Inside Gladys' stardust-covered brain.

Wednesday, June 30, 2004

Outta Sight

#17: Things You See Out of Town on a Wednesday

Today I saw:
1. A small boy run...into a blue concrete wall.
2. A lone policeman holding a yellow balloon.
3. A grandmother peeing with her undies down to her knees.

Monday, June 28, 2004

Thank God for "Air Bags"!

#16: A Traveler Battles Airsickness with a Bag

"Oh dear God, let this be over," was what I kept on repeating as soon as the plane started its descent. With only two hours of sleep the night before, a really early morning (come on, I consider it a personal crime to get out of bed before 7 a.m.), and a dizzying 20-minute ride to the airport with my mother who, for some reason, loves stepping on the brakes so much, I was practically set up to be airsick.

So there I was - having flown to numerous places at numerous times, but never once dreading the lift off or the landing of my flight, finding myself closing my eyes ever so tightly and asking the Lord to let the 1-hour plane ride end soon. So much sooner. 15 minutes tops was my request.

My colleague Rach was compelled to introduce me to the barf bag. Eww. I shook my head and dismissed the thought as too disgusting. I covered my face with my hands. Rach brought out her cologne. (To mask the smell, she says. Yeesh.) 30 seconds of air pockets, and the barf bag was my dearest friend. No, I didn't throw up but I did get to do that whole asthma bit - breathe in and out with the bag to my face, completely scaring the wits out of my companion. (She probably already started rehearsing her spiel to my parents: "She was keeping herself from throwing up and ended up having a heart attack.")

I apparently survived the flight with my dignity intact and Rach's cologne unused. The paper bag is unscathed. It is now part of my Cebu souvenirs. Regarding the wits that got so freaked they left, well, we found some of them hiding in the overhead bin and some, by the in-flight magazines... amongst airsickness bags.

Sunday, June 27, 2004


You Sweet Rebel, You Posted by Hello

Rebel Without A Cause

#15: Champagne Wishes & Caviar Dreams

No, that subtitle doesn't have anything to do with what I'm gonna write about. I have a hard time swallowing champagne or even smelling anything with alcohol in it and I don't dream of caviar. I, however, have been wishing and dreaming of getting a digital SLR camera. It should be Camera Wishes and Canon Dreams.

Over a meal with two wonderful people I met this week, I was asked what my hobby was. I swallowed hard as I said "Photography;" then proceeded to mumble several qualifiers which I'm sure did nothing but plain confuse them. "I'm forever an amateur... I've not been able to refine my skills as fast as I would want... but I always make an attempt whenever I travel... schwar, schwar, schwar." (I was actually hearing Elvis wail in the background, "Oh yes. I'm the great pre-he-ten-hender..." You see, I have two Pentax SLRs that are in excellent shape, but have not produced spectacular gallery-worthy photos. The problem is obviously not with the cameras but with the one using them.)

A fellow marketer who turned his back on his events management business to be a full-time photographer asked me last month how I was progressing in the art. I honestly told him that I'm stuck. I haven't been polishing my craft so I'm probably on the brink of deterioration, if not already down there. I thought he was going to give me a list of workshops or photography trips I can join. (He had always encouraged me to be part of his photography club activities.) Instead, he gives me an advice so simple it practically steals the drama away from all the art-talk. "Go get a digital SLR." And that was the end of that discussion.

And so I did.

I had been eyeing this particular Canon model (which is the coolest digital SLR you can get below the $1000 mark - according to BusinessWeek) for the past year but have never had the boldness to take the leap. I would often mask my cowardice with a form of purist posturing I actually just borrowed from another Businessweek article - one which romanticized film cameras over the digital ones; but would longingly flip the pages of the product catalogue when I'm alone. I wasn't ready - not in terms of resources, not in terms of dedication.

Until I saw this promo in the newspaper. You get freebies valued at 1/8 of the total price! Not one, not two, not three but four wonderful items that would place you a notch higher than your average photography hobbyist! Hurry! Offer is up to June 30 only!!!

