tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48005906642720137432024-03-21T04:44:24.465+08:00annamanila'sUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger161125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-1208598245587884472011-12-28T23:17:00.001+08:002012-01-12T17:52:10.400+08:00Cagayan de Oro, a week before the deluge<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>“In this season of love and kindness, think Cagayan de Oro” </i></b></div>
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My last night in Cagayan de Oro City last December 10 was a memorable one – and not only because it was raining furiously.</div>
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<img alt="sendong" height="252" src="http://www.thepoc.net/images/stories/buhay_pinoy/sendong.jpg" width="378" /></div>
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I arrived in CDO, as it is sometimes called, five days before to fair weather. The friendly cab driver, who took me from Lumbia airport to my hotel, however, said it had been raining intermittently all week. He also complained about the pre-holiday traffic, especially in the part of town where I was bound for – near Gaisano Mall.<br />
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I spent the next days talking with entrepreneurs in the city, carefully selected for their innovative ways of doing business. I
was doing field research for a book on “Product Strategies of Micro and
Small Enterprises” to be published by my office, the Small Enterprises Research and Development Foundation. A wonderful excuse for visiting Cagayan de Oro again, if you ask me.<br />
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I haven’t told you yet Cagayan de Oro is my favorite city in the South, have I? I
have been there thrice before and my experience left no doubt its
tagline as “The City of Golden Friendship” is not just empty
sloganeering to promote tourism. Its people are gentle and genteel, warm and hospitable, and yes … always smiling. When
they say “kamusta ka,” they actually wait for you to answer! Most of
the people I talked with during that trip would pick me up at my hotel and take me back or, if I was going someplace else, bring me to my next destination. I always came away with gifts of their products in spite of my lame protests “I don’t want any freebies, just discounts.”<br />
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One of my best and most admirable friends is from CDO. Her name is Loreta Rafisura , a handmade paper maker, social entrepreneur, Fair Trade champion, poet and writer I met on my first visit there some 12 years ago. She
is a survivor of two episodes of cancer, the reason, I surmise, she is
always in a joyful and thankful mode, constantly looking for ways to
reach out to the poor, like putting up a library and computer center for
them. We call each other kindred spirits, which flatters me no end. Loreta
is why a trip to Cagayan de Oro is to me always something devoutly to
be wished for. In this last visit, she coordinated all my meetings with
other business women -- Vivian Libao, abaca bag maker of Puyo fame;
Esmer Gabutina who has wonderful ways with sinamay; and Litlit Mejia who
parlayed her mom's home-based ham making venture into a modern,
globally-competitive manufacturing industry-cum-restaurant chain known
as SLERS.<br />
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There are other reasons I love Cagayan de Oro and nurture the secret wish to retire there someday. It is climatically well situated, being outside the typhoon belt. The temperature is almost never harsh, but fairly cool, at an average of 28 degrees centigrade.<br />
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It is also one of the most progressive cities in Mindanao, with a thriving industry and trade community. Easily the most famous is Cagayan de Oro’s ham-making and meat processing industry, with 40 producers as of last count. No visitor hardly ever leaves Cagayan de Oro without a package or two of jamon de Cagayan, the most popular of which are Oro, Pines, and SLERS<b> </b>brands<b>.</b><br />
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On my third day in the golden city during that
recent visit, I took a bus to Iligan City for more interviews and
meetings with entrepreneurs. An hour and half’s ride from CDO, Iligan is another beautiful , prosperous and pleasant place – but that is another story. Let
me just say that there, again, I was blessed with sunshine plus a
gracious host by the name of Danny Capin, a fortunate combination that
allowed me, at last, a glimpse at majestic Maria Cristina Falls, which
eluded me on my previous visit to Lanao del Norte.</div>
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From meeting the grand dame of Iligan, I was driven
straight to the bus terminal to go back to Cagayan de Oro, where I
would spend a last night before flying back to Manila the following day.<br />
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That final evening in CDO was unforgettable – not so much for what happened as for what took place after.</div>
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Up to that time, I was having amazingly good luck with the weather. But when it rained, it poured -- torrentially.<br />
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From the bus terminal, I took a cab to the Fair
Trade store, along Velez Street, where I had deposited the bulk of my
luggage for safekeeping. The rain started as I was having a merienda of jamon de cagayan sandwiches with the young ladies manning the store. After shopping there for more items for my Christmas gift-giving, I was ready to go to my new hotel a block away. As
the rain didn’t show any sign of relenting, I accepted one of the
girls’ offer to accompany me to the hotel with a big umbrella.</div>
I must have been beat – though I didn’t feel it – for as soon as I hit the bed in my hotel room, I fell into deep sleep. It was dark when I woke up and I could hear the rain had slowed down into a drizzle.<br />
<a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/14416-cagayan-de-oro-a-week-before-the-deluge-.html">Click here to read more </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-6132632625486669882011-06-20T00:46:00.003+08:002011-06-20T00:50:02.062+08:00Of flawed dads and errant daughters<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mULUvjm8gf0UWbsBKW10fS-6Jh5ljj_orgQfAs_S_Er97JD68WX_Fc8MFOwGuF2ryRy_dKGay0HCDlqjgZ88lj4Aha8PO8J0h91K8VdFamJVqMFHLiHLLbZDI361ditIcuArZQz_J4N3/s1600/father-daughter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 390px; height: 375px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mULUvjm8gf0UWbsBKW10fS-6Jh5ljj_orgQfAs_S_Er97JD68WX_Fc8MFOwGuF2ryRy_dKGay0HCDlqjgZ88lj4Aha8PO8J0h91K8VdFamJVqMFHLiHLLbZDI361ditIcuArZQz_J4N3/s400/father-daughter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619974101183725858" border="0" /></a><br />The “mother and child” relationship has been celebrated and idealized so much in art and literature– and yes even in our minds – it almost sounds like a cliché. A mother is so highly revered she is almost deified: the “holiest thing alive” (Samuel Coleridge), “the sweetest sound to mortals given” (William Goldsmith Brown), the one God had to create “because He couldn’t be everywhere at the same time.” (Jewish proverb). In my generation, one of the first songs we learned was the mushy, catchy tune about she“who helped us when we fell and would some pretty stories tell (stories tell) and kissed the place to make it well (it well) …”<br /> <p class="MsoNormal">Fatherhood is more light-weight stuff. To be sure, dads are treated affectionately, but also often flippantly, sometimes irreverently. A dad is usually remembered for his practical uses: “a banker provided by nature” (French proverb); “ “the provider for all, the enemy of all” (J August Strinberg), someone equivalent “to a hundred schoolmasters” (English proverb); someone who “just has a way of putting things together” (Erica Cosby.) As a child of 14, Mark Twain recalls “an ignorant father” whom he "could hardly stand to have around." “But when I got to be 21,” he hastens to add, “ I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The physical bond between mother and child is so obviously represented by the umbilical cord. Alas, fathers have no such unassailable ties. They have no wombs to carry their young in, no flowing breasts to suckle and nurture them with; they are deemed to have participated little at human creation except at the exact second of conception. Nowadays, with artificial insemination and upcoming sperm-in-a-dish technology, they need not be physically around at the crucial sperm-meets-egg moment.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><strong> </strong>The biological gap with fathers is often exacerbated by the patriarch’s traditional role of providing for the family. Dad has to leave home when the sun rises, often when kids are still in bed, and doesn’t come back until nightfall – tired and stressed and hungry and unable to relate to their young in touchy-feely ways except for the perfunctory hug, kiss, and “how was your day, kid?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And yet, he is expected to be the disciplinarian – the one who should not spare the rod. “Wait till I tell your father you did this and didn’t do that,” a mom would often threaten a misbehaving youngster.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When a marriage flounders and eventually breaks, it is often assumed it is Dad’s fault. He is supposed, often unfairly, to be the one more easily seduced (than moms) by <em>barkada</em>, drinking, gambling, extramarital flings, and other threats to family happiness.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">No wonder, Dads, poor dads, are regarded as “provider for all, enemies to all.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And yet -- what would life be for all of us without our fathers? They can be the sweetest, most indulgent, most protective of all creatures. Come to think of it, families and society in general seem to demand too much of a father. He needs to be strong like Superman, provide like a tycoon, discipline like a Zen guru, show a good moral example like Caesar’s wife. In addition, he should be fun to be with – like Bill Cosby or Dolphy.</p> My friend has this memory of her father which she calls a “mixed bag of sweet, sour, and bitter.“ <p class="MsoNormal">“I loved-hated my dad,” she began.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/12506-of-flawed-dads-and-errant-daughters.html">Click here to read more</a><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-2694299890244973922011-04-08T14:44:00.004+08:002011-04-08T14:59:09.963+08:00Ways of skinning the 'CAT'<p>Fresh high school graduates are awash with thrills and jitters. Graduation is saying goodbye to the best friend, the barkada, the first love or the current squeeze or crush, the favorite teacher, the beloved campus of their youth. It is turning their backs on childhood and irresponsible ways. It is also the excitement of the senior ball, the battery of final exams, the career orientation seminar. The anticipation of yet another phase of student life: college.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As they get ready for college, there is one major challenge they have to hurdle, one that can send chills down their spines. Will they pass the college entrance tests? Will they get accepted to the universities and courses of their dreams?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">How did the successful ones do it? Let’s hear it straight from the winning horses’ mouths:</p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><a class="highslide" href="http://www.thepoc.net/images/stories/buhay_pinoy/studying.jpg"><img alt="studying" src="http://www.thepoc.net/images/article_thumbnails/410x307-images-stories-buhay_pinoy-studying.jpg" height="307" width="410" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><strong>How they did it</strong></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Michelle, who made it through the <a href="http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=UPCAT" title="WikiPilipinas: UPCAT" rel="nofollow" target="wikipedia">UPCAT</a> and thence to the <a href="http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=University%20of%20the%20Philippines" title="WikiPilipinas: University of the Philippines" rel="nofollow" target="wikipedia">University of the Philippines</a> (UP) College of Home Economics a few years ago, said she went through a stoic regimen worthy of military cadets. She made sure she spent at least three hours a day for her self-review. She would rise an hour earlier and go to bed two hours later than her usual waking and sleeping schedule. Saturday was the Great Review Day when she would work from break of dawn to the wee hours of morning. Sundays, however was R’n’R day – she needed that weekly break to unwind and recharge.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As Michelle was a self-reviewer, she bought review manuals from a reputable review center which she mastered with a discipline she didn’t know she had. Not content with that, she prepared detailed outlines for all subjects and exchanged notes with fellow self-reviewers – sometimes by phone, at times by Internet chat, occasionally by meeting together for a combined “group study and social” encounter.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eric, who passed both <a href="http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=Ateneo%20de%20Manila%20University" title="WikiPilipinas: Ateneo de Manila University" rel="nofollow" target="wikipedia">Ateneo de Manila University</a> (ADMU) and UP entrance tests but finally enrolled at ADMU, partly because he couldn’t imagine himself cheering for other than the Blue Eagles come UPAA season, believed in the minimalist approach.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He took care to study only subjects he was weak in. A constant essay-writing contest winner and an editor of their school paper, Eric felt confident he could breeze through the English grammar portion of the exam – which he did.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">However, he knew Math was his waterloo. Abstract reasoning, too, was almost esoteric to him. Thus, he spent time grilling himself in numbers and abstract-thinking exercises. Weekends, he would go to his uncle’s house in Pasig City (Eric lives in Novaliches, Quezon City) and stay there overnight. The uncle would oblige with lessons Eric calls “algebra for dummies.” “He was better than my Algebra teacher,” he gushes about his uncle “he made finding those elusive X’s easy or at least doable for me even if it took me double the time it would for a regular Math whiz to get it.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sam thinks he may have luck on his side. He was a student of the UP Integrated School and weekly UPCAT reviews were integrated into their school calendar. He made it to the State University’s College of Architecture. He reckons that during his time, the passing rate of UP Integrated School graduates was about 70 per cent.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Michelle might have worked as hard as never before. She says her mother was also a <em>sigurista</em> who made her take <a href="http://www.webmd.com/brain/news/20090713/fish-oil-supplements-boost-memory">fish oil</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ginkgo_biloba">ginkgo bulova</a> capsules, said to be great memory aids. She can’t say whether they worked. But look, she made it to where she wanted to be.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sam’s mom had her own way of “loading the dice” for her son. She and the whole family stormed the heavens. They lighted candles at the shrine of <a href="http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=Our_Lady_of_the_Rosary_of_Manaoag">Our Lady of Manaoag</a> in Pangasinan before the exams and went back to light some more when Sam passed. His mom finished countless rounds of novenas to the Sacred Heart before her son began to take the exams.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">To each his own way of “climbing the mountain,” or "skinning the... uhrmm ... CAT."</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/11644-how-tor-review-for-and-pass-college-entrance-tests.html">Click to read more</a><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-43801087663598584102011-03-29T01:26:00.003+08:002012-01-12T17:52:43.555+08:00The Japanese and IA war baby, I was fed, while growing up, with stories about the difficult <a href="http://www.philippinecountry.com/philippine_history/japanese_colonization.html">war years and the uneasy peace of the Japanese occupation. </a> <br />
