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.

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.