My first goddaughter, Jeziel, above me. On my lap, Eunice, one of my smartest godchildren.


My newest godchild, Sofia Karol Fe.

Label Me This

#132: Ninang is My Favorite Label of All

I'm a godmother 13 times over. I don't know why but these moms are entrusting me with the responsibility of influencing their kids as they grow up. I think they should be warned.

One person I was having dinner with came to the conclusion a couple of weeks ago that I was weird. He just kept on saying it in-between guffaws. (Believe me, he's at least 4 times weirder. Which probably explains why we hang out with each other.) He went on to say, "I bet your kids are gonna turn out all screwy." I don't know what "screwy" means but if that means they'll be able to laugh at themselves and find delight in simple stuff, then I hope they really turn out screwy. (Screwy, not screwed-up.)

On top of being weird, another person I was chatting with early this year was suddenly hit with the realization that I was/am "cheeky." So he told me straight, "You are cheeky." Now I didn't know what that meant as well so I looked it up in the dictionary. Apparently, it aligned with what an ex-officemate of mine from Boots said about me within his first two weeks of meeting me. "You are 'saucy' (which I thought meant that I had flavor)... yeah, and 'sassy' (which I thought meant I had glam.)" Thing is, all these things meant that I had an irreverent type of humor. Which may be a good thing or a bad thing. I don't know. Ask the people who turn all red or blue or purple laughing when we're together.

Friday night, I was with a couple of ex-officemates from Globe and one of them (who had since proceeded to conquer Bangkok by being a Director of several Asia-Pacific markets at the age of 29) felt that I "over-plan" my life. "Over-plan" in terms of career, the person I can fall in love with, etcetera etcetera. She felt I needed to let loose so that I can enjoy life. An ex-boss of mine had a similar assessment after my first 6 months with her. She felt I had been living a very straight life and that I needed to let go of some of my "rules" so I could have more colorful experiences. Thing is, I don't think I'm over-planning and I don't mind living a purposeful life. It's better than making a mess and going through many unnecessary things. I would like to see it as living with direction. Yeah. That sounds so much cooler.

Two weeks back, the same person who said that I was bound to raise screwy kids came to the conclusion that I was a "control-freak." "You are a control-freak, aren't you?" I said "No!" Quite strongly too that it just reinforced to him that I was indeed one. Okay. I was. But not anymore. Not since 6 years back when I realized that no matter how well you plan things, you can't control everything. So, don't have a heart attack, man. (Something I want to tell my current boss whenever he plays Scattergories. I mean, that guy can die trying to defend why "Dancing Queen" is acceptable as a love song starting with the letter 'D'.)

Last night, I was hanging out with my good friend Elna and a friend from the office, KetchupPlease. KetchupPlease suddenly launched into a speech saying, "You will be successful, Gladys! I know because you're O.C." Hmm. No, I'm not. I don't obsess compulsively (or is it compulse obsessively?). That label, you reserve for people who would like to have it. There are already enough people claiming to be obsessive-compulsive (as if it were a badge of honor) and I don't want to be thrown in the same bucket. I would like to be successful though (but then, that's a relative term worthy of another discussion altogether.) I'd rather take on the label that my favorite Aussie co-worker gave me last year: "Smart Operator." (That means, I am able to make things work, right? Oh please tell me that's what it means.)

Today, I had lunch with this person from San Francisco. Within 20 minutes of talking to me, he interrupts me mid-sentence to say, "You're O.C., aren't you?" The straw? He saw the notes I scribbled on my left palm. Come on. An O.C. person wouldn't do that. An abnormal one would.

So I look at all these labels (all debatable, I assure you) and I look at all the kids I've been entrusted with...
1. Jeziel
2. Pia
3. Justin Allen
4. Carl Justin
5. Arvin John
6. Carlos
7. Eunice
8. Joseph Than
9. Natasha
10.Rona Dee
11. Bea
12. Brianna
13. Sofia Karol Fe

And I realize that their moms must know something these other people don't. And it's either they've made a very good call (labels and all) or they're all in big trouble. God help us all.