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It should have been easy for me to hate the Hapon but the ambivalent stories impressed upon me made it hard for me to indict them absolutely. Sure, I heard later accounts about “Japanese atrocities “ (why does that phrase sound almost like a cliché?), how the Japanese treacherously bombed Pearl Harbor, how 10,000 Filipino and American soldiers perished in the Bataan Death March, how Japanese soldiers used some Pinays for personal "comfort." But maybe because my immediate family was largely spared of wartime catastrophes, with no one dead nor hurt nor gravely abused, the tales twice told me were mostly benign.</div>
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The first story happened on Day 1 of my chequered life.</div>
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From Gagalangin, Tondo where we lived to Ermita where the <a href="http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=Philippine_General_Hospital">Philippine General Hospital</a> was located was an hour’s distance by karetela (horse-drawn carriage). My long expectant mom, whose time finally had come, would have preferred to be whisked away in a cab for she sensed, by dint of experience, the baby inside her was in a hurry to get out. But alas, taxis were as hard to come by those days as American Spam luncheon meat and Hereford corned beef were hard to buy. Sure enough, whby the time the karetela ho-hooed to a stop, its seats and floor had been splattered with placental blood, with baby’s head already bobbing out. My dad, by then a bundle of nerves, clambered down so hurriedly he almost slipped by the pavement. Who would happen to come by and steady him with a swift hand but a Japanese officer who, summarizing the situation in one sweeping glance, later helped lift anxious mother and half-born infant from out of the carriage into the hospital’s obstetric unit?</div>
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When I was a toddler, another friendly Japanese soldier came into my life, or so my Lola loved to tell me. He was a sentry who would pass by our house to and from work. I reminded him of his own daughter whom he sorely missed, he would tell my Lola who subbed as my guardian every time my mom tended her rice store at the talipapa. For the entitlement to pinch my cheeks and make goo-goo eyes at me, the Japanese would give me pieces of bubble gum and candy.</div>
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These stories are, of course, third-person accounts but were told and retold so many times I sometimes confuse the memory of the telling with first-hand memory. Actually, it would take about 30 years more before I made my first true Japanese friend.</div>
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The Nagoya International Training Center, Nagoya, Japan, where I was sent on a fellowship training on small business promotion by my office in 1974, became both school and home to me for three months.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk7j0qG69o5EVe9UT32r32uEkVFSmFjf0QYLtlaIAA297oDoVvJPLEbE-DBB7gvFuaEN_iE6g9gnP8mITchdkYhUERAx88tzcC7gNXp7yYfgvlg11jpE6rppjXJimvNUJ_oQ_8kIDyxZtC/s1600/Mt.+Fuji.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589183903673934914" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk7j0qG69o5EVe9UT32r32uEkVFSmFjf0QYLtlaIAA297oDoVvJPLEbE-DBB7gvFuaEN_iE6g9gnP8mITchdkYhUERAx88tzcC7gNXp7yYfgvlg11jpE6rppjXJimvNUJ_oQ_8kIDyxZtC/s400/Mt.+Fuji.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 266px; width: 400px;" /></a></div>
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I arrived at the Center in the early evening after a two-hour trip by <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shinkansen">shinkansen<span style="font-style: normal;"> (bullet train)</span></a></i> from Tokyo. The train ride had been pleasant but uneventful and I was reading a pocketbook some of the time -- until we reached tall, snow capped mountain ranges partly hidden by blue gray clouds -- whereupon a couple of Japanese gentlemen suddenly rose from their seats to jolt me away from my book, almost frantically pointing outward. “Look, Fuji, Fuji!” they chimed. Truly, what right had I to bury my nose on a banal story when I could feast my eyes on splendor and majesty just by looking out the window?! I was grateful for the magnificent eyeful, but more than that, I was amazed how proud they were of their <a href="http://www.japan-guide.com/e/e2172.html">Mt. Fuji</a> and – as I found out later -- of many things Japanese.</div>
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I fell in love with the Japanese people overnight.</div>
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<a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/11556-remembrances-of-japan-and-the-japanese-people.html">Click to read more</a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-74138056272819287712011-02-28T17:44:00.048+08:002012-01-12T17:53:24.074+08:00I was at EDSA, too<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WvoseQ_NWsWq_iJSKU3rvqgaLIigm3y1LpQzgjXGNOj-Iu2OiYaxSVqqPpgZbJDrN3QN3rgsTcra1fN5rIfGjJx9gdQcTULXt4c4A_dI_2nv7WmtIRaIDm2Kpd2g7I3lhHQHAP__E32O/s1600/edsa+revolution.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579068679457219586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WvoseQ_NWsWq_iJSKU3rvqgaLIigm3y1LpQzgjXGNOj-Iu2OiYaxSVqqPpgZbJDrN3QN3rgsTcra1fN5rIfGjJx9gdQcTULXt4c4A_dI_2nv7WmtIRaIDm2Kpd2g7I3lhHQHAP__E32O/s400/edsa+revolution.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 370px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 285px;" /></a><br />
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“Who do you think you are -- Gabriela Silang?” my husband snapped, as his eyes swept me over from teased head to 5'1", 98-lb frame to size-4-1/2 feet, when I woke him early and told him we HAD to go to EDSA that Saturday morning 25 years ago.</div>
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I hardly slept the night before. I kept vigil with what was happening out there with my ears glued to Radio Veritas. I kept track of the events that stockpiled within hours, ringing if faintly the death knell of a hated regime. </div>
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I heard the incredible turns of events unfolding -- blow by blow:</div>
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Ramos holing inside Camp Crame. Enrile at nearby Camp Aguinaldo. Both men grimly proclaiming they were ready to die with their ideals intact. FM’s cabinet men coming forward – one by one – publicly resigning from their posts, emphatically renouncing their boss. Butch Aquino imploring the public to join the crowd amassing, nay, snowballing, at EDSA to safeguard the camps and those who sought refuge there. Cardinal Sin urging his flock to leave home and make a stand as a Christian duty. </div>
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How could I have slept? For the first time, the dream seemed possible – our liberation from the dictatorship, the end of martial rule, the stop to crony capitalism, massive corruption, the killing of political dissenters (and their disappearances), and other human rights crimes <i>ad infinitum</i>. </div>
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(Why I had the radio on that night -- I who hardly ever turned on the set except to find out what was the exact radio time so I could adjust my watch or our clocks – I still cannot explain. My best guess is that Providence wearied of my ambivalence and [divinely] intervened.)</div>
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My husband was, of course right. I was no Gabriela Silang. No one would call me feisty, the pipsqueak that I am. I knew deep down I was a mouse, a mouse that wanted to roar, but a mouse just the same. I have this tiny heart that goes out to the poor and the oppressed, but my ass, oh my ass -- it had remained firmly fence-seated and inert and comfortable and very safe. </div>
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Ideologically, you might describe me as left of center but as the Marcos rule increasingly strangled not just the economy but also the national psyche, I had veered leftwards more and more. I had also grown more and more restless with my do-nothing ideology. </div>
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Months before, I had begun to walk my talk as I joined yellow-confetti rallies and parades in Cubao and Makati as well as the boycott against crony companies. </div>
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Still when my husband flatly refused to accompany me to EDSA that Saturday, Feb. 22, 1986, I did little beyond mutter limply about “history in the making and here we are cooling our butts.” Still then a young(ish), unliberated woman, I felt I had no choice but to stay put and vicariously join the crowds by staying tuned to Radio Veritas. </div>
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The following morning, Sunday, it was my husband’s turn to wake me with unaccustomed urgency. “Let’s go,” he said. “And bring sandwiches for the soldiers (who were guarding the camps 24/7 and presumably were unfed).</div>
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As I was spreading mayo and inserting sweet ham on slices of loaf bread, my husband added: " Don’t forget towels."</div>
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Towels? I asked, uncomprehending. Yes, towels, wet towels -- he repeated. It seemed soldiers – those who had not yet defected – were throwing tear gas bombs at the crowds to disperse them. </div>
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My home was unfortunately and constantly short of towels. But I had dozens of gauge diapers (well laundered and well bleached after months of use by my then three-year old Bunso). I got them out from the cabinet and force-pressed them inside an overnight bag. My husband lugged a jug of water in case the diapers needed wetting. On the way to where the action was, we bought packs of biscuits and tetra juices. </div>
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We arrived to a fiesta atmosphere at EDSA. We met no tanks, no tear gas brigades, no Marcos soldiers creating mayhem. Only people smiling and laughing, and sharing their baon of food and drinks, and listening to transistors, and trading the latest bulletins on which military contingent or which general had defected and which were still steadfastly on the way to the camps to destroy Crame and Aguinaldo and scare away the crowds. There was tension, too, of course, as bang-bang military action was constantly half-expected. But in the meantime, the people seemed bent to savor the unusual -- uhm uhm -- oneness. In that huge picnic that randomly bloomed on the highway, the often divisive Pinoys seemed at last about to pull their act together.</div>
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Fast food chains were giving away Styrofoam packs of meals. Soft drink companies kept drinks flowing. We walked past the crowds to hew close to the camp’s gates and fences to find soldiers who didn't look hungry -- just bored and sleepy. I forced on them the sandwiches I prepared anyway. </div>
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Then a priest said mass, happily very near where we chose to stay. When the final “go in peace” blessings were given, there was a mild commotion. And I saw Fidel Ramos executing his now famous triumphant leap. Some people in the crowd followed his cue and jumped too. Others broke into clapping. But the elation was premature … it was all a rumor … the news that Marcos had fled.</div>
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We went back that night to camp out with a group of neighbors with whom we hitched a ride. The fiesta spirit prevailed at least in our part of EDSA (the Green Meadows area). The towels … I mean, the diapers .. didn’t have to be steeped in water and distributed. There were no bombs – teargas or the more lethal kind. There were no tanks to stop with rosaries and white roses – though we women were given these -- just in case, the leaders said. After dinner, we rehearsed for how we women would take the front lines when the tanks appeared with our smiles and peace offerings and loud prayers. We were assured in the same breath that the menfolk would actually be leading the regiment from behind, ready to overtake the women should the soldiers prove serious in wiping us off the street. </div>
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I fidgeted as I waited for the tanks, fingering my white rose and beads. But by the time the sun rose, they had not rolled in. I was almost disappointed. It could have been my mouse-roaring moment. Tsk.</div>
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I tried to snatch some sleep on blankets we spread on the pavement. But it was cold outdoors, with summer weeks away. When I couldn't stand the chill, I'd rise to seek warmth from one of the smoldering bonfires. Just then, a queue of people began to form, at the end of which were steaming coffee and hot pandesal, courtesy of a congregation of nuns and priests. I joined the line, yawning, beginning to warm up. <br /> </div>
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We went back the following evening , Monday, with our eldest son, Ariel, then a teenager, in tow. Adrian, our next son, was imploring to be allowed to join, too. I shushed him with an assurance: tomorrow will be your turn. I was so sure it would be a long, long road show. I reckoned Marcos and family would dig in for many days. </div>
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But I was wrong. On Tuesday, there was no more reason to stay the night. By about 8 pm, the whole of EDSA exploded into cheering and dancing and singing. The dictator had truly and finally fled. </div>
