A Christmas Story

My son started learning how to write sometime last year, before he turned three. And in the tradition that I grew up in, I asked him to write letters to Santa to ask for his Christmas gift (Okay, I know I'll have a hard time explaining when he finds out that the jolly old man is just a myth, but that concept made my childhood so I'm not going to deprive my son of a bit of holiday magic).

This was his letter last year:

Done with a lot of coaching from Mommy, but it's in his own handwriting.

Fast-forward to 2009. One Sunday evening, I reminded him to set aside some time the following day to compose his letter for Santa. I thought it would be another way to keep him occupied while I was at work. However, when I came home that Monday evening, it turned out that he forgot. When I asked him where his letter was, his eyes turned into two big O's (I was guessing his thought bubble read "oh, shit!", if only the words were part of his toddler-ese) and he got all panicky. You see, the previous night, I told him that Santa had a deadline for letter-collection (I was hoping for maximum recall and motivation. Well, trust a three-year-old's attention span to nullify all your adult theories.).

As I sat down to dinner, he bugged me over and over to help him to write. I told him to wait until after I've finished my meal because I was starving. He kept quiet for a while so I thought he complied. As I was putting away my dinner plate, my precocious boy showed me this, done with absolutely no adult intervention:

With such a darling letter, who is Santa Claus to resist?

(By the way, I drew the star on the upper-right corner to let him know what a great effort he made!)

Here's his Christmas loot from Santa:

A blue scooter (with flashing lights!). Santa was also thoughtful enough to include a toddler-sized helmet, in matching blue with yellow trims.

And because he is such a wonderful boy, Daddy and Mommy got him these:

          

That's a Zhu Zhu pet starter kit, as well as a hamster (Scoodles) to complete the fun. He's a fan of the game "Hamsterball" so he enjoyed this one, too.

Well, Grandma was not to be outdone, so my son got another gift in the form of a Vtech Read and Learn. If you must know, my son can already read very well, it's just that he gets a bit lazy with writing (blame the technological age for this...he'd rather be chatting complete with audibles). Grandma thought this will help motivate him to write more.

To cap off his Christmas, we went to watch Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakuel. Mighty proud of him for sitting through the entire movie without his usual loud chatter. It's either he's starting to behave like a big boy, or he was completely pooped out from staying up too late the previous night (and waking up bright and early to play with his new toys). He didn't enjoy it as much as he did Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, but he did get some laughs from the cute critters.

No wonder kids love Christmas so much. They get spoilt to bits! But I guess we parents are also guilty of a bit of self-indulgence: seeing our kids' eyes brighten up and hearing their loud shrieks of delight are just too much of a pleasure to pass up on.

P.S. Daddy and Mommy also had their share of a ho-ho-holiday:

          

LTD F50 for the guy, HP Mini for the gal :)  Woohoo!

I felt stupid watching this movie...

...because my mouth was hanging open the entire time! Just when I thought there weren't any good movies this year, the last few weeks of 2009 gave me something to remember. The last movie I watched with as much drooling intensity was The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

I have no coherent thoughts to even begin a pseudo-movie review. Suffice it to say that I enjoyed myself immensely. So much so that halfway through the movie, I was already elbowing my husband and telling him I want to see it again. Hubby was very impressed with the CGI (he does CGIs, too, so it is obviously very hard to please him in that department). To call the animation "spectacular" might be a bit of an understatement. Stupendous would be more apt.

Film critics might have a thing or two to say about the storyline, that it's bordering on being patronisingly tree-hugging, but I'm not complaining. The movie's overall message was more powerful to me than what a good old disaster movie can muster. It's a bit predictable in some parts, but all things considered, it was engaging enough for me not to notice that it's about 2 1/2 hours long.

True to its press releases, Avatar does take you to a world beyond imagination. Just see it. I mean, if you've watched 2012 and you let this one slip by, someone ought to knock some sense into you ;)

Growing old, Desperate Housewives-style

It may seem an irony for a full-blooded production person like me, but I rarely watch TV. I used to, in heavy doses, but that was when I was much, much younger. The time when I didn't drift off to sleep within five minutes of staring at the tube.

However, there are some TV series that occasionally catch my attention and have me looking forward to new episodes every week. Desperate Housewives is one of them. I find the characters funny, the plot engaging, and the writing style equally witty and insightful. I think that if I were half as good as their writers there, that would be my writing style, too (although I do not think I would make a racial slur like they did one time, but that is a separate issue altogether). I was watching an episode last night and one particular scene touched me.

Two of the characters, husband and wife Tom and Lynette Scavo (played by Doug Savant and Felicity Huffman), were having an argument. As a quick background, Tom wanted to have plastic elective surgery done to his face. He felt that the years have taken their toll on his features, and he's blaming what he perceives as his unsavoury appearance for his lack of employment. He is convinced that prospective employers give him a cursory once-over during interviews, and he immediately loses out to the next fresh graduate sitting in the waiting room. Apart from his increasing insecurity stemming from Lynette's flourishing career, his ego received a further bruising when they chanced upon an old classmate who looked about 10 years younger than Tom did. And Lynette just happened to rub salt into his wounds when she laughingly remarked, "Seriously? You two were classmates? You were IN THE SAME CLASS?!"

Lynette tried dissuading Tom from the procedure. Of course, there was the money issue; they had several school-age kids plus a toddler in a single-income household. She is also afraid that once Tom's outward appearance improves, he would think she looks unsightly and would dump her for a pretty young thing. She went as far as inviting an officemate to their house - someone who had a botched-up surgery - just so she could drive her point in. But Tom is adamant. And as they argued in the kitchen, far from their guest's hearing, Lynette revealed her true reasons for not wanting him to go under the knife.

Lynette said she did not look at Tom's lines as wrinkles, but as a map of their life together. Each crease represented an important event. The thought lines on his forehead, "That's you worrying about how to provide for us." The frown marks, "That's my cancer" (she is a cancer survivor). The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, "That's all the laughter we shared together." Needless to say, Tom relented and did not pursue the surgery.

Touching and true. Each moment of laughter, each heartbreaking instance, the marching years make sure that they are all indelibly etched into our countenance. Most of us choose to pay attention to the superficial; I, for one, am guilty of that (I find myself increasingly attracted to wrinkle-control creams, and I actually keep a nightly regimen to keep the creases at bay).

But, perhaps, what we must all aim to do is to look beyond the sagging skin and diminishing youth, and focus on how well we journeyed using the Maps of our Lives. And it is only when we are truly happy with our life's voyage can we stand in front of the mirror, look at those wrinkles without batting a heavily-mascara'd eyelash, and still say that, "I am beautiful."

I hope to remain beautiful for my husband. And I pray that, someday, many years from now, despite my age and outwardly appearance, he will continue to bestow me with the same loving look and say, "You are still my beautiful wife."

Tom and Lynette's photo courtesy of ABC.

Old couple's photo courtesy of Getty Images. 

Home for the Holidays

...is exactly what I would like to be, but unfortunately, I will be spending another Yuletide season here in Lah-Lah-Land. That's two years in a row. Sigh.

With less than 20 days to go before Christmas Day, I feel all sorts of nostalgic thinking about the fun traditions I'll be missing out on. So I compiled the Top 10 things I miss about Christmas at home (in no particular order):

1. Food - a Filipino holiday is just an excuse to shamelessly indulge in cholesterol-laden, heart-attack inducing, waistline-growing dishes like there's no tomorrow. I always took the fiesta ham for granted, but I found it conspicuously missing from our table last year (ham just doesn't taste the same here). And what I wouldn't give for the lechon and the ever-reliable lechon paksiw the following day. Puto bumbong and bibingka are also sorely missed.
2. Someone else to plan the holiday spread for you - Now that I'm the one doing the planning for the Noche Buena and Media Noche feasts, I do appreciate my mother's time and effort. I never knew it could be so stressful! Hats off to you, Ma!
3. The crisp Christmas chill - it's a bit colder here now, but not nearly as nippy as December nights back home. It seems absurd listening to "Winter Wonderland" when you're all drenched in sweat.
4. Tinsel-laden streets and homes - living in a multiracial community has its drawbacks, foremost of which is the lack of yuletide spirit! If you don't go to the central business district, or to the homes of your fellow Pinoys, chances are you won't be seeing any glitter or tinsel. Where I'm at, Christmas is just like a regular Sunday - an extra day off work, and more excuses for shopping. Our company keeps business hours on the 24th and 31st, mind you (although I do plan to take half-day leaves for Christmas and New Year's Eve, at the very least).
5. Gifts - at the risk of sounding materialistic, I do miss the gaily-wrapped parcels. I miss the unexpected packages waiting for me on my desk or beside my pillow (especially if it's from one of your subordinates or younger family members - no matter how small the present is, I am always very touched by the thought that goes with the token). And I sorely miss wrapping presents for family and friends - it's my favourite thing to do (my family knows that absolutely no one else can touch the wrapping paper and adhesive!).
6. The Starbucks planner - oh, yes, I so miss the daily pilgrimage to the nearest Starbucks branch to get my stickers. I know I fell for the sick marketing ploy, but, well, one of the owners is a personal acquaintance so maybe I'm willing to be a bit of a sucker :) But, no, I will not be asking her to send me a planner. Where's the thrill in that?!
7. Christmas parties - do I sound sick yet? Well, maybe I am - HOMEsick, more like it. I used to hate attending these, but since Christmas parties here are virtually non-existent (save, perhaps, for MNCs or other bigger companies), I do miss the fun and silliness of it all (and the ensuing inebriation).
8. Christmas plugs on TV and radio - there's a smattering of that here, but they don't feel the same as ours do. They're not as warm as how we do them. Our TVCs and RCs back home make you feel as if you're stepping into a Hallmark card, or getting on the Coca-Cola Christmas train with Santa.
9. Family and friends - need I explain?
10. Alvin and the Chipmunks - this is one of my little quirks, but Christmas just doesn't feel Christmas-y if I don't hear "Christmas Don't Be Late". The silly song heralds the season of cheers for me! And they don't play it here!
    

I do hope we get to go home for next year's Yuletide celebration, though. Cliche, trite...but there really is no place like home.

A Question of Taste

I have to wonder these days if there's something wrong with my taste. A lot of people I know loved 2012, but as you have read here, I wasn't exactly thrilled about it.

Now, almost everyone is raving about the movie New Moon on their Facebook walls - either in eager, hip-writhing anticipation of watching, or in jubilation after being one of the first to catch it on-screen. Stephanie Meyer fans can rest easy, you have one less competition for seats here. I will not be queuing up for that movie anytime.

Don't get me wrong. I know the story of the Twilight series. In fact, I own the lot. So how do I explain owning the entire series when I'm not such a fan? Well, I finished the first book, and so I took it upon myself to go through all four books. After all, one must finish what one has started. Although some parts appealed to my long-forgotten teenage heart and reminded me how it felt like to have a really serious infatuation, I mostly suffered through the thick volumes. Especially New Moon. Bella is just too full of herself, and I am not about to apologise for that opinion.

I suppose the book version is okay, except that I am not the target market. Reading it did not feel any different from going through a copy of Goth-infused Sweet Valley High. It's too teenybopper. Which I guess would explain the brouhaha over Robert Pattison and his cohorts. (Imagine being hit by a car, trying to run away from frenzied teenagers - these rabidly "crush-ing" 16-year-olds will sooner drive RP to an untimely death, rather than succeed in having him kiss them)

Which leads me to another point. Why on God's green earth do people seem to think RP is perfect as Edward? So NOT! The book used glowing adjectives like beautiful, perfect, God-like, ethereal and all the wonderful superlatives you can come up with. Sadly, the screen version (I watched Twilight on DVD) falls oh-so-short of these heavenly attributes. RP looks like the classic vampire, which is a corpse. Awful acting, dead eyes. Oh dear, maybe that's why I thought he was perfect as Cedric Diggory. He died.

I expect an angry throng beating down my front door now, waiting to stone me to death. But, really, Brad Pitt is the closest thing to a perfect vampire if there ever was one. And Anne Rice will kick Stephanie Meyer's ass any day.

P.S. I am still contemplating whether I should post a question on my FB, as to why everyone is so excited about the gosh-darned movie. Then again, my Twilight fan-friends will probably try to talk me into watching it, and wax poetic over RP, so maybe it isn't such a wise thought...

The Gift

Last night, my son and I were having our usual pre-bedtime conversation.

Knowing that we live in a country with mixed religion, races and culture, I try my best to teach him about the Catholic faith he was born into. So I take these bedtime rituals as an opportunity to discuss things with him without sounding too preachy.

Since he likes listening to music before going to sleep (usually Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror", ad nauseam), I sang one of my favourite church hymns as a child, which was "Jesus, My Friend". I was telling him Jesus is our Father, yet He is also our friend.

After listening to the song, my son asked me where I learned it. I told him I went to a Catholic school, and so I learned the song as a little girl. He looked at me and said, "So I was listening to you while you were singing it?" I understand my son does not have a very firm concept of time yet, not quite grasping what is the past, present and future. I endeavoured to explain it, in simpler terms:


MOMMY:  No, you were not listening in because you weren't born yet.
SON: (PUZZLED LOOK) Where was I?
MOMMY: You were still in Heaven because you were still an angel.
SON: I was with my Father, Jesus? (MOMMY NODS) How did I get here?
MOMMY: (NERVOUSLY ANTICIPATING A BIRDS-AND-THE-BEES CONVERSATION) Daddy and I prayed for you. You were Papa Jesus' very special gift to us.
SON: (FACE BRIGHTENING UP WITH A CHARMING SMILE) Did I come in a box?

Photo courtesy of Getty Images

2012: A Review

Note: This post contains some spoilers, so if you haven’t watched the movie yet, please skip this review.

Cast: John Cusack – Jackson Curtis

Amanda Peet – Kate Curtis (Jackson’s ex-wife)

Danny Glover – US President Thomas Wilson

Thandie Newton – Laura Wilson (Presidential daughter)

Chiwetel Ejiofor – Dr. Adrian Helmsley

My husband and I were expecting a crowded theatre when we decided to watch last Saturday. A combination of CGI and disaster is a sure-fire crowd-drawer, after all. Sure enough, the only good seats left were for the 11:50pm showing, and so we snapped it up before someone else “out-booked” us.

Turns out it was a blessing in disguise, because at least our son was snoring happily by the time we snuck out for our movie date (otherwise, I would have been too guilty to leave him behind). Good thing the mall is a short five-minute walk from our place. We even had time for a toffee nut frapuccino before the movie started. But I digress.

First off, 2012 does not exactly have a stellar cast. Cusack will forever remind me of Some Kind of Wonderful, and I was half-expecting him to say, “My future looks good on you.” The point is, he should’ve stuck to being an 80s matinee idol, and I find him totally ineffective in his role. He was still John, not Jackson.

I was also a bit disappointed with how under-utilised some of the actors were. Glover is a good actor, but he seemed to have been reduced to nothing more than a simpering, old, fatalistic politician (not that there was anything he could’ve done about the disasters, anyway). But they could have at least made him a bit more inspiring or awesome. James Earl Jones managed to be even more dignified using just his voice in The Lion King.

Peet was the mother of two kids, and she acted like a terrified mother, which I guess is fine. Any mom would be panic-stricken with the degree of disaster all around. I was sitting in the moviehouse and Peet’s eyes found mirrors in mine. When you watch a movie that claims to be based on something that has a fraction of scientific basis behind it, of course you’d be scared. So maybe the way I felt while watching her was not out of her spectacular thespian abilities, but out of a real maternal fear I had. As for Newton, well, let’s just say she looked good behind the wheel of a TT Coupe in Mission Impossible 2. That’s about it.

The story was poorly written. For a two-and-a-half hour movie, it left a lot of blanks. If you happen to be one of those who have never heard of the ancient Mayan prophecy and the hypotheses (and hype) everyone is attaching to it, you’d probably be baffled why you are looking at such images of destruction. The writers never bothered to squeeze in a decent explanation on the theory, apart from mentioning them in passing. It is strange that the vehicle they chose to kind of explain the Mayan prophecy was a loony guy.

150 minutes of talk-time and you’d think they would have room for that. Maybe they should have edited out some of the useless melodrama. Case in point: a father (a minor character) wanted to say goodbye to his estranged son, and just as the guy picked up the phone and was within 2 seconds of responding, the earth swallowed him whole while his father listened in horror. Was it really that important? I also felt that ALL the sequences involving the cruise ship could have been edited out and it wouldn’t be an issue. I guess they just wanted a touch of Titanic, even if it’s non-essential.

Most of the action sequences felt too contrived. Outrunning a volcanic eruption? Indeed. The loony guy’s scene at the peak of Yellowstone was far too stretched. Escaping a violent earthquake on a limo, when the rest of the city was swallowed up, is simply unbelievable. Plus, being able to take off on a plane just when you run out of runway is too much good luck, especially when the entire planet is having a really bad day.

Personally, the only saving grace were the rare moments of comedic relief, the heartwrenching scenes with children, and those who could not be saved because they couldn’t afford a billion Euros for a seat on the Ark (even if one of them happens to be the ONE who discovered the cataclysmic truth). It shoves in your face just how materialistic the world is, and that the government (particularly the US, in this case) is just one big conspiracy.

Overall, 2012 is a disaster mega-fest that combines the horror of The Day After Tomorrow, Dante’s Peak and Poseidon that falls flat in terms of my expectations. You’ll be riveted by computer-generated tsunamis and earthquakes, but that’s about it. Your only motivations for seeing this movie would be, 1) you’ll be the only one who hasn’t seen it if you don’t, and 2) animation-heavy movies just don’t look as nice on your 42-inch flat screen.

The verdict: 2 out of 5 popcorns. To paraphrase the tagline: you were warned.

The moral lesson: real estate investments in Africa would be a very wise idea. Oh, and Bentleys are really, really cool cars.

Thursday's Thoughts

An animal without stripes
A few days ago, my three-year-old son and I were watching TV. A commercial for a sporting brand flickered in and he curiously asked who the guy on it was. I told him, “Sweetie, that’s Tiger Woods. He’s famous because he’s very, very good in golf.”

He considered that for a while, then gave me a thoughtful look. “Tiger Woods?” he asked. “What a strange name, Mommy!”

Come to think of it, it IS a strange name. It just took a toddler to point out the obvious. Strangely reminiscent of The Emperor’s New Clothes.


Reading progress
Finally, I am in the final chapter of Kafka on the Shore! It took me an inordinately long time to finish that book. For one thing, as the review mentioned, it’s a “metaphysical mindbender”…and they sure weren’t kidding! Murakami has a very fertile imagination. As I’m reading it, my mind was on video-edit mode, complete with the dissolves and Gaussian blurs and other transitional effects. I’m a bit ambivalent, though, on how this thing will turn out if and when someone decides to adapt it on the big screen. It might be a bit too “metaphysical” to be given any justice in a movie version, in my opinion.

Another reason why I took so long reading it is because I’ve been getting dizzy trying to accomplish the feat in a moving bus; these dizzy spells sometimes carry on well into the evening. My husband warned me about my eyesight. Being that I'm thirtysomething that loves reading even in not-so-conducive lighting, I take that seriously. I'm not about to wear specs if I can help it. But with a chatterbox of a three-year-old around, I can hardly find any decent reading time. And when I put him to sleep, I conk out even before he does, so that’s the end of the peaceful wee hours I could’ve enjoyed.

This book deserves a re-reading. I have a feeling I’ll appreciate it even more the second or even third time around. I love this book and I would definitely recommend it to my cerebral friends.


On to other books
I was surprised to enjoy Jodi Picoult’s Salem Falls. If you happen to like some small-town intrigue mixed with courtroom drama, and a hint of Wiccan charm, you may enjoy this book, too. I think I would consider getting a copy of My Sister’s Keeper, if I don’t find a copy of Nineteen Minutes first (which is on my reading list). But I think I would have to forego JP’s books in favor of all the other titles that are just screaming out my name.

As for Eat Pray Love…hmmm…I find it so-so. I liken the feeling to sinking my nose into somebody else’s private journal, and someone I don’t know that well, for that matter. The book is okay, but you won’t be missing out on a lot if you don’t get your hands on a copy.

After Kafka, The Time Traveler’s Wife is now winking at me from my bedside table. My colleague graciously loaned me the book. She cautioned me that this novel had her blinking back tears in the MRT, so unless I want curious stares from complete strangers, I think I’ll dive into this book in the privacy of my bedroom, thank you very much.

Next on my to-buy list: a toss-off between Artemis Fowl and The Lovely Bones.


The trouble with Tuesdays
The past few Tuesdays have been quite a bummer for me. Hubby’s been leaving every second day of the work week since the start of this month for his business trips. And it’s not gonna let up until sometime next month, I surmise.

Sigh. I knew the two months’ worth of non-travel had to have some hidden repercussions. But as my brother pointed out, I should expect it because his work requires him to travel a fair bit.

I just never get used to it, that’s all. At least, I have a lot more reasons to look forward to Fridays because he’s usually home by then.

Flight

It is in times of the most profound sorrow that I find myself at a loss for words.

You have been given your wings, my beloved uncle. You are now living up to your name...you have been liberated from all your pain and sorrow, and you now stand with all the saints and angels in Heaven, to feast with your beloved Creator for all eternity.

Please be our angel and watch over us left here on earth. We send our loving hellos to all our family and friends who have gone before us. Oh, and while you're there, please tell Francis M and Michael Jackson that I'm a big fan. Maybe you can also share with me what really happened to Marilyn, Elvis and JFK, if and when you do get to chat with them.

