The Japanese and I

A war baby, I was fed, while growing up, with stories about the difficult war years and the uneasy peace of the Japanese occupation.

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.

The first story happened on Day 1 of my chequered life.

From Gagalangin, Tondo where we lived to Ermita where the Philippine General Hospital 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?

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.

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.

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.

I arrived at the Center in the early evening after a two-hour trip by shinkansen (bullet train) 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 Mt. Fuji and – as I found out later -- of many things Japanese.

I fell in love with the Japanese people overnight.

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I was at EDSA, too

“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.

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.

I heard the incredible turns of events unfolding -- blow by blow:

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.

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 ad infinitum.

(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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

As I was spreading mayo and inserting sweet ham on slices of loaf bread, my husband added: " Don’t forget towels."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Photo: from OFW News on Web

Resolved as it is hereby resolved 1: muling pagsusulat

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.

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 major overhaul). 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 GOODbye -- sa dati kong kaaway at inaaway na bundy clock. Walang tiyaga? -- oong-oo. Pati nga pagkain, kinakainipan ko, kaya kadalasan nasusuway ang “unang utos” sa Food and Nutrition na “chew your food well” ).

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 luxury of time na sabi nga ay wala ring tiyagang maghintay kangino man?

Muling pagsusulat

Mag-uumpisa ulit ako ng daily journal, 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? God provides, 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.

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 organizer. 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.

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.

(sa susunod: pagkukumpuni ng lumang makina)

Unforgettable Christmas Stories

I.

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.”

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.

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 drawers nito, pagkatapos ay tinabig. Tumayo siya upang maghilamos; ni hindi sinulyapan ang laruang sumambulat sa sahig.

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 broke.

“Uncle, may bago akong poem,” 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.

Nag-curtsy 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.

“Teka, kay Dina ‘yan” sagot ng Papa ni Dina sabay kamot ng ulo. “Pero, hmmm, ayaw yata niya.”

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.

Ang maliit na aparador ay nasa lamesa pa din at hindi na pangit.

II.

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.

As the holidays approached, I prepared myself for a blue-blue Christmas.

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.

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.

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.

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.

III.

Christmas rush many years ago.

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 bayong 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.

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Over 60 and swooning

“Karma” – my BFF Gabby calls it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

(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.)

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.

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?

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.

We don’t stop dreaming or swooning just because we are 50, 60, or older.

Maybe I should watch “You’re Beautiful” one of these days and then …. who knows?

Photo: from crienglish.com

BETTER THAN IT GETS -- SOMETIMES

(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.)

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.

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.

I decided to blog, hoping it would engage and absorb me well into antiquity.

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.

As I blogged on, I was surprised the jitters began to ease.

Blogging gave me a voice to talk to the world. But one has to talk of things the world would care to listen to.

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?

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.

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.

Two and half years into retirement, AM I HAVING THE TIME of my life?

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.

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.

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.

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.”

And I DO KNOW THAT TODAY is another day for hoping that indeed age is an opportunity, much like youth, though dressed differently.

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.

Photo credits: Noemi Lardizabal Dado, Alina R. Co

Ang aking lihim na buhay onlayn

Ako daw yung laging kulelat. Chronic latecomer at late bloomer.

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.

Kulelat din sa pagsunod sa mga bago at uso – sa pagbibihis, sa pagsasalita, sa pag-aayos ng bahay o sarili, sa teknolohiya.

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.

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.

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.
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Chronically lost and officially sexy? (Understanding geographic dyslexia)

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.

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!”

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.

Nguni’t sadyang iniligaw ko kayo. Pasensya na, dahil hindi ito ang tipo ng pagka-ligawin na gusto kong tumbukin sa artikulong ito.

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.

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.

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LOST! (Geographic Dyslexia)

... He wanders in a fog adrift upon the planet, helpless, praying that just by luck he might stumble across his destination.

- Anne Tyler (in Accidental Tourist, describing main character, Macon Leary)

“Where am I” is a question that has confounded me all my life. A life in which I have lost and found self many times – and not in the existentialist way of philosophers and romantics I would have preferred.

