My generation never talks much about our sins - but they are now returning to haunt us.
Francis made a post about Caselyn Francisco, citing a few of her manymanymanyartistictriumphs. And while I’m sure many of us do feel a collective pride for a Filipino artist doing so well abroad, the memory of her squeaky voice rising above the stud-and-lace-clad “That’s Entertainment” cast’s choral wailing poses a gnawing eternal truth: The Eighties were dark, dark times for Style.
Our crimes seem unforgivable. Our Aqua Net obsession remains to be the single largest contributor to the gaping hole in the ozone layer. Our shoulder pads resulted in the Great Foam Shortage of 1983. A major fight between the University-Belt-based fans of Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet in July of 1985 were mistaken to be anti-Marcos mass demonstrations, and resulted in one of the most violent crowd dispersals by the Philippine police.
My own transgressions haunt me in traumatic flashbacks. Plastic jewelry. Rollerskating at Ali Mall. The crush on Ralph Macchio. Wanting to dress like Cyndi Lauper and Boy George. Being labeled a “prep.” The “Brooke Shields” eyebrows. Owning three identical lace hi-cut sneakers. The mutated Valley Girl-Taglish talk (“Shet you! I’m gonna get na a bato and make-pukpok your head. I’m asar na to the max.”). **shiver**
I am really so very sorry ...
In behalf of Caselyn Francisco and other men and women from my generation, whose moms and dads regretfully pioneered the “Let-them-discover-their-own-style” School of Parenting, I would like to apologize for the huge gruesome mark our cobra hairs and geometric clothes left on the Filipino psyche. We are profoundly remorseful for everything …
<< Thankfully, it seems that the statute of limitations on being an 80s fad victim has lapsed. What made the 90s youth cringe at us is now the very reason why millennium kids are digging deep in our closets in lust for authentic 80s couture.
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8.28.2002
THE TAO OF CUERVO
I dreamt I lost all my teeth last night: I was sitting in a car, talking to Bessie (my colleague) when I felt my teeth loosen and fall off – painfully reminding me of the 8 years it took to straighten my bite. I looked up “lose teeth” in my dream dictionary and the darn thing told me I am entering a period of “existential angst or famine.” Unless the McDonald’s stores I usually buy my lunch from are running out of cheeseburgers and french fries, I figured I am meant to question and re-define my life’s purpose – AGAIN.
Sounds about right. After rage, the natural progression in my emotional cycles leads to melancholia, after all. And what better way to think oneself in to depression than to examine one’s purpose in life – or lack of it.
Cuervo, our X-dog, runs after a school bus that goes through our street every day. He was run over by the same bus once; but he recovered and surprisingly, has failed to associate that four-wheeled child transport with his near-death experience. He knows when the bus is due -- his ears would stand up in alert mode at the same time every morning. As soon as his target is in sight, he would break into a sprint, with his head close to his doggie shoulders – as if he studied which running form is most aerodynamic. Over the last year or so, his fervor has infected other neighborhood dogs. Now, he leads a whole pack of canines in a mission to, one day, capture that blasted bus.
Our dog and his pals probably have no idea what to do with the bus when they do catch it – but that’s not the point, is it? The point is: there is no point, but one has to keep going.
What/Where the **bleep** is my “bus” anyway? The greater question perhaps is: if I find my “bus,” will I have the passion to chase after it with the gusto of a dog undaunted by death by Bridgestone tire? Or will I be the bitch sitting on the sidelines, barking how stupid her death-courting, butt-sniffing friends are, until the day she crosses the street without looking and gets run over by a same bus herself? Sigh.
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8.22.2002
PLAY GOLF OR GO TO HELL
An invitation for the Cardinal's Cup, a golf tournament organized by the Archdioces of Manila, ended up on my desk yesterday.
1. The opening line for the invite read:
Some play Golf for fun.
Some play Golf for other reasons.
Now you can play Golf for the Faith.
Do the hampas-lupa's [literal: dirt-hitters] already addicted to this game (like oh so many men in my life) actually need ANOTHER reason? Duh?!
2. I figured a priest worked on the marketing materials for this event. It totally missed his celibate eyes that the logo looks like a woman’s bustier -- and nothing like the cardinalatial biretta it intended to depict. The line “The Cardinal’s Cup” becomes the perfect touch to this memorable brand statement ('di ba, Cynthia?). Way to go, Father!
3. The reply card read:
If you cannot join the tournament,
just the same, please send your donation.
This will ensure that when your scorecard is presented to St. Peter,
it will show an eagle and a couple of birdies
to offset your bogeys and double-bogeys.
