Temporary stupidity may actually make you smarter in the long run...

My laptop's memory is almost full, so I decided to skim some files to delete. I took a break from reading "Strategies For Teaching" because frankly, after a long steady diet of magazines and trashy novels, reading something so, er, school-y again was giving me a mild headache.

I found some old blogs circa 2007-08. I don't remember if I published them in my previous Multiply or FB sites. But one stood out because I laughed when I read it. More than two years later and I still got the same sentiments. Haha.

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May 7, 2008, Wednesday, 8:06 AM

It’s hard and it sucks: choosing between doing the right thing and doing what you want. Isn’t it frustrating that more often than not, the right thing is the hardest thing to do, and what we want is usually illicit, forbidden or just plain stupid and wrong.

When faced with a confused and distraught friend facing such a dilemma, I try to refrain from giving a concrete advice or a definite answer. I would let her rant, rave and wear herself out talking and crying. Then I would tell her, follow your instincts. I know, I know, it’s cliché and a play-safe answer and probably not what she wants to hear, but really, it is the only way.

When we are mere spectators and are not involved in the crisis, it’s easy to fall into the trap of seeing things in black and white. But come on, if we’re the ones in that person’s shoes, when emotions come to play, we can’t think logically. Things aren’t as simple as right versus wrong. Everything’s gray… or red, or pink or whatever, depending on the mood. I mean if things were that simple, then I don’t think that person would’ve come to me for advice.

What makes it harder is when people like friends and family, who are understandably just concerned about us, are pushing us to do the right thing. We clash when we insist on following our desire, running the risk of looking like fools, of getting hurt, and crawling back to them and enduring their I-told-you-so’s.

But as I’ve said, my sole advice is to follow your guts. Take their well-meaning words with a grain of salt, but do what your heart’s telling you. OK, that sounded straight out of a Hallmark card, but hey, it’s true. If you end of falling smack in your face, well at least no one can accuse you of being someone else’s sissy puppet. You won’t have to live asking yourself, what if, wondering what might have been if you followed your own.

I believe in learning from your own mistakes; pain is an effective teacher. Don’t we always remember the mistakes that hurt the most and the lessons that came from them? Isn’t it that when we were kids, our parents would tell us, don’t run, you might fall and hurt yourself, and we won’t listen? Then we go home with red scrapes across our knees, bawling because it hurts like hell, and you can bet we won’t be running around for a while.

Don’t be scared of looking stupid; people all make stupid mistakes everyday. It’s not really the error you commit, but how you turn them to your advantage. It’s like stumbling in front of a huge crowd, and instead of crying right in the middle, you stand up, brush of the dirt and flip the goddamn hair. Taray lang, dabaz? Everybody falls at some point in their lives, but not everyone gets up with such remarkable grace and chutzpah.

Now this doesn’t mean you turn into an impulsive ass. If it’s worth it, then hell yeah, fight for it. Otherwise, know when and how to let go. Remember it’s your life, and it’s gonna be you, not your best friend or your sister or any snotty self-righteous bitch, who’s going to sit in front of your grandchildren telling them how grandmama had the balls to go for what she really wants.

As my favorite quote from Kiko Miranda goes, “Make mistakes, make many mistakes…. but never make the same mistake twice.”

I'm talking in circles. Somebody give me the next shot.

Joggin'

I don't jog to get to lose weight, and I say this without any trace of smugness. If there actually was a way jogging would make my butt and chest bigger, I'd do it every single day!

Team sports bore me (so much for being a team player!). Ever since I got hit on the face by a basketball while watching a pickup game when I was in fifth or sixth grade, I have a strong aversion towards ballspleasewipethatdirtythoughtoffyourmind! But really, even tennis balls scare the shit out of me.

I was a cheerleader in high school because I liked prancing around in short skirts better than jostling with other smelly players for a jump ball or a spike. If I were to get all sweaty might as well do it with pompoms and ribbons and look all good and girly, right?

I jog because I like the alone time, just me and whoever's on shuffle mode in my iPod (right now it's Britney Spears, the Glee cast, Mario and Paramore). I don't even like jogging with someone, lest I might be expected to make small talk and God knows how much I despise that, especially when every breath should be conserved for the running.

I don't just jog anywhere. It has to be around campus, most often around Baker and the Freedom Park. My ideal time would actually be early morning, best when it just rained the previous night. But since I hoard waking up late in the morning (since I'm always up at the crack of dawn, or I just got into bed before dawn after a night of partying), I settle for late afternoon, around 5 pm. It also allows me to people watch, as the place is usually crammed with families on picnics, couples canoodling on the grass, and other sports fanatics. On a good day I'd spot another runner with really great ass. Ah, motivation. Sometimes I'd take Ging to play or run, but right now she prefers to stay at the computer shop or read her pocketbooks than tag along with old foggy Mom. Pre-teens, hay.

I run when I'm really happy or really down, but curiously not when I'm bored. If I'm bored I'd rather sleep or watch dvd's. When I'm happy, the endorphins make me extra high, like I feel I could do anything. When I'm sad or angry, running's a great stress reliever and the solitude is a fine opportunity to mull over stupid mistakes and plan my enemy's demise, nyaha. It's good detox as well after a night of excessive drinking, whoo.

And for some weird reason, my running shoes should be pink, or else I don't get inspired at all.

Britney, one more time

Imagine how pissed I was last Wednesday when I rushed to get home so I can watch the Britney Spears Glee episode only to find out our cable was disconnected just that afternoon. Apparently, I left two months worth of cable bill in my jewelry box and found it there the following morning. Red alerts of aging, anyone?

In preparation, Britney was on repeat mode in my iPod on my ride home, so I really wanted to burn down the CCV office right then and there. Luckily, I was able to watch it online today and loved it so much. Thank you Brit for saving me from being an arsonist.

Most teenage girls during the latter half of the 90's to the early 2000's can relate to Britney Spears. She was probably the Lady Gaga of our angst-ridden, love-sick growing up years. Although most dismissed her saccharine sweet but sexually-laced music as silly bubblegum pop, nobody can deny that when you hear the words "Hit me baby" or "Ooops I did it again," it's gonna stick to you for the rest of the day. Up to this day, I never fail to sing one Britney song during videoke sessions or resist dancing whenever her tunes come up in the DJ's playlist.

My first real exposure to Britney was when we bought our first desktop computer. There was a preloaded concert video of Britney back in 2000 in Hawaii. I remember watching it over and over again, and although I wasn't that impressed with her voice, I coveted her abs and dancing prowess the moment she popped on stage in shimmering skin-tight pants and cropped top and started gyrating to her highly addictive songs. Here's an innocent looking gril who sang openly about love and sex and boys while looking so damn fine. We all wanted to be her.

Years later, growing up in the limelight while earning ridiculous amount of money finally caught up with Britney and everyone started dismissing her as another crazy, mixed up Hollywood kid. Some already considered her a has-been. And while I smirked every time I would see a picture of her without underwear or read a news bit of yet another DUI incident or rehab entry, I also felt sad for someone who was such an idolized star before.

She's not a role model for the faint-hearted, but she's definitely someone a troubled person yearning for a redemption story, can look up to. She's had many boo-boos - that awkward VMA number, underwear allergy phase, custody battles and that icky K-Fed thing - but she always came back up, well, "Stronger than yesterday..."

I may not want to be her now, making mistakes in front of the whole world. I don't want to make her blunders or go through her humiliation. But I can say I want a little Britney Spears in me, some bit of that courage, that tiny piece of can't-bring-me-down 'tude, a pinch of determination and a smudge of hot momma-ness.

So, yay for Glee, and yay for Britney!

Where's your pride, girl?

It's a misguided sense of pride. It's not love anymore. You can't accept the fact that he left you for a girl who's already attached - his friend's girl for crying out loud! - while you rode yourself to the ground trying to give him everything he can possibly want. Maybe he didn't make himself clear enough - he wanted a girlfriend, not a doormat.

Your pride will not her win. You hold on to him not because you're obsessed or still madly in love. He's not enough that good-looking, he treated you like crap and his bedroom skills leave much to be desired. You find it unfair that while she has a loyal boyfriend who turns a blind eye towards her indiscretions and a boy toy to romp the sheets with any time she itches, you're all alone, pining after a love long lost and the deafening ticking of your biological clock resonating loudly inside your empty body.

But you're like a dog who won't let go of a bone because you have this crazy notion that in the end, he will still pick you. That you will win... eventually.

So for now, it's okay for you to look stupid and crazy and pathetic. Your eye is on that one victorious day that you will regain your rightful place inside his boxers. So focused are you that everybody -including the two of them probably - has long ago realized that you are blindly fighting for a prize that is so worthless to call it such is so damn funny.

Ganito pala...

*originally written May 15, 2010*

Ngayon alam ko na ang pakiramdam nila, yung mga kaibigan at pamilya ko dati. Noon, inuna ko ang tigas ng ulo. Pinagkamalang pag-ibig ang libog. Pinanindigan ang isang labang wala namang saysay. Pinagpalit ang isang tunay na kaibigan para sa isang batong nagpapanggap na tao. Naggugol ng napakaraming oras, emosyon at pagod para sa... sa... saan nga ba?

Buti, nagising naman ako. Naisip kong hindi ako isang parte lang ng katawan na gagamit-gamitin. Natakot ako na pag lumaki na ang anak ko at magkamalay, isampal nya sa akin ang pagiging mababa at tanga kong babae. Ganito ba ang gusto kong kalabasan niya? Na matapos ko siyang palakihin at alagaan, isang lalaki lang ang gagago at sisira sa kanya? Syempre hindi.

Pinagsabihan nila ako, paulit-ulit hanggang nagsawa na lang sila. Siguro, naisip nila na din na ako yung tipo na kailangan masaktan bago matuto. Kailangang madapa para bumangon. Kailangan gaguhin para makita ang sariling kagagahan.

Ang hirap pala nun. Yung pagmasdan mo ang kaibigan mong harapang sinasaktan, tinatarantado sa maraming tao. Yung alam mong isa syang edukadang babae, kumikita ng sariling pera, may itsura at napalaki ng maayos ng magulang, tapos itatapon lang yun lahat dahil sa takot niyang maging mag-isa.

Hindi lang siya ang lalaki sa mundo, sabi nila dati. Marami pang darating na mas tatrato sayo ng nararapat sayo. Yung papasayahin ka ng hindi mo siya kailangan ibili ng mga materyal na bagay. Yung irerespeto ka kahit ano pa yung nakaraan mo at hindi ito isusumbat sayo mo pag nagtatalo kayo. Yung hahanap-hanapin ka dahil gusto ka niyang lagi kasama, at hindi lang dahil nangangati siya sa kama.

Syempre noon, hindi ko nakita yun. Para sigurong ikaw ngayon. Pero yun nga lang, namulat na din ako. Ikaw kaya, kailan?

Minsan, hindi ko na alam kung -bilang isang tunay na kaibigan - hanggang saan lang ako lulugar sa buhay niya. Tama ba na pagsabihan ko siya? Tama bang bawalan ko siyang makipagkita o makipagkaibigan sa kanya? Panghihimasok na ba yung sabihin ko yung mga hindi magandang bagay na naririnig kong kumakalat tungkol sa kanya, sa kagustuhan kong ipamukha kung anong klase talaga siyang lalaki, para matauhan ang kaibigan ko? O tama lang na hayaan ko siyang pumili, masaktan, at matuto ng kanya lang?

Parang ang sarap nyang hablutin bigla, sigawan at pagalitan. Ang tanga-tanga mo, gusto ko sabihin. Inis na inis na ko kasi hindi ko alam kong nagbubulag-bulagan lang siya o tanga lang talaga.

Siguro, dahil naranasan ko din ang nararanasan nya kaya ayoko nang pagdaanan nya yun. Tama na yung isang beses. Pwede naman magpatawad ng hindi nalilimutan kung ano yung ginawa niya. Walang masama kaibiganin siya basta hindi na siya umaasang may magbabalik sa kanilang dalawa.

Alam mong mahal kita kaya ko sinasabi to.

Sabi nga nila, wag nang ikaw mismo ang humanap ng batong ipupukpok sa ulo mo. Kung gusto mong irespeto ka niya, irespeto mo muna ang sarili mo. Hindi ka makakahanap ng lalaking totoong magmamahal saiyo kung ikaw mismo, hindi mo kayang mahalin ang sarili mo. Kung ganyan ka lang ng ganyan, nagpapa-apak sa mga lalaking katulad nya, ganyan at ganyan din ang mga lalaking dadating sayo. Kahit hindi siya, may iba pang yuyurak sayo hanggat pumapayag ka. Kailan mo sasabihin na tama na? Kailan mo uunahin yung sarili mo?

Wag ka matakot tumanda magisa. Huwag kang magtiyaga sa kanya kasi iniisip mo wala ka ng mahahanap na iba. Natatakot ka kasi na baka hindi ka na magkaasawa, na hindi ka na magkakaanak. Huwag mo ipako ang kinabukasan mo sa isang taong ang isip ay nakatuon lang sa ngayon, sa sarili niya. Dahil kung ipipilit mo ang sarili mo sa ganyang klase ng tao at sitwasyon, habang buhay kang tutungo sa gusto ng ibang tao, at hindi mo mararanasan kung pano paligayan ang sarili mo.

Ngayon sabihin mo kung ako na ang sumosobra kasi titigil na ko.

Fresh Meat

*originally written March 21, 2010*

With all these "going green" trend around, recycling's big right these days. I guess even the dating scene has caught on, with exes getting back together and past flings getting revisited. Friends have been teasing me about our high school batch's 10th year reunion later on this year. "Balikan," they sang. Eww, is what I say. And I don't want to misconstrue an ex's friendliness, despite others' constant ribbing during inuman sessions.

To the guys I've loved and lost...well, don't say you didn't have your chance.

I have learned an important lesson.

The last time I fell for that "One More Chance" crap, I got a little bun in the oven merely four months after. Much as my mom loves her mini-me apo, I'm pretty sure she's not up for another er, "miracle baby." Same goes for recycling other women's junk. Last time I went ukay-ukay mode on another girl's cast off, I lost a really great girl friend and got an emotionally retarded dildo in return. Not exactly a fair trade-off, which sad to say, I rightfully deserved, I guess.

Love is lovelier the second time around? Naku, "been there, been that" hahaha! What a tired, tired cliche! Gone are the days that sentimentality prevented me from completely moving on. Enough with trying to resuscitate an obviously dead relationship or hoping to relive an old flame, just because it seems such a shame to let go of months or years of history together. Thinking how much time I wasted... sigh.

My day at SSS

I had the bright idea to start the day early. Go to the SSS branch in Parian to apply for an ID and be finished before lunch, that way I can get my nails done, start on my Cougartown dvd and perhaps a couple rounds jogging.

Of course, when you're dealing with government offices, things don't always go according to plan. No, that would be too easy. After braving the early Tuesday morning rush from Elbi to Parian -which entails quite a few stop lights that take forever to change and several elementary schools where jeeps and tricycles alike clog the highway - I went inside the office. After filling out the E6 form I hurriedly downloaded online before going here, I was promptly informed by the security guard that SSS has issued a nationwide halt to processing ID's. Wtf? He said I should just wait for announcements on print or TV when the issuing will resume. I laughed. I actually did. I wanted to pull out the huge piece of guava I bought at the jeep terminal and throw it to his smug face.

I asked for the phone number of their particular branch so I may be able to just call in for updates. He told me to ask one of the clerks in front. I approached a man who saw me from the corner of his eye when I tried a couple of times to call him. "Sir? Pwede magtanong?" In typical government employee style, he finally looked up and gave me a bored yet irritated look. I asked where I can apply for an ID and he told me to go to the San Pablo branch.

Great.

So I headed back South and two hours and endless traffic jams later, I was at the SPC office, where an opportunisict tryc driver charged me 30 bucks for the short trip from the church to the branch. I was hot, irate and just want to get this thing over and done with.

Later on, after I had my form stamped, I fell in line for the picture taking. I pulled number 90 from the hook and plunked down a chair. The sour-faced man behind the desk, who was curtly calling out numbers in a gruff voice, was entertaining number 62.

Luveeet. Thank God I had my iPod and a good book with me. I held on to my number tightly, for I noticed the old woman beside me (who was clutching number 113) eyeing my card several times. Mahirap na.


Dozens of pages read and several On-The-Go lists later, Manong Sungit finally called number 88. It was five minutes before 12 noon. The ladies beside me where saying it would close for lunch. True enough, Manong turned off the lights and emerged, giving us all a dirty look, muttering, "Di nga ko nag-break buong umaga eh," and would disappear until a few minutes before one.

I took the time to eat and noticed that Ultimart has gone from the typical provincial clusters of commercial spaces that we used to go to whenever we want to watch movies (no Olivarez or Waltermart yet) or shop. There's a Mango outlet, a Figaro, Mang Inasal and Red Ribbon, among others. Shala!

Thankfully, when I got back, #89 was nowhere to be found and I was processed quickly. I don't know if Manong S is a man of few words or he has a really bad case of halitosis, but he barely uttered words except for when he called my number. He merely signaled for me to sit, look here, press fingerprints and sign. I was about to ask him if the stub would be enough for a loan application, but he swiftly dismissed me by calling out, "Number 91!"

Pak!

My loner tendencies

It’s been almost two years since I last saw my father. The last time was at my brother’s wedding in January 2009. Since it was probably the first time we saw him again after he left for Iloilo in 2004, and everyone was preoccupied with wedding preparations, there wasn’t really time to talk or bond. And everyone was kind of on the edge, waiting for that one moment Papa and Mama would be left “unsupervised” and hence, Word War III would commence!

Lolo Wins, my dad’s father, passed away last week. We all made last minute plans to go to Iloilo, save for my sister Jean and the kids, as they already had the chance to see Lolo alive and say goodbye last May. I haven’t been to Papa’s hometown since 2006 and haven’t met some of our cousins, so I was kinda excited as well, even under the circumstances.

Mama, Kuya Pao, Ate Joy and I were met at the airport by Papa. He made beso to all of us, even my mom, who looked mighty uncomfortable. It was only when we were all making small talk about the flight and I removed my sunglasses that Papa did a double-take at me. He squinted at my face, broke into laughter and lightly slapped my cheeks. He didn’t recognize me! He thought I was Ate’s officemate.

Being back here and listening to all my relatives and friends talk in lilting Ilonggo, I am reminded of how I often wanted to learn how to speak the dialect. Except for Papa, and Kuya who spent his first semester of college here, all of us only know a smattering of Ilonggo, and can only smile vaguely when our cousins and aunts start bantering in rapid Ilonggo. I’ve always been confused because oftentimes they sound like they’re arguing when they’re actually not, and vice versa.

Some people are actually surprised to learn I do have anti-social tendencies. I’m actually shy. Yes, wipe that drink shooting out of your nose and stop laughing; I am shy. I’m uncomfortable when meeting new people. I abhor small talk, which would probably explain why I’ve never been to a blind date or all the guys I’ve dated are either friends or friends of friends. I’m not used to that initial polite getting-to-know-you phase.

Ate Jean is the gregarious one in the bunch. Perhaps this came from teaching preschoolers for years. If she can entertain or make those brats listen to her, she can very well make anyone follow her lead. Papa is also the talkative, chikadora type, the kind who endears himself to others by making off-color jokes or dropping amusing but sometimes useless trivia about everyone. Kuya got a bit of that, I think. Mama is the ultimate queen B, but her work oftentimes make it necessary for her to play nice, although it only takes very little to provoke her and bring out the B in her, haha. Ate Joy is suplada as well, but her bright, pretty face belies this snobby side of her so people still have a tendency to gravitate towards her.

I’m the moody one. I’ll befriend you if I feel like it; if not, I just won’t talk to you. I prefer making friends with people who are already my friends’ friends, because that cuts the awkward small-talk phase in half. I’m only really friendly when drunk, which is probably why half of the people I met while intoxicated, I don’t remember their names, and half, I can’t recall their faces. Nyaha.

Even at work, when I’m quiet, they know me well enough not to attempt a conversation. When I’m up for it, you can hear me cracking jokes or making fun of my teammates from across the room. But don’t expect me to be little miss perky the first two hours of the shift. I will bite your head off.

This might also explain why, while Kuya and Papa are at the poker table laughing and conversing in Ilonggo with my relatives and friends, Ate Joy has commandeered my iTouch and Yes! magazine to herself, Mama is equally engrossed in her own book, and I am in a dark corner of the house, typing away on my laptop and wishing for a free Wifi with a really strong connection. Faack.

The Dreaded Morning After

I'm sure I haven't met someone who hasn't had one of these. Whether it's the pounding hangover from last night's tequila shots, waking up next to a naked, complete stranger or recalling snippets of a spontaneous pole dance number, everything suddenly hits you the moment you open your eyes or the first streak of sun stains the black sky.

Maybe it's the blanketing anonymity nighttime grants you that you feel safe doing things you never thought you could. Or it's the false bravado alcohol gives you that you feel more confident, more outspoken than you normally would. Perhaps it's the careless, immature thinking that it's just for one night only.

Once you've mulled over last night's events, you're usually awash with regret and shame. There's that OMG moment when you slap your forehead, groan and fall back on your bed, wishing you could hide under the covers forever. Because while you are willing to move on, asap, and erase the previous night's events from your memory, you suddenly recall all the people -friends and strangers alike - who have witnessed you regress into a bumbling, idiotic slut, and that they will probably remember this for a very long time.

Take comfort in the thought that this, too, shall pass. Everyone's entitled to commit mistakes, however big and dumb and embarrassing they are. No matter how grown up you think you are, there's still a little child in you who will always yearn to come out and play, not always in places or in the manner you want it to be in.

We always want what we can't have, do things we regret and say stuff we can't take back. Life is indeed funny, and what's even funnier is that half of the time, all that drama are self-made, self-imposed, immature lapses in judgment.

Almost but not quite

It was at that precise moment, about two weeks ago, when you reached out for your phone to send him a message on impulse that it really hit you. You've probably done this a thousand times before, whenever you feel like ranting or sharing a joke or just to have someone to talk to to while the bus you're riding on crawls at a snail's pace.

You're pissed. In fact, what happened irked you so much your initial reaction was to bring out the bitch and close him out and pretend you hadn't known him since you two were drooling on the nursery school playground.

It wasn't so much about how abruptly he dropped it on you. It wasn't the cliche it's-not-you-it's-me crap that he pulled on you through text. It wasn't all about losing that chance of a possibility.

It's because two months ago he could've walked naked in front of you and it wouldn't have mattered. He could've kissed girls in front of you and you would've applauded him for being over his "emo" phase. You could've talked about sex and men and dirty stuff and it wouldn't feel awkward. You could laugh for hours over how you bullied him in grade school or how you cried bitterly to him over you ex years after he dumped you for another girl.

Maybe it's because he's been one of your best friends for so long, and you were absolutely fine with that. Maybe because he rocked the status quo. You're pissed because he was on your side, he was one of the good guys, and you felt that when he turned away, he was hurting you on purpose.

But what really got your goat is because you know ultimately it's your own fault. You rushed things when it could've gone on it's own pace. Here was a guy who loved the hunt more than the kill, and you went ahead and handed him the damn shotgun.

Maybe after making do without anyone by your side for a long time, the idea of having that someone you've known for years with you excited you so much you blew the whole thing out of proportion that it crashed and burned before it can even take off. It wasn't love. It was just a feeling, a sudden feeling and you overreacted, and you almost lost him for good because of that.

Monday...

After more than five years of being on the night shift, it was both a welcoming and startling start to be on day shift. Normalcy does have its price, but one that I believe - wholeheartedly, at least for now - is well worth it.

I started the day early, leaving the house at 6 am, confident I have plenty of time to get at the office well before the appointed time of 8:30. Alas, I realized it was Monday morning and 99% of commuters are the "normal" people rushing to work or someplace equally important.

The bus I usually take didn't even bother to stop when I hailed it, as it was already bursting at the seams with passengers. So I took the long way of taking a jeep to Crossing and then a bus, which had to stop every two meters from Crossing to Mayapa. The SLEX was - thank God - not as congested as I feared; it only slowed down near the Alabang exit. However the trip from Metropolis to South Station took almost 30 minutes!

The blinding sunshine was also a shock for this former nocturnal commuter, as was the melting heat heralding the early arrival of summer. It didn't help much that we were asked to dress up a bit so we weren't dressed in our comfy jeans and shirts when we forayed into our first day shift commute. I sat next to a pant-suited lady catching some last minutes snooze and a sabungero in silver Havaianas hugging his cock, er, rooster. Yez.

The hours did kind of whiz by. Thank God to years of reading anything from trashy novels to Jehova's Witness pamphlets, I plowed through the endless online material with aplomb. More! (Of course, I did sneak some gawk time at People.com and latimes.com for some Oscar Red Carpet coverage. Loved Sandy in "The Blind Side" but am not too crazy about her vintage frock. Loved Demi's ruffles!)

It was an experience to actually have lunch at the real lunch hour of 12 noon, and have a morning and afternoon break, instead of "first" and "second" breaks. When the day ended at 5:30, did a quick stop at Festival Mall with Leni and Danica to pick up some sunblock and a maillot for me and goggles and sand castle-making toys for Ging.

Slept a little on the way home, although I spent a great deal of it wrinkling my nose at how horrible I probably smell already and wanting to take a bath after a hot, sweaty, dusty day. Ew. Also gloