Humpty Dumpty had a great fall

No, I'm not talking about Wall Street, not at all because the fall took place at around 2:30 or 3:00 this morning. Yes, I fell not off a wall, but off the bed.

Last night, after I bathed at around 6:30, I felt my eyes so itchy that I decided to take a Benadryl antihistamine capsule. I had been postponing doing so the past days because of work (see post in derdo.wordpress.com "I was fired"). I couldn't afford to sleep then. But with that work gone kaput and just one pending, no rush pa, I thought it was about time I should take medicine for my allergy (watery eyes, sniffles etc.). When my son arrived at around 9, he looked surprised that I was asleep. How did I know that? I woke up, apparently looked just awakened by his noise. Then after some light chitchat, I dozed off again. The maid even had to come in without being called to change me. I was so zonked out. I asked her to turn me so I could sleep comfortably, she turned me in the wrong direction. When I looked, I saw husband sleeping soundly so instead of asking him to correct my position, I asked my son. Then I dozed off again. I can't remember now if I asked husband to fix my position.

Then suddenly I felt my arm hitting something, ouch. I opened my eyes and saw I was on the floor. I knew I had hit the table. I heard a few things fall. I heard my glass of water fall and the coaster. I shouted for husband but he was no longer in bed. Suddenly the door opened and there he was rushing in. I said "I fell." Ouch.

Before he moved me he looked me over, saw some bruises, a scratch, a dislodged skin (small only on my elbow) etc. He woke up my son and with great difficulty they lifted me back to the bed. (The floor is so low, they are so tall) He asked me to raise my arm, no problem there, but I felt hapdi in one area of my upper arm and saw 4 open pinhole-sized perforations (I'm sure there's a better term for them). Otherwise, I'm okay. See, I'm typing. Arm feels a bit sore but husband said, that's to be expected. He said I might want to ice the soreness away, I said sacrifice na lang. It's not that bad. Son stayed awake, I guess a bit worried, for two hours, to keep me company. He's snoring away now. Meantime, athlete mom (husband said to imagine how athletes fall after a tough game) is blogging away.

Oh the things aside from the glass of water and Arcoroc coaster (which broke but whose shards didn't hit me) that fell were made of plastic. But there was one bottle of perfume, really old (paco rabanne calandre) made of glass that didn't break. Conclusion: perfumes are expensive because of the glass they come in. Shatter proof. Ouch, my back hurts.

Hairspray, the Musical

The musical Hairspray will be shown at the Star Theater (CCP Complex) this November. For tickets to the opening night on November 14 and for the November 23 show, please refer to the following letter from Stewart Ong:

Dear Friends,

We are selling 2 shows of the Broadway and movie-hit musical HAIRSPRAY on November 14 (Friday) and November 23 (Sunday). It's a great show, winning 8 Tony Awards in Broadway. It's also being produced and directed by the same group as Rent, Avenue Q and Cinderella. Venue will be at the Star Theater, CCP Complex, 8pm.

For ticket and show inquiries, you may email me (song1@jnjph.jnj.com) or SMS me directly (+63917-8735412)
Best to confirm early in order to reserve good seats!

Thanks!

Stewart also shared Hairspray's casting as follows:

HAIRSPRAY CASTING


TRACY Madel Ching
EDNA Michael de Mesa
LINK Tim Espinosa
SEAWEED Nyoy Volante
PENNY Monica Reynoso
AMBER Christine Allado
VELMA Menchu Lauchengco-Yulo
MOTORMOUTH Dulce
WILBUR Leo Rialp
CORNY COLLINS Noel Rayos
FEMALE AUTHORITY Ana Bitong
MALE AUTHORITY Gabe Mercado
INEZ Precious Lee Viloria

WHITE ENSEMBLE

ENSEMBLE #1 Mark Tayag
ENSEMBLE #2 Anthony Ong
ENSEMBLE #3 Reb Atadero
ENSEMBLE #4 Red Concepcion
ENSEMBLE #5 Francesca Borromeo
ENSEMBLE #6 Crienna House
ENSEMBLE #7 Margarita Laurel
ENSEMBLE #8 Bea Garcia

BLACK ENSEMBLE

ENSEMBLE #9/DYNAMITE Emerita Alcid
ENSEMBLE#10/DYNAMITE Erika Cedilla
ENSEMBLE#11/DYNAMITE Pam Gumabon
ENSEMBLE#12 Michael Melvin Odoemene
ENSEMBLE#13 Gerlin Francisco
ENSEMBLE#14 Jordan Aguilar


Ticket Prices:

P1,200 (Rows A to I)

P1,000 (Row J to S)

P800 (Rows T to X)

P600 (Rows Y to Z)


I can safely assure those interested that Stewart delivers in the literal and figurative sense. We obtained tickets to West Side Story and were very much satisfied by his and his friend's "brand of service".

Remembering Glorietta

Following is a letter my cousin emailed to me this morning. It was written by her daughter who, along with my cousin was in Glorietta during the blast.

Dear Family and Friends,

It has almost been a year since the explosion in Glorietta 2. I know I promised some of you that I would write, would tell you all the details about what happened. Well, I didn't realize it would be so hard to put everything down on paper. I have hesitated doing this since it brings back old feelings, things I would rather not remember, most of which I do not remember in fact.

So, finally, in the last two weeks, I was able to put together this 5 page letter to Rafa and Mia, for their scrapbook. So that when they grow up, they will still remember that they are so blessed in spite of this terrible thing that happened to us. I wanted to share this letter with you, my good friends, so that you will know why this experience has forever changed me, and my relationship with God. I thank you again for what you did for me last year. Each of you in some way, was there for me this past year, or when this happened. I hope you can also feel the love we have felt from this experience. God bless you all.

Love,
Tiffany

REMEMBER

My Dearest Children,

Last year we almost died. On October 19, 2007, at 130pm, we were in Glorietta
2 in Makati, Philippines, when there was an explosion. The explosion destroyed
an entire building. There were 11 people reported to have died in the
explosion, 118 people injured, and many more missing. We were part of the 118
people. Ironically, I do not remember most of what happened that day.

I am sharing this miracle with you, based on what was told to me by Abuela, Ate
May, you Rafa and Mia, and some of my own flashes of memory. I want you to
remember this story of love, miracles, and life. I want you to know that God
really exists, and that He protects us from danger.

My own memory starts on Saturday, October 20th, the day after the explosion. I
woke up with a start after a long nightmare of noise, blood, pain and a feeling
that I was desperately looking for my children. My first feeling was relief to
have awoken from such an awful dream. Then I looked around. My surroundings
were unfamiliar. I could see your Mama Telly sleeping on a sofa across the
room. My body ached, then I realized Mia and I were sleeping together on a tiny
bed. Then I saw her IV drip. I gasped. I knew my terrible dream that night
had been real. I saw Rafa asleep on another hospital bed next to ours, and your
papa was watching over him. I guessed he had not slept at all that night.

In the quiet of the sunrise, your papa and I talked. He told me he had come
back to Makati from Bangkok the evening before, that he had taken the first
flight out when he heard what happened, so he could be with us in the hospital.
Then he showed me the headlines of the morning paper. And I saw it. It was a
picture of the exact place where we had been standing. The place where we had
been reading together was devastated. Nothing was left, only the grey rubble
from 3 collapsed floors and the roof which had fallen on us. Everything in
Glorietta 2 had been destroyed. I turned to look at Mia, her forehead covered
with bandages, and at Rafa, his back full of wounds. I suddenly remembered the
sound of the explosion in my head, and it hurt. I asked Papa Steve to help me
go to the bathroom to look at myself.

For a moment, I did not recognize my own reflection in the mirror. My entire
left side was covered with bruises. My hair was disheveled, full of dirt and
blood, and debris from the blast. I lifted up my shirt and saw that I had cuts
all over my back, and a big gash in my left side. I looked at my legs, covered
with dried blood and bruises. I was limping. My left foot hurt. I looked like
a character in a horror movie, after she had been killed. I almost laughed at
the thought. Then, I went back outside to check on you, my children.

Many things happened after this moment, but I want to tell you about the
explosion itself. When we were back in Ascott, before moving to Bangkok, I
talked with you both. You shared with me the most fascinating things about that
day.

After lunch with Auntie Jeanne, and after getting Dipping Dots, we bought
Mia’s ballet slippers. She wanted to wear them, so we put her other shoes in
the stroller with our baby bag. I went to a new scrapbooking store on the 2nd
floor, while you, Abuela, Ate May, and Ate Malou went to the book fair on the
ground floor. I joined you at 125pm. Your Abuela and I wanted to leave because
we both had to go to the bathroom, but Rafa asked if he could finish his book.
I stood with Rafa at the children’s section and Abuela read a pocketbook at
our table. Ate May was on the floor reading to Mia a favorite story “Beauty
and the Beast” while Ate Malou sat under one of the columns watching the
stroller. Then, I heard the sound. BOOM.

After that, everything was quiet. I remember the first person I called was
Abuela. I could not see her, so I called out desperately, “MOM.”

She answered back, then I knew we were all alive. She says that she was still
standing. She had not realized what had happened but suddenly she could not see a thing. It looked like there was a wall in front of her. Then, she was
overcome with fear, fear for her apos (the Filipino word for grandchildren).
She called out to Jesus, “Lord, where are the apos?”

Then, she heard me call her.

Rafa, the moment he heard the blast, felt pain in his back, and quickly ducked
under the book table. What a boy scout. He covered his face but peered out and
in a flash he saw the glass blown out of store windows, and big ‘rocks’ fall
from the ceiling. Actually, it was the ceiling that fell. I picked him up and
held his hand as we walked out of Glorietta II, but somehow he had lost his new
crocs. This I remember, he looked at me with tears in his eyes and said,
“Mommy, I’m sorry, I lost my shoes.”

