Two Years Since

#257: Fringe Blogger

Oh hello, blog. I'm surprised you are still alive. Very much unlike my Friendster account that folded up and gave me back all my rubbish in what feels like one of those scenes from an Italian movie where the girl flings all her lover's belongings from a low balcony and unto the street. This one feels like coming home after a long stint overseas and finding things intact - familiar but distant. In place but in an inexplicably awkward way.

I am only here because my conference call with Brazil was cancelled. I work at nights now, trying to chase the sun in Sao Paulo or New York. I sometimes do early mornings too - which I hate, but which I think gives everyone a feeling of fairness at having to suffer through at least an evening work call to give their colleagues on the other side of the world a morning call every now and again.

I am now living somewhere else, having moved from the big red rock to a little green island. Not the lazy kind of island where the faint strains of reggae play in your imagination. The kind that thinks it is hyper-productive by buzzing a lot in cycles of work and confusion and re-work and clarification and more re-work and what is generally believed as optimisation. I personally think it is a waste of energy sometimes - how some people approach work.

My daughter, the one I shared as a blurry black and white scan, is now a full-fledged little girl - with her ruby red glittery bag and glass slippers. Today she read the word, "BABY" to my amazement. I haven't told my husband that. Maybe later, when I finish reliving my blogging days. My daughter's hair is long at the back and with a drastically short fringe. Thanks to her mummy who one day fancied herself a hair stylist and chopped off a couple of centimeters too much. The fringe has since been sent to the hair hospital for a corrective procedure. It is in recovery and the child is happy enough. But the guilty mother feels it is all taking too long.

But then again, that didn't feel like 2 years that just flew by. Surely the fringe will grow.

Pontius, Is That You?

#256: Fitness Betrayals & Reconciliations

"What is that?" Juno's dad asks Vanessa (played by Jennifer Garner)
"It's a Pilates Machine." she replies without further explanation.
"Ah. So what does it make?"

Fitness fads come and go. In the Philippines, everyone is into running now. Or at least into gearing up and getting outfitted as a runner. (Really. You need a GPS to run in Manila? It's not like you're running through the jungles of Peru, you know.) Running eclipses badminton as the 'official activity of sweat' for Filipino yuppies. If I see one more post on a running watch that someone NEEDS to buy, I'm going to have to have my left eyebrow peeled from the ceiling.

Here in Australia, you can't escape Zumba. Every morning, someone hawks Zumba. I saw it a couple of months ago and scoffed at it. It has since made its way to the dance studio at the corner of Randwick (move over Salsa!) and is now a fixture at this lifestyle fitness centre I'm contemplating on joining. Zumba. It even sounds gimmicky.

Just like Taebo. Who can forget Taebo being promoted by the fitness world's answer to Mr. T? Just like that Abserciser (or something like that) which promises to give you 6-pack abs as you dig the rubberised end of the thingamajig into your flabby midsection. Ah. Field day for snake oil salesmen.

Last year, I insisted that Andrew and I sign up together for membership at the popular gym chain, Fitness First. I was a member back in Manila and for a good 2 years, I faithfully did my cardio workout and classes twice a week. On the 3rd year, I became too lazy even to freeze the membership. I ended up "donating" the money to Fitness First. Heaven knows they need it to come up with yet another free backpack set (complete with water bottle and towels) to give away to new members.

This time, in Sydney, there were no freebies. Just pure $112.00 per head, per month for me to drive 20 minutes from home to have my workout. I had visions of Andrew and I running on adjoining treadmills. Holding hands in between sets at the machines. Wiping the sweat off each other's forehead. Uhm. No. But still, I did think we would at least egg each other on to go to the gym and work out together. It didn't happen. I went to the gym 3 times in the first 2 months, then took 6 months to have my membership frozen then canceled. If I hadn't gotten pregnant, I wouldn't have even bothered to make the call.

I did, however, get into swimming. Faithfully. Every week, I'd rock up to my 11:30am Saturday swimming class. It improved my fitness, along with my chances for survival, in case the cruise ship I'm on starts heading for the bottom of the ocean. Of course, it helped that my instructor thought I could've been Stephanie Rice if I had started swimming when I was 2, and was quite generous with the verbal praise. I only stopped when my pregnant belly could no longer be neatly tucked in my swimsuit.

Almost 3 months after delivering the child (who robbed me of my girlish figure), I'm ready to get in shape again. None of the current fads appeal to me. I find myself drawn once more to what I had proven before to be simple and effective - at least for my body and for my level of commitment. It's a bit pricier than the gym membership (which might motivate me to really make this work -> or which may just prove to be an expensive exercise in delusion) but it offers auxiliary services like child-minding or parent & child exercise classes - key if I am to get rid of the "I-can't-leave-the-house,-I-need-to-take-care-of-the-baby" excuse.

I am going back to what I was doing around 8 years ago. Maybe throw in a day of swimming or a parent-child yoga class in-between. Possibly a game of squash. Nothing that ticks the fitness buzzwords of the moment. But I'm happy to say I'm going back to Pilates. This time, Stott Pilates - the one with machines. You know, the kind that makes nothing.

Sliding

#255: Into Madness

All this talk of baby blues and post-natal depression. Often, in the middle of the night, when I am barely awake but trying make the most out of my time with my baby, I wonder what it will take to push me into madness. Sleep deprivation is, after all, used as a form of torture.

At the hospital, pressures to breastfeed when I cannot produce a milliliter of milk even after hours of pumping, threw me into a real-life version of a scene in Girl Interrupted. (Thanks to the hospital garb and plain white walls too.) I was ready to go mad.

At home, Week 2, my parents arrived from Manila to help out... only for me to have a fight with my mother early into Week 3. My mother has the capacity to turn her heart into stone - to protect herself, or possibly to punish the ones who've hurt her. It serves her well, this approach. But it is a massive cross to me. We barely talk now and she has not communicated that she has forgiven me. I offer my child part of the day so she can play with her without me in the room so she would not think that her couple of thousand of dollars to fly here were wasted. It's good for her to have a relationship with her grandchild even as she cuts her relationship with her daughter.

In the early evenings, I give the child to her father so he can enjoy her after coming home from work. I am left with the dawn. Trying to make out my child's angelic face in the shadows of the dark while I play swords with weariness. Sometimes I fear that she'll make a sound to wake up her dad or her grandparents. I quickly rush her out of hearing distance lest someone gets roused to take her from me or lest someone gets their sweet slumber disturbed.

My baby's first month is slipping away and I am locked in my room now wondering if I should fight to recover part of it or take the path of a pacifist as I descend into a dark hole I've never been to before. I find BeyondBlue's red booklet in my hands - a foreign object making its presence known, encouraging my hands to find comfort in holding it.

My name refuses to acknowledge depression. The rest of me is threatening to embrace it.

Battling

#254: Boredom

Battling with the blankness of space and time. Yearning for the mad rush of unimportant things to meet inconsequential deadlines. Hours worth of doing and pointless running seemingly more appealing now than hours of waiting, wondering and wobbling in awkward pain.

Notes from the First Trimester

So this is how it feels like to be well and truly pregnant.

My main word throughout the day, most of the days, is “yuck.” I get out of our house and walk down our hallway. Get a whiff of the smell reeking out of our neighbor’s unit: combo of soy sauce, garlic and cigarette smoke. YUCK. Go into a meeting, suspiciously eye another person’s food container. Yes, he’s going to open it in this claustrophobic, windowless room – lentil salad with lots of onions. YUCK. It’s the afternoon, my “evening” sickness starts knocking at my door. I swallow a dollop of my metallic-y saliva. YUCK.

