Tender

You were held hostage by me this weekend, and I’m pretty sure that you like it. You like television, the simplicity of home-cooked meals, warmth.

Segue

Apparently, that little blog challenge is dead.

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Woke up at 5 A.M. while my mom’s dreaming was still ripe, and the electric fan was humming to its own beat. I’m no longer used to these early-morning responsibilities, but heck, I only have one family. I believe them when they say family is family. Parang “Anna Dizon is Anna Dizon.” Chos.

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My mom, boyfriend and boss have all been telling me to go to the derma and have this pesky, swollen callus (TMI TMI TMI, I know) treated. It’s right there on the ball of my left foot (ack, stretched the oversharing bit), and common sense dictates that it won’t get better until I stop walking. But I’ve been traumatized by sicknesses since the better part of last year, so I’m kind of cringing at the thought of another consultation.

BTW, Scholl products don’t work. Better trust me on this.

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I’ve used up all my leave credits, and I’ll be counting the days until January. Boohoo.

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The first four items – in fact this whole entry – are merely an excuse for this public declaration:

THIS IS THE BEST WORDPRESS THEME EVERRRRRRR!

Shop story

It is during shopping that I get to love/appreciate J more. Whenever someone asks me what my boyfriend’s like during retail moments, my eyes would light up and seem to brag: Oh he’s the best.

Just like yesterday. He would walk in with me to the boutique, handpick some nice items, and give my personal choices either the thumbs up or a firm “Forget it.”

When it comes to (my) book-hunting, J would fend for himself and thumb through a magazine or a computer book while I obsess over obscure titles and authors. He’d even drop our own little joke: “O Books For Sale na pala tayo eh.” He’s always had a hard time remembering specific bookstore names, especially Books for Less. But, thank God, he’s never one to complain.

My little-girl excitement’s activated like this right now because Saturday has been a blessing as usual, and it’s time to cross dainty silver flats, long knit cardi, and cream lace top off my list. Thanks, in part, to a very patient shopping buddy.

We capped off our mini-shopping with KK’s Orange You Glad (try not to forget your name, it’s really good), overrated classic kruffin, and the Original Glazed, which might as well be called happiness. Or fattening happiness, to be precise.

Home, or the makings of

At home, you don’t get to experience life in the raw. It’s just too safe and warm, the television set dishing a filtered version of the world, the neighbor’s speakers blaring some friendly nonsense. Home is home today, Good Friday, and for the better period of Holy Week ’10.

Little Miggy, circa 2008.

I’ve taken a leave from work since Monday (supposedly Tuesday, had I not abused my PC time the previous weekend and woken up to a heavy head and a bad throat), and I’m constantly stuffed with good food by my mother.That woman, my mother, who will cook at the slightest provocation and the briefest mention of a holiday. (It sounds rather rude to speak of my mother this way, but really, I appreciate all the homemade puto, toss salad, pancit, and calamari. Plus the customary guinatan. Yum.)

On an unrelated note, this is a photo of J and me that I cherish and love like a baby - thanks to Photoshop effects.

Saturday is expected to be a blur just like the past Black Saturdays, when all the eating has become so tiresome, the neighborhood reenacting Christ-era gloom. But perhaps, tomorrow could be a bit different with my nephews: 2-year-old Miggy giving us a thorough rundown of the latest TV commercials, and 1-year-old Chad engaging everyone in child’s play. Both kids help us cope through the everyday real, Lenten-like narratives we have to deal with in our lives.

By Easter, my muscles are already aching from the long PC hours, my mind whirling with thoughts of, ack, workday Monday. I hope I get to attend the morning mass. And yes, meat is meat.  Mom has promised a number of grilled entrees.

This is the home I’ve known for 23 years now, and I better not complain. I’m currently reading Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence and getting really amused by the Mistral, the quaint little charms of the Luberon and the countryside, tools employed in the tricky art of truffle-hunting, and the overall warmth of the Provencal life. Oh well. That’s home for you, Mr. Mayle.

Vignettes

A word or two
I’d never been to New York, Florence or Singapore – don’t even get me started on the sorry state of the world’s finances; mine is the perfect illustration of it – but one of the editors told me last week that it was a joy to read the travel writeups. I wrote the destination guides some years ago, 2007 to be exact. I was so pleased with the thought, and anyone who’s passionate about writing – the paid kind or otherwise, that thing they call humanistic dreams, whatever– would decide that it would be a bad thing. You shouldn’t hover over the casual, unintentional praise a second too long. You shouldn’t get impressed and ultimately obsessed with your output in the past. Doing so just meant you’re stuck in the same “grand” place.