Marshmallow

#131: Sitting, Waiting

In the 1960s, Walter Mischel, a psychologist at Stanford University conducted the Marhsmallow Test on four-year-olds by giving them a marshmallow and telling them that they can eat it, but he was going somewhere and if they waited for him to come back, they can have two marshmallows. Some gobbled the marshmallow up as soon as the researcher turned his back. Others gave in after a long torturous struggle. Still others did everything else to keep their minds off the marhsmallow in front them and on the promise of a bigger treat. Some sang to themselves, others talked to themselves, some tapped their feet, some even slept.

The real discovery came in 10 years later when Mischel revealed that after tracking the lives of these 4-year olds, those who held out and waited to get the bigger reward turned out to be more successful individuals, having better academic and social skills. Because they knew how to keep themselves from getting distracted and knew how to delay gratification, they were able to achieve more and be better-rounded individuals.

-------------------

This morning, as I was praying for a particular concern, the Lord just reminded me of this illustration. You can have a marhsmallow in front of you - it is within reach, you can touch it, you can almost taste it, you can imagine the soft thing melting in your mouth, you're probably already drooling over it... BUT if you wait, there is a promise of something better... something more.

I've been writing privately the past few days. Snippets, disjointed thoughts, lists. Yes, lists of why things shouldn't be. I kill whatever is inside so that I can preserve my heart for things that should be. It's like that little kid explaining to herself why two marshmallows later will be better than one now. It's like the same kid having faith in the researcher - that he'll be back in 15 minutes and that he'll have twice the treat.

And so I will shut my eyes and sing. Maybe even tap my feet as I sting within. But I will forego this marshmallow because I know that He who has promised is able to give me, at His perfect time, a hundredfold of what is here and now.

Oh Ben

#130: Mighty Nice of Him

BEN
Ben, the two of us need look no more
We both found what we were looking for
With a friend to call my own
I'll never be alone
And you, my friend, will see
You've got a friend in me
(you've got a friend in me)

Ben, you're always running here and there
You feel you're not wanted anywhere
If you ever look behind
And don't like what you find
There's one thing you should know
You've got a place to go
(you've got a place to go)

I used to say "I" and "me"
Now it's "us", now it's "we"
I used to say "I" and "me"
Now it's "us", now it's "we"
Ben, most people would turn you away
I don't listen to a word they say
They don't see you as I do
I wish they would try to
I'm sure they'd think again
If they had a friend like Ben
(a friend) Like Ben
(like Ben) Like Ben

--------------------------

My friend Cathy and I have been spending extremely long hours doing Karaoke here at my house. We're still in our pajamas but we're already up and serious about trying to beat each other's scores. (I don't know why I always lose.) Then we stumbled on this song. Ah. BEN. "Ben" is memorable because this song basically ended whatever was going on between another friend of ours and this guy she was seeing that time.

You see, we threw her a surprise birthday party at some Karaoke place and we asked the guy to drop by and sing her a song. Thing is, he was stuck in some work-related thing outside of Manila and couldn't get to the party. He asked me to sing "Ben" and dedicate it to her. I thought it was sweet. And cute. But as I was singing it, my friend's face started to have 'confusion' written all over it. After the song, everyone shrieked and gushed over how sweet the song was. And how cute he was for choosing it. She blinked thrice. Then thrice more. Then blurted out, "It's a song for a mouse. Ben is a mouse! He thinks I'm a mouse!"

Then they fought and that was the end of that.

Glow!

#129: Musings of Ate Glow

“You looked different when I saw you yesterday.”
“What do you mean?”
(Me thinking about the cheongsam-cut top I was wearing. Nothing special.)
“Like something’s making you glow.”
(I scoured my head again for what could possibly be causing the “glow.” Maybe he means glower. But the requirement was submitted already so I couldn’t possibly still be glowering. Maybe it’s getting that report that’s making me glow. Uh. Yeah. Right.)
“When was this again?”
“Yesterday, I passed by as you were meeting with some people in the conference room. There was something different about you. Good different. Beautiful different.”
“Uhm. Okay. (Weird. Maybe it’s the eyebrows.) Wait, we’re talking about how to unlock my computer. When are you going to fix this?”

And so went my exchange with our technical helpdesk. I checked the screen again to make sure I didn’t dial some LoveNotes hotline. I checked a shiny surface to see the glow he was talking about. Can’t see it. But I have nice hair today so that should count for something. I think it’s because I’ve started using conditioner on my hair.

