Notes of a Budding Epicurean

Here's a neat treat for food lovers and/or kitchen mavens with a conscience.

The Barilla Celebrity Pasta Lovers’ Cookbook is celebrating its 130th birthday with a bang that you don't often see or hear about in the world of corporate anniversary celebrations. By this I mean that the Italian brand is donating $1 to the Children's Food Education Foundation, an organization which aims to help children make healthy food choices, for every unique download of the 37-page cookbook. You can help contribute a little goodness by clicking here.



So I did my share and I'm sure someday the uber-tasty recipes that are found in the cookbook will personally be put to good use. I may not know how to cook anything more complex than scrambled eggs to save my life, but I sure as hell can ogle these babies to death--or at least until I collapse from dehydration caused by extensive salivating.

***

Another fabulous food blog find, in the tradition of The Chubby Hubby, Desserts Come First, and The Scent of Green Bananas. This latest addition to the blogroll is one that's bound to be a favorite of mine, and hopefully some of those who stumble upon this post who likewise share an appreciation for great food.

Aapplemint is not your ordinary food blog. By this I mean the author, Kate Kajal, is not your run-of-the-mill food blogger. Not only does she whip up these divine concoctions for all the blogging world to enjoy (sadly only visually, of course), but she does so without having had any formal training in baking or cooking. Kind of makes me hopeful that someday I might actually accidentally exorcise my inner Nigella, or at least channel the home soul vibe of Ina Garten, the Martha Stewart of East Hampton who cooks in the show Barefoot Contessa. Of course, I'll never know until I try, right? Hmmm, now there's a thought... Wow, I just got myself excited. Possibilities, possibilities. Don't you just love the word? But I digress.

Before my ADHD reclaims me and diverts me from the current train of thought, let me add that apart from the knockout recipes that you can find in Aapplemint, Ms. Kajal's pictures simply rawk. You gotta love the panache and effort she puts into the styling of her, uhm, outputs. (Sorry for the lack of a better-sounding term--can't think of anything more aptly enticing at the top of my head right now.) If there's anything that I love more than photos of food that's yumminess exemplified, it's photos of food that's yumminess exemplified that were taken with photographic flair and perspective. You'll understand when you check her out yourself.







***

I gotta say, looking at the photos from the blogs above adds to the sense of epiphany that's slowly been gaining form at the periphery of my subconscious since the time I discovered that I, well, really love food. Was that too many words? Sorry I couldn't be more laconic with that one. What I'm trying to say is, I think that maybe food styling is the one arm-chair passion that I can actually try and maybe go crazy with enough to jump into headlong and full-time. I know, I know. Totally out of whack. I dunno. It's just a thought, like you never know. Then again it might just be the tummy voicing out its revolt against my personal mandate to self-regulate late-night snacking.

Whatev. All I know is that food styling has the elements of some of the things that I'm truly passionate about: food and photography. Now if I can only get around to getting my hands "dirty" and actually doing these things, instead of just getting into the spirit of it all, then maybe I can say that I'm finally getting somewhere in my life. But that's stuff for a totally different post.

Jeepers Sleepers!

I'm a dreamer, but I'm not a very good sleeper...
- Michel Gondry, Acclaimed Director/Eternal Dreamer

Cool. Now I got one thing in common with the ingenious mind behind one of the most deelish films in recent years, "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". Insomniacs of the world, unite and take refuge in the thought that our fate as enduring denizens of the night is not quite the sad fact of life that early sleepers/worms say it is. Who knew sleeplessness could be fashionable? Hence, it is for this reason that I think we should support all things Gondry (BTW--gotta love the spot work by his brother, Olivier, who was behind HP's "The Computer is Personal Again" TV ad campaign).

Michel Gondry's semi-recent cinematic offering, "The Science of Sleep", is definitely one of the movies on my to-watch list. I wonder if they ever marketed this commercially in Manila when it came out last year. Given my on-and-off devotion to Gael García Bernal, who stars in this heady, aesthetically disorienting piece of imagery, it's terribly unlikely that I might have slept through the entire run of its showing in theaters everywhere here. For sure, I would have felt His Royal Mexican Hotness' vibe--ooh but that smoldering gaze, through which one could glimpse the tortured soul of a true artist--beckoning and calling out to moi. ("¡Si, un momento, caro mio!") Then again, I am a pretty erratic sleeper, and when I do get the slumber party in my head started, there goes the monkey wrench into the whirling and spinning mechanism of my so-called life. Forget about love and imagined dates with destiny ("Lo siento, Gael baby..") and such worldly affairs. The only affair that I wanna be keeping is the one with my unan. But I digress. Sort of.





According to the official movie site, the DVD could already be snatched up since February this year. Of course, being a pirate at heart, I intend for this to be scored through more, erm, "consumer-savvy" means. The peso might be rising a wee bit, but this big baby needs more bang for her buck to thrive in the new economy. Dreaming sleepers, even the que terible ones, do have some living up to do outside the realm of slumberland.

Of course, such intentions do not not in any way serve to diminish my admiration for such mavericks of the cinema. I am all for supporting the arts in any way I can. After all, art is life. Or rather, art imitates life imitates art. (Or is it the other way around--life imitates art imitates life...?)

Okay, whatever. All I gotta say for now is, Monsieur Gondry, if you are reading this, vous êtes un très cool dude. If you need an extra pair of hands for your puppet scenes or a gopher for one of your rock videos, drop me a line! Will PA for peanuts!