WTF! I didn’t know an incarnation of Father Damaso was alive and organizing golf tournaments! And selling the idea that a donation to the Church will get anyone a VIP pass to heaven!
I am probably going to hell for this entry. Oh well, I'm not going to evade it by hitting a white ball across a fairway either ...
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8.21.2002
CORPORATE SLAVE LOG 011: FROM ABOVE ... OR FROM BEHIND?
THE mighty boss man from Sweden sends me and co-slaves, working in market and internal communications, an e-mail that starts off with a joke. Swedish über boss cracking a joke?! Wow, the stars must really be falling out of alignment …
A: What’s going on in the company?
B: I don’t know. I work in the Communications Division.
The rest of the communiqué, of course, attempts to disprove the punch line. The e-mail is your typical garden-variety “rah-rah-I’m-behind-you-in-these-trying-times” message. Boss man failed to mention though that he’s standing around behind us so he can have a nice view when we’re pushed over the precipice.
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8.18.2002
DESSERT-ER
I watched five Geri Halliwell videos played one after the other on Myx the other day. I am no Spice Girls fan, but didn’t she use to be the chunkiest of the lot? I don’t care much for her music as a girl band member and as a solo artist. So to those who do, this is going to sound like the most-delayed delayed reaction in recent history -- she looks great! Soo much better than when she was Ginger! Healthy, gym-sculpted, athletic, glowing ...
Traitor!
The last time I felt such indignation over a normal girl “instantly” growing biceps and loosing belly fat was when Janet Jackson caved to family pressure and saw a cosmetic surgeon. The defined biceps, rock-hard abs and the jiggle-proof boobs she is now universally desired for, did not exist in the 1980s. MTV would have an archive brimming with proof to support my point – “Control” would do it best though. Back then, one could say: “It’s okay to be chubby. Chubby people can be cool and dance really well. Look at Janet Jackson.” In one selfish act, J.J. killed the already dimming fire of hope in all women with a dress size above 8.
Traitor!
Of course, the original turncoat, in my book, is Madonna. In her lace-donning, cross-wearing “Like A Virgin” days, she had gained wide acceptance for looking like just another girl you’d hang-out with on the street – a girl you wouldn’t want your parents to meet, but that’s a different issue altogether. Then Sean Penn divorced her, sending her on workout binges to drown her sorrows. Over night, she gets chiseled arms, six-pack abs and conical breasts. She turned into somebody you WOULDN’T want to meet on the street – especially in an alley on a dark, moonless night. The next bizarre step towards self-improvement was when M. had a gap “installed” between her otherwise orthodontist-approved teeth in the 1990s. Oops, excuse me -- that was a step BACK.
Still … traitor!
Isn’t life as a modern woman hard enough without the dwindling number of realistically dimensioned women in the forefront of popular awareness? I want Jennifer Lopez to play an opera singer in a movie – and gain 100 pounds for the part! I want to hear Sharon Cuneta embrace her inherited rubenesque proportions, instead of treating her tendencies to be chubby like a damn disease. I want Jackie Lou Blanco to start getting serious with her corned beef endorsements and start LOOKING like someone who actually eats mutant cow meat!
Sigh -- all this “rage” because I gained five pounds.
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8.15.2002
NASTY STREAK
I have been furious lately – “object-lessly” angry. Full moon. Zephyr winds. PMS. To the uninitiated, these might explain my seriously foul mood.
However, the true reason is, not the above convenient confessions, but my beloved mom’s flawed genes. You see, her branch of my family is crazy. They were cursed, not with punch-in-the-arm-“Jeepers-your-crazy” craziness, but with stark-raving, moon-howling, near-criminal insanity. I adore my mom deeply (God bless her soul), but the truth is, her family has the greatest propensity for unadulterated rage than any other people I know. A fight over dinner with my mom’s brothers and sisters meant watching the good china shatter -- eventually, the plastic plates whiz over our heads like frisbees. We, the children, were trained early to know when to take cover.
So my genetic inheritance brings days, sometimes weeks, of short tempers and bitchiness. In my early adulthood, I indulged in the satisfaction of figuratively and literally kicking people in the balls. As I have since moved up a step in the evolution ladder, I now try very hard to fight my predispositions – MIND OVER DNA!
The operative word, of course, is TRY…
1. I figured doing the Jedi mind trick on myself should tame my murderous desires -- “Tranquil, you are. Calm, you are. Peaceful, you are.” …If only it didn’t leave me weak with an urge to kill Frank Oz. [You don’t know who he is? Get out of here and ask Google.]