Farewell, my dear uncle. Rest well. I will never forget how you have been like a father to me when I needed it. Please tell my dad everything I've always wanted to tell him but never got around to doing so.

You will be missed. See you in the next life.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die."

A Bag's Life

I remember a time (a veeeery long time ago, if I may add) when I could go out the house without a bag. Much to the chagrin of my fashionista mother (who, in true Imeldific style, maintained a plethora of bags, shoes, various accessories, jewellery...the works), I insisted on sticking everything in the pockets of my jeans, and anything that doesn't fit either gets left behind or enjoys instant accommodation in her purse.

Fast-forward a decade hence and here I am, getting those occasional gentle scoldings from my husband, who is convinced I'm close to developing scoliosis because of the bag I constantly carry. I haven't gone around weighing it yet, but I think it weighs close to three kilos.

Here's my load on a regular work day:
Cosmetic bag - which normally contains foundation, concealer, powder, 12-colour eyeshadow palette, blusher, various make-up brushes, eyeliner, lip gloss, lipliner, lipstick and mascara, plus a comb. My eyelash curler doesn't fit in the pouch, but if it did, I'd bring it along in a heartbeat. Hey, a girl has to be pretty, right?

A bottle of perfume - because a girl's got to smell pretty, too, even after a long day.

My purple umbrella - you never know when it's gonna rain (although, weirdly, I rarely use it because I find umbrellas too cumbersome...I carry one just in case I change my mind).

Marlboro Medium - and a lighter, of course.

A pack of tissue - because you don't want to eat at the hawkers without it. On top of that, I also have a handkerchief.

A change of undies - plus feminine pads and pantiliners. Because I never want to be caught unprepared (even if I'm as regular as clockwork).

MP3 player - it's a staple for a Singapore commute.

Plus:
Mobile phone
Wallet and coin purse
Hand sanitiser
Pen and small notebook
Candy
Sunglasses
Any book I'm reading at the moment
My breakfast (usually a sandwich)
Fan (it gets hot, okay)
Name card holder
Rosary - not that I use it, but it's been my constant companion since 2nd year high school. I never leave home without it.
Thumb drive
House keys
Nipper (for those pesky hangnails)

No wonder my bag weighs at least three kilos! Come to think of it, it's a good thing I have an office cabinet where I can leave my phone chargers and organiser, not to mention that I don't lug around my laptop anymore as I refuse to take home my work.

That's a normal working day for my bag. On a family day out, my bag heaves even more with a change of clothes and various odds and ends for my son (water bottle, wet wipes, snacks, etc.), and a few things that don't fit in my husband's pockets.

Well, such is the life of a working mother, I discovered. Which is why I can never get around using those teeny-weeny purses that are gathering dust in my wardrobe. And which is also why my husband has taken to bringing me big bags from his overseas trips (much to my endless delight).

So, what's in your bag?

WTF are you thinking?

Why people would use the expression OMFG is beyond me.

Maybe they think it's cool to quote quotes from Gossip Girl. Maybe they want to take OMG a notch higher. Or maybe they don't even know what it means, and simply parrot it because "it sounds cool".

You don't have to be Einstein to realise that OMFG means "oh my f*****g god". For crying out loud, IT IS NOT COOL TO CURSE OUR GOD! It makes me squirm just to think about it.

And I'm not just talking about pubescent girls here; even the supposedly mature, "well-educated" "professional" uses the term. Apparently, they didn't learn enough. I think they forgot that the First Commandment said You shall not take the name of the Lord in vain.

Yeah, I'm talking to you. WTF ARE YOU THINKING? IT IS NOT COOL TO SAY "OMFG"!

Faith without blinders

Warning: if you are a hard-core, ultra-conservative Roman Catholic, PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS POST. However, if you still choose to go on, well...don't tell me I didn't warn you.

I came across an interesting post by a certain Mike Aquino. Please read on below (taken verbatim from this post):

**********
I no longer consider myself a Catholic

I no longer consider myself a Catholic. No matter how fondly I remember the good parts of being Catholic – the songs, the retreats, the lessons – Catholicism for me became increasingly difficult to reconcile with common sense and decency.

I can’t reconcile so-called Catholic values with the Catholic institution’s nasty tendency to close ranks around its priests. Child abuse in the priesthood was given cover for so long because bishops would rather hide abusive priests rather than confirm that such abuse took place. Justice became secondary to the preservation of appearances.

I can’t reconcile so-called Catholic virtue with its hierarchy’s politics, often exercised to uphold retrograde policies against family planning and reproductive health. Empowered by its mass believer base, the Catholic Church continues to abuse its political power in the secular world.

In Manila, doctors were forbidden to prescribe contraceptives to patients, because Mayor Atienza thought he could implement Catholic doctrine into municipal governance. Church pressure has distorted the Reproductive Health debate; the simple question of “should government-run health centers provide reproductive health services, including artificial family planning methods” has been drowned out by priests railing against it from the pulpits and banners hung from churches.

There has been no good-faith effort by the Church hierarchy to explain their side; there has only been arm-twisting and emotional blackmail. Church representatives have ignored or walked out on any efforts to engage them in discussion.

In short, I can’t believe the Church is moral anymore. A fatal conclusion for someone who was raised to believe that Catholic priests acted in persona Christi capitis, in the person of Christ.

I now know that is a lie; many Catholics, laymen and priests alike, use their faith as cover for some of the most grievous immoralities. Not just in the Philippines; the Church hierarchy is complicit in genocide in Rwanda, torture in Argentina, and child abuse in the West. In persona Christi capitis my ass.

Due to the Church hierarchy’s own actions, the current situation is becoming more and more unstable – the Church cannot maintain the status quo for long. At least two presidential candidates have declared their disagreement with Church policy on reproductive health, a position that would have been political poison a few years ago. More Catholics are speaking out, or voting with their feet. The Church is less and less seen as being infallible – increasingly its clay feet are showing.

In time, I hope an increasingly secular electorate will realize a few things about the Church and the civic sphere:

The Catholic hierarchy’s interests are not those of the community at large. Catholic interests cannot predominate in a multi-ethnic, multi-confessional community. A Muslim or Protestant mother must not be compelled to settle for government services tailored only to meet Catholic sensitivities, which is what happens when the Church is able to bully legislators into substituting the Catholic agenda for the government’s.

The Church can no longer impose its particular views onto a secular government. Bishops may have to settle for a conversation with equals, instead of expecting to have their own way every time. Catholic scholar David Hollenbach argues that Catholic involvement in the public sphere “must proceed according to a mode of dialogue and persuasion… faith and theology are seen as participants in a drama that involves numerous other actors. The church is not the producer or director of this drama.”

In real life, the usurpation of government decision-making by ecclesiastics has always ended up badly for everyone. The Church loses moral authority, government decision making powers are hobbled, and constituents end up being badly served by dogma-driven decisions.

I no longer consider myself a Catholic. I still remember my Catholic upbringing and influences with fondness, but so much of present Catholic doctrine treats truth and morality as if it can be decided by fiat (”Roma locuta est…”), and I simply cannot be a part of that.

**********

This man read my mind.