But of course, not everything is YUCK about pregnancy. It’s just generally how I feel on most days of my first trimester. I guess it’s nature’s way of preparing you for dealing with poo-filled nappies 6 months down the road. You can’t say YUCK often enough. You are free to think it, say it, contort your face to convey it. And that is specially called for when the “morning/evening sickness” fully grabs you and you find yourself spending a lot of quality time kneeling in front of your toilet.

I usually come home ready to bow down before our Caroma ceramic bowl. Half flush? Full flush? We’ll find out when we’re done, shall we? It usually goes for a couple of hours in my case, averaging at around 3 passionate hurls. Some people tell me, “Oh, I didn’t go through any sickness at all when I was pregnant.” I close my eyes and count to 10.

The exhaustion is also not fun. We travelled to Japan on my 7^th week of pregnancy. Just the week before, my obstetrician asked me if I wanted her to prescribe anti-nausea drugs for me. Given the drug-averse person I usually am, I politely refused and said I could handle it. WRONG! By our 3^rd day in Tokyo, I could not stand the smell or the sight of Japanese food. I did not want to see another soft egg. Or raw fish. I did not want to smell soy sauce or even think of swallowing noodles (buckwheat or otherwise). This, of course, was torturous to my husband, who had gotten fully on-board with my ‘pre-pregnancy’ love affair with Japanese food. What was more torturous to him than avoiding all the Japanese food places (while we were in, yes, Japan) was my insistence that we just eat spaghetti Bolognese forever. (Not that this suggestion always worked to my favour.) One of the places we went to served my spaghetti Bolognese with lettuce and eggplant. YUCK. The next one we went to the following day served it with – brace yourself – a soft egg! Double YUCK. It took a lot of self-control to keep myself from throwing up right there and then. I had it sent back to the kitchen (which was very confusing to the waiter. It’s like, “Wha-? No one has ever sent back food in this restaurant. I do not understand the concept.”)

The other thing that is YUCKIER in retrospect than it was at that time (seriously, I thought it was a brilliant idea then), was going to Shakey’s in Tokyo. Seriously. I love Shakey’s in the Philippines. The thought of Manager’s Choice, thin crust with an unhealthy pile of mojos on the side, actually makes me happy now. But back to my story. So in Tokyo, after saying “No thanks” to all the nice Japanese resto spruikers along the way, I finally found a familiar logo that gave a semblance of comfort amidst all the nauseating confusion – Shakey’s. We went down to the dinky basement of this building and saw an 80’s version of Shakey’s – back when they were still in Magallanes... before they destroyed South Supermarket and the Magallanes Theater. Oh my gosh. The floors were slightly sticky and the pizza was extra greasy and smothered in obscene amounts of fake-tasting cheese. Oh the price you pay for that momentary comfort. Now I have to live with the memory of eating YUCKY Shakey’s in Japan. Not worth it.

But not everything is yucky about the first trimester of pregnancy. (Of course, there is that hope that you will get through it without getting severely dehydrated from vomiting or extremely malnourished from all the food aversions.) There is also that first moment when you get your 5 week scan and they show your baby looking very much like a grain of rice. The ultrasound technician pointed out the little white blotch that was supposed to be our baby. I squinted to aid my imagination. Nope. It still looked like a grain of rice. But it seemed like a mighty fine grain of rice.

The other good thing about it is the fact that your nutrition (poor or otherwise) will not necessarily negatively impact the development of your baby. I mean, I can only seriously eat bananas. Anything with bananas. Not that I am addicted to them. They’re just the only things I can eat. Bananas and candy. Lots and lots of candy. Which is extremely bad. But, like your alcoholic coming clean with his addiction, I did confess to my doctor that I cannot swallow veggies of any form, I cannot look at most meats (and things that used to bleat, moo, or cluck) and I cannot stand the smell of a lot of seasonings. I can only eat Bananas... and sweet junk food. My favourite dinner at the moment: Fruit Loops. My obstetrician non-chalantly said, “Eat whatever you can. Your calories have to come from somewhere. You’ll eat better when you’re in your second trimester.” Oh wow! It was like giving an 8 year-old license to operate machinery! But I guess that’s why she charges you $150 a visit. So you can feel good about feeling mostly YUCKY.

Another good thing is the love and concern you get from your hubby. Not that I didn’t get that before falling pregnant. I did. But oh, what levels they can soar to! Really. Andrew hunted for banana bread at around 9pm a couple of days ago because I didn’t want to have anything else for dinner. He also miraculously found me green mangoes in Australia (in the middle of winter too.). He bought 1.5 kilos of it, only to have me wolf down two whole ones in one go and end up sick afterwards. Needless to say, I didn’t have the stomach to eat the other 1.2 kilos of it.

He has also willingly taken over kitchen duties. (I did offer to wash dishes. But I told him I can’t stand the sight of leftover food on dishes.... so really, I can only wash non-dirty ones. Which, are all of course, already stowed away in our cupboard.) He has also been very understanding about ditching his cologne (which he just bought before our trip to Tokyo) and about having to eat his dinner away from me (sometimes even away from our house) because I can’t stand either smell.

And my most favourite thing of all out of the first trimester, is the 12-week scan. From the grain of rice, our baby has now turned into a little 6cm bean – complete with cranium, 2 arms, 2 legs, and a strong heart. When it was being probed, it kept on jumping and wriggling its arms in protest. There you go. Our baby won’t be a pushover. I slid into one of those Johnson’s Baby moments – where the mother goes into a semi-cry but the tear doesn’t leave the corner of her eye. Then the music cues in “Johnson’s Baby powder, ikaw lamang, wala nang iba...” I was so overwhelmed with love and joy at seeing our baby on the screen. It is real. It is happening.

The technician checked all of our little bean’s vital stats and at every step, declared, “That’s perfect.” (I know she was probably trained to say that to everyone.) But I just lay there with my mouth open. What a gorgeous thing it is to see such a miracle before my very eyes.

I am reminded on one of David’s Psalms. Psalm 139 where he declares to the Lord,

13 For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.

14 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.

15 My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,

16 your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me
were written in your book
before one of them came to be.

I look forward to each of those days the Lord had ordained for our Mochi. I look forward to meeting the Lord’s handiwork – fearfully and wonderfully made- when he/she finally pops out in February.

P.S.

(Yes, I nicknamed our baby Mochi because I love mochi and ate a whole box of it right about the time the baby was conceived.)

Public Disgrace

#252: Unacceptable Inability

This morning I went to my swimming class and attempted to do a decent freestyle.

Asians are not required to swim, really. Not when you spend most of your leisure time in shopping malls. Australians, on the other hand, seem to have swimming in their genes. They do not only have swimming as a natural talent, they actually have it programmed in their DNA. In between the G-T-A-C sequence the rest of humans have, Australians have an "S" for the Surely-I-Can-Swim-like-a-Sea-Creature Amino Acid. The point being: if you set foot in Australia, you better know how to swim. Because it is a public disgrace to drown.

For someone who passed her fourth grade swimming test in P.E. by faking proper breathing (that or my Phys ed teacher gave me a PASS to stop me as quickly as possible from making a fool of myself in the pool), this was a big step. Four weeks ago, I actually had to swallow any form of pride residing in my body (developed over 30 years of non-buoyancy) to start learning by blowing bubbles. After four weeks of torpedos and windmills and our instructor's voice ringing in my ears going "kick-kick-kick-kick-kick", I could say I might actually pass for someone who'd think swimming laps upon laps can actually be a non-traumatic exercise.