2. I figured my job should be able to break my nasty streak. Rewriting our global corporate press releases often leaves me in stitches, you see. …If only the recent software upgrade our I.T. Department did on my computer didn’t disable my left mouse button. [I.T.’s inability to fix it is turning me homicidal! Yes, it’s damn serious! Imagine having not being able to left click… See?!]
3. I figured a good workout should jumpstart me on the road to cheerfulness. A nice tae-bo session with Mel should clear a few clogged arteries in the process. …If only the Cinnzeo rolls I’ve been wolfing down every morning didn’t render my butt painfully “un-liftable.” [Utang na loob, keep your diet tips!]
4. I figured I could do some work on the market plan for my business-in-incubation. Getting all the details from the franchisers I’m interested in this week would speed up my launch. …If only people I’ve been talking to understood the essence of the sentence: “Could you ask him to call me back please?” [Dapat siguro, tinatagalog ko na lang.]
5. I figured my children could cheer me up. My eldest has his 2nd quarterly exams in a few weeks – reviewing for them together should be the perfect time to bond. …If only he wouldn’t squirm out of it by losing steam mid-way through things. [Naku, nung maliit ako, pinapaluhod ako sa munggo kung ayaw ko mag-aral, ‘no!]
5. I figured immersing myself in unanswered e-mail should keep me amused while my hormones ran amuck. …If only I didn’t get that pointless email from a person who thought herself ultra-butch, baselessly accusing me of serious crimes against humanity. [Ang tapang-tapang mo. Malayo ka kasi. Mas madali ka sana bugbugin kung hindi ko kailangang sumakay ng eroplano.]
6. I figured sleeping off my objectless fury should help too, or at the least, reduce my growing sleep deficit. …If only it didn’t compound “If only” Number 3.
If this feeling doesn’t leave me soon, I’ll just give in to my ancestors’ legacies, move on over to the Dark Side and wage war on the world on Friday.
Sounds like a plan…
<< Tempered bitchiness is what makes me my mother's daughter.
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8.12.2002
FIGHT LIKE A GIRL
I have hit another human being before -- several, if I must be accurate. Six years training in martial arts have given me skills that can hurt people badly and, as the perennial class “baby” (I was always the smallest, youngest), the very intimate knowledge of what it feels like to be beaten up.
My wacky judo teacher often told us that big bad-ass boys who provoke fights are often compensating for short “extremities” and, to their loss, have never understood the lessons behind Ralph Macchio’s acting opus, “Karate Kid.” My education in business also taught me that the elusive “win-win" situations are worth the search.
Combining the study of fight techniques with the appreciation of alternatives to fighting, I have tried to gracefully avoid pointless conflicts in my adulthood. But fights I choose to accept, I take very seriously and bring to an end.
If you have a personal issue with me, never send me e-mail or call me, using words you would not use in front of your mother. You will be sorely disappointed, as I will not engage. You see, the few times I obliged hostilities directed to me when I couldn’t see the person’s face to gauge his true emotions and read body language, I ended up yelling a lot, cursing a lot, but frustrated at the lack of conflict resolution. It’s like sex without climaxing – it’s getting hyped up for nothing. I often remind myself to TRY to manage such offensives with as much Jedi-like calmness as I can muster.
In this modern age, emails, the Internet and phone lines also have a way of being “shields” for the cowardly hostiles. Behind these electronic armors, cowards seem to themselves braver and gutsier than they could ever dream to be in real life. I would rather not humor these poor souls.
I would rather "battle" my opponent face-to-face. I would rather my accusers look me in the eye and dare me to blink. Very often, face-to-face discussions bring out the truth and the answer better and faster than pointless exchanges behind modern armors.
This is how THIS girl fights. If all else fails, I also find “aggressive negotiations” particularly fun. Just tell me where and when to bring my kamagong nunchakus.
<< What is the point of picking a fight on-line when objective resolution is unlikely? It simply confirms what you deny most often -- that you are one big little chunk o' chicken.
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8.10.2002
ON HOLD
My marriage has a way of going “on hold” during the Super Bowl, the NBA play-offs and UAAP La Salle-Ateneo basketball games.
When my husband (a man who can probably win in the “Game Ka Na Ba” [local game show] final round with a sports question) fell in love with me (a bonafide spectator sports non-spectator), it was all part of cosmic karma for his being a murderer in a past life. I am all for PLAYING a contact sport; but watching a bunch of people I don’t know get all hot and sweaty while I watch just doesn’t get me excited -- no matter their seemingly god-like talents. I also have a quasi-Freudian theory of why these men scramble after ONE ball, but that’s for a totally different entry…
When I was playing nice, sweet, supportive girlfriend two lifetimes ago, when pro-basketball games were played at the Ultra every night, I even watched some games with my future husband. He had to stop bringing me though as my resonant snoring rose above the screaming crowd and it embarassed him. I used to ask myself why I couldn't be one of those girls who actually knew the team names and could spew player stats. Damn -- at the time, I didn't even know what "travelling" meant.
Eventually, I didn’t even have the energy to pretend to like spectator sports. I never had cable installed at home – as I dreaded the probability that my husband will shrivel up for days in front of the television, surfing 24-hour sports channels, living on chips and dip, and having his butt permanently bonded to the leather couch. He can do that at his brother's house ...
I’ve also come to understand that it’s no use trying to have a decent conversation when there’s a game on – a weakness I have come to use to my advantage: “I DID tell you about it. Last night. Ah, but you weren’t listening to me, were you? You were watching the game…” Mwahahaha!
But just when I want to tear at his hair for ignoring me, I realize that he feels exactly the same way when I’m in front of the PC. Ain't justice beautiful?
Sidebar: I think the Filipinos' basketball obession is confirmation of the country's religious faith. Imagine a nation, genetically pre-disposed to being shorter than everyone else, pouring its meager sports development resources in training its youth to win international titles in a sport where height is the key success factor. That's wachacall faith!
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8.07.2002
BATTLE ZONE
Me, today: “We’re out of dishwashing liquid. Nooo! I don’t want to go back …”
I dread going to grocery stores. Except for the junk food and soda aisles, the place leaves me feeling vulnerable. It brings out the chinks in my armor in a place flooded with arrogant “mommy-types” who unknowingly taunt me with the effortless "domesticated-ness".
TOP SECRET: I don't what "fresh" fish looks like, okay? I have no idea why some women smell meat – the scent of meat one should not buy is still a mystery to me. I cannot distinguish a bad eggplant from a good one. When the fish guy asks how I want my bangus [milkfish] cut, I would say, “With a really sharp knife?” So I’m a mom who once flunked Home Ec – skewer my guts, why don't you?!
Before my Sunday visits to SM Supermarket in Riverbanks, Marikina, I would prepare my grocery list on an Excel spreadsheet and conceptualize my strategy in tackling the tricky layout. I would never go alone. I would always enlist my husband as a lieutenant. You know, backup.
The battle codes are determined by where we end up parking. Last Sunday (payday week-end), we could see the Mayon Volcano from where the van ended up – definitely, a Code Red. The lack of grocery carts and the mushrooming of taste test booths confirmed the “state of emergency”. My husband cringed as we reached the crowded entrance – a sign of battle-dread and possibly, a desire to retreat. But driven by the noblest of causes (my son’s dire need of diapers), I slung my shoulder bag over my head and clutched his arm, “We have to do this. I’m going in first. Watch my back.”
In the battle zone, I systematically searched for my targets and weaved as quickly as I could through the crowd. I instructed my lieutenant not to drive the cart into hotspots where he can be stranded for days, like the shampoo/soap aisle – for that, one-man guerilla tactics were employed.
Delays in the Operation were caused by the arrogant shopper at the seafood section who didn’t want to give up the lone thong, the unmotivated produce lady who commanded the scales in slow motion, and the family ahead of us in the check-out lane with a cart full of items, most of which had unreadable bar codes.
We were out of the zone in 2 hours -- right on schedule. And I successfully managed without engaging in an exchange of fire with singiteros [people who cut in line]. Only injuries sustained were an ankle gash from an aggressive cart driver and a considerably lighter wallet.
I have always been convinced that my Ate has super human powers.
Four years my senior, Ate Sushi was a second mother to my younger sister and me all our lives. She could make us stop our sabunutan [hair-pulling fights] with just a glare. She was the bigger, taller, older sister we would sic on erring playmates. While my younger sister and I always wanted to unload the fridge of my mom's chocolate stores, she sternly policed us, showing super human self-control -- she would ask for our mom's permission first (a kill-joy even before she hit puberty).
As an adult, her powers grew stronger. She could excel at work and STILL have time to get an MBA. She could buy a closet-full of designer clothes and STILL have tons o’ money in the bank. She could cook a breakfast of sinangag, Spanish omelet and danggit for three, and vacuum the living room at the same time (I kid you not).