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We walked home that night – feeling like we were stepping on air -- never imagining 25 years later the EDSA peaceful revolution we just took part in would be called a failed success.</div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Photo: from OFW News on Web</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-33754808620898179422011-01-13T22:12:00.006+08:002012-01-12T17:54:14.316+08:00Resolved as it is hereby resolved 1: muling pagsusulat<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz6_nt1hcf6qU3oqHS-u_E39LX2vyUqdlrhZyBjPifBqSFfzneYmH4UiwnsyFSjQuRcCfeicYXYzTL3FasD4Zq8E-O5fVLFskowF6BmCDW5JyJqbW7FkFoP10GVnH5XU8n4kTKra6sDnB4/s1600/diary.jpg" style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561675537758185122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz6_nt1hcf6qU3oqHS-u_E39LX2vyUqdlrhZyBjPifBqSFfzneYmH4UiwnsyFSjQuRcCfeicYXYzTL3FasD4Zq8E-O5fVLFskowF6BmCDW5JyJqbW7FkFoP10GVnH5XU8n4kTKra6sDnB4/s400/diary.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Sa buong buhay ko, hindi ako kailanman naglista ng New Year’s resolution – puwera na lang marahil kung ako ay napilitan nang ako’y nasa hayskul dahil asaynment ito sa Homeroom o sa English Composition o sa Pilipino) pagkatapos ng dalawang linggong Christmas vacation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Hindi ko alam bakit hindi ako naki-uso sa ganitong tradisyon. Wala bang dapat baguhin sa buhay o sa katauhan ko? (Ang sagot: marami, hindi nga mabilang. Kung baga sa kotse, hindi lang kumpuni ang kailangan kundi <i>major overhaul</i>). Hindi ba ako naniniwala sa kakayahan kong tuparin ang mga pagbabagong ninanasa? (Marahil, nguni’t paano malalaman kung hindi susubukan?) O tamad lang ako o walang panahon o tiyagang mag-litanya ng mga resolusyon? (Tamad? -- medyo. Walang panahon? -- hindi yata, lalo na ngayong namaalam na ako -- o, kay tamis na <span style="font-style: italic;">GOODbye</span> -- sa dati kong kaaway at inaaway na <i>bundy clock</i>. Walang tiyaga? -- oong-oo. Pati nga pagkain, kinakainipan ko, kaya kadalasan nasusuway ang “unang utos” sa Food and Nutrition na “chew your food well” ). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Nguni’t nitong pagpasok ng 2011, ginulat ko ang sarili ko sa pamamagitan ng pagbigay ng ultimatum sa sarili ko upang umpisahan ang mga prayoridad na dapat gawin. Hindi ko man tinatak sa papel ang mga ito, tila bumaon naman sa utak ko. Dahil kaya nararamdaman kong kulang na ako ng tinatatawag na <i>luxury of time </i>na sabi nga ay wala ring tiyagang maghintay kangino man?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><b>Muling pagsusulat</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Mag-uumpisa ulit ako ng <i>daily journal</i>, sabi ko sa sarili ko -- isang gawain na sinangtabi ko nang nahaling ako sa pagba-blog sa Internet. Mahigit na dalawang dosena na ang napuno kong kuwaderno kung saan ko binubunton ang lahat ng kadramahan ko sa buhay – maliit, malaki, o pinalaki. Matagal ko ding prinoblema ang mga kuwadernong ito (kay dami naman kase!) – sino ang pupunit o susunog sa kanila kapag may nangyaring hindi inaasahan? Paghati-hatiin ko kaya sa aking mga anak bilang kapalit sa ari-arian at kayamanang hindi ko naipundar? Tanggapin kaya nila? <span style="font-style: italic;">God provides</span>, wika nga, dahil noong isang taon lahat ng papel sa bahay – libro, magasin, litrato, kuaderno, kalendaryo – ay inanod o winasak ni Ondoy. May nailigtas man, dahil nagdikit-dikit ang mga pahina, sa basurahan din humantong. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Susulat akong muli. Kailangan ko ng talambuhay sa pagwawakas ng aking panahon. Hindi lamang para sa mga madramang pangyayari (na pakonti na nang pakonti kahit nga pilit akong nangi-imbento at nagpapasimuno) kundi para rin sa mga pangkaraniwang mga ritwal. Kailangan ko ng tala -- kailan ba ako huling/dapat akong muling magpunta sa bangko, sa post office, sa grocery store, sa doktor, sa botika, sa VFI (kung saan ako sumusulat), sa UP ISSI (kung saan muli akong susulat)? Hwag nyong sabihing “to-do” list lang ang katapat nito, o isang <i>organizer</i>. Ang hindi mapagkait na ispasyo ng kuaderno ang kailangan ko dahil kahit pamimili o pagbabangko, kaya ko pa ding singitan ng drama – o hindi ako si Annamanila.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"> Kay rami kong natanggap na fancy notebook, note pad at stationery noong nakaraang Pasko. Kung hindi ito isang pagtutulak na ako’y muling magsulat, hindi ko alam kung ano ang itatawag. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">(sa susunod: pagkukumpuni ng lumang makina)</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-17285991654931534062010-12-24T02:01:00.003+08:002012-01-12T17:55:03.328+08:00Unforgettable Christmas Stories<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13s65PtRzYYkTQjk7FMNNEuSu5eT6AmSoGWji8tj4MN6W9_lZkhfrQpawWaJOhtZI33On864OaCzUAhoIHURJ8O3twNvLLMZTH3fZdLQxlG5zoi0k2QBOtW0AT9OCGB0SyOF5Ipsby5lz/s1600/alone_at_christmas_crpd.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553941114159242082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13s65PtRzYYkTQjk7FMNNEuSu5eT6AmSoGWji8tj4MN6W9_lZkhfrQpawWaJOhtZI33On864OaCzUAhoIHURJ8O3twNvLLMZTH3fZdLQxlG5zoi0k2QBOtW0AT9OCGB0SyOF5Ipsby5lz/s400/alone_at_christmas_crpd.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 327px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 350px;" /></a>I. <br />
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Paskung-pasko ay nagmamaktol si Dina. “Ano ba naman si Santa Claus, hindi ba siya marunong magbasa?” Ilang Pasko nang humihiling siya at sumusulat: “Mahal na Santa Claus ang gusto ko pong aginaldo ay pinggan-pingganan. Yun lang po at wala nang iba.”</div>
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Nang magising siya kinaumagahan ng Pasko, isang matambok na balutan ang nakita niya sa ulunan ng kanyang kama. Sa laki, sa bigat, at sa korte ng balot, alam na niya -- siniphayo na naman siya ni Santa.</div>
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Pilit na pilit na binuksan niya ito. “Ang pangit!” ang bulong niya pagkakita sa isang aparador-aparadorang yari sa kahoy. Malagana niyang hinila at tinulak ang maliliit na mga <i>drawers </i>nito, pagkatapos ay tinabig. Tumayo siya upang maghilamos; ni hindi sinulyapan ang laruang sumambulat sa sahig.</div>
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Gaya ng nakagawian nila, nagsimba silang mag-anak at nakinig ng misa sa kapilyang malapit sa kanila. Umuwi sila sa nagpuputok at wala nang maupuang sala na kung sa bagay at talaga namang napakaliit kahit walang bisita. Nakahilera duon ang siyam – oo, siyam -- niyang pinsang nakatira ilang bloke lang ang layo sa kanilang bahay. Siyam na dahilan kung bakit tuwing Pasko, nakakaisip mamundok at magtago ang kanyang amang kadalasan ay “alaws pe-pe.” Sa madaling salita: laging <i>broke</i>.</div>
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“Uncle, may bago akong <i>poem</i>,” sabi ng listang-lista at kyut na kyut na pinsan niyang si Myrla sa kanyang Papa. Kayang-kayang paikutin ni Myrla ang kanyang ama sa kanyang hinliliit. Kung may mga Paskong mas broke pa sa broke ang kanyang ama; si Myrla lamang ang palihim nitong inaabutan ng pisong papel.</div>
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Nag-<i>curtsy </i>pa si Myrla bago bumigkas ng tula nang malakas at punung-puno ng drama. Nang matapos ang palakpakan, tuloy-tuloy ang bata sa kandungan ng tatay ni Dina at buong lambing itong binulungan. Nang ginagap ng tiyuhin niya ang kanyang bulsa, mabilis siyang sinaway ng bata: “Uncle, ayaw ko ng pera.” “Eh, ano ang gusto mo--” tudyo ng matandang lalaki, “ang pitaka ko?” “Yun” – sagot ni Myrla sabay turo sa lamesa kung saan nakapatong ang maliit na aparador na kangina lang ay tila gustong wasakin ni Dina.</div>
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“Teka, kay Dina ‘yan” sagot ng Papa ni Dina sabay kamot ng ulo. “Pero, hmmm, ayaw yata niya.”</div>
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Sa puntong ito tumayo si Dina, tumakbo papuntang silid, nagbabaga ang mukha at nangigilid ang luha. Sinusi niya ang pinto at iniyak lahat ng sama ng loob –kay Santa, kay Myrla, sa kanyang Papa. Nakatulog siyang humihikbi. Pag-gising niya, tahimik at walang tao sa kabahayan. Mabilis niyang nakita ang agad hinanap ng kanyang mga mata.</div>
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Ang maliit na aparador ay nasa lamesa pa din at hindi na pangit.</div>
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</div>
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II.</div>
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He wrote me a heart-breaking letter from Palawan where he had a business buying and selling lobsters and other seafood. "I am sorry, I can’t come home on Christmas," he said. The pre-Christmas catch was very meager, he explained, and he had to wait another week of diving to make his trip worthwhile. “Don’t worry,” he hastened to add, “I’ll ask my mom and dad to bring my caboodle of nieces and nephews to spend Christmas eve with you and the children,” as though it would make an iota of difference.</div>
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As the holidays approached, I prepared myself for a blue-blue Christmas.</div>
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I was inconsolable but I behaved coolly that Christmas eve. I decorated, cooked, whipped, baked. When my in-laws arrived, I thought they hugged me more tightly and greeted me more warmly than they usually did. I was terrific: I acted the part of a faultlesssly gracious host.</div>
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At half past two am, the last guest had left, the last dish was wiped clean and the last child had been tucked into bed. I breathed in the silence, feeling numb.</div>
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Just then, I sensed the stillness outside break -- even before I heard a cab stop, gently purr, and one of its doors open and shut smartly.</div>
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I was all ears as our sweet sweet gate screeched sweetly open followed by the sweet sweet sound of familiar footsteps. Then the sweet sweet knocking on the sweet sweet door told me in no uncertain terms the sweetheart made it home for Christmas.</div>
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III.</div>
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Christmas rush many years ago.</div>
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The old woman cheerfully sat beside me on what must be the last remaining seat in the congested bus, carrying a box of cake on one hand and a <i>bayong </i>containing a live chicken on the other. She let the bag drop on the floor as the fowl complained cackling but kept the cake close by her. The box was so big it spilled from her narrow lap to rest on a fraction of mine. She kept lifting the box up, anxious it would bother me. I turned to smile at her to implicitly assure her it was no trouble at all.</div>
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<a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/10583-remembrances-of-christmas-past.html">Click here to read more</a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-17686969987639831032010-12-13T09:41:00.004+08:002012-01-12T17:55:31.982+08:00When wife meets mistress<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBgfnuxiIfp4AdPUkjcbm3O5Ku-FRLG3ORcJjGsT27JnIaPpau1j5S-pxl-Z8j-Z0XSVhYp21Hjb5hzz19VZA9YuO-1BnkKS68Zv9HcsZ1W8usrx6IA5bjdxFZ8ReRfVHMt1uKnlohO1S/s1600/women+scorned.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549977125274926082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBgfnuxiIfp4AdPUkjcbm3O5Ku-FRLG3ORcJjGsT27JnIaPpau1j5S-pxl-Z8j-Z0XSVhYp21Hjb5hzz19VZA9YuO-1BnkKS68Zv9HcsZ1W8usrx6IA5bjdxFZ8ReRfVHMt1uKnlohO1S/s400/women+scorned.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 305px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
When <b>Nena </b>learned her husband was keeping a mistress, her gut reaction was "to destroy." She wanted to die or to kill or at least to maim (her husband and the other woman), but in time was able to keep hold of herself. She thought, on second thoughts, she could talk sense into the errant pair. At 35, she believed human kindness and reason could work wonders. <br />
Here is an <a href="http://ode2old.blogspot.com/2007/03/women-in-love-and-in-trouble-nenas.html">account of their first meeting</a> – Nena and Leny, the wife and the mistress, respectively:<br />
<i>I dropped by Leny’s apartment just as she was on her way to school. Our meeting was a pleasant one, surprisingly. She remarked how good and young I looked. But of course, I took care to look my best – wore my most flattering blouse, suffered my girdle, had my hair blow-dried. I told her in turn she was everything my husband told me she was. Inwardly, I groaned – she looked so young, fragile, and innocent.</i><br />
<i>She told me she didn’t really have to go school that day. “Great,” I said. “Why don’t we drop by his office – and watch his jaw drop.</i><br />
<i>When we entered the office, holding hands and beaming, work ground to a halt. We must have made a grand show.</i><br />
<i>Yes, my husband's jaw dropped as we made our way to his cubicle. When he recovered his senses, he said: “Let’s go out to dinner.” We made plans for the three of us that night – noble, win-win plans. Silently, I congratulated myself. How clever I was!</i><br />
<i>If our lofty plans had materialized, Leny would study full time. I would be her guardian, mentor and friend. He would keep distance. When she finished and started a career, we would be the best of friends – all three of us.</i><br />
<i>Two months later, Leny was pregnant by my husband.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<b>Monica</b> tried a similar approach.<a href="http://ode2old.blogspot.com/2007/07/stories-of-women-betrayed-apple-of-my.html">She arranged to meet Eva</a>, her husband Ding’s officemate and paramour.<br />
<i>Eva turned out to be really nice. She promised to forget Ding. And she also asked me to bring her home so she could meet “Ding’s children … so I can stand firm on my decision to break up with him." Taking a crowded bus, we were hanging by the estribo all the way. When we alighted, Eva said: “You could have pushed me from the bus, you know.”</i><br />
<i>Surprisingly, Eva was as as good as her word. Maybe it also helped that she was fired out from the office where she and Ding worked. Ding grieved Eva’s loss but Monica’s ordeal was far from over. It wasn’t long before Ding found another lover.</i><br />
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Not all wives can manage their dark impulses when meeting their husband’s mistresses for the first time. <b> Carla </b>is one of the feisty, uncontrolled ones.<br />
Carla happens to be Nena’s sister, fiercely loyal to each other, but poles apart in temperament.<br />
When Carla got wind of what was happening, she did some research to confirm her fears. Once she was certain something was afoul, she followed her husband Ben as she drove supposedly to overtime work. She left herown car behind and instead took a cab so Ben wouldn't notice he was being tailed.<br />
But inside Carla’s bag was a gun, Ben’s gun.<br />
<i>He parked by a narrow alley in a semi-depressed part of Manila, went out of the car, and walked. I paid the cab, and watched him enter a small yard where a petite young woman waited. I was in turmoil … I must have entered the yard too and walked past him. All I remember is holding the woman by the collar and pointing Ben’s gun at her temple ...</i><br />
