Stumped

Yesterday, I had lunch with these two girls from a regional business news channel who wanted to get some insights on how local businesses see the economy.  Together with the senior members of the team, we talked about how business has changed for us over the years, especially the last few ones under this particular president.

It was pretty casual and I was getting questions I was used to answering so, as far as I was concerned, it was pleasant chit chat over a free lunch.  Not a bad way to start the week.  And then came the miss universe question, “So, where do you see CID in 5 years?” I wish someone had been taking a video at that point because I would have loved to see my face go blank. I had no fucking idea what to say to that. Someone had to jump in and there was some discussion around it and then we all moved on to dessert.    

Of course I’m obsessing over that question still. I’ve been thinking about it the whole day and I still cannot, for the life of me, come up with an answer. How useless am I as head of this company?

Although, in my defense, (and this is when I start to whine a little) it’s so hard to be a working mom naman talaga and I was forced into this after Larry’s death and right smack in the middle of my pregnancy which was immediately followed by the arduous, albeit rewarding, task of motherhood.  And really, the brains of sleep-deprived, constantly-tired mothers of toddlers have no room for long-term plans.  End of whine.

So I have decided to get to an answer to this ASAP.  And while I’m at it, where do I see myself in 5 years really?  That’s the bigger, harder question to answer.  Requires thinking I neither have the time nor the inclination to do anymore.  I can’t even string s few coherent thoughts together to come up with a blog entry.  See how long ago this came after the last one.   It’s official.  I am sabaw. The zombies eat my brainzzzz.

Remembering Singapore

Again, one of my blog entries for the now defunct www.singlehungryfemales.com blog I shared with deesj.  Was looking for something else in my folder and found this.  Might be a sign.  

I wrote this in 2010 when we went to Singapore to watch Belle and Sebastian.

----

Eating Singapore

The first time I was in Singapore, I was not really in Singapore.  It was a stop-over in Changi on my way to India that gave me my first taste of the first world Asian country that punishes gumchewers.  Even then I was impressed by how such a massive structure filled with people can be so organized and orderly.   

Last week, I was in Singapore for the first time for real.  This time though, instead of the beautiful, huge and modern airport to welcome us, we touched down at the Budget terminal.  Believe me when I say that nothing, not even Cebu Pacific’s cramped plane and uncomfortable seats and roving sari-sari store, can make you feel like your on a budget trip more than landing in Singapores budget terminal with Changi only a few hundred meters away.  In fact, if the pilot had told us that we had just landed in Cebu, we wouldn’t have had any problems believing him.  Except it was a cleaner Cebu terminal.  A much much cleaner Cebu airport.

Clean.  If I were asked to describe Singapore in just one word, clean would definitely be it.  If I were given 100 words, I will use up 90 words to describe just how clean it is.  And then somewhere in my last ten words, you would hear “amazing architecture,”  “wonderful commuter-friendly transportation system,” and “quite expensive,” as well.  An injustice, I know, to some very talented architects and engineers.  But before anyone else, Singapore should hail as heroes the men and women who keep the city super duper clean.  “Even my booger here is white cos its so clean,” said an utterly astonished Drach.

Perhaps because it’s a little too clean, or maybe because I grew up in a country that is a little too dirty and polluted, Singapore felt a little unreal to me – a little synthetic even.  It felt like instead of going to a country, I visited a movie set of a first-world country where the citizens were really just actors following a character guide on how citizens of a first-world country should act. Be polite.  Be accommodating.  Not too friendly.  Not too warm.  Or else, lashings. 

My friend, a Singapore resident for the past two years, said that they are not a very imaginative people.  “Cannot” (pronounced keh-nuh) is as much a part of their vocabulary as “la”.  Asking your server if you can get mashed potatoes instead of fries with your food will give you a very curt “keh-nuh” with a what-is-written-is-all-there-is-duh-don’t-you-know-that look. 

Anyway, all that aside, let me categorically say that the soul of Singapore is in its cuisine.  If you want to find personality in Singapore, you will find it on your plate or in a hot kitchen or, of course, a hawker center.  To put it bluntly, a single order of that spicy and juicy stingray dish has more personality than 10 Singaporeans put together.  And ultimately, that’s what you fall in love with when you visit Singapore.  At least, that’s what I fell in love with, absolutely crazy in love with. Their food is so good it made me want to literally pull my hair out twice.

The first time was during dinner at Chinatown.  Again, a very clean Chinatown.   I know now that even if I have already forgotten the name of that stall and the name of the street where we found that stall, I will never forget that meal.  My first stingray experience was nothing short of an OH. MY. GOD. moment.   This stingray was not shy at all.  It had no problem introducing itself to my taste buds.  It was loud and dammit it was proud!  And why the hell shouldn’t it be, it was as mind-blowing as the last 10 minutes of the LOST finale for me.  The meat itself was tender and moist.  Its texture was between that of crabmeat and fish.  It was smothered with this spicy and robust paste (sambal is it?)  that can drive your taste buds delirious.  It comes with calamansi and a small serving  of what looks like pickled onions but could very well be opium.  That pickled onion was food schizophrenia at its best – spicy, sweet, and sour, makes you sweat and refreshes you at the same time.  I was never as sad as I was that night that people only have one stomach.  Lucky cows. 