My instructor, after the 2nd week of lessons, told me that he thinks I have natural talent. (In art, yes. How did he know?) No, in swimming. He reckons I started too late and wasted what would've been a good swimming career - which then made my mind float to the golds that the Australian swimming team harvested during the recent Olympics. All that glory, missed. (Then again, I'm a Filipino citizen so I don't really count.) Last week, after he taught us the backstroke, he gave me this incredulous look, saying, that in his ten years of teaching adults how to swim, he's never encountered someone who can pick things up as quickly as I do. (Ah, if only I was like that with my Quantitative Methods class). Of course, I was wearing earplugs while he was telling me this. He could've been saying that in his ten years he has never seen anyone who can delude herself as quickly as I do. I wouldn't have known the difference.

Today, I bought a swim cap because my hair was getting in the way of proper breathing. If I'm going to be the next great hope for an Australian gold, I better start looking the part. I might even go for a swim again tomorrow. London Olympics, here I come.

Like a Mad Man

#251: 5 hours before V-Day

And so here I am like a madman, calling all restaurants for a possible booking for tomorrow night. As if the good restaurants will have a special provision for people who don't plan, don't think, or haven't really bothered until the last minute. "Ah, yes, Mrs. Peters. There is a table with a wonderful view- and that has good visibility from all restaurant staff, that we have set aside just for you."

Logically, Valentine's day shouldn't be stressful at all. But here I am, illogical and freaking out.

I was actually quite fortunate to have gotten a booking for accomodations for one night. (Secured just an hour ago, thank you.) On a night like this, all power shifts to suppliers and they could charge you $600 per night for a minimum of two nights without any hint of searing in their consciences. And so here I am, victorious in my quest for a sweet cabin in the countryside (supposedly perfect for crap weather like what we have now) but with nowhere to go for dinner on V-day. I swear we would end up at some convenience store in the middle of nowhere buying sandwiches and chips. Boo.

So what is the fuss about V-Day? I don't know. I just know that while I tell myself that it shouldn't really mean that much if you let your partner know that you love him/her daily, I still expect it to be some sort of heart-melting evening (involving flowers, candlelight... good food... and now that I'm married, a good bedtime snuggle.) Dumb female.

I also know that my teammate is flying to Melbourne with her partner and going to a French restaurant for V-Day dinner. I also know that our copywriter started dropping hints to her hubby last week about wanting something romantic for Valentine's and now they're going to some luxury eco-lodge somewhere in the South Coast. (I also know I can't get a stupid booking!!!!)

When I was in school, V-day always seemed to fall during one of the days of our college fair. There would be booths and rides but most prominent of all, there would be flower stalls - red roses everywhere, balloons and what-not. I now know how such careless pre-conditioning can wreak havoc in the adult mind. I might say they were exploiting us children then. (Or exploiting our future partners.)

So I still don't know where I seem to have gotten the obsession for a beautiful Valentine's day. Call me irrational, unreasonable, sappy... (go on, give it your best shot). But darn it if I spend my V-day at home watching some direct-to-TV movie.

Back to my mad restaurant hunt.

Look At Me!!!

#250: Look at ME!!!!

I am not sure but I think that at some point in the past three years, I might have acquired a heightened sense of sensitivity - discomfort, if I may be honest, around people who seem to believe that the world owes them massive degrees of attention. As someone who had been called "an expert in self-promotion" in a previous life, I feel a bit awkward (if not downright pretentious) expressing this now. I wonder if it's an indication that my level of confidence had diminished, or if it's a growing personal awareness that there are more worthy characters, bigger achievements, and more worthwhile causes deserving of attention. We cannot all be on the stage. There has to be an audience.

I recognize that we can all ask for attention. In fact, by our mere existence, we demand space - a self-shaped spot on this earth. The simplicity (or complexity, I leave that with you to decide) of modern-day technology actually makes it almost automatic for anyone to want to magnify one's self. Look at me on Facebook! Look at me at Multiply! Look at my friends - all 500 of them! Look at the work of my hands!!! Look at my food! The things I've bought! JUST LOOK AT MEEEEEE!!!!

The question now becomes, do we really think that what we have to offer is deserving of the world's notice? The growing insignificance of the things we share, coupled with the exponentially expanding ways by which we are able to announce our life's trivialities, has the inevitable effect of turning a large portion of the content we generate into... pure noise. As you can tell by the way I am using a public channel to air these thoughts, that I probably am no different to the same people I've grown quite amused to observe and wonder about. It makes me wonder what sort of environment encourages the amplification of self-absorption. Those darn 360-degree reviews must contribute to this as much as they claim to counter it. It's amazing the lengths one can go to beg for a measure of celebrity. I sometimes stare at someone and ask myself if I was exactly like that before... equally appalling, equally clueless. I wonder if I still am.

I have been blessed with a husband who always makes it a point to remind me,"Look at Christ." Nothing I can ever do in this world can ever claim significance in light of the surpassing greatness of Christ and what He had done for me. Nothing in my life can ever produce enough sparkle to warrant diverting glory from Christ, the Light and channelling it to me. My best & most useful occupation would be to reflect His Light and His glory. He must increase, and I, decrease.

I am certain that I will encounter many more struggles around the natural tendency to demand, "Look at me!" But as I go through these, I hope I'd always remember this song I learned as a child:

"Turn your eyes upon Jesus

Look full in His wonderful face

And the things of this earth will grow strangely dim

In the light of His Glory and Grace."

Of Usefulness

#249: And The Hefty Cost of Uselessness

Oh the joy of hearing the vacuum going... without actually touching it.

We have a cleaner who comes in fortnightly to quickly do a two-hour bit on our place. We don't live in a huge space so the idea of having a third person come in to "help" us out with our chores can be quite uncomfortable for some. What my husband values in privacy, I value in efficiency. Surely, we're flushing some money down the drain. I just can't be bothered to calculate it now.

As a Filipina who has had help around the house all her life, I feel that I need to go through a weaning phase. I think I am entitled to it. You can't undo 28 years of your life in one moment. (Or maybe you could - as the recent Financial Crisis had proven). I digress. Sometimes, when our place is messy (thanks to me), I call out, "Carmen" and imagine her stepping out of one of the cupboards to help me out. Andrew shakes his head. I give him a happy nod.

I've been comparing notes with some of my Filipino friends who will be coming home this Christmas and the things we look forward to are eerily similar - being treated like princes and princesses in our homes and being fed like we're on death row. Note the passive nature of these concepts. It gives a sense of being purely useless, yet at the receiving end of beautiful benefits. (Makes you wonder how many corporations embrace this thinking in filling upper management positions.) Scarier still is pondering on the proportion of the Philippine population living with this mentality.

Ah, entitlement. The poisonous delusion that we deserve the fruits of someone else's labour. Bill and Melinda Gates had announced that most of their $85 billion wealth will be donated to charity - never to be seen by their 3 children. That would be a crime in the Philippines. Inherited wealth is the foundation of our political and commercial dynasties. Perish the thought of letting our children create value from their hands and sweat. The rich do not need to have their precious fingers come into contact with work. The poor have come to accept that value through usefulness is beyond the reach of their hands. And so in glorious uselessness, they wait for it outside the gates of Eat Bulaga, Wowowee or Western Union.

Life in an economically progressive society has its own set of injustices and inequities. However, it seems that it is not so deep as the injustice experienced by a Filipino housemaid who does everything from washing your clothes to cleaning your house & cooking your food for a measly $100/month, while her Western counterpart earns that in just 3 hours of half-hearted vacuuming.

There you go. I've just calculated the cost of my shameful sense of entitlement.

I Like Eggs

#248: Among Other Things

In my bowl of ramen, I always eat the egg last. I have this habit - some might say 'philosophy' (but that would be extreme. As if egg-eating needed any philosophy) of saving the best for last. I want the last bite, last slurp, last gulp to be the best one. And I want to walk away with that savoury, soft, chalky feel in my mouth. Sometimes, after doing this, I close my eyes... and Vanessa Williams sings - in a very affirming way - "You went and saved the best for last."

Of course, I start with my supposed "comeback" entry with rubbish. That's how it should be. Set expectations low.... then massively over-achieve. That should blow everyone's pants off. Or should I have said, "socks?"

Siva (or Seeva, or Sivah) of NCIS has the misfortune of being the character that can't get her idiomatic expressions right. She's a smart girl. But because of her non-American background, she ends up mangling a lot of those figurative expressions. (Smart cookie, you might say. Or smart biscuit, she'd counter.) And so sometimes, she sounds like an idiot. Or in the rare instance that she actually comes up with something a bit more clever or sensible than the actual idiom, they have a character (Tony) that sets her straight so she can learn the proper way to sound...uhm... American. (I guess we can't have all these immigrants sounding more intelligent than the locals.)

I've learnt to keep my mouth shut whenever I hear someone being a smart*ss. It's hard because I am always tempted to reclaim that role. But I often feel Siva-ish. I understand the context. I have a funny comeback in my head... but I can't translate it quick enough so that it makes sense in English. Or I can force it to make sense... but I fear that the form will be pretty poor. (How many times have we laughed at poor Inday and her love for disfiguring otherwise straightforward phrases?)

And so I sit and wait for the timing to be right. For the opening to be right. For the mood to be right. Then I will throw a clever comeback. Just you wait and see. Siva will get to her egg. She's just sorting out the ramen.

Storyboard

#247: Pre-prod

Glimpses. Disjointed images. Fast-forwarding, slow-moving, fading, re-surfacing. Pausing. Piercing. Squinting. Seeking. Blurring surroundings. Expanding. Contracting. Constructing. Evolving. Certainly uncertainties. Definite maybes. Unfolding possibilities. Closing in. Zooming out. Zoning out. And about.

Weekend's Over

#246: What have you done?

It's Sunday afternoon, Andrew is away playing soccer and I'm at home filling my time with little bits and pieces of things I have to do but have never really gotten around to properly starting. There's checking out car dealers for the looming purchase, there's reviewing for the driver's test I have to take, there's preparing my dress for tomorrow's Grammy Awards luncheon (nothing flash - an old dress that hopefully still fits), there's preparing for the new hire who's arriving tomorrow (who will most likely be taller than I am, looking more like my boss than my subordinate), there's vacuuming, there's wrapping my head around a presentation for this huge sales conference next month... LOTS. Ask me what I've accomplished. NOT LOTS. I did vacuum though. And throughout Mika's "Happy Ending" song, I was able to organize my thoughts for the sales conference presentation. But as for the immediate stuff which will determine if my next few days will be miserable or smooth, well, those will have to wait till I snap out of the denial stage.

I wake up in teardrops, they fall down like rain.

Well, that's what Rascal Flatts are singing right now in the background but reality is mostly just waking up tired after dreaming of all the things I have to do but haven't done. And coming home in tears because yet again, it rained while I was waiting for the bus to arrive.

I need longer weekends. And sunnier days.

The Beef

#245: Two All-Beef Patties, Special Sauce, Lettuce, Cheese

Here's my issue: I don't think I recognize myself anymore. I have this gnawing fear that I have turned into someone I can't readily accept. I wrote about feeling like the barest version of myself sometime back. From that time, the hope would always be that I'd be able to go back to being my vivaglam self again. It would be easy. I just needed to get a job and start working again. Work = pay = flexibility = vivaglam.

But flexibility is driven by more than just access to financial resources. I have started earning again. But access to financial resources does not guarantee the availability of options. I could get a car... but I cannot drive on the left side of the road. I have the resources to buy non-grubby-student-looking clothes... but most of the clothes here are designed for the Australian woman's body shape, (not to mention ridiculously priced). And so I continue to use the clothes I purchased in the Philippines. Looking dated seemed like a less painful option versus looking like I'm wearing a circus tent. And I continue to chase after buses that are late or wait for the ones that won't ever come.

I want to wear heels again. Wear them without worrying about how they will fit into my bus-chasing agenda. (Or how they'll fit inside my bag after work hours, when I change into slippers again to walk hundreds and hundreds of meters to the next stop.)

I want to be funny again. Feel free to let out a cackle without worrying if people are actually laughing AT me instead of WITH me because I look disheveled/sweaty/soaking wet (it's the rain, dang it! I commute! I am exposed to the elements! Now stop staring.)

If you read my name backwards, it says "Sydalg." I know I'm just being cruel to myself but as I say that, I'm hearing, "In SYDney, you're a DAG (dag = baduy)." ACK! I want to feel like I "own"MY Vivaglam name again. I want to feel like the daily grind can be glammed up and the glam can be effortlessly worn throughout the day.

I'm most likely sounding quite shallow and a bit deranged now. My husband doesn't fall short in picking me up or dropping me off to work whenever possible. And he doesn't fail to let me know that he thinks I'm beautiful. I have no reason to really feel this way (i.e., feel crap)... but I guess I need to get to a point wherein I could look at the mirror and see for myself the same person my husband sees. See the Vivaglam girl he once met - the one with the special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles and onions on a sesame seed bun.

(Then again, McDonald's is considered daggy here in Sydney.)

Unit 8 Cook Rd

#244: In This White Room

In this white room is freedom
from screams and broken dreams
smiles with broken teeth
staccato-ed sleep

Within these white walls, promise
of a sky without end
feathers for slumber
flouride water

On these cocoa floors are roots
for growing and knowing
the breadth of embrace
the depth of hope.

Laws of Attraction

#243: 5 and 8

I was able to watch two documentaries on National Geographic on two different but related topics. I will not go over them because that is why you have your own cable subscriptions; but I'd like to lift out a line that intrigued me from those two. Both stated something to this effect: Between the ages of 5 and 8, we build an idea or a picture of the kind of person we are attracted to and we carry that through most of our lives - assessing potential partners through that lens. It's almost as if we've created our own laws of attraction in those ages we were losing our milk teeth or learning to ride bikes.

What do you think of this? If you look at that period in your life, are there indicators that you were already being shaped or influenced to like a particular type of person from the opposite sex?

Pieces Falling

#242: Into Place

Today is a very PRODUCTIVE day. I emphasize 'productive' because when you're done being a student and you don't have a job, and you don't have a visa to stay in the country where you're supposed to reside with your future husband, you try to squeeze the most out of the only thing that allows you to see RESULTS. The wedding.

Today I met with Mary-Sean of DreamWorkers. She's an answered prayer. I'm very iffy with the thought of handing over a big wad of cash to a stranger who'll do most of the work on that single day that cannot be repeated nor forgotten. If it turns out disastrous, a stranger will say, "Eek. A nasty blog entry and poor supplier review are on their way. Oh well." A friend on the other hand, will be very careful about the prints she leaves on your special day. And if it doesn't turn out as nicely as intended, her handprints will still carry the value poured by a well-meaning friend.

Mary-Sean has a been a friend since 6th grade. She set up an events planning business in 2003 with some of her friends. When I talked to her in July, she told me that they were already booked for October. However, I got an excited SMS last week saying that at the last minute, the other bride postponed her wedding, freeing her up to handle my wedding! The heavens opened and a host of angels sang, "Hallelujah" in flawless falsettos.

What use is a wedding day coordinator anyway? Well, when you're a bride 1.5 months away from your wedding date, you've practically used up all the 'goodwill' from nice friends who had been helping you out earlier with supplier hunts and payment arrangements. And you've basically soaked up all you can with regard to preparations. Wedding details are pouring out of your ears and nostrils. You get sick of trying to remember what else you've forgotten as you go through the 25th wedding checklist that came free with the 25 wedding magazines you purchased to get ready for this day. And so you're ready to turn over the responsibility to another person who'll do the anxious checking and re-checking for you as you content yourself with just preparing your heart to say "I do."

A wedding coordinator is also invaluable when your maid of honor is missing in action and all your bridesmaids have full-time jobs that pay them good money to stay away from unofficial business (i.e., wedding-fussing for a personal friend). Ah, wedding day coordinators are such cool inventions. :)

Along with having Mary-Sean fall on my lap, here are some more things falling into place:

Elements of our invitation.

The tedious process of calligraphy, sealing and shipping.

Charming table set-up by Pido Villanueva!

More Pido charm! (Aren't event stylists fab?)

Mary-Sean Felongco of DreamWorkers in pink. I'm in good trustworthy hands.

Bambi de la Cruz, make-up artist for the entourage. They're in good talented hands.

Are we excited yet???

Try and Try

#241: Trial Make-up

I am faithful to my hairstylists. My hair is a bit strange so it takes a really talented person to make it look nice. If you cut it the wrong way, waves go in weird directions and looking normal becomes a daily struggle for me. Now, most hairstylists here in the Philippines can also do make-up. Not all will be good but majority will be quite capable.

If other brides already know what kind of dress they'll wear from the word, "Yes" (like, "will you marry me?" "Yes!"), I already knew who I wanted to have for my hair and make-up. I could be wearing rags for all I care. I just needed to have nice hair.

And so I booked Ms. Sydney. She did my eye make-up once (because she was so fascinated with how well I carried the new cut she gave me) and I just felt fabulous walking out of the salon that time. That sealed the deal for me.... which, on retrospect, was a bit short-sighted and shallow on my end. It's like choosing a shoe because it fits your right big toe.

I did my trial hair and make-up with her last June and because I trusted her too much, I basically gave her free reign on what to do with my look. She gave me 6 hairstyles and told me that for my make-up, she was going to do this: (pointing to Angelina Jolie's almost bare face on the front cover of a magazine.) Good choice. I like the au naturel look. While she was putting on my make-up, I basically gave her all my bargaining chips. I told her that I'm considering no one else but her to do my hair and make-up... and that if she gives birth on the day of my wedding (she's due late October, early November), I'll cry. Little did I know that I'd want to cry a lot sooner.

She finished off my make-up with a bright pink lipstick and a glassy lip gloss. I looked at the mirror and swallowed hard. Hello Japayuki version of myself!

It took my parents, my friends and my fiance to convince me to abandon that option.

"Yes, we know you love her, Gladys but you can't look like that on your wedding day!!!"

Well, to be honest, I don't know if I can look like that any day! (Except on the day I decide to make a career change and fly off to Japan to be a Yuki.)

Left: Japayu-Me Right: Just Me

I called the other person who had been doing my hair before Ms. Sydney. (I lost track of her at some point because she just kept jumping salons.) Thank goodness her number was still in my old SIM. Her name is Rita and my trial hair & make-up with her was a lot better. She gave me just two hairstyles but at least, she captured my coloring better, she didn't change the shape of my eyes, and I walked out of the salon looking like I'm just a better version of myself. Ah, finally, a stylist who gets my make-up philosophy.

Me? Make-up? No, I just woke up gorgeous!

Marrying a Foreigner (Part 2)

#240: The Marriage License Saga Continues

Step 5

a. Go to the DFA on the stated date.

b. Try to go through the same gate you went through before because you remember seeing a releasing window just near that gate. The security guards will stop you. They will say that you should go through Gate 3.

c. Ask where Gate 3 is and expect a clear answer. You will not get it. You will get the usual Pinoy, "dun lang sa kabila" with the pointed lips.

d. Find 3-5 more people along the way to ask: Where is Gate 3?

e. Resist the urge to join queues before finding out what they are for - even when you are practically being dragged by 2 girls (who, on retrospect, obviously look like fixers) to join the game, "longest line."

f. A stranger will pop out of nowhere to tell you where Gate 3 is. Do not get freaked out. You will want to wonder whether he is an angel or he's a freak who has been following you since the guards kicked you out of Gate 1. Forget it. No time to wonder in the Philippine noonday heat when you have a whole afternoon of inefficiency waiting.

g. The first gate on your left, which above-mentioned stranger points you to, is not Gate 3. The next gate after that is not Gate 3 either. Just try out all the gates. The gate you will NOT try getting into is Gate 3.

h. There are 3 signs for 3 lines for 3 "need types." You will find one that matches your need: Release of authenticated documents. Foolishly join the queue without asking the all-knowing security guard.

i. Wait for 20 minutes without reason except that the guy before you in line told you to just wait there.

j. Become impatient at the wanton killing of your braincells as you stand in the pointless line without knowing what to expect. Weave your way to the front to ask the guard one silly question: Where do I go with this receipt for the release of my authenticated document? The guard will tell you to go straight in and head towards the end of the building.

k. You will choose between relief and disbelief. It doesn't matter. No one cares.

l. Go to the end where you will find the releasing window. It is exactly where you thought it would be - 15 meters from Gate 1 if the guards just let you through in item b. Tough luck. They had been briefed that the best way to serve the Filipino people is to make them needlessly walk 1.5 kms to the farthest gate under the blistering sun.

m. The person at the releasing window will get your receipt and tell you to sit with the rest of the world until your name is called. Think of raindrops, roses and blue satin sashes. Or not. Call your printer to check if he can deliver the invites this week. Call your dressmaker to see if she will still make time to meet with you after you've paid for the project in full. Think of all the people you need to harass and then just call, call, call.

n. When they call your name, proceed to the window. You will realize that they have made a mistake on your document. Window girl now is trying to quickly write a note on the side to instruct someone to correct their mistake. She will not explain anything to you. There will be no apologies. She will carry on like it was part of the regular process to botch up the simple job. She will point you to an area for Corrections. That's when you should realize she just sentenced you to 2.5 hours of mindless waiting as a price for their incompetence.

o. Of course it's already 5 mins to 12nn. The guard informs you that the person will be back at 1:30pm. I don't know when government offices started having 1.5 hour lunches but here is proof. You can wail. If you choose this option, call a friend to wail to so that people around you don't think you should be carried off to the mental hospital. I called Cathy. Let me know if you want her number. You can also choose to just quietly sulk. You realize after all that it is useless to resist. You cannot rage against the machine. (And all the 90's cliches that you can think of.)

p. After 1.5 hours of waiting, the girl will look at the "note" Window Girl wrote and tell you to wait. You recognize the admission on her face that it was their office's mistake. In that split-second, you can say, "Ha!" Or not.

q. Your document will be released 45 minutes after.

