I find that I talk to myself more often lately. I talk to myself out loud - that's not a new quirk. I've been doing it since I was a child. The frequency of it now is what is I find notable.
You see, I have this notion of the afterlife. When we're done here and we get there - wherever that is for each of us - there's a film showing of your life. For everyone to see. We're in this great big hall with a screen much, much bigger than ten iMaxes put together. It's not going to be length of your lifetime, I'm imagining. Just a montage of important events. You know the videos they play after an American Idol gets voted off? That kind. Or an episode of E! True Hollywood Stories.
Maybe there'd also be video collections of special moments. Some voice-over will be saying, "... In her lifetime, so-and-so is known for her klutziness..." - then rolls a video of slips, skids, knee-scrapings, glass-breaking (very familiar actions to me, I must admit). It'd be just like a rip-off of America's Funniest Videos. I watched too much TV in my lifetime, too. You can always tell from all my references. I'll write a whole book about this notion, I swear. As early as now, I'm accepting advanced reservations.
Anyway. I was thinking that when they play my video, there'd also be a specific section dedicated just for the times I talked out loud to myself and then maybe a glimpse of the reaction of the people around me. The period of the past few months will be a wealthy resource for these clips of my life. Maybe because I'm by myself more often now. Alone by circumstances, and lately, also by choice. It's ironic to think that I'm not talkative when I'm around people, but relatively chatty when I'm by myself.
When I watch television, I applaud, swear, and let out acerbic comments whenever appropriate. Who says it isn't interactive? I draw the line at shadowboxing when watching Pacquiao, though. That was something only my mother did. I also think out loud when I write. I'm murmuring now as I type this. When I walk alone, I think of character monologues, dialogues, multi-logues - those I make up on my own and those that I want to say to people and those that I like from books or movies. I find it tricky to write conversations. I don't want them to seem trite and contrived. People do not talk tritely or contrively. So I'm learning how to do that by saying it out loud before writing them down.
My roommate is used to it by now. But Luz talks to herself a whole lot, too. Especially when she's studying. At least, my loud thinking mostly pop culture. Hers can be too medical to make any sense. So it's fair game at the apartment.
At work, though, I still get ribbed when I talk to my monitor. My loud "What is wrong with you?!" remark has been replied with, "So ano? What is wrong with it daw?" I also have my share of "ffO" moments accompanied with "You've got to be kidding me!" I sometimes get asked if I was still ok. I guess burying your head in your hands, digging the heels of your hands in your eyes, and yes, talking to one's self are not very good indications of wellness.
This afternoon, I got to hear mass at the Antipolo Cathedral. I had to go home to get some stuff from the house. Just two things actually: my sleeping bag and a couple of DVDs. I didn't stay long at our empty house. Couldn't. I get so overwhelmed with the emptiness of the living room, the dining table, my parents' bedroom. Too much that I almost couldn't breathe. And so, I don't stay long.
Yes, I go on talking to myself and to the memories of people in my head. Meanwhile, I try to act normally as I could and do normal things. I think about this during mass as I watch a kid in front of me arduously attempting to tie her shoes. It was during the Prayers of the Faithful. And guilty as charged, I got distracted from listening to the petitions. The mass was in Tagalog which I'm not used to. In any case, the toddler caught my attention. The shoelaces of her high-cut sneakers were loose and with her uncoordinated fingers were trying to tie them together. I hung on to her every failed attempt and her perseverance to not give up, rooting for her to finally pull it off. And when she did, I caught myself saying out loud, "Good job!" I discreetly look around somewhat embarrassed.
For the record, though, I'm not going crazy. I just feel compelled to mention that.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
"No, they're not overalls."
It was Monday when I met her. Ok, "meet" might be the wrong verb to use. Let's try that again. It was Monday when she weirded me out.
Typical day. I entered the building through the Pearl Drive entrance. I rushed to the elevators when I saw one of the green lights blinking. I missed it by two seconds and I swore under my breath. I'm a very tense person. Tension and the elevators at my office building do not go well together. And swearing is a natural byproduct of such unfortunate combination.
Anyway, I was waiting for the next upward elevator when a girl suddenly addressed me. I probably have ignored her the first few times she spoke. I have a very limited peripheral vision - not really optical in nature, I just don't care much for what's happening around me. So I am apologizing in advance to everyone whom I will unintentionally ignore. I have tapahoho.
So this girl started asking about the jacket which I was carrying over one arm. She actually asked if it was overalls. You know - the work clothes of those who do heavy manual labor. Yes, it's bright orange, but really - I come off as the type who needs to bring overalls to work?
I politely told her that no, it was just my company jacket. And then she started off with a series of questions that made that exchange one of the weirdest I ever had with a total stranger.
---
Where do you work?
I pointed to the embroidery in my jacket.
She pronounced it weirdly.
I spelled it out for her.
What is the nature of your work?
I'm a software developer.
IT company, too?
Yes.
[Elevator door opens and we both get in.]
She rattles on about how she works for an IT company on the 32nd floor. They have offices on other floors of the building, as well. Some other details of her office I don't recall now.
I nod.
Which floor is your office?
28th.
How many years have you been working there?
Almost four.
Pretty long.
Yeah.
What is your name?
Cecil.
Do you have a business card?
No, none on hand right then.
She whips out her phone and hands it to me. If I can just input my number, please.
I was soooo tempted to input a fake number, but I couldn't get myself to lie. So I obligingly typed in my number.
She spelled out my name. Is that correct?
Sure, anything works.
[Elevator stops at my floor and doors open]
I'll text you, she says.
Ahm, ok.
[I step out.]
Nice to meet you, she calls out.
[Elevator door closes behind me]
What the heck was that.
---
I suppose it is expected that some of the people whom I've told this story to thought it was a pretty dumb idea to give out all those personal details. I don't know, I guess I believe in the goodness of every person. Or it was just too early in the morning that I wasn't really sure of what was happening. I plead guilty to gullibility due to sleep deprivation.
The rest of that day passed by without a word from my elevator acquaintance. I thought it was something that I could already just charge to experience. But very late Tuesday night, while I was talking on the phone with my friend Luz, another call beeped in from an unregistered number. I put Luz on hold and answered it.
---
Hi. Cecil?
Hmm, yeah. Who is this?
It's Abigail. We met recently.
[long pause] Who?
Abigail. We work in the same building. We met last Monday.
Oh.
Don't you remember?
I think I remember. From the elevator, right?
Yes, in the elevator. Is this a bad time? Can you talk now?
Actually, I have my friend on hold in the other line.
Oh, I see. Can I call you back? Can you text me so I can call you back?
Ah, sure.
Ok, thanks!
[End call, activate Luz's line]
Luuuuuz! The weird girl from the elevator just called! What does she want from me?!
---
I'm betting it's sales. She's in IT, but she sidelines in sales. Somewhat unlikely, but possible. Or she's in IT, but sidelines in derangement. More plausible.
Abigail, if you're out there in blogosphere: I already have life insurance. I'm not interested in buying or selling. And just to cover all possible bases: I'm not interested in a cult movement. Nor phone pals and textmates. I'm also straight and have no lesbian tendencies.
Typical day. I entered the building through the Pearl Drive entrance. I rushed to the elevators when I saw one of the green lights blinking. I missed it by two seconds and I swore under my breath. I'm a very tense person. Tension and the elevators at my office building do not go well together. And swearing is a natural byproduct of such unfortunate combination.
Anyway, I was waiting for the next upward elevator when a girl suddenly addressed me. I probably have ignored her the first few times she spoke. I have a very limited peripheral vision - not really optical in nature, I just don't care much for what's happening around me. So I am apologizing in advance to everyone whom I will unintentionally ignore. I have tapahoho.
So this girl started asking about the jacket which I was carrying over one arm. She actually asked if it was overalls. You know - the work clothes of those who do heavy manual labor. Yes, it's bright orange, but really - I come off as the type who needs to bring overalls to work?
I politely told her that no, it was just my company jacket. And then she started off with a series of questions that made that exchange one of the weirdest I ever had with a total stranger.
---
Where do you work?
I pointed to the embroidery in my jacket.
She pronounced it weirdly.
I spelled it out for her.
What is the nature of your work?
I'm a software developer.
IT company, too?
Yes.
[Elevator door opens and we both get in.]
She rattles on about how she works for an IT company on the 32nd floor. They have offices on other floors of the building, as well. Some other details of her office I don't recall now.
I nod.
Which floor is your office?
28th.
How many years have you been working there?
Almost four.
Pretty long.
Yeah.
What is your name?
Cecil.
Do you have a business card?
No, none on hand right then.
She whips out her phone and hands it to me. If I can just input my number, please.
I was soooo tempted to input a fake number, but I couldn't get myself to lie. So I obligingly typed in my number.
She spelled out my name. Is that correct?
Sure, anything works.
[Elevator stops at my floor and doors open]
I'll text you, she says.
Ahm, ok.
[I step out.]
Nice to meet you, she calls out.
[Elevator door closes behind me]
What the heck was that.
---
I suppose it is expected that some of the people whom I've told this story to thought it was a pretty dumb idea to give out all those personal details. I don't know, I guess I believe in the goodness of every person. Or it was just too early in the morning that I wasn't really sure of what was happening. I plead guilty to gullibility due to sleep deprivation.
