Ain't No Rash Wanton

The Busy Business Busies Made Me Not Do It!

I can't believe that I let February pass me by without posting anything. I feel shocked and horrified. I feel shocked and horrified, first and foremost, that I haven't written anything when more than half of what happened to me in February was worth writing down. Secondly, I am shocked and horrified because February was like a WHOLE year.

I present to you a short list:

1) A course in advanced Professional Make Up at Make Up Forever. I got a discount!

2) Doing make up for the opening of the Rent show in Manila. I lived it like a New Yorker on the way home!

3) Singing with the De La Salle Alumni Chorale. Nailed a Manhattan Transfer arrangement!

4) Getting sick. My body. It catches up!

5) Getting a recital together. It's the send off I'll give myself!

Like can't get any fast paced than right now. It's already March. March!

In more contemplative news, something struck me at a family-ish gathering more than a week ago. My niece (cousin's daughter) was christened the other Sunday. Most of my cousin's and his wife's college friends were there to witness and celebrate with us on that special day. Meanwhile, I sat with my lunch plate in front of me thinking who I would invite to something like this.

As it happens to be, I don't have that much friends my age. Or rather, I don't have that many friends who are my age and have their own families. I'd chalk it up to my friends in theater, who range from high school kids to doctors in their glamorous late 30's.

I would tend to think that my cousin's lives are at a predictable route, but I thought the better and disagreed with myself. No one's life is predictable. Theirs just turned out the way it did and mine is, well, out of the ordinary. I should say so myself.

Right now, the last five years are catching up on me. I'm leaving the Philippines to pursue things in the US. A LOT of things. There are events leading to my departure and they are numerous and overwhelming. I feel like I have to catch these things around me to make them happen. I don't think I'll be settling down for a break any time soon, and it's not like any of it is not within my control.

I've got to do it. Let's do this!

I seriously have to stop

It's not Book Sale's fault to set up branches near my home and near my mom's salon. It isn't Starbucks' fault that I feel obligated to fill up my promo card with stickers, thus making it a fundamental requirement to stop at every Book Sale branch in Festival Mall (there are two).

Today I paid for two books. An early book by Roddy Doyle, whose sensibilities I've heard and read about and really love mostly because he's Irish. The other is a brief memoir by a relatively new author, Amy Fusselman. The latter is lauded by David Eggers, Zadie Smith and Rosie O'Donnel. I'm not a fan of all of Rosie O'Donnel's work (maybe I misunderstand her), and I haven't read David Eggers or Zadie Smith although I know who they and how stellar they are.

So there lies my problem. I have over 400 titles in my personal library (a weak estimate), more than half of them bought at second hand bookstores like Book Sale.

I have a love affair with Book Sale. This love affair has already reached the same level as an addiction: it's an embarrassing. A few years ago, I would try to hide my newly purchased books from my parents but they'd wonder at why my bag looks like it's stuffed to point of bursting. They do not wonder simultaneously about where my growing collections of books are coming from. Friends tend to take secrets in better than parents, but I must have stretched the limits of their understanding. I saw two other books that bear similar affinities (blurbs by literary notables) and I had them reserved for pick up tomorrow. I should stop. My manfriend thinks the world of me, and he knows that I have a crap load of books. He might say just call it crap anytime now.

"I can't help it" isn't an excuse, and a lame one, if ever executed in my defense. What's even more lame is that I'm such a restless and slow reader. As much as I love books and reading, I can't sit still sometimes and if the action is picking up or if I'm getting affected by the way events are unfolding against a character's knowlege, I need to pull over and stop.

Right now, I'm reading a fantasy by Charles de Lint. Again, I was sold on the blurb Marion Zimmer Bradley, whose Mists of Avalon, Firebrand, and ­­­­­Lady if Avalon I have on my shelves but haven't read yet.

This kind of obesity is better than overeating, which is what I'm thankful for. Of all the vices I have chosen, I chose a timid kind of entertainment that requires nothing of me but a harnessed attention and an active imagination. Those things shouldn't be hard to conjure. Now that I should tell myself.

The happy new year made me do it!

A few things that I have to admit, before the rest of the year unfolds and carries on.

 

 

1) I did a little soul searching before Christmas, and I wondered if I wasted the last 5 years of my life. It's a legitimate thing to think about, but considering that I am not the only person who thinks this way, I will have to rethink this. Sometimes, it's the simplest answer that makes all the difference of 5 lost years, which turns out not to be lost completely.