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<i><a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/10548-when-wife-meets-mistress.html">Click here to read more</a></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-74226417235051423522010-11-28T15:45:00.032+08:002012-01-12T17:56:13.395+08:00Over 60 and swooning<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rIviZuUhPRvDTcvTW749Z0s6xIZCXzKTUfyZogA8oJoBbnQuVALvmLTe9SNjm1PZ9ZqUe896gLuaeDWveXX_VkoPo3IwDQrpdDXjx0p76mcQxdX4s7pIewLbs6e6VTs-us2NMgGXmjTe/s1600/jerry-yan.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544504671908999618" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rIviZuUhPRvDTcvTW749Z0s6xIZCXzKTUfyZogA8oJoBbnQuVALvmLTe9SNjm1PZ9ZqUe896gLuaeDWveXX_VkoPo3IwDQrpdDXjx0p76mcQxdX4s7pIewLbs6e6VTs-us2NMgGXmjTe/s320/jerry-yan.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 265px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">“Karma” – my BFF Gabby calls it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">She couldn’t relate to me, she says – which, shorn of diplomatese, may have meant she laughed at me -- in my Dao Ming Zu days. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Those were days I’d go home early to catch plays and replays of “Meteor Garden” where Taiwanese actor Jerry Yan (aka Dao Ming Zu) strutted, with his magnificent abs, big hair, and brooding, slit-eyed looks, into and under the skin not only of the saccharine Shan Cai but also of his huge audience of women, young and old and, yes, older. Days all I wanted to do at lunchtime was to recount the latest Dao Ming Zu tragedy or crisis with office friends, never mind if all of us watched the show the night before. Days I’d watch Meteor Garden episodes on CD which I cajoled my niece Maila to lend me and which I didn’t return though she more than cajoled. Days I’d shop at Bench, where Jerry was poster boy, only so I could grab a free poster. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Of course, it wasn’t the first time I swooned over a 20 year old. There was Diether Ocampo back in his Ang TV and Gimik days; and before him Romnick Sarmenta; and before him Dranreb Belleza; and before him …. ooops, my memory fails me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">She has been karma’d, Gabby confesses, because now, she’s hopelessly in love with K-pop idol Jang Geun Seok of “You’re Beautiful” fame. Hah, I wanted to gloat, JGS is only a Korean reproduction of my DMZ – a second rate, trying-hard copy cat. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">This must be second childhood, Gabby frets. “I bought a lot of JGS stuff. I listen to his soundtracks and constantly watch his manhwas (Korean dramas). He has a new one showing here now,” she adds, referring of course to Korea where she is an exchange professor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Gabby offers she is an escapist-dreamer whose outlook in life is “that there should always be magic and that anything is possible” -- her way of explaining why she is hooked to the young Kor-Kor idol. She is not keen on reality, she says, because reality for others is not HER reality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Unlike Gabby, I don’t shun roller-coaster reality, even if some of the bumps really did hurt. It has brought enough high and magical moments, to savor while they lasted and to re-savor in the remembering. No, life has been good or has evened out for me – with its admixture of joys and griefs, surprises and disappointments, and gains and losses. Truly, I have sometimes surprised myself how well I played some tough cards life dealt me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">(Which reminds me how an online scrabble buddy recently complained about the tight board we were playing -- you know, the kind where you could only move edgewise. Don’t you just hate it? -- she asked. I replied honestly that I have learned to enjoy the challenge of difficult boards and bad tiles where I have to dip deep into my ingenuity, stock of words, and other resources to form a "respectable” word without passing or exchanging tiles.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">But I escape too sometimes. There is also this secret place in my mind, that I stealthily enter when I am alone, where everything is magical and where I am young forever and the season is always summer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Is it horribly wrong – this living and dreaming-daydreaming, waking up and then starting the cycle again? Is it so ridiculous and laughable – this delighting in everything that elicits a smile and perhaps some kilig, regardless if it's Jerry Yan, Jan Geun Seok, an old flame, a virtual friend, or some other who has caught our fancy?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">There is a secret chamber inside everyone -- young and old, male and female, rich and poor, wise or not so -- that one takes refuge in when the going gets rough or merely tiresome.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">We don’t stop dreaming or swooning just because we are 50, 60, or older. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Maybe I should watch “You’re Beautiful” one of these days and then …. who knows?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Photo: from </span><a href="http://english.cri.cn/349/2005/11/04/44@28719.htm" style="font-style: italic;">crienglish.com</a></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-38231012456289385382010-11-16T17:54:00.003+08:002012-01-12T17:56:42.709+08:00House of Many Rooms<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzMDguFGhhPJ3PZMYG_A7miXZWA0YnIgytF0GYIbZpmljQhmcJruxvUvIkapgkPj82J2FN5F7v-IzIrt9O1zcpWDGV-y1VjTB_6DvUhGipEsboWqPYws69DCF11vOTnfG6p0nsmPieqA3H/s1600/doors+1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540089778901052498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzMDguFGhhPJ3PZMYG_A7miXZWA0YnIgytF0GYIbZpmljQhmcJruxvUvIkapgkPj82J2FN5F7v-IzIrt9O1zcpWDGV-y1VjTB_6DvUhGipEsboWqPYws69DCF11vOTnfG6p0nsmPieqA3H/s320/doors+1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 252px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My house has many rooms</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I lock or unlock at will</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Some brick-walled</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Fortressed, forbidding</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Others with swinging doors</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Where I wraithlike slither</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">From room to room</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the order of the moon's </span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Waxing and waning</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Or shuttle in reverse</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the surreal fashion of dreams</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Or flit from end to end</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Edge to center and back again</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Godlike, omnipresent</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In every which corner</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Of my house of many rooms.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">My house has a charmed chamber</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">A treasure trove</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Of mysterious joys</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Of things old </span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And half-forgotten</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">That I visit often</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">When the rains pour</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And joints grow cold</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And eyes mist with tears</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Of remembering and forgetting.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The sun ever shines</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Brooks gurgle</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Birds twitter</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Embers smolder</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In that charmed chamber</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In my house of many rooms.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">You</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">have this charmed place too</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In your house of many rooms</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">However far you've gone</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In whatever clime.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Soon we will meet again</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the chamber of a million charms</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Where we all began</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And to which we will come back</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">To know each other</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">For the first time.</span></span><br />
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Photo: “<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/60328416@N00/1818082304">The mysterious Door</a>” by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/60328416@N00/"></a>, c/o Flickr. <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">Some Rights Reserved</a><br />
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(Written on the occasion of the 50th year anniversary of our high school graduation)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-33677921352139999372010-11-04T13:52:00.017+08:002012-01-12T17:57:12.408+08:00Peevish PV of the unwrinkled spirit<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrkle3YUgHSyfjfhdmhyphenhyphenT-OS1v2H6D_Mc1bnyHQ1FydaSR-OP9Qod5eUDd0j8-S_7fWuCbWsBrOlkK1PzlKkLhm3_7BDiN0cUs1nZjpuCD59nZcOJFn5VCD5qz9t_sbwDgnY1gR7kPg0K/s1600/old+man.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535658433043535490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrkle3YUgHSyfjfhdmhyphenhyphenT-OS1v2H6D_Mc1bnyHQ1FydaSR-OP9Qod5eUDd0j8-S_7fWuCbWsBrOlkK1PzlKkLhm3_7BDiN0cUs1nZjpuCD59nZcOJFn5VCD5qz9t_sbwDgnY1gR7kPg0K/s400/old+man.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 251px;" /></a></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Dear PV*</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">87 ka na nga ba? Owws? </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> Hindi nga. Yung tutuo?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">We always love saying this, the UP ISSI staffers of my generation </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> – "PV was looked up to as THE grand old man when we were young and callow and </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> foolish.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> Now that we are old and jaded and foolish, PV has remained as he has always been." </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> Time has seemingly stood still for him, and allowed us, alas, to catch up with him -- in a manner of speaking.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">What is the secret of his youngish looks and longevity?</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> Only he can say. </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> But I can surmise (and I mean surmise beyond the clean, healthy, disciplined life he lives that is for all to see):</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">PV has amazing energy and vigor … a passion for being productive and creative … an obstinate refusal to be shunted away from the mainstream.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> He constantly makes himself better, looking out for opportunities to contribute, to help, to get involved, to guide, to lead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Over the years, over the infrequent zig-zagging of our friendship, over our occasional "political" differences -- -- I </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> have glimpsed love, warmth, sweetness and compassion inside that usually peevish and tough exterior.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> Malambing at mapagmahal si PV.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%;"><br />PV took me to his former classmate, then Philippine Constabulary Chief Fidel Ramos, when my father was detained at Camp Crame in the early days of martial rule. PV would buy oversized remote control cars for each of my five boys during his trips abroad, never taking them out of their big boxes -- never mind if they took up all the space of a big maleta -- the better for me to wrap them for Christmas.<br /><br /><br />When I rocked his boat and unwittingly created a leadership crisis for him over what I called "a matter of principle," PV sent me flowers.<br /><br /><br />I thought I had lost his friendship then ... but it didn't take more than a few months for us to shake hands, hug each other, and make up. The "I am sorry(s)" did not have to be said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">He understood even when we were standing poles apart on some issue or other.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">PV has kept his soul unwrinkled.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Tough act to follow for all of us.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> But we can always try.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> I know I try.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">* <span style="font-style: italic;">Message to be delivered in tribute to Dr. PV -- former boss and mentor at the UP ISSI, and now friend and fellow-SME advocate -- on the occasion of his 87th birthday</span>.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Photo: “</span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/18013925@N00/2194615778" style="font-family: verdana;">01-14-08- camelot</a><span style="font-family: verdana;">” by </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/18013925@N00/" style="font-family: verdana;">Frank</a><span style="font-family: verdana;">, c/o Flickr. </span><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/" style="font-family: verdana;">Some Rights Reserved</a></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-5157018666694935392010-10-20T18:05:00.018+08:002012-01-12T17:57:29.380+08:00No more talismans for daughter<span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6P1XuFNZ1JLiddKBMNLtBNhaRNet_PNbz8RMHoB6lfsQqsS0tLGNBpqodQ2RBhyphenhyphenpAo2Td2cAKlhCu3Vsby7xbiVFkt_JHzEwrfE_pfRqEg5_bqtW4X8zSFxW6yew0WFKs5KO2lhu3G65n/s1600/mom+and+daughter.jpg" style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530081887938835522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6P1XuFNZ1JLiddKBMNLtBNhaRNet_PNbz8RMHoB6lfsQqsS0tLGNBpqodQ2RBhyphenhyphenpAo2Td2cAKlhCu3Vsby7xbiVFkt_JHzEwrfE_pfRqEg5_bqtW4X8zSFxW6yew0WFKs5KO2lhu3G65n/s400/mom+and+daughter.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">She was born after I have given up on ever fussing over hair clips and ribbons and laces and Hello Kitties -- just as I was beginning to believe myself when I answer those who marveled over the five successive boys I had: “I don’t mind not having a daughter.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">As it turned out she didn’t care for ribbons and girly stuff. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">After she turned four, I could no longer make her wear the lacy, patchy – and pricey --</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">St. Patrick dresses I paid through my teeth for.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">From that time on, it was tees and shorts</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">and rubber shoes and a Ringo Starr hairdo that didn't require hair clips.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">She was to be my Jennifer – a name I burned with, </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">pregnancy after pregnancy, </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">but which had to be set aside again and again because the stork that delivered babies to me seemed to specialize in boys only. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">But one look at the baby girl that finally came told me she was NOT Jennifer.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">She looked marvelous and smart and pretty, but, no, she wouldn’t have answered to Jennifer. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Fortunately, my husband, previously unconcerned over baby names, was itching to name her and I was just happy to let him. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">So he named her after what he insisted was the </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Greek </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">goddess of quickness.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">(But he was wrong:</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">my later research revealed the name was rooted on a Greek word meaning truth or she who tells the truth.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Funny, when my boys were just babies and toddlers, all of them were invariably mistaken for girls.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Now, that the much awaited finally came, people thought I was being funny when I would insist that the ball-dribbling, yoyo-swinging, mop-haired child was a girl.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">I wasn’t too alarmed when she turned out to be more adept at basketball than all her four kuya.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">She also doted on</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> Barbies </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">and tea sets.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">She was very good at sewing, drawing, and cooking. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Most of all, she was marshamallow inside – easy to bully and frighten and cry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">She cried when she was passed over in the grade school intramural try-outs in relay.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">I quickly wrote a letter which began:</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">“Dear Miss Cruz, do you want to make a little girl happy?”</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">and the next day, she boasted she had begun joining relay practice.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">She came home from class in tears from big-time teasing when their picture-taking session was rained out and the teacher demanded “sino ang may balat sa puwet?” and one hand came up.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Guess whose? </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">She was perplexed the whole class rolled on the floor laughing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Ruffians in school called her names, drawing tears. When the bullying went on unabated, I taught her how to name-call back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">The dark scared her so much I brought home all sorts of medallions and scapulars and vested it with powers to shoo away forces of darkness.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">As the years passed, she got over her fears and being bullied, though she still cried easily.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">From being a pasang-awa in the relay team, she worked on her athletic prowess to become captain of the high school softball varsity team and its most valuable player. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">From being bullied, she became class comic and the life of every gathering with her witty retorts and quick puns.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">I no longer had to calm her fears.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">She eased mine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Not too long ago, I was brooding over slights (real and imagined) and problems (present and to come).</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">She noticed I was upset, </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">sat opposite me and said:</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">“Hang loose, mommy.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Look at me, I am always happy.”</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">“Really, “ I shot back:</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">“Are you happy when you get tres and cinco in your class cards?”</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">“Well, she laughed, “I would be down for a while but not for long.”</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">She moved closer to hold my hand and perhaps by some osmotic process I felt lighter and, yes, almost happy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">She is the one who, when I fretted over a few thousand pesos filched from my wallet, told me to forget it since it’s only money.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">The one who would tease me to go, get a life.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">The one who when I insisted she went to church asked me if God wouldn’t have preferred it if she helped someone hard up or sick or unhappy. The one who all her siblings describe as "masarap maging kapatid."</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Today, she is a doctor.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Still the softest, most kind hearted person I know.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">I told her once she was my best product. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">But …</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Today, too, she faces a crisis in her life –the biggest she has encountered thus far.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Some of the long-ago fears must have come back for she admits she is paralyzed with indecision. Some of my remarks thrown her way reduced her to tears. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">I have become paralyzed too. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">I can no longer bring her talismans vested with fictitious power.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">I can no longer write “Dear Miss Cruz” letters </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">that will melt teacher’s heart.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">I can no longer teach her how to fight back so bullies would stop bullying. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">I can only wish she remembers where she misplaced her gift of happiness and retrieve it and get it back to work – pronto.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">I can only hover at the edges and give advice when and only when I am asked and then pray I say the right things rather than impulsive ones TRIGGERED BY MY OWN FEARS.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">I can only pray for wisdom and guidance for her and for me -- which is just about the only thing I can do with some degree of proficiency these days.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 100%;">And yes, I can only remind her she is my best product.</span> </div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Photo: “</span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/10485077@N06/4593519837" style="font-style: italic;">Daughter and Mother</a><span style="font-style: italic;">” by </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/10485077@N06/" style="font-style: italic;">Eden, Janine and Jim</a><span style="font-style: italic;">, c/o Flickr. </span><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/" style="font-style: italic;">Some Rights Reserved</a></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-46065918585370116582010-09-20T05:38:00.011+08:002012-01-12T17:58:21.567+08:00BETTER THAN IT GETS -- SOMETIMES<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87gOgD7NwlopFAA4ZWx7706sm4inI2wB_sLOXNS8pMa8SyNJYp34F2CKECLPp3dXbAE5w8eYtPL_nucvXn6zIh6zpm4ROsT4JwPPsO5QLsX703_UKr-PfzcVX8J2fcLB-1PvZjuCALzKR/s1600/manila+book+fair.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518745533453202962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87gOgD7NwlopFAA4ZWx7706sm4inI2wB_sLOXNS8pMa8SyNJYp34F2CKECLPp3dXbAE5w8eYtPL_nucvXn6zIh6zpm4ROsT4JwPPsO5QLsX703_UKr-PfzcVX8J2fcLB-1PvZjuCALzKR/s400/manila+book+fair.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 254px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(Speech delivered at the launching of IN ANOTHER DRESS, the e-book, by Vee Press and Vibal Foundation, at the Manila International Book Fair at SMX Center, Mall of Asia, on September 17. Likewise launched were e-books by Noemi Lardizabal Dado and Lady S.) </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">I started my blog four years ago and named it Ode to Old – a thinly veiled attempt to put romance and poetry into aging. I thought if I could convince my readers it’s alright to grow old, then perhaps I could feel good about it, too. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">I was at the edge of retirement then, anxious over the prospect of living half a life. You know … waking up with no more "gosh-I’m-gonna-be-late" get up and go. Dressing up with no destination. Walking without direction. Taking coffee and lunch breaks – uninterrupted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">I decided to blog, hoping it would engage and absorb me well into antiquity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">I sub-titled my blog “the best is yet to be.” I did it tongue in cheek, wistfully, wishfully, almost with a sense of desperation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">As I blogged on, I was surprised the jitters began to ease. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">Blogging gave me a voice to talk to the world. But one has to talk of things the world would care to listen to.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">I guess that is how a blogger learns to look at things with a fresh eye, to look for the instructive, the comic, the unusual in the most commonplace experiences. Or else, WHO would read what a blogger writes? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">The requisite introspection in blogging put me in touch with inner wisdom that told me if I didn’t worry, I would arrive exactly where I am now and MORE pleasantly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">I vented left-over toxins every now and then. And I wondered if it was true that once you put down your troubles on paper, they stay put there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">Two and half years into retirement, AM I HAVING THE TIME of my life? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">Well … even though most of the jitters have fled, there are days in fact that I do magnificently, days I cope miserably, and days I just seem to get by.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">Which, come to think of it, is almost the exact same way my younger days, my pre-retirement days, used to zig and zing and zag. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">So, then as now, there are days I couldn’t seem to do anything right, and days everything falls into place, and days ….. I just don’t know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">But I DID know, ten months ago, when my blogs were compiled into a thin volume entitled “IN ANOTHER DRESS” then published and launched, I could almost glimpse the “BEST that was yet to be.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">And I DO KNOW THAT TODAY is another day for hoping that indeed age is an opportunity, much like youth, though dressed differently. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; line-height: 115%;">Thank you, Vibal Foundation and Vee Press for reincarnating the book in the digital sphere, for making possible this opportune, exciting, high- tech version of IN ANOTHER DRESS, making virtually the whole world its prospective reader. </span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit9XhBhZXeqsl8Yh_fQDqNYXDJfjjT1bypEcLkeFwkotiIBPE3gYaPVH1ZRfp8DTBlzMMdkR_X-nnV9jO55QukMmwcmKF7r-C1PaC_xXM8apsN4hkUURWCNtU24lPlh4P0y1m-gp1FQnKq/s1600/manila+book+fair+2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518749764337809634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit9XhBhZXeqsl8Yh_fQDqNYXDJfjjT1bypEcLkeFwkotiIBPE3gYaPVH1ZRfp8DTBlzMMdkR_X-nnV9jO55QukMmwcmKF7r-C1PaC_xXM8apsN4hkUURWCNtU24lPlh4P0y1m-gp1FQnKq/s400/manila+book+fair+2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Photo credits: Noemi Lardizabal Dado, Alina R. Co</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-14210382474033286082010-09-06T04:32:00.005+08:002012-01-12T17:59:12.635+08:00So they'd know whether to plug or unplug: buhay na habilin<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhODHMajeVqefEFE1RRu-pyG7XfAT_OWMkAoeEJ6Y_uureoN6xkRgqqYb8QI1cctrbohwGSenNnp9KcodfA9XgLDr5PW0vc4Z4IIji6IwDwxmotUodSL5y-M1jcCuG2NAiWvJunBUufyrh/s1600/intravenous+injection.jpg" style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513531695905023762" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhODHMajeVqefEFE1RRu-pyG7XfAT_OWMkAoeEJ6Y_uureoN6xkRgqqYb8QI1cctrbohwGSenNnp9KcodfA9XgLDr5PW0vc4Z4IIji6IwDwxmotUodSL5y-M1jcCuG2NAiWvJunBUufyrh/s400/intravenous+injection.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 358px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 375px;" /></a></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%;">Nang mamatay ang aking best friend na si Arthur, nang madama ko kung paanong nagdusa ang kanyang pamilya noong kanyang mga huling araw, sinabi ko sa sarili ko na hindi ko papayagang mangyari ito sa aking mga mahal sa buhay pag ako'y nakapila na sa dakilang pre-departure area ng buhay.</span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Si Arthur ay mahigit na kuwarenta anyos lamang nang dalhin sa ospital na agaw-buhay, biktima ng traydor na hemorrhagic stroke. Massive daw ito -- ang mula sa utak na pagdudugo ay umabot hanggang batok. Tatlong araw na walang malay o nasa coma si Arthur; ang humihinga para sa kanya ay isang artificial respirator.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Ikalawang araw nang magsimulang magtalo ang kanyang asawang si Beth at ang mga kapatid niyang babae kung tatanggalin o pababayaang nakakabit si Arthur sa makinang siya lang nagpapatibok ng kanyang puso. Hindi sila nagkasundo, kahit binalaan na sila ng mga doktor na kung sakaling mabuhay pa siya, hinding hindi na babalik ang dating si Arthur na matalino, mapagisip, mapagbiro, masiste, malambing, masipag, maaalalahanin-- </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> bagkus mananatili lang sa isang estadong walang malay at hindi kayang tulungan ang sarili. Sa Ingles, "vegetative state." Mala-gulay.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%;"> </span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Lihim ko siyang pinalakpakan nang si Arthur na mismo ang nag-desisyon para sa sarili niya. Huminto siya sa paghinga kahit nakaplug-in pa din sya sa breathing machine sa ospital. "You go, boy," bulong ko sa kanya. Ikatlong araw noon ng kanyang pagkalugmok.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Matagal ko ding pinagluksa si Arthur. Wala na akong makikitang kaibigang lalaki na kasing-bait at kasing-sensitibo niya. Pambato siyang lecturer sa opisinang pinapasukan namin kapwa, ngunit wala lang sa kanya and papuri, walang ere, walang yabang.