I didn’t know till lately there was a medical term for what afflicts me. For decades, I’d simply call myself the most “ligawin” person in the world. Then I’d add, as though it was the cutest thing to say, that, alas, it had nothing to do with being attractive to guys – unless I count the young men who’d call on an almost daily basis with yet another credit card deal or some other telemarketing proposition.

I am so ligawin I still lose my way around the UP campus after 30 years working there. I am so ligawin I'd enter the main door of an unfamiliar office, transact my business, and then try to let myself out through the door of a conference room right smack at a dozen people all gaping at me. I am so ligawin that when I eat out, I can get lost going back from the comfort room to my table at a big restaurant till my friends are about ready to page me. I am so ligawin I break into cold sweat when I take a cab from a strange town and I can't give the directions the driver expects to get me home.

Aside from board rooms, stock rooms, and other spaces I shouldn’t have entered, I have also tried to climb into cars not ours.

When I am in a strange place and I wish to explore it, I walk a straight path. When I reach a fork, I turn back.

Three times I got lost in Antipolo in May time. Twice in Divisoria during the Christmas rush. Once in a subway in Nagoya, Japan while on official tour. No big deal. I took a cab back to home or hotel, where the first thing I did was to scold my companions for losing me.

I got lost big time in Agoo, La Union at a time only rich and important persons had mobile phones. My sister, her children and I braved humongous crowds and horrendous traffic to witness the phenomenon of the dancing sun and to gawk at Judel, a Bernadette-wannabe. I like to think I saw the sun spin out of orbit for a minute, unless it was just my eyes obliging my overwhelming need for a miracle. I also thought I caught an uncanny whiff of sampaguita flowers, unless someone sprayed bottled scent all over the hillside. Anyway, when the crowds dispersed, we inched our way to where we were parked. Suddenly, my companions sank into the sea of people, whereupon I spent the next two hours trying to fish them out -- them or the car which seemed to have plunged, too -- whichever surfaces first. When it got dark and my limbs were about to crumble, I found a house that offered meals and later agreed to put me up for the night. I made friends with the lady of the house who accompanied me to mass the next morning at the Agoo Cathedral, and thence to the PT & T office where I phoned home, and finally to the terminal to board a Manila-bound bus. After we hugged and said goodbye as though we had been friends for a thousand fortnights rather than overnight, Manang Nida handed me a small box. I have kept her gift rosary made from shell to this day.

At Divisoria Mall, when I gave up looking for friends who strayed as we panic-bought for the holidays, I stumbled across an obscure store selling old inventory of Pollypocket dolls at give-away prices. The finger-sized dolls in compact-shaped doll houses were to-die-for gifts for little girls, of which there were plenty among my grand and god children. When I finally reunited with friends at the end of the shopping day, they drooled over my buys.

"Wandering in a fog adrift" is releasing control, letting the fates take over. It can spring wonderful surprises.

Come to think of it, there have been adventures, not all of them unpleasant, I would have missed if I didn’t have this condition I now know as geographic dyslexia or dysgeographica.

It has given me cold comfort to put a name to this chronic disorientation that follows me about. Warmer comfort is finding out from google searches I am not the most ligawin person in the world. Odd comfort is realizing I am not stupid after all but only minorly impaired in the way that the reading dyslexic and the color blind are.

I don’t know what caused it or if it can be treated. I just know I went to school, held a job, raised a family, and built a social life little encumbered, though sometimes embarrassed, from not knowing what direction I am facing or whether I am coming or going. People around me, except the closest, are none the wiser I am afflicted. Of course, I had to abandon pretensions to be tourist guide or pilot or driver or navigator or traffic policeman. But hey, I can be a travel writer like Macon Leary, the vulnerable Anne Tyler hero (The Accidental Tourist) who can get lost on a road map.

I can even be president, like the world’s most accomplished dyslexic, George W. Bush.

(For more on dysgeographica -- also known as directional dyslexia, also called geographic dyslexia by Anne Tyler -- log on to the exquisitely instructive site of someone similarly afflicted -- poet, writer, editor, and blogger Dr. Metablog.)

