’m seriously stupid. Needless to say he not only kept pace, he outdid me in every pose (much to my irritation). Midway through class, I decided to focus on my own mat (It was exhausting trying to keep up anyway), my husband’s wise words (“Yoga is not a competitive sport!“) a mantra in my head. So I slowed down and moved my mat halfway behind his. I figured if I was physically behind him, I wouldn’t have to match him and I could concentrate on my own practice; no pressure.

And it worked well enough. That is, until the final corpse pose.  Lying down, face up, top of the head to the front of the room, arms and feet splayed outwards beyond the edges of my mat, I settled in to relax. And then espied, out of the corner of my eye, and smelled, The Foot, his left one, resting much too close to my face. (So close, in fact, that if I turned my head to my right, my nose could have a really intimate conversation with this particular sweaty, smelly Foot.)

(Apologies to the gentleman in the picture. The Foot does not belong to him)
Photo via blisspages.com

I know he’s deep into the pose when The Foot starts twitching ever so slightly. He’s falling asleep!  I think to move back to my original position; but my shuffling about would surely distract the rest of the class. I close my eyes, grit my teeth and bear it. This is my punishment, I thought. For being an arrogant fool. This, I deserve.

I sense The Foot twitching again. As I open my eyes, it jerks.  And hits me, square on the cheek.

Ouch. I didn’t deserve that.

 

Why I Probably Won’t See “The Hunger Games”

I picked up the book, “Hunger Games”, last Saturday from a local bookstore. I wanted to find out what all the fuss was about. You see, the past 2 weeks, the movie’s been screening in maybe 16 of the 20 cinemas in the greater Mandaluyong City malls (my usual haunts). And I didn’t want to see the movie till I’d read the book first.

I finished the book in less than a day. And this much I can say about it: I understand why the book is so popular with the kids. Katniss, the heroine, is Lara Croft, McGyver, Dr. Quinn (Medicine Woman), and a Disney princess, all rolled into one. (To those of you too young to know Dr. Quinn or McGyver … sigh … there’s always Google.)  And mushy, heart-on-his-sleeve Peeta’s just one to swoon over, isn’t he? The main protagonists even manage to remain honorable despite their severe circumstances (Katniss kills only 2 of her fellow tributes; one, in defense of another, and the other, out of mercy. Peeta manages to kill only 1; unintentionally at that). To an adult and a parent, that one day in the future we may have to see our kids enslaved and drafted into participating in some reality death “game” is certainly frightening. But the obsessive-compulsive in me couldn’t suspend her disbelief long enough to appreciate the logic of the storyline. (Too manyArgh” moments. Yes, the book was probably much too young for me.)  If this had been interactive, I would have raised some serious issues. If I were a tribute whose counterpart got killed off right from the get-go, at the Cornucopia, for example, I would have vigorously remonstrated against the mid-stream rule change that allowed 2 tributes from the same District to win the Games together.  How unfair and prejudicial is that?  I would have also raised a howl about the Muttations. Hell, if I were a parent of one of those tributes that got “mutt-ated” …. Yes, all hell. Helllll.  Would break loose.

The movie could prove to be one of the few exceptions to my general experience that movies don’t live up to the books they’re based on. Thing is, I probably won’t see it.

My Future Son-In-Law

Every time I bring up the subject of our daughter eventually getting married (which is not very often, promise! like only when hubby and I get invited to a wedding), my husband gets a panic attack. I, on the other hand, get all excited (Our daughter’s 8; but don’t the years just fly by!). I mean, really, what mother doesn’t dream of her little girl’s big day and the many ways she can meddle in the prep help make it perfect?

I’d have the ideal son-in-law. He’d look like this:

And looking like that, of course he’d be a big action star in Hollywood (the wedding would probably be sometime in the 2030s so my future son-in-law would be, like, Chris Hemsworth’s and Elsa Pataky’s son – who’s already on his way into the world as we speak!).