Maybe it’s going through all of my photos over the weekend and seeing that so far, I’ve lived a colorful life showered with God’s grace and enriched by good friends. 3 bulky bags and 2 large boxes of memories make for 1 big fat smile.

Maybe it’s the 2 CDs I received from an acquaintance. I’ve been looking for them for several months already and it took a semi-stranger to find them for me in a heartbeat.

Maybe it’s this little doll someone handed me yesterday – a little Tigger won from some video arcade. I asked him what the story behind it was. I’d feel horrible if some girl gave it to him and he’s giving it to me now. Like this poem a girl gave a friend of mine a long time ago… which he ended up giving to me. Ack.

Maybe it’s because I’ve started singing again. Last week, I just realized that I no longer sing in the shower. I just stare at the bathroom tiles and go over my to-do list while wrestling with bubbles in my hair. What made me take note of this absence was the presence of my mom’s singing. It took me by surprise. She doesn’t really sing so I guess her heart must be happy now. Or that’s her way of making her heart happy.

If that’s the case, then that’s probably why I’ve started singing like crazy inside my car. In my office too. I’m making my heart happy. Or maybe it is already happy and I’m just glowing at the discovery.

Happee Toothpaste

#128: Foaming At The Mouth

And so I sent the email.
I couldn't help it. People need to know that they're doing a lousy job so they don't go home at the end of the day giving themselves undeserved pats on their backs. Of course I shaved off the emotions. If I had sent that mail last Friday, that would've dripped with all the bloody things I've been wrestling with since I had to deal with this team for a particular requirement. What I sent just had facts. Facts with subtle edge.

And it's a basic thing, what I'm asking for. Our comptroller group in Globe could deliver in a day or 2. The old team in Coke could deliver in half a day. Sometimes, the guy in charge would turn around in an hour and totally surprise me with his efficiency. This new team takes three weeks (and counting) all while being non-committal about when they could give the requirement. Unbelievable! I get twitches just thinking about such brazen incompetence. I know they're trying. I understand. But "trying" is not good enough in the corporate setting, right? Since these people are trying and failing, why not hand over their jobs and salaries to the people who can try THEN actually deliver?

So what do you do when all your "asking nicely" and "begging" and "courting" and "asking firmly" then "begging some more" then "asking with force" are not working? You raise the matter to your superiors in hope that they will actually go beyond saying, "Hey, Gladys. Smile." Come on. If that's all I needed, I wouldn't need bosses. I know how to smile. In fact, I want to smile. All the time. But not while some project is on the brink of falling apart and I'm the one that's stretching to keep things together while everything else is pulling at me from all sides. Please don't ask me to smile. Please walk over to your counterpart from that team and work some miracle. Then I'll smile.

All this is making me feel very toothpaste-ish. Like being wringed and flattened and rolled up to give the last ounce of product; while on another hand, having that strong desire to scrape out the plaque build-up in the chain. Oooh. I'm just bubbling over and turning all frothy now.


P.S.
B-E-A-M means "Smile," right (as that cheesy commercial jingle goes)?
Well then beam me up, Scottie.

One Day, That Side

#127: This Side by Nickel Creek

One day you'll see her and you'll know what I mean.
Take her or leave her she will still be the same.
She'll not try to buy you with her time.
But nothing's the same, as you will see when she's gone.

It's foreign on this side,
And I'll not leave my home again.
There's no place to hide
And I'm nothing but scared.

You dream of colors that have never been made,
You imagine songs that have never been played.
They will try to buy you and your mind.
But only the curious have something to find.

It's foreign on this side,
And the truth is a bitter friend.
But reasons few have I to go back again.

Your first dawn blinded you, left you cursing the day.
Entrance is crucial and it's not without pain.
There's no path to follow, once you're here.
You'll climb up the slide and then you'll slide down the stairs.

It's foreign on this side,
But it feels like I'm home again.
There's no place to hide
But I don't think I'm scared.
(there's no place to hide)
(there's no place to hide)
But I don't think I'm scared.
(there's no place to hide)
But I don't think I'm scared...

