They could have pranced all night ...

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.

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.




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.

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.


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?


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.

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.

At one point, one of the ladies fretted: "Oh, dear, we are all dressed up with nowhere to go?!"

Nowhere to go?

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.

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.

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.



Yes, Mike Yu, who is between photographing stints abroad, has been taking photos of bloggers for several months now for his Bloggers Gallery project. Before the end of the year, he plans to gather and showcase the photos into an exhibit.

(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. )

P.S. Wench, you missed the adventure, and what an adventure. Rolly, thanks for "... as a whisper."

THE BIG WAIT

The hour of make or break for the doktora-not-yet had come after three months of reviewing for the boards. Imminent too was the moment of truth -- was she really studying or merely snoozing behind the "do not disturb sign" permanently posted on her locked door that only opened when she wanted to yell for food or drink? Was she really browsing the Net for medical science updates or was she playing doctor to the virtual characters I knew she has been creating stealthily on the SIMS II game board?

And will all the preparations -- both heroic and absurd -- work? The expensive review manuals? The topic outlines she painstakingly wrote for the more critical subjects? The fish oil and ginkgo biloba capsules she swallowed each meal to sharpen her remembering and thinking caps?

And why should this mom protest when asked to buy red undies and Red Ribbon ensaymadas that are supposed to work like a charm for any board taker? Didn't she herself wear something old and new and borrowed and blue on her own wedding day? (And don't nobody ask if wearing those 40 years ago worked -- or else).

Each time daughter came home from the exam, I asked if she remembered to kick the last chair in the row she was seated on her way out of the test room. Even if it didn't kick in more good luck as it was touted to, it could've at least been good for releasing some of daughter's pent up tensions.

We also looked heavenward for help. We went to Pangasinan to burn candles at the miraculous shrine of Our Lady of Manaoag and vowed to go back -- passed or flunked. I prayed two novenas to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and promised to pray a third -- win or lose.

The night the results were expected to come out was a long one. I kept vigil with my daughter and other doctors-in-waiting at the pinoyboardresults.com chat room. I was almost certain there were other moms of takers in the room but I seemed to be the only one anxious and audacious enough to actively participate in the exchange. When the youngsters asked each other about their waterloo subjects, I volunteered it was Prevmed (preventive medicine) for my daughter and fretted when no one else agreed. We argued about the passing rate reports that rolled and coasted from a low of 25 per cent to a high of 75. Not a few loudly wished it was 100 per cent and I had to bite my lips to keep from saying there would be inevitable passers and flunkers. We collectively held our breath every time the results were rumored to come out -- first at 10 pm, then at 11 then at 12 midnight, finally at 3 a.m., even as more rational voices tried to persuade the rest it was really more sensible to go to sleep and stop torturing themselves. It was well past 4 a.m. when I -- the most stubborn in the chat room -- finally gave up and tumbled into bed.

The next day could have been another stretch of agonized waiting but for a merciful appointment Bonch and I had with the eye doctor at 6 p.m.

On our way home at about 10 p.m., our phones beeped in succession.

I braced myself as I read my eldest son's message:

"Mommy, hwag kang malulungkot ha? Kalamayin mo loob mo. May anak ka nang doktora. Pasado si Mayet!"*

**Pandemonium in the car!!**

And that is how Dra. Mayet has ceased to be Dra. not yet.


*Translation: Mom, don't be sad. Compose yourself. You now have a doctor for a daughter. Mayet passed!

Good Riddance Day -- or so they thought

I knew it is traditional to say goodbye formally and I had long ago accepted I had to go through the ritual -- and in style!

But I had a couple of stories to go before I finish the UP Centennial book project my director touted as my "last hurrah." Plus he sounded me off on a part-time retainer engagement to go on handling publications and publicity.

So I told HRD it was premature to hold a good riddance party, as I will still be around for some time. I made AO Din promise to hold his horses and spring no surprises.

Thus have I lately fallen into an unharried, unhurried, "ah, this is the life" rhythm of going to work twice or thrice a week, after lunch.

Last Friday afternoon, I was enjoying a leisurely glass of iced tea in our office kitchenette when JP, president of our foundation, came in. He had a meeting downstairs, he said, and had time to kill, which he seemed to want to kill by discussing his arthritis. As I gamely listened, the secretary appeared by the door to tell JP his meeting was about to begin. I stood up to go back to work but JP gripped my arm. "You have to accompany me to the meeting," he said. "I can barely walk."

Strange, I thought, as he had walked in without help. Is JP making lambing? When he tightened his grip and led me through the door, a bulb finally flashed and I began to say: "Oh, no, no, no, oh no!!! Don't do this to me. I said no surprises."

When we reached the darkened Red Room, lighted only by a projector screen with my picture on it, shadowy figures began to sing. When the lights came on, the shadows transformed into smiling co-workers, former colleagues, and members of my family.

Aloud I kept yelling: "Ang sama nyo! Hindi nyo man lang ako pinag-lipstick."

Inwardly I kept groaning: "I should have prepared a speech. Omg, how come they didn't let me prepare a speech?!"