Of Glorietta, What Ifs, and The Bittersweet Escape

My good friend Rona texted just now to inform me that our high school classmate, Israel, died just recently. Last I heard about him, he was looking mighty strong, recuperating quite well under intensive care from complications arising from a type 1 diabetes affliction. So to say this came as a shock is a mild understatement.

Even though we didn't run in the same circles in school, I was saddened. Maybe not overwhelmingly so, but upon hearing the news, I felt the loss of the great friend, the great brother, basically the great guy that he must have been to his loved ones. I can only imagine, though, the magnitude of anguish his passing away must be to the people who knew him more closely.


*****

Get rid of the judgment, get rid of the 'I am hurt,' you are rid of the hurt itself. - Marcus Aurelius

A week after news of the Glorietta 2 incident hit me like a ton of bricks (no pun intended), I find myself still floundering in a haze of numbness. At first, I couldn't fathom how it could happen almost right in my backyard. Glorietta was the wealthy next-door neighbor's sandbox; it was the playpen for ultimate squatters like me. If I wasn't kicking away at corporeal doldrums in Pasig or trying to get high on burned Nike rubber in Legaspi Village, I could invariably be found making a nuisance of the mallrat experience at good ol’ Glorietta. I was the Great Loiterer. Glorietta to me was the sweet escape that was my second home.

So to be sure, to say it came as a surprise when I first found out about the unfortunate incident from an officemate is a total understatement. It happened around 1:40pm. People were just coming back from their leisurely lunches and what-have-you. Such normalness, such everydayness, and then some of these people's lives are inordinately changed for good. These things you never see coming, but for the loved ones of those who passed away--and for those who lived to tell the tale--the ravage is the ultimate testament to this natural truth.

In the immediate aftermath, I thought about my friends and my loved ones. Having never personally experienced anything like it, I could not picture the scope of the devastation. Rather, my thoughts mostly revolved around the fleetingness of life. What things we take so easily for granted. I thought about how eenie-meenie-minie-moeish it all seemed, how in the blink of an eye all that you hold dear could so whimsically be snatched away. You play the game of life fair and square, and still you have no say in the hand you are dealt. If you get unlucky, you roll with it. Or rather, as would be more apt in this case, you roll over. If you do get lucky, you're afforded time to think about what it could all possibly mean.

I know it wasn't the right way to think, but it was the way I tried to get my mind around it. I became quite apprehensive of the possible scenarios that sprung up in my head. The Dos, the Don'ts, the Maybes. What did it all mean? Should I? Do I want to? If I do it, will it matter? I'm hopelessly hard-headed, so my parents used to tell me growing up. Better that than being hard-hearted, I guess. Then again, I can't very well say I got the Miss Care Bear Award in the bag.

Lest I be further encumbered with such glum realizations, I had to log off from existentialist mode. I thought I was getting back to warm and toasty ground. My mistake. Proceeding from a deductive frame of mind, I thought about what was really pressing at the core of the current tragedy--my own "What If." Was I not supposed to be there, right in the heart of pandemonium, right smack at the moment of utter finality?

On account of work, I had a personal errand that had been extended for days. The venue of intention? Glorietta 2, no other. Timing? Same damn time as the incident. At the back of my head, the notion that I could have been there churned out little bubbles of queasiness that I couldn't just chase away. If I hadn't gotten all lazy-ass and chucked my errand out the window in favor of getting bum burns from sitting down in front of the PC and pushing keys per usual, I might have just gone ka-blam along with all the others. It was so simple--to go or not to go--that I can't believe it could have been the end of me. I hope this doesn't grab you the wrong way. I hate sounding like it's all about me, me, me. It isn't. Because I don't know what I would do if I was faced with the possibility of never seeing my loved ones again. Of course, it's still selfish. There's just no getting around it.

I had to stop right after that. I let the thoughts go, at least at first. I didn't want to have to keep thinking about the all-consuming possibility of death. Of loss. Of eternal non-recurrence. Doggone it. In times like these, I hate thinking. I hate having to feel more than is socially called for. Times like these, it's far easier to pull a Keanu and be the face of modern-day stoicism, of numbness. Unlike the Stoics of old, I don’t see why I have to abide by what’s right all the time. I hate coming to the right conclusions. I hate having to do the right thing. I hate it.

Duh. Writing this now, what I must do is slowly unraveling, and I might just come to the conclusion that the truth of these realizations is inescapable. Just as with death.

The Muay Thai Series of Unfortunate Events

"The more you learn, the less you know."

Leaping lizards! I knew I had a long way to go, but this is serious. How could I have deluded myself into thinking I knew a little something-something already? Would you just look at the list below. I didn't know half of those things even existed. Heck, I'm not even past first grade level in my roundhouse kick! Demmet!


*****

In the words of Britney Spears, "Oops, I did it again." The third sports-related injury I got this year, and it's not even November. That's not counting the scrapes and bruises (not to mention, the toenail incident that happened during my very first MT session last year) that on a semi-regular basis reinforce their existence on various aspects of my person. You'd think I was a battered girlfriend. But of course, how could I be? (A girlfriend, that is.)

So first it was my left pinkie. Got bruised up in an unfortunate-but-you'd-never-have-seen-it-coming sparring exercise with one of those amorous boxing trainors at Red Corner Makati. Cut short my then sudden aspirations of getting some action in the ring--yes, with media sponsors looking on and a live audience cheering you on and booing your opponent and all (yep, the ultimate wannabe episode of my life)--which is probably just as well. The pinkie incident got me looking like I forever had morsels of blueberry muffin smeared on the side of my hand, too. You'd think something so small and therefore harmless to one's overall constitution couldn't elicit gasps of horror and revulsion at the mere sight of it. It was utterly hideous, I tell you. Not to mention expensive. I had to down antibiotics for a couple of weeks--doctor's orders--which actually bore a hole in my pocket. Not exactly the most enticing incentive for living the health nut lifestyle.

The second major injury was with my right elbow. My mistake, but not totally my bad. This time, it was the big boss at the training gym in Pasig. He's super duper nice and all but really, what business did I have, being a relative freshie and all, to be doing a knee strike more than 6 feet away from the target? Plus, on solid, unpadded, unforgiving ground, no less. So naturally, gravity had to play teacher. I landed splat on my right arm. There goes the wakeboarding trip. Not to mention my ego. Yep, lootsaaa witnesses there. Anyhoo, it's all good now. Took a little over a month to heal, no biggie. Lesson learned. I more or less rock the elbow now, at least I like to think.

And now this. ¡Hay, que mal! Some muscle in the vicinity behind the kneecap I must have pulled during training. As a result, I now can't contract my right leg in certain angles without feeling a little tingle in the area (nuh-uh, it ain't the happy type, no siree). I don't even know exactly how I got it. I was just practicing my super sucky roundhouse with one of the coaches. Maybe it was due to the lack of a proper warm-up, I dunno. I never even felt anything during the actual session. Next thing I know, passing through Megamall on my way home, I'm doing a horrendous rendition of one of those stump-legged ageing Jack Sparrow types that I see on the Disney Channel.

On the whole, it's a little funny, actually. And it's really nothing in the grand scheme of things. In fact, I knew this was gonna be the way with MT, and it's all good. I just dunno how long this thing is gonna take. Now I can't go running at the very least. To think there's another race on November 25th. What's a girl to do? I can't stand being immobile. I can't not move. Doggone leg muscle thing. Man, I'm practically baldado! Arrgggghh. I get awfully crabby when my options close shop in my face just when I'm about to sashay through the door.

You Know What This Is, You Know

I know. I expected too much. Everything is transitory. I get it now. All things end, as well they probably should. Just so everything's neat and pristine.

Thanks for helping me see the light, Soms. And for trying to make me laugh.

See yah in a few.

Stumbling Into Lightness at 3am

Rio:

...looking at all of your pictures, I can tell that you and your friends seem to always be smiling and happy, and to me, that is beautiful. Really, just perfect. So many people are not content with what they have, and always want more no matter what they get, but I think the essence of their existence holds no substance because they cannot perceive the essence of things in the light of nature, thus giving nothing valuable back to nature, while genuine, beautiful, and happy people are a catalyst for the will to live, love, help, share, trust, and all of those things that make life worthy. That's what I mean.

Moi:

...well, i guess that's well and good. but honestly, i don't think anyone can ever say that anything is perfect. only that perfection (in one's life) is perfectly relative. and so maybe what matters is that people believe themselves to be happy to be happy. even if there's discontentment in certain areas of one's life, that doesn't mean they can't be happy. the notion that the essence of existence is pretty much lost because of this inherent feeling of discontent is kind of hard to take in. or maybe i'm just confused by what you mean by "giving nothing valuable back to nature."

i guess what i'm trying to say is, perfection, even in the general, zero-discontent sense, is a pipe dream. at least to me, and probably because i'm still at this stage of wanting to do a lot of things. and i think what's essential can be laid out in order of magnitude. so basically, life holds meaning right now because of certain things but i could still be searching for something deeper. anyhow, to be sure, i believe in perfection in the moment. because these are isolated, and it's far easier to take life one moment at a time. and so that's probably what you saw in the photos. and it's great because someone saw them for what they are. beauty in the moment.

//May 2007 in retrospect//

Congrats daw

Hah. From the looks of it, I got in at 60th percentile. Not bad for someone who's just about legally blind.

$5340.00The Cadaver Calculator - Find out how much your body is worth.

I just hope the day never comes when anyone in my immediate posse might feel the need to do me in to scrape some major change. Which reminds me, gotta get Faisal his long-overdue birthday gift.

Love. Peace. Run.

This is possibly the most excruciating week of the year thus far. Like Murphy said, anything wrong that can happen will happen. He's got some pretty solid skills of postulation, that guy. But I'm not expounding on the things that managed to disturb (no, that should actually be in the present tense--"still manage to disturb") my sangfroid.

To be fair, the week opened with one of the best Sundays I had this year, which I would like to think is a sign of better things to come. Of course, my Sundays are pretty laidback and open for whatever. I try valiantly each single time to get an early start so I could hit the gym for a mind-and-body morning rush, unfortunately usually to no avail. But at the very least I could count on regular detours to the mall for some extensive power walking. I totally swear by this activity. If it weren't for this fallback, I'd have ballooned beyond redemption on account of my manic love for food, which would cross out any effects that I more or less gain from a spasmodic exercise schedule. I mean, imagine walking around for hours on end to window-shop and people-watch and nothing more, stopping to rest only for dinner or the occasional movie with Soms, my Thai cuisine-craving partner-in-crime du jour. It's practically fail-safe for couch potato butts like me. Although it can get quite tiring having to stay upright for a few hours straight, at least you don't feel the sting of focused physical exertion that is typical of gym workouts.