2) I can't stand it anymore. The last few days have met me with conversations amongst family about homosexuality. One family member is totally averted to gay people, while another family member thinks that "you can't get anywhere without running into a gay person." I am sorry that I had to run into these conversations. I had to walk out of these conversations. Hindi ko na kaya.So while I'm at it, I have to admit further that:

    a) I am pro-gay, and therefore pro-gay marriage. Marriage is marriage, and it shouldn't be exclusive to heterosexual relationships.

    b) I believe that you CAN be gay AND Christian. Long story.

    c) I'm STILL Christian, as I cannot think of myself believing in anything else that the triune godhead, and I do believe that God is bigger than homosexuality. So Chillax.

3) I still totally feel like I wasted the last 5 years of my life. But for what it's worth, tonight was awesome. I had a Wii party at home, with people who matter. We only had Wii Sports, Wii Resort, Racquet Sports (not sure what it's called at the moment), and Super Mario Galaxy. We talked while owned it on Wii Resort, and the conversation only intensified when we accompanied it with Swordplay Showdown. Think aggression, pent up anger, frustration, and Gestalt. It was great.

I know that a New Year post including the travails of the past year should have been in order, seeing as I have been TOO silent a blogger for my own good. 2010 was a year of flying past the crap that gets thrown my way and smiling in the face of epic failures that happened to involve me haplessly. On the other hand, 2011 will be about me.

Having said that, my New Year's resolution with thereby be:

I will blog more frequent than sometimes, and this will the first of many. Yes, this will the first of many. I have been silent because blogs have effects that are surprising and dangerous or both. Also, I was silent out of respect. To say "I've had enough of this bu****it*" is equal to "No more Mister Nice Guy," if a few handful of you get my drift.

2011 is going to be awesome. For me, at least. And the people I love, and the people I played Wii with earlier, and the kids I bump into at ATC.

 

Wrong on a Multi-level of Wrongness

I love animals. I love the 5 dogs we already have, the dogs owned by relatives and those owned by friends. Most of the "clan," as I collectively refer to ourselves, live in a subdivision that is surrounded by other subdivisions and this division isn't really the problem.

Chalk it up to my being a night-owl, but this habit of mine may have saved us from robberies and other atrocities that have been plaguing this area. It would have been great if our whole subdivision was walled in or fenced in, but it isn't.

Polo is a healthy Japanese Spitz who knows his name, knows his owners and his owners' next of kin. He was spoiled, loved and known. His name tag wasn't always attached his collar (which was always on him anyway) but the moment you hold it to look at it, he approaches you and presses the side of beautiful face next to you. I don't really know what to do the first time this happened, but he seems to love being scratched behind the ears.

He walks around the neighborhood and into the area adjacent to the village, presumably to mate, and he comes back to my aunt's house where he lives. Animals know when it's time to eat. Our own household menagerie which includes adult dogs Jack and Georgia, their puppies Gaston, Bubba and Max and cats Penny, Michiko and Junior all know when it's time to eat. They restlessly crawl around our backyard, without fail, at 5 pm. It's mostly the puppies and the cats who make noise. You know it's pretty late if Jack barks. He's patient when it comes to meals.

Polo, however never came back. A dog was witnessed nearby to have been slaughtered for meat around the time of Polo's disappearance. One can only guess.

I don't oppose eating dogs. Humans have fed on stranger things but feed on pets...on an animal that was owned and loved, is just wrong and evil and too f***ed up for words.

I haven't really mourned a dog whose final moments were that of fear and pain and this is because I've never come to know one whose fate is unknown and tragic. Jonathan, a previous dog who was around before Jack was even born, died on our back porch. When I called out his name in shock of the state he was in, he managed to lift his head and look at me. Then he settled back to die. Jonathan was different from Jack, just was the both of them are very different from Polo. Jonathan had a temper and I was the only one he would allow to touch him. Jack talks and communicates, so does one of his brood, Max. Curiously, all three puppies love eating fruit. Georgia sneezes like a human and has a melancholic-phlegmatic personality. Polo was mild and innocent.

Our subdivision/village desperately needs a perimeter fence. We don't have that on the areas surrounding this area. We're walled against New Bilibid Prison property, Katarungan Village, and Ayala Alabang. The edge of the house I live in is apparently the very end of our own street but there is no fence separating here and there. People have been robbed, assaulted, killed, and raped right in their own homes. I grew up with some of those people.

The very culprit here isn't the absence of a fence. Not only is it the group of people who decided that a well fed dog would go well with cold beer. It's also neglect. The neglect of putting up a fence for security, the neglect of concern that someone might be missing their dog.