My second I-wanna-pull-my-hair-out experience came from a dish that was a little less bold than the stingray.  A dish accepted as the national dish of Singapore.  The humble yet sublime, the simple yet complex - chicken rice.  More specifically, chicken rice from Tian-tian, Maxwell food center at Chinatown.         

Several elements make up this dish, each one needs to be perfect on its own to create that delicious orgy in your mouth.  The chicken itself has to be juicy and savory despite its pallid color.  Each grain of rice, plump and coated with a gingery-oniony-fatty jus. The chili sauce has to be spicy enough to make you sweat but not too spicy to kill the delicate taste of the chicken.  The broth has to be, how do I say it without being overly dramatic, well, it has to be the very essence of chicken in a liquid form at the perfect temperature, not one degree hotter or colder. 

Until Singapore, I was under the impression that the ginger sauce that we normally get with our chicken rice here in the Philippines is a major component of chicken rice.  It, apparently, is not.   All you really need is a good chili sauce and you’re good to go. 

So there.  The two dishes that defined my Singaporean foodfest.  It has to be said though that I was only there for 4 days.   Not enough.  Too short actually.  Cramming the wide buffet of  Singaporean food in 4 short days is impossible.  It also didn’t help that in those four short days, I just had to do repeats of my favorites - chicken rice twice, stingray three times.  Plus I even wasted a meal with a stupid chicken burger at Universal.   There were several places that I wasn’t able to go to despite rave reviews like Chomp-chomp hawker center, chin-chin restaurant, little India, and  Katong Laksa.  I will get you next time I promise.

Singapore is a small place they say, and it is.  There’s not a lot to do in Singapore they say, and there isn’t.  Four days is enough they say, but its NOT.  For people who are there to eat and pig out, four days in Singapore is NOT enough.   

Dear papa,

I can’t believe it’s been 6 years.  Sometimes it feels longer, most times it feels shorter, but 6 years just doesn’t seem right.  I don’t think any number will actually ever feel right.  Like its hard to accept how one number can possibly measure all that was lost. 

Heniway.

So you have an apo now.  I’m watching her sleep as I type this and I can’t help but feel sad that she will never know what its like to have a lolo.  Drach lost his dad early too so nothing from that side either.  The lolas are amazing to be sure –mama is absolutely phenomenal - but lolos are great for little girls to have.  And I imagine you would have made a phenomenal one too.

I made a promise to myself the day I found out I was pregnant.  I said that I was going to make sure that my child would know who her grandfather was.  So I’ve made a mental note of all the stories that I want to share with her so she will know how funny, silly, honourable and, well, deaf you were. Hahaha. 

Anyway, I love you and I miss you terribly. And I hope that you are proud of the kind of parent I am turning out to be.  

WFTY: HEALTH

I want to put this out there before the year ends just so it's clear.  This, above anything, is what I want for 2014.  For myself, for my daughter, my husband, my mother, my siblings, and my friends.

And unlike my other WFTYs where I just pretty much closed my eyes and hoped for the universe to conspire to make it happen, I will be an active advocate this year.

Woooohoooo, we can do this!

In the name of the mother

I was talking to my mother on the phone just now when she casually tells me that she’s worried about my soul.  I ask her why and she says because I don’t hear mass anymore.

I laugh it off.

My soul is fine.  

I have never felt better about my soul.  I have made a promise I intend to keep and I am at peace with that.  God and I, we have a thing.

But now that I’m a mom, I completely understand her. 

She was raised to believe that her performance as a mom will depend on my performance as a catholic so she worries when I, or any of her other children, stray from the catholic path.  I remember her telling us when we were children that she’s not breaking her back to take care of us in this life only to be separated from us when we die.  “Let’s all be together in heaven,” she said.

Sure.  I’m all for heaven.

So, what shall I base my performance as a mom on?  

Well, I just want two things for sage - to be happy and to please please be kind, possibly the two hardest things in the world to be sometimes.   Of course I will love her anyway if she turns out to be miserable and cruel, but I don’t think I will be able to hide my heartbreak. 

I actually miss going to mass.  It's very much like yoga to me.  Time to reflect about things.  I don't think God will keep me away from heaven if I miss mass.  I believe being a bad person is the only thing that can do that.  But maybe I'll start going to mass again. I haven't been in a while only because, well, walang time sa world!  

So I shall make a real effort now to go for my mom because my going is more important to her than my not going is to me.  And I love her.  And I don't want her to worry anymore.  

Tatlong kwento. Isang OUCH.

Drach told me this morning that when he was growing up, he thought of himself as a real deal music man.  He could carry a tune, he could play an instrument and his head pretty much holds a fairly extensive music library. 

Then he joined Hit where he met the likes of Mike Villegas who is a guitar god and Arnold Buena who had an impeccable aptitude for arranging music and others who, like him, knew music but knew it better.

He was put in his place daw.

***

In 2007, I read an article on Rogue written by Chef David Pardo de Ayala.  He talked about how he always thought of himself as a good chef and that he was happy with where his career was going.  Then he had a trip somewhere and had a chance to eat at this famous restaurant owned by this renowned chef (I don’t remember where, where and who). 

Anyway, the moment he took his first bite daw, he started to tear up and he got so emotional as he realized with such clarity because of that one bite that, despite all he had accomplished, he was not and will probably never be a great chef.

I was super hurt for him there.

***

Okay let me just say it – I think I’m pretty. And 2006 was the height of this particular thinking because I wasn’t quite so behemoth-ish.

I worked out regularly at Golds gym and I really felt good about myself.  I especially liked how I looked after a workout cos I would be all flushed, pink cheeks and glowing and all.  So after working out one evening, I was in the middle of the locker room giving myself one last look in the mirror before heading out.  I was having pa a really great hair day so I was really REALLY falling in love with myself there.

And then a lady stood next to me to check herself out in the mirror.  It was Priscilla Meirelles

Grabe naman ang universe magkapag reality check!  eto sya eh!!!

A letter for Solana

May 13, 2013

To my dearest Solana,

When you were still a resident in my belly, I dreamt of the day when I would be able to go around with you outside me and introduce you to everyone as my creation.  I already saw myself pointing to you and announcing “See that! I made that!”  Your father and I would carefully and thoroughly discuss all the things that we wanted to teach you and all the ways that we wanted to raise you so that you would become a person of substance and a woman of grace. 

But as I start to get to know you, I realize more and more that you are not mine to own or mould.  Already you are showing signs of a personality I didn’t think someone who only came into this world 6 months ago could have.  And while I recognize bits and pieces of myself and your papa in you, you are already mostly you, which is now the only thing I will ever want you to be. 

If I ever forget in the future, as I most likely will, remind me please, and again and again if necessary, that you are not mine to own or mould.  If you want to experiment on an outfit or a hairstyle that I think is hideous, if you choose to believe in an ideology that makes no sense to me, if you should ever fall in love with a boy who is way out of your league, or if, God forbid, you start rooting for the Lakers, look me in the eye and tell me gently please “Mama, I know you love me and you want only the best for me but I am not yours to own and mould.”

I, on the other hand, am yours anak.   Absolutely and forever.  How's that for irony?

Your papa and I realized the first time we held you in our arms that nothing in our lives would ever come first again. It is unbelievable how quickly and how willingly we became a cliche.  So yes, I will be THAT kind of mom.  The kind of mom who wont sit still until you are home safe and tucked in your bed at night. The kind who will desperately try to fit in your life even if it means listening to annoyingly loud teenage music.  And of course, the kind who will cry the ugly cry at birthday parties and graduations and probably practically every little thing that makes her realize that you are growing up.

I will be that kind of mom. That is a fact.  Please learn to deal with it as quickly as possible to avoid any unnecessary drama that you might be drawn to in your tweens.  

Yesterday was my first ever mother’s day.  You did not know that of course and you were too into your hands to realize how much that day meant to me.  You were not able to greet me, at least not in a language I understood.  Nor did you buy me any gifts.  But when I woke up that morning, I found you already awake, quietly observing the ceiling.  When you heard me stir, you looked at me and gave me the warmest and sincerest smile I’ve ever seen on anyones face. 

That was enough.  That will always be enough. 

Thank you.

Love, 

Mama

Last night on Survivor

Survivor is the greatest reality TV there is.  Ever!

Nuff said.

I want to end this blog with that nuff said right there but I cannot stop thinking about it.

Last night's episode was epic.

Malcolm went to tribal feeling pretty confident that he was safe.  So confident in fact that, and this is just my theory, he didn't bother to bring his own immunity idol with him.  When he felt during tribal that he was going to get blind-sided, he votes for reynold AND THEN, when reynold, thinking that he was going to get voted out, stood up to play his idol, he (malcolm) convinces (no wait, not even) TELLS reynold to give his idol to him which reynold did!!!

Ugh. Malcolm is so hot.

It was just too bad that the people who were actually planning to vote malcolm off were too sissy to go with the plan and voted off michael instead.  Which is the biggest sayang because that would have been the greatest play on survivor history.

I hope Malcolm wins.

Song for Solana 1

One of the hardest things a parent has to do is keep the little one entertained.

Lord, do they need A LOT of entertaining!

So I've written a couple of songs that I sing to her.  Here is my morning song for Sage.  Inspired by that bodily function that we both do first thing in the morning.  It has a fun, boppety bop tune that makes you move your head from side to side.

Hello Sage
It's a brand new day
It's a fresh new way 
to start

Hello Sage
Just open your eyes
Give mama a smize
then fart

This is what we do
in the morning just me and you
while papa's asleep
we both let it rip
it's musical art
we fart.

Before they had models, Brazil had Brigadeiro

One day at band camp… hehe.  Sorry.  I’ve always wanted to start a sentence with that line since American Pie so I couldn’t resist since this is a camp-ish story.  Except instead of band camp, it happened in our CISV camp in India.  And, unlike band camp, it doesn’t involve any sordid, perverse sexual experiment.  Although it is equally sinful and delicious. 

Brigadeiro is a yummy yummy chocolate yema-ish candy from Brazil.  Mariana, the sexy Brazilian junion councilor, prepared it for all of us when it Brazil day.  At CISV, each country gets to have a “day” when we learn about the culture, the history, and of course the food there. On our day, I fed them chicken adobo and taught them tong tong tong tong pakitong kitong complete with choreography.   

I digress.

Back to chocolate now.

After I tasted Brigadeiro, I knew I had to learn how to make it.  So I cornered Mariana in the kitchen soon after and demanded that she teach me.  The deliciousness of this candy is only trumped by the simplicity of how it is made.

3 simple ingredients.

3 simple steps.

4 simple syllables that will make you wish you had an extra mouth so you can have two spoonfuls at a time.

Say it with me now.

Brigadeiro.

Again, again.  Say it the way Brazilians do.  Or better yet, say it as if a hot Brazilian model were naked in front of you right now.

BRIGADEEIIIRRRROOOOOO.

God.  Sarap.

Ingredients:

1 can condensed milk

3 tbsps butter

3 tbsps unsweetened cocoa powder (dutch-processed please)

Mix all ingredients together in a saucepan, put over low heat and bring to a simmer while constinuously stirring. 

When the mixture has thickened, remove from heat.

Transfer to another container to cool.  Then chill in the fridge.

 

You can form it into balls after or you can eat it like ice cream like I do.

Enjoy =)

Sure I can live without salt. I can also live without love. But I won’t. *

Salt has gotten a lot of bad PR over the years.  It makes you bloat.  It increases your chances of getting hypertension.  It is harmful to your kidneys, your bladder, your heart, etc.  etc. etc.  Doctors warn us now to kick it like a bad habit, like smoking, or alcohol, or drugs. Imagine that?  someday salt will only be available in dark, dingy alleys peddled by smelly men who only have three teeth left.  Our children will rebel under the mantra of SEX, SALT AND ROCK AND ROLL! and we will tell them about the good old days when salt was abundant and life tasted good.

And yet, despite the rap, God bless our stubborn hearts, we continue to use it liberally on anything and everything.   A great testimony to the tenacity and gluttony of the human race. 

To say that salt makes food salty is obvious and, honestly, insulting both to salt and to the person who says it.  Because how could you, you who absent-mindedly toss a handful of it to season your simmering pot of kaldereta, you who profusely sweat over a pot full of nilaga consciously checking if it needs another pinch of it, how could you just use the most obvious word to describe salt.  I mean really, adding another consonant, that’s the best you can do!

As simple as salt is, it does so much more than make food salty.  It is responsible for bringing out the complexities of every flavor palette.  That’s why we use it for baking and for cocktails even.  It elevates the inherent flavor of food to a higher level.  It maximizes the potential of food.  It encourages them to be the best that they can be.  It’s like Oprah… but whiter and less preachy.

Now, because of culinary geniuses who have come before us, our choices have expanded immensely.  What used to be 

"rock or refined salt?” is now “Iodized? kosher? Sea salt?  Flavored sea salt? Or the God of all salts, Fleur de sel?” 

Save for Fleur de sel, I have tried cooking with all.  I like sea salt because it tastes a little more organic than your basic iodized salt.  I don’t know if its psychological but it does bring in the flavor of the ocean a little.  I’m not a big fan of flavored sea salt because sometimes I don’t need to add that hint of oregano and thyme that come with the salt to my dish.  I appreciate, however, that it comes in grinders like peppercorns but I really can live without it.  The little I have had of kosher has made me a fan.  Its not too salty, just right.   Unfortunately, I have not had enough of it to sing it praises just yet. 

Salt, of course, like other seasonings, is a matter of taste.  How much or how little you want it in a dish is absolutely a matter of preference.  The bottomline is though, you need salt.  Yes, just as much as you need love.   

*this was my first entry for SINGLE HUNGRY FEMALES, a blog I started with Deesj three years ago (and dapat gigi and jenni but they never wrote anything).  We gave up the URL and if you search for it now, you will be directed to a porn site which works as well.

SMASH

I've always wanted to be a writer.  Some time ago, I forget when, I specifically wanted to write a musicale.

I am currently cleaning my office computer cos we're finally getting new ones (wooooohoooooo) and I found this "lyrics" saved in one of my folders.  Feeling ko talaga pwede!

So this is how it ends

With me on the floor

At quarter to 4

With a phone in my hand

And my heart broken into 6 million pieces

And this is how it ends

From half the world away

In a smug, ice cold way

You said this stopped working

Cos we suddenly just stopped making sense

And you said it was just as hard for you

And you said that you were breaking as well

And you said that tonight was a night you’ve been dreading

But you knew it was coming

Since the day that you and I fell

In love

We always knew that it was not gonna be easy

It was complicated right from the start

So forgive me for being all angry and bitter

As I helplessly watch my world fall apart

It must be real nice to be able to walk away unscathed

From the one you called the love of your life

It must be real nice to be able to move on

Without a scar, with barely a scratch

With nothing but memories that will soon fade away anyway

WOTY: KINDNESS

This blog is 4 months overdue, the word is not.  I knew what my word would be a few months before giving birth. 

For me, sure.  But for my daughter most of all.  And I will ask the universe to send some your way too.  Because who doesn't need a little more kindness in their lives?

I live in the hood. Motherhood.

When I was younger, I dreamt of moving to a foreign place where everyday is an adventure.  Where I would have to stress every syllable of every word to be understood and where I need to rely on hand gestures and facial expressions to understand.  Where night is day and day is night.  And where every experience is brand new even if you’ve done it a million other times before.

Well, here I finally am.

This is motherhood.  I’ve only just moved here three months ago but let me tell you a few things about living in the hood. 

1.  Here in the hood, there is only one boss.  It isn’t me and it certainly isn’t my hunky, macho man of a husband.  Oh no no no, we are but mere servants who run around like headless chicken at our boss’ slightest whimper. 

“O why anak? Are you hungry?  Here, take mama’s boo… Ah okay, you’re not hungry pala noh. Okay okay sige stop crying na.  Ahhhh naku maybe you’re wet. Let’s see nga.  O, you’re not naman eh.  Eh why are you crying baby?  Sige na tell mama and papa.  You want to make poopoo?  O here, hold mamas hand tightly so mama can help.  No pa rin?  Ahhh  I know na! You must be bored!  Oo nga naman, you’re just sitting there kasi noh.  O sige, lets go out baby.  Lets look at the outside world.  See anak o, look at all the colors. It's so pretty noh. Ah naku you dont like the outside world pala.  Yeah it sucks here noh.  Eh baka naman you’re really hungry na?  Lets try again ha, here, take mama’s boo...  Okay okay okay, you’re not talaga hungry.  I believe you na.  Maybe you want to sleep na noh?  Twinkle twinkle little star….”

And this ‘conversation’ with our boss has been on loop for three months.

2.  Here in the hood, there is only one star.  My husband and I, we who pay the bills and cook the food and go about our lives outside the hood acting as if we’re free people, we are nothing but fawning fans to the superstar. 

I watch her and I wait, with bated breath, for her to see me and smile at me.  And when I am finally bestowed with such an honor, I think of every good deed I’ve ever done in my life and I wonder which of those earned me this. 

3.  Here in the hood, there is nothing but love.   Please refer to Monster’s blog for deets because she wrote it ever so beautifully.

Read it here.  http://pinoymonster.wordpress.com/2012/12/17/who-are-you-and-why-do-i-love-you/

4.  Here in the hood, there is nothing but gratitude. Someday, someone will have to sit me down and explain to me why I was chosen to live here when others, far far better suited than I am, are still waiting to be let in.  I am grateful.  Every minute of every day, I am grateful. 

Salamat Uniberso. 

Salamat sa poong may kapal. 

Salamat sa matres ko na kahit may myoma ay nakapag aruga pa rin ng supling. 

Salamat sa mga doctor na nagtanggal ng pulupot na cord sa leeg ng anak ko at nagtahi ng punit sa bituka ko.

Salamat sa mga kamaganak at kaibigan na laging nangangamusta at paminsan minsan ay bumibisita, miski pa ang nadaratnan lamang nila ay isang nagpapasusong ina o nagngagangawang sanggol.

Salamat sa nanay ko, na sa pagiging ehemplo, ay nagturo sa akin kung pano magmahal ang isang mabuting ina.   At sa mga kapatid ko na syang mga una kong kalaro at kaibigan, para sa pagmamahal nila sa anak ko ng sobrang sobra at pagkuha ng isang damungkal na litrato.

Salamat sa asawa ko, my fellow servant and fellow fan (maybe even a bigger fan than I am), for waking up at the slightest kalabit in the middle of the night to see how he can be of help, for expertly and ever-so-lovingly changing diapers, and for blueberry hill morning dances with the little girl. 

Higit sa lahat, salamat Solana.  Salamat Sage.  Salamat anak.  For being patient with mama when she cant seem to understand you.  I promise you though, that even when you are able to talk in complete sentences using big words and espousing complex ideas, there will always be times when I still wont understand you.   

Such is the way of mothers and daughters.  

There will be times when you will feel that I am THE WORST, that I am against you and that I just don’t care.  I’ve been there.  And I swear to you that all those times I thought that about your abuela, I was always wrong.   

As you will always be wrong.  
  
Because, no matter how damning you feel your evidence is against me, I will always be on your side, I will always care, and I am always, in every possible way, THE BEST.

TESBUN

It’s been so long since I slept through the night.  But I make up for it at work where one can find me passed out in the conference room between 10 to 11 in the morning and/or 3 to 4 in the afternoon with a thread of spit leaking out my mouth.  

My ankles have disappeared completely and there are certain parts of me I have not seen for some time now.  To make up for that, my belly has expanded to the size of a marching band, arriving a destination 5 minutes before I do as if to clear the area to make room for the rest of me.  

Nothing fits.  Not my clothes, not my shoes, and certainly not my once cute little bulbous nose.  It, too, has outgrown my face. 

And the heat that emanates from each and every molecule of my being, OH EM GEE THE FUCKING HEAT, has turned my body into a pyromaniac’s wet dream.  Light a match within three feet of me and I will blow up.

I am irritable and exhausted most of the time.  And to be honest, I probably want to punch you every time I see you.  Yes. You.  Whoever you are. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I wouldn’t trade places with the most comfortable person in the world.  There is nothing I will undo.  Nothing I will do differently.   

I'm only whining because, well, just like Chris Lao, I was sooooo not informed. 

With all due respect to Ebe

It stands,  sure.  Cuida is one of the greatest love songs ever written. 

How could it not be?  To take all the sadness and envy and anger there is in the world just to make sure it never touches me.  To give me, in fact, the whole world, if you could, just to show how much you love me.

How can one not wish, when listening to this song, that it was written, or at least at some point, that it is sung for you.

But on my way to work this morning, the song played and when I closed my eyes to listen to it, I realized how, uhm, empty the song is. 

What married life has made me realize is that love does not, CANNOT, function on hypotheticals.  

Kung akin lang ang mundo... 

kung pagaari ko lang ang lumbay...

 kung hawak ko ang panahon... 

all so very romantic and promising but even the grandest of the these gestures are empty if it will never be put into actual use.

When I am sick, make sure I drink my medicine on time, take my temperature, drive me to the doctor.

When I am drunk, give me water, let me puke if I need to, change me out of my sweat and vomit drenched shirt and please give me coffee the day after.

And until the day comes when you can actually own lumbay and keep it away from me, when I am sad, just hold me and tell me that things are going to be okay even if you don’t know how it will and even if you don’t know that it will

Love, just like the devil, is in the details after all.  It’s in the small gestures that may seem to go unnoticed but actually can mean the world to the other.

Like letting her sleep that extra five minutes even if you are in a hurry to get to work.

Like settling for the chicken breast because you know she prefers the leg and thigh.

Like volunteering to wash your pregnant wife’s feet because she just cannot bend that far down anymore.

Like not kissing her when you’re sick because you don’t want her to get sick too.

This is what love means to me now.  These seemingly insignificant acts that make me feel very significant.   

But sure, sure, if, someday, you will ever find yourself in possession of the world and if you still want to give it to me then, I will take it with open arms.

I’m just not sure where to keep it though.  Hindi kasya sa bahay.  

Dear Comfort,

huuuuyyyyyyyy kamusta ka na day??? ang tagal tagal na nating hindi nagsasama.  Grabe naman, ang bilis mong makalimot.  Pasyalan mo naman ako paminsan minsan.  Lagi ka nalang sa asawa ko nakadikit eh, halos buong gabi mo kasama.  Ano ba naman ang 10 minutes na ako naman ang samahan mo. 

Ano, mamayang gabi, pwede ka?  Mga 11-ish? 

xoxo,
ets

We are Medinas. And this is how we roll.

My father was an only child.  My mother, on the other hand, comes from a huge family that could easily form a small state.  Our family gatherings are never small and intimate.  Add to our number the fact that we do not ever do anything quietly and maybe you can imagine the chaos of a Medina party.  We eat, laugh, sing, talk and fight loudly and, often times, exaggeratedly.  We are of the hot-blooded, fierce, and highly emotional Spanish descent after all, with a generous share of Arabic blood mixed in which, I imagine, does not help temper our personalities one bit.

But my personal favorite thing about being a Medina is how we come together in heartbreaking situations.  Death, illness, emergencies, these are the times when everyone puts all else aside to share the pain of someone else’s heartbreak.  The most recent incident only happened last Sunday.  

But maybe I should start from the start.

We have three “professional” singers in the family.

My brother Bobby was first to make a living from singing when he became the vocalist of Mexicali Blues Band.  He later had other bands but Flying Rats Ass was, I think, the one that’s truly his.  He plays mostly blues and classic American rock with a little bit of Prince thrown in.  

My cousin Iñigo also became the vocalist of his own band GRIM and then later Addicted to Venus.  I never had the chance to watch his gigs but if I were to guess from the songs he sings at family parties, I think they were a rock-metal-grunge kind of band.

And then there’s Iñigo’s brother, Jeric.  Jeric sang, I think, the most accessible songs.  The ones you could enjoy listening to without thinking “hmmmm… parang my hair is getting longer and dirtier and parang im growing a tattoo while I’m listening to this music.”  Jeric sang songs you can just chillax to.  Pop and RnB, that was his thing.  Oh, and love of course.  He sang love songs that could melt your heart.

So it’s not a surprise that we would always ask Jeric to sing at parties.  Or at wakes and funerals for that matter :)

When he told the family that he was auditioning for X Factor Philippines, we knew instantly he would make it.  He has the looks and the talent and the passion for singing.  More importantly, he had that indefinable X that the show was looking for.

We were behind him 168%.

When he made it to the top 20.  Showbiz-nezz became the family business.  Get-togethers became strategy meetings.  His performances on Saturdays would be the family’s official soundtrack for the week.  We had all become disciples and our mission was to spread the gospel of Jeric.

Everybody pulled in.  Whether it was through votes, skills or prayer that one could contribute, everyone pulled in.  The family was one and solid over one thing:  to help Jeric win.  Not because we wanted him to be famous or to win the money, but because we knew that singing is the only thing he ever wanted to do in this world.  It was his dream.

Sundays became the most nerve-wracking night of the week.  The brave ones would go to Pagcor to watch the results live and the not so brave ones, like myself, would watch it at home.  From the time KC announces that the voting lines are closed to the time she says that Jeric is safe for the week is really the most agonizing time for us all.  I can’t tell you how many contractions I go through during this short period of time.

Last Sunday, that agony was expanded a hundred times over.  Jeric was in the bottom two.  2 judges voted for Jeric to stay and 2 voted for him to go home.  Jeric received the lowest number of votes for the week.  It was one blow after another and my heart felt like it was on pause the entire time.

If it was that heart breaking for me, I couldn’t even begin to imagine how it must have felt for Jeric.  All I wanted to do was rush to Pagcor and be with him.  My husband, God bless his sweet and now medina heart too, immediately agreed to go.

When we got there, it felt like we were attending a wake.  Eyes were red from crying, shoulders were slumped from disappointment, voices were cracking from pain.  It was fitting too that we were at a casino because we all felt cheated that night, like we didn’t stand a chance because the odds were stacked against us and determined to bring us down.  The odds had a name of course.  And badly bleached hair.

Anyways…

After a few minutes, several other Medinas started to arrive to join the others who were already there.  We were all there for one reason and one reason only, to make sure that Jeric wouldn’t feel alone.

This is how it is in this family.  The mission that we seemed to have taken on just by simply being born into this family is to never make anyone feel alone in hard times, that the person whose heart is breaking should never feel that his heart is the only one breaking.  I remember how devastated my family was when my papa died.  We were zombies for days.  And the only reason we survived that time was because the Medinas, our Medinas, made sure that we did.

When new people come into our lives, they are easily intimated by the closeness of the family.  We are clannish.  Sure.  But only because we’ve been through too many things together.  The happy times that brought us closer and the fights that made our bonds stronger.  We may not always like each other 24/7 but we love one another every single minute of every single hour of every single day.

We are Medinas.  And our blood is particular thicker than the regular blood that is already thicker than water.  And should you ever penetrate us, a task that is easier said than done mind you, you can count on us to treat you like one of our very own and we will always have your back.    

As for Jeric, that boy will be singing on a bigger stage to a larger audience soon.  I'm not worried one bit. 

hey sunshine!

so, are you gonna be like a mini mama like this?

ORRRR are you gonna be like a girl version of papa?

JUSKO I CANNOT WAIT TO MEET YOU INDAY!!!!

Babay Sir

Larry died on an early Thursday morning at his home with his wife and brother by his side.  It was not a peaceful passing, I was later told.  But it was quick.  And for that, the two of them are very grateful.  It was the 12^th of July. 

To say that I love the man is a gross understatement.  LOOOOOOVE! - all caps with multiple Os and an exclamation point - would probably suffice, but I wouldn’t even bet a shirt I barely wear anymore on that.

He was my boss, my mentor, my ninong, my friend.  And he’s gone.

When he first told me that he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in July of last year, I didn’t know how to act or what to say.  I was not a stranger to the powers of the pancreas and the havoc it could bring by its malfunction.  I had already lost a friend to the same disease in may of 2011 after being diagnosed less than 6 months before.  But my first education in pancreatic cancer came from Larry himself around three years ago. We were talking about death and how we would prefer to go if given a choice. 

Kahit ano, wag lang pancreatic cancer. He said.  Ang sakit at ang bilis non.