For a marketer who's supposed to know the drivers behind promotions, I get carried away pretty easily. "Create a sense of urgency in the minds of the consumers in order to pump up sales for the month of June and deliver against year-to-date targets." See? I know these things. In fact, I could have easily written that particular line. Yet I still bought. Why? Because it's way easier to momentarily forget that you're a marketer to be a wide-eyed consumer than to turn your back on a marketing career for the love of photography.

I'm not there yet. Actually, I don't think I'll ever get to that point at all. Such move would not be courageous for me, it would be crazy. (Come on. I love Marketing more.)

Following my friend's advice about buying a digital SLR is about as bold as I can get when it comes to this particular interest. Let's see if I improve enough to be the next Michael Yamashita. If not and that is just me dreaming, then I'm fine with merely being a photography enthusiast... and perfectly happy to have my Canon Rebel without much cause.


Saturday Cruisin' Posted by Hello

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

Huey Tuesday

#14: 'Twas a Good Day

Gray morning skies. No rain. The wind was showing off. Yellow confetti from impressed trees twirling and falling and twirling some more. "La Vie En Rose" softly playing in the background. I get a free glimpse of autumn.

Fish and Chips. Milk and Cheerios. Sighs and D'ohs. Grazie for the Maccheroni.

A 25 hour day that's worth a 100% smile.



Sunday, June 20, 2004


DaddyGlam! Posted by Hello

Saturday, June 19, 2004

Daddy's Girl

#13: Always Daddy

I love my dad. I know he's not likely to be able to read this entry since he's from the tech-averse generation (imagine my good ole dad reading "vivaglam!" Goodness gracious!), but I'm saying it nonetheless. I love him to bits.

Last year, I spoke in church about how, as children growing up, our views of our heavenly Father get significantly shaped, if not largely determined, by how our earthly fathers are. In my case, I must say that I found it natural to behold God the Father as being omnipresent because my dad, through the years, never failed to give us the gift of "being there."

We'd come home from school - be it kindergarten, grade school, high school or college - he'd be there reading the newspaper, watching the news or sitting at the dinner table. We'd come home at the end of a workday - be it early enough for dinner or early enough to call it "the next day," he'd be there.

I never really understood how much of a big thing that is until I started working and found it so easy to just dine out with friends or do anything but go straight home from work. I know married guys who'd stay out much longer or go out more often than we singles do that it sometimes makes me wonder if their wives and children ever see them at all.

And now I know why my dad is always home. There is no lack of things to do elsewhere after work: socializing with colleagues, elbow-rubbing with top bosses, networking with bigwigs from the industry etcetera. But there will always be that desire in him to let his wife and his children know in a very tangible way that he will always choose to be available and accessible to them first of all, above all.

And I know.. because he told me so.

He will always go home to make dinnertimes funny, to annoy my mom by singing loudly and off-key, to declare to the whole household that I look like some gorgeous celebrity who bears no resemblance whatsoever to me (to the side-splitting laughter of our helpers) or that my brother got his good looks from none other than his good-looking daddy (which never fails to raise eyebrows around the table), to poke fun at brand managers whenever there's a lousy commercial on tv (to patronize me)... The list will go on and on. Bottomline is, he'll always be home to be daddy.

And I know... because 26 years of being his little girl told me so.

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

The Italian Job

#12: Escape to Italia

That’s it. I’m learning Italian before I’m 30. Really. Call me a fool for learning a language I can’t use in business (I know it would’ve been more practical to learn Mandarin with China becoming a major economic superpower at hyperspeed and all); but who says life should always be measured in economic terms? Who has actually been able to accurately quantify delight? Even Mastercard admits to being unable to put a price tag on the things that matter.

My motivation is simple, really. It will be enough reward for me to finally understand what Andrea Bocelli or Josh Groban or the group Amici is singing. The bliss of closing my eyes as opera music rages in the background while being able to fully grasp the weight of each word welded to each note will be high enough a return. I can do more than inhale them and let them seep to my core. I can finally own the words of the grandest arias. It will be joy. Pure joy. (Of course, the prospect of driving my family and friends nuts with loud Italian singing also brings me glee. Haha.)