Last Sunday, Soms was a no-show, mainly coz I failed to inform him ahead of time that I couldn't make it to our loosely planned dinner. It's usually touch and go with him anyway, so it's all well and good. Upon arriving home from exercising my rights to vagrancy at Glorietta and Greenbelt (was literally bumming around all over the place), I had planned a short siesta until around 5pm but found the opportunity to snuggle further into sleepiness too tempting to pass up. After all, I'm not your daily corporate zombie for nothing. While some folks dream of Jeannie, I for the most part dream of sleep.

So last Sunday, I was wiped out, I was history. It was a day for the books. I had completed my second 5K that morning at the Fil-Mus Foundation Run for Peace at Roxas Boulevard. And to think I had almost missed it! I didn't hear the damn alarm go off, maybe coz I had only 4 hours of sleep the night before. Thankfully, by some mysterious process I managed to be jolted out of my sleeping stupor at 5:15am (starting time was 6am). I have never showered so fast in my entire life, the very memory amazes me to this time. After downing Lipovitan (the store was fresh out of Red Bull at the time), I was so pumped up, I was running the short distance from my apartment to the main road to hail a taxi. The sun was way up already and all that vitamin D got me in panic mode that I was cussing at myself for jeopardizing what I had been looking forward to for weeks. Luckily, the heavens must be conspiring in my favor coz I got a cab right away to take me to Malate. Sitting through the ride and trying to keep my wavering hopes up, it became all the more self-evident that Roxas Boulevard is quite a distance from my core universe in Makati, even sans the usual traffic. I implored the cabbie to go as fast as legally possible while mouthing a silent prayer to up my chances of making it to the starting line. I really wanted to run in this race.

When I got to the place, I jumped out of the cab and sprinted to the baggage counter area (a couple of mini-minivans) only to find out that I actually wasn't late. Practically, no, but only coz the celebrity guest runner who was there to kick off the show, Robin Padilla, the quintessential bad boy of Pinoy showbiz, arrived at the starting area a good 10-15 minutes later than I did (which would make the official starting time around 6:15 instead of 6am). Being a newbie runner, I would think that by racing standards, that's an eternity. Whatever. As evidenced by the reception of the racing crowd that caught a glimpse of him as he swept into the scene with a gathering entourage in tow (which included his very pretty daughter, who jogged with him wearing a full hijab), I realize star power is raw power. Can't really argue with the power of charisma. You'd think it would be easy for the multitude of runners to get a little pissed off by the delay. Apparently, you couldn't get guys like these (starstruck or otherwise) that chug on happy hormones for racing fuel in a sour mood then.

The starter pistol was fired immediately upon his arrival, and off the throng went. Some 1,000 boys and girls of all ages and from all walks of Manila life thundered down the paved path that extended from Rajah Sulayman Plaza, turning the corner at TM Kalaw and further past the plaza to the stoplight at the end of the pedestrian stretch, and back to complete a lap. The 5K event covered one round of the straightforward route which, even with the lack of the slopes and curves that characterized the UP run, was still a tough one for me as I was ready to drop by the side of the road at 4K. But I soldiered on, stopping for a second only when my shoelace came undone and breaking my pace by about 20% to aim in the general direction of my trap water from the plastic cups that the nice water people at the opposite ends of the road stretch were handing out to the runners.

When you're not racing, 5K sounds like an easy number. But as I was reminded again, it was a long, arduous journey of the mind as halfway through the run, I was mighty ecstatic to see the looming visage of the plaza that would signify the end of my happy ordeal. My endorphin levels dipped considerably, however, upon being reminded that the route from TM Kalaw required another turn before hitting the finish line at the plaza area. Daayymm, suddenly it felt like a chore that I couldn't reconcile getting up so early and working my ass out that hard for. Somewhere in the fogged-up crevices of my sleep-deprived mind, I heard the question, "Why am I doing this again?" And then I got the answer a short while later in the end, my utter amazement apparent at seeing the LCD timer staring down at me suspended from its place above the finish line, as if to say, "Yes, you really did finish at 33:37."

I swear, that moment right there was really cool. It was tops. Later this week when I relayed the news to Bry, my co-running junkie at the UP run, he was floored. He said his last PR (he runs at UP with Jer every Sunday now) was around 34 minutes. For the Fil-Mus race, I figured I must be finishing within the neighborhood of 36 minutes. If I were to be technical about it, my first ever time of 41:07 at the Great UP Run should be slashed some 5 minutes in order for me to get a better picture of how my average running rate goes. But man, 33:37 is quite something, on a personal level. I'm happy with it, especially since I haven't even been kicking it in training. The only aerobic activity I got after the run at Diliman was at Muay Thai class the day before (see previous post).

Which provides the segue into the second part of this report, to be concluded as soon as I can snatch up some free time from my workload from hell.


Post-Run Pose with the Muay Thai National Team

The Story of Lennie

So. I finally got myself a notebook. Pretty nifty, I would think so, especially since as I distinctly remember just a month ago, I never thought I’d have enough in my payroll piggy bank to finance the purchase of anything that cost more than a few measly grand. But then I remember, that’s what plastic is for. Memory gaps, tsk. That’s what you get for living the corporate zombie lifestyle.

Forgive me for being such a sap, but allow me this one-liner, to introduce a heffalumpa load of one-liners in the coming attractions:

Say hello to my little friend.




Yes, holla to Lennie, the new kid on the block. The fresh pea from the consumer pod of the Bel-Air of computers, IBM Lenovo. My precious. So help me if I accidentally drop the thing which, given my genetic predisposition, is not a near-impossibility. And yes, I now understand why dog owners call their beloved quarries Blackie/Brownie/Snow-Whitey/what-have-you.