The rest of that day passed by without a word from my elevator acquaintance. I thought it was something that I could already just charge to experience. But very late Tuesday night, while I was talking on the phone with my friend Luz, another call beeped in from an unregistered number. I put Luz on hold and answered it.
---
Hi. Cecil?
Hmm, yeah. Who is this?
It's Abigail. We met recently.
[long pause] Who?
Abigail. We work in the same building. We met last Monday.
Oh.
Don't you remember?
I think I remember. From the elevator, right?
Yes, in the elevator. Is this a bad time? Can you talk now?
Actually, I have my friend on hold in the other line.
Oh, I see. Can I call you back? Can you text me so I can call you back?
Ah, sure.
Ok, thanks!
[End call, activate Luz's line]
Luuuuuz! The weird girl from the elevator just called! What does she want from me?!
---
I'm betting it's sales. She's in IT, but she sidelines in sales. Somewhat unlikely, but possible. Or she's in IT, but sidelines in derangement. More plausible.
Abigail, if you're out there in blogosphere: I already have life insurance. I'm not interested in buying or selling. And just to cover all possible bases: I'm not interested in a cult movement. Nor phone pals and textmates. I'm also straight and have no lesbian tendencies.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Stairwell Existentialism
I found myself sitting alone in the office building's 26th floor stairwell this afternoon. Two floors up, I've already logged the required hours of effort. There were still things to do, yes, but I had to breathe. Not that stairwell air is much better. But at least it was quieter. And unoccupied.
Staring at that heavy fire exit door, I pondered on the meaning of life, death, afterlife (and afterdeath?). That morning, I was at the hospital for a followup consultation. I didn't have a tumor, the doctor concluded based from the test results. Although she considered that possibility two Saturdays ago. Honestly, I was ready for however it would turn out. Morbidity comes naturally to me, and I discover that it's something that people do not readily welcome about me. So I'll just leave it at that.
A part of me believes that maybe I'm really ill. I have a resident headache that dials up into a migraine and dials down to a dull throb, depending on where I am and what I'm doing. But it's always there, lurking. And there's also the lethargy I can't seem to shake off.
Maybe all this is brought about by the fact that I've not been having real meals. Sandwich bites taken in between keystrokes and mouse clicks do not seem to pass off as lunch. Nor do instant noodles pass off as breakfast.
I used to come home to dinner of real food. I'm crazy for starting with this line of thought and I know I'd just regret it later when I'm reduced to a lump of sad excuse for a human being. But I used to come home to a home. True, I used to commute for hours. But when I arrive, there will be a place setting for me at the dining table. My mother would reheat my dinner, slice me a piece of fruit, sit with me at the table and ask me about my day. A few years back when I was part of one of those high-pressured projects, I started to cry halfway through my dinner out of sheer exhaustion. My mother got so worried over me and started crying with me. She said that if she could take my burden for herself, she would. I was just so guilt-ridden for making her cry that I didn't remember what I said or if I even said anything in reply.
When I get "home" now and if I feel like eating, I bring takeout which I eat on my bed. And of course, because I am me, I spill ice tea and hot sauce on my bedsheets every now and then. Lately though, I just eat Knick Knacks or Pretzels. Or lychee-flavored nata de coco jelly. Sometimes, I just skip all the attempts and try to sleep. And of course, sleep is a luxury that my messed up mind cannot afford so easily.
Going back to that stairwell this afternoon, I was going over all these past experiences in my head and going totally existential. The fact is, I don't want to invite everyone to my sadness. It's bad enough that I'm lousy company and I reek of depression poorly camouflaged in an air of fake indifference. I don't expect people to understand - that's just asking for too much, I think. I don't even get the situation myself.
But one's thoughts can only go too far sitting on a stairwell. At some point, there are real-life things to address two floors up.
Staring at that heavy fire exit door, I pondered on the meaning of life, death, afterlife (and afterdeath?). That morning, I was at the hospital for a followup consultation. I didn't have a tumor, the doctor concluded based from the test results. Although she considered that possibility two Saturdays ago. Honestly, I was ready for however it would turn out. Morbidity comes naturally to me, and I discover that it's something that people do not readily welcome about me. So I'll just leave it at that.
A part of me believes that maybe I'm really ill. I have a resident headache that dials up into a migraine and dials down to a dull throb, depending on where I am and what I'm doing. But it's always there, lurking. And there's also the lethargy I can't seem to shake off.
Maybe all this is brought about by the fact that I've not been having real meals. Sandwich bites taken in between keystrokes and mouse clicks do not seem to pass off as lunch. Nor do instant noodles pass off as breakfast.
I used to come home to dinner of real food. I'm crazy for starting with this line of thought and I know I'd just regret it later when I'm reduced to a lump of sad excuse for a human being. But I used to come home to a home. True, I used to commute for hours. But when I arrive, there will be a place setting for me at the dining table. My mother would reheat my dinner, slice me a piece of fruit, sit with me at the table and ask me about my day. A few years back when I was part of one of those high-pressured projects, I started to cry halfway through my dinner out of sheer exhaustion. My mother got so worried over me and started crying with me. She said that if she could take my burden for herself, she would. I was just so guilt-ridden for making her cry that I didn't remember what I said or if I even said anything in reply.
When I get "home" now and if I feel like eating, I bring takeout which I eat on my bed. And of course, because I am me, I spill ice tea and hot sauce on my bedsheets every now and then. Lately though, I just eat Knick Knacks or Pretzels. Or lychee-flavored nata de coco jelly. Sometimes, I just skip all the attempts and try to sleep. And of course, sleep is a luxury that my messed up mind cannot afford so easily.
Going back to that stairwell this afternoon, I was going over all these past experiences in my head and going totally existential. The fact is, I don't want to invite everyone to my sadness. It's bad enough that I'm lousy company and I reek of depression poorly camouflaged in an air of fake indifference. I don't expect people to understand - that's just asking for too much, I think. I don't even get the situation myself.
But one's thoughts can only go too far sitting on a stairwell. At some point, there are real-life things to address two floors up.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
September 25, 1974
I went to Pampanga last Wednesday - to the same house my grandparents lived in, the same house I grew up as a kid, and the same house that my aunt still lives in. While there, I got to browse through stacks of old photographs. My grandmother was a schoolteacher and there were class pictures from as far back as 1950. I realize that her grade school pupils are now senior citizens.
There was also my father's copy of "Cardinal & Gold", Mapua's official college yearbook. He earned his engineering degree from there, staying longer that the usual five years. Lola said that there was a time when he wouldn't attend classes because he'd just play chess the whole day at the bleachers. My grandparents pulled him out until he promised them to take his studies more seriously. But chess, you know? What a way to slack of on your studies. Not drugs, not alcohol. Chess. In a way, that was so characteristic of Papa.
The hairstyles and the horn-rimmed glasses of the students are so 1960s. And of course, there weren't any IT courses then yet. And it was the former President Marcos who wrote the congratulatory message. Anyway, I browsed through the pages until I reached the Mechanical Engineering department. And right near the end part of it (alphabetical, naturally) was my father's picture and below it - very austere - was his name, hometown, and a membership of his course's org. Nothing else. But I would've been more surprised if he joined other extra-curricular activities. He was a very reserved person. Kept a low-profile and never cared much for other people's company. Which explains the fascination for quiet and analytical games like chess.
An important find of that day were my parents' wedding pictures. They had their civil wedding in Surigao in 1974. My mother's side of the family were from Aglipayan Church, my father's - Roman Catholic. Thus, the civil ceremony. But they had the other trimmings of a traditional wedding in the reception.
Looking through those pictures were difficult, yes, but I wanted to keep that happy memory of my parents with me. So I slid a picture off the album and inserted it into the book I carry around in my backpack. Aptly, the book is "Migrations to Solitude" given to me by Jayjay. He gave it to me because I seriously considered resigning to a quiet life in service. I like being alone and I find being around a lot of people very uncomfortable. I guess I take after my dad in that way.
Sadly though, I never really got very proficient in chess.
There was also my father's copy of "Cardinal & Gold", Mapua's official college yearbook. He earned his engineering degree from there, staying longer that the usual five years. Lola said that there was a time when he wouldn't attend classes because he'd just play chess the whole day at the bleachers. My grandparents pulled him out until he promised them to take his studies more seriously. But chess, you know? What a way to slack of on your studies. Not drugs, not alcohol. Chess. In a way, that was so characteristic of Papa.
The hairstyles and the horn-rimmed glasses of the students are so 1960s. And of course, there weren't any IT courses then yet. And it was the former President Marcos who wrote the congratulatory message. Anyway, I browsed through the pages until I reached the Mechanical Engineering department. And right near the end part of it (alphabetical, naturally) was my father's picture and below it - very austere - was his name, hometown, and a membership of his course's org. Nothing else. But I would've been more surprised if he joined other extra-curricular activities. He was a very reserved person. Kept a low-profile and never cared much for other people's company. Which explains the fascination for quiet and analytical games like chess.
An important find of that day were my parents' wedding pictures. They had their civil wedding in Surigao in 1974. My mother's side of the family were from Aglipayan Church, my father's - Roman Catholic. Thus, the civil ceremony. But they had the other trimmings of a traditional wedding in the reception.