Around 7 years ago, my voice teacher gave me an Italian piece. The exact title escapes me at the moment but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the first line. The song mournfully pleads, “O cessate di piagarmi;” and while it is from an already-forgotten lifetime, that verse still sends soft currents of melancholy in my heart. “O, no longer seek to pain me,” it begs; and it makes me wonder if the request is directed towards another who has such significant power to hurt, or if it’s actually just a heartfelt plea to one’s self. We are, after all, ultimately responsible for the pain we feel.

In the movie, “Something’s Gotta Give,” Diane Keaton’s character deals with pain by learning another language. The more she gets hurt, the more multi-lingual she gets. How cool is that? Which then leads me to question myself if unacknowledged pain is the real driver of this current fixation with learning Italian… or even the force behind the recent leg of my fascination with opera. I don’t know if there is something more to the way I instinctively play Bocelli’s “Sogno” when I see gray skies than the simplistic reason that opera music just goes well with sullen skies in the way that my pink shawl just really goes well with my gray cashmere sweater.

Or maybe it’s just the month of June.

I came across one of my journal entries from two years ago and it was surprising to find unmistakable sadness behind the lines. I don’t remember being that sad but I distinctly recall singing to Josh Groban’s first album during that time. Come to think of it, his rich baritone underlined many moments of deep emotion in that period of my life. Two years after, I’m playing amnesiac to such era, having previously chosen to completely bury everything but Josh.

Yet here I am again, finding myself asking where restoration starts and where purging ends… where unforgiveness ends and where grace begins… when self-preservation stops and charity starts. I honestly don’t know. And I don’t know if I will ever be able to sufficiently and satisfactorily answer these questions. Facing them alone is hard enough. Compared to that, learning another language is a walk in the piazza.

Hence, I’m learning Italian.

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Nel Cuore Lei

#11: Andrea Bocelli's Duet with Eros Ramazzotti

Se
Conosci gia l’amore
Che vuole lei
Tu saprai che dovrai
Dare tutto quel che hai
A lei
Ti legherai finche vivrai, a lei...

Ti prendera il cuore
Ti vincera
Lei sara la tua strada
Che non puoi lasciare mai
A lei
Ti legherai finche vivrai, a lei...

E non c’e niente come lei
E non c’e niente da capire
E tutta li
La sua grandezza
In quella leggerezza
Che solo lei ti da

Sara cosi e poi
Sara di piu
L’amerai...l’amerai
Perche tu ci crederai
A lei
Ti legherai finche vivrai, a lei...

E non c’e niente come lei
E non c’e niente da capire
Lei e cosi
Puoi solo dire
Che piu ti fa soffrire
Piu ancora l’amerai

Finche tu vorrai scoprire
Dentro un brivido che da
Il segreto della sua eternita

A lei
Regalerai
Quello che restera
Del tuo tempo che verra
A lei
Ti legherai, per sempre avrai
Nel cuore lei...


Translation:
SHE’LL BE IN YOUR HEART

If
You already know
The love she wants
You’ll know
You have to give everything, all of it
To her
You’ll become as one, with her, forever
She’ll touch your heart
She’ll win your heart
She’ll be your path
That leads to what you lacked, the path
To her
You’ll become as one, with her, forever

And nothing can compare with her
There’s really nothing to understand
It’s just the secret of
Her greatness
The sheer joy
That she alone can give

And that’s how, now, it will always be
Until it becomes even more
You’ll love her, oh how you’ll love her
Because you trust yourself to her
To her, to her
You’ll become as one, with her, forever

And nothing can compare with her
There’s really nothing to understand
That’s just the way she is
All you’ll know for sure
Is the more she makes you suffer
The more you find you love her

Until at last that dawning
That in the thrill she alone can give
Lies the secret of her eternity

To her
You’ll gladly give
All that’s left
Of the time you’ve still to come
To her
You’re as one, with her, forever
And she’ll be there, in your heart

Saturday, June 12, 2004

Legally Bland

#10: Delusions Driven by Salt Deprivation

My ear doctor told me to stay away from salt. High doses of sodium cause fluid to accumulate in some membrane in my ear and this is why I go deaf from time to time. I’m not a “medical” person so I don’t know whether this is classifiable as an allergy or as a disease. (The word “disease” has “Bubonic Plague” written all over it.) Whatever. The only word that comes to mind right now is “ick.”