While my ipis-phobic Ate Sushi is a petite 5’ 2” with long slender perfectly manicured fingers, she is a Master Black Belt in Six Sigma where her deadly skills in operations research, applied statistics and econometrics have become her arsenal. She is probably the only advocate of the use of calculus, trigonometry and algebra in effective corporate self-defense.
In a job-scarce U.S. technology market, her move from a quality assurance post at the Japanese electronics giant into a cushy management position for a new market player, Volt Information Systems, has made obvious what I have suspected for a long time ...
Volt Information Systems? Volt I.S.? OMG! My sister will be fighting Boazanians with << these guys! ’Galing ng Ate ko! All together now! Tatoe arashi ga futou tomo. Tatoe oonami areru tomo …[continue singing]
(Joke lang, Ate -- couldn’t resist e. Congratulations sa iyong bagong trabaho! Lab yu talaga!)
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8.05.2002
NET WORTH
G, a geeky friend with my passion for trying out organizing software (a geek and O.C. -- kindred spirits, we are), called me last week, orgasmic about her new purchase -- Quicken, the personal financial management software.
Me: Not a good idea.
G: Why not?! It can balance my checkbook. It can start a savings plan. It can put a debt wipe-out plan together. It totally rocks!
Me: Believe me, I gave up on Quicken two years ago -- and it had nothing to do with its features.
G: Duh?
Me: Call me when you've tried it ...
Today, after talking about the business I'm brewing (shhh, puwera usug), she brought it up again:
G: I still don't understand what you mean. I spent Saturday and most of Sunday plugging in my credit card expenses and my payslips. The darn thing coughed up the prettiest reports and ...
Me: So, what's your net worth? (silence)
G: Yep, you're right. Not a good idea ...
Bad news: Knowing your "net worth" can be scary. Good news: "Net worth" is not equal to "real worth."
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8.04.2002
MEET THE PARENT
I expected the parent-teacher conference at my son's school last Friday to be typical of the ones I had in the past. I have not met his new teachers this school year, so that was to be the only novel thing about the meeting. I was confident -- arrogantly so -- I knew most of their comments before they even ventured to utter them -- "His strengths are Math and English." "He has to improve in Pilipino and Sibika." "He should control his temper better." "We need to improve his frustration tolerance." "He is obsessive about his pencils." Hello?! I am the child's mother! I know everything about my son.
But apparently not:
... My boy has been asked to stop kissing his teachers and saying "I love you." While the teachers are kilig about his sweetness, it is not deemed "proper". (Little do they know that it has nothing to do with sweetness. My little politician probably wants something ...hehe.)
... He "stole" an angel figurine from a classmate right before an exam just to watch the boy anguish over the loss of his "guardian."
... All-too obsessive about game shows lately, he would say "pass" when called to answer something orally.
... He would refuse to do his seatwork and charm his teachers to allow him to do them at home.
Six hours in dry labor to bring him into this world and my eldest son doesn't even give me a clue all this is happening! Has my "baby" been replaced with a "quasi-teen"? Me thinks the karma for my juvenile delinquence is creeping up on me ...
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8.02.2002
KNOW
In the wake of my soon-to-be-forgotten brush with Filipino blog "fame" (not my words), I now know (as in, without-a-shadow-of-a-doubt know) so much more than I did yesterday -- about strangers, about people in my life and about myself.
A lot of people can be very nice.
A lot of people can be very mean.
A lot of people read PDI.
People in my life love me just as I am.
People in my life -- at least most of them -- don’t take themselves too seriously.
People in my life -- at least some of them -- do not read PDI.
I will consider apologizing for using words that offend others’ frail sensibilities.
I will not apologize for speaking the truth as I have experienced it.
I will not apologize for standing by my beliefs -- inspite its singularity.
Now you know too.
Para mi amiga "vieja": Somos diferentes. Nosotros no siempre concordamos. Y eso es por qué nosotros somos amigas todavía buenos. Sabes que te amo, verdad? Y gracias para ofrecer "verificar" mi trabajo ... que hilarante.
As a bonus to this already all-too-profound experience, I would like to present (**drum roll**) these very kind people who made the act of cutting-my-gut-and-showing-my-innards-to-the-world worth the tingle: Alex, Ben (Bro), Bunny, Christina, Derick, Elena, Ian, Jason, Jen, Joanne, Junnie, Lee, Manuel, Marie, Mayee, Mel, Pam, Sally, Sieg and Tina. Thank you for being nice to me -- most of you are the nicest people I have never met!
<< Dang, did I just sound like a **bleep**ing beauty pageant contestant towards the end there?
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