Collecciones (Collectors, Collectibles, and Collecting Instincts)

My daughter collects abandoned kittens, wounded birds, butterflies with broken wings and such. She feeds and nurses them till they get well or die. Once, she attempted to augment her collection by retrieving a chick named Brutus from the mouth of a neighbor's dog named Bernie by forcing Bernie's jaws open. If Brutus as much as peeped -- which is unreasonable to expect as she was by then missing her entire head -- my daughter would have insisted we take her to the vet's, where we were already notorious for bringing in the only unpedigreed menagerie of pets for treatment. By the way, you should have seen how the manhandled dog ran away -- his tail between his legs -- crying "ralph, ralph, ralph," which happened to be the name of his owner. Poor Bernie, he never knew what hit him.

My office friend Arthur collected yellow green jokes, ostensibly to burnish his lackluster lectures on business planning and entrepreneurship. I asked him to quit it because he often forgot the punch lines anyway. He doggedly kept on collecting and mis-delivering them because that -- his forgetting the clinchers -- made his audience laugh, anyway. Art suddenly died a few years ago and my favorite image of him is still where he scratches his head and smiles sheepishly and boyishly, after botching yet another otherwise perfect little joke.

A former boss handed down to me his breathtaking (his adjective, not mine) stamp collection, which included first-issue stamps, Olympics stamps from 1950 backwards, Princess Diana stamps, stamps almost as big as a fourth sheet of paper, and stamps of unstamply shapes -- circles, ovals, triangles and hexagons. He expected me to wax ecstatic at the small turnover ceremonies we had just before he left for abroad. I managed to coo my feigned delight and I guess I did myself proud for he smiled in a very self-satisfied way. After the collection languished for years in my possession, I tried to pass it on to my eldest son who tried in turn to push it underhandedly to the brother next to him. In time, I gave the stamps away, a little at a time, to another friend who knew how to spell and pronounce "philately" correctly.

I am not so quirky I don't want to be a collector all because every other person I know is into collecting. On the contrary, I like the idea of being fixated on an object rather than a person. After all, we keep losing people when they migrate or die or stop loving us. And while they are still around, people complain we over- under- or mishandle them. Inanimate objects -- blessthem -- stay on and on (unless you break or misplace them and then it's all your fault) and are faultlessly self-sufficient, stoic, and uncomplaining.

My point before I got lost explaining the difference between animate and inanimate collections is that collectors cannot just choose what to collect: it is pre-ordained. When God matched collectors and collectibles, he was quite specific about it. Stamp people are not to be mixed up with coin people, candle people, perfume people, stationery people, rare books people. There are those into Lladro figurines and Murano crystals and those that do matches and caps. Apparently it was not written in the stars that I do stamps.

What was I then? I wanted to collect boy friends and suitors at the very outset but I simply did not have the shape and the looks required. So I reluctantly gave that up. I tried elephant figurines and paper currencies, then baskets, then Delft blues without much success. I was beginning to panic -- like a maiden about to enter spinsterhood -- I was sleeping when collector's instincts were being distributed. Until I went to Japan and saw in the sidewalks what looked like teapots with double spouts. Something clicked in me and I knew I had found the thing for which I was intended.



Since then my friends who are about to travel to Japan do so stealthily because they know if I knew they were Japan bound, I would drop my manners and be inconsiderate and insist they bring me stuff that had to be hand carried, being fragile-handle with care.

It IS preordained -- for why else would I have a cupboard groaning with tea pots now when I never ever got the tea set I made kulit to Santa for in my bereft childhood.

(By the way, I also collect -- aside from Japanese tea pots -- Chinese tea pots and generic -- from whichever country -- whiteware. Hmmm ... lapit na Pasko, di ba?)

Big Days (Make-or-Break Days)

One day can make our life. One day can break it. Life consists of two, three or four big days that made all the difference.

I go back to the days I have spent in this planet in search of my own big day(s) that changed everything.

Is it the day I went to this big Catholic university soon after high school graduation, was handed the Lit. B. in journalism syllabus, and found out it has lined up all my favorite subjects. All reading and ‘riting and no ‘rithmetic?!