Personally, I still think that the Roman Catholic faith is beautiful, with simple, common-sense principles rooted in the universal concept of love. And I believe with all my heart that our Lord is a just and loving God. Unfortunately, the mechanisms of the Church are controlled by men, easily corrupted and victims of their own humanity.

Until this time, I get funny looks from people when they discover that I do not attend Sunday mass regularly. But we should live and let live. In the same way that I respect people who do make an effort to fulfill their Catholic obligations, I think I deserve some respect for my personal decisions. While I will gladly take opportunities to show people my belief in my Divine Writer, I refuse to "fulfill" my Sunday duties just because I want to keep appearances. Sorry to disappoint the Augustinian fathers, but I am a servant of the Divine Word, and not of that person who happens to preach from the pulpit.

Faith is defined as "allegiance to duty or a person, fidelity to one's promises, or sincerity of intentions." We should be guided by this definition, with the operative word being sincerity.

The role of the religious order should not be very different from our own parents. While they should uphold discipline, morality and purity of our faith, 1) they should walk the talk and be living examples of these ideals (instead of closing ranks), and 2) while the basic principles of our faith should remain unchanged, some facets need to be modernised to make its teachings less antiquated and, therefore, followed even more faithfully.

I could go on and on about this. Even as I voice out my opinion, my traditional Catholic school upbringing is already debunking some of my arguments. But, ultimately, I stand only by one thing: I would rather be a faithful personal friend to my Divine Writer who chooses to follow his teachings with eyes wide open, instead of a blind follower who keeps holy for one hour every Sunday and goes back to his old, sinful ways the moment he is out of the chapel's doorway.

Schools of Thought

I called my mother the other night and told her the exciting news that I just enrolled my son in nursery school.

At the risk of making an understatement, she was not thrilled at the prospect. She was dismayed that I broke one of her cardinal rules: that we, her children, pledge not to enroll our kids (especially male kids) before they reach the age of five. So across about 3000 miles, I got a sound scolding from my mother. Why are you putting my grandson through this? At his age, he should be getting his fill of sleep and play! I'm telling you, you're setting him on the wrong path...he'll get tired of school quickly and you will regret it! And when the time comes he starts skipping school and flunking, don't tell me I didn't warn you!

I think I got the equivalent of Ronald Weasley's Howler.

My mother admonished me on shirking my responsibilities. She is under the impression that I do not want to take charge of my son's education under my personal watchful eye, which is why she says I would rather stick him in school. I just kept quiet because I know getting a word in edgewise, once she gets heated up, is virtually impossible. Especially when it comes to these things.

Let me set the record straight. In all fairness to my mother, she is in a good position to know about these things. She was, after all, an educator for more than 25 solid years (and counting, if you include the lectures my siblings and I get at the slightest provocation). Perhaps she had observed a pattern in my brothers, in my nephews and other male relations, or in her gazillion students, such that she made her own conclusion. She has this theory that the male of our species tire easily of rigid education, and so we must endeavour to delay formal schooling until the last possible minute. In place of school, it is a parent's duty to instruct the child from home, in as conducive a manner as possible, using a play-to-learn approach.

It does sound very ideal. In fact, she used the system on me (even if I am female), so she likes to dangle my intellectual superiority over my siblings to drive in the point (disclaimer: the point expressed is my mother's opinion and not mine).

So why, then, did I not subscribe to her school of thought?

For one thing, I have an opinion on why her system worked so wonderfully for me: SHE was the one teaching me. In my mind, she is still one of the best English teachers around (which explains why I excel in grammar and literature, while failing miserably in Math and Science). I don't think it will work as well for my son if he is stuck most of the day with only the caregiver around. Case in point: after only about two months of being with her, malutong na syang managalog ngayon. At may puntong Ilonggo pa. And I can't blame him because he only spends a few waking hours with us parents during weekdays.

Now don't get me wrong. I have no intention of completely eradicating Filipino from his vocabulary. In fact, I want him to be strong in both languages in oral and written form. My thinking is, the household is mainly Tagalog-speaking, and since he can understand and converse perfectly well in the language, then what remains for us to build will be his English vocabulary and grammar (which is mostly my job, because he knows it's English when he speaks with Mommy). That's on top of the Mandarin which he has yet to learn (and for which he will not be able to get help from any of us).

Secondly, I believe that the time is right to send him to school. He is showing an eagerness to learn, evidenced by the thousand-and-one "why's" I receive daily. His curiosity is insatiable, and I'm afraid the knowledge I have may not suffice. It is truly marvelous for a parent to observe a child's hunger to learn. He can't stop reading, he can't stop asking. And so, there's that window I will NOT miss. I want him to be eager to go to school. I don't want to risk waiting, and find out later on that I have to force him to go because the eagerness had passed.

Most importantly, perhaps, I am painfully aware that my son sorely lacks some age-appropriate company. He is stuck with us adults 24/7. I had that kind of childhood, being the youngest in the brood (my nearest sibling is 11 years older than me). I get all kinds of praises from my parents' friends, on how well-behaved I am, and how very adult I was acting. Now, I hear that kind of opinion often expressed about my son. Which, in my opinion, is not so good for his well-being.

With all due respect to their parenting style, focused as they are on developing my intelligence, they kind of overlooked the growth of my emotional intelligence. I know that it's a fairly new concept and may not have been en vogue when I was a kid, but the fact of the matter remains that EQ is important in making a well-rounded individual. I had a hard time adjusting to my peers when I was younger, and I don't want my son to go through the same difficulties. True, I get compliments that I am "wise beyond my years" and have "older insights", but can one not be precocious yet fully-adjusted to peers? At this point, developing his social skills is something I want for him.

I am blessed to have such an opinionated mother. She is the type who will form her own judgment and will fight you tooth-and-nail for what she believes in. Unfortunately, it is also a trait I seem to have inherited from her.

My heart says I should send my son to school. And I believe it.

What's in a name?

The other day, I was teaching my son his middle name. He knows his given names (he has two) and his surname by heart, even knows how to spell his full name, so I thought he ought to know about his middle name. After all, that is my father's legacy to me.

So here's the scene. I just revealed his middle name to him. My son looks up to me with mild surprise:

MIGUEL: Mommy, why do I have so many names now?
MOMMY: Baby, that's your middle name.
MIGUEL: What's a middle name?
MOMMY: Your middle name was your Papa's (grandpa's) surname. That was my surname before Daddy and I were married. Now, I use Daddy's surname, and so do you.
MIGUEL: Why isn't it a misname? It's a misname.

This one left me scratching my head. My son has a penchant for coining terms, depending on how he understands the prefix and the suffix. His English is far from perfect but it is a confusing language, after all. My interpretation of "misname" was something like "misspelled", and so I prodded him further:

MOMMY: (confused) You mean it's wrong? No, my surname is correct.
MIGUEL: (exasperated at the stupid mom) NO! I said misname! It's not SIR-name, it should be MISS-name coz you're a girl!

Monday Randoms

The high point of my week occurred this morning: I just finished enrolling my son in Nursery! He will be starting classes on the first week of January, and will be attending afternoon sessions between 1:00-5:00 pm.

I cannot believe how fast time flies. My baby will be a school boy in the coming months, and that means he will start having a life of his own, away from me. Prior to enrollment, one of the thoughts I had was, will my boy be crying and clinging on to my skirt (or denims) when it's time for him to enter the classroom? That remains to be seen on the 4th of January, but seeing how tickled pink he is at the thought of going to school, it looks like I'll be the one left to deal with my own separation anxiety!