Looking through those pictures were difficult, yes, but I wanted to keep that happy memory of my parents with me. So I slid a picture off the album and inserted it into the book I carry around in my backpack. Aptly, the book is "Migrations to Solitude" given to me by Jayjay. He gave it to me because I seriously considered resigning to a quiet life in service. I like being alone and I find being around a lot of people very uncomfortable. I guess I take after my dad in that way.
Sadly though, I never really got very proficient in chess.
One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Sectioning
Do you still remember your section names in school?
My friends and I were having dinner at Shakey's when we started testing the pens I just bought by writing down our names in the paper place mats. I buy pens needlessly, by the way. Just for the heck of having them. Just those that write well, not necessarily expensive ones.
Anyway, Luz was saying that if I wrote down my full name when I was a kid in school, it wouldn't fit in the width of the grade-one blue-red-blue-lined pad paper. Because we had nothing much else to do while waiting for our food, we tried to write my long name, repeating it again and again until we were satisfied that we got the right blue-to-blue height.
So the conclusion was: my name can fit in the grade one paper. But only barely. If I had to place the date or my section on the right portion, I'd be writing on the armchair. Thus began the spontaneous recalling of our section names since preschool. Here are mine:
Prep:
Senior Casa - Beige
Grade school:
I - Blue
II - Blue
III - Red
IV - Red
V - Green
VI - St. Paul
High School:
I - Archimedes
II - Darwin
III - Avogadro
IV - Einstein
You can tell from the sections the times when I switched schools. Luz didn't recall much of her elementary. Her high school sections are:
I - Opal
II - Sampaguita
III - Strontium
IV - Gluon
She did better in remembering her advisers' names, though. I could only recall three or four. If I have any classmates out there reading this, drop me a line if you still remember their names.
Try to recall your section names and class advisers to see if you did better than us. I'm starting to believe that we are just getting too old to retain these memories. And I'm blogging about it because the harder I try to fall asleep, the more awake I become.
So insomnia, you win.
My friends and I were having dinner at Shakey's when we started testing the pens I just bought by writing down our names in the paper place mats. I buy pens needlessly, by the way. Just for the heck of having them. Just those that write well, not necessarily expensive ones.
Anyway, Luz was saying that if I wrote down my full name when I was a kid in school, it wouldn't fit in the width of the grade-one blue-red-blue-lined pad paper. Because we had nothing much else to do while waiting for our food, we tried to write my long name, repeating it again and again until we were satisfied that we got the right blue-to-blue height.
So the conclusion was: my name can fit in the grade one paper. But only barely. If I had to place the date or my section on the right portion, I'd be writing on the armchair. Thus began the spontaneous recalling of our section names since preschool. Here are mine:
Prep:
Senior Casa - Beige
Grade school:
I - Blue
II - Blue
III - Red
IV - Red
V - Green
VI - St. Paul
High School:
I - Archimedes
II - Darwin
III - Avogadro
IV - Einstein
You can tell from the sections the times when I switched schools. Luz didn't recall much of her elementary. Her high school sections are:
I - Opal
II - Sampaguita
III - Strontium
IV - Gluon
She did better in remembering her advisers' names, though. I could only recall three or four. If I have any classmates out there reading this, drop me a line if you still remember their names.
Try to recall your section names and class advisers to see if you did better than us. I'm starting to believe that we are just getting too old to retain these memories. And I'm blogging about it because the harder I try to fall asleep, the more awake I become.
So insomnia, you win.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Palabok
There was a pair of ambulant merienda vendors at the office today. Two women stationed just outside the hallway where they hawked camote, saging, nilagang mais, and palabok. Ah, palabok. For those of you who do not know (and probably don't want to), palabok is my favorite kind of pancit. I associate it with the warmth of my childhood.
When we were growing up, we bought homemade palabok from a maglalako who passed by our house almost every afternoon. Her name was Dang Maring - "dang" being the Kapampangan form of "ale". She was a middle-aged woman and her hair was always tied up in a bun. The sight of her walking down the street with a basket full of merienda was a source of pleasure in those slow afternoons after school.
She also sold ukoy - the crispy, deep-fried patty made from grated papaya/squash and shrimps - which we dipped in spicy vinegar with lots of black pepper. And sampelot - a very thick version of guinataan.
But the bestseller in our household was Dang Maring's palabok. I haven't had it since I was a kid and I could be remembering it a little differently from how it actually was. But I recall the palabok's perfectly cooked noodles, the sauce with just the right consistency, just the right color, and just the right amount. I remember that it also had a few chopped kamias on it, which added zest.
My parents would buy us each our own portion and would get a few extra in case one of us wanted another serving. We'd all sit around in the dining room, our afternoon merienda transferred to plates and we downed them with glasses of Eight o' Clock instant orange juice.
I was already in college when Mama tried to make her own palabok recipe, and after several trials, she finally got it together. During Christmases, we'd assemble bilaos of our own palabok to give to relatives. What I loved about Mama's palabok is that she let us assemble our own plates. As much shrimps as I'd like and as little green onions. From her, I also took the habit of always trying out the palabok of a new restaurant or fastfood or foodstall when it is in the menu. Some would be good, but some would turn out to be too soggy, too runny, too orange-y. Once, we also went on an early morning palabok hunt which I wrote about
Today's palabok at the office was passable - at least for the P25 standard. It had tofu instead of the shrimps that I am used to and its color was a tiny tad too orange. I'm thinking of what the hex value of my ideal palabok color is, but that would be taking it a bit too far.
At the very least, it provided me a trip to memory lane - the happier side(walk) of it.
When we were growing up, we bought homemade palabok from a maglalako who passed by our house almost every afternoon. Her name was Dang Maring - "dang" being the Kapampangan form of "ale". She was a middle-aged woman and her hair was always tied up in a bun. The sight of her walking down the street with a basket full of merienda was a source of pleasure in those slow afternoons after school.
She also sold ukoy - the crispy, deep-fried patty made from grated papaya/squash and shrimps - which we dipped in spicy vinegar with lots of black pepper. And sampelot - a very thick version of guinataan.
But the bestseller in our household was Dang Maring's palabok. I haven't had it since I was a kid and I could be remembering it a little differently from how it actually was. But I recall the palabok's perfectly cooked noodles, the sauce with just the right consistency, just the right color, and just the right amount. I remember that it also had a few chopped kamias on it, which added zest.
My parents would buy us each our own portion and would get a few extra in case one of us wanted another serving. We'd all sit around in the dining room, our afternoon merienda transferred to plates and we downed them with glasses of Eight o' Clock instant orange juice.
I was already in college when Mama tried to make her own palabok recipe, and after several trials, she finally got it together. During Christmases, we'd assemble bilaos of our own palabok to give to relatives. What I loved about Mama's palabok is that she let us assemble our own plates. As much shrimps as I'd like and as little green onions. From her, I also took the habit of always trying out the palabok of a new restaurant or fastfood or foodstall when it is in the menu. Some would be good, but some would turn out to be too soggy, too runny, too orange-y. Once, we also went on an early morning palabok hunt which I wrote about
Today's palabok at the office was passable - at least for the P25 standard. It had tofu instead of the shrimps that I am used to and its color was a tiny tad too orange. I'm thinking of what the hex value of my ideal palabok color is, but that would be taking it a bit too far.
At the very least, it provided me a trip to memory lane - the happier side(walk) of it.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Sell Me Sleep
Wouldn't it be so great if you could buy sleep?
Think about it. Two hours' worth of sleep at your nearest convenience store. Or if you really pulled out an all-nighter - a full eight hours.
Sleep is something that caffeine can only hope to imitate as a replacement. Nothing beats uninterrupted hours on a comfortable bed, subdued lights, eyes closed, mind drifting off to somewhere where there's no worry or pain. (Or Java Exceptions and unupdated tasklists.)
Oh, I'd be a fan of bottled sleep. Or capsuled sleep - whatever. I'd have them handy all the time. I've been struggling with sleep. You have no idea how hard I have to try to silence my mind just long enough to let rest settle in.
The Sandman is slacking off with me. He'd better shape up. Or else he'd be facing the financial crisis unemployed.
Think about it. Two hours' worth of sleep at your nearest convenience store. Or if you really pulled out an all-nighter - a full eight hours.
Sleep is something that caffeine can only hope to imitate as a replacement. Nothing beats uninterrupted hours on a comfortable bed, subdued lights, eyes closed, mind drifting off to somewhere where there's no worry or pain. (Or Java Exceptions and unupdated tasklists.)
Oh, I'd be a fan of bottled sleep. Or capsuled sleep - whatever. I'd have them handy all the time. I've been struggling with sleep. You have no idea how hard I have to try to silence my mind just long enough to let rest settle in.
The Sandman is slacking off with me. He'd better shape up. Or else he'd be facing the financial crisis unemployed.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Tutay
I retreated myself in an obscure corner - away from the unfamiliar faces, the even more unfamiliar dialect chatter, the dried watermelon seeds, cupcakes, coffee, and stacks of non-biodegradable styrofoam cups.
In solitude, I hoped to distance myself from the past few hours that have magnified seemingly into years and weighed down on me like a necessary burden.
The little girl sought me. Maybe she was bored with her company. Or maybe she felt sorry for me, sitting by myself in the far bench. Whatever her reason is, she was not put off by my seeming aloofness.