Oh, and my future-son-in-law would also be a MD, like a cardiothoracic surgeon. No, wait. Too complicated; he might not have time for family. Neurosurgeon? No, too sexy; he’d get into all sorts of girl-trouble, like McDreamy does. A trauma doctor, maybe. Yes, that’s it.

And that would be just perfect because if he injures himself on set doing his own stunts (yeah, he’d be that cool), he could, like, do minor surgery on himself right there, barking orders to his personal assistant (who would be heterosexual, male, and also a nurse) like “Fetch me the microfibrillar collagen hemostat. Stat!” in a really cool way (I mean, not in a panicky way at all). And the microfibrillar collagen hemostat would be in his doctor’s bag, which is always close by, like in his trailer on set.

And he would absolutely adore my daughter and profess that he doesn’t believe in divorce. And they’d have really cute babies, blue-eyed and dark-haired (because they’d be part-Asian, part-Spanish, part-Australian), who would call me “G-mom”. And I would remind them to wash their hands frequently and load them up with sugar-free treats everyday – for the rest of my happy life.

Manic Hostess with the Mostess

Hosted our first-ever al fresco dinner party in the new home! Hooray! And I must say, it was quite a success. Who knew having a bunch of friends over could be so straightforward?! (Though completely stress-free it never is and never should be.)

I didn’t cook, you see. I ordered in. More accurately, I ordered for pick-up.

But before you say, “How crass!”, or “How rude!”, or whatever words you use to express outrage at such, well, indelicacy and lack of refinement (My grandmother, if she were alive, would have come up with quite a few colorful ones, I bet), you should know that the dishes (which were prepared by an old friend of hubby’s who’s a master in the kitchen) were fabulous (and needless to say, were not your garden variety “take-out-“ food). My newly-minted outdoor buffet table was laid out with the yummy creations of Dulcelin (see dulcelin.com) – American Wagyu Tri-Tip with Japanese steak sauce, Fresh Mushroom Pasta with Truffle Oil, and Baked Norwegian Salmon in Wasabi Aioli. And, of course, Dulcelin’s famous Mango Torte for dessert – “crispy-chewy nougatine, golden mangoes and cream”, it says on their website. (And, yes, the guests were told that the food had been ordered.)

Photo via dulcelin.com. Dulcen's Very Famous Mango Torte

Still, you’re thinking, I’m undoubtedly no “hostess-with-the-mostess” if I can’t mobilize my own household for a small party. In my defense, I took care of all the logistics, including of course, ordering the meals, renting the tables and chairs, supervising the preparatory cleaning of the house and the washing of the dishes and the silverware, and such. As I rarely venture into the kitchen and dining areas of my home except to eat and occasionally look over hubby’s shoulder while he’s doing the cooking, it must be impressed upon you that all that tut-tutting about the house and fussing over the table and placement settings and how the napkins should be folded and arranging the flowers and lighting the candles and making the sure the wine was chilled and, well, generally, busying myself with a myriad other niceties to ensure that the place would look festive and that dinner service would be efficient and orderly (yes, it was a buffet service; but before you pooh-pooh my efforts, the guests’ wine glasses must be refilled from time to time, yes? and the dessert taken out of the fridge and served at the proper time and such?; there’s plenty you can worry about if you’re inclined), was altogether quite a feat for me. Whew. Yes, I did all that remarkably and was very pleased with myself. (Pat, pat, pat on the back here.)

I could do this again. Order in, I mean. I would, really, and without shame, when I have friends over again for a party; our guests loved the food and couldn’t stop saying so. And I do enjoy getting all a-tizzy over the minutiae and (though I may grumble convincingly) I generally love being a fusspot. Do me a favor, though; if you’re ever at my dinner table and you’re enjoying the meal, do ask me to give your compliments to the chef (and I will make sure the chef gets them), but please don’t ask me for the recipe to anything.

Hello? Anyone there?

You deserve an explanation. Why I’ve not been posting.