So why get myself a notebook when there are bills to be paid and gabizillions of kids going hungry in China? Well, one might say it’s not so hard to justify the acquisition of such things, what with the world being increasingly run by computers and us humans needing to “get with the program” lest we get obsolete (yeah, the Matrix rocks!).

But the truth of the matter is that I got the idea of bagging Precious here so I could download and install iTunes for my personal use. (The damn office firewall won’t allow such errant behavior for some reason.. Friggin’ holier-than-thou IT people, you guys are insufferable when you’re not troubleshooting and fixing bugs and other garden-variety PC mishaps, you know that?)

And why, pray tell, should I have an actual use for iTunes? Because, silly, that’s how you transfer and save mp3 and other kinds of files to and from your iPod. An iPod, rather. Which would refer—painfully obviously so--to the lack thereof. Autoplay new mantra: Stop The Swiping. Must Save Bread. It’s rainy days again, after all.

So anyhoo, any bright kid who hasn’t been brainwashed with the idea of buying into the Apple experience franchise would raise the logical question of why I feel the need to get myself an iPod to begin with. It’s not exactly the most essential of things, after all. (Note: I am yet to be a proud iPod owner--only the question of when that's happening remains. So to those who already get the idea, this is my caveat.)

The answer to the nega-million dollar question? Coz I need to run. I need to run, dammit. And what else to egg me on all the more with my current preoccupation than to get myself one of those Nike+ thingamajigs. It’s a tiny gadget that monitors distance and time elapsed, plus calories burned (if I got my vital stats right), in the course of a run. To complement and maximize the benefits of using the Nike+ system, you need to firmly latch on to an iPod as you do your runs. It doesn’t hurt either that apart from listening to energy-boosting tracks that are supposed to help distract you from all heartburn-inducing sensations associated with running and exercising, you also get the rare chance to be pushed and bitch-coached by some of the greatest in the current sports scene. I mean, I guess hearing Lance Armstrong say “You go, girl” or any permutation of such would be enough to get your engine revving to full capacity, even if I personally would prefer Marat Safin to do all and, well, any kind of revving up for me. But what can I do, he’s still in the Adidas fold. And I suspect that until he wins a title again, he’s hard pressed to be courted by the peeps over at Oregon to lend his sexy Spanish-speckled baritone to Nike+. But I digress, time and again, for the last time.

And that, my friends, is the long and short of how I got myself my Lennie.


P.S.
Let me assure the people who are the least bit concerned about Lennie's reason for being. Prior to its purchase, the uses I've decided would be this notebook's purpose have graduated to more serious, less interesting roles. Apparently, notebooks are quite the little engines that could, and then some. Maybe this little fresh prince could actually someday bring me to Morocco, like you never know. I'm serious.

Quo Vadis, Bora Une?

This is my current shoutout in Friendster. Got it from KR, who in turn quoted Alex Garland:

..And me, I still believe in paradise. But now at least I know it's not some place you can look for, 'cause it's not where you go. It's how you feel for a moment in your life when you're a part of something, and if you find that moment... it lasts forever... - The Beach

I will miss 2006. Maybe not today, 'cause 2007 is still kicking and screaming and beating down my door, and it's all good. But at least when the happy storm has passed (and by some freak accident I delete all the pics in my PC from that era), I will still have this to come back to.

Palawan Chronicles: Short and Sweet

(...chronicling for real)

So here are the pictures from the Palawan trip. Of course, these aren't representative of the entire trip. For presentation sake (or rather, because of this particular slideshow template's limited capabilities), these are basically the highlights of the show.

I really need to get going in a while (it's way past my bedtime). So I guess this post is really a working file of sorts. I'll post details as soon as I can scrounge up some downtime from behind my boss' back. Peace, Pat!

Palawan Chronicles

I should be finishing the damn deliverable. But random memory pop-ups of last month's trip won't let me get on with my neatly set schedule, all of which boils down to "Finish the damn deliverable."

*Sigh...* Palawan. Can anything in the rest of the thousands of beautiful islands in the PH compare?





More to come. Abangan.

Run that by me again, will ya?

I never would have thought the day would come when I could say I probably relate more to guys than to my own kind. And it's becoming sort of a problem coz sometimes, without realizing it, I inadvertently give the cold shoulder to the alpha females in my block whenever I hear shrill chatter about girlie stuff. But don't get me wrong. I can be quite the girlie girl. I think. There's a degree of kikayness to me that I can't shake off, as my friends would attest to with grating candor. Not that I've really ever tried anyway. Shaking it off, that is.

Fine, so I'm vain. Not that girlie-ness should equate to vanity, but I guess if vanity is considered a soft trait, then I would say that's the extent of my, er, softness and hence, femininity. So there you go. I am vainvainvain. (You're so vain, you probably think this blog is about you....)

Crud, everyone is vain anyway, big deal. It's all a matter of being able to live with the fact that you are what social self-righteousness says you shouldn't be. All I can say is, occasional bouts of self-lovin' should be all right as long as you don't take yourself too seriously. So damn the hecklers, go on and be a little kinder to yourself. Come on, you know you want to. Indulge a little. It can be quite healthy, too. Hehe.

***

So, as I was saying. Lately, I've taken to exchanging more words than are necessary with one of the top guns here, and even more so with my dude cubicle-mate. In the office, Bry has always been a little more interesting to me (as a person, you ha) because of our shared affinity for sports. He's my one-time swimming tutor who got me interested in trying out wakeboarding. Unfortunately, not even his National Team background could get me to learn how to freestyle properly. But that was just an hour's worth of lessons anyway. And his freestyle is pro-level too, by the way. Excuses, excuses. Guess that means I gotta make do with my dog paddle for the meantime.