MayFlor, who is like a second mother to the children, followed her instinct
when she felt the blast. She threw her body on top of Mia’s as they fell
over. She had the worst injuries, sustaining a broken right arm, right leg, and
gashes in the head. All of that, to keep my own daughter alive.

Poor Malou was literally thrown forward by the force of the blast. She fell
onto broken glass which cut her face and hands. She was bleeding so much, and had so much debris in her eyes that she could not open them. She said she
thought she was dead until she heard my voice calling out her name. “Malou,
where are you? Are you ok?”

The six of us walked out of Glorietta in pairs. Rafa and I went first,
followed by May carrying Mia. Abuela held Malou who could not see where she was going. We left behind our baby bag and stoller, and we walked slowly across the activity center to Glorietta 4. There was not a sound in the entire mall, except my voice calling out everyone’s name over and over, asking each person if he or she was ok. I remember walking into the bright sunlight of the
activity center. I felt a piercing pain in my left eye, blood dripping down my
face. I took out my bloody contact lens and put it in my purse. Rafa was
looking down at his own hand held in mine. It was soaked in blood. He looked
up at me with apprehension. He said, “Mama, my hand is covered in blood.”
“Don’t worry Rafa,” I said, “All the blood is mine. and it doesn’t hurt.”

Suddenly, there were people who work in Ayala coming toward us. A man ran to us and picked up Rafa to carry him. I panicked. I shouted for him not to take my
son away. I yelled that we all had to stay together. I begged him not to take
my son from me. He promised to keep us all together, but that we had to get to
the hospital. He said I was bleeding and that we had to get into a taxi and go
to the hospital. I started to protest, but noticed May was in a lot of pain.
When we got to Glorietta 4, we heard a stampede coming so we quickly got into
two cabs, May, Mia and I were in the back seat. The stranger held Rafa in the
front seat. Abuela and Malou got into the other taxi. Then, two other victims
were put into our taxi. They were bleeding heavily and the woman next to me was almost unconscious. May was now seething with pain. After that, I have no
memory of the rest of the afternoon.

At the hospital, Malou and May were put on gurneys. I gave the nurse in the ER
of Makati Medical our details and said that Dr Butler, the kids’ pediatrician,
should be next door in her clinic. They called her and she quickly came to see
us. Rafa was treated for blast wounds on his back. They cut his clothes off
and bandaged his cuts. The doctors could not treat Mia’s wounds because she
kept crying and throwing up when they would touch her. The nurses cut her
clothes off and inserted an IV so she could be sedated. My father and brother
arrived. When your Papa Ine walked into the ER, he saw Rafa, naked on a
hospital bed with bandages on his back. Mia was sitting on my lap in a chair
next to Rafa, both our faces soaked in blood. He was so taken aback, he
collapsed right in front of us, and all the nurses rushed to revive him. I was
like a broken record, asking everyone who talked to me where my children were,
where my mother and nannies were. And if everyone was ok. I refused to be sedated, even when I got the stitches in my head. The doctors could not believe I was still conscious with two big gashes in my head. “Only God knows how she stayed awake,” they said.

Abuela was so busy calling people to tell them where we were, arranging for
clothes to be brought to us, and what rooms we would be staying in at the
hospital, that only later did she notice the pain in her head. The doctor was
shocked to see she also had a gash, and she was quickly stitched up, just like
Malou, May, and myself.

Mia, however, would not speak for the rest of the day. When I asked her days
after the explosion if she remembered what happened, she nodded, and told me the most incredible thing I have ever heard.

She had been asking me about a “white thing” she saw in the blast. I told
her it was probably the wall of the building falling down. She seemed
unsatisfied with my answer, and kept asking me what was the white thing she saw in the “booming” as she called the explosion. Mia was only 2 years old, the
youngest survivor of the explosion.

Finally after 3 days of asking, I realized she must have seen something that
bothered her, so I asked her, “Mia, what WAS the white thing you saw in the
booming?”

She answered me, “You know, Mama.”

I asked her if the white thing was A THING. She shook her head no. I asked
her if the white thing was a person. She nodded.

I asked her if she knew the person she saw. She said yes. She said he was a
boy. A big boy.

I asked, “Like your Kuya (older brother)?”

“No Mama. Bigger.”

“Like your Papa?”

“No Mama. Bigger.”

I asked, “Like Uncle RJ?”

“No Mama. He was..(and she looked up to the sky and lifted her hand above
her head) HE WAS BIG.”

She then told me that when the booming happened, the white boy appeared,
standing on her book. She was not afraid of him. He was as tall as the
building, all white, white hair, white face, white clothes. He spoke to her.
He said to her, “I love you much too” and kissed her face, where she was
bleeding. She said he proceeded to kiss Ate May, Ate Malou, Kuya Rafa, Abuela, then kissed Mama on the head so she could wake up. Then, she said Mama got up, and we walked out of Glorietta.


I did not say anything. I just listened, and over the next several days, Mia,
you gave me more details about your friend at the blast. Your aunties said you
had seen an angel. It was starting to hit me hard. The six of us could have
died. We had actually lived through an explosion. While others had lost their
lives, or were severely injured, all six of us had been saved, perhaps by an
angel . It was too much for me to take in. My mother, my children, my two
trusted helpers. We had all been saved.

In my prayers, I have asked Jesus why this terrible thing happened. Why did
innocent people have to suffer? His answer to me was gentle but firm.
“Good people get hurt because there is still evil in this world. But do not
despair. Know that I am with you always, I shield you from harm. I keep you
safe in My arms. You are spared so you can go out into the world and tell
others how much I love you, how much I want you to be with Me in heaven.”

I have been asked why I am not bitter. Why do I not sue Ayala, or hate the
people involved with the explosion? Well, it is very hard to be bitter when I
feel so blessed. When this happened, it was tragic, awful, horrendous, but it
was also a miracle. In the moments, days, months that passed, I felt the love
of so many people - family, friends, even strangers who rushed to our side, who
took care of us. I remember clearly the next day, after Mia’s operation, when
she and Rafa were napping, how my mother-in-law quietly brushed out my hair, the hair that had been chopped for my stitches. She held me gently, taking out the debris, dirt, and dried blood still on my head. I remember how my brother
stayed by my side while I waited for Mia to come out of the OR. How I cried on
his shoulder when I was too weary to be brave. I remember how my father prayed
every night over the children, how my mother quietly listened every time I
needed to talk to someone about that day. I remember how my husband held us close to him each night, thanking God for giving us another day together. I remember friends who called, texted, and sent gifts to the children and the yayas (nannies) in the hospital. I may not remember what happened at the explosion, but I remember all these things. These are the things that count. These are the things I want to share with you. So that you will remember. You are loved.

Love,
Mama

BLind Items 2 (the first is in my other blog)

Blind Items 2 will also coincidentally consist of two guess who's. This time I'm sure my cousin will guess the identities readily but I'll try to give as few clues as possible, although on second thought, I doubt that I can provide any descriptions that won't be dead giveaways anyway.

B I (1): He was alone, smiling all the time. He's not too tall, he was in government and has a famous/notorious family name, depending on which clan member you're thinking of. He was eating in PL by his lonesome. Guess who, cousin? I'm sure C will guess the family name at least? She has been in our province often enough except that she doesn't deal with the clan, as far as I know. But she's magaling so likely, she'll get the identity.

B I (2): She came with two men, one of them a foreigner who smiled at me. Her husband, I think, The other older looking gentleman told her to move her high tech wheelchair so another wheelchair (okay, mine) could pass and leave the premises. She's mestiza and is a descendant of a former Philippine president. Very good looking.

Saw both in Pepper Lunch.

How God Works in Mysterious Ways, His Wonders to Perform

The title of this post is something I learned in high school, possibly from literature class. That it has stayed fresh in my mind attests to the fact that time and again I've experienced His hand in my life, so how could I possibly forget the quote that encapsulates such?

This pm, at around 4:30, I was surprised that my tutee who was dismissed at 2:20 hadn't yet arrived. I texted his mother, not so much because of the income aspect but because I was concerned. Today being my son's birthday, I wanted to have time to prepare for mass at 6:30. Normally this tutee of mine takes a lot of time answering the reviewers I prepare because he malingers - paawa effect. He's the youngest in the family and is in Grade 5.

His mom promptly answered my text telling her that I had to leave by six (actually leave for my room so I could prepare for mass) with the info that her son was at LEAP and would go to me afterwards. Then she said if it was all right, she would just pay me for the reviewer I prepared and the set of answers to the reviewer. I balked. My first reaction was "the nerve." (the memory of the father of Narding in Sinta's saying that still fresh in my mind, having watched Sinta only last Friday). She didn't exactly say how much she was willing to pay but hey, I slaved on that reviewer for several hours and just like that she'd buy them? I wanted to say "they aren't for sale, lady." So I made the excuse that I didn't think he'd need it (let me explain, Leap is a tutorial session in school conducted by a teacher of the school who's not the boy's teacher). Moreover, I said, he might be too tired and might just end up confused. She texted another time and said she really wanted to get it and when I texted back saying I didn't think so, she apologized. I was peeved to say the least but that development also prompted me to call Power Plant. You see, my birthday boy son, when I asked him last night where he wanted to have his birthday dinner (with just him, his papa and me) he said Pepper Lunch at Power Plant. So on the off-chance, I called PP to ask if there would be mass tonight. Actually I was expecting a NO because months back, when I called to ask, I was told they only had masses on weekends and first Fridays. But I called and the lady said YES, at 5:30.