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Napraning ako para sa sarili ko dahil sa nangyari sa aking best friend. Lumuhod, nagnobena, nagdasal, umiyak. Sinabi ko sa Kanya na handa akong gawin ang kahit ano, ipamigay ang lahat ko, “basta, Lord, pag time is up na para sa akin, bawiin mo ako nang mabilis at kung maari’y walang gaanong kirot at kuskos-balungos. At pinaka-mahalaga, Lord, huwag mong pahirapan ang aking mga anak at asawa.” Gusto kong makipag-negosasyon, makipagareglo sa aking Diyos -- x-deal kung maari. Ngunit, pwede ba talagang makipag-bargain sa Lumikha?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Tutuo ngang binibigay ni God ang lahat ng ating pangangailangan, dahil hindi nagtagal, napag-alaman ko na meron palang tinatawag na <a href="http://www.alllaw.com/articles/wills_and_trusts/article7.asp">living will</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Buhay na habilin. O habilin ng isang buhay.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/9542-ang-living-will-sa-buhay-pinoy.html" style="font-family: verdana;">Click here to read more</a></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-73633048413809855342010-08-05T19:12:00.005+08:002012-01-12T17:59:50.520+08:00Ang aking lihim na buhay onlayn<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjryE11NKOw6ujRx2FUvm3heLFQsoPCBJPY1-pyOzjHgE3DYEY5rKfw98i7lFo08cq7eFKfEqWIPRJY8JKCXnFgDTFLop63cBYxTMqHZyKzC6xiGaM0o5eE269ZrGCzCxoFyld0a-crLBY2/s1600/secret+life+online.jpg" style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501884863972333746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjryE11NKOw6ujRx2FUvm3heLFQsoPCBJPY1-pyOzjHgE3DYEY5rKfw98i7lFo08cq7eFKfEqWIPRJY8JKCXnFgDTFLop63cBYxTMqHZyKzC6xiGaM0o5eE269ZrGCzCxoFyld0a-crLBY2/s320/secret+life+online.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 225px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ako daw yung laging kulelat. Chronic latecomer at late bloomer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Hindi lang sa pagpasok sa eskwela at opisina. Hindi lang sa pagdating sa mga sosyalan at mga miting. Hindi naman daw dramatic ang entrance ko, bagkus kiming-kimi. Mas puno daw ng embarrassment kaysa drama.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Kulelat din sa pagsunod sa mga bago at uso – sa pagbibihis, sa pagsasalita, sa pag-aayos ng bahay o sarili, sa teknolohiya.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Nuong kapanahunan ko, hindi ako nagsuot ng mini-skirt hanggang pawala na ito sa uso. Ngunit nang magamay ako dito, hindi ko na ito hinubad – nang 15 taon. Ako na yata ang pinakatalyadang buntis na naka-mini nuon. Nag-mini ako hanggang tatlong kabuntisan. Kaya’t inabutan ako ng ikalawang pagkabuhay ng mini nang naka-mini pa din.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Naalala nyo ba ang shoulder pads? Natagalan din bago ako nagsuot niyan, siempre. Aba, bagay pala sa akin. Lumalapad ang aking mga bagsak na balikat at lumiliit ang aking puson – siempre, ilusyon lang yong huli, pero yun daw ang mahalagang “total look.” Wala nang nagsusuot ng shoulder pads ngayon – bukod sa akin at, marahil, mga PMAer. Wala akong magagawa -- nagsumpaan na kami ng aking mga shoulder pads na hindi maglalayo – till death do us part.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mahirap akong hindi makilala ng aking mga kaibigan kahit dekada na kaming hindi nagkikita. Kasi kung ano ang ayos ng buhok ko 30 taon na ang nakalilipas, eksaktong ganoon pa din ngayon. Pabilog ang gupit – apple cut ang tawag -- may bangs na nakalawit sa nuo, pinasabugan ng kaunting hair spray upang hindi magulo. Faithful ako sa aking "do" -- through thick and thinning hair.</span></span><br />
<a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/9216-ang-aking-lihim-na-buhay-onlayn.html">Click here to read more</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-70769770159523306422010-07-25T19:00:00.016+08:002012-01-12T18:01:00.184+08:00Andeng, Lolly, and the first theme partyThere is always a first time … especially for the young. There can still be a first time, once in a great while, for the old.<br />
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Three year old Andeng was about to attend her first theme party which will happen that Saturday at Outback Steakhouse at cousin Seth Matthew's first birthday. Her grandmom – also known as Lolly -- is to attend it with her, plus sundry titos and titas. It must also be the first theme children’s party for Lolly who can't remember ever being invited to any in her time as mom to young kids.<br />
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Andeng’s mom and dad had earlier excused themselves from the party, having committed to another gathering elsewhere in the mom’s side of the family. They had reasonably given in, though, to Lolly’s importuning it was only fair Andeng should attend the theme party on the dad’s (also Lolly’s) side of the family. Which translated to: Lolly had to do the shopping for the prescribed western-themed attire.<br />
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She thought it was no big deal.<br />
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A day before the party, soon after lunch, Andeng showed up all dressed up and eager as a beagle to start the shopping expedition. A bit too early, however, for Lolly who was still by her pc trying to finish the day’s quota of stories for the online magazine channel she was handling. "Sandali, ha," she scowled at the girl who stood there waiting. "Ayaw you tube," she kept repeating, oblivious to her grand mom's protestation she wasn't watching any video but working. As the little girl started tugging at the pocket of Lolly’s duster with one hand and making threatening gestures toward the pc’s power button with the other, Lolly had to get up before she could click “publish” to the last of her postings. As she dressed hurriedly, pushed by the toddler’s impatient eye, she grudgingly admitted THAT -- and countless precedents of THAT the last two years since Andeng had learned to walk and talk -- was how the youngster learned "kulit" works.<br />
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At Mega Mall, the place Lolly chose to shop because she was sure “they got it all,” she found to her dismay they didn’t, no, not quite, missing out on the ONE SET OF ITEMS they went there for. -- cowboy costumes for three-year year old girls.<br />
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Or maybe the problem was Lolly had very specific ideas of what a western-themed attire should be. Tassled denim shorts, striped bright-colored shirt, and chaleco, also tassled, the color of the bottoms. And please, not to forget a wide brimmed hat to literally top off the set. Plus a final touch -- a kerchief tied around the neck, ala Marlboro County.<br />
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With the toddler trailing her, Lolly shuttled from one sub-section of the children’s section to another. She browsed at the character shop, the toddlers’ nook, the accessories store. There was nothing that fitted her stone-cast vision of a three-year-old cowgirl. They half-ran to the children's boutique outside and still another .. still tough luck.<br />
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At first, the Lolly blamed the store. Mega mall ba ito? You got it all ba ito? Tse, cowboy costume lang -- wala pa! Soon, when she felt her 60-year-old legs cramping, she had begun shifting the blame to the people through whose bright idea the difficult theme was conceived – who else but niece Maila and husband Cyric, the birthday boy’s mom and dad.<br />
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By the time Tito Best Friend (aka Arman) got to them from an hour of trying to get a parking space and finally succeeding, Andeng was fretful, frustrated, and tired; Lolly fit to be tied and ranting over “mga kaek-ekang pa costume-costume na yan.”<br />
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The Tito appraised the situation, looked around for a few seconds, then pointed at a tiny mannequin: “ why not a denim jumper?” Lolly was only too happy to blink and bend and set aside her tassled version of a western costume. After a flurry of choosing and fitting sizes on a very compliant subject, they finally checked out at the counter a blue Dora dress jumper. No tassles, no chaleco, no hat – for none could be found in the store that purports to have it all. Sige na, pwede na, uwi na tayo -- this from the still grumbling Lolly who had by then verbally lifted "ka-ek-ekan" to the level of “kaaertehan” and from thence to "kalintikan."<br />
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Lolly's spirits dipped when Andeng's dad took one look at what she bought and asked: "Akala ko ba western attire?' That night, after resting awhile, she took another shopping trip, this time to nearby Ever-Gotesco, otherwise known as the small, community mall, where they're not supposed to "got it all for you." While Lolly bought neckerchiefs (one last dogged attempt to conjure her original stereotype cowboy image) at the department store, the other Tito best friend (Allan) looked around the thrift shops and found cowboy hats at bargain prices. Although the hat was adult-sized, they thought – somewhat dubiously -- they could stuff it with tissue paper or soft cloth to fit a three-year-old head.<br />
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Everyone let out a squeal of delight when, coming home, they put the hat on the eager girl who had just wakened (the reason why she had to stay home for that second trip), and saw that when pin-tucked, it didn’t look over-sized at all.<br />
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Andeng allowed herself to go through an impromptu dress rehearsal – putting on jumper, shirt, kerchief, and hat as Allan ran for the digicam.<br />
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As Tito clicked and the cow girl posed gamely, Mommy and Daddy clapped their “wows.” Even baby Pidong gurgled approval.<br />
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And the Lolly? She was smiling, thinking costume parties such great fun.<br />
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(Happy birthday uli, SETH MATTHEW, pogi little prince of the OK Corral. We had a galloping good time at your party. Even had fun heigh-ing and ho-ing in costume hunting, despite what this ma-ek-ek na blog piece seems to convey. )<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikSwh42F36KWDht1WsKUrl2TrZOWWaleNPxsRpLRczqrUoRevZJ9LtpZGAfZ4UgATNORmFiNY1DqhhJnwFRgVJrH5ESBVkdYJJH1KG7aS3ZUM8w8G6MnPkz7gWpFVsq3-n3zoHqqiosry/s1600/cowboy+andeng+1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497807164013890162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikSwh42F36KWDht1WsKUrl2TrZOWWaleNPxsRpLRczqrUoRevZJ9LtpZGAfZ4UgATNORmFiNY1DqhhJnwFRgVJrH5ESBVkdYJJH1KG7aS3ZUM8w8G6MnPkz7gWpFVsq3-n3zoHqqiosry/s320/cowboy+andeng+1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 227px;" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuXo_T-wyIp3bZS0MoqgqD__I9UGhR0hlANxIYlOkC4yGscEO97nerdHn5QMp3ioXeJupA4qX8qbrphyT4e6NCoa6SVX_CWULxc7aefDq8xY5DRHxsRuBHAJutRtruCHSwr98sTmR2D3hI/s1600/cowgirl+andeng+and+alan.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497807166749144706" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuXo_T-wyIp3bZS0MoqgqD__I9UGhR0hlANxIYlOkC4yGscEO97nerdHn5QMp3ioXeJupA4qX8qbrphyT4e6NCoa6SVX_CWULxc7aefDq8xY5DRHxsRuBHAJutRtruCHSwr98sTmR2D3hI/s320/cowgirl+andeng+and+alan.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 315px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlM7PfixZq_yHDpbItyCqlIDbV2MUqEEIq51slNg-gxdRfum_fVX6pkhQcDwDYQenRophyphenhyphenMG3UC7hW4imGwEOAeSuDb7Troqr_bMnTl1q9v4dEvnAgd1n8c_TAJJz_ymt7azfMPFwdPNGP/s1600/seth+and+mom+and+dad.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497817991874234322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlM7PfixZq_yHDpbItyCqlIDbV2MUqEEIq51slNg-gxdRfum_fVX6pkhQcDwDYQenRophyphenhyphenMG3UC7hW4imGwEOAeSuDb7Troqr_bMnTl1q9v4dEvnAgd1n8c_TAJJz_ymt7azfMPFwdPNGP/s320/seth+and+mom+and+dad.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmF5AUswh4hrQhroqrpmENeStYvOa93WzFdnfFg1a0-FHnNHHN9hon_MSqtisWTcp1jXsthGJOOXeGej7CJQUzocwge3KkVvPvNisQXvDVPQ2IaXcMggnehg094txsceBfcXJjTJx7xroA/s1600/cowbow+andeng+and+ate+aina.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497818014354988754" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmF5AUswh4hrQhroqrpmENeStYvOa93WzFdnfFg1a0-FHnNHHN9hon_MSqtisWTcp1jXsthGJOOXeGej7CJQUzocwge3KkVvPvNisQXvDVPQ2IaXcMggnehg094txsceBfcXJjTJx7xroA/s320/cowbow+andeng+and+ate+aina.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 229px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsp6_l-ZEVBlss7HobmHpSzAVUd6NtxDKtKbodMAR8fE9iQJ5Vl5Ggbb_l3ZGEmoxaJGq8kGOvll2ZFo3Mzim5MV6ADSzyQqmNaLp1y3g7wa3T3aRMiy4CCvCT9ydag321P33qXwtf7cYH/s1600/birthday+boy+seth.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497818023395509602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsp6_l-ZEVBlss7HobmHpSzAVUd6NtxDKtKbodMAR8fE9iQJ5Vl5Ggbb_l3ZGEmoxaJGq8kGOvll2ZFo3Mzim5MV6ADSzyQqmNaLp1y3g7wa3T3aRMiy4CCvCT9ydag321P33qXwtf7cYH/s320/birthday+boy+seth.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 250px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5iN92eBzRJTB9wEdKUwDSuPeXXLOwgbb8byleAdylffV1mGwwub7g3UQeD0YIh3_c4XQd0i_d3drBZ_QaFOEYN2DhbbqxTv_66WaKu2v_pyjr2ZjaoGIppRm6ztdJI_1NoLVzd92LBQpV/s1600/the+three+lollies.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497820005764273874" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5iN92eBzRJTB9wEdKUwDSuPeXXLOwgbb8byleAdylffV1mGwwub7g3UQeD0YIh3_c4XQd0i_d3drBZ_QaFOEYN2DhbbqxTv_66WaKu2v_pyjr2ZjaoGIppRm6ztdJI_1NoLVzd92LBQpV/s320/the+three+lollies.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqS5CAgVWEKjVLNXchPAVcQMdPV8A7l0VxpF0S7cw7h-lRZYXh3-8dbs4faTViSUYDnaSvcz-fwn7nvoTjEqlfytnPzmTP2SVwxdvSAqY8v58A4Yh2Pw5Qb9lJGsNirU7pe46cKY3V6DVF/s1600/cowgirl+andeng+and+lollies.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497859112204001170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqS5CAgVWEKjVLNXchPAVcQMdPV8A7l0VxpF0S7cw7h-lRZYXh3-8dbs4faTViSUYDnaSvcz-fwn7nvoTjEqlfytnPzmTP2SVwxdvSAqY8v58A4Yh2Pw5Qb9lJGsNirU7pe46cKY3V6DVF/s320/cowgirl+andeng+and+lollies.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 150px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 201px;" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-76277583419215120392010-07-16T02:02:00.002+08:002012-01-12T18:05:59.247+08:00Grim Tales of Basyang<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXTsqwrv2c5peMe1ZAV6DsA2yAqJO40fH80-gqNsmSoDUM-8jjjYD6-GWp6Bt7wRXVD4Tmq6JNJBuilOVQcYTzCCgnUoxaGZ1Qe-0xL9pFW04y3l1a2fq6XPULXlPuQ7of-2wfLMGjrv4O/s1600/toppled+tree.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494815379226794530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXTsqwrv2c5peMe1ZAV6DsA2yAqJO40fH80-gqNsmSoDUM-8jjjYD6-GWp6Bt7wRXVD4Tmq6JNJBuilOVQcYTzCCgnUoxaGZ1Qe-0xL9pFW04y3l1a2fq6XPULXlPuQ7of-2wfLMGjrv4O/s320/toppled+tree.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<i><br />Tahanan sa Trece Martires, Cavite<a href="http://www.mb.com.ph/articles/266790/basyang-claims-2-live-cavite">, nabagsakan ng puno</a>. Mag-ina, patay. Tatlo nasugatan.</i> <br />
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<i><a href="http://newsinfo.inquirer.net/inquirerheadlines/metro/view/20100715-281136/MMDA-Basyang-damage-minimal">Metrorail trains suspended, thousands stranded</a>.</i></div>
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<i><a href="http://ph.yfittopostblog.com/2010/07/13/pagasa-storm-signal-1-up-in-metro-manila/">Metro Manila and Luzon plunge into darkness</a>. Some areas to endure two or three days more without electricity. </i></div>