This blog has helped me moved on from denial to anger. Yet this blog post is for Polo. While we may never know what has happened to him, let it be certain that he was loved.

For the want of plenty

Times sure have changed. Prime time now includes midnight and as if the universe ensures that everything in it should follow suit, my body clock has changed along with this prime time thing. But really, it’s the internet and the endless amount of information available out there. My iTunes podcast subscriptions are proof of this gluttony for knowledge.

But there is another gluttony that is currently at work. Before I woke my netbook from standby slumber, I was watching television (HBO is on a roll on Mondays and Lie to Me is a great show) and in between commercial breaks, I read a book that is due for returning to a friend tomorrow, and crochet while the show is on. Every now and then, I glance towards my phone to constantly check on the presence of a certain manfriend. Now that my netbook is on for this act of blogging, there is yet a whole other things on cue and in simultaneous running: I have to look for a new desktop wallpaper, I’m with COCO a good Facebook family I keep on, there is a list of twitter quips pending posting, iTunes is on pause for a pop culture linguist podcast, uTorrent is downloading a LOT of stuff as it is, there is an article to read, and maybe an email to write but my email isn’t open yet. Oh excuse me.

*opens Yahoo mail*

I want a lot of things, and so does anyone else in the world. What it takes for a pound of roses to be a small vial of oil is a concept that took 10 years for me to understand. It seems that though I want so much, for me to understand what it essential and good will take just as much or maybe even more.

Responsibility, or, I just love talking about me

About a week ago, I discovered that I was responsible for something beautiful and amazing. Amazingly, I wasn't aware of this phenomenon in spite of the fact that said phenomenon has been going on and going strong for more than a year.

I am something of a godmother. I am also a kind of catalyst that began with a conversation in which it was discovered that I was a commonality that exceeds the poetry of searching suitors in personal ads, hence said phenomenon.

Today and other confessions

Today

Today, I wore all black at rehearsal. Nothing new, really. Except that I realized that I should have worn a scarf. I usually do that, and missing that detail kinda bothers me. Where is my fashion sense going? To black?

Well everyone wore black at rehearsal. Three people even wore the same shirt. You know what they say about like minds. You think they're there to serve you. Or dance, which everyone did anyway.

On my way to rehearsal, I spotted a neatly dressed boy, probably still in high school, as it must have been his uniform that he was wearing. When I say "neat," I mean both "neat" as in "clean" and "neat" as in "cool."

Standing in front of the wall that demarcates the boundary between McDonald's and Mightee Mart, he was wearing his white short sleeved shirt, which had a school patch on the left breast. His black pants weren't so much of a tight fit, but you can tell that the tailor made no mistake in his measurements. His shoes were polished (POLISHED). He had and ID or two hanging from his neck, and a small-ish backpack was hanging from behind his, well, back. He had a hat on, which was a white and black straw woven fedora. He looked pretty cool.

He was smoking, and he was standing his ground while going at it. He wasn't shifting his weight, nor did he look like he was waiting for something or someone. It was as if he was standing there just because he can wear his uniform with a subtle flair that he owns effortlessly.

Today and Work

I didn't do much today. Well, the interview I was supposed to schedule happened abruptly. I wasn't exactly a nervous wreck, nor was my interviewee. I didn't expect the interviewee's availability. We talked about the Ondoy relief effort, and how parents would send their children to volunteer. She did mention that the first few days were a chaotic operation until high school and college kids came. She said that it was the youth that actually helped create a system. I think that that's interesting.

Today and Reading

I vegged out the rest of the day. I wasted my time on tv. It sucks to have to do that. It really does. Anthony Bourdain is probably despising me for staying stuck on page 110 (I'm reading Kitchen Confidential) until today.

I'd like to think that I appeased him for managing to reach page 113 while commuting. He's at the Rainbow Room, chilling with Gianni, the pastry chef.

Mr. Bourdain has a mysterious temper, I think. He seems hard to please, but quite something to work for.

Today and My Body's Confession

2 am and I'm hungry. There is a spot on the Hallmark Channel that talks about how getting enough sleep helps weight loss. It is kinda getting noticeable about how I blog about food a lot. And my sleep cycle is pretty much effed up. I must be doomed.

Yesterday, I was woozy, feeling generally weak, and my body felt like I had something attached to the back of my head, my back, and my feet. My period is there, and it's the only explanation why I'm hungry, sentimental, a tad moody, and generally feeling like crap. The dreams I've been having are crazy. A lot of hiding coupled with a base desire to escape. That's the theme. It's the plot of my dreams that are disturbing.