Sat all morning in front of the Mac trying to come up with good excuses for my neglect. I came up blank. As I have been doing the past month with the posting. I thought maybe you would appreciate some story like that I was off on a Caribbean cruise for a month and the cruise ship didn’t have wifi or the wifi was too slow and all that buffet-eating always made me sleepy at midday, yadda yadda yadda. But you know I’m broke so this might be more convincing: was busy with “life” (which is really no excuse); tutoring my daughter for her final exams, getting her activities lined up for the long, hot summer, setting up playdates with friends, doing yoga, managing the household, cooking … No, not cooking (Seriously?!). Never cooking. No talent for it. I once attempted a beef stroganoff for my roomies back in college and I ended up serving pasta topped with sukiyaki beef in pink sauce (Yes, I did say “pink”; don’t ask me how I did it because I wouldn’t be able to tell you. And no, I didn’t know then that there is a difference between sukiyaki and stroganoff beef cuts). Another time I tried cooking Asian orange chicken but I didn’t have fresh oranges so I improvised with Eight O’Clock instant (powdered) orange juice (What was I thinking?! I don’t remember. Probably something like those plastic orange traffic cones. But maybe not. Traffic cones would have signaled that I not-go-there.). Needless to say both were horrendous. But I digress.

This may be a good (enough) one: I started working part-time. Started like, before the Holy Week. Ok, hell, that doesn’t cover the month.  Anyway, maybe you shouldn’t (and don’t actually) care. Point is, I’m back. And I’ll do better, okay?

Photo via chaosinthekitchen.com. Looks yummy, doesn't it? Needless to say that is not my pink beef stroganoff.

 

One God?

It seems to make sense to me that there could quite possibly be more gods than The One God. But I’m Catholic; so I’d have to say there could quite possibly be other aspects of The One God (and I don’t mean the Son and the Holy Spirit) that we’ve never acknowledged. It also makes sense to me that these gods could quite possibly not be benevolent the way The One God is. I think of these personas as The One God breaking away from the stereotype we’ve all boxed Him into, or The One God having a bit of fun at our expense every now and then (How boring must it be, after all, being good all the time?). Here then is a short list of those puckish gods:

The Weather-You-Like-It-or-Not God – Always messing up your weekend plans or those outdoor parties you so like hosting. He’s especially motivated when you don’t have a Plan B.

Stub your toe, scrape your knee, or sprain your ankle, recently? That’s the Accidents-Don’t-Just-Happen God.

The Any-Hour-Rush-Hour God – the one who always manages to cause some pileup or mishap on the road on that one day you absolutely have to be someplace early – like to make that 8 am career-defining presentation you spent the whole week working on. Oh he gets a real kick too when you really, really have to go.

The Tip-of-the-Tongue God who not only makes you forget the word, he also torments you by surreptitiously planting the first letter of the forgotten word in your head. Naughty.

But if The One God could ever really have a mischievous alter ego, it would have to be The Surprise God, whose jurisdiction and authority cannot be circumscribed. Anything that can go wrong and that does go wrong – that’s him. And you can bet each time he’s jumping up and down and squealing, “Surprise! Surprise!”

Art by my 8-year old (Copyright reserved and protected)

John Lennon’s Dead, Dad

Scene: My parents (my 68-year old mom and 73-year old dad) and sister are having lunch at a Japanese restaurant named “John & Yoko” (in Alabang, Muntinlupa City).

Mom (to no one in particular): Do John Lennon and Yoko Ono, you think, know their names were used for this restaurant?

Sister (ever sarcastic): I’m sure John Lennon doesn’t. ‘Coz he’s dead.

Mom:  JOHN LENNON’S DEAD?!

Sister: Last I heard. Really, mom?

Mom (to Dad): Did you know that John Lennon’s dead?

Dad:  John Lennon?

Mom: Yes. Dead.

Dad (shaking his head sadly):  And I just saw him on tv the other day, offering flowers at Whitney Houston’s memorial…