It's a big step for everyone. For my son, it's a whole new world for him, the start of many years of academic learning and social education. For both my husband and I, it will primarily be a crash course on proper budgeting. And then there will be the lifestyle changes; apart from having to think about monthly expenses, we can no longer go on spur-of-the-moment holidays, seeing that our activities now has to follow the Ministry of Education's 2010 calendar.

Adjustments notwithstanding, my son is excited to attend his classes. He has a sense of ownership already ("Have you seen my school? Did you see my teacher today?"), he's looking forward to wearing his 1st uniform, and he's happy that some of his playmates will become his classmates. As for me, sure I have the normal maternal fears (Will there be bullies in class? How can he eat properly when I have to chase him around for each spoonful of food? Will he be able to cope with his Mother Tongue (Mandarin) class?), but overall, it will be for everyone's good (well, I HAVE to send him to school at some point, right?). And ultimately, I think that Mommy and Daddy will learn a lot in the course of the school year.

********************

Which brings me to another point. I think I'll have to learn Mandarin together with my child. Number 1, I need that to help him with his lessons. The principal explained to me this morning that kids will bring home one book per week to read together with their parents...so if it happens to be in Chinese, then what the hell will I do? Pin Yin, here I come.

Number 2, it's logical. I'm living in a Chinese-speaking country, and for practical reasons, it's a good idea to learn the language. I'm pathetically stuck at "Ni Hao" and "Xie Xie", so I'm welcoming the opportunity to learn alongside my son. If anything, it will be a great bonding experience for us.

And thirdly, assuming my son will be perfectly conversant in the language in the near future, I wouldn't want to be shut out from his activities with Chinese-speaking friends, right? (Oh dear, I sound like a nosey Mom there...).

********************

That said, I am stuck in the office all by my lonesome self (at least in my department). My colleagues are in Indonesia today to celebrate an ex-colleague's wedding. Both hubby and I were actually invited, and I was really looking forward to going. Unfortunately, we had to wriggle our way out at the last minute because of some personal circumstances and schedule problems. Then, there's another co-worker currently in Scotland for a two-week holiday.

So while they are out cavorting in the streets of Jakarta or busy roaming the Scottish highlands, here I am keeping house. Thank goodness blogging is keeping me occupied.

*******************

Hubby and I will be celebrating our 9th anniversary as a couple this November. It's funny because until now, we remember that anniversary better than our wedding date.

As luck would have it, Hubby will be missing this important anniversary because he has to attend a roadshow in Bangkok. He's asking me to join him on his trip so we can have a Thai celebration, but the practical side of me is kicking in and I am wont to refuse.

It must be a sign of the times. Imagine throwing away a nice holiday in favor of practical reasons! I'm getting old!

********************

On more inane things, that pink cow on FarmVille is frustrating me. I can't adopt one on time. I want one!

Bitten by the bookworm

(Does one get bitten by a bookworm, or does one accidentally bite into one (gross)?)

A few days ago, I was itching to read. I was in the office and I wanted to take an early day off because I JUST HAD TO BUY A NEW BOOK. I don't know why but the feeling was that urgent. So as soon as the clock hit 6:30pm, I ran out the office and went out of my usual route home, just so I can pass through the bookstore.

Here's my loot:

Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat Pray Love


Haruki Murakami's Kafka on the Shore


Jodi Picoult's Salem Falls

En route to the bookstore, I promised myself I would only get one title to satisfy my reading lust. Of course, no matter how hard I try to keep my resolution, it never happens. Although I'd have to say my guilt feelings were a bit assuaged as I got the last two titles on a "buy one, take one" promotion :) On this side of the world, books are a wee bit more expensive than in good old Manille; on average, a paperback costs $17.99, or almost Php600.00. So snagging it under the promo price, that's about $8.99 per title, or around Php300.00 each. Not bad, right? And so, with that triumphant little victory, I proceeded to purchase a third book under the regular price, hahaha (greedy little me)!

Books have always been a personal extravagance. Although, when I think about it, it's not exactly an "extravagance". I write for a living, and so I take it upon myself to continuously expose myself to good writers. Plus, I'd like to think I'm setting a good example for my son. I'm glad to note that he seems to be a voracious reader (I didn't even know he knew how to read - and he just turned three at the time!). That being said, I have to be extra careful now about the titles I pick up and the cover illustrations, because he always asks me what I am reading, and he can already read the title all by himself.

And while I have not even taken two books out of their shrink wraps, I'm already greedily eyeing a few more titles, most of them sourced from this website:

The Sookie Stackhouse series - this was the basis of the hit series, "True Blood" (Dead Until Dark, Living Dead in Dallas, Club Dead, Dead to the World, Dead as a Doornail, Definitely Dead, All Together Dead, From Dead to Worse, A Touch of Dead)
The Artemis Fowl series (Artemis Fowl, The Arctic Incident, The Eternity Code, The Opal Deception, The Lost Colony, The Time Paradox)
The Monster of Florence, Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi
Memoirs of my Melancholy Whores, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Uncommon Reader, Alan Bennett
Nineteen Minutes, Jodi Picoult
Eye Contact, Cammie McGovern
My Friend Leonard, James Frey
The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold
Swift as Desire, Laura Esquivel
Merrick, Anne Rice
Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging, Louise Rennison (but how will I explain this one to my son?)
Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, Patrick Suskind (now how do I put the blasted umlaut on his surname?)

There's also Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol, which just hit the book stands. I'm a big fan of Brown and Robert Langdon, but something tells me this just might not live up to my expectations (he might be giving in to publisher pressure, for all I know). That one ranks on the bottom of my to-read list. Let's see how many of these titles I get to strike out...assuming I would remain faithful and not be distracted by the thousands of other paperbacks out there!

So I look forward to this weekend surrounded by the smell of new books. Looks like I'm gonna be keeping a few late (but happy!) nights.

A Child's Prayer

I never claimed to be deeply religious, but I believe I am a spiritual person. I look up to my Divine Writer and I know that it is my responsibility to raise my son along the right path.

Every night, I ask my son to say a short prayer to his Papa Jesus. I am amazed at how innocent and utterly free of greed a child's prayer can be. Here is a sample of his nightly conversations with Papa Jesus:

"Dear Papa Jesus,
Thank you for my toys and my milk and my clothes and my food.
Please bless my Mommy and my Daddy.
Please bless the vegetables in the market.
And please bless me.
Amen."

Last night, my son overheard my Skype conversation with his Daddy, who is currently on a business trip in Bangladesh. I didn't even know he was listening, so I was quite surprised to hear he had a very special request:

"Dear Papa Jesus,
Thank you for my toys and my milk and my clothes and my food.
Please bless my Mommy and my Daddy.
Please save my Daddy from the dirty toilets.
Thank you for our clean toilets.
And please bless me.
Amen."

Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." ~ Matthew 19:14

P.S. Photo credits belong to Getty Images

A letter to my son

My dearest son,

One of the things I'd like you to learn is that nature is a great equalizer. Whether you live in a palace on top of a hill, or in a shanty under a bridge, we all live under the same sun, and we are all at the mercy of the same rising and ebbing tides.