Ick for bland food as well. What is life without salt? It’s like the earth without beaches. Rows and rows of potato chips at the grocery store will miss my presence. The soy sauce in our cupboard will have many days in the dark. And what of our Ilocano staple, “bagoong?” I’ll miss that dear friend as well in the way I badly miss bronzers during the rainy season. (Well, at least that “No Salt” prescription is better than what my previous doctor asked me to do – don’t touch human food plus eat your neighborhood pharmacy 3x a day for a whole month.)

I was reading the blog of one of the coolest authors I know and he was talking about getting throat infection from everything he does. He sneezes, he gets a throat infection. He stubs his toe, he gets throat infection. Now this bit of info makes me feel better and, in a slightly twisted way, gives transcendent value to my ear defect. It assures me that while this deafness is limiting now (I can’t really participate in discussions without getting that crazed “I-see-what-you’re-trying-to-say-but-you’re-not-making-sense-to-me” look – which other people find a bit freaky), it places me right smack in the middle of the fast track to New York Times Bestsellerdom (or is it Bestsellership?). You see, I eat, I get this hearing defect. I get stressed, I get this hearing defect. I don’t know if you’re keen enough to see the similarities but this undeniably sounds like the making of the next Max Barry to me. Hah.

With this pleasant prospect in mind, whenever a plate of tasteless goop is placed before me, I smile and proceed to practice saying, “Thanks for buying my book. To whom would you like this dedication addressed?”

Ngwarharhar.


Pen Pals Posted by Hello

Threshold of Pen

#9: How Much Pen Can You Take?

I’ve recently engaged in a love affair with cheap, disposable pens. I’ve been going from one supplies store to the next looking for particular brands of plastic pens with the type of obsession I used to reserve for those high-end “writing instruments.”

You see, for more than 15 years already, I’ve been a steady proponent of those expensive engraved pens one couldn’t lose without crying. These were my “special pens” and for a time, I convinced myself that I couldn’t write properly if I wasn’t using a “special” one.

My first special pen came when I was in fifth grade. My seatmate gave me an Inoxcrom for Christmas. I think I gave her a tacky picture frame but at that time, the exchange seemed fair. A few months after, my busmate gave me a Cross ballpen as her “going away” present. Now I don’t know why she gave me a gift since she was the one who was going away. But I wasn’t one to complain. It was a gunmetal gray version of my dad’s gold Cross pen and when my parents saw it, they freaked out. What type of kid would give a Php2,000 pen??? They forced me to return it to her but she refused to take it back. The following week, their family moved to another place and she was gone. I know I was supposed to be sad, but boy, was I happy with my pen.

Throughout high school & college, Parker pens kept me company. They’re not expensive but if you lost one, you basically lost your meal for a day. Or, to be more bleak about it, you lost what a minimum wage earner would have been able to bring home to feed his family of 4 for a day. I ended up losing several of them so that probably caused that “imaginary” family to starve. I have since asked forgiveness for each one of the pens I’ve lost and from each of the members of that family.

My next major pen came after I helped a business partner close a deal with the company I was working for some 3 years ago. As a “thank you" gift, they gave me a massive silver Cross pen that commanded more respect than I actually deserved. It was so elegant and shiny that I think I blinded my boss the first time I whipped it out. He was sightless for at least a week and needed a guide dog to go around the building.

Last year, my silver pen got lost and I couldn’t work for at least a day. Call me a drama queen but the thought of that lovely pen laying on some garbage heap because it accidentally fell into my trash bin tortured me for hours. It was more than a nice pen. It was a symbol of something I was able to achieve early on in my worklife. The thought of losing it for good made me nauseous. I found it after a couple of days. It had fallen out of my bag inside the car and it had been hiding under one of the seats chuckling at my overreaction.