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<i><a href="http://ufs.ph/2009-10/node/3796">Ship captain hits head</a> while abandoning ship; 12 barges and fishing boats, sunk, run aground. Captain’s body later found floating in a river at Limay, Bataan.</i></div>
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<i><a href="http://www.abs-cbnnews.com/video/nation/07/13/10/basyang-unleashes-fury-across-luzon-19-fishermen-missing">19 mangingisda </a>hindi na nakauwi matapos pumalaot sakay ang kanilang bankang de motor. </i></div>
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<i>Floods swept away <a href="http://newsinfo.inquirer.net/inquirerheadlines/nation/view/20100715-281152/Basyang-toll-22-killed-35-others-missing">a house in Batangas City</a>, killing two children. Their companions still missing.</i></div>
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<i>- - - - - - -</i></div>
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Tales from Basyang. Unlike the fairytale- like stories the baby boomers of the 1950s and 1960s were regaled with by (Mga Kuwento ni) <a href="http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=Lola%20Basyang," rel="nofollow" target="wikipedia" title="WikiPilipinas: Lola Basyang,">Lola Basyang,</a> then a popular radio drama series based on the writings of <a href="http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=Severino%20Reyes," rel="nofollow" target="wikipedia" title="WikiPilipinas: Severino Reyes,">Severino Reyes,</a> this atmospheric Basyang wove grim tales of death, darkness, injury, and destruction. (In 1997, the Lola Basyang stories were adapted on TV with a contemporary twist, starring Manilyn Reynes as Lola Basyang's now grown-up grand daughter out to perpetuate her grand mom's story-telling legacy.)</div>
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Typhoon Basyang, internationally code-named Coson, struck Metro Manila and Luzon Tuesday almost stealthily -- like the proverbial thief in the night. Most of the residents of the affected areas were caught flatfooted, clueless that they would be directly hit, and probably expecting only a mild weather disturbance. They were not prepared for the howling winds, the persistent downpour, the sound of rushing floodwaters, the systems-wide power outage -- which for many were quite reminiscent of Typhoon Ondoy that wreaked unprecedented havoc not yet a year ago.</div>
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In its latest <a href="http://newsinfo.inquirer.net/breakingnews/nation/view/20100715-281234/Death-toll-from-Basyang-rises-to-23">online news update</a> at 9:58 am, July 15, Inquirer.net reports a death toll that has risen to 23. The fatalities, mostly from areas south of Metro Manila, drowned or were crushed by trees toppled by Basyang’s strong winds.</div>
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The figures on the missing also <a href="http://newsinfo.inquirer.net/breakingnews/nation/view/20100715-281234/Death-toll-from-Basyang-rises-to-23">went up to 57</a>, according to the National Disaster Coordinating Center (NDCC). These were mostly made up of fishermen whose vessels capsized or went missing during the storm.</div>
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<a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/8680-grim-tales-from-basyang.html">Click here to read more </a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-47568021689128411852010-06-25T14:40:00.017+08:002012-01-12T18:14:04.743+08:00They could have pranced all night ...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6i0v-Ci2QIvxPU5mt7AslqD9hA7-sF5N12DytKkw4IYFkV3aQpr277tWwCRnUIgkRHhjcUM5oKFe33VyQFGiZrpnOpWsgxQYDXM7KQ1gCc2TMW_rAndR9HZkzy8oMWwE49NjcasQU163/s1600/group+glam+photo+1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486597968906249778" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6i0v-Ci2QIvxPU5mt7AslqD9hA7-sF5N12DytKkw4IYFkV3aQpr277tWwCRnUIgkRHhjcUM5oKFe33VyQFGiZrpnOpWsgxQYDXM7KQ1gCc2TMW_rAndR9HZkzy8oMWwE49NjcasQU163/s320/group+glam+photo+1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
Only for that day, they will play dress up to the nines. The moms who blog and lunch and farmtown together, who whisper deep dark secrets to each other, and attend each other's kids' birthday bashes. Only for that one day, they won't be drudges nor grunges but rather hot mommas on the run -- but only on cam.<br />
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Both Chats and Cookie wore their dreamy wedding gowns. Chat's was off shoulder, off-white, minimalist (her word). Cookie's was a spaghetti-strapped, lightly embroidered number that couldn't by any stretch of the imagination be called maximalist. Each married ten years (more or less), they seemed to have defied the years as they fitted easily and flawlessly into the flowing white dresses they wore on the last day they were maidens. They were so pretty one could almost cry.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSsLNfFHmA_PGhgcu1fOYX5cPr8vpDZD-MF2ovr_Ck5M6H_-CqyHwPdAVN3myUmkCip9oSQngm8PuMWkwMXKqtIo4DU0K84S6oHPEULoTf7x9j2XLozgMDlJn13Rc1ElqRKiVXAZEOTuCM/s1600/chats.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486603332773168450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSsLNfFHmA_PGhgcu1fOYX5cPr8vpDZD-MF2ovr_Ck5M6H_-CqyHwPdAVN3myUmkCip9oSQngm8PuMWkwMXKqtIo4DU0K84S6oHPEULoTf7x9j2XLozgMDlJn13Rc1ElqRKiVXAZEOTuCM/s320/chats.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifaFHvGPn9V-PCz8NHWCBDGkuawqVRvO-Cs0w_3_8QqELVfE1X5tpzxWfywZamRGVOnHvP74sP5LVJ6V3EUu2m3mzNpWmH4Y4rMbtAEwel0Wn7WksI5BIZtPF_IRnVpzZ5_kAVMOHIeWfx/s1600/cookie.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486603668310959778" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifaFHvGPn9V-PCz8NHWCBDGkuawqVRvO-Cs0w_3_8QqELVfE1X5tpzxWfywZamRGVOnHvP74sP5LVJ6V3EUu2m3mzNpWmH4Y4rMbtAEwel0Wn7WksI5BIZtPF_IRnVpzZ5_kAVMOHIeWfx/s320/cookie.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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Cess, slender as a whisper, looked like a girl going to her first prom in a half black, half psychedelic outfit that showed off her waif-like, almost pre-pubescent-like figure and sweet countenance.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie44A8gWcOOAsoKrdx5vDYbVLRUh77QMYWVeKDzYW-ePsqqHDfZRHFei_T6SR02mZV7BpJXNRVPLzdM2Th2eXndpvBKmlvjZju5rvKSKdaiiqk_EqL3XO2hV76v8kwAvUFjC8BpKVrYU1T/s1600/cess.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486604488490288450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie44A8gWcOOAsoKrdx5vDYbVLRUh77QMYWVeKDzYW-ePsqqHDfZRHFei_T6SR02mZV7BpJXNRVPLzdM2Th2eXndpvBKmlvjZju5rvKSKdaiiqk_EqL3XO2hV76v8kwAvUFjC8BpKVrYU1T/s320/cess.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
Noemi stirred excitement when she announced she was coming in the Pitoy Moreno gown her mom passed on to her but changed her mind for reasons she didn't explain. She was nonetheless glamor and sophistication personified in what she settled for -- her silver wedding anniversary outfit. A maroon, off-shoulder, gown with a darling sparkling side accent.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGvCfgJD5TU0UOdJGFiOj9LjytxhqqDPWCJlq0-rwWJLdPoE59yslQ6c3YP_u0ao1fJHTyAxTiZhmKC0kTxKnqOODgDTSLKcLZDFNCN4o5sI5sahq-ktUZyReZsxao6fDzmy7EGRXS57c/s1600/noemi.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486605972923063314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGvCfgJD5TU0UOdJGFiOj9LjytxhqqDPWCJlq0-rwWJLdPoE59yslQ6c3YP_u0ao1fJHTyAxTiZhmKC0kTxKnqOODgDTSLKcLZDFNCN4o5sI5sahq-ktUZyReZsxao6fDzmy7EGRXS57c/s320/noemi.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
Anna showed up in a two-piece burgundy ensemble. Snug. Sleeveless, backless, strapless. Audacious for someone well past 60 and who for 30 years considered it unchaste to wear anything more revealing than three-fourths sleeved and sabrina-necked blouses. But what the heck, what did she write "In Another Dress" for?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-fpScfBX6Uo-XhUPmRDymOtgTmQaWJirBiIZFYqFHSd4XazNSZi7z2zN5C0BOhvSVZjegBilo_Jm4qQYAonwKFQYv2CxSLTLmSnVCInMcPU3VhUoB3YXlIKCe2aCUFf2VO9X9gFjl588/s1600/myrna.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486607011470777170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-fpScfBX6Uo-XhUPmRDymOtgTmQaWJirBiIZFYqFHSd4XazNSZi7z2zN5C0BOhvSVZjegBilo_Jm4qQYAonwKFQYv2CxSLTLmSnVCInMcPU3VhUoB3YXlIKCe2aCUFf2VO9X9gFjl588/s320/myrna.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
At professional photographer-blogger Mike Yu's residence-cum-studio at Bel-air Village, Noemi, Cess, Cookie, Chats and Anna posed and preened and pranced and strutted, as Mike gave out directions: "smile," "ok, look serious," "now, act wacky." He was generous with his "greats" and "nices" and "perfects" as he clicked away.<br />
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The ladies also pranced in informal outfits and costumes and props they thought represented the themes of their personal blog sites. Chats was the quintessential Fitness Doyenne as she posed in jogging pants and sports jacket, while Cess sat for the camera wearing the uncanny combination of shorts and tees and angel's wings, a subtle symbol of what a young, stay-at-home mom ought to be to stay afloat and keep sane.<br />
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At one point, one of the ladies fretted: "Oh, dear, we are all dressed up with nowhere to go?!"<br />
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Nowhere to go?<br />
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But didn't they go to "town, " a metaphorical town ? -- and painted it red, had the time of their lives, behaved like dorks or divas (take your pick), did something they've never done before except perhaps in their imagination, and did it with all the flaire and elan and bravura they could muster? Mike thought they were "naturals." "Natural for what," it didn't occur to any one to ask.<br />
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Perhaps this is one of the late-life adventures the most senior of the ladies subliminally foresaw when she wishfully subtitled her ode20ld blogsite "THE BEST IS YET TO BE." It should be right there ... along with her bucket list of visiting Bohol and Batanes, of writing a book, of walking in the rain, of drinking one too many, of picking her neighbor's rosal flowers when the neighbor is not looking.<br />
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How did the blogging moms end up in Mike's studio, making like one-day celebrities? Blame it on the stars maybe. Better still blame it on Noemi who moves with Mike in bloggers circles. Blame it on Noemi's penchant for dragging along her barx when she gets exciting invitations like Mike's.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zE_E1H_HQ8gIYV8sDv-cftKKoB583wOm7gNZUnWZar9iW2k_UyYFzapSAS9NyzEmematN8U4Ww5YKLlwuFCdL9-KCoJn9qcOyfOqdCZIG1FyRMJ26uQIoRmfxwopAnILxLIZpmRikXWZ/s1600/group+fashion+pic+2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486613761940463122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zE_E1H_HQ8gIYV8sDv-cftKKoB583wOm7gNZUnWZar9iW2k_UyYFzapSAS9NyzEmematN8U4Ww5YKLlwuFCdL9-KCoJn9qcOyfOqdCZIG1FyRMJ26uQIoRmfxwopAnILxLIZpmRikXWZ/s320/group+fashion+pic+2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Yes, Mike Yu, who is between photographing stints abroad, has been taking photos of bloggers for several months now for his<a href="http://blognapinoy.com/index.html"> Bloggers Gallery project</a>. Before the end of the year, he plans to gather and showcase the photos into an exhibit.<br />
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(Mike, we all feel lucky to have been photographed by you and perhaps make it to your exhibit. Thanks and hugs to pretty Bambi who wielded her magic brushes and combs to transform us or at least for trying to, while engaging us in her charming chika. )<br />
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P.S. Wench, you missed the adventure, and what an adventure. Rolly, thanks for "... as a whisper."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-35777286620554366972010-05-30T02:00:00.002+08:002012-01-12T18:15:54.951+08:00Chronically lost and officially sexy? (Understanding geographic dyslexia)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6X6cWXVNtWGX97I-t99AzQ6Z7LPpYv4yWxaO5ZOOmi8lq_x2IctFuhmJ_WQ6e_CYSY81kz7NRcTb_yBzlQ4AwyIc6HWfi_DqQHrOBQfV7IBh5npMH2O4daNgiBfn3S5ejfQv4P2n3FLMK/s1600/lost.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476755442932097954" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6X6cWXVNtWGX97I-t99AzQ6Z7LPpYv4yWxaO5ZOOmi8lq_x2IctFuhmJ_WQ6e_CYSY81kz7NRcTb_yBzlQ4AwyIc6HWfi_DqQHrOBQfV7IBh5npMH2O4daNgiBfn3S5ejfQv4P2n3FLMK/s320/lost.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
Si Pining, kaibigan at kabarkada ko noong hayskul, ay tsampyon sa pagiging ligawin – 50 daw ang nagpahahayag ng pagibig sa kanya noong hayskul, at di pa kabilang dito ang mga torpeng binatilyong pasulyap-sulyap lang sa kanyang direksyon.<br />
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Limampu?! – ang tanong ko sa kanya habang halos magkandapatid ang aking ugat sa gulat o ngitngit (o inggit). Hindi ko masabi sa bruha: “Eh kaya pala walang natira sa aking boylets!”<br />
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Sa sobrang pagka-allergic ni Pining sa manliligaw, pinagupit niya ang kanyang mahaba at kulay uling na buhok nang tumuntong siya ng kolehiyo. Buhok daw kase ang nakahalina sa kanyang mga tagahanga. Hindi pa nagkasya doon, tinago ang balantok na binti sa paldang hanggang sakong ang haba, at sinubsob ang ulo sa mga libro. Kung hindi daw niya ginawa yun, baka hindi siya nakatapos ng pag-aaral. O hindi siya nakatapos nang may karangalan. Istorbo daw kasi ang pagiging ligawin.<br />
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Nguni’t sadyang iniligaw ko kayo. Pasensya na, dahil hindi ito ang tipo ng pagka-ligawin na gusto kong tumbukin sa artikulong ito.<br />
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Kundi ang tipong pagiging ligawin na sa tingin ko’y ako ang may hawak ng setro at korona, nang walang pangambang may magtatangkang mang-agaw o mag-protesta.<br />
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Oo, napaka-ligawin ko. “Nasaan ako?” “Kakanan ba ako, kakaliwa, o dederetso?” “Papunta ba ako o paalis?” Ito ang istorya ng buhay ko. Isang buhay na hitik sa di-mabilang na pagkawala, paghahanap, at muling pagtatagpo – at hindi sa eksistensyal na kahulugan ng mga salitang ito na disin sana ay maipagmamalaki ko kaysa ikahiya.<br />
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<a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/7206-understanding-geographicdirectional-dyslexia.html">Click here to read more</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-46430014375809757362010-04-26T01:48:00.004+08:002012-01-12T18:18:42.807+08:00Sa panahon ng MO/MU, uso pa ba 'I love you?'Ligaw tingin. Pero tinging makalaglag-matsing.<br />
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Yan daw ang ginagawa niyang pagpaparamdam sa babaeng napupusuan – sabi ng anak kong binata. Ayaw niyang aminin na torpe siya. Yan lang daw ang istayl niya.<br />
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'Tapos?’ -- tanong ko.<br />
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'Tapos, depende sa kontra-tingin -- alam ko na ang timpla,’ sabi niyang alanganin ang ngiti.<br />
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Paano ba binababasa o linalasa ang tingin ng dalaga?<br />
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Eto ang paliwanag niya.<br />