Yesterday, I hadn't showered until late at night. That totals 48 hours of not showering. Why this was allowed was because I was just so tired. I was making an effort in promoting Treasure Island online, and I had to organize things for What Mag. I have an article to send hopefully tomorrow. I didn't want to leave my desk until I finish everything, but before I knew it, it was 8 pm and my mother called dinner late.

Today and a Butterscotch Brownie

Can I please talk about food? Oh well. No one can stop me anyway.

When Rod said that he was waiting at Starbucks, I took this as an opportunity to buy something sweet. The fruit at home was kinda bland on the sweet side, but eating healthy is a discipline.

Let us say that is purchasing a Butterscotch Brownie from Starbucks can be justified by the fact that I am aware of my sugar and my need for it: I was on my way to rehearsal anyway, and choreography is no laughing matter.

I packed a 16 oz. thermos with white tea (from Foo Joy) and decided that it'll go great with the butterscotch slice of joy.

My mother has been very forgiving about my eating habits. That could be because of one or two things:

a) I am not home most of the week, or

2) I have actually lost some weight

Mom's food splurging habits are based on cravings that she know she'll have, but won't have until the expiration date (which is about 86% fluff, my estimate). Also, her cooking habits are based on who is at home. Rehearsal takes away family dinners so the sinigang, tinola, pochero and the like are missing.

So I have an idea. I'll bake. I'll make my own butterscotch brownies. I'll make them tweaked from a US Navy standard.

And then I'll have tea. And I'll make some more. And I'll share.

Helping Myself

I watched Julie & Julia yesterday with the family. It's basically two stories in one movie, and of the two settings, I found myself nostalgic about 2002. I was nostalgic about the following: 1) Starting a blog (In 2003) 2) Julie Powell's old Vaios The joy of being read, followed, or receiving a comment is as real as any other joy in life. Julie was the one whom everyone thought would be a best selling author but ended up in a cubicle. Julia had turned into a diplomat's wife, and was wanting something to do. She spent 8 years writing and compiling recipes, and it was 8 years well spent. I've been blogging for 6 years. It's an on-again, off-again thing with the internet. Looking back on the six years, I can say that I've written pretty interesting stuff. In fact, there were times when I wanted to get to know me better. The thing is, I'm supposed to be a writer, but I'm not doing anything more than what I'm already doing. I'd like to say that I'll try to write a blog everyday. Posting something here isn't enough. Wish me luck. ~~~ In other news... I've been sucking at being a girl lately. A lot of people know that my monthly girly thing doesn't happen as monthly as it should be. It's great for about two or three months, but when the time comes...it's horrible. For instance right now I feel woozy. There is a light headache at somewhere along the edge of the back of my head reaching just before my temples. I feel a bit bloated. Whenever I want something to eat, it's because I feel hungry in spite of the fact that I've already eaten. Chocolate marshmallow cake would be really nice right now though. There's this thing about friends too. Whenever this funk happens, I feel tremendously nostalgic and sentimental. I might feel over protective over someone, like I have the credence to talk about someone like an authorized biographer or a really close friend. I also feel the need to talk about them, be with them, eat with them, drink with them even. Yet all of this is fluff. It sucks that it's fluff. I can't imagine this happening to me every four weeks, but at least not in the magnitude I am currently experiencing. A doctor friend gave me conservative advise on how to go about this, in lieu of pills. "Get married," he said. If only that can happen TODAY so things would be right and legal and safe BY TONIGHT. Sex. It's so complicating. I'm at a loss for how to go about this woozy light-headed state. I almost feel like there's something lodged in my brain, my eyes, my back and my belly. Ice cream should do for now.