Last Saturday, September 26, 2009, Typhoon Ondoy (international name: Ketsana) visited Philippine shores and brought unspeakable tragedy in its wake. Weather reports predicted that it packs maximum winds of 100kph, but nobody imagined what kind of damage the rains would leave behind. Imagine dumping a month's worth on the city in a span of nine hours! And it did not discriminate: rich and poor, young and old, famous and nameless faces alike, all of them were left holding on for dear life.

I followed it this entire weekend through internet news and photos, and I am left speechless and almost in tears. Main thoroughfares were rendered impassable, and familiar places became alien landscapes submerged in floodwaters (some as deep as 20 feet!). Just look at the photos and see for yourself:


Ayala underpass in the heart of Makati


Cainta, Rizal


Marikina (one of the hardest hit areas - those are people on the roof)


Katipunan, Quezon City (where, incidentally, the Presidential son was found purchasing liquor from a store not 100m away from where this is!)

Some photos, I could not bear to include here. It includes children (some younger than you at this time) going hungry on rooftops…animals swept away and drowned helplessly…victims fished out from the muddy flood. Some accounts said that in the space of an hour, floodwaters rose from ankle-deep to 6 feet high; in some places, it was as deep as 20 feet. And, mind you, it wasn’t a silent stream: it was a raging tide that swept away concrete houses and heavy cars like plastic toys. Your grandma even recounted that the rain was so heavy, it sounded like someone was dumping bucketfuls of water on the roof (thank God she’s safe, as well as our other loved ones).

What is incomprehensible is that all this happened in a span of nine hours. I am not even going to bring in politics and the ill-preparedness of our farce of a government. That is already a glaring fact. But, one day, you will be the head of your own family, and though I continue to pray that you never see anything like this in your lifetime, I want to pass you on some pearls of motherly wisdom:

1. ALWAYS keep an emergency kit in your house. Include a reliable flashlight/emergency lights/candles/matches, spare batteries, sturdy ropes (in case you need to tie something, or need it to cross surging waters), basic medicine, canned food, bottled water, disinfectants, a heavy tool like a crowbar, and perhaps a list of important phone numbers stashed in a waterproof casing.
2. With reference to #2, periodically check your stash and make sure they are still in good working condition, and the perishables are not expired.
3. At the first hint of danger, quickly move to a safer location. Do not wait until it is too late. In the face of impending disaster, it is always better to err on the side of caution. And forget about your possessions, they are not worth your life: leave them if need be. You can always replace them, but lives lost can never be bought again.
4. In case you are caught (and I pray it never happens), do not panic because others will look to you for support. If you crumble, they will drown in their own fears, and that is not a good thing. Keep your presence of mind at all times.
5. No man is an island, as the old saying goes. Never be too proud to ask for help, nor be too up high on your own pedestal as to deny others your help. But, please, know your limits and DO NOT BE A HERO. As your grandpa once said (God rest his soul), the mistake of some rescue workers is that they try too hard at the wrong time, and instead of helping, they become part of the statistics.

It is during times like these that I keenly feel how much I love our country. The images leave me choking back tears and my heart bleeds for our fellow Filipinos. It feels so real to me, especially when I check my social networking sites and see my friends’ status updates, photos showing their firsthand experience of the event. And – perhaps more horrifying for me – there’s the silence of those who cannot even access their accounts because they are stuck on their roofs, praying for rescue.

For our part, your Daddy and I are thinking of scraping up whatever amount we can to donate to the victims of the typhoon. It isn’t much, as we also have to extend some assistance to our immediate family, but we believe that every effort counts.

I could choose to teach you to live simply and not care for designer clothes, fancy gadgets or spiffy cars. Instead, what I would like you to learn is, as you forge on with your life and build a comfortable nest for yourself and your future family, DO NOT FORGET TO BUILD YOUR CHARACTER. You are a man, after all, and I expect you to be a pillar of strength. And possessing a certain amount of material wealth means that you will be in a position to give help when time calls for it. Like I said, we all live under the same sun, and so you must always strive for humility, and for responsibility towards your fellowmen. Never imagine for one moment that you are above anyone else.

At the end of the day, I believe that the Filipino spirit will prevail and will see our nation through. But take the painful lessons that we have learned with you, and never forget them. Pass them on to your children someday, remind them how truly resilient their countrymen are. Remember, too, that we reap what we sow; take better care of our environment, as the price to pay usually comes with human lives.

As for you, my dear son, wherever life takes you, always be in touch with your motherland (and your mother, as well!), and say a silent prayer each night for her.

Be safe always. I love you.

Mommy

Pay It Forward

Just a funny anecdote the other week courtesy of my precocious three-year-old.

I came home from work one evening and I was greeted by my boy enthusiastically even before I put my foot into the door. He told me about a particularly naughty boy he encountered in the playground earlier.

My son complained that the other boy pushed him around. In fact, he almost fell off the steps going to the slide, all because this boy was picking on him (who was, by the way, much bigger than my son). According to the grandma, my normally placid and tolerant toddler had one push too many. He turned around and, with arms akimbo, shouted at the other boy, at the top of his voice: "STOP PUSHING ME! YOU'RE A VERY, VERY BAD BOY!"

And - what do you know? - the little bully stopped and stayed away from my son.

After both my son and his grandma recounted the story, I told my baby that what he did was right. Though he should never pick a fight with others, neither should he be a pushover. He should learn to fight back, and what he did was a good thing.

My son paused for a while to consider my statement, then drew his own conclusion: "It's okay to fight back. You shouldn't fight forward, you just fight back!"

Epilogue: After that initial confrontation, my son and that other boy have since become playmates. I love the way children can completely forgive one another and move on with their lives.

photo from Getty Images

Weighing the Issue

Forgive me for being a girl today.

I never had a problem with weight. Except during my pregnancy, I never went above 48 kilograms (about 105lbs), which I think is ideal for a petite frame of 5’1”. I guess I am one of those women whom others would say is blessed with good genes. Most notably during my adolescent to early adult years, I could eat like a horse and still get away with it. Today, I am a 33-year-old mother of one, and the weighing scale tells me I am around 43.6 kilograms (96lbs). Not bad, I suppose.

Yet vanity is making itself felt today. I feel that my mere mortal body is succumbing to the force known as gravity, and everything is headed south.

I look in the mirror this morning as I am dressing up for work, and I turn a critical eye on myself. I find myself a bit wider in some places, a little loose in some, a tad sagging in a few areas. *cue in the cuss words*

I know, I know. Don’t give me grief for the fact that I weigh less than a hundred pounds, and here I am complaining. But I know now that having low weight doesn’t necessarily mean you’re exempted from all that excess baggage.

Disclaimer: I am not blaming my pregnancy for this. It’s the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me, so far be it for me to point my fingers on it. It’s just that I realised, during that phase, my skin stretched out far more than it was ever used to (I gained 35lbs then). Now that I couldn’t shrink back to my original form, those blasted fat cells took the opportunity to fill in all those nooks and crannies, thus giving me all this flab (and grief). It doesn’t help that I read up a bit and was reminded that fat actually weighs less than muscles, and so I therefore conclude that while I may weigh less now, I still damn well look pudgier than usual.

This should probably be my cue to dust off my old sneakers and start running for fitness again.



Now the problem is, I find too many excuses NOT to exercise.