Starcrossed

#126: Lonestar Cafe

I grabbed my wallet, my cellphone and my book. Those are the key things you bring when you’re about to lunch out on your own. Plus the skies were gray so I needed to bring my screaming yellow umbrella. And then, since I might want to scribble or doodle instead of read, I may want to bring a pencil. Plus a sheet of paper. No, make that two. One last look around. Maybe another soul with a bit of Friday Fun blood is willing to come. None. Great. This is going to be a Happy Friday lunch.

I called my ex-officemates earlier to check if I can meet up with them for lunch. They’re on their merry way to this hole in the armpit of Paranaque to get stuffed with dirt-cheap food. I should’ve joined them. Thing is, those kinds of lunches are the types you have to take with your boss because there’s no way you’re coming back to the office before 3p.m. Sorry, I’ll pass.

I called Silly Mano and he had already had his KFC. He’s not supposed to eat that without me. He swore that at least I crossed his mind as he was eating there. I called another group and they had already gone out with their Department Head. This other friend of mine had a meeting. Another one went to a chapel service. Okay, this is getting desperate. Who else in this world has trouble finding people to eat lunch with on a Friday? Is it just me?

Lunch was good though. I had the table all to myself and was mildly comforted at the sight of 4 other ladies and 2 other guys eating by themselves. Ah. So this is where the loners go. Mental Note: Now you know where to go, Gladys, when you’re doomed to lunch by yourself.

I remember talking to a newfound friend last week about that torturous lunch I had two blog entries ago. He said he’d rather be with people he didn’t like than eat alone because eating alone is depressing. I, on the other hand, would rather eat alone than endure a meal with people I don’t like. Really. The best combination is always good food + good friends. If I can’t have that, then at least leave me alone to enjoy the food.

Dinner was something to look forward to. I hadn’t seen this friend of mine since my birthday last year and I was looking forward to finding out what has been going on in her life. We met up at the newly-renovated Press Café (whose old interiors I preferred over their new look) and I thought that was a good idea because whoever gets there first can just wander around in Fully-Booked and gorge on the new covers. As expected, she gets there ahead of me and greets me with a face lined with consternation. Apologies all over. (I’m always late but it’s always about work. I’m gonna change that. Really. Soon. I promise.) She breaks into her signature grin after hearing me out and we ease into dinner.

I ordered Dog Days – this sausage cooked in caramelized onions and sandwiched in the softest Focaccia bread known to man. Before biting into it, I told her that she can get half of it because I wasn’t that hungry. After the first bite, I didn’t care if she still wanted it, I made a decision to keep the whole thing to myself.

She made me go ahead. It means she has a bigger story to tell.

I told mine in an animated way without punctuation marks to separate one sentence from the next. It must’ve been tiring to listen to me. I however punctuated it with eyebrow-raising and nose-wrinkling and goofy grins with vocal affectations to make sure I don’t lose her. She listened on, always with a smile, always with support, always with love. When it was her turn to tell her story, she started with a heavy sigh and a look that tried to conceal all she was carrying. I let her know that it was okay for her to reveal all or something or nothing. I looked at her with a smile, with all the support, with all my love. She was with a friend. She can feel safe now.

Safe as well in the knowledge that while we have lived very different lives, we have also lived parallel stories. Stories of people who have deceived us or manipulated us. Stories about losing our real selves and finding them again. Stories of dreams we used to have or dreams that we may now be living or dreams that we are still running after. Stories about stories that continue to give us comfort and assurance that despite the distance, the time differences, the differences in schedules and choices and strings of solitary lunches, we are not going through these things alone.

We are not alone.

Real Estate

#125: His Real State

On his walls hang photos of his love. Loves. Loved.
I wonder if the empty house rings with laughter. But whose?
His mansion must echo with the silence of a life filled with everything yet nothing.
The glittering floors yearn for absent footsteps of warm feet.
The trophy he has won is cold.
And yet he continues to run.
Because when rooms abound and yet no space remains,
He knows he cannot stop to live.

Lunch Special

#124: One Order of Awkwardness, Please

This is my third attempt in the past 5 days to actually post an entry. The last two drafts ended up in the drafts bin and I don't think I'll be picking them up anytime soon. I guess when thoughts are too intense to be kept yet too private to be published, that's where they really belong - the drafts bin.