To curb hunger

So I feel like I'm having pregger cravings. It's 2:30 am, I ought to be in bed and I am feeling hungry. A light work out early this evening should prep me enough for a run of Treasure Island tomorrow. This weekend is going to be as if a lifetime, and allow me to sound snobby while I'm at it. My presence is needed at a benefit show on Friday evening. Hannah, my artistic protege, is performing her monologue in which she portrays Eve. I'd like to say I did a great job on her, but really, it's all her. She wrote the piece, she rehearsed for the past two weeks, and while we've been rehearsing, other kids have been wanting to watch. A few already know her piece word for word, like it's the coolest thing ever. Hannah will be competing next Sunday and I hope she gets first place. Before all that, I'll have to come from rehearsal, arrange living arrangements for the before-show-early-check-in-sleepover, and shop for food. The before-show-early-check-in-sleepovers also happen to be a theoretic exploration of what like would be like if we all lived together. Or if some of us lived together. It's sort of a given that Rod is our Ross and I'm the Monica, but really, there are days I feel like I'm as sporadic as Phoebe and as clueless as Rachel. Geminis are hard to figure out, really. If ever there is a need for an intimacy exercise, a before-show-early-check-in-sleepover will suffice. I've walked into a room just in a shirt and panties while the boys are having interesting conversation. Saturday anticipates a field day at the theater. You see, the people who lord it over the theater, or the people who care too much for their 9-5 jobs to actually see and understand and realize what it's like to set up EVERYTHING in six hours have no idea about the crap we all go through. So we're all hustling for a cue-to-cue rehearsal, set change adjustments, and a reinstalation of the lights. Hay que barbaridad. Later that evening, I'll be at a debutante party. Rod is one of the 18 roses, and I'm one of the VIP's, along with a lot of the theater gang (Act25 and TDS). Sunday forecasts as hope of a fat paycheck. Lord knows how Daryl was quiet and sullen with dismay when a show was canceled the last time we had a before-show-early-check-in-sleepover. I'll be playing a man pirate again, and after my off-stage marooning, I shall be sailor Daryl's sweetheart. My blocking requires me to flirt as I run up the stairs and settle myself in the middle as Daryl dazzles me. The audience may not notice it, but we will be talking about how much we need water, how much we so wanted to sign our paycheck, and not to mention how much Wendy's Frostee's we'll be having with Rod, who will be, at that ubiquitous moment, be known as Rodney. No one else will have license to call him that. Wow. This must be the life. It's one that I am not yet living, but already entrenched in. ~~~ I am revisiting Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential. I'm sorry, Kam. I'll be rereading it before I return it to you. I am determined to return it to you by the end of the term. Believe it or not, I have a new batch of undergraduate friends. Anthony has a sexy literary voice. It's like it's undressing himself and then undressing the culinary world in all its sexy glory. I love how he describes his kitchen comrades as pirates. This may be because I am portraying one, but whatever. ~~~ I cannot reiterate how glad I am to be back blogging. On the other hand, I cannot help but notice that the articles I have yet to submit are in want of attention. I do vow to write every day. I must. ~~~ Speaking of artistic duties being in want, I miss my voice. Kasi hindi pinapagamit sa 'yo eh. Thanks for saying that, Daryl. And thank you, Mikey, for thinking that it's ridiculously boastful of me to go on "Expert vocals" on Rockband Beatles. There is no other way for the likes of me We so have to rokeoke. We'll own it the same way we own almost every restaurant space we patronize. ~~~ To those who can, Treasure Island is showing this Sunday at 3 pm at the Insular Life Theater, Filinvest Alabang. Check out www.theaterdownsouth.com for details. Pirates, and treasure, and adventure, oh my!

*Their* daughter

My dad is for the worst part hard to understand. I hardly ever know what makes him happy (a clean room), what makes him upset (things to clean, which is pretty much everything), or what makes him laugh (an irony I can't decipher?).

I'm pretty much like my dad, the same way I'm like my mom. I tend to do things on my own without asking for help (like cleaning at the condo or not saying "excuse me" while I'm at it). At the opposite of this respect, I am like my mom. I don't do things immediately and tend to leave things. Ever seen me walk around and look for something I've lost? That's Glenda right there. Ever seen me reason out to the high heavens about something? That's my mom yet again. My dad's communications skills are more argumentative in a dismissive sort of way: Ever heard me speak as if putting my foot down on something I seem to be claiming I have authority on? Hello dad.

I've had to freak out this afternoon about my dad. It was horrifying in two ways, and these two ways are realizations:

1. Oh my God, that IS how I get angry sometimes.

2. Oh my God, that DOES look scary.

Never mind what he did. It's all forgiven, and the funny thing about that was he says sorry the exact same way I sorry, which is the exact same way Rod and I talk: unrelated phrases. But I got dad. I was at least able to let a lot out to mom, and she was able to appeal to his mercy (Catholic sensibilities, that is you).

The great thing about all this is that at this point of my life, I am young enough to want to develop from here. God knows I have a temper. A few (and I mean a few) have seen this, but I know for sure that I wouldn't want that temper to be something I'd pass to my children, or even let them see on a daily basis enough to debilitate their own personalities.

My dad is hard to please. I hardly ever know what makes him happy aside from a made up bed. Like my dad, I can say that I am pretty much the same, except, it takes much less than a made up bed to make me smile.