By that time it must have been 4:40 and it generally takes an hour to get to Makati. Plus my husband wasn't home yet and my son hadn't bathed. I promptly texted my husband and told him that just in case he was tutoring to please dismiss the boy so we could catch the mass at 5:30 in Makati. He said he had actually canceled his tutoring session and was about to go home. With a smile on my face I went to the room where my son was busy studying (?) for Wednesday's exam. More quickly than usual, he stood up and went to his room to get his clothes. But he lingered as usual and I was getting anxious. I wanted to avoid chastising him on his birthday. Before my patience ran out, he began to take a bath. I constantly said "mass at 5:30 in Power Plant, not in OLPP(our parish)". Meanwhile, husband arrived. After a while, son finished dressing. At around 5 we were off to Makati.

I told myself if God wills it, we will be at PP maybe just a little late. I was anxious though that I might have been given the wrong info and there might be no mass. Then I assured myself, at least we could visit the chapel.

There was no traffic going to Makati even if this was supposed to have been rush hour. By 5:30 we were at the parking lot (P1) of PP. When we got to the chapel, the priest was reading the Gospel. Not bad. There were others who arrived later than we did and I'm sure they didn't come all the way from Quezon City.

The priest was okay, his homily was okay and not too long. After mass, I told my son to call his cousin who works nearby to join us for dinner at Pepper Lunch. He did and it was fun having my nephew around, he who was mistaken to have been my first-born because when he was an infant, his parents would leave him with me every morning before they went off to work, so when I'd go to Unimart, for example, he'd be sitting on my lap. Years later, when I was with my son, the security guard in Unimart asked me "saan na ang panganay niyo?" I was taken aback and realized whom he thought my eldest son was. Anyway, back to tonight.

After Pepper Lunch, we bought some bread at Bread Talk. (Their loaf breads are really tasty and soft.) Afterwards we went to Pazzo for some ice cream and there I reminded my nephew of how, when I was pregnant, I'd play catch ball with him from my bed while he stood by the door. Occasionally, I would tell him then not to throw too hard lest he hurt the baby in my tummy. And I'll never forget what he said, "Taba lang yan." As I told him, he tried to recall how old he was then and said "six or seven." My son's now 19. He's 26 and an assistant manager in a multinational company.

How time has flown and somehow, my nephew will always occupy a special place in my family of a husband and a son. Somehow he is like a son to me too and I think he knows it.

What a nice evening we had. Like they say before Christ's resurrection he went through Good Friday. In a sense my disappointment with my tutee's mom was like Good Friday and what followed was certainly a resurrection of sorts. yes, I know the comparison is really so many worlds apart in terms of impact (micro as opposed to macro), but you get the drift.

Won't edit this na. Anyway, all those who read my posts in this blog are people I care about, and that includes you. So any errors are forgiven, right?

It is my son's birthday so should this post have been about him? If I were the perfect mother, it would have been, but I'm not. He finds sentimental stuff cheesy besides, and if I dedicated a post to him and he learned about it, how aghast he'd be. Besides he knows how I feel and must be tired hearing me say how I love him very "mucho"! It has become a fill in the blanks thing, dating back from when he was a baby and sometimes he'd say "macho". hayyy.

IT's been a while

I haven't posted anything in this blog for a long time, maybe because the things that I thought were worth writing were for general consumption. But three touching things happened to me recently, and these I'd like to share.

(1) Last Monday, my husband and I were at Power Plant. I bought him a shirt that was 70% off in Quicksilver. When the young lady made me sign the charge slip, she gave me a book on which to lay the slip so I could sign for comfortably. In supermarkets, I'd sometimes be given a flap of a carton, occasionally a log-in book, a clip board. This was the first time I was given a book. So I said before giving it back to her, "tingnan ko muna ha." It was backside up. And she said, "sige po." Then I saw the book's title: Like the Flowing RIver by Paulo Coelho. And I can't remember now how I reacted. Maybe I said "wow" or maybe I asked "maganda ba?" What happened next is what I cannot forget. She said "Sa yo na lang po." I was taken aback to say the least. I said "no, nakakahiya." She assured, "Sige na po, tapos ko na po yan." But I was firm I wouldn't take it. So she said "Sige po, hiramin niyo na lang." And even if I didn't really feel I should because she was a complete stranger as I was to her so I didn't feel I deserved it, I acceded. I haven't yet begun reading it but will do. And I'll return it to her.

(2) I have been proofreading/editing books for a publishing house. Textbooks. And there's this messenger I haven't yet met. But sometimes he comes almost daily or several times a week. So once I decided to ask the maid to give him a box of cookies. He doesn't have his own vehicle so he commutes each time. When the maid gave the cookies to him, he was perplexed. He asked the maid "bakit niya ako binibigyan nito? Siguro naaawa siya sa akin?" I don't think "awa" is the operative word here, maybe gratitude should be it. He then asked the maid if I like music, the maid said yes. He said he'd give me a CD. The next day, he came back with a book for me, a St. Paul's publication about Gospels. When I texted to thank him, he said he was a born again Christian. He even wrote a dedication on the book.

(3) Last night at the bonfire in Ateneo, we went around Bellarmine Field in front of the Church of Gesu in search of food. The lines were long, the ground was muddy after a thunderstorm. Despite the vast expanse of Bel Field, we ended up with nothing. So I told husband that maybe, we should have food delivered from Katipunan. Then again I was wondering if they would considering the sheer volume of people around. Just so many people that getting a signal was near nil even. It was like CHristmas, New Year, Valentine's Day in that sense. Just the same, I called the maid on her cellphone and asked her to buy some sandwiches for us at KFC. Because this was Maid C and she moves ever so like a lady, read slow, it must have been an hour before she arrived. In the meantime, we bumped into the wife of a college barkada and she asked if we had eaten. I said no. She said "sandali, may chicken lollipop pa ata kami." She left and lo and behold, a styropor container with 3 chicken lollipops. After making sure she could spare it, my husband and I ate the 3: 2 for him, one for me. Then an employee of the Personnel Office saw my husband and gave him a can of Infinity (ginebra San Miguel produced." Before he could open that, the maid came with our sandwiches and drinks.

Apparently this piece should have been entitled "Kind Souls in Our Midst" or "Angels on Earth." I don't know, but these incidents were very touching because they were such kind gestures and rather unexpected.

My Itinerary Tomorrow

My itinerary tomorrow is toxic in more ways than one. Get this:

NSO East Avenue to get my birth and marriage certificates just in case when I go to the NBI and I'm asked for original and current copies I have them to show. Though this pm, just a few minutes ago, I called NBI Carriedo to ask about requirements and was told 2 valid IDs. When I said I needed a clearance for change of name, the person who answered added, "Birth certificate." I asked, "pwede xerox?" He said no. I asked "pwede hindi current?" He said, "Punta ka na lang dito." I insisted, "Gusto ko malaman ang tama kasi ayokong pabalik balik at naka wheelchair ako." He said, "Sandali lang." I heard him ask about requirements and then he got back to me to say "pwede xerox kahit hindi bago." Given how arbitrary the answers were, I better come prepared.

Actually this morning, I had the maid get me my birth and marriage certificates in the hope that she could get them this pm, but no, it has to be tomorrow. The line was very long, she said, snake-like in fact. So tomorrow, NSO, first stop.

Next stop: NBI Carriedo. Where on earth is that? Behind SM Carriedo and Isetann, I was told. Okay. So do I know where it is with that info? No. But hopefully, the wheelmo driver does. I hope it's Arnel because he's better at directions than the other driver.
If I am lucky, per the NBI website, I should get my clearance in 30 minutes. Now if I have a namesake who has an NBI record, then I'll have to go back after a week. Oh boy. A niece's wedding had to be postponed because her groom to be has a namesake who has committed some crime.

After NBI Carriedo, no matter how long I take there and no matter how tired I am, it's back to MAnila City Hall to submit, nay, show the original copies of my transcript of record (thank God for Kathleen of the College Registrar in Ateneo who hurried things up - I requested the transcript THursday, it's ready today. At AIM I asked for a certificate of employment Wednesday, it was ready by Friday. The private sector rocks (wow, what young lingo. Springs from my reading the blogs of the young, hahaha.) Hopefully, the people in Manila City Hall will not find yet another reason for me to go back to their office to submit some other requirement. They're really taxing my patience. My husband, when I recounted my ordeal, said "That's why the country is not moving forward." If getting corrections on a birth certificate is as tedious as this, how much more is it for the apparently rich businessmen to get a business permit or whatever papers they need? NO wonder the prices they charge for their goods are so high-- they must have spent a considerable amount of time, energy, and presumably resources before they could start operating.

After Manila City Hall, if I still have the energy and guts, I'll go to SSS for my SSS ID card. This will mean going back to East Avenue where the SSS head office is. It is the only SSS office whose machines are working. Galing no? Third world. After SSS, granted that I still have some energy left, I'll go to the QC Hall also in East Avenue to get my police clearance. A friend who did said she got it in half an hour. Then if I still have some energy left, I'll go to PLDT nearby to get my phone directories. No connection to getting a birth certificate tomorrow, no? But that's listed in my itinerary because of its proximity to my other destinations. In the past, PLDT issued notices that directories were ready for pick-up. My bill the past two years no longer came with info to the effect. My sister is lucky. She lives in a subdivision so their directories are delivered.

I hope tomorrow will be my lucky day and I can finish everything. Aiming for the stars? I can always dream, can't I?

ADDENDUM: For the continuation of this saga, check out my post "I'm pooped" on this site

Disturbing

A few minutes ago, my husband called. A fourth year college student took his life yesterday after a failed relationship. His ex-girlfriend chose his friend over him.

Did he have to take his life?

It always boggles the mind when one hears of a suicide over a failed relationship. It makes one wonder how a healthy being can choose to end his life while a cancer patient exhausts all means to stay alive.

When we were in college, the advice of a Spanish teacher to a female student whose eyes were puffed from crying over a boyfriend -- for what reason, I don't know-- was: No man is worth all those tears.

Now I'd like to add, even if I am a woman, that: No woman is worth all those tears. Or is anyone?

Desperation, I guess, is what drives a person to suicide. Desperation and the absence of a support group or even one person one can open one's heart to. Or a fragile relationship with God.

Sad. And yes, disturbing.

I feel so stressed

Just this morning, my tutee who's coming for tutoring this pm sent pointers for his Math exam. He also sent his Filipino textbook and texted the coverage for the latter exam tomorrow to be from page 1 to page 145. I wanted to scream. In the first place, I am not an expert in Filipino. In the second place, the book is so wordy that one has to plough through all those pages to get the main points. No idea how much, it being the first time I see the book.

I texted the mom to say I didn't think we could cover everything and she said "OH no. Please try."

Hello. Her son joined the PHilippine team for some sport so he missed classes for two weeks. Friday the son came for tutoring but was constantly glancing at the clock. I asked, "You have to go somewhere?" He answered: "Practice at 3:30." He arrived for tutoring at around 2:10. I asked if he'd come Saturday and he said he'd try but they had a game in Laguna. He asked if he could come Sunday, I said to text. He didn't. So it's this pm he is coming. Why not this morning? He has a game.

I am no miracle worker, am not even a magician/prestidigitator/charlatan. So I don't know...

********
Another source of stress: my Manila City Hall trip tomorrow to get my son's birth certificate corrected. I'm truly apprehensive. A friend who's been there, done that intimated that when she was interviewed for a correction on her birth certificate, the interviewer kept asking "KUmpleto na ba yan?" On hindsight, she said, the lady might have been hinting at lagay. But my friend said she was clueless, so she didn't budge.

What do I do if and when I'm confronted with the same? Deadma? I certainly won't give in. Maybe I can call the husband of my friend who's a nephew of Alfredo Lim's. What a dilemma...

Intermediates

Not shorts, not longs, but in-between. Yes, the following post will consists of middle grounds.

1. Michael V is on the cover of Reader's Digest because of his achievements as a comedian. Wow. Given the amount of creative work he puts into it, I guess it's well deserved. Others who may have been qualified would be Willie Nepomuceno and Jon Santos, at least to my mind, considering how well thought out their caricatures are.


2. A Failed cross-cultural romance, nipped in the bud at the very start. A young man proposes to an equally young lady not of his race and she tells him in another world it would have been, but not in this.

3. Gangs who prey ...

a) the other day in the news was an ex-maid or so she portrayed who was arrested after she poisoned fellow-maids or the children of her bosses (the former, the TV version; the latter, the broadsheets' version) so she could steal jewelry and cash. Two of her poison victims were in the hospital for months, the ICU even. Good thing she was caught, all dressed in a trench coat. She has fashion sense, possibly an ukay-ukay purchase? Or did she get it from ZARA using the spoils of her excursions?

b) 3 or four grade school boys from an exclusive boys' school were victimized by the budol-budol gang (is that what you call those who use the following modus operandi?) The account is sketchy but there were these 3 or 4 young boys who played "basketball" in Trinoma. As they left the place where the game was, a man accosted them and said they had broken something and should go back. They were to leave their wallets, cellphones, IPods with one of the boys who was to remain with the man. While the 3 went back to the establishment, the man brought the last boy standing to West AVenue and divested him of the group's valuables. The mall's surveillance cameras purportedly showed that the man had followed the boys from the gaming place to where he finally accosted them.

My takes on the matter: what are surveillance cameras for? Can't malls have someone monitoring them for suspicious characters or activities rather than use what they film as evidence or to catch evil men? Can't they actually be used to effect "caught in the act" arrests like they do in the movies?

Why do budol-budol gangs continue to succeed? Years back, my nephew was a victim. He and his friend were at a gym near Cubao. They were in college by then, I think. Two men accosted the mestizo looking friend of my nephew and said he had done something bad to one of the men's brothers, so to go with them to settle the matter. My nephew is a good person so he didn't want his richer looking friend to go it alone. The men took them to Riverbanks. One of the man pulled down the shirt of my nephew at the back feigning concern, saying "hindi ka pinawisan?" That was a ploy. The man saw the necklace of my nephew. Just as one of the men took my nephew's friend to meet up with their supposedly victim-brother, the other man told my nephew to leave all his valuables on a table and to join his friend. Of course when they got back, the other man had gone, their expensive stuff along with him.

Considering that this happened a long time ago, one would think young boys would have been told to avoid such by their parents, school authorities, media. But either the young victims have refused to listen or there's a problem of ignorance there. I told my husband that maybe the school should hold a school-wide convocation where the 4 victims can recount their experience before everyone so that similar occurrences can be prevented. I don't know. Or maybe the school should write a letter to their parents to tell them to warn the boys. Or teachers can take up the matter with their classes.

Something ought to be done.

Cinderella Redux

No, I'm not talking about Lea Salonga's version, but the version in my own household.

If you've read some of my earlier posts, you'll know I have 3 maids: A, B and C. They're all related. A and C are cousins of B, A and C are stepsisters, with A older than C.

A is a meanie of the first order. B is a lesser meanie. C is the perpetual and proverbial victim but somehow, she puts up a fight.

This post was provoked by an incident this morning. I asked A to look for a bottle of Bravo sardine pate in the refrigerator. When she seemed to be taking some time, I suggested she look in the "pantry". After a while, she stopped, and then rang the buzzer for C. I asked her what in heaven for. She said it was C who had stocked the pantry.

I told her in no uncertain terms that while it was true C did, she, meaning A, could look for it herself. She could read, after all, and it was she I'd charged to get the bottle.

So she proceeded to the ref again and found it. Meanwhile, C came in and asked why. She grumbled, "Bay-i na lang, ako na lang." Hayyyyyy...

Maid B is no saint either. Once I told her to open the windows of my son's room. Within earshot, she told Maid C, in the dialect, "Later, help me open the window's to _____'s room." Peeved, I asked, "Is it so difficult to do?" She answered, "No, but it was she who closed them." I tell you...

Credit Card Shock

This morning, 19 August 2008, at around 3:30, catching myself wide awake, as is my wont I reached for the phone to check on my credit card balances. I almost fainted when one yielded the info that I had used up my credit card limit and had gone over it by over Php150k. I calmly checked if my credit card were in my wallet, saw it and thought hard where I had last used it -- in a resto. Horror stories of how some waiters commit fraud by getting info from their customers' cards and using this flooded by mind, but I prayed for calm.

I called the bank again and luckily a human voice immediately took my call after I dialed the right numbers. She apologetically explained that transactions swiped using the BDO machine from 15 to 18 August were computed in dollars and reflected thus last night. She assured that corrections would be made within the day. They were.

Whew.

Where was I on August 21, 1983 and on...

Today marks the 25th anniversary of Ninoy Aquino's death at the tarmac of the then Manila International Airport. I remember I was watching TV when a news flash reporting on his assassination interrupted my light TV viewing. I was dumbfounded, incredulous, aghast. I was mostly apolitical but a political killing was something I couldn't stomach.


Having been paralyzed for a year and three months by then, I asked God why Ninoy. I even thought God should have taken me instead, although in no way was I a match for the man that Ninoy was, but in terms of any life for someone else's, why not mine?

I guess God wanted the Filipino people to awaken from their lethargy, our lethargy. Because it was only after the death of Ninoy that most of us made known how we felt about the oppression, suppression that haunted our beings since the declaration of martial law.

I am no activist, I am without any intentions to be one, never had any aspirations in that regard either. But enough was enough. And I guess we needed Ninoy to die for us to be shaken out of our apathy.

*******************

Just like I remember what I was doing when I learned of Ninoy's death, so do I vividly remember how two decades or so earlier, I learned of John F. Kennedy's death, he who was envisioned to lead America's version of Camelot. I had just come in from the garden where I had played on the swing when my father greeted me with the news: JFK is dead. The silence was deafening in the house then despite a tape of my sister playing a Scriabin concerto emanating from a reel tape.

*******************
9-11. The latest of the memorable dates in my 52 years of existence. We were watching TV when the phone rang. My father-in-law asked if we were watching the news. We weren't but promptly switched channels. Oh my God, I thought, a scene right out of the movies. When I saw a plane ram through the skyscraper, I thought it was just a replay of the first one. I fervently hoped it was except that the height at which this plane was doing it didn't appear to be the same height as the first plane's. Incredible. How people can just undertake the taking of so many innocent lives. Just like that.

Neither here nor there (wala diri, wala didto)

Apparently, this will be a posting of random thoughts, reflections, occurrences, etc. Individually, they do not merit separate postings, hence the lumping.

*****************
Yesterday, a high school classmate of my son's walked home with him. Then the two of them started jamming, if one could call it that, given that their individual instruments were a flute and a piano. When I joined them as a spectator I asked if they were preparing to play at a wedding or party. The flutist (my son's classmate) said, "No, tita, I've just been experiencing a musical drought." He used to be the flutist of their high school theater group and now that they're in college, he is no longer affiliated with any music/theater group so plays for his pleasure, by his lonesome. I asked why he didn't play to/for his girlfriend. His reason: they're no longer "on" and I asked why. (I'm a very curious tita, if you notice). He said she's leaving for abroad in a year or so's time. Though I said "oh" simply, I was truly impressed. Apparently this young man thinks long term and while others will choose to retain the status quo and just break up when the girl leaves, this young man opted to cut it short as early as now because he said "what for? She's leaving."

**********

My cousin who's unaffected because she doesn't live in Metro Manila, will be amused but the man in pink has given me and several others another reason not to vote for him in 2010. He has closed down a U-turn in Katipunan thereby crowding the existing one in front of a school. The alternative -- to drive quite a distance to White Plains almost, to make a U-turn so one can get into Ateneo and Miriam if you're coming from the South. Those coming from the north are not similarly penalized, lucky them. My husband, on the other hand, has to leave early to get to school or drive a distance if we're not early enough, thereby spending more on fuel. Someone consequently wondered, "is he a stockholder of Petron or something?" My son suggested that my husband walk instead, which my son does every day, but my husband said he sweats too profusely to take the route -- walking to school that is.

***********

My soon to be ex-boss came to our table last night to say hello. The last time when we were in a wake together, I realized too late it was he I saw, while he didn't recognize me at all, apparently. When I told this to a friend who also worked for him, she texted him and told him (as I'd told her) that I failed to recognize him immediately because of his new hairstyle. Last night he jested, "O, pareho na hairstyle ko." I interjected, "hindi pa rin eh." He retorted, "Hindi pa rin ba?" Parang hindi. Or maybe I was thinking of his face-sake, a Korea telenovela actor. Now I am confused. Oh well...

*************

At the dinner table also last night, someone was saying how a priest was like a dead saint in that when he raised the host during Consecration he took a minute. One of those in the table asked, "Inabot mo ba?" I was so amused I laughed a while there, while the man describing the priest kept talking, apparently unaffected by the carino brutal. Meanwhile, the husband of the latter saw how I was so laughing that he said, "ganyan talaga yan" in reference to his wife. The table was a lot of fun, really, and a pity it was that everyone left not too long after.

**************

My son was at the table with us where there were two other young ones, relative to us old fogies. After dinner, one of my son's kinakapatids (whose family hosted the affair) walked over and asked my son to join their table of young ones. My son promptly stood up to do so, leading one father to remark, "oo nga, ba't dito siya sa matatanda?" failing to realize his even younger daughter was falling asleep in our table. I was so touched by the gesture of the kinakapatid of my son who's two years older than my son.

An Amazing Old Man

Last week, my tutee gave me a pack of pastillas after we finished tutoring. He said it was from his dad. I asked where they got it and he said his Lolo bought it in Tuguegarao. Yes, his 82-year old Lolo did. I asked how his lolo traveled and he said casually, "by bus." I asked "with whom?" He said, "alone."

I was in turn aghast and astounded. An 82-year old going all the way to Tuguegarao on public transport -- a 12-hour ride at the very least. And he brings pasalubong for his apos to boot.

Amazing!

One rainy Sunday

It was one of those times that I wished I had brought my camera. Close to 12 noon today, I was dressed and ready to wheel to church when the heavens opened its (their?) taps and rain poured. So I decided to wait for husband to come home thinking we'd take the car to church. Meantime, I decided to play a few pieces on the piano. Pieces I learned in grade school and high school. New ones have yet to be learned. But how to when the piano has no fixture to allow a music piece to be propped up?

Then husband arrived and said, "let's go." I asked, "do we take the car?" He said let's just bring an umbrella. By then there was not even a shower and so he wheeled me to church. Our son followed a few minutes later, no umbrella with him.

As the mass proceeded, the winds made their presence felt. We in church felt the rain spray on us, the church being largely open on all sides unless the glass folding doors are unfurled. After some time, the ladies in brown (Mother Butler) closed the glass doors to shield the mass goers from the rain. There was a let-up and they opened the glass doors once more.

I couldn't keep my mind on the mass. The weather so reminded me of my days in Negros. To complete the flashback, I have this bad cold that made me really feel like I did when I was a child when it would rain hard and the floor on the corridor just outside my room would be wet unless the trapals (now referred to as tarpaulin) were drawn down. See the corridors were roofed but did not have solid walls on the other side. Instead grills allowed the air through. And rains too if the winds were particularly strong. As I saw the rain being blown inwards, I also recalled my grade and high school days in St. Scho because while the corridor had a solid concrete wall, it only reached so high and inevitably, rain would swish inwards when the winds were strong through the upper portion up till the ceiling. More often than not, I was sick then or had a very bad cold at the very least.

Oh for those days. Life was so much simpler then, not only because that was back in the sixties and seventies, but because of the age I was in: pre-teen to teen. Issues that had to be dealt with then were prom dates, what to wear, test scores, etc. These days, 30 plus years later, issues are graver. Illness in the family, rising costs, relatives of one's husband, etc. Receiving calls before six in the morning that didn't have to be made so early as to awaken-- the issue could have waited without any consequence. People then were so much more considerate, courteous, proper. Anyway...

When the mass ended, the rains and winds were way too strong so that only a handful braved both to go to their cars or, heavens, walk home. No umbrella could have shielded one from getting wet because of the winds. As people thronged to the inner portions of the church, away from the doors, in anticipation of the rains' letting up, I found the situation a tad ironic. There we were looking like evacuees/refugees in our parish church even as our houses weren't too far away and were in no way in danger. As people milled, the buzz of voices was stilled by the crash of glass. A frame suspended from the ledge on the second level of the church had fallen right smack on the middle aisle at the back, but as God would have it and in his wisdom and kindness, there was no one where it landed. I guess He thought "these people braved the storm to come to my house". So he spared us all.

We saw our neighbor who had brought her car. When she learned we hadn't, she offered to take us, but that would have been impossible because of my wheelchair. Too much hassle. Instead, we wangled a ride for our son who got the car and came back for us in it. Deja vu. Two weeks ago, the same thing had happened. We were stranded in church, our son went home with a friend and picked us up in the car.

Filipinos - Eaten

Yummy. Here are pictures of the pack and one Filipino. Brown Filipinos. Kayumanggi Filipinos. Not Mestizo Filipinos, not dark either. Yummy. Crunchy. Made by Kraft Foods Galletas, S.A.U.

A Mother's Life when her son is sick

When my son woke up with hives yesterday morning, my world stopped. It seemed like they were in almost all parts of his body: his torso, his back, his arms, his legs. Only his neck and face were spared. Gave him Benadryl and contemplated on staying home rather than hearing mass. He told us, my husband and me, that is, to go to mass.

While at mass, I did what I usually frown at when I see people doing it in church: text. I texted my son at regular intervals to check on him. At one point, while I was doing so, a hand patted my arm to say hello. This was during communion. The person who did this was on his way back to his seat. I smiled back. Later it occurred to me that perhaps he was thinking how rude I was to be texting in church. But who am I to feel bad if he did? I would have thought the same too, in the past. Now I know better than to judge.

At any rate, in one text message, my son assured me the hives were gone. I breathed a sigh of relief, we went home and had lunch. Around 2 p.m., the hives were back. My son drank Benadryl again. But he kept scratching and looking at the hives, his reflection in the mirror, etc. My husband said, "isn't that dengue?" I think the thought scared my son even as I reassured him that I didn't think it was dengue. He himself said "these aren't rashes." But I guess he was scared because when I asked if he wanted to go to the ER of Medical City, he agreed.

To speed things up, I decided I shouldn't go with them. If I did, I'd have delayed them. So off they went. The doctor in ER injected my son with Benadryl. And within minutes, the hives disappeared, the way chalk marks do when an eraser is passed over them.

Then it was 9 p.m. The hives were back. To a lesser degree, but they were back. I asked my son if he wanted to go back to the hospital, this time he said no. This time he drank Antamin which a cousin and a friend-dermatologist recommended. The hives subsided shortly. As he dozed off, I stayed awake. The TV was off, the IPOD was off. I wanted to watch out if he had difficulty breathing.

I got some novenas, prayed. I got his bible, read. I took a handful of my hair to check if there were frizzy strands, cut. I got the MIMs, read. I was doing anything and everything but sleep. Occasionally, he'd turn to me, smile, embrace and then go back to sleep. That more than made up for staying awake. At times I'd doze off and then suddenly awaken when he'd kiss or embrace me.

At 2:30 he began to scratch again. I applied holy water on the hives, even as earlier I had asked my husband to do the same. He awakened, went to the bathroom and listened to my suggestion to take some Skyflakes and Antamin. Before long he was asleep and our routine resumed.

A few minutes ago, he left for school. Though I told him he could stay home, he chose to go to school. He brought some antihistamines with him, just in case.

I hope and pray he'll be well soonest. If you happen to read this, please pray he recovers quickly.

Thank you

Sweet Dreams Are Made of These

So goes the first line of an eighties song. And what am I referring to?

The series of surprises sprung on me by friends, relatives,even the friend of my son. The list in random order:

1. Roli's sate babi - 3orders direct from Bacolod, skewers removed, with sate rice. Heaven. From my favorite female cousin, mama's side who planed in a few weeks ago. Thanks gid ha.

2. Atis - two installments, sweet, very sweet literally and figuratively. And a box of krispy kreme donuts and a buddy pack of meiji chocolates I haven't dipped my hand into yet and what else? Sa dami I can't remember. From my favorite Taytay confidante, my future wedding inaanak (pagawa na naman ako ng gown? anong color? pwede replay? joke lang, for you a new gown.)

3.a bottle of Bath and Body Works hand soap from my son's friend from his singing group. I love this boy -- gentle, soft-spoken but always alert and patient with my questions. Ang bait talaga. One morning he sent a message via multiply that he was giving me something, he posted a picture of it. But stupid me thought the picture was it -- these days that's done, di ba? Then when my son came home from practice that night, it was the hand soap in the flesh. I felt like a fool, but a happy, touched, sentimental old fool. My husband and son were wondering why the gift when there was no occasion. All these years they haven't learned about spontaneous thoughtful gestures from me? Duhh. Just kidding. But such gestures really brighten one's day -- the giver's as well as the recipient's, right? Oh well, I'll have to teach them some more by example. Or maybe the examples number so many they no longer notice? Hmmm...

4. Puto - yesterday, my tummy was grumbling but I didn't know what to eat. Dyspepsia symptoms? Motilium then? Nah. As I typed on while wondering what to eat, the doorbell rang. In came the maid with a black plastic container with very white PUTO. Courtesy of my sister. Yahoo.

5. Filipinos. Have you eaten brown Filipinos? White Filipinos? Dark Filipinos? Whaaattt? Canniba!!!! Have you forgotten how years back a ruckus was raised against a confectionery for naming his chocolate creations "FILIPINOS"? Back then I asked my friend who was traipsing the world to get me one of each flavor - Chew and that friend know why--my husband likes dark, my son white, I like milk chocolate. But she failed to find any. Today, the sister who brought me puto gave me a pack of brown Filipinos from another sister who just planed in from Spain and the US. I surmise she got it from the former as the blurb on the pack is in Espanol.

So have I eaten a Filipino? Not yet because I want to take my first bite with my husband and son, neither of whom is here now. The son is out in a GK village teaching a first year high school student for NSTP in lieu of ROTC. Husband is working hard at keeping fit. So maybe I should spare him an added ounce by depriving him of a Filipino. Whatchathink?

The Memory Keeper's Daughter and My Brother

In my other blog I wrote about it and my cousin made a comment on it. Suddenly, a rush of emotions flooded my being. I remembered my brother...

Jun was mentally retarded. Being 6 years younger than he was, I never saw him as a baby. That sounds so inane but I particularly felt bad about it when a sister brought over an album and I saw his pictures as a baby, looking very normal: chubby, cute, normal. I felt bad that I missed those months, years, whatever time that was.

My father who's 91 keeps blaming my brother's yaya for his retardation. According to him, she had epilepsy and possibly dropped him during one of her convulsions, damaging his brain in the process. Looking at my brother's pictures, where he appeared very normal, I am inclined to think my father may be correct. What a pity. I'd have had an older brother.

Way back my father would rationalize that perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that my brother was the way he was because had he been "normal" to the end, he might have been a killer, a drug addict, whatever. What made my father think that? My brother was the only son in a family of 7 so my father feared he'd have been spoiled rotten by our mother. But was that likely with my father around? And who knows for sure?

Anyway, going back to the pictures, a number of them evoked memories because by then I had been born and was old enough to relate to him. But I didn't relate to him too much because being the youngest, I guess then it was more of me being the baby rather than me looking after anyone. I did reach out to him sometimes, would take his hand which he'd hold tight in his. I did this because I saw an older sister, the one closest to him, do the same. So you can imagine how relieved I was that one of the pictures in the album showed me, then a pre-teen, I think, tinkering with his hair while he sat on his wheelchair, smiling but I guess, oblivious to everyone. But he did look happy.

How I wish I were around when he was normal, if indeed he was. How I wish I had reached out to him more often, when I was growing up. How I wish I were a better sister. But it's too late now, he having passed away when I was in high school, back when I was 17 and he, 23.

My only consolation is that hours before he passed away, we had visited him in the hospital. He looked so calm and peaceful then breathing better following a tracheotomy. Not once did I think that would be the last time I'd see him alive...

(Sorry if there are errors in this post, I am not ready to reread and correct, but I did want to share how I feel...)

The Local News

I absolutely hate it when able-bodied men and women beg, steal or borrow because they're too lazy to work.

Just now, on TV, it was reported that a young lady's purse was snatched by three men. Later at the police precinct, to her consternation, she discovered that the three men were her neighbors. How disgusting, absolutely disgusting. The reason one of them said, "Biglaan". Not premeditated. Oh really now? One time a snatcher was caught and his reason: walang makakain. No food? Why don't they find work? Sloth or pride? Another said his wife was pregnant. So why not find work? What kind of example are these men setting for their children, unborn or already alive? That crime pays?

Darn...

Suicide

Suicide is Painless

Through early morning fog I see

visions of the things to be

the pains that are withheld for me

I realize and I can see...

[REFRAIN]:

that suicide is painless

It brings on many changes

and I can take or leave it if I please.

I try to find a way to make

all our little joys relate

without that ever-present hate

but now I know that it's too late, and...

[REFRAIN]

The game of life is hard to play

I'm gonna lose it anyway

The losing card I'll someday lay

so this is all I have to say.

[REFRAIN]

The only way to win is cheat

And lay it down before I'm beat

and to another give my seat

for that's the only painless feat.

[REFRAIN]

The sword of time will pierce our skins

It doesn't hurt when it begins

But as it works its way on in

The pain grows stronger...watch it grin, but...

[REFRAIN]

A brave man once requested me

to answer questions that are key

is it to be or not to be

and I replied 'oh why ask me?'

[REFRAIN]

'Cause suicide is painless

it brings on many changes

and I can take or leave it if I please.

...and you can do the same thing if you please.


Back in the seventies, this song became a hit. But all I knew of it was the refrain "Suicide is painless, it brings on many changes, and I can take or leave it as I please."

Even as I had posted the lyrics, I still hadn't read the lines. But...

What brings on this post? No, I'm not contemplating the idea. Rather, I would like to reflect on the issue, a friend's son having taken his life exactly a week ago today. I knew the boy, he was quiet and polite. Weeks back, I saw him in their house, called to him as he sat on the stair steps. Upon hearing me, he called my name, stood up and walked to me, bent to give me a kiss on the cheek. We small talked, I told him I'd been seeing his friend frequently, he said "talaga?" Then we bade him goodbye, after which, perhaps, he went back to his lonely perch on the stair steps.

I'm glad if but for a minute or so, I had reached out to him. At least, somehow, I don't have to say "sayang I didn't."

At any rate, since learning of the incident, I have experienced a whole gamut of emotions: sadness, pain, anger, confusion. I have shed tears for the boy and his family. Questions have cropped up in my mind, probable answers - speculations really. What drove him to do it, I wondered? I still wonder till today, seven days later, and while initially it seemed so easy to come up with probable answers, now I hesitate to think I do. Because I don't. Some believe they know the reason, they theorize; but then again, they cannot be sure. How could they? Only God and the young man know for sure, and as so many have said, God is a loving God, he forgives. He accepts. He continues to love. So who are we to do otherwise?

Still the issue begs for answers. Why are people driven to commit suicide? What is it in this world that drives them to do it?

Last Saturday, a cousin and I talked about the issue, and among other things, she mentioned how ironic it is that some people who are very sick go through all sorts of measures to get better, to prolong their lives. Then here is a boy, 24 years old, who's physically healthy but decides to end it all. Being myself physically disabled, I've actually asked "couldn't we have exchanged spinal cords before you jumped off to your death?" after I learned of some people jumping off buildings to the cold ground, thus snuffing out their lives. So why do they do it? Problems, issues, too big for them to handle? So how come people with seemingly bigger issues and problems are able to cope? I don't know.

Years back, the Catholic Church refused to allow people who died by suicide into the church. The Church has since changed its mind and grown compassionate. Years back, when Jimmy Ongpin took his life, some priests said something had possibly snapped in his head when he decided to pull the trigger. Years back too, a batchmate took his life in the cemetery, possibly because of similar circumstances as JO. He wasn't guilty of any crime ; just possibly he had been used but didn't have the right connections to get out of it the way his confreres were able to. I don't know.

Was he being wise in doing what he did? Was he being fair to himself and his family by doing what he did? One can only speculate.

The suicide of my friend's son is so close to home that I have become more enlightened in the sense that I now think it is not fair to speculate, to judge. A quiet acceptance of the suicide per se seems called for, along with compassion and understanding. No answers will be forthcoming in this life, only God knows and yet he cares.

After typing the above paragraphs, I finally decided to read the lyrics of the song. Is it possible that the 30-year old lyrics, more or less, reflect/encapsulate what goes on in the mind of people who do it? The lyrics, yet again:

Suicide is Painless

Through early morning fog I see

visions of the things to be

the pains that are withheld for me

I realize and I can see...

[REFRAIN]:

that suicide is painless

It brings on many changes

and I can take or leave it if I please.

I try to find a way to make

all our little joys relate

without that ever-present hate

but now I know that it's too late, and...

[REFRAIN]

The game of life is hard to play

I'm gonna lose it anyway

The losing card I'll someday lay

so this is all I have to say.

[REFRAIN]

The only way to win is cheat

And lay it down before I'm beat

and to another give my seat

for that's the only painless feat.

[REFRAIN]

The sword of time will pierce our skins

It doesn't hurt when it begins

But as it works its way on in

The pain grows stronger...watch it grin, but...

[REFRAIN]

A brave man once requested me

to answer questions that are key

is it to be or not to be

and I replied 'oh why ask me?'

[REFRAIN]

'Cause suicide is painless

it brings on many changes

and I can take or leave it if I please.

...and you can do the same thing if you please.

Reflections/Recollections on a Homily at a Wake

Last night I attended the mass for the son of a dear couple, who passed away at the young age of 24. The homily the priest delivered was one of the best, if not the best I've heard in a long while, especially at a wake.

One thing I recall clearly is what he said about "buds" dying, in reference to the youth of the deceased. He said God gathers even those buds and makes them perfect in the garden among the full-blown flowers in heaven.

He also mentioned how people would say to the bereaved family that the death of a dear one is "God's will". He clarified how not everything that happens is God's will, but may be born out of decisions man makes because of free will. I am always amazed at how people blame God and ask how He can allow evil to prosper when the evil actually stems from a bad/wrong decision made by the one blaming God. Just because that bad decision resulted to misfortune, the person blames God? But when the bad decision turns in favor of the decision-maker, he takes all the credit? Something wrong there.

When one goes to a wake to comfort the bereaved, words are never enough. Sometimes, they are too much even if they are well meant. Sometimes, silence, a comforting shoulder, one's presence, a tight embrace are the best forms of consolation one can offer. Sometimes,too, the bereaved family becomes the source of acceptance and strength of those who come to console - a reversal of roles, admittedly, but it happens. Maybe the bereaved family draws strength from the immense grace they are showered with at such a difficult time. Yes, maybe, they do...

Missing Something

Watching The Sweet Life of Lucy and reading her column in Philippine Star make me realize how much I miss my growing up years in Negros. Lucy is disarmingly probinsiyana and makes no bones to hide it in either medium. In The Sweet Life, she constantly says words in the dialect and Wilma reacts and mimics her, eliciting a chuckle from Lucy in the process. Listening to Lucy makes me realize how so many words in Ilonggo are similar to those in her dialect. I believe she's from Ormoc.

Years back, we were in Wendy's and they were offering this salad buffet. I think I may have recounted this in a previous post but I'm repeating it here. In the next table to ours, someone commented upon seeing the mountainful of salad atop a companion's place, "daw sungak-sungak ka ba." I hadn't heard the expression in years and it so amused me. Yesterday, a victim of Typhoon Frank said "ang mga pamuluyo" and while I knew what that meant, I couldn't translate it for my Tagalog husband.

Having lived more than half of my life in Manila has caused me to lose touch with many words in the Ilonggo dialect, especially "deep" words which I never ever encountered to begin with. Hearing Ilonggo spoken by strangers always draws a smile from me, a nudge to my husband in the mall or my son, after which I say, "Ilonggo, or nose-nose" just so I won't be too obvious.

That I haven't lost my Ilonggo accent though it's been 34 years since I've lived in Manila is perhaps a testimony to how much I love the province where I came from.

Funny that this post was provoked by a comment to my previous blog about my ninang dress, an expletive which only an ILonggo can utter without thought, without provocation. Just part of the system, not mine, never mine. So I deleted the aberration.

The Revised Design of My Ninang Gown

Can you see it? This was faxed to me. It looks okay on paper. I hope it looks even better executed. Will post a picture as soon as I get it.

Here is a picture of the gown



I'm still not enamored. wahhhhhhh!

Bothersome Occurrences, ok CRIMES

A few days ago, a cousin called to tell me that in a waiting shed in one university campus, three girls were robbed of their laptops one night at knife-point. The alleged holdupper even raised his shirt to reveal a gun tucked under his pants. Wondering why the girls were with their laptops in the waiting shed? Wonder no more.

The three girls are dormers of a campus dorm. Thing is the Internet signal in their dorm is weak if it is available at all. So they wandered off outside to find a signal and found it under the waiting shed, only to be divested of their laptops.

***************

Yesterday as my son sat in front of his laptop, he muttered, "nanakawan si xxxx. Binasag ang bintana ng kanyang kotse sa Esteban Abada kung saan siya nag park para makabili sa National (in Katipunan)." Guess what were taken? A calculator and an Accounting book.

I find that very cruel: to break the window of a car to get a calculator which costs less than P500 and a book costing less than a P1000? who might have use for either or both? Another student? A professional thief won't get much from such an intrusion and would know better. Or did the thief think he'd find a laptop? Darn, darn, darn...

Is Mercury in Retrograde? Or a series of mishaps/irritants/conundrums

I don't know where to start but I have to start somewhere. Yes, yes, I know this is trivial compared to the ordeal Ces et al. endured in Sulu. And it's really trivial compared to what the victims of the sinking of The Princess ferry went through. Still these are my current irritants, so I have to vent.

Last Friday, I was due to see my ninang gown. But I wasn't able to go so I called Saturday morning and was told it would be ready by 2 pm. Imagine, had I gone Friday as scheduled, I'd have gone for naught.

So Saturday pm, I went to the shop that made my dress at around 3 pm. Wow, from the doorway I saw my gown and it wasn't at all pretty. I couldn't help but tell my husband, "Ang pangit. HIndi maganda." I didn't bother to convince myself that it looked all right because it didn't. Sure, I'm partly to blame because I have a shapeless body, blimp-like. But the gown was just so blah. I should have taken its picture.

When the design was presented to me two weeks earlier, it looked good. But executed, wow, it was yucky. V-neckline. FIne. Wrap-around sort of, fine. Pleats on one side of the skirt, fine. Sleeves - two layers pwede na. But flowers of the same cloth as the gown, lots of them -yuck. And the flowers' petals were flying everywhere. Think of butterfly wings flapping on Jolina's head way back when she was aping Punky Brewster. Not just one butterfly, but a farm-ful. But in my gown's case, a bush-ful. The gown looked like a negligee's robe. The cloth to begin with was light, not chiffon-transparent or translucent, but light nonetheless.

The shop owner wasn't around but the girl who attended to me was solicitous enough (practice makes perfect?). She suggested removing the flowers. I said yes please. I was worried doing that would make the holes where they were sewn evident, she assured me they wouldn't be. What next? She suggested putting beads. I said ok.

Oh another thing. while I'd have preferred a skirt and blouse, they made it a gown with a cut in the waist. Like I said I have a blimp for a body so I couldn't imagine myself in it. I asked if they could make the top a blouse but then it would be too short, they said. Then the gay tailor(?) came out with a sketch. The bottom portion of the blouse would consist of two layers like the sleeves. The sleeves were bell-like, the blouse would have a graduated hem. I'm not sure I'm describing what the design looked like well enough. Oh well. They also suggested putting beads on the sleeves, the hem and the waist - on one side. I asked for a collar. As I thought of the design when I got home I wasn't sure I'd like how it turned out. Texted the shop owner and she said she'd redesign it so I'd like it. I hope she does. Two things I asked for: simple but elegant. Will keep you posted.

This experience mirrors what my niece who's getting married told me when I suggested she have a wedding gown made. She said "no way". She'd rather buy off the rack. She had two horror stories to tell and one stood out: a friend of hers didn't like the gown made by a known designer so she ended up wearing something else on her wedding day. In the event that my gown doesn't turn out to my liking, I just might skip the wedding. It's no joke to look frumpy on such a special occasion.

Travail No. 2: Last week, got my water bill. It was higher than the previous month's. So I told the maids to slow down on consumption. For one, though I had told them several times not to use the water hose anymore, one time I caught one of them hosing the dog's you know what with it. So imagine what a waste of water that is. The faucet is some distance from the dog so while the maid walks to the faucet to turn it off, some water is wasted. Anyway, one day last week, when I returned from shopping, they gave me the news. They tested the toilets and found out that even when no one was using any, the water meter was "moving". So they experimented and determined the culprit. the yellow bathroom. Promptly, I called the maintenance man of where my husband works and he checked the system. He adjusted it, no change. He suggested the control be closed when not in use and said possibly, the problem was with the water pipes underneath. The maids were flummoxed. they insisted the problem was with the water closet in the yellow toilet.

So I called an architect friend who sent his plumber. The plumber recommended changing the toilet fittings of the 3 toilets because they were all run down. He was an old man so I thought he knew everything. I bought the necessary stuff and he came to replace the old ones. Thing is, when he was done, problem persisted. Worse, where before the meter didn't move if the controls were closed, now it moved even if the controls were closed. Hayyyyyyyyyyy. what do do? I don't know. I asked him he said, maybe the pipes underneath. Back to square 1.

Pipes underneath - bakbak/major undertaking. Tiles would have to be removed and replaced. New pipes put in, no longer underground but they'd have to be concealed by some tiles. darn, darn, darn.

I'll have the project estimated for cost but no guarantee there that I'll have it done. Unless I win the lotto or a windfall from who knows where drops on my lap?

A New "Old" Friend

For years now, I've been seeing this man in church and have noticed him for two reasons. He walks with some difficulty (and I can empathize/sympathize) and he looks like a friend of my father's when he was active in Rotary. He lives along the street where the parish church is.

It has been some time, too, when I have been wanting to condole with him because I read of his son's alleged suicide aboard a coast guard or Navy boat, just when he was supposed to have noted an anomaly somewhere and was about to report it or something. The details are now sketchy in my mind but I remember how I felt when I saw an image of the alleged suicide on TV. It couldn't have been one. The position of the gun on the floor while the man was on the bed, dead, seemed improbable.

It wasn't immediately then that I realized this old man was the father of the ill-fated soldier. I only knew for sure that it was he when I read an article on the Spirit Questors or saw a feature on them (so long ago, I can't recall which), trying to get in touch with the spirit of the son. Mention was made of our area.

Anyway, this a.m., after mass, (it's the feast day of my patron saint, St. Anthony of Padua), I decided to stop by a tianggue (appreciate that as the Ilonggo kind rather than the Greenhills kind) where I hqe noticed a table selling pineapples at P15, 20 and P25 each on our way to church. I decided to get one for my husband because I had P50 with me. I still had enough for Inquirer after getting the pineapple, I thought.

As I was parked on the side of the road, I noticed the "old" man standing nearby looking at the people buying. He had also just come from church. Impatient that my maid was taking so long, I thought of asking him "Are you Mr. X?" He said "yes" and I immediately asked if he were the brother of my father's friend. He said "yes" again. Then he said, "Those pineapples are sweet. They're from my farm." Oops, my IQ wasn't working. All along, it hadn't occurred to me that the tianggue was just in front of a wall of his property. I thought his property was but the nice house with portholes (so reminiscent of his son's assignment, no?). And then I asked where his farm was, expecting he'd say Laguna or somewhere far. He said it was in Antipolo.

We talked some more and he told me he was in Bacolod for six years where he was with an insurance company. He thus also knew another friend of my father's, a friend who had been my sister's boss. Small world. I guess that was what prompted him to say, "Someday, I'll invite you to my farm." I found that suggestion so sweet of him, never mind if it will never come to pass. The mere thought so touched me. He also introduced his wife to me but she didn't join our conversation. She merely smiled.