But people should hurl Tupperware at you for referring to yourself in the second person.

Villa Quintana
This, ladies and gentlemen, is my official announcement of my newest endeavor: farming. Yep, barns and haystacks and fences and pesky farm chicks. I call my farm “Villa Quintana” because I’m a sucker for the ‘90s like that. Donna Cruz would be an appropriate name, but I was a bit apprehensive of some of my neighbors’ sense of humor. We might not be thinking on the same plane, right?

I just wonder why my sheep would disappear for hours, or why when you decide to sell the harvest from the tree, it means you’re letting go of the whole tree. But I’m slowly getting the hang of it, baby.

Thank you, Facebook. And hyperreality and its addictive components. Might not be too long before I get kicked out of work because of illegal Net activity, with the bandwidth activity issues these days and all. That’ll look awkward on the next job interview, though.

“Why did you get sacked?”

 I would summon the courage to mouth those two words, my current online heroin: Farm Town.

A string of illnesses, deaths, etc
My TMJ – the left side, specifically – hates me. The pain has migrated from the side of the ear to the head. The headache, though, has been temporarily numbed while I tune in to the coverage of MJ’s death, which has overshadowed Farrah Fawcett’s. Who can blame the media? The outrageous behavior plays itself out, and there’s the irresistible mix of drama: the alarming binge on Demerol and pain killers, the financial woes and the nearly foreclosed ranch, the lawyer’s statement about the King dying the death of the world’s loneliest man.

Apparently, many of them forget about the music and what hit them in the face when MJ started doing his thing. (MJ’s songs traverse social climates, but I’m no authority in this subject; in fact the Michael Jackson I really know is more like my sister’s generation. Her generation went all agog over the concert in Manila, spending lifetime savings on tickets. At that time I was in fourth grade, worrying about where to get that damn graphing paper for Math class. But anyway…)

In the final instance, anyone with half a brain would insist that it all boils down to what the guy brought to the table, the moonwalk and the timeless Thriller album and that unifying, collaborative piece called “We Are The World” and everything. When I have heard the sad, sad news, “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You” played over and over again in my head. The subconscious has its way of telling me things.

And to echo a friend, “Ang mahirap sa music icons, hindi sila marunong magpaalam kapag mamamatay na sila.” You have a point, genius. But of course, why the hype when there’s a whole body of popcult gems you’re already leaving behind?

Understatement
I’m broke. There’s no other way around it.

Currently reading…
Telling Tales, a short story anthology edited by no less than The Gordimer.
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Photo credit: FunWirks, ’80s Costume Party Website

Good luck

Went to the dentist today for that thing they call oral prophylaxis; ended up being lectured on TMJ disorders and bite problems (why I should have gone to his clinic instead of some physician’s; the main message was that he owns my medical/dental history). Was also given prescription for the swelling. Doc also warned me against the possibility of lockjaw, and insisted on me wearing braces – for the trillionth time this year, I think. I didn’t know what to say; I was still appalled at the thought of lockjaw and over-yawning and all.  So I said okay I’ll think it over but then already said yes to Thursday’s appointment for diagnostics and setting the groundwork for bakal galore in my mouth.

Was advised, too, to veer away from stress, sleep early if I can.  Hormonal imbalance and shit. I didn’t have the gall to tell him I’m paid to get stressed. Char. So just mouthed a Yes, doc and headed toward the nearest Mercury Drug and thought of futile Celebrex and was 70 or so minutes late for work, again.

Book mommy

I have one of this in another side of the world. S, I think, is old enough to be my mother. She’s Australian. She first sent me Graham Swift’s Last Orders via first-class mail. She doesn’t mind paying high postage rates as long as her books would be happy in their new homes. I hope I’m not failing her in this aspect.

Today I went to the MCPO to claim my long-overdue book package. Last Aug. 22 (on my birthday; imagine her timing) she tipped me that she has this Miranda July book up for grabs. I mooched before taking another breath. I got the book today, along with another one in excellent condition, the type you would love to stare at for breakfast. It’s Blood Kin by Ceridwen Dovey, a young Australian writer who’s NY-based. The blurb on the front cover, J.M. Coetzee’s judgment of the novel, got me excited I didn’t even want to work for the rest of the afternoon.