She offered me a Zest-O, which I declined. She proceeded to insert the straw into the previously offered juice, apparently claiming it for herself. She crossed her legs, indian-fashioned. We talked for a while - the only lengthy and significant conversation I've had during the day.
Her name is Haira Jean. Or Tutay. She explained the uncommon nickname even before I got the chance to ask. She only knows that her aunts started calling her that when she was four and it stuck. I considered maybe it could be a child's mispronunciation of "Tatay". Amazingly, we share the same surname. Her father is a distant cousin of sorts. Another one of those relatives I do not know about. Her siblings are also initialled HJ. Hazel Joy. Harvey John. And other HJ's.
She is in the second grade; has been ranked top five both in the first and second grading period. The third grading period results has not come out yet, so she doesn't know yet how she fared. She wears a key around her neck. She tells me it's their classroom key and she was the assigned keeper because she comes to school early at 630 am everyday.
On February 21, she will receive the sacrament of confirmation and she asks if I'll be in town by then. "Kumpil" are still big deals in the small predominantly Catholic towns. She's part of the children choir and participates in the church activities for kids.
She was not satisfied in just answering all my questions. She wanted to ask me some herself.
How old am I? Twenty-seven.
Am I married? No.
Do I live nearby? I used to, but I now live in Manila.
How did I get there? I took a bus and two jeepney rides.
How much was the fare? Offhandedly, around P120. (When she asked for each ride's specific fare, she told me it was actually P119.)
Do I have any brothers or sisters? Yes, but they weren't around.
Where's my mother? She died last October.
Her eyes widened in apparent concern. She glanced at the well-lit focus point in the center of the room - the flowers, the candles, the framed photograph of my late father on top of the ornately carved hardwood casket. "Ibig sabihin wala ka nang magulang?"
The realization washed over me. I nodded and told her, "Wala na."
Suddenly, she did not seem like the tiny eight year old talking to the adult. She was the good-hearted person sympathizing with an orphan.
I close my eyes, seeking rest from the past few months that have magnified seemingly into years and weighed down on me like a necessary burden
In solitude, I hoped to distance myself from the past few hours that have magnified seemingly into years and weighed down on me like a necessary burden.
The little girl sought me. Maybe she was bored with her company. Or maybe she felt sorry for me, sitting by myself in the far bench. Whatever her reason is, she was not put off by my seeming aloofness.
She offered me a Zest-O, which I declined. She proceeded to insert the straw into the previously offered juice, apparently claiming it for herself. She crossed her legs, indian-fashioned. We talked for a while - the only lengthy and significant conversation I've had during the day.
Her name is Haira Jean. Or Tutay. She explained the uncommon nickname even before I got the chance to ask. She only knows that her aunts started calling her that when she was four and it stuck. I considered maybe it could be a child's mispronunciation of "Tatay". Amazingly, we share the same surname. Her father is a distant cousin of sorts. Another one of those relatives I do not know about. Her siblings are also initialled HJ. Hazel Joy. Harvey John. And other HJ's.
She is in the second grade; has been ranked top five both in the first and second grading period. The third grading period results has not come out yet, so she doesn't know yet how she fared. She wears a key around her neck. She tells me it's their classroom key and she was the assigned keeper because she comes to school early at 630 am everyday.
On February 21, she will receive the sacrament of confirmation and she asks if I'll be in town by then. "Kumpil" are still big deals in the small predominantly Catholic towns. She's part of the children choir and participates in the church activities for kids.
She was not satisfied in just answering all my questions. She wanted to ask me some herself.
How old am I? Twenty-seven.
Am I married? No.
Do I live nearby? I used to, but I now live in Manila.
How did I get there? I took a bus and two jeepney rides.
How much was the fare? Offhandedly, around P120. (When she asked for each ride's specific fare, she told me it was actually P119.)
Do I have any brothers or sisters? Yes, but they weren't around.
Where's my mother? She died last October.
Her eyes widened in apparent concern. She glanced at the well-lit focus point in the center of the room - the flowers, the candles, the framed photograph of my late father on top of the ornately carved hardwood casket. "Ibig sabihin wala ka nang magulang?"
The realization washed over me. I nodded and told her, "Wala na."
Suddenly, she did not seem like the tiny eight year old talking to the adult. She was the good-hearted person sympathizing with an orphan.
I close my eyes, seeking rest from the past few months that have magnified seemingly into years and weighed down on me like a necessary burden
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Look Away
I went to see an ophthalmologist yesterday to have my eyes checked. I've been having frequent headaches lately, concentrated around my eyes and forehead. When asked to describe what kind of pain, I tell them it's like having a constant head rush - the dizziness when you stand up too fast. Or the wooziness of laughing too hard. The pain is bad enough to make me miss last Friday's work.
Actually, I didn't want to see a doctor. But my Kuya made me promise to go. And I'd feel so guilty to break a promise, even one made over YM. He's been a little paranoid over my health, and of my sister's. Maybe it's because the three of us are living so far from each other and there's no one else looking out for us, but ourselves. On a somewhat related note - when I donated blood a couple of weeks back, I was asked to fill out a form of personal data. One of the required entries was the "in-case-of-emergency" contact person. And I literally had to stop and think for a while. Hmmm, tough one. I ended up texting Luz, my friend and roommate, if it was ok with her if I wrote her as my ICE. She said it was and so I did.
It was kinda weird, kinda sad. But it was real life. It was such a responsibility to be someone's ICE. Especially to one with propensity for accidents such as myself. Family members are supposed to be there for that, but I didn't have the luxury of that option. Although it is true that friends are the family you choose - or what life chooses for you. And so you just deal.
Anyway, back at my eye checkup. The doctor gave me a few pointers on how to relieve the headaches. Apparently, my eyes were fine. Although I wear corrective glasses, I can still actually do ok without them. So here are some of the tips, in case they may be of help to you:
1) Increase water intake. I usually get seven or eight tumblers during the day. I have to try for ten or more.
2) Sit a little farther from the computer screen and have it situated diagonally. Same goes for reading books. As the doctor have told me in an unsolicited (but appreciated) crash course on optic muscles, we strain our eyes more if we look at things more closely. Keeping the muscle tense for a very long period of time causes headaches and so you need to relax it by doing number (3).
3) For every ten minutes of work, spend a minute looking at something 20 feet away. "A full minute?" I asked. Yes. So mentally, I computed that would be 6 minutes per hour * 7.5 work hours a day. Forty-five minutes of just looking away in a manday. Huh.
4) Avoid stress. When asked whether work has been stressful lately, I said, "No, not particularly." But I wondered whether we have the same gauge of a stressful day.
5) You could always take painkillers. But the thing is, I don't like painkillers. As much as possible, I don't take them and just bear the pain. So my friends know that if I reach for Ibuprofen or Mefenamic Acid - pain is already way beyond tolerable level.
If none of these things work, I am to go back for consultation after a week. Maybe by then, I'd be given something more substantial than a list of do's and don'ts.
So when you see me looking aimlessly far away - for the record, I am not spacing out. I am following doctor's orders.
Actually, I didn't want to see a doctor. But my Kuya made me promise to go. And I'd feel so guilty to break a promise, even one made over YM. He's been a little paranoid over my health, and of my sister's. Maybe it's because the three of us are living so far from each other and there's no one else looking out for us, but ourselves. On a somewhat related note - when I donated blood a couple of weeks back, I was asked to fill out a form of personal data. One of the required entries was the "in-case-of-emergency" contact person. And I literally had to stop and think for a while. Hmmm, tough one. I ended up texting Luz, my friend and roommate, if it was ok with her if I wrote her as my ICE. She said it was and so I did.
It was kinda weird, kinda sad. But it was real life. It was such a responsibility to be someone's ICE. Especially to one with propensity for accidents such as myself. Family members are supposed to be there for that, but I didn't have the luxury of that option. Although it is true that friends are the family you choose - or what life chooses for you. And so you just deal.
Anyway, back at my eye checkup. The doctor gave me a few pointers on how to relieve the headaches. Apparently, my eyes were fine. Although I wear corrective glasses, I can still actually do ok without them. So here are some of the tips, in case they may be of help to you:
1) Increase water intake. I usually get seven or eight tumblers during the day. I have to try for ten or more.
2) Sit a little farther from the computer screen and have it situated diagonally. Same goes for reading books. As the doctor have told me in an unsolicited (but appreciated) crash course on optic muscles, we strain our eyes more if we look at things more closely. Keeping the muscle tense for a very long period of time causes headaches and so you need to relax it by doing number (3).
3) For every ten minutes of work, spend a minute looking at something 20 feet away. "A full minute?" I asked. Yes. So mentally, I computed that would be 6 minutes per hour * 7.5 work hours a day. Forty-five minutes of just looking away in a manday. Huh.
4) Avoid stress. When asked whether work has been stressful lately, I said, "No, not particularly." But I wondered whether we have the same gauge of a stressful day.
5) You could always take painkillers. But the thing is, I don't like painkillers. As much as possible, I don't take them and just bear the pain. So my friends know that if I reach for Ibuprofen or Mefenamic Acid - pain is already way beyond tolerable level.
If none of these things work, I am to go back for consultation after a week. Maybe by then, I'd be given something more substantial than a list of do's and don'ts.