Eventually he left us but the maid was not yet done buying one pineapple. She was haggling that it be sold her for P10 because another customer she said got 2 for P20. I told her to just pay P15 and be done with it. To begin with P15 for a pineapple isn't much. In fact way back when my son was 3 or 4 years old, 15 years ago, that same table sold pineapples for P10, so considering the inflation and the intervening years, a P5 difference isn't something to "sweat" about, right?

So there. Fancy how age has made me less shy to strike up conversations with people. Weeks back, also in church, a man approached my husband and me asking where we lived because he'd see us and we him in the many churches in the area. Turned out he's the brother of a friend of my sisters. He's into koi breeding. When i showed interest in it, he asked if we had a pond. He gives rejects out, you see. Much as I'd have wanted one koi (aka goldfish in my unenlightened youth), I couldn't lie to a new-found friend.

The Filipino Language

Way back in the early seventies. when we were in high school, we had this teacher in Filipino who took us aback. She had a cool way of pronouncing and spelling Filipino words. To this day, I'll never forget what she told us "high school" is in Filipino. I myself thought she'd say "mataas na paaralan." Instead she said and wrote, "haiskul."

That to my mind marked a transition of sorts for the Filipino language. A transition that has remained unabated, again, to my mind, because I don't profess to being a linguist, not even to minimal proficiency in what is and should actually be my mother tongue.

Whenever I hear mass in Filipino (tagalog), I would usually translate the words I hear in English, and the translation doesn't come easy if it comes at all. So I tend to be unable to follow what the priest is saying. Lucky for me if the gospel or readings are familiar because then I'd get what it is about. But if they're not, wow, I'm lost. A few Sundays ago the first line of a reading went "ang mabuting trigo". Offhand, trigo for me is short for Trigonometry, hardly an apt translation in something Bible-related. So what does trigo translate to? Trinity? From context clues I could still gather nothing. Oh well. I could have looked at the dictionary when I got home but then the rest of the text of that reading had been lost.

Back then I had thought of blogging about the issue but it slipped my mind. then yesterday I met two people connected to the publishing world and they asked me if I knew anyone who could edit textbooks written in Filipino.

I asked two friends and right off, they said, "not Filipino", a stark confirmation of what the two people I met yesterday lamented: finding editors of Filipino works is not easy. Strange isn't it? But why is this so?

We tried to brainstorm why and more or less agreed that the ever changing rules of the language may be responsible. For instance, back when I was in school, you'd conjugate patay and say, "nakakamatay". But now, the signs of MMDA read, "Bawal tumawid dito. Nakamamatay." When I first read this, I balked. Where did that come from, I wondered aloud. Then my son who's 34 years younger than I answered, "Mama, that's correct". I wondered, "since when?" WHen did they change the rules and who did? In the first place, who's been making the rules?

Another reason: our dictionaries, of which there are quite a few. There's the series of Leo English, a Redemptorist priest, therefore American-- yes, an American wrote a Filipino English dictionary and vice versa. then there's the so-called Vicassan, a rather thick and heavy volume, There's also UP's dictionary in burgundy which mixes tagalog and english words and alphabetizes them interspersed; that is it doesn't separate Tagalog entries from English ones.

So far, I have seen one Tagalog-Tagalog dictionary which is useful if the teacher asks for a definition of a tagalog word in tagalog, rather than its translation in English. But this is a small and thin volume, so it doesn't help if your teacher is up there in terms of proficiency.

So what do we do? I don't know. I am as much at a loss for answers to this issue. What has caused it in the first place? Are other countries/languages in the world similarly situated? is the Filipino language so young and are these but mere growing up pains?

Someone, please do something.

Chivalry is not dead

Among the old, that is. This morning, heard mass with my husband. The mass had just begun when in came this frail old lady who had a cane. Helping her along was a houseboy who brought her to the door and slung her bag across her shoulder. Then he simply left her to fend for herself.

As she grabbed the door knob, I became nervous. It was apparent she had poor balance but the boy had just left her there, making me wonder: was that what she had ordered him? Or is he anti-Catholic? Uncaring? what? Because, again, he left her there.

Taking one quivering step at a time, holding a cane in one quivering hand at the end of one quivering arm, she made her way to the last pew in church, no not to settle there but to hold on to it for balance. Then she ever so slowly, all the while seemingly about to fall, wended her way forward.

After she took a few steps, an old man, who looked like a foreigner or mestizo at the very least, crossed the center aisle to reach her and led her gently, her hand on his arm, to the front row. He smiled as he did. So there, chivalry isn't dead, but it is only among the old that it seems to live on.

For how many young men this days bother to give their seat to a lady in a crowded church? How many?

Has the world become such that the motto of everyone is "survival of the fittest", or maybe "to each his own." Sad. Sometimes, I tell my son or husband to help when I see someone in need. Sometimes they hesitate. Shy daw sila. Oh well...

Getting to Know Dhang

Dhang is a neighbor. She rents an apartment two gates to our left. The apartment has 3 rooms and has bedspacers. Dhang also has her family with her: her parents, her siblings, and her toddler. Notice? No husband.

But Dhang is special. IN the past years/months, I'd smile at her when we'd pass by her place where she sold barbecue, tapsilog, newspapers then (no longer now), cigarettes and cellular phone loads. Last Monday, I finally met her up close and we talked for a while.

I went to the barangay because earlier my husband was there to get a barangay clearance. He didn't need to give a picture, he said, and that pleased me because I can't find my ID photos. So I thought of getting a barangay ID, thinking that was what he got. Serves me right for only half-listening. Besides I also called and was told I didn't need an ID picture. So there.

One time, I should take a picture of our barangay hall, office, grounds. It has a garden, a pond with two turtles, a bridge, a structure where there's a botica ni Gloria or something, a canteen, covered courts, a fire truck etc. Oh yes, there's a gazebo that leads to the offices. Thing is, the path to the office is a bit rough, the gazebo has two steps. So whenever I need something from the office, I let the maid go to the office to tell them I'm just outside, may I get a residence certificate? They graciously accommodate my request and step out of their airconditioned office if I have to sign something. last Monday, they just handed the stuff to the maid for me to sign.

The wait was a bit long and so I gazed at the skies every once in a while as its hues morphed from bright to gray, a clear indication of rain coming. We didn't have any umbrellas. Occasionally, I'd feel a drop or two on my arm but I wasn't alarmed. Then Dhang came. We smiled. I was alone then because the maids were in the office. I decided to strike a conversation with her and I'm glad I did.

I asked why she was there and she said she was waiting for her barangay clearance to be signed. She had filled up the form in the morning but the barangay captain wasn't around which was why she was back there again. She needed the clearance because she had just bought a franchise for a tricycle. If I'm not mistaken, she got the franchise from a person who held it previously for either P45k or P75k. Days back I saw the body of a trike beside our gate. At first it was painted orange, the following day its paint had been peeled off. Also saw several motorbikes. This she got for P45k, ok so the franchise must have been P75k. She said she could have almost paid for the motorbike in cash using her earnings from her loading business but needed a few thousands more. So she paid for most of it and the balance spread over two years at P3k per month. She also told me about her brother whom she'd sent to college in Dumaguete. It was he who prepared the marinade for whatever food they were selling, because he had taken up HRM. He worked in PHOA Libis for 10 months and was the resto's direct hire. After 10 months, they had to be coursed through the agency and he balked. The agency would get a good portion of his pay. SO now he's helping Dhang manage her business. He explains to her whatever documents she has to sign (franchise, bank) etc. because Dhang said she hadn't gone to school.

Dhang is ever on the lookout for a business to start. She said it isn't easy but she has to do it for her family. When she finally got her barangay clearance I saw an ID and I asked what it was: postal ID. Cost her P300 and she said she had to get it so she could open an account in a bank -- a revelation that reminded me of how I couldn't open an account in Citibank because I didn't have enough valid IDs. Strange no, considering I have a CItibank credit card. They don't want me to deposit to their bank but they "lend me money" through the card. Does that make sense? Dhang's story about how she sets up one business after another so her money works reminds me of the ideas from the book Rich Dad, Poor Dad.. If she doesn't give up, she'll be rich.

Dhang has one bad eye that cannot see. It's grayish in fact. Seems while playing as a child, part of a broom hit the eye or worse and blinded it.

What an amazing woman.

The Early Morning

Well, not that early. But for the second time this week, two maids and I wheeled/walked to church for the 6:30 a.m. mass. Prior to doing so, I asked Maid C if it were raining or seemed like it would rain. She said yes, the skies were dark. As I could see a glimmer of the sky through the blinds in the room, I wasn't sure she had answered me truthfully. So I asked her to call my husband who was in the sala surfing. Asked him the same question. His answer "the sky is clear, no threat of rain is evident." I called Maid B and prepared for mass. As maid C was putting on my sandals, she said "Abi ko anay kaina daw ma ulan, indi gali." Whoops, now I wonder how many times they had deceived me in the past just so I stay put and not be asked to be wheeled to mass or the grocery. Hmmmmmm.

As we reached the gate, I saw a tiny plant on the ground where the cement had given way to soil, maybe two inches in diameter. The plant had dicotyledons breaking apart revealing a stem creeping up. what a refreshing sight.

As we neared the church, I saw a motorcycle-riding newsboy (a man actually) make the sign of the cross as he drove past the church. Wow how edifying.

Come communion time, the ladies in brown (Mother Butler) asked me to go first (this was news: in the past, my being in a wheelchair saw me requested by at least two priests to go last so I wouldn't disrupt the flow of people). Apparently, they're trying out a new system where the last row goes first, then the second to the last, onto the first row.

Something the priest said disturbed me. He talked about how the disabled have charism according to Fr. arevalo, in that they allow those around them to show compassion. Then he said something to the effect that even the seemingly useless have charism. was he alluding to my ilk? Wow, low blow. Benefit of the doubt but coming so close to the heels of his mentioning the sector to which I belong...