The postcard from S contains the clincher. Here’s her sweet message:

“I’m adding ‘Blood Kin’ to the package– by a young Australian author. I thought you or one of your writer friends might enjoy it!” Cheers, S

I’m pretty fine with the kind of “writer” I am. I get a good-enough income, I buy mouthwash and deodorant and some privilege pass to a middle-class idea of decency. But I really hope she doesn’t have in mind the picture of some bigshot fiction writer. I should have been transparent in my BM profile. “Rank-and-file employee” would have been accurate.

But maybe it’s just classic kindness at work; you want to live up to the person’s idea of you (if I’m assuming right), whatever it may be, how far-reaching it may be. Then there are morsels of distress/guilt/self-reproach starting to creep into your chest once your realize you’re failing to hit the mark.

S mentioned in an e-mail that she’s planning to visit the Philippines someday. Her postcard shows a large cupboard containing fresh produce and books. It has a Philippines travel guide on it, too. I hope to meet her when she comes here.

A string of illnesses

“Any injury you sustain up to the age of 21, give or take a year, is better the next day,” says a character in one of T. C. Boyle’s stories, a middle-aged doctor examining his brother-in-law’s aching back. “After 21, any injury you sustain will haunt you to the grave.”

I turned 22 a month ago, and I’m worried. A day after my birthday–amid an intense, mindwhacking motorshow coverage at WTC that I wish I didn’t agree to cover at all–I got the cold virus. I abused myself, after all: sweating like a pig on Friday, hurtling myself inside the cramped MRT trains, a humungous thing called a laptop bag (with an actual laptop inside) clinging on my bag; staying in my parents’ airconditioned room when I got home, unmindful of the awful change in temperature; spending my birthday (the day after) with the same God-forsaken routine at WTC; B and I spending the night of my birthday awake, in short not getting any considerable sleep at all; returning to the coverage with a failing back and beginnings of a headache, oblivious still, even rushing to MOA after work to get some refreshments; and the day after, a holy-Molly Sunday, in front of the computer for 8 relentless hours to finish the stories.

I nursed the common cold for a full week, even as I shoved the Shakey’s lunch under my officemates’ noses as a birthday libre, and it was indeed wonder of wonders why nobody got the virus except B.

The sickness could have sat well with me; I last had the virus in senior college year. Then the roof fell in again, the virus returning after two or so weeks. My supervisor even inquired, “You still have it?” I didn’t have the gall to correct her and say it’s a fucking comeback, so I just nodded. So I officially had it twice this September, and I’m complaining because I was already taking in vitamin C tablets (I finally resolved to have 1000 mg a day).

Then there’s the symptom I’d rather be oblivious to: the occasional backache, which gives a handy clue to the state my spinal cord is in, given my tendency to stay hunched for 23 hours, 59 minutes of the day (hence the ‘Beyonce Hunch’ name-calling from B). I’ve heard of scoliosis, your shoulders and back hurting so badly you’d rather be dead, and I’ve envisioned myself in those eery steel chorvalyns (for lack of a better term), but as I’ve said I’d rather ignore the images most of the time.

The prospect of mortality presented itself differently in those two occasions (the common cold and the recurring mysterious backache): I had the virus and felt like the world was turning into smithereens, while I had the backache and I felt zilch. In its scale of threat the backache obviously lords over the common cold (unless I’ve got the big bad HIV), but I gave it the “this-too-shall-pass” attitude. I can only arrive at a reckless guess: the backache apparently frightened me more, and my human defense came to the rescue and simply decided to ignore it. And I haven’t exactly unearthed this civilization’s greatest secret when I say that if I finger through a possible cyst, I wouldn’t go to the doctor and would postpone a trip to the hospital until I’m sober and I’ve decided that I can face the adversity of an unnamed illness. The thought of mortality knocking in and reminding me of its existence intoxicates the shit out of me, thus I think I’d have to be in a state of denial (or something; give me clarity, please).

Now my health issues definitely go beyond the random cold virus caught from a MOA-bound bus. I’m no longer a defiant 20 or 21, and even the prospect of every fatty food clogging my arteries looms in my mind. I’m slim and I don’t put on weight easily, surely that’s a plus point, but in this age and social context I sure am eligible for a long string of illnesses if I don’t watch out. I’ve had primary complex, whooping cough and feverish nights as a child, but of course now whatever sickness would come my way is no longer a phase, a rite of passage.

Now that famous John Lloyd TVC line echoes in my head, and let me tell you the same thing no matter how old you are because it could hit you anytime: Ingat.