They said a lot of good things about me that day, but how come nobody said I was beautiful and sexy?

There was a "deal-or-no-deal" quiz between kapuso (my office mates) and kapamilya (members of my family) which focused on my late-rising, late-coming-to-work, nagging-pressuring ways, and other foul deeds.

The office counterpart of Michael Buble serenaded me, but why oh why did he sing "Only You" by the Platters?

I moved my chair nearer the projector when they showed a power point presentation. Even without my glasses on, I knew those were pictures of me evolving -- from very young, to not quite young, to getting old, to absolutely old. Which reminds me I still have to find out how they got my grade-school photos. And those of Apo Andeng. They even showed pictures I didn't know existed.

They made me cut a huge cake, significantly 40 x 40 inches big, thankfully without candles.

When I stood to respond, I hemmed and hawed as is my wont, when caught flatfooted.

But I managed to say the office has been good to me. That it was not just another workplace, but the source of professional, psychological, economic, and social fulfillment. That because it trusted my meager skills, I was encouraged to develop them. That because it believed in me, I had compelled myself to lecture and speak even in international conferences -- incredible for someone who has never gotten over a chronic stage fright and public speaking jitters.

I said that in the years I'd been with the office, I had coordinated and presided over countless goodbye parties, tributes and roasts and toasts. And that now that I was for the first time at the receiving end of one, it felt fabulous. But masama pa din ang loob ko, I insisted. "Kasi hindi nyo ako pinag-lipstick and hindi nyo ako pinag-prepare ng speech."

I served notice I'd still be around for some time to come and that if they expected good riddance they were in for a disappointment. For it would take a dozen hunks and a straitjacket to yank me out from my room. I ended with my favorite cliche: "And that's a promise as well as a threat."

I didn't say publicly I had fancied myself attending my goodbye party in style.

That I fancied entering the room dramatically, in gala gown, swept-up do, and vivid make-up, having finally gotten the day before the professional facial I have never treated myself to.

That, most of all, I fancied myself standing by the podium, ready -- with a torrent of choice and unforgettable words -- to shake and rattle the tiny universe that was my office for 40 years.

I didn't get to stage the goodbye I fancied. But why was I feeling so moved and thrilled and happy?

The Doctora-Not-Quite

April 24, 2008

She gets a kick out of watching some old friend or classmate's jaw drop when she tells him she's studying Medicine. The gut reaction is: “You must be kidding.” The friend cannot be blamed. Since grade school in St. Paul Pasig, studying seemed contra-indicated with her, like pollen to an asthmatic. To her just looking at a notebook or a text book has an immediate sedative effect. And in the morning, there is almost no stimulant on earth that can wake her except being bodily lifted into a barrel of ice-cold water.

She finished her undergrad (BS Food Technology) at UP by the skin of her teeth and under the most imminent danger of over-residency.

In medical school at the FEU Institute of Medicine, she made an incredible turnabout. She seemed to have breezed through four years of poring over thick anatomy books, dissecting cadavers, and clerking at hospitals. In between, she has captained the school's diagnostic debating team and chaired several research projects. Most incredible of all, she is about to finish with nary a 3 or 4 or 5 she used to rub noses with.

I always thought she had great abstract reasoning caps, despite being unable to memorize 'humpty dumpty sat on a wall' at the point of a gun. She is very adept and sure with her hands, which should give her great fallback as carpenter or mechanic if she got bored with doctoring.

She herself will tell you she's good at solving jigsaw puzzles.

She compares the science of medicine with putting together jigs and saws. You get a piece of clue … bit by bit … here and there. Sometimes the pieces don’t square and you try all over again. And when at last, you put in the “eureka” piece … it is as though you found the rainbow at the end of a thousand potholes.

I feel a catch in my throat as I watch her walk her funny walk at the processional during formal rites at PICC.

She's not the fairest of the brood nor the brightest but I call her my best product.

This is the girl who made a whole gradeschool class laugh when she raised the solitary hand when teacher demanded who had a "balat sa puwet" when their picture-taking session got rained out. The same girl who had to be taught how to fight back, to name-call when she's name-called one time too frequently. Who bawled her heart out when she didn't make it to the grade school tug-o-war team but went on to become captain of high school softball varsity.

This is the the girl whom I half believed when she bragged, as a three-year-old, about having a friend called 'god' who'd talk to her in the backyard. The same girl who promised me I'd be rich if ever she would be. Who said I'd be a cooler mom if I knew how to listen. Who chided me for brooding over a filched wallet and lost money which "after all is only money." Who scoffs at going abroad because she wants to serve fellow Pinoys. Who asked me tearfully one day if I thought she was still my best product after a bewildering confrontation.

Today, she graduates -- my first daughter, my doctora-not-quite. She won't be a rich doctor but she would be a good one. And yes, she's still my best product.

Note: Not quite a doctora yet because of another year of senior internship, the board exams, and residency training ahead.

Wishes to YOU from Rolly thru Annamanila

Don't you sometimes read something and it hits you smack where your tenderness resides? This Christmas message written by Rolly Lampa, my ole high school friend, did it to me.