Pancreatic cancer only manifests itself on its late stages and, oftentimes, only because it had already spread to its neighboring organs.  It kills quickly and torturously.  And, according to statistics, it kills for sure.

But when someone you love is afflicted with an illness, you throw everything you know out the window.  Statistics become as irrelevant as the possibility of heartbreak to a person madly and deeply in love.  You lock every bit of knowledge you have about the illness away in a part of your brain you can easily ignore.  And you keep it there despite what you see and what you hear.

So like a stereotypical dumb blond cheerleader, I would give him a wide grin and wave my imaginary pompoms in the air and say Kaya mo yan sir.  You can beat this.  Let’s do this!!! every chance I would get.

God he must have wanted to punch me everytime I did that.  He would smile instead though.  He would smile and say yeah, oo.  I think I still have five more years.  I ignore that the next time he would give me that same smile with a similar answer, he would lessen the number attached to it.  Five became three, three became two, and then finally, his yeah, oo answer was not followed with a number anymore.

You noticed that.  You ignored it.

The last time he reported for work was a Thursday.  He just came to sign the payroll but I was very happy to see him just the same.  It was the first time I saw him after the Corona verdict came out and he was the person I was most excited to talk to about it.  Larry loved politics as much as I do and since he knew infinitely more about it than me, I loved talking to him about it.  From the time I met him in 2000, I can’t even count with my body hair how many times I invaded his office with a question.  It didn’t matter if it was local or international, current or old news, larry always knew something about whatever it was I wanted to talk about.  He was also always willing to share what he knew.  And what he had.  He was generous in all ways possible.

That afternoon, I quickly followed him inside his office.  I pulled a chair and sat down directly in front of him.  We talked about the Corona trial briefly.  He tried to look excited about it, but I could tell that he was tired.  I asked him how he was, he said his shoulders, abdomen and back hurt.  He was smiling a little when he said it.  So I turned on my cheerleader again, pounded on his desk and cheerily said Sir, kaya nyo yan.  Don’t give up.  Let’s beat this!

Nakakainis diba?

He smiled, as usual, but you can tell his smile was a little defeated.  I waited for the yeah, oo.  It never came.  And then for the first time since I heard the news, I started entertaining the possibility that he might not win this and all my cheerleader rah – rahs were drowned out by one question – was he ready?

The first friend I lost to pancreatic cancer was certainly sure he was.  When I visited him a month before he died, he looked at peace.  He just kept saying he was ready, that he had already said goodbye to the people that mattered to him and that he was just trying to cross off as many items in his bucket list as he could.  He had already made his peace with God, he said.  He was ready to go. 

I don’t know if Larry ever reached that point.  I was too busy telling him to fight this thing I never once talked to him about what he thought might happen if he would lose.  And now I wonder if my responsibility as a friend to stay positive for him should have ended to allow the greater responsibility of preparing him for death to begin. 

I am not a religious person and I will not presume to know what happens after we die but I know from losing enough people in my life that the possibility of ones mortality makes us cling tighter to whatever God we believe in and prepares us to accept death as graciously as humanly possible.  I hope larry was at peace with death in the end. 

The last time I ever saw Larry alive was a Thursday too, a week after I saw him at the office.  He was confined in Makati Medical and he specifically told us he didn’t want visitors.  I was there for a visit with my OB anyway and I thought it was a perfect excuse to drop by. 

He looked older, weaker and smaller but he was wearing the goofiest morphine-induced grin too.  Again, it was a situation I was not prepared for.  It was awkward, almost wrong, to see him that way. 

Still I managed to say to him, Sir buti naman bumalik na ang kulay mo.  You look better than the last time I saw you.  When I said that that time though, I knew I was lying.

There are people who had the opportunity to be closer to Larry but never took it.  I’m glad I’m not one of them. I’m glad I never stopped myself EVER from barging into his office anytime I wanted to talk.  I’m glad that I came back after resigning two times to work again for a man who happily took me back in like a devoted father would a prodigal daughter.  And I am glad that when he first hesitated to accept my request to be our ninong at our wedding because he was afraid that he wouldn’t last long enough to attend it, I just shushed him and insisted that he just had to be my ninong.  See, it was my only opportunity to officially make him my family, and I wasn’t about to pass that up.

Salamat sir sa lahat ng naging posible sa buhay ko dahil sa inyo.  Salamat sa lahat ng naituro ninyo sa akin.  Salamat sa lahat ng ibinigay ninyo sa akin.  Kahit minsan hindi kayo nagdamot ng kahit ano sa kahit kanino.  Totoo siguro ang sinasabi nila, maagang kinukuha ang mga mababait.  It was my honor and my pleasure to take orders from you, to argue with you, and to laugh with you.

I wrote a blog entry about you in 2004.  I will repost it now because i want to end this happy.   http://compulsiveeating.blogspot.com/search?q=the+third+stooge