Step 6

a. Go back to your City Hall. By this time, the people know you already. "Oh, she's the one marrying a foreigner."

b. Girl-behind-desk looks at your document and tells you to get it notarized. You ask where. She said another girl will give you directions where to go.

c. Direction Girl will tell you to go around the corner.
Where?
Just around the corner.
Where?
Just there. (Pointing with her lips.)
Does the place have a name?
Sta. Lucia Building.
Does the office have a name?
Unit 101.
(Could you have told me Unit 101, Sta Lucia Bldg, 1st corner to your left after you leave the gate EARLIER?)

d. Go back to Girl-behind-desk. She will give you a little sheet of paper on which she wrote: Php150.00. She will also tell you to go to the cashier then find a photocopying machine and make a copy of the receipt. (Why couldn't she have told me to do this EARLIER so that I could have just done those things immediately after the notarization without having to go back to her?)

e. Pay. Photocopy. Run to girl-behind-desk.

f. She finally writes a release date on your receipt - 10 days after submission. You can breathe now. Or you can wait for whatever surprise they may still have for you in 10 days.

Marrying a Foreigner

#239: Steps in Getting a Marriage License

Step 1
a. Go to your city hall alone. With all documents proving that you exist in this world and that neither of you are married.

b. Expect to be able to finish the whole process in an hour max.

c. Look for proper signs to find the right window. That's your first mistake. There are no signs, silly.

d. Ask the first person you see. Of course, that first person doesn't have a clue.

e. Go to the cigarette and Storck candy vendor who practically lives in the city hall. Ah, there you go. At least someone knows something around here.

f. Go through an unlabelled door as instructed by the ciggy vendor.

g. Ask the first person you see. Of course that first person is not the person you need. She will point you to another person.

h. Second person who sits behind a desk welcomes you. You answer her when she asks what you need. "Marriage License." She nods. But don't be fooled. She will refer you to another person who is the real person you need.

i. Wait for 10 minutes to talk to the third person in an air-conditioned room.

j. Explain your needs, desires, situation. She will nod. Again, do not be fooled. She doesn't really know what you're talking about. She mumbles a couple of things and refers you back to the 2nd person behind the desk.

k. You leave her office and go back to the 2nd person. She hands you a 1.5 x 1.5 inch of paper which has the list of things you need to submit to complete the application. You encounter a problem with the "Personal Appearance" bit because your fiance is a foreigner and he is not around. She tells you to go back into the office to explain again to the 3rd girl.

l. You go back and explain as if you were talking to a 5-year old. She finally understands. She gives you instructions to go back to the foreign country with the application form, have your fiance fill that out and sign it in front of the Philippine consul.

m. You ask where the application form is. Of course it's not with her. It's with the 2nd girl behind the desk, outside of her office.

Step 2
a. Go to the Philippine Consulate in Sydney

b. Explain the situation and the solution that you want from them. Of course, the person doesn't have a clue as to what you're talking about. She asks you what solution you want again.

c. Explain more slowly and use referent power. Say you were told by a person from your city hall back in the Philippines (who has an air-conditioned office, by the way) to do exactly the same thing you're doing now. She will give you a confused look. At this point, you should no longer be surprised.

d. Wait till it dawns on her to ask a more knowledgeable person. The more knowledgeable person of course, is on a break. It is after all, 11am. Right after the 10am morning tea and right before 12noon lunch. We wouldn't want that knowledgeable person to get overworked or hungry, right?

e. When knowledgeable person arrives and tells her that of course, that process can be done, breathe a sigh of relief. But not for long. Because you will then be asked to pay AUD 50.00 for a stupid stamp and signature on the marriage license application. It is useful to note that at this point, they don't even personally LOOK at your fiance for it to actually be considered "Personal Appearance" before the consul.

f. Come back on the same day at around 4pm to pick up the signed form. At this point you realize that you didn't even get the consul's signature. You get the lowly vice-consul's signature for your AUD 50.00. Where is the consul, you ask? I don't know. It is after all, 4 p.m. Right after the 3pm afternoon tea, and before the 5pm end of the workday. He might be needing his rest.

Step 3
a. Fly back to your home country with the signed and stamped documents.

b. Feel confident that you will finally get the marriage license. Allocate 30 minutes tops to get the document out. Of course, that is foolish. But you don't know that yet at this point.

c. Go through unlabelled door in the same city hall. You can try to bypass girl 1 by the door because you already know she's useless but she stops you to ask where you're going.

d. Tell her that you're applying for a marriage license. She will then point you to the same girl behind the desk that you encountered a month before.

e. Girl-behind-the-desk (a.k.a. 2nd girl) will ask you what you need. Proudly show her the stamps and signatures you got from the Philippine Consulate in your fiance's home country. She will look at them but she will not comprehend. She will tell you to wait until Girl-in-the-office finishes her "meeting."

f. Sit quietly wondering why this system is so inefficient. If you keep at it long enough, you can ask enough Why's to wonder why the earth has to rely on the sun for sustenance. Of course you have to stop at some point to comprehend that another couple has arrived and is getting incrementally better treatment because they apparently know girl-behind-desk. Just wait on and dream about life outside of the Philippines. Girl-behind-desk will eventually realize that she has to accompany you to her boss's office because in truth, the ongoing "meeting" isn't actually official business.

g. Girl-in-the-office will tell you that you don't have authentication by the Department of Foreign Affairs. You will wonder where that appears in the little 1.5x1.5 inch requirements list they gave you the month before. Stop wondering. She will say that she told you to do it. You will wonder whether she really said it and you just didn't hear or she really forgot to tell you about it. Stop wondering. She will tell you that you just didn't hear her the first time.

h. Ask what you should do next. She assures you that it's a quick process. You can believe her. Or you can be smart and know better.

Step 4
a. Go to DFA along Roxas Blvd.

b. Expect the process to be over in an hour max. You fool, you never learn, do you?

c. Look for the signs. Of course, they will not be intelligible. You can choose to make sense of them. Or you can do the smart thing and ask person 1. Now we know that Person 1 doesn't know. All Person 1's DO NOT KNOW.

d. Find someone who looks like they live in the place. Security guards are a good bet. The security guard will get whatever paper you're holding, look at it with puzzlement, then after a minute, tell you to go towards the right. Where right? No one knows. If you stay and observe, he will actually tell everyone to go towards his right. Resist the urge to wonder why they just don't replace him with an arrow.

e. Try to get a pink form from the 1st person in the Pink Form booth. Of course that person will refer you to person 2 beside him. Person 2 will have the forms. You ask in your head why person 1 can't just hand those out. No one knows.

f. Fill up your Pink Form on the first bench nearest to the door with the two heavily-armed guards. There are no signs, but that is where the queue starts. I made the mistake of filling up my form quickly and walking over to the door they were "guarding." I got told to sit and wait on the first bench nearest the door. Now we know that the "Useless First" rule applies to government people but not to government benches.

g. After waiting for 20 minutes walking across the bench with your butt, you will be directed by the heavily-armed guards to go to the processing window. There are several of them but apparently, you cannot use your head to choose which line seems shortest based on the number of forms people in the queue are carrying. The guards have decided that the better way to do it us to just count the heads in line and dictate where you should go. This system will ensure that you will be stuck in a non-moving line where the person before you will have 20 forms for processing while other windows spit out heads at the rate of a machine gun.

h. Resist the urge to scream. Think happy thoughts. Think about how you will leave this country's government agencies soon.

i. Smile as you are told that authentication of documents in the Philippines takes 4 working days. Hide the disbelief or scorn. Try to understand that maybe stamping here requires that each person carve out his own stamp out of a block of wood that he has to personally cut from the Philippine rainforest. And that doesn't include the stamping ink which they have to personally harvest from squid farms in the Philippine Sea. These processes take time. Remember that this is not a fastfood chain.

j. Blog about the ordeal while waiting to get the document you have to have before you proceed to bloody Step 5.