With Rolly's permission, I pass on these beautiful Christmas thoughts, wishing with all my heart I had written it myself for ALL OF YOU.


Christmastime is always a season of hope …. and a time for wishful thinking. These are the things I hope for and wish for you.

I wish you holidays of remarkable evenness and ordinariness. Not rollercoaster days of emotional peaks and troughs. No ecstasies or tragedies. Just days of quiet. Days you can curl up on a sofa and read a pocketbook or watch an old movie. Days of peace.

I wish you days of long forgotten pleasures – an extra half-hour in bed in the mornings; light traffic all the way to office or to the mall; short queues at the check-out counter; steaming hot coffee or frosty cold beer at the appropriate times of the day; the light of your life wearing a silly old thing that reminds you of a moment in your courtship when you both were young and the world was young with you.

I wish you days of small, splendid joys - the car pulling out from the parking bay just as you happen to turn into the parking lot; the shop assistant/office receptionist actually smiling up at you as you come in; an unexpected email from an old friend; a favorite song you haven’t heard in years now playing on the car radio; the keys or your eyeglasses just where you thought they would be; your kids (or grandkids) rushing in with a garbled greeting and a tight hug and a warm look around the eyes that says they’re actually glad you’re home.

I wish you little nuggets of happiness … the peace-be-with-you moment at midnight mass when you turn around to your loved ones and embrace and kiss each other; the count-down craziness on New Year’s eve; the warm sand on your bare feet at the beach; the tiredness at dusk on an outing that was just perfect. At such times, you get the feeling all is right with the world and the heavens.

Drive safely. Enjoy the year-end break. Be happy. God bless.

Rolly and Lynn Lampa

Remembrances of Christmases Past - 1: POOR LITTLE POOR GIRL

I look back to all the Christmases of my life to see if I can remember some for being extraordinarily happy or sad or strange. Here's one of them.

The little girl Anna, was bawling her heart out. She tried mightily to extend her crying even if she didn’t feel like crying anymore. When she heard knocking on the door, she turned the volume a decibel louder. “Go away,” she hiccupped, even as she wondered if her voice sounded heart-rending enough.

Christmas began badly enough that midnight. She had written Santa Claus for her dream tea set. How many successive years she had asked for a tea set – she had lost count.

She knew by the shape and heft of the package she found by her bed that Santa had denied her again. She tore off the wrapping unhappily. What an ugly thing, she thought, as she drew it out from a box. A chunky aparador-aparadoran made of wood. She pulled the tiny closets and drawers experimentally, then pushed the whole thing away. It fell on the floor with a thud.

On Christmas morning, she and her sisters came home from church to a full living room. The flock of cousins, all nine of them, was waiting – they who lived three streets away and who never failed to come each year. They were nine reasons why her perennially broke Dad was always looking province-ward around this season. So he can "hide in the mountains."

One of them she didn’t particularly like. Inna her name was -- so pretty and so smart and so lista and was her Dad’s favorite. As Inna and Anna were of the same age and almost the same names, they were often compared, at the constant expense of shy, mousy-looking Anna.

Inna could twirl Anna’s Dad around her fingers. Even on Christmases her Dad was broker than broke, she was the only one he would secretly palm one peso to, among the brood.

Presently, Inna got up, her curls bouncing. I have a new poem, she announced pertly, curtsying to Anna’s Dad who sat beaming.

After the applause, Inna sat on his lap and whispered in his ear. In turn, he groped for his pocket. “No, I don’t want money,” she said. “What do you want -- my wallet?” he teased. She replied, “That one.”

Her finger was pointing at the aparador-aparadoran Anna’s mom had retrieved from the bedroom floor and set on the center table.

“Well, that’s Anna’s,” he answered thoughtfully. “But, hmm, I don’t think she likes it.”

At that point, Anna, her face flaming, fled to the bedroom, locked it, and bawled her heart out. She fell asleep from her effortful crying. When she woke and got out, the house was quiet. In the sala, she immediately found what her eyes sought.

The little aparador was still there and no longer looked ugly.

Baby's First Christmas

December 1^st

It is dark when we finish putting up the tree. We snuff out all lights in the room to set off its spruced-up, lit-up branches.

This is the same tree we’ve had for years and years. The same ole star on top. (Almost) the same ole flowers and angels and tinsels and bells. (Almost) the same ole garland of tiny dancing lights.

This is the same tree we twitted as being too scrawny and not tall enough when we first put it up 15 Christmases ago. The same tree I threaten to get rid of year after year, never mind if we went treeless.

Yet, today, there is something magically new and different in the same ole.

All because we are seeing it through the eyes of a two-month-old baby looking at her first Christmas tree.

Held up by her mom, she is wide-eyed with wonder. The lights begin to blink and she blinks, too, then gurgles. As her chuckle breaks through, I almost hear the laughter of the stars one silent, holy night, eons ago.

We all watch the little scene with a silly grin, awash with feelings too magical for words.

Nope, it isn’t just another Christmas.

It is Apo Andeng' s first.

Note: Thanks to Marthalee, scrab buddy from Britanny, for Andeng's outfit.