Today is a strange day. I found myself in the most awkward lunch situation known to mankind. Ok, I'm exaggerating but I'm talking about this mankind. The one that's typing now and whose thoughts you are reading. I was thinking of meeting up with Silly Mano again for lunch because Monday lunchtimes are Silly Mano lunchtimes. Thing is, everytime I meet up with him, I spend close to Php500 in an hour. Why? Because everything feels like such a special treat when we're together. He's a dear old friend I'm always delighted to have around so I keep on ordering the lunch specials as a form of celebration. Then, after lunch, he mutates into the dear old friend who recommends (or forces on you?) the best desserts known to mankind. Who could resist? (Now you know why we are friends.) I was ready to call him though.

But KetchupPlease saw me first. He yelled from across the hall to ask me if I'd like to join his group for lunch. I said I did before asking who was actually part of that little "group." And that's where everything went weird. You see, this group not only loved to punctuate each sentence or story with a string of cuss words, they also liked to pick on each other by dangling their insecurities for the rest to snap up and chew on. Very much like those hyenas in Lion King. "MUFASA!!! BRrrrrr... Say it again! Say it again! MUFASA!!! Brrrr..." Yeah. That weird.

And so they proceeded to push each other to the limit. One was called an old maid. The other one was called a virgin. The other one was called a non-virgin. And I sat quietly in the middle of all the brutality chewing on my inedible chicken. (Why would they give me the breast portion today? Why now when hearing all these things is making it hard for me to swallow my food?? Where is gravy when I need it???)

Then, as if the current torture wasn't enough, they proceeded to tease one of their friends to...ack... one of my friends! The chicken almost shot out of my nostrils. They didn't know I was close to the guy so they enjoyed themselves making outrageous claims about my guy-friend's interest in this girl-friend of theirs who had very thick foundation which still fails to conceal the pockmarks on her face. I wanted to fall off my chair. Or choke. Whatever. Just to stop the madness. The girl apparently gets a degree of pleasure out of this and shrugs nonchalantly as if the whole thing isn't a surprise. (No, lady. It's not a surprise. It's a heart attack.) She bats her darkly made-up eyes and I imagine cakey particles falling from her eyelashes unto her food. But things were just getting started. This other girl who looks like a China Doll tells Cakey Lady that a friend of hers is asking for my friend's number. "Seems like you've got competition, Cakey honey." (Oh dear God. I need to get out of this setting.) "Shall I give her the guy's number? Or should I tell her to bug off as a sign of my loyalty to you?" (I close my eyes and keep myself from hurling.) Cakey Lady gives another shrug, "You can give it to her or she can get it in another way but hey, he drops by my office everyday so that will always be my advantage, right?" I sip on my water slowly and shake away the thoughts of this guy-friend dropping by my office every day as well. If they had known, they would probably see me as competition and rip me apart like stray cats tearing apart used diapers.

For ease of story-telling, let's call the dude, Dude. This is not because I am not creative. I am. In fact, it is because of my creativity that we are just calling him Dude. This is so that you can fill in the blank with whomever you want. Anyway, Dude actually called me last night to ask if it was okay that he didn't reveal the identity of the friend he was with before he met up with them last Saturday night. They - China Doll, China Doll's Interested friend and Cakey Lady were all asking him who he was with. You won't believe how grateful I am that he didn't say we were together. Who knows what I'd find in my chicken today if they knew?

Thing is, I've gotten quite close to Dude. Rightly or wrongly, I feel protective of him and would like to keep evil stepsisters away. But what can I do when they throw themselves at his feet? He's old. He can take care of himself, right? My problem now becomes, who will protect me when the gloves come off and the claws come out? I have a feeling he won't.

At some point, one of the girls points to me and says, "You and Dude are close, right?" I froze. I couldn't acknowledge nor deny. We were. But no one really knew. And they definitely didn't need to know. I blinked twice before swallowing what's left of my dry chicken. She then laughs one of the scariest laughs I've ever heard in my life and says, "Of course, that's a joke!" I let out a nervous chuckle and start holding my forehead to keep from getting dizzy. I've had enough of this...

Which then brings me to ask myself the bigger question of what the definition of "enough" is...and what "this" actually is.