Now that is probably nothing compared to how I would react if I lost the ultimate of all special pens I’ve ever received. This last one made my eyes pop out, requiring some major eye operation immediately after I opened the box. My closest friend gave me a Mont Blanc last Christmas and I couldn’t breathe when I saw it. I have plastic eyeballs now and I walk around with an oxygen tank everytime I carry it but that can’t put a damper on my Mont Blanc mode. The feel of Mont Blanc on one’s fingers evokes feelings of accomplishment (though I haven’t really accomplished much.) It definitively says, “I’ve arrived.” (Although I know that I haven’t and that I’m still a long way off – that is, if ever I “arrive” at all.) Ha.

Then everything came full circle.

I don’t know what exactly led me to revisit cheapo ones the price of fishballs but I found myself not only using them more frequently, but also loving them enough to seek them out for hoarding purposes. I think one of my high-end ones bogged down and I was forced to use one of the ballpen samples out of desperation. It was a Lotus ballpen – plastic all over and worth less than Php5.00. I was actually surprised when it glided gracefully on the surface of my journal. I had expected it to skip and die on me but it wrote so smoothly I practically let out a “wow.” I immediately promoted it from substitute to formal journal pen. The ink ran out the other day but I can testify that it was good to the last drop.

Then there’s also that gray Papermate with grip-handles they gave out during one of the trainings. Discovering that this particular pen writes so well sent me on a mad hunt for packs and packs of them. Well, my Papermate Mission failed but I was able to bring back a Php17.50 Faber-Castell one that wrote like a charm. It has become my default pen, easing out the huge silver Cross one that I’ve been using for the past 3 years - a development that actually reduces my risk of having a heart attack over losing such a valuable item.

And that’s when I had to admit the simple fact that when everything has been set on paper, no one really knows if it’s a Cross or a Mont blanc or a Php5.00 Lotus pen that wrote it. All that is evident is the substance of what has been written – which is more a reflection on the writer than on the pen that was used. The prettiest of pens will, in no way, be able to add depth to a poseur. A person of substance, however, will be able to effortlessly increase the worth of whatever it is he or she holds – be it an irreplaceable Mont Blanc or a cheesy Bic ballpen.

Grab your own cheap pen now!!!

Wednesday, June 09, 2004

Fly Butterfly

#8: Of Laws and Possibilities

"If you examine a butterfly according to the laws of aerodynamics, it shouldn't be able to fly. But the butterfly doesn't know that, so it flies."

(Borrowed from Vincent Eades of Starbucks who loves this metaphor)

Absolutely beautiful.

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Frankenstein's Day Off

#7: A Doc for every Ick

I am defective. I can't believe I've gone semi-deaf again. This is the third time it has happened and while I'm not one who would go to the doctor for every itch and ick, this was definitely one ick I decided I should seek professional help with.

I dragged my dizzy self to the nearest and prettiest healthcare center this morning and was told that the ENT (Ear, Nose, Throat) Specialist would only be available at 4pm. It was only 11am. The receptionist asked if I would like to see a General Practitioner instead. Uh no. (Over my deaf ears!) Last time I took that suggestion, I paid Php300 to have a GP tell me to see an ENT Specialist. Yeesh.
I'll just spend that money on...

... a visit to the dentist! Ha! I went back to the dental office I discovered 4 months ago. They had really cool posters and because all people in their posters had nice smiles, I entrusted by molars, canines and incisors to them. They'll know how to make my teeth poster-perfect, I said to myself. Besides, the attending dentist had many many letters after his name and that's always good, right? So there I was needing an ENT but having my choppers checked and cleaned with that torturous instrument. I was bonding with my dentist. (Recalling my traumatic childhood experience wherein this wicked dentist strapped me down and blindfolded me so she can rip my tooth off with the maximum amount of horror possible, who would've thought?) An interesting day this was turning out to be.

I then checked out 3 other clinics to find an ENT who was already free. Guess what. All ENTs in all of those clinics were only going to be available at, gasp, 4p.m. Wha-? What is it with ENTs and 4pm?! I am seriously baffled. Is that like a vampire type of thing wherein they need to make sure that the sun is no longer at its brightest before showing themselves to the world? Absolutely strange. (The stuff of "Unsolved Mysteries.")