To be continued....

Finishing Well

#238: A Chapter Ends

I officially completed all the requirements of my MBA last July 6. The end of this chapter of my life wasn't marked by fireworks or grand displays of cheer. I walked out quietly with Andrew from the AGSM building as the MBA Class of 2008 enjoyed their drinks with one of my favorite professors. These weren't the people I took my degree with. I couldn't celebrate with them, nor they with me. The Class of 2007 are all over the world now, carried off by promises of a brighter future - thanks to their spanking new MBA degrees. They all left when I was away at Kellogg playing the outsider to MBA graduates who were ending their program with strings of parties and grand displays of cheer.

If I had the choice, I would finish things off with a bang. It is important for me to finish well. But I guess finishing well doesn't always mean finishing with sparks and great fanfare. Andrew took me to Maroubra beach where we prayed under the stars. It was important for me to recall how the Lord has been so gracious to me the past 18 months.

In the course of my MBA,
* I was granted a scholarship (and had my name etched in one of the glass panels in the building)
* I was elected President of the Marketing club
* I was chosen to be an ambassador for the school and was sent to Jakarta, Hong Kong and Manila to talk about AGSM
* I was chosen to appear in several ads for the campaign AGSM launched
* I was selected by J&J to be sent to Florida for a weekend of interviews and indoctrination, receiving two job offers as early as November as a result of that
* I was chosen to be part of AGSM's consulting team sent to work with Nestle Australia
* I had the opportunity to take my internship with Nestle Australia's Corporate Strategy group
* I was selected to go on exchange at Kellogg School of Management in Illinois
* I was appointed Student Representative for all the exchange students from around the world during my term at Kellogg
* I was also one of the recipients of the AGSM Alumni Management Project Prize for the work we did with Nestle
* I finished with an A average.

I was not the smartest in my class, nor the most deserving of these things but it was as if He cherry-picked key opportunities for me to have and experience. It was His grace upon my life that allowed me to excel. I could not have designed my MBA in a better way.

This chapter ended with a prayer of thanksgiving - the quiet rejoicing of a heart filled with gratitude for finishing well.

Chinese Invasion

#237: Wit's End

Excuse me, can I just complain?

I'm trying to study for my last two final exams - the two last things that stand in the way of pure freedom. The problem is, our apartment, over the past few critical days, has turned into Party Central. And not only does my flatmate have guests at our apartment multiple times during the day (and night), she also invites them to come in groups of 3 or more as if there was a volume discount to be had. Worse is that they all speak in a language I can't understand. People talking loudly and simultaneously while you're trying to study or trying to recover from sleep deprivation (because of all the studying) is annoying in and of itself. Have everything done in Chinese and I am feeling like kung-fu fighting.

As much sentimentality as I am able to muster about leaving Illinois and the whole Kellogg experience, I am not capable of feeling sad about leaving our dismal apartment. Goodbye smelly kitchen with dirty stoves, unwashed pans and half-eaten food/weird ingredients on the counters! Goodbye toilet that doesn't stay clean with strangely-colored stains and unwrapped used napkins in the bin for all the world to see! Goodbye wet bathroom floors caused by someone who seems to like jumping out of the shower in mid-shower and deliberately missing the absorbent floor mat!

Wont miss this for sure.

It was an interesting arrangement which tested my patience, challenged my self-control and brought out the little neat freak lodged inside of me. I am now more appreciative of Monica (my flatmate in Sydney) and very repentant of my previous apartment sins (less grave than these, I promise you, but probably as annoying to neat Monica as these were to me). I'd also like to say that I'm very happy that my future husband/lifetime roommate does not have to use sanitary napkins nor does he come from mainland China. I don't want to have to live like this ever again.

Diesel

#236: Says Goodbye

Wow. I'm almost done with my term here in Kellogg. The countdown timer that told me some time back that I had 89 long days to go before I head home now says I have 9 days.



And for some reason, I'm starting to see people, courses, and activities in a different light. It's weird that such overwhelming appreciation is hitting me this late in the term. Gloria, my Kellogg guide/buddy, said that maybe I'm just so happy to be going home that everything is being colored by that joy. Maybe. But I sometimes wonder if I'm naturally predisposed to being critical of things at the beginning, hence it takes a lot and a long time for me to completely give things a chance. Unfortunately, by the time my walls thaw, it's time to move on again. Maybe I'm like diesel. It takes a bit longer to warm me up.

Today, my Marketing Channel Strategies group and I gave a great presentation in class. To be able to get to that point, I had to go through a lot of stressing over many weeks about the level of commitment (or absence thereof) that some group members had been demonstrating. Yesterday, for some reason, we had a really good group meeting for a change. We got things done and then we capped it off by going out to dinner together. It was the first time I was seeing my two groupmates as people with stories rather than just team members with work requirements to deliver.



I've also started attending activities being organized by the bazillions of student clubs they have here. I attended this optional talk on Business Leadership the other day vs. locking myself up in a group meeting because I realized that heck, what's another group meeting compared to hearing one of their 'celebrity professors' here give a talk on something practical and usable for the rest of your working life? A few days ago, I went to this Comedy Club with a bunch of strangers from my dorm who 'won' slots to see the show on subsidized tickets... and I ended up meeting for the first real time, some nice folks whom I'd regularly see in some of my classes but never really bothered to say 'hello' to.



I've also started going to cafes and restaurants around my dorm that I've ignored over the past 9 weeks in favor of my pile of course readings. My frozen meals remain untouched in our fridge because I'm realizing, "hey, I only have 10,9,8 days to make sure I leave with a real 'taste' of Evanston. Why should I eat another one of these meals that I've repeatedly consumed over the past 9 weeks of the term.?"

Today, in my Negotiations class, the professor capped our last session with an awards ceremony. Classmates voted for each other for these awards and as the 'sometimes-anti-social' (or maybe 'sometimes-socially-awkward') exchange student, I didn't really expect anyone to vote for me. But in a class of 36, I ended up being voted for two awards. I thanked the professor personally for conducting the best course in my Kellogg experience. People congratulated each other, exchanged goodbyes and thanks.



Come to think of it, it may just be the natural perspective that the end brings. Maybe that's the most logical explanation for why I seem to always start seeing reasons for staying in companies right after I've made my decision to leave; for why the value of relationships with people I'm leaving seem to hit me with the greatest impact after I've told myself that I'm ready to go. The finality of it all - the possibility of not having further opportunities to excel, experience, extend one's self to others after a specific point - is a strong motivator to seize what you can while you still can.

Maybe this phase isn't so unique after all. Maybe it's just what happens when humans say goodbye.

Global Statistics

#235: On Uppers

We take up similar stuff in my International Business Strategy in Non-Market Environments class but our prof can't do it like Prof. Hans Rosling. You gotta love this guy. (Or whatever he's taking.)

Manna

#234: What is it?

Exodus 16 gives us an account of the 15th day of the Israelites' second month out of Egypt as they arrived in the Desert of Sin. They started grumbling about not having enough to eat, to the point of saying that they would have preferred to have died in slavery in Egypt where pots of meat and food surrounded them than to be led to the desert where they were free to starve. Immediately, the Lord answers.