So when you see me looking aimlessly far away - for the record, I am not spacing out. I am following doctor's orders.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Grackle Gone AWOL*
So I came to work today and found that my machine is not at my desk. The monitor is still there, but the system unit is nowhere in sight. The only indication that it was ever there was the remnants of unplugged power cables hanging in the desk.
The pictures and notes that were stuck by magnets on the system unit now lay flat on my table, beside the origami and toys that were also on top of it. I stood a good couple of seconds unmoving, still wearing my bag, trying to rack my brains for a reason. I was in this state when Karl came up from behind and in his usual bickering tone said, "O! Asan machine mo? Sinesante ka na!"
Of course not. Well, hopefully not, I thought to myself.
So where is my mysterious missing machine? Fortunately, one of my workstation neighbors informed me that it was the admin who took Grackle for transfer. I approached the admin desk and asked where and why it was moved. Apparently, they received an email late last night that I was the one who was going to train the new batch of developers for the first module of web development. Actually, this was the original plan but I was pulled out from training duty for some other task.
Yes, I train HTML, CSS, and Javascript. My site is so lame that it's almost embarrassing to admit it openly. This one I use is even just a downloaded theme, for crying out loud. But somewhat as a defense, just know that we focus more on the the code structure and not the aesthetics. (Pathetic excuse, I know.)
Anyway, I confirmed with Miss Tara whether there was indeed a mix-up or if I was really going to train that day, for some reason. She told me, "Ok na, nag-email na ako. Sinisi na kita."
Oh. It was embarrassed to be told that it was my fault all along. Was I was supposed to inform the admin that I was pulled out from training? I started to apologize but I eventually found out that Miss Tara meant that she CC'ed me in the email. Not that she blamed me. CC - carbon copy. Sisi - put to blame.
Haay. Miscommunication. Look how that turned out for Romeo and Juliet. At least, the only tragedy for me is just the few frantic and paranoid moments of unemployment.
--
*Grackle is my machine name. It is a kind of blackbird. Our company names our network machines after animals, plants, and sometimes mythical creatures like Nazgul and Basilisk. Wouldn't it be cool if we had Marsh-wiggle or Dufflepud? :)
The pictures and notes that were stuck by magnets on the system unit now lay flat on my table, beside the origami and toys that were also on top of it. I stood a good couple of seconds unmoving, still wearing my bag, trying to rack my brains for a reason. I was in this state when Karl came up from behind and in his usual bickering tone said, "O! Asan machine mo? Sinesante ka na!"
Of course not. Well, hopefully not, I thought to myself.
So where is my mysterious missing machine? Fortunately, one of my workstation neighbors informed me that it was the admin who took Grackle for transfer. I approached the admin desk and asked where and why it was moved. Apparently, they received an email late last night that I was the one who was going to train the new batch of developers for the first module of web development. Actually, this was the original plan but I was pulled out from training duty for some other task.
Yes, I train HTML, CSS, and Javascript. My site is so lame that it's almost embarrassing to admit it openly. This one I use is even just a downloaded theme, for crying out loud. But somewhat as a defense, just know that we focus more on the the code structure and not the aesthetics. (Pathetic excuse, I know.)
Anyway, I confirmed with Miss Tara whether there was indeed a mix-up or if I was really going to train that day, for some reason. She told me, "Ok na, nag-email na ako. Sinisi na kita."
Oh. It was embarrassed to be told that it was my fault all along. Was I was supposed to inform the admin that I was pulled out from training? I started to apologize but I eventually found out that Miss Tara meant that she CC'ed me in the email. Not that she blamed me. CC - carbon copy. Sisi - put to blame.
Haay. Miscommunication. Look how that turned out for Romeo and Juliet. At least, the only tragedy for me is just the few frantic and paranoid moments of unemployment.
--
*Grackle is my machine name. It is a kind of blackbird. Our company names our network machines after animals, plants, and sometimes mythical creatures like Nazgul and Basilisk. Wouldn't it be cool if we had Marsh-wiggle or Dufflepud? :)
Elevator Blues
I have poor luck with elevators. It is officially one of my life's little annoyances.
At work, our office building actually has a decent number of elevator units. As far as I know, sixteen for each tower. Half of which serves the low zone, the other half for the high. But for some reason, a few of them are often out of order. So the zones are bunched up and before we reach the 28th, we have traversed quite a number of other floors.
And there's another thing about them that bothers me. I think some of my fellow software developers have also commented about the weird algorithm that our elevators have. Or the lack thereof. You sometimes see three units at a time heading down simultaneously. And it's frustrating whenever a lot of people are waiting to head up. Especially if it's almost ten and Azeus people are rushing to beat the OTS. :)
I also spent a lot of time in the hospital last year. And Medical City has really atrocious elevator service. And they're also aware of it. They have signs on the lobby apologizing for their elevators' (in)capacity. In the sign, they also included well-worded encouragements to take the stairs because it's good for the heart and overall well-being. Right.
The first few times, I tried to wait. But patience is not a virtue I had the luxury of keeping because I always had to rush to get something or to be somewhere. In the long run, I took the stairs, even five flights of it, just to save time.
But the elevator here in our apartment building takes the cake. It is old and tiny. It looks like it was hijacked from one of the sad MRT stations. When you go up, you have to press down; and you have to press down when you're going up. The fan goes on only when you're about to get off. The floor buttons are almost falling off. The control panel cover is secured with masking tape which is almost always ripped - exposing the switches and knobs underneath, crudely taped with handwritten labels: "man. up", "man. down", "lights", "fan", etc.
To top it all off, it has a sickness. Our elevator is moody. It hates our floor on some days. And on some specific hours.
Our room is on the fifth floor. And the elevator's idea of "opening" on the fifth floor is abruptly stopping, giving a few moments of violent shakes, separating the doors three inches apart, and then - nothing else. When this happens to you for the first time, you begin to contemplate your mortality. You'll start to think whether you're doomed to spend the last minutes of your life in this heaven-forsaken, lousy excuse for technology.
The first time it happened, my roommate actually yelled my name very loudly through the three-inch gap. Unfortunately, no one could hear her from the hallway.
But now, we have an established workaround. After the elevator's "turbulence" in the attempt of opening on our floor, we hit the close doors button and then the 6th floor button. It closes and goes up to the next floor where its doors smoothly (yes, smoothly) opens. Then we take the stairs down one flight.
So now I find myself muttering when I take the elevator, "please open, please open, please open." Sometimes my muttering ends with a sigh of relief, sometimes with a low curse. I have a friend on the sixth floor and I think about dropping by at her place just to make the detour trip more worthwhile, whenever the elevator is in one of its mood.
Well, at the very least, I can console myself that I'll have a healthy heart. Nothing about a cheerful humor, though.
At work, our office building actually has a decent number of elevator units. As far as I know, sixteen for each tower. Half of which serves the low zone, the other half for the high. But for some reason, a few of them are often out of order. So the zones are bunched up and before we reach the 28th, we have traversed quite a number of other floors.
And there's another thing about them that bothers me. I think some of my fellow software developers have also commented about the weird algorithm that our elevators have. Or the lack thereof. You sometimes see three units at a time heading down simultaneously. And it's frustrating whenever a lot of people are waiting to head up. Especially if it's almost ten and Azeus people are rushing to beat the OTS. :)
I also spent a lot of time in the hospital last year. And Medical City has really atrocious elevator service. And they're also aware of it. They have signs on the lobby apologizing for their elevators' (in)capacity. In the sign, they also included well-worded encouragements to take the stairs because it's good for the heart and overall well-being. Right.
The first few times, I tried to wait. But patience is not a virtue I had the luxury of keeping because I always had to rush to get something or to be somewhere. In the long run, I took the stairs, even five flights of it, just to save time.
But the elevator here in our apartment building takes the cake. It is old and tiny. It looks like it was hijacked from one of the sad MRT stations. When you go up, you have to press down; and you have to press down when you're going up. The fan goes on only when you're about to get off. The floor buttons are almost falling off. The control panel cover is secured with masking tape which is almost always ripped - exposing the switches and knobs underneath, crudely taped with handwritten labels: "man. up", "man. down", "lights", "fan", etc.
To top it all off, it has a sickness. Our elevator is moody. It hates our floor on some days. And on some specific hours.
Our room is on the fifth floor. And the elevator's idea of "opening" on the fifth floor is abruptly stopping, giving a few moments of violent shakes, separating the doors three inches apart, and then - nothing else. When this happens to you for the first time, you begin to contemplate your mortality. You'll start to think whether you're doomed to spend the last minutes of your life in this heaven-forsaken, lousy excuse for technology.
The first time it happened, my roommate actually yelled my name very loudly through the three-inch gap. Unfortunately, no one could hear her from the hallway.
But now, we have an established workaround. After the elevator's "turbulence" in the attempt of opening on our floor, we hit the close doors button and then the 6th floor button. It closes and goes up to the next floor where its doors smoothly (yes, smoothly) opens. Then we take the stairs down one flight.
So now I find myself muttering when I take the elevator, "please open, please open, please open." Sometimes my muttering ends with a sigh of relief, sometimes with a low curse. I have a friend on the sixth floor and I think about dropping by at her place just to make the detour trip more worthwhile, whenever the elevator is in one of its mood.