Jer, the boss man, seems to be a fun guy, too. I mean, he listens to house music and owns a rockin' digital SLR. He's also into boxing, thereby rounding up the triumvirate of male enthusiasts of the sport in our department, with me as the lone thorn among the so-called roses (or should it be the other way around...?) Plus, he just participated in the Adidas King of the Road 21K citywide run last July 1. Coolness in a barong and suit, that's what he is.

Anyway, those two got to talking about joining The Great UP Run to be held next month in, where else, UP. As for me, it has always been a sort of goal for me to be participating in a marathon someday. Fun runs like these are a fine way to get started, I guess. So I turned to Google and got to checking out The Bull Runner and Our Awesome Planet, plus a couple of other blogs whose authors/titles now escape me, all espousing the glorious merits of taking up running as a serious hobby.

After signing up with the guys at UP, I found out Jer and Bry were also running. And like the saying goes, the more the many-er, I mean, merrier. So we sort of teamed up and now, we have, like, snatches of mini-powwows revolving on possible places where we could train and getting decent/lousy finishes and what-have-you.

I'm also planning on joining the run that's being sponsored by the Quezon City Red Cross on August 5. Which reminds me, gotta speak to the peeps over at the City Hall in QC about registration. There's also another run on August 12 under Runners' Plus. I still have a little under a month to improve my endurance. Never mind the speed, although I would probably hate myself if I finished last, even if I am a beginner. Whatever. Running is funfunfun. It's just a wonder that it took me this long to fully appreciate the fact. I used to dread getting on the treadmill coz it tends to get a little boring and, well, tiring. But after the initial few minutes of torturous self-egging at a graduated pace of 7-10 km/hour, you begin feeling a certain kind of high. It seeps into your consciousness, setting your body on fire and making you want to keep at it for as long as your legs can carry you. Beyond that excruciating period, it starts getting so good, you feel like you never want the ride to end.

So what's with the crammed August sked, you ask? Well basically, being a late bloomer in this thing, I need all the opportunities I can get before Ramadan sets in this September. Of course, then it would be zero activity for me. Tried being a little more active during the fasting month in the years since I started becoming a jock-wannabe, but it just didn't happen. And it can be a pain in the ass trying to get back on the horse after staying a long time away.

***

Speaking of which. I'm kind of nervous for tomorrow's class. After a month-long sabbatical from the training gym on account of reviewing for the wretched certification exam (okay, plus the week-long Palawan trip I took in mid-June), I'll be making like the prodigal son and heading home to get the blessing of the disapproving Mafioso father to train again and try to recover whatever magic I lost during that much extended breather. Everyone's already been telling me to bring my game up in terms of power and technique, and now the momentum's off coz of my long-winded detour from the whole learning process. If last night's practice session with my original training instructors at the gym-gym (which is different from my training gym in that this is where I work out) is any indication of how even more olats I am now, then I'd better start practicing my dude face tonight for the barrage of quips and needling my teachers are sure to throw my way after a lackluster showing.

Plus, if Kru Roy tells me to gear up for a sparring match, I can't very well back down. Even if I go home from that gym limping on busted kneecaps, I will try. You get hella tired from all that exertion, the attempts at outthinking and outmaneuvering the opponent, that you feel like you've forgotten how to breathe right. Not to mention, it's like a friggin' sauna in that place, that half the time you can't see through the sweat-drenched, matted hair that keeps falling all over your eyes while you're trying in earnest to beat the living crap out of your sparring partner, who happens to be the instructor who keeps telling you to amp it up and fight like you mean it coz you're not hacking it.

But hands down, sparring gives you the best high. Never mind the injuries that now seem to happen at a regular basis and the fugly bruises you've never in your previously sheltered girlie existence had. Muay Thai's a keeper. Nuff said.

Head Over Heels... NOT

When you're teetering on four-inch heels on a daily basis, your perception of yourself in relation to the world changes. You feel tall, you feel strong, like you can take on anything. Well, at least, you think you can take on extra-credit workload and more nutcase clients. And it's all good.

But then you also get moments of wavering confidence wherein all sorts of things spring up in your head, making you doubt things that you usually take for granted on account of their normalcy. Reality shifts indefinitely and suddenly, you get vertigo when you attempt the short flight of stairs leading to your office lobby, which you've always taken during your pre-heels era. It's not a comforting feeling. Seriously.

And then there's the blistering calluses that sprout all over the place, seemingly with a vengeance. Can't say I haven't been warned. Everyone knows heels like these are a killer. Like, I sometimes imagine myself slipping on the well-polished floor of some packed resto, like, say, Big Buddha during lunchtime, like, say, today. And then falling flat on my back, hitting the sharp edge of a nearby table, and cracking my skull in the process. All within full view of my officemates and my new crush, Paul, that b-ball guy from the UAAP (Ohms, he is a looker, survey says). Smooth, right? Yep, these heels could very well be the end of me.

So why can't I take them off? And I don't want answers making references to the time-old feminine struggle against patriarchal hegemony, okay.

And by the way, I'm no shoe fiend. Just so we're clear, I'm not the type to squeal in delight over the arrival of the latest season's pieces. But getting high on high heels, that's a reality with me. I even get instantaneous hallunications, hazy though they may be. But I guess that's better than if they actually smack of imminent possibility. Then again, they probably really do. It is quite a dangerous life people eternally perched on heels live. That's why I have my trusty Havaianas to use and abuse during the weekend. Balance, that's what it's all about.

And here's the part where you mutter, "Ayt, whatever."

The Wannabe Travel Fiend In Me Just Had To Advertise

Grabe, so many more places to see! Dang it, why wasn’t I born rich? Why? Wwwwhhhhhhhyyyyyy?!?!?

How much of the Philippines have you visited? Find out at Lakbayan!

Created by Eugene Villar.

Island Girl

Didn't think I'd be a sucker for feeling wanted and appreciated. KSP lang din pala.

When someone says "No man is an island," you'd hear me murmuring a protest in the background. Of course, I mean that in terms of non-absolute needs. You can ship me off to Mars and I'd thrive. Of course, I wouldn't know how to cook myself a decent meal to save my life, but there's always Lucky Me and takeout. And there's tons of de lata at the nearby supermarket, if you're not squeamish about gorging on preservative-laden fare. Grocery stores are actually really neat places, if you're the type who likes reading up on and about what you're eating.

So that's how you take care of a need. On the other end of the spectrum, I believe in the essence of people. I believe in teamwork and the power of communication in getting things done. Like, I'm totally clueless with maps and contraptions that have numbers and geometric figures etched on them. But that's what the unassuming passers-by and the tambays are for. ("Yung bus stop? 'Ayan oh, sa harap mo!") If asking for directions was a racquet sport, I could probably give Serena Williams a run for her money. Don't give me that look; I could out-"grrr" that girl anytime, no sweat. I may not look like it (I patented the malamya look in high school--they used to call me the Daria Morgendorffer of the batch, the thugs!), but I like running around. Never mind that I stop to ask for directions way too often. If the Barbies from All-Stars needed someone to fill in for them on the non-off-chance that they might be giving the Amazing Race another go, they can give me a call and I'd tell them right off, "Where's the pitstop?"

But to actually be dependent on someone for things that don't require a sense of urgency, that's not my style. You won't see me doing the kambal-tuko routine wherein you're joined at the hip with a buddy who's got more downtime than the clone PC that my brothers play games on back in ole ZC. Been there, done that. So 90's.

Thing is, I'm no nomad (only by circumstance). But I got a nomad's sense of adventure, that awareness of things larger than life sitting out there, waiting to be explored. As a result, my mindset is such that I tend to look forward a tad too much to the view of the forest while I'm climbing individual trees in search for that perfect nesting spot. In effect, I sometimes don't see what kind of tree it is. And by way of explanation, I shrug it off, saying I'm more of a beach person anyway.

But whether I get it right or not, I'm uber thankful for the big, little things that I stumble on en route to the finish line, wherever that may be. Like a funny-looking pebble that you chance upon on a pristine shoreline, its craggy facets hinting at a never-ending story. Like simple hello's sent out of the blue, flooring you like nothing else can. Like friendships that started off rocky and which you didn't think would amount to much. Who'd have thought I'd be a sucker for that big, little thing from the black hole that is Malabon? Wuv you, Zel. Hot mama extraordinaire. Vamos!

Yep, but it's all geek to me

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24/07

Man, I am so friggin' stressed out. Last week, it was OT/all-nighters to death. This week, it was no-ventilador sweating to death. Hot dayym! These hot summer nights are killing me. I swear to God I swear to God, tomorrow I am totally getting myself my second electric fan in 3 days. Long story but basically, it's all for the love of Momsie-poo.

Which provides the segue I was looking for. I just celebrated my 24th year of being yesterday, woohoo! Mom was in town and we had dinner together with Cuzzy dearest and her kuya. First time I spent my special day with anyone from the homefront in 6 years, which in itself is cause for some major wine-and-dine action. But what's even more remarkable--at least to my mind--is the fact of my extended, erm, celibacy.. Doggone it! So there, I finally said it.

Now hold your horses, if I may offer a short elaboration. Celibacy is herein described as the condition of quasi-self-imposed independence from any form of official entanglement with the opposite sex. You might probably be wondering about the quasi part. You see, I used to think it would be pretty simple: Steer clear of all things that hint at a possible Romeo and Juliet not-so-happy ever after, and vindication will be yours when you finally meet Prince Charming at a time that you're ready for him. Coz you know, the modern Cosmo girl has to be able to schedule these things well. Otherwise, all hell would break loose and there goes your chance at a storybook ending. Although to be honest, you don't really subscribe to the whole dashing Prince Charming myth. But well, you know, a girl's gotta try. At this point, your luck's been limited mostly to Pinocchios--cute and loads of fun at best, but also afflicted with the legendary Pinoy propensity for lying and two-timing.

It's all well and good, this little theory of yours. But you know how those tacky telenovelas start out, right? No real complications at the beginning, but then you get a sense of disconnectedness that you can't quite put your finger on. You notice this only happens during the most unlikely of times, when out of the blue you feel that cloying little twinge of.. well, nothingness.. gnawing at your insides 'til you actually take a breather from the Cosmo girl routine long enough to attempt to give this thing a name. And the epiphany is that after all this time, after so long a wait, you feel you're finally ready. You honest-to-goodness actually wanna give it a go, the whole relationship thing. The tragedy is that you just can't find anyone to do it with. Just where have all the cowboys gone, that's what you'd like to know.. Imagine that. Almost a quarter of a hundred years of solitude. Boy, García Márquez would have been proud.

Then there's the occasional pang of remembrance for what could have been. You probably got lucky a couple of times, you know. Like in the movies, you never saw it coming. But somehow, the magic wasn't there. Or okay, maybe it was, but your head was floating too far above the clouds to see the fireworks going on down below. And you are all about the fireworks, aren't you? But all you had were dreams and hopes and ideals and fear and confusion. The never-ending parade of questions that follow a doomed affair. Or so you thought. But there you go. That's Varbaridad 101 for you: ego, superego, id. Life is a rollercoaster. And then, nothingness.

Welcome to the rest of your life.

Ditzkrieg

OMG! I saw him again. And I wasn't ready, damn him!

Shit naman o. Eight-plus hours in a working day and he had to see me at a wa-poise moment. Why oh why did we have to bump into each other at a time I'm ngarag and all frazzled from OT work? When the elevator doors opened and we had an Inday Badiday moment (read: eye-to-eye), I didn't know what hit me. I just knew I wasn't pulling the smooth operator act. I was slouching, dammit! I couldn't friggin' stand straight. I had to lean on the side of the elevator and couldn't look anywhere except either down at the ground or up at the LCD display showing the floors we were passing as the lift descended to the building lobby. When it came to a stop, I couldn't get out of the thing fast enough. Good Lord, I almost knocked over an elderly executive type who was halfway through the door in front of me! (Totally sorry, mister! In the unlikely event that you read this anyway.)

And never have I felt like I wanted to sink to the floor while crossing the lobby to get to the nearest convenience store. He was with a couple of female co-workers, one of whom even sorta smirked at one point--to herself, WTF! was she smirking at me??--during a lull in their conversation in the elevator. Yes, I caught that in the reflection on the shiny walls of the lift, all right. But he was NR (no reaction), and had the weary look of a regular OT junkie.

Lordy, have you ever felt like all eyes were on you, and not in a good way? His eyes especially, I swear to God. How could he not, what with that weird enough walk that I've always had, which I'm sure must have looked even more awkward when I was trying to make my getaway (and on 3.5-inch heels, no less). Ditzville moment but I felt my heart beating out of my chest like in the B movies. You know when something stupid happens and you go, "This is so not happening!?@!?" and you swear to God you feel like you could faint right then and there but the tragedy is that you don't? That's how it was.

Dang but I absolutely hate him, hate him! My goodness, I've never felt this stupid before. Not even when Yummy 1 caught me and my cousin openly gawking at him with a look of dopey (I'm sure) wonderment plastered on our faces at Glorietta 4. This was ten times worse. Doggone it, I wanted the earth to just gobble me up whole, face first. I felt I couldn't walk at all! How utterly, utterly stupid is that? (Plus, now I'm reduced to going on and on about it spouting "stupid" as the only way to describe the whole ordeal.)

This is weird. Honestly, this has never happened to me. I swear to God. Never. But I'm not jumping to conclusions. This is unacceptable. I never saw this coming.

Someone please do me a mean roundhouse, right on the noggin, like right now!

Revelations, Revelations

~written on December 31, 2006

I’ve calmed down a bit. It’s been a little over half a day since I received the final wake-up call of the year to date, after all.

I don’t think I can take any more surprises today, the official end of twenny-oh-six. I figure fate probably couldn’t hand me any more shockers in the next 12 hours coz I’m shutting myself off from civilization long enough to enjoy a nice New Year’s Eve with the fam. Kind of like trying to start the coming year with a clean slate.

I’ve been neglecting posting updates these past few weeks on account of work and preparations for my pilgrimage to the homefront. Anyhoo, in the interest of making a neat summary of my two-week sabbatical thus far, I’ve come to the following agreements with reality:


1. If you’re the hero of your own story, others will always be the bad guy. At some point, everyone takes their turn at trying to make life a little more complicated for you. And I do mean everyone.

2. If the market seems too bullish to be true, it probably is. Look before you leap. Don’t assume your stock will always soar.

3. I am Cold Fish. Normally, I’d go for Ice Princess or the proverbial Girl-on-the-Pedestal or something equally privileged-sounding. But I feel I’ve been a tad too generous to myself this year. Time to make like Calvin Klein and get hard-core minimalist.

4. Sometimes you’re on top, sometimes you’re not. And sometimes others need the prize more than you.

5. Every dog has its day. Just hope that yours comes at the time you need it the most.

6. Muay Thai is always a good idea, especially if you’re feeling the need to beat someone to a bloody pulp. Trust me, a mental picture won’t be enough. Of course, this doesn't mean that I condone violence. Like the ladies in the beauty pageants, I wish for world peace.

7. Secrets are a fine thing. Everyone should tuck away at least a couple funny ones to smile to for times when life seems a little less fantastic than usual.

8. You can’t blame parents for being how they are. You may be right, but they know best. Usually, anyway. Or at least until you become one yourself.

9. Despite your best efforts, you can’t change society. It’s either get with the program, or get your walking papers. Good luck to you too, Oprah.

10. Consider this: You’re strolling along downtown minding your own beeswax when all of a sudden, one by one you run into each member of your family, plus a few outliers in your family tree (i.e., baby-ridden relatives you see only at weddings and religious holiday parties). And get this, all in the space of 5 minutes. It’s enough to make you go off your rocker. But if your own uber-overprotective dad bumps into you at a time you least need to be conspicuous and at which you took pains to go incognito, then you know it’s time to pack your bags and skedaddle. There’s no such thing as anonymity in downtown Zamboanga City.


Happy 2007, everyone!