So I decided to forget about ENTs first... and just go to my dermatologist.

This doctor looks like an angel. Amusingly, waiting to see her is like going through eternity... in slow-mo. Once, I spent 4 hours waiting for her to do a 15-minute bit on me. (No, they don't accept appointments. You'd have to go there and waste a significant part of your mortal life to have a minute with her.) I came out all red and botchy, with a handful of pricey medicines and creams and an empty wallet; but in a couple of days, I was looking all radiant and angelic. Just like her. Amazing. Trust me. The wait is always worth it. Always.

So at 3:30, with my semi-bloody face and gleaming teeth, I went back to the first medical center and asked if the ENT was finally there. Thank God, she was. There was no way I was visiting another medical person to kill time while waiting for her. (A lobotomy is not something you do on a whim.) This particular ENT was very nice and very smart. Nicer than the one I went to a year ago the first time this hearing loss thing happened to me. And cheaper too! Plus, she didn't tell me to stay away from seafood. (Ah. That's it. I'm giving her a hug.) She prescribed a couple of drugs and asked me to see her again this Saturday. Sure. No problem.

I just hope I get her schedule right this time. And I hope she doesn't make me wait. Or else one brain surgeon will be one patient richer over the weekend.

P.S.
Did I say I don't go to the doctor for every itch and ick?
Ah. That was before Frankenstein's day off.

Saturday, June 05, 2004

Waiting Room

#6: Buying Back Time

From my windshield, shadows of raindrops fall on this fresh leaf.
I am writing in the dark, savoring the few moments of solitude I can steal back from the harried and selfish pace of the past few days. Andrea Bocelli sings in the background; his voice, like a rich cup of hot chocolate on this cold damp night.

My friend is still 20 minutes away. I embrace the period of waiting.
I've been running after time like a madman the past two weeks.
Perhaps these 20 minutes will buy me back my sanity.

Thursday, June 03, 2004

Advil, please!

#5: Philosophy on Pain

Went scavenging today and this is what I came back with:
“Pain is a matter of perception; if you don’t let it hurt you, it won’t.”

I’ve never been able to articulate this simple fact as succinctly before but I think I’ve been subscribing to this philosophy from as far back as I can remember. What hurts you is a function of what you’ve opened yourself to. There is pain if there is vulnerability. A mighty fortress does not yelp in the face of a torrent of arrows; but an open wound will scream at the smallest grain of salt. This is not an invitation to close your fists and withdraw from the world. It's more of a call to be wiser in assessing the value of that which has the potential to hurt, versus the probability of that same thing making your life richer. If it gives your existence more color, more depth, don't call it pain. It is merely price.

A friend and I were stuck in horrendous traffic some 9 years ago and I was clowning around to keep us from dying of boredom. While telling a wickedly funny story, I whipped my head back so hard I hit the window with a very crunchy “BANG!” I was stunned for a full 2 seconds. Hot tears then started threatening to fall. My friend immediately put on his best “dad voice” and sternly said, “Don’t cry. You brought it upon yourself.” My tears backtracked. I bit my lip to keep myself from letting out even a tiny whimper.

“Don’t cry. You brought it upon yourself.”

Such wisdom in something so basic. It is no surprise that almost a decade after, that line would still ring in my ears everytime I’d do something that would make me want to bawl.

When we were in high school, our English teacher shared this essay by Pico Iyer on the Cult of Victimhood. In that piece, he sadly points out that nowadays, nothing is ever anybody’s fault. There will always be something or someone else to lay the blame on. No one has to take responsibility for his or her actions anymore. We’re all victims anyway, right?

My philosophy on pain is apparently the complete opposite of such thinking. I think that the measure of pain you feel will always be under your control. You will always have the responsibility for the hurt which you will allow yourself to be exposed to and to feel. In the end, faced with the prospect of pain, you will always actually have the choice to simply not cry… especially if you brought it upon yourself.