Well, at the very least, I can console myself that I'll have a healthy heart. Nothing about a cheerful humor, though.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Feel the Rain
Today's gospel was about faith. Faith like a child, especially. Please don't squirm. This is going to be quick and painless. I just wanted to share it.
The homily mentioned an oft-repeated story about a town facing food shortage because of drought. To address this problem - the townsfolk, along with all the religious groups, priests, and parishioners organized a prayer rally in the plaza to pray for rain.
But among all the people in the crowd, only a small child brought an umbrella.
I wonder at what point do we lose that sense of blind trust. When do we stop being kids who believe that everything will be ok and that life is simple. There are no conditions. Or negotiations. I wish there was some way to unburden ourselves with the doubts that keep on piling up. And begin to trust the truth that we are loved more than we realize.
Have you ever asked yourself the question: when you pray for rain, do you bring an umbrella?
“I assure you that whoever does not receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it.” – Mark 10:15
The homily mentioned an oft-repeated story about a town facing food shortage because of drought. To address this problem - the townsfolk, along with all the religious groups, priests, and parishioners organized a prayer rally in the plaza to pray for rain.
But among all the people in the crowd, only a small child brought an umbrella.
I wonder at what point do we lose that sense of blind trust. When do we stop being kids who believe that everything will be ok and that life is simple. There are no conditions. Or negotiations. I wish there was some way to unburden ourselves with the doubts that keep on piling up. And begin to trust the truth that we are loved more than we realize.
Have you ever asked yourself the question: when you pray for rain, do you bring an umbrella?
“I assure you that whoever does not receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it.” – Mark 10:15
Friday, January 16, 2009
"I keed."
People say it's always refreshing to meet old friends. Patrick is NOTHING like that. He's not a breath of fresh air. He's a bombardment of dense, suffocating, noxious gas. Green in color.
But, boy, did we miss this guy.
He's the only one who can make "nonentity" sound like a dirty word - who can make ANY word sound dirty. The only one who can talk about sleeping with his mags with a straight face.
A few years ago, Liz, Tago, and I were newbies with Patrick. Just a bunch of greenhorns (that term is just asking for it!). Our team shared more than bugs and enhancement requests. Patrick is one of the reasons that COMIS established itself as one of the closest teams in the company and it carried over to our succeeding projects. Good teammate he is; wholesome he is not. In fact, there are parts of this evening's loud conversation that I didn't get (and didn't want to get) and I concentrated on practicing my Swiss knife skills of paper cutting. And no, I didn't cut myself, surprisingly so.
Behind all those jokes - crass, vulgar, grossly politically incorrect jokes - he's a good guy. Deep inside. Deep, deep, deep, deep down inside (Hey, it was Liz who said he's "wide"!). Actually, he just wanted to ask how I was doing. I could understand his concern because the dominant mode of update we have of each other is through our online blogs. But in real life, I'm not always as glum as I am in my blogs. Although I am AS clumsy. When he was walking me home, I missed a step because my shirt sleeve caught a nail on a tree. Of course.
Next time we all meet up, you guys try to keep the sexual overtones to a minimum, ok? There is a limit to the number of discarded receipts that I can mutilate. :)
But, boy, did we miss this guy.
He's the only one who can make "nonentity" sound like a dirty word - who can make ANY word sound dirty. The only one who can talk about sleeping with his mags with a straight face.
A few years ago, Liz, Tago, and I were newbies with Patrick. Just a bunch of greenhorns (that term is just asking for it!). Our team shared more than bugs and enhancement requests. Patrick is one of the reasons that COMIS established itself as one of the closest teams in the company and it carried over to our succeeding projects. Good teammate he is; wholesome he is not. In fact, there are parts of this evening's loud conversation that I didn't get (and didn't want to get) and I concentrated on practicing my Swiss knife skills of paper cutting. And no, I didn't cut myself, surprisingly so.
Behind all those jokes - crass, vulgar, grossly politically incorrect jokes - he's a good guy. Deep inside. Deep, deep, deep, deep down inside (Hey, it was Liz who said he's "wide"!). Actually, he just wanted to ask how I was doing. I could understand his concern because the dominant mode of update we have of each other is through our online blogs. But in real life, I'm not always as glum as I am in my blogs. Although I am AS clumsy. When he was walking me home, I missed a step because my shirt sleeve caught a nail on a tree. Of course.
Next time we all meet up, you guys try to keep the sexual overtones to a minimum, ok? There is a limit to the number of discarded receipts that I can mutilate. :)
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Hooper Humperdinck
Ok, I’m just going to take a wild shot at this: Do any of you guys know who Hooper Humperdinck is?
I’m actually trying to solicit sympathy here, but I think I won’t get any if I compare myself to Hooper Humperdinck. I doubt if a lot of people remember him from children’s literature. He’s a character in one of the original Dr. Seuss books. And I really felt sorry for him whenever my mother would read us his story.
You see, all throughout the book, kids are having grand parties and are inviting everyone – all other kids with names starting from A-Z – except for Hooper Humperdinck. It’s basically just a list of birthday guests in alphabetical order. I would remember checking and rechecking the page wherein the names starting with H are enumerated, but no. Hooper Humperdinck was always excluded. I think I remember that every page in the book ended up with: “But no, not Hooper Humperdinck!”
I think they mentioned something about him being a party pooper, but I’m not so sure. I cringe whenever I see Hooper in the illustrations of the book just taking a peek into the festive parties he was not invited to. I found it really sad, even if I knew he was not a real person. I guess I was crazy, even as a kid.
Anyway, that’s who I remember now: Hooper Humperdinck. And I’m him! Metaphorically, of course.
My friend Tago is celebrating his birthday with an Amazing Race kind of competition. And no one wants me to be on their team!
Ok, I must admit that they have their reasons. It’s true that I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of Metro Manila. I don’t know how to commute. I am not very good at crossing streets.
I bump into stationary objects, parked tricycles included. I get tangled into hanging objects - tree branches included. I trip over the slightest bump in the ground - sidewalk curbs included. I spill, drop, break, and burn things - solid, liquid, and gas included. I cut, sprain, wound, and bruise myself – and those who are unfortunately within the disaster radius included.
And to top it all off, I have very poor sense of direction. Legendary poor sense of direction. Anywhere. I actually got lost in our dorm building back in college.
But are those reason enough to justify their prejudice over my potential contribution to the team (or the lack thereof)? It’s like being picked last in the playground when kids are choosing players for their teams. Or not being picked at all. Ok, maybe they are right. But, still! Poor me! Poor Hooper Humperdinck! Right? Right?
Or maybe I should just forget it and sign up for the coordinating committee.
Aargh. What a loser. >_<
I’m actually trying to solicit sympathy here, but I think I won’t get any if I compare myself to Hooper Humperdinck. I doubt if a lot of people remember him from children’s literature. He’s a character in one of the original Dr. Seuss books. And I really felt sorry for him whenever my mother would read us his story.
You see, all throughout the book, kids are having grand parties and are inviting everyone – all other kids with names starting from A-Z – except for Hooper Humperdinck. It’s basically just a list of birthday guests in alphabetical order. I would remember checking and rechecking the page wherein the names starting with H are enumerated, but no. Hooper Humperdinck was always excluded. I think I remember that every page in the book ended up with: “But no, not Hooper Humperdinck!”
I think they mentioned something about him being a party pooper, but I’m not so sure. I cringe whenever I see Hooper in the illustrations of the book just taking a peek into the festive parties he was not invited to. I found it really sad, even if I knew he was not a real person. I guess I was crazy, even as a kid.
Anyway, that’s who I remember now: Hooper Humperdinck. And I’m him! Metaphorically, of course.
My friend Tago is celebrating his birthday with an Amazing Race kind of competition. And no one wants me to be on their team!
Ok, I must admit that they have their reasons. It’s true that I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of Metro Manila. I don’t know how to commute. I am not very good at crossing streets.
I bump into stationary objects, parked tricycles included. I get tangled into hanging objects - tree branches included. I trip over the slightest bump in the ground - sidewalk curbs included. I spill, drop, break, and burn things - solid, liquid, and gas included. I cut, sprain, wound, and bruise myself – and those who are unfortunately within the disaster radius included.
And to top it all off, I have very poor sense of direction. Legendary poor sense of direction. Anywhere. I actually got lost in our dorm building back in college.
But are those reason enough to justify their prejudice over my potential contribution to the team (or the lack thereof)? It’s like being picked last in the playground when kids are choosing players for their teams. Or not being picked at all. Ok, maybe they are right. But, still! Poor me! Poor Hooper Humperdinck! Right? Right?
Or maybe I should just forget it and sign up for the coordinating committee.
Aargh. What a loser. >_<
Saturday, December 27, 2008
See you around, EJ.
EJ thinks I'm a wimp. He thinks I'm a lot of other things, too. Like a klutz and a weirdo. But he must really think I'm a wimp.
You see, most people don't readily know that EJ is the one person who has seen me cry the most number of times in the office. Not that he was the reason for all those pathetic tears. He's just the person I go to when the waterworks start. Ironically, I hate crying. So I don't do it often. And I hate myself whenever I can't help myself.
EJ is one of the best listeners I've ever met. He claims that he's just nosy and is always ready to hear 'tsismis'. But I know better. No one can fake concern that well. I used to be messed up with a recurring issue in my life and he never, never turned me away whenever I had to rant about it. Sheesh, if I had to listen to myself go on and on, over and over again about that same old thing, I'd have snapped at myself. No, make that - I'd have smacked myself straight in the nose. And unrepentantly left myself bleeding. (Ok, too much violence.)
When my mother got sick and I couldn't concentrate on work, I used to sit on the empty corner desk beside EJ and just bury my head to cry. He wouldn't say a word. Every now and then, he'd just pat my head a few times and go back to his work. When I would finally look up with swollen eyes, he'd ask, "Ok ka na?" I'd nod, thank him, and then go back to my workstation.
I also have a propensity for taking off to take brisk walks in the middle of a workday when I get too upset. Yeah, yeah, I know. Such a drama queen. Or more like, such a macho thing to do. We were jabbing and I just said I need to be not there right now and left. The extensive exposure to my crying probably gave him a built-in radar whenever I have a lachrymal activity because after aimlessly walking, I checked my phone and found a couple of missed calls and messages from EJ. One said, "Where are you? Let me be there to help you." I would find out later that he was worried I was going to be hit by a car while I was crossing the street distressed.
Yeah, that's me. What a wimp.
Another one of the good things I like about being friends with EJ is the fact that we have very similar values. We often agree on what we think is wrong or right, what is unfair or just. Although, I must admit we have very different views on what is funny or not. His humor mostly consists of watching me make a fool of myself - often unintentionally. But behind all those jokes and wisecracks, he has a good heart. He told me once that he should probably start listing down names of the people that he wants to include in his prayers. He feels guilty whenever he forgets someone; there's so many people to pray for.
Today was EJ's last day at the office. As a send-off gift, we gave him an Umbra Fotofalls and the scrapbook I completed at 2 am that morning. He treated a couple of us to Italian food. Afterward, he and I waited for Yza in Starbucks. And when it was time to go home, I cried again to EJ. This time, it was finally his fault.
We'll miss spending every day of the week with you, EJ. But you don't get to rid of us that easily. See you around. ^__^
You see, most people don't readily know that EJ is the one person who has seen me cry the most number of times in the office. Not that he was the reason for all those pathetic tears. He's just the person I go to when the waterworks start. Ironically, I hate crying. So I don't do it often. And I hate myself whenever I can't help myself.
EJ is one of the best listeners I've ever met. He claims that he's just nosy and is always ready to hear 'tsismis'. But I know better. No one can fake concern that well. I used to be messed up with a recurring issue in my life and he never, never turned me away whenever I had to rant about it. Sheesh, if I had to listen to myself go on and on, over and over again about that same old thing, I'd have snapped at myself. No, make that - I'd have smacked myself straight in the nose. And unrepentantly left myself bleeding. (Ok, too much violence.)
When my mother got sick and I couldn't concentrate on work, I used to sit on the empty corner desk beside EJ and just bury my head to cry. He wouldn't say a word. Every now and then, he'd just pat my head a few times and go back to his work. When I would finally look up with swollen eyes, he'd ask, "Ok ka na?" I'd nod, thank him, and then go back to my workstation.
I also have a propensity for taking off to take brisk walks in the middle of a workday when I get too upset. Yeah, yeah, I know. Such a drama queen. Or more like, such a macho thing to do. We were jabbing and I just said I need to be not there right now and left. The extensive exposure to my crying probably gave him a built-in radar whenever I have a lachrymal activity because after aimlessly walking, I checked my phone and found a couple of missed calls and messages from EJ. One said, "Where are you? Let me be there to help you." I would find out later that he was worried I was going to be hit by a car while I was crossing the street distressed.
Yeah, that's me. What a wimp.
Another one of the good things I like about being friends with EJ is the fact that we have very similar values. We often agree on what we think is wrong or right, what is unfair or just. Although, I must admit we have very different views on what is funny or not. His humor mostly consists of watching me make a fool of myself - often unintentionally. But behind all those jokes and wisecracks, he has a good heart. He told me once that he should probably start listing down names of the people that he wants to include in his prayers. He feels guilty whenever he forgets someone; there's so many people to pray for.
Today was EJ's last day at the office. As a send-off gift, we gave him an Umbra Fotofalls and the scrapbook I completed at 2 am that morning. He treated a couple of us to Italian food. Afterward, he and I waited for Yza in Starbucks. And when it was time to go home, I cried again to EJ. This time, it was finally his fault.
We'll miss spending every day of the week with you, EJ. But you don't get to rid of us that easily. See you around. ^__^
Thursday, December 25, 2008
8,298 Steps
According to my pedometer (thanks Luz and Allen for this gift), I have walked 8,298 steps today so far. This is running a little above my daily average. Part of the reason is that I visited my dad in Pampanga. So that entailed a lot of commuting steps.
Today was actually the first time I've ridden a provincial bus alone here in Manila. The second time I've ridden a bus alone in Manila. The third time I've ridden a bus alone in my life. I sound like I'm expecting to be congratulated or something. It's an achievement of sorts for me, but I am aware how pathetic I sound - no need to rub it in.
It's been almost four years since the last time I have been in Pampanga. I was born and partly raised there. Yeah, yeah - another one of those irrelevant personal information that I inflict upon you all. It was just interesting to see all those old places that were once part of my life. The hospital where I was born. The small bakeshop where we used to buy taisan. The EENT clinic where I had my ear infection treated. The minimart where we buy our school snacks: Gee Cee mamon and Hi-C (May Hi-C pa ba?). Reminiscing galore.
You know what they say about our memories from youth are exaggerated? It's so true. I saw how un-intimidating the intersection which I was so deathly afraid of crossing when I was a kid. How near the parish church was to our old house; I've always thought I needed to bike back then.
Anyway, another part of the reason for the numerous steps is because when I came back and got off EDSA and heard mass at the Shrine, I decided to walk the rest of the way to my apartment. Poor decision - some might perceive because it was slightly raining. But it was Christmas day. Ortigas Center was unreal. I actually like the overcast weather, the drizzle, the empty streets. Too perfect for a walk to pass up.
I got home covered in the rain, sweat, and the grime of NLEX and EDSA. Just keeping in tune with the holidays.
Today was actually the first time I've ridden a provincial bus alone here in Manila. The second time I've ridden a bus alone in Manila. The third time I've ridden a bus alone in my life. I sound like I'm expecting to be congratulated or something. It's an achievement of sorts for me, but I am aware how pathetic I sound - no need to rub it in.
It's been almost four years since the last time I have been in Pampanga. I was born and partly raised there. Yeah, yeah - another one of those irrelevant personal information that I inflict upon you all. It was just interesting to see all those old places that were once part of my life. The hospital where I was born. The small bakeshop where we used to buy taisan. The EENT clinic where I had my ear infection treated. The minimart where we buy our school snacks: Gee Cee mamon and Hi-C (May Hi-C pa ba?). Reminiscing galore.
You know what they say about our memories from youth are exaggerated? It's so true. I saw how un-intimidating the intersection which I was so deathly afraid of crossing when I was a kid. How near the parish church was to our old house; I've always thought I needed to bike back then.
Anyway, another part of the reason for the numerous steps is because when I came back and got off EDSA and heard mass at the Shrine, I decided to walk the rest of the way to my apartment. Poor decision - some might perceive because it was slightly raining. But it was Christmas day. Ortigas Center was unreal. I actually like the overcast weather, the drizzle, the empty streets. Too perfect for a walk to pass up.
I got home covered in the rain, sweat, and the grime of NLEX and EDSA. Just keeping in tune with the holidays.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Another Prosaic Christmas Greeting
I hear Christmas carols wafting through the window. There is a choir performing in the multipurpose hall two blocks down the street. They're actually pretty good.
Apart from distant singing outside, it's awfully quiet in here. For tonight, I have consciously done away with the usual background of television and mp3 drone. I'm rereading the book of John and (unsuccessfully) trying to forget that it's Christmas Eve.
Memories of Christmases past give me strength to tide myself through this season, but ironically, they also remind me of everything that is now different in my life. There's a first time for everything, but I'm hoping this is the last time I'll be spending Christmas Eve alone in a studio apartment eating leftover spaghetti and Honey Mustard Piknik for Noche Buena.
To everyone, have a very blessed Christmas. Let's not forget to include in all the festivity the One whose birthday we are actually celebrating.
Apart from distant singing outside, it's awfully quiet in here. For tonight, I have consciously done away with the usual background of television and mp3 drone. I'm rereading the book of John and (unsuccessfully) trying to forget that it's Christmas Eve.
Memories of Christmases past give me strength to tide myself through this season, but ironically, they also remind me of everything that is now different in my life. There's a first time for everything, but I'm hoping this is the last time I'll be spending Christmas Eve alone in a studio apartment eating leftover spaghetti and Honey Mustard Piknik for Noche Buena.
To everyone, have a very blessed Christmas. Let's not forget to include in all the festivity the One whose birthday we are actually celebrating.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
The Sign of Peace
Halfway through the second reading at mass today, a mother and her preteen son excused themselves and squeezed their way into my pew, where I was occupying the edge. The mother seated herself on my right and I paid her very little mind because I was trying to pay attention to the gospel. Although I did notice that she was somewhat agitated, worriedly looking at something on our left side.
I finally realized the source of her anxiety during the singing of "The Lord's Prayer". I usually don't initiate hand contact with strangers during this part of the mass. I'm thinking that I'd just give them the option of taking my hand or not, depending whether or not they were overly concerned about contracting the influenza virus or something like that. But the mother took my hand casually and addressed someone on my left and said, "Take her hand."
It was then that I noticed a boy, apparently the mother's other son - around eight years old - seated on the floor beside me. He stood up and obediently took my hand and unabashedly sang "Ama Namin" offkey. Oh, it was so endearing. His small hand didn't feel awkward at all and he knew all the words to the song.
When it was over, I whispered to him that we should switch places so he would be beside his mom. He moved over to my seat but hesitatingly said, "Pero andito po yung mga bags namin" - pointing to two backpacks on the floor where he was seated earlier. I told him they wont get lost but he hauled them nevertheless in front of the kneeler. The boys' mother told me that she would just ask her younger son to sit on her lap, I assured her that it won't be necessary and that I'd just stand during the rest of the mass. She quietly said something to the kid, maybe telling him to thank me for giving up my seat, but the kid just looked up at me curiously. I smiled at him but he just blinked back.
When the priest asked the congregation to give the peace sign - the boy immediately turned to look up at me, with both his palms flat against each other and under his chin and very formally gave me a small bow and said, "Peace po."
I actually laughed softly at his gesture. That was worth more than what I gave up for my seat. And it was the first moment that I actually felt the Christmas spirit this year. I've been dreading this season. I still am. A part of me doesn't want it to come. Or I just want it to pass by painlessly quick. Like stripping off a bandage in one quick motion.
But this kid - he reminded me that families are together, looking forward to the traditions. And although I'm never going to have that anymore, I've already had my chance at every joyful thing that Christmas has to offer, especially to the children - decorating the tree, getting presents, being allowed to stay up late, singing offkey to church songs and Christmas carols. And when I get this perspective, I do not feel deprived that it was taken away from me - the complete family and joys of Christmas traditions - but grateful that they were once mine, too.
Peace be with you, kid. Enjoy the holidays.
I finally realized the source of her anxiety during the singing of "The Lord's Prayer". I usually don't initiate hand contact with strangers during this part of the mass. I'm thinking that I'd just give them the option of taking my hand or not, depending whether or not they were overly concerned about contracting the influenza virus or something like that. But the mother took my hand casually and addressed someone on my left and said, "Take her hand."
It was then that I noticed a boy, apparently the mother's other son - around eight years old - seated on the floor beside me. He stood up and obediently took my hand and unabashedly sang "Ama Namin" offkey. Oh, it was so endearing. His small hand didn't feel awkward at all and he knew all the words to the song.
When it was over, I whispered to him that we should switch places so he would be beside his mom. He moved over to my seat but hesitatingly said, "Pero andito po yung mga bags namin" - pointing to two backpacks on the floor where he was seated earlier. I told him they wont get lost but he hauled them nevertheless in front of the kneeler. The boys' mother told me that she would just ask her younger son to sit on her lap, I assured her that it won't be necessary and that I'd just stand during the rest of the mass. She quietly said something to the kid, maybe telling him to thank me for giving up my seat, but the kid just looked up at me curiously. I smiled at him but he just blinked back.
When the priest asked the congregation to give the peace sign - the boy immediately turned to look up at me, with both his palms flat against each other and under his chin and very formally gave me a small bow and said, "Peace po."
I actually laughed softly at his gesture. That was worth more than what I gave up for my seat. And it was the first moment that I actually felt the Christmas spirit this year. I've been dreading this season. I still am. A part of me doesn't want it to come. Or I just want it to pass by painlessly quick. Like stripping off a bandage in one quick motion.
But this kid - he reminded me that families are together, looking forward to the traditions. And although I'm never going to have that anymore, I've already had my chance at every joyful thing that Christmas has to offer, especially to the children - decorating the tree, getting presents, being allowed to stay up late, singing offkey to church songs and Christmas carols. And when I get this perspective, I do not feel deprived that it was taken away from me - the complete family and joys of Christmas traditions - but grateful that they were once mine, too.
Peace be with you, kid. Enjoy the holidays.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Paid in Sand
My good friend Jayjay and his girlfriend Rae are in town for the weekend. They arrived from Cebu friday morning. It's been more than a year when I last saw Jayjay. We always keep in touch through Jabber, Multiply, and SMS, but it's different when I personally hear him go on monologue about the latest books he's read or his latest interest like camera tossing or whatever.
Late friday night until 3 am of Saturday morning, I found myself in the company of Jayjay and Gary. We've spent hours talking about nothing and everything. About men and women, gender roles, hammers and screwdrivers, and black swans, and culture, and history, and photography. Even the art of picking up girls.
Conversations turn to almost chauvinistic, but always interesting. I came in a few minutes late for my training. But the newbies were doing their final exercise, so that was ok. In the afternoon, I met up with Jayjay and Rae in Cubao where we browsed through the stalls of Cubao X.
I've discovered Cubao X through Luz. And the first two times I've been there was with her. We lose time going through old books, antiques, curios, and all those 'lived-in' items seemingly covered with not just dust, but almost tangible residual memories of their previous owners. We once remarked to the guy who worked at Heritage how cool his job was - just reading and having access to all these interesting old books and magazines and art. He replied that it is a great job and he will still love it even he gets paid in sand. His exact words.
There are quirky galleries featuring collages and cutouts. Of modern oil paintings. There's also a place where they sell interesting chairs and chandeliers. Jayjay recognized one of the chairs as a world-famous design. I forgot the name, I'll text him to ask. And we were told that it was worth P40,000. Yeah that one previously-owned chair, where you rest your behind. And it's not even ergonomically comfortable. Form over functionality, I've been told. Sheesh.
While browsing through the shelves, Jayjay came upon this book - Time Life Book: The Art of Photography - which featured The Decisive Moment by Henri Cartier-Bresson, the famous photojournalist. He was raving about the photograph featured in the page. I bought the book for him and told him that he should consider it my early Christmas gift. It was well worth it.
And oh, yeah, to end this entry with a funny anecdote. We entered a dimly-lit and tiny cafe. There were sketches of Robert Alejandro for sale at P500 each and other knickknacks. A somewhat elderly guy came down from the second floor stairs, somehow startling Jayjay who excused himself by saying, "Ay, good evening po." I thought Jayjay recognized the guy already, so I just kept grinning back at him. Apparently, he didn't because when we exited he asked why I was so amused. That was Kuya Bodjie of Batibot, I laughingly told him. And both he and Rae chorused, "Oh, so that's why he looked so familiar!" They resolved to have their picture taken with Kuya Bodjie. So we went back in, Jayjay made small talk and asked if it was alright if he'd pose with them. He was nice about it. If Jayjay posts the pic, you guys now know who took it. :)
Mga bata, yan ang kwento ng pagbisita namin sa Cubao X. Hanggang sa susunod... Paalam!
Late friday night until 3 am of Saturday morning, I found myself in the company of Jayjay and Gary. We've spent hours talking about nothing and everything. About men and women, gender roles, hammers and screwdrivers, and black swans, and culture, and history, and photography. Even the art of picking up girls.
Conversations turn to almost chauvinistic, but always interesting. I came in a few minutes late for my training. But the newbies were doing their final exercise, so that was ok. In the afternoon, I met up with Jayjay and Rae in Cubao where we browsed through the stalls of Cubao X.
I've discovered Cubao X through Luz. And the first two times I've been there was with her. We lose time going through old books, antiques, curios, and all those 'lived-in' items seemingly covered with not just dust, but almost tangible residual memories of their previous owners. We once remarked to the guy who worked at Heritage how cool his job was - just reading and having access to all these interesting old books and magazines and art. He replied that it is a great job and he will still love it even he gets paid in sand. His exact words.
There are quirky galleries featuring collages and cutouts. Of modern oil paintings. There's also a place where they sell interesting chairs and chandeliers. Jayjay recognized one of the chairs as a world-famous design. I forgot the name, I'll text him to ask. And we were told that it was worth P40,000. Yeah that one previously-owned chair, where you rest your behind. And it's not even ergonomically comfortable. Form over functionality, I've been told. Sheesh.
While browsing through the shelves, Jayjay came upon this book - Time Life Book: The Art of Photography - which featured The Decisive Moment by Henri Cartier-Bresson, the famous photojournalist. He was raving about the photograph featured in the page. I bought the book for him and told him that he should consider it my early Christmas gift. It was well worth it.
And oh, yeah, to end this entry with a funny anecdote. We entered a dimly-lit and tiny cafe. There were sketches of Robert Alejandro for sale at P500 each and other knickknacks. A somewhat elderly guy came down from the second floor stairs, somehow startling Jayjay who excused himself by saying, "Ay, good evening po." I thought Jayjay recognized the guy already, so I just kept grinning back at him. Apparently, he didn't because when we exited he asked why I was so amused. That was Kuya Bodjie of Batibot, I laughingly told him. And both he and Rae chorused, "Oh, so that's why he looked so familiar!" They resolved to have their picture taken with Kuya Bodjie. So we went back in, Jayjay made small talk and asked if it was alright if he'd pose with them. He was nice about it. If Jayjay posts the pic, you guys now know who took it. :)
Mga bata, yan ang kwento ng pagbisita namin sa Cubao X. Hanggang sa susunod... Paalam!
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