First of all, it’s too friggin’ boring. I have an issue with routines/repetitiveness, and if there’s one thing I frequently see on exercise manuals, it’s the word repeat. Can’t I just do it once and everything will magically transform thereafter?

Second, I get sick when I overexert myself. Don’t laugh at me…it’s true! I’m such a lazy-ass that any form of physical exertion leaves me feverish for three days! Ask my husband. Back when we were still dating, he casually invited me for a game of lawn tennis. I was a bit rusty since I haven’t played in a long time, but – what the heck – it’s great bonding, right? Wrong. I had a 39-degree fever and body aches for a few days and sent my then-boyfriend into near panic, and that’s when I remembered that childhood malady: during the first few days of PE class, I’d be absent because of fever. I thought I outgrew it, but turns out I didn’t. Think that’s an isolated case? The first time I was here in Singapore and walked too much, I developed a fever. Pity my poor, unused muscles.

And thirdly – and most importantly – I don’t have time. I wake up early to go to work, and I come home with just a few hours to catch up with my family’s day. How can I sacrifice quality time with them for such vain shenanigans, right?

My husband is trying his best to help me. Recently, I’ve been on the receiving end of small tokens from my always-generous husband: an mp3 player and a good pair of cross trainers. Bless this man, he really knows how to handle whiny little me! Instead of telling me bluntly to go out and do something about my “problem” (which will almost certainly be met by an absolute refusal), he is gently coaxing me to take my new playthings out for a spin, i.e., go jogging or something. I actually told him good-naturedly that I recognise the tactic, to which he replied that, had I known how to ride a bike, he would’ve bought me my own so we can cycle every weekend.

Sigh. I really should stop making excuses and run a few laps this weekend.

On the other hand, brisk-walking from one mall to the next is still a form of cardio, right?




many thanks to Getty Images for the royalty-free photos

Rants and raves on the last day of the year

Well, at least the last day of my 32nd year.

There are two ways to approach this milestone. Since I like to save the best for last, maybe we’ll start with the glass-half-empty perspective.

Tomorrow is just another date on the calendar. I will find myself hitting the snooze button as my alarm goes off at 6:40am, and wonder why I even bother to set the alarm that early if I won’t get up, anyway. I’ll drag myself to work, pretend I’m busy for a while, then give up at precisely 6:25pm so I can be out the door by 6:30pm. I’ll zone off by around 11:00pm. And then it’s the same thing again the next day.

Tomorrow, I am reminded how much it sucks that, out of the 365 days in the year, the hubby’s boss decided that now would be a good time for him to visit Beijing. So I’ll be stuck in a place far away from the home I’ve always known, unable to visit my mom for my usual sumptuous birthday spread, and won't expect the deluge of siblings, nephews and nieces to wish me a happy birthday. A few cold ones with old friends will not even be a remote possibility. And I’ll surely be missing the flood of happy birthday text messages.

But if I look at the glass half-full…

Tomorrow is the first day of a brand new year in my life. I will find myself hitting the snooze button as my alarm goes off at 6:40am, then snuggle back into my warm pillow and enjoy the luxury of sleeping a bit longer. I’ll be thankful to have a job to go to in these tough times, accomplish what needs to be done, and be grateful to have some spare time to check my email. I’ll start packing up by 6:25pm so that by 6:30, I’ll be rushing home to my son’s delighted squeals, big hugs and warm kisses. I’ll start feeling deliciously languid by 11:00pm. And then I drift off to Lala Land to prepare for another wonderful day.

Tomorrow, I am reminded that, no matter where in the world he goes, I have a good husband 365 days every year. I can’t wait to see the presents he is sure to have picked up for my son and I as he goes around Beijing. I have a new home away from home, enjoying the quiet reverie for a change, where I can have some quality time with my mother, whom I will surely be speaking to over the phone as I drink my morning coffee. No cold ones with my friends, but, recently, I’ve had some quality smokes with representatives from each phase of my recent past: an old high school classmate (haven’t seen him in about 15 years), my college buddy (adopted her in between “Mraz-zing”), and a former colleague (also my son’s godfather – stayed in our spare room for two days…and soon, we will be neighbours!). As for the text messages, I probably wouldn’t miss it that much because Facebook will surely live up to my expectations.

And so, with that, I raise a glass that runneth over and give my Divine Writer a toast, for giving me a wonderful life, and for the gift of wisdom that helps me see things in the proper perspective.

Happy birthday to me :)

A Most Dreadful Gesture

I was checking my Facebook account the other day when I came across a link posted by one of my contacts. It was about a wedding proposal. Out of curiosity (and maybe because, deep inside, there's a cheesy gal in there), I clicked the link and watched it.

There was nothing fancy-schmanzy about it. No romantic, candlelit dinner, no spectacular beaches at sunset. What actually made it special was the video the guy made to propose to his girl. It basically showed a cut-to-cut compilation of his smiling self, medium shots, with some road signs/establishment names behind him...such as the U-turn sign, the last two L's from "Shell", the McDonald's "M", stuff like that. All together, the signs spelled "Will U marry me". Plus points for the guy for his creativity and effort.

What ruined the moment for me was when I saw him kneeling in front of the girl, that classic pose while offering the engagement ring. Okay, I know I have a sappy streak, but for some reason, I find that gesture quite pretentious.

What does kneeling mean?


To kneel is to beg. So now a man has to beg a girl to marry him? How pathetic can you get? If you need to beg to get the girl you want, then there's something really wrong in the picture. Take off the rose-coloured glasses to get a better look at things.

It means devotion, true. But I only kneel in front of my Divine Writer. I am devoted to my mother but I never did that to her. Sure, I kneel in front of my cat, but only to pet her.

Kneeling connotes subservience. Remember the olden times when servants will kneel in front of their kings and queens? Hard core romantics may argue that it means they are willing to "serve their queens"...but how come they expect women to pick up their dirty socks and cook them dinner - can someone clarify who is supposed to serve whom again?

Humility? Maybe. But men are expected to "wear the pants" and be the "head of the family" in our patriarchal society. It has been ingrained in their earliest memories that they are the masters of the house. I don't think they'll give up the claim. So why waste the moment kneeling on the day you propose? They shouldn't promise a lifetime of humility when their basic, socially-conditioned, testosterone-driven nature goes against it.

I'm a deeply romantic woman. My husband knows how romantically creative I can be, and I have made him weep tears of joy on several occasions. But kneeling in front of a woman to propose marriage is not for me. At the risk of sounding like I'm sour-graping, I'm glad my husband did not propose to me as such.

In my humble, personal opinion, a marriage is a union of equals. Therefore, there should be no expectation of subservience. It should be give-and-take.

My husband and I once talked about this, and we agreed that we should never refer to the other as "my better half". We choose to call the other "my other half". We're "partners" in every sense of the word. Because we complete each other. Because one is not "better" than the other; instead, we make each other better. We complement each other's weaknesses as well as our strengths. And our life's decisions are never based on who gets to have the final say; rather, we arrive at a mutual agreement that we are both comfortable with, that we feel would be best for our family, and would not leave any resentment in the other's heart just because one of us needs to give way to a designated decision-maker.

So please stop kneeling. Unless you want to give a blowjob.

Happy Valentine's Day!



Thank you to Getty Images for the royalty-free photos