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Pag ang balik tingin ay wala lang, dedma, burahin mo na lang siya sa iyong alaala Pag galit at inis, lumayo-layo ka na. At pag bumulalas pa ng tawa, sampalin mo ang sarili mo o magpakain ka na lang sa buwaya.<br />
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Pero pag ang tingin sa iyo ng dalaga ay tila nagtatanong sabay kiling ng leeg, oy, may pagasa. Pag may ngiting pigil o manibalang, at lalo na kung mamumula pa ang pisngi niya – aba, wagi ka! Pag iwas-tingin naman siya, na tila nahihiya, malamang din may biyaya.<br />
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‘Tapos, pag natimpla na?’<br />
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‘Eh di magpapalitan na kami ng phone number. Magtatawagan. Magyayayaan nang kumain, manuod ng sine, mamasyal. ‘Yun.’<br />
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‘Kayo na?’<br />
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‘Kami na.’<br />
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Pag ‘sila na,’ aasahan ko nang may bago na namang dalaga siyang laging dadalhin sa bahay – laging maganda, laging palangiti, at karinyosa. Minsan, nagtururuan sila ng chess. Minsan naman naglalaro sila ng computer games. Kadalasan, nanunood sila ng TV – DVD marathon ang tawag nila. Kapag masyadong gabi na, ‘makikitulog na lang daw kung maari.’ Siempre, sa kuwarto ng binata ko hihiga ang bisita; siya naman sa sopa sa sala. Sos, ‘yan ang problema. Scrabble na namang magdamag si Nanay sa kompyuter sa sala!<br />
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Wala daw akong tiwala sa kanila, bulong-bulong ng anak ko. Hindi ko lang masabi -- may tiwala naman ako sa kabataan; sa hormones nila, wala. <br />
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Minsan, ang anak ko naman ang hindi uuwi at makikitulog sa bahay ng nobya. Hindi ko na pinag-aaksayahan ng buntong-hininga iyan. Matutulog na lang ako nang mahimbing. Hindi ko na problema ‘yun. Problema na ‘yun ng nanay sa kabilang bahay.<br />
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Hindi ko na mabilang ang mga dalagang natulog sa bahay. Papalit-palit kasi ng nobya ang binatang ngayon ay malapit nang maging matandang binata.<br />
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Hayskul siya nang matutong manligaw.<br />
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<a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/6045-speed-dating-instant-coupling.html">Click here to read more</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-1086419277551837042010-04-14T00:43:00.004+08:002012-01-12T18:19:22.921+08:00The 'Tycooning' of the Magbobote (from tindero to taipan)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdrlvLHTkTjp-sXPIPY-91qnUPXSmGXyPmePBYRV67rlRpUV7xp_zmdxeWHHVoRcyskfcviS1Tn6ZCpyGco1EGHb4sNU5UbM0PILECBkxFCo8GuYbwHayh76cUqHxa7K5mwVHKUIjv96s/s1600/Chinese+fruit+and+vegetable+merchant.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459664616950842754" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdrlvLHTkTjp-sXPIPY-91qnUPXSmGXyPmePBYRV67rlRpUV7xp_zmdxeWHHVoRcyskfcviS1Tn6ZCpyGco1EGHb4sNU5UbM0PILECBkxFCo8GuYbwHayh76cUqHxa7K5mwVHKUIjv96s/s320/Chinese+fruit+and+vegetable+merchant.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 318px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">In Gagalangin, Tondo, Manila, in the time I was growing up, there was a ‘tindahan ng Intsik’ in every street corner, which co-existed with smaller Pinoy-owned shops we called ‘sari-sari’ stores. </span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Right opposite our house, on the corner of Pampanga and Angat Streets, was a tindahan ng Intsik owned by a man we fondly called Sin Teng. He was a smiling ebullient Chinaman with gold on his tooth and premature silver on his hair, who didn’t stop smiling and glowing even when young boys made fun of his accent and called him ‘Intsik beho, tulo laway.’ He made friends with his suki-housewives who would linger to small-talk him and steal glances at yet another new fair lady beside him – usually from the Chinese mainland who would be sure to speak no Tagalog -- and wait for Sin Teng to introduce her as his wife No. 2 or 3 or so on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">It was from Sin Teng we purchased our daily bread and the isa-singko Spam and Kraft (cheese) slices to eat it with. Same with the coffee and milk and Toddy (a popular chocolate drink) and Coke and Pepsi to chase the bread down with. Mongol pencils, intermediate pad paper, crayola, Manila paper, everything we needed for school – he had stocks of these which never seemed to run out. If someone was sick, we didn’t have to go to the drug store a ten-minute sprint away: we could get the most common medicines from Sin Teng -- Capi-aspirina, Mentholatum, Phillips Milk of Magnesia. Sin Teng runs his shop quite unlike the sari-sari store of Mang Iking and Aling Tonya which was right next door and thus should have been the more logical convenience store, but was almost always inconveniently out of every other thing we needed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">On hind sight, I realize I was witnessing then how the Chinese storekeepers drove their Pinoy competitors out of business; on hindsight too, I know I should have recognized it as a premonition of the future. They bought their stocks in volume so they seldom ran short of stuff and were able to sell cheaper. They mostly didn’t allow credit (or allowed it discriminately and sparingly). Sin Teng didn’t, which was one of few reasons we would sometimes run to Mang Iking and Aling Tonya – on whose wall was clipped several small sheets of paper each of which was labeled with a customer’s name, all caps, underlined. These were in essence yesterday’s credit cards – but for poor people only – for the rich dealt in cash.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Mang Iking would huff and bristle when he spotted one of us headed to his store rather than the Chinaman’s but would still take down the piece of paper with ‘Aling Celing’ written on it – that’s my mom’s name. He would hand us the toyo or suka we needed grudgingly, but not before adding yet another P.50 to Aling Celing’s already number-laden card and not before reminding us sternly to tell our mom that ‘mahaba na ang listahan ninyo.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">But Sin Teng's was the store of choice even if it allowed no credit and even if we had to cross a mean street to reach it. His store was big and wide (easily 5 times that of Mang Iking) and open and well-lighted and welcoming and you didn’t have to knock and shout ‘pabili po’ to be attended to. He sold cheaper than did the Filipino stores like Mang Iking’s. And he would sometimes give us small gifts – I remember ponkan in December and tikoy in February. I guess Mom was special among his customers because she was half Chinese and could strike up a conversation with his wives with a smattering of Mandarin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/5814-from-tindero-to-taipan.html">Read more</a></span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-78293743007877341832010-04-04T03:40:00.001+08:002012-01-12T18:19:51.033+08:00Si Kristo Bilang "Tao Lamang"Si Kristo’y namatay. Si Kristo’y nabuhay. Si Kristo’y babalik sa wakas ng panahon.<br />
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Sabi nila, dito umiikot ang paniniwalang Kristiyano.<br />
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Ako’y Kristiyano dahil sinasamba ko si Hesukristo.<br />
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Mahal ko si Hesus at di gaanong mahalaga sa akin kung siya'y namatay at nanatiling patay, kung siya ay Diyos o tao o Diyos na nagkatawang tao o taong lubos na naging maka-Diyos at dahil dito’y nagkaroon ng pagka-Diyos. Hindi makakapagbago sa pagmamahal ko sa Kanya kung siya ay nagka-asawa o hindi, nagkana-anak o hindi. Kung naranasan niya ang mga bugso ng damdamin ng tulad nating ‘tao lamang' o hindi.<br />
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Hindi yata masyadong totoo iyan. Kasi, kung ako lang ang masusunod, mas nais kong si Hesus -- si Hesus na Kuya ko, o si Pareng Jess para sa iba -- ay nakaranas ng buong ispektrum ng pagmamahal, tuwa, pagnanasa, galit, takot, lungkot, pagaalinlangan – katulad ko at katulad ninyo. Masarap sa aking isiping siya'y tumatawa, naaasar, lumuluha, Na naranasan niya ang panhik-panaog ng kalooban ng “tao lamang” – minsa’y malakas, minsa’y mabuway, minsa’y patumpik-tumpik, minsa’y manhid, minsa’y nag-aapoy.<br />
<a href="http://www.thepoc.net/thepoc-features/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/5675-si-hesus-bilang-tao-lamang.html"><br />Read more ...</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-83132639285914681622010-03-24T22:09:00.004+08:002010-03-24T22:32:45.568+08:00Aba, Ginoong Nanay! (Tungkol sa mga Houseband, Desperado Man o Hindi)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvpRMvFFUZFi6O-b2KbWQts8ceahBe3llOo7Pyj0SzQLVUOXalj234H01W_oL0wx2_zVsI9GSQunm4U7wegrHgSXca4-mV7MOy8DswFyoZfr-IvUOIt9nWW1SuJ4kXwrTFNNvaqwVXVkXe/s1600/man+feeding+baby.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 312px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvpRMvFFUZFi6O-b2KbWQts8ceahBe3llOo7Pyj0SzQLVUOXalj234H01W_oL0wx2_zVsI9GSQunm4U7wegrHgSXca4-mV7MOy8DswFyoZfr-IvUOIt9nWW1SuJ4kXwrTFNNvaqwVXVkXe/s400/man+feeding+baby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452207708029375538" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Sa tradisyonal na mundo ng tahanang Pinoy, markado ang mga papel ng lalaki at babae. Dito, ang Ginoo ang lumalabas upang makibaka sa mas malaking mundo. Ang Ginang naman ang mapagpalang kamay na nagpapatakbo sa tahanan upang maging maaliwalas at kaaliw-aliw paguwi ni Mister. </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong>Sa machong mundong ito, isang kalapastanganan ang konsepto ng ‘tatay na nanay.’</strong></span></p> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nguni’t dati lang yun. Umikot na ang mundo ng bahay Pinoy. Nalindol na din ang mas malaking mundo. Naalog na ang mga pagtingin at papel sa buhay. Dahil sa pagbabagong dala ng mas bukas, mas praktikal, at mas makatarungang pananaw. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sa nakaraang 20ng taon, naimbento ang salitang house husband o, di naglaon, houseband. Mayroong mas kyut na tawag sa kanila -- ‘ginoong mom’ o ‘mister mom.’ Basta, ano man ang bansag, sila ang mga lalaking maybahay -- mga ginoong nagaasikaso sa anak at sa bahay habang si ginang ay naghahanap-buhay.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://www.thepoc.net/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/5112-mga-houseband-desperado-o-hindi.html">Read more ...</a></span><br /></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-80618197151551881762010-03-13T02:32:00.002+08:002010-03-13T02:39:38.766+08:00Tsokolate mmm! (Tsura lang ni Padre Salvi)<table width="100%" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td width="95%"><br /></td><td width="5%"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Hindi lama<img style="float: left; width: 220px; height: 364px;" alt="batidor_at_chocolatera" src="http://www.thepoc.net/images/stories/buhay_pinoy/batidor_at_chocolatera.jpg" />ng and kusinera ni <a href="http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=Tsokolate_beverage">Padre Salvi </a>and marunong magluto ng tsokolate ah at eh. Tayo din. Ang kaibhan lamang, bihira sa ating mga Pinoy ang nanunuri kung sino sa ating mga bisita ang hahainan ng tsokeh (tsokolateng malapot) at sino ang aabutan ng tsokah (tsokolateng malagnaw). Ang alam ko, pag kaunti na ang tableya sa kusina mo, magtiis kang uminom ng tsokolateng malagnaw, hindi b-ah? Kung marami naman ang istak mo nito, eh di suert-eh. <p>Hindi ako sigurado kung ang tawag sa tsokolate eh noong panahon ni Padre Salvi ay tsokolate batirol na. Hindi naman yata nabanggit sa Noli <a href="http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=Noli_Me_Tangere">(Noli Me Tangere)</a>.</p> <p>Ayon sa isang Spanish-English dictionary, 'bater' ay 'to beat or wisk; 'batedera' ay 'whisk,' 'beater' o 'mixer.' Dahil mahilig tayo sa short cut, ginawa natin itong 'batidor' o 'batirol.'</p> <p> Ang mga Mehikano daw ang nag-imbento ng <a href="http://www.marketmanila.com/.../batidor-batirol-molinillo-chocolatera-atbp">batirol </a>-- isang kitchen implement na gawa sa kahoy, may ulong bilugan at ukit-ukit at buntot na mahaba at makinis. Muchas gracias, senyores.</p> May Pasko bang walang umuusok na tsokolate, mapait-pait, manamis-namis, at mabula-bula? Para sa akin, wala! Hamon at tsokolate ang Noche Buena ng aking kabataan. Aali-aligid ako habang nagpapakulo na ng tsokolate ang Nanay ko, sa pagasang ako ang mauutusang magbati ng tsokolate. Eh hawak ko na ang batirol -- ganyan ako kakulit -- may magagawa pa ba siya? Dahan-dahan kong ibababad ang batirol sa tsokolateng wala na sa apoy, at paiikutin hanggang lumapot at bumula. Bilib sa akin ang Nanay ko -- napapataas ko ang bula.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.thepoc.net/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/4314-tsokolate-mmm.html">Read more ...</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4800590664272013743.post-8088889651567845272010-03-04T00:37:00.001+08:002010-03-04T00:43:47.782+08:00Ang Mataray na Palengkera (Iba pa ring mamalengke sa palengke)Sa dami ng mga supermarket, mini-mart, <span> </span>at convenience stores <span> </span>na naglipana – mamamalengke ka pa ba? <p class="MsoNormal">Bakit mo titiisin ang init, ang ingay, ang amoy, ang gitgitan, at ang mga bangaw <span> </span>at langaw sa Nepa-Q <span> </span>Mart o sa <a href="http://en.wikipilipinas.org/index.php?title=Araneta_Center">Farmer’s Market</a>, eh mayroon naming Shopwise at Hypermart, na mabango, malinis, tiyak ang timbang, at kung saan hindi ka na kailangang makipag-tawaran?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Laman ako ng palengke dati-rati.<span> </span>Pagkagaling sa opisina sa Diliman, daan muna ng palengke sa Cubao.<span> </span>Umuuwi akong bitbit ang dalawang mabigat na plastik bag sakay ng dyipni. <span> </span>Kaya yata hindi ako tumaba noong araw.<span> </span>Nguni’t mula nang magtayo ng mall sa may labas ng<span> </span>aming subdibisyon, ang ginang palengkera ay natutong sumampalataya sa 'we got it all for you.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Nguni’t iba pa rin ang palengke.<span> </span>Binabalik-balikan ko ito … lalo na kung may malaking kainan sa bahay.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Pag <span></span>pupunta ka ng palengke, dapat maaga!<span> </span>Mas luntian ang mga gulay – kababagsak pa lang.<span> </span>Mas sariwa ang karne<span> </span>– kabubuwal pa lang.<span> </span>Mas mapula ang hasang ng mga isda – kararating pa lang mula fish port.<span> </span>At hindi ka gaanong magpapawis – mababa pa ang araw.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Nasa Farmer’s ako noong isang linggo.<span> </span>Alam mo ba na may <a href="http://visitpinas.com/dampa-seafood-paluto-restaurants-pasay-city/">Dampa na din doon – yung ‘bilhin mo, iluto ko’<span> </span>istayl</a>.<span> </span>Maraming kainan, walang iniwan sa food court sa SM o sa Robinson’s.<span> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Akalain mo, may trolley na din sa palengke.<span> </span>Asenso!<span> </span>Humila ako ng isa at tinulak ko pataas sa rampa.<span> </span>Sosyal! Di ko na kailangan ang taga-bitbit.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.thepoc.net/buhay-pinoy/buhay-pinoy-features/4110-ang-pagbabalik-palengke.html">Read more</a><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7