4 Then the LORD said to Moses, "I will rain down bread from heaven for you. The people are to go out each day and gather enough for that day. In this way I will test them and see whether they will follow my instructions. 5 On the sixth day they are to prepare what they bring in, and that is to be twice as much as they gather on the other days."

6 So Moses and Aaron said to all the Israelites, "In the evening you will know that it was the LORD who brought you out of Egypt, 7 and in the morning you will see the glory of the LORD, because he has heard your grumbling against him. Who are we, that you should grumble against us?" 8 Moses also said, "You will know that it was the LORD when he gives you meat to eat in the evening and all the bread you want in the morning, because he has heard your grumbling against him. Who are we? You are not grumbling against us, but against the LORD."

9 Then Moses told Aaron, "Say to the entire Israelite community, 'Come before the LORD, for he has heard your grumbling.' "

10 While Aaron was speaking to the whole Israelite community, they looked toward the desert, and there was the glory of the LORD appearing in the cloud.

11 The LORD said to Moses, 12 "I have heard the grumbling of the Israelites. Tell them, 'At twilight you will eat meat, and in the morning you will be filled with bread. Then you will know that I am the LORD your God.' "

13 That evening quail came and covered the camp, and in the morning there was a layer of dew around the camp. 14 When the dew was gone, thin flakes like frost on the ground appeared on the desert floor. 15 When the Israelites saw it, they said to each other, "What is it?" For they did not know what it was.
Moses said to them, "It is the bread the LORD has given you to eat. 16 This is what the LORD has commanded: 'Each one is to gather as much as he needs. Take an omer for each person you have in your tent.' "

17 The Israelites did as they were told; some gathered much, some little. 18 And when they measured it by the omer, he who gathered much did not have too much, and he who gathered little did not have too little. Each one gathered as much as he needed.

19 Then Moses said to them, "No one is to keep any of it until morning."

20 However, some of them paid no attention to Moses; they kept part of it until morning, but it was full of maggots and began to smell. So Moses was angry with them.

21 Each morning everyone gathered as much as he needed, and when the sun grew hot, it melted away. 22 On the sixth day, they gathered twice as much—two omers for each person—and the leaders of the community came and reported this to Moses. 23 He said to them, "This is what the LORD commanded: 'Tomorrow is to be a day of rest, a holy Sabbath to the LORD. So bake what you want to bake and boil what you want to boil. Save whatever is left and keep it until morning.' "

24 So they saved it until morning, as Moses commanded, and it did not stink or get maggots in it. 25 "Eat it today," Moses said, "because today is a Sabbath to the LORD. You will not find any of it on the ground today. 26 Six days you are to gather it, but on the seventh day, the Sabbath, there will not be any."

27 Nevertheless, some of the people went out on the seventh day to gather it, but they found none. 28 Then the LORD said to Moses, "How long will you refuse to keep my commands and my instructions? 29 Bear in mind that the LORD has given you the Sabbath; that is why on the sixth day he gives you bread for two days. Everyone is to stay where he is on the seventh day; no one is to go out." 30 So the people rested on the seventh day.

31 The people of Israel called the bread manna. It was white like coriander seed and tasted like wafers made with honey.

The Lord reminded me of the word, "manna" the other day as I was thinking of the things I needed to bring before the Lord. There is the issue of the visa for residency in Australia; there is the need for clarity on my employment after my MBA; there is the desire to finally go home - wherever home may be, after close to 3 months of displacement; there is the need for certainty on where I'll be between the time I finish my studies and the time I get married. Will I be sent home to Manila? Will I be allowed to stay in Sydney so I can have a bit more negotiating power with prospective employers? Will I need to be unemployed for a long time while the papers are getting processed? Is it really four to six months of processing? Of course, when I start making a laundry list of things I lack or things I need, I easily get sucked into stressing about how to address them... which leads to anxiety - which the Lord warns us against in Matthew 6.

25"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? 26Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?

28"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 30If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? 31So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' 32For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. 33But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. 34Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Just a few verses before that, in the same chapter, Jesus teaches us how to pray. One of the lines says:

11Give us today our daily bread.

For many days now, I've been praying, "What is it? What is it Lord, that you want me to do? It's surprising to discover (or at least re-discover) that "manna" in Hebrew is literally translated, "What is it?" Manna confused the Israelites. It was provision, but they could not comprehend what it was. It was bread from heaven, food from the hand of God. I didn't know that as I was asking the Lord for answers to my never-ending list of supplication, the Lord was in essence, bringing me face to face with the simple yet powerful truth that He is the giver of our daily bread. I was asking for my bread. I would say, in words borrowed from just a few verses down in Matthew 7,

9"Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? 10Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? 11If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!"

"Lord, you wouldn't give me stone, will you? If we who are evil know how to give good gifts to our children, how much more will you, My Father, give good gifts to your child who is asking from You now?"

The problem is, I was focusing too much on the bread. I overlooked the importance of the Person who promised to give it, the timing by which He gives it, and His intention for giving it on a daily basis rather than as a lump-sum.

Going back to Exodus, we see specific instructions from the Lord to gather manna that was just enough for the day. The Lord wanted them to obey as a manifestation of their trust in Him - trust that He will provide for them, that this provision will be enough, and that He will provide daily. Those who violated His instructions by finding ways around them were shown their foolishness in the form of maggots which literally spoiled their schemes. What He really wants is to drive home the point: He wanted them to trust Him and obey.

When I ask for my bread, here is His answer: Obey. Obey His command not to worry about my life. Obey His command to seek first His kingdom and His righteousness... and all these things will be added unto me. Obey to take one day at a time, daily trusting Him for my sweet manna.

One for the Bulls

#233: Chicago Bulls' First Win in the Playoffs

I was picked up form my apartment Sunday afternoon, driven to United Center, given my free ticket for a seat that was so close to the court that I had no excuse not to pay attention, and ushered to a spectacle that was bigger than the game being played. Here are the pics.

01: This scoreboard is so fancy, it's easy to keep your eyes fixed on it instead of watching the game itself.



02: The whistle blows and I take that as my cue to get my picture taken before people at the back start throwing popcorn and beer cans at me for blocking their view.


03: The jump ball. This is where Detroit Pistons' defeat began.


04: Benny the Bull in one of his many forms. Seems like some marketers got carried away in creating someone who can be bigger than Michael Jordan among the Chicago Bulls.


05: Their timeouts always have intermission numbers . Apparently, Americans need to be entertained at every possible point - even when they're just sitting through a 30-second break. And so they start bringing out the freaks. Here is Dancing Granny who's giving the Pussycat Dolls a run for their money.


06: Age wasn't enough to entertain so they got America's biggest preventable problem and turned it into a dance number. Here are the Matadors showing us that obesity makes for a good show.


07: And what will a basketball game be without perky cheerleaders? Here are the LuvaBulls keeping the guys from focusing too much on their beer and their chips during intermission.


08: Thanks to all the heart-thumping music, the tantalizing visuals, the ridiculous marketing gimmicks and the unbelievable freak shows, the Bulls finally win their first game in the 2nd round of the playoffs. It was a good game - if anyone actually noticed.


09: Here are the guys after the game. I think Hinrich (#12) was the best player in all quarters. He reminds me a bit of Kukoc. Luol Deng however, is their Michael Jordan hopeful - but without MJ's charm. Wallace is a Rodman cut-out while Nocioni is eerily like Paxson. I think the recruiting team is trying to resurrect the 90's.


10: Outside the United Center after the game. As you can see, the "D" is missing. And that's why they needed The "D"ikya to stand and pose.