Is it meeting the one for whom I am intended, though I didn’t recognize it at first for being too good to be true? And well, it turned out to be not too good nor too true but wasn’t too bad nor too much of a lie either and which has led me to conclude I could have done worse (and don’t any one of you dare say I could have done better).

Is it the day I accepted the “invitation to apply” of this semi-academic, development organization in a sprawling campus, admired the plush, spacious reception area that would be my post, and liked the way the boss’ secretary smiled warmly up at me and said “hi,” and the way the boss said “you will be fine?”

But I guess nothing can be bigger than the day ... the dark and cold day I hit pit bottom and simply had to pick myself up or to bolt out. When I decided there was a better way to live than constantly ducking as though I always half expected to get slapped. When I knew for certain God couldn’t have meant this life to be so hurtful and dismal, for otherwise what kind of a God was He? When I decided that it was just me – hard-headed, slow-witted me -- who’s looking at life the wrong way.

And I guess that was how I began going the right direction. The road I take is circular, not vertical. But I will get there.

Buddy, you must have your big days, too. Share?

Seven (Un)Fashionable Things About Me

In response to Prime-time gal Noemi's tag, here are tidbits about me that relate to beauty and fashion.

I am a late adopter of fads and style. I began to wear the mini when it was on the way out and then I so liked it that I continued to wear it well into two pregnancies. It also took a while before I went for shoulder pads; I still wear them now -- when nobody else ever does -- and am sworn to wear them till death do us part.

I love scooped necklines but not when it plunges even one bit. So I sometimes wear my blouses baligtad because the backside is more hapit sa chest. When some of my friends have the temerity to ask why I am wearing clothes back side front, I just say I am starting a trend. But nobody has picked it up. Why kaya?

I hate going to a beauty parlor. I am peeved when someone not my son or daughter calls me "mother." I hate being asked who did my hair last as though the person who did deserved to die. As a result, I have usually gone "do-it-myself" for manicure, pedicure and hair coloring. I have even tried perming my own hair.

I have worn my hair in its current style for a good part of three decades -- the reason why my old friends still recognize me through thick and thinning hair. (By the way, my daughter cuts my hair and may be cajoled to do my nails too).

I am devoted to brands and shades. I have seen Kanebo foundation rise in price from P50 to P550. When my Kokuryu "Passionate Red" lipstick was phased out, I wrote the manager thrice to put it back or at least run a batch for me even if it meant buying a hundred sticks that would last seven lifetimes. I was about to mount a rally at the Kokuryu factory when mercifully, I found a comparable shade of red in the Revlon line.

I am perfectly okay with two pairs of footwear, two handbags, and no jewelry.

I have never gone to a gym nor undergone professional facial, skin peeling, wart removal, botox, eyelift or similar procedure. And the only time I had a professional make-up done on me was on my wedding day. I am threatening to go through all these next year for my high school reunion, as I am batting for Homecoming Queen.

Out of topic ... I also like to write memes with tongue in cheek.

I tag anyone and everyone who might wish to share his or her fashionista secrets.

Your Royal Weirdness or Mine?

Name six ways you are weird, my friends Chateau of imomonline and Dine of D-spot, ask me. It should have been a breeze to answer because behaving weirdly is one of the few things I do best. The only trouble was how to choose six among my hundred and one.

Lemme see. Where do I begin?

1. I am the most ligawin person in the world, and this hasn't remotely to do with being attractive to suitors unless you'd want to include young men (and women) who call up almost daily with propositions for yet another credit card deal or internet service. I am so ligawin I still lose my way around the UP campus after 30 years working there. I am so ligawin I'd enter the main door of an unfamiliar office, transact my business, and then try to let myself out through the door of the company President's room. I am so ligawin that when I eat out, I can get lost going back to my group's table from the comfort room of a biggish restaurant.

2. I am a compulsive mirror looker. I am drawn to anything that reflects my face -- including jeepney side mirrors, car windows, computer screens, the rounded side of spoons. My favorite gazing surface is the pupil of another person's eye or the shiny tip of his nose. Lately, however, I get more and more depressed when I look. I wonder why?!

3. I don't watch television -- unless it shows Philippine Idol, American Idol, or reruns of Meteor Garden and the Erap impeachment trial.

4. I don't eat breakfast and am constantly surprised my family expects me to cook it when our maid is away. My appetite is nil in the morning, begins to stir at lunch, perks up at dinner, and goes on a rampage at midnight.

5. I can't stand long telephone calls. After 30 minutes on the phone, my inner firewall goes up and I no longer hear. My ears begin to buzz, my eyes glaze, my responses reduced to soundbites like "uhmm," "aha," and "talaga." When at last, the voice at the other end thanks me for being such a good friend and listener, it's all I can do to keep me from hanging myself by the telephone cord.

6. I can't small talk. Put me in the company of people I don't know and I wouldn't know how to strike up a conversation, unless they'd want to listen to a discussion on why Hitler went to heaven. Maybe they sense this, so they give me wide clearance.

Katuwaan! Fun time! If you think you could get any weirder than me in my No. 1 (the ligawin thingie), I dare you to show me up with your own quirkiest. A surprise prize if you can beat me at being royally weird. We need an unbiased judge of course -- the first to volunteer gets it. The judge gets a keepsake, too, of course.

Note for the Non-Filipino reader:

The Pilipino word ligaw has two meanings: (1) courtship or love suit and (2) to be lost, not to know the direction. So ligawin can mean either (1) someome who is attractive to suitors; or (2) someone who has no sense of direction.

CONTEST UPDATE:

As of June 18, 1:00 a.m., we got a judge, Chesca (ex-skindiver) and six challengers: Chateau, Jigs , Evi, Sexy Mom , Richmond, and Jerry, an offline friend.

I was interviewed! Do you wanna be, too?

It is nice to find oneself, at the opposite end of an interview – for once, or twice.

So I told Noemi I wanted to be interviewed when she asked. (This is actually some sort of mutated meme – passed on to Noemi , in turn to me … thence to you! )

Here are the questions Noemi sent me:

1. A a blogger you have been described as bubbly, perky, funny, quirky. How do your real life friends describe you? Is there a difference between your online and real life persona? – Bubbly , perky, funny are what I have always wanted to be but am not but which I could fake online because of all the editing and re-editing opps blogging allows. So what starts off as ‘corny” can be worked out to be “funny.” I don’t think anyone ever goes about wanting to be quirky. So I guess I really do have more than my fair quota of quirks, most of them innocuous. I suppose if you ask my real world friends, they might say I am someone who tries and occasionally succeeds to be funny, bubbly and perky. But they would also probably say that I can be moody and quiet and mahirap ispelengin (quirky na nga) and they might excuse that for my being “a writer.”

2. A frequently-asked question when I used to work in your office was “what is the best business that I can start?” Are you often asked that question, and what is your response or advice? I handle communication and publication there and so, yes, I am constantly asked that question. So I have more or less put together an answer that often disappoints those who ask. I tell them: IT DEPENDS. Depends on who they are (their training, experience, interests) and where they are (the resources and market that exists in a given province, city, or town). When is also relevant – which refers to the state of the economy , the quickness of responding to opportunities, and all that blah. (For more on this, you might wish to check my new site, http://plugging4smallbusiness.com/. And that, my friends, is a stealthy infomercial.)

3. If you had the magical power to concoct a potion for the “joints beginning to creak” or the newly old, what would that be? Explain your concoction in detail. Hmmmm lemme see … I have all these on my dresser, in various stages of unuse, compliments of well meaning friends and relatives : a jar of Oil of Olay, a bottle of Riche Creme, packets of emu oil, and a pint of virgin coconut oil. I guess I’d mix them all together and pray hard over the resulting concoction. and ask those who will use it to pray as hard, too -- before they discover a fine print that says it probably won’t work. And I am not contradictory, just quirky.

4. You say “Pinoys are easy to spot (in online scrabble). They like to use give-away names. What Pinoy (scrabble) name would you choose or suit you? I have used “Pipinay” and “Anamanila” before, so these are out because I am also quirky in the sense I don’t wanna repeat myself. Hmmm … maybe “‘Kakabakaba” (contracted into Kkbkb) for what I used to feel when I played scrabble or ‘Bababa-ba” (Bbbb) for the direction my scrabble rating tends to take these days.

5. What is the most memorable word formed in a scrabble game which gave you the highest score ever? Hmmm ... and I thought no one would ask me this question while I still walk the earth. I formed ‘HAWKINGS” sometime last year for 213 points! It is a double triple word and a bingo (plus 50 points), with the K on a double letter, an A (APE) already in place. I almost fainted when I saw how much it was worth and I think my opponent did faint for a minute.

Noemi’s e-mailed interview questions concluded with “Enjoy!” Did I?

Well, I had a draft within the half hour of starting it, as I chuckled and my chair teetered

Now, do YOU want to be interviewed? I promise interesting, "very you” questions – almost as interesting and “very me” as the set Noemi made for me.

Interview rules:1. Leave me a comment saying “Interview me.”2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someoneelse in the same post.5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Thanks or no thanks to blogging

Thanks or no thanks to blogging:

• At the office I am busy busy busy. Between blogging and bookwriting (my real work at the moment), there's no time to lunch (better than Southbeach), gossip (keeps me away from sin), whine (that was one thing I used to do very efficiently). In other words, blogging makes me more -- ahem -- sublime.
• At home, kids are happier. They ask permission to go out in the middle of a blog: I shoo them away. They ask for money in the middle of replying to a comment: I say -- "go get my wallet, take it - take it -- and get outta here."
• I am called -- refreshingly -- a freshie, a newbie by my blogging berks (for the unhip, that's barkada!). Only in this blog-a-day world!
• As a blogger, I have been described -- for a change -- as bubbly, perky, funny, quirky. Now, if they only knew the offline dullard that's me!
• Retirement seems tolerable, even palatable.

There, Pining, don't make hinaing. Short and straight answers in honor of your meme. (Actually, I have to cook sinaing and press some clothes. Sus, nabisto tuloy -- still a maid of honor!)

Now let me pass this meme on to -- let's see --

Noemi (I hope she hasn't been tagged yet!

Kate (why can't I access your blog?)

Sexy Mom (Hwag madala ha?)

Won't breathe till you tell us: five things that happened to you because of blogging.!

Five Well-Kept Secrets Declassified

We were lingering over dinner at Kalye ni Juan -- my amigas and I -- when we got to talking about secrets. We agreed that though we go back many years and trust each other more than anyone else in the world, there are still secrets we keep from each other. Deep, dark secrets. Such as what? Well, we collectively tried to guess what these might be:

loving someone we shouldn't have

getting rid of someone we should have kept

or (this one amidst giggles) getting a lipo, a face lift or a nose job

When do we take old skeletons out of closets? -- we speculated. Will there be a time they wouldn't shock /embarass anymore? When we get to 60? 70? Beyond? At our deathbeds?

Never, maybe?

And now here comes Toe, high priestess of the kurokuro cult, upperclasswoman of the blogging society, tagging me and two other come-latelies to a meme, daring us to publish -- for anyone who cares to see -- five of our well-kept secrets.

Now, as blogger, I am told I come across as bubbly, funny, game-na-game. Not wanting to spoil this (mis)impression and eager as a beagle to fasttrack my mainstreaming into this cool, kewl society, I have agreed to dare and bare. Well, some.

Let me see. I guess the following secrets may now be declassified:

• Most dastardly secret: I sometimes keep chocolates from my children so I can have them all. I must be the most clever chocolate hider on earth. At first, I was so unimaginative I hid them under the bed. -- but they were soon tracked out. And so I looked for unlikely hiding places: inside a canister labeled "FLOUR," inside the medicine cabinet behind vile-looking bottle of scotch emulsion; on the altar back of Christ the King. Nights, when the pesky ones sleep the sleep of the unknowing, I stealthily rise to take the contraband from its hiding place and take it to bed with me while i read, relishing it morsel by divine morsel. Ah, this is the life, I used to murmur.

• Most aw-shucks secret: I lie to make each kid feel special. As if to neutralize dastardly act No. 1, I am sometimes capable of taking a small, delightful thing (e.g., an apple, a toy, a stationery set, a book) to one child, with an admonitiion to "hush-don't-tell the others-about it- you're-the-only-one- I am giving this too." What he doesnt know is next day or next week, I go to the next child with more or less the same gift, the same script. I like the way a child's face lights up when told he's the special one among so many and being handed a trophy as an evidence of it

• Most unpardonable secret: I read my daughters' diaries. Everyone says this is a no-no, but I can't help it. My excuse: I want to know what's happening in my children's lives -- whether they are happy or troubled." Well, I guess they have learned to live with it. While I was at it one day, straining to read my bunso's deliberately disfigured handwriting, I suddenly came across a line, all caps, boldface: "HI, MOM. I KNOW YOU'RE READING THIS. ENJOY! :) " Yup, my bonch is a brat.

• Most criminal secret: I plagiarized unabashedly. In high school, I drooled over my dad's letters to my mom -- sent from La Union where he was based for a time. He would be particularly sappy on Valentine's Day with lines like: "The pivotal truth, the all-consuming truth is that I love you. Yes, you, to whom I am the best even at my worst." And so when my class had to write an essay that December on Mother's Day, Teacher singled out my piece, reading out aloud the best part of what I wrote: "Yes, you, my beloved mother, to whom I am the best even at my worst." She ended with "very good, very promising" as a the young girl that was me beamed, blissfully unaware of intellectual property rights.

• Latest secret: I was a Philippine idol fanatic. I spent a small fortune e-voting for Jan, for Mau, for Pao. And this was how I met Noemi and her blogs , so I could root for my idols. And the rest, as the cliche goes, is history.

There you go, Toe, your meme accomplished with five secrets unleashed. Not deep dark and shocking, though. But teenyweeny, cutesy, the color of honey.

Well, Toe, I got crimson-colored secrets, too. But you're not old enough for them. :)

Now, whom shall I tag?

Sexy Mom

Rhodora

Jonsaint.

Your turn.

Anna-Come-Lately (My Secret Life as Scrabble Addict)

I have always been a late bloomer and adopter.

I almost flunked kindergarten, was the perennial "it" in tumbang preso and touch-ball games; didn't go out unchaperoned until the eve of my wedding; didn't learn a sport until I was 40; didn't learn to bike, drive, swim, dance, sing .. period.

I didn't begin to wear the miniskirt until it was on the way out. I never even dared put on the hot pants. I was a late adopter of the shoulder pads -- am still wearing a pair now and have vowed to wear them till death do us part.

When I meet friends of my youth, they still manage to recognize me -- thanks to a hairstyle that I have stuck with through thick and thinning hair.

I caught up with the bus of IT just in the nick of time, but not until my heart fairly burst with huffing. I was a recalcitrant who refused to touch the computer with a ten-foot pole. A straggler who wouldn't surrender her BIC ballpens and yellow lined pads until she was threatened with "touch or go." As I didn't want to go, I touched, nay, embraced the technology. How was I to know I would fall in love with it? I now have a permanent love affair with Word, Excel, and Publisher. Incredibly, I had a fling with FrontPage when my director bullied me into updating our official webpage.

They say that life begins at 40. But true to form, mine began much much later. My online life, that is.

I was born the day I stumbled on an online game.

Now, there are games and games ... and there is internet scrabble.

Imagine yourself before your PC, playing your favorite word game with a live opponent miles away. As you wait for her/him to form a word, you chat: "hi," "good luck," "where are you from," what time is it where you are?" You might be playing with an American first. Next, a Canadian, an Indian, a Singaporean, a Thai, a Briton. Or most delightful of all, a fellow Pinoy, who might be living just off the campus where you work or as far away as Oregon or Hawaii.

Pinoys are easy to spot. They like to use give-away names. I clicked Taray, Manlalaban, Dagohoy, Kurdapia, Bongga, and Tubongph because I could giddily say "kumusta" at the start of the game and "ang galing" when they "bingo" -- which is scrabble jargon for when one uses all seven letters in the rack in a single move. Those who live far away would eagerly ask about the weather in Manila, the level of cheating in the last elections, the casualty count in yet another supertyphoon. Others would turn out, delightfully, to be Philippine-based Filipinos who would suddenly drop by.

As in real life, you meet all kinds. You tell them you are from the Philippines and the reactions are mixed -- from rave (wow! cool!) to rant (how did someone from the third world learn to play English scrabble?). There are those who play quietly all the way and those who would divert you from taking your turn by non-stop chatter. You meet players who would generously pass when you accidentally misplayed your turn, and those who jam the board to block every move, playing as though winning were a matter of life and limb.

The nice thing about the site is you can "buddy" the very nice and "no-play" the absolutely un-nice. You can see when a buddy enters and leaves the site, play and chat him, even observe and kibitz him when he is playing with another. As for those whom you have no-played, as far as you're concerned, they might as well be in limbo.

When you make a new buddy in the site, you begin to paint a portrait in your mind. You start with a silhouette seated before a PC. Then you add brushstroke after brushstroke -- man, woman or androgyne; young, old or middling; white, black or in between; plump, lean or just so. The more intricate strokes are for drawing the inner person -- family man or free spirit; happy or brooding; friendly or taciturn; straight-talking, subtle, or funny. So the portrait grows, but is never finished. You add, delete, refine. The wonderful thing is, unless you meet your buddies face to face -- which is unlikely -- they can be (more or less) what you imagine them to be.

You don't get too attached to a portrait you've made or you're a candidate for heartbreak. Be ready to junk a portrait because, let's face it, online friendships are so ad hoc. But you learn not to mind, because out there in the online world are thousands -- nameless, faceless, waiting to be clicked on and played with and made a portrait of. And let's put it this way -- what if your online buddy just collapses and dies -- and he will do it offline of course. Will anyone bother to inform you about it? Sorry, bud, online friends are in the category of illegitimate children.

We scrabblers in the internet -- we have affinity with each other. We talk about our neglected families, call our spouses scrabble widows/widowers, our children scrabble orphans. We talk about our family threatening to send us to Rehab. We discuss about organizing Scrabblers Anonymous -- similar to AA -- and worry there would be no one to attend the meetings because everyone would be -- where else? -- online!

What is in a computer monitor that makes you tell a stranger deep dark secrets you wouldn't tell your best friend? Someone told me she was gay and that only I and the closet knew. Another confided about having a terminal illness and a year to live. Yet another talked of having the most awesome telephone sex the night before.

And you know what, dreaded retirement suddenly seems tolerable.

Until then, excuse me, while I log on.

The Best Is Still to Be

I am Anna, married, with six grown-up children, none of them married ... yet. I am so overdue to have grandchildren it nearly embarasses me.

What I'd really like to say is that I am old ... or newly old. As in 'joints-beginning-to-creak" old. "Given-up-on-all-those-anti-wrinkle potions" old. "Deathly-afraid-of-retirement" old.

I used to say I would have quit the rat race long before compulsory retirement catches me. Used to boast I would have said "goodbye," laughing and clicking my high heels smartly, before I am shown the door.

And yet, today, a few years to retirement, I still go to the same office that has put up with me for years I don't care to count. And it seems to me it would take six hunks and a straitjacket to yank me out of it -- come depature time.

Retirement to this "newly old" evokes images of --

• Waking up with no more "jeez, i am going to be late" get up and go.
• Dressing up for no occasion
• Walks without direction
• Coffee and lunch breaks uninterrupted.
• The porter, the bag boy, the security guard greeting me but not seeing me ... uh-oh, why don't they see me?
• Monitoring my children's whereabouts hour on the hour, till they curse the day mobile phones were born.

I am told that the aging population is a big one, thanks or no thanks to an improving life expectancy.

How many of you out there are as paranoid as I am about growing old? How many are unflappably cool about it? But what I truly wonder about is how many have overcome their fears and discovered the secrets to growing old and happy.

Share your anxiety! Infect with your cool! Out with your happy secrets!

Then perhaps more of us can truly say:

"Come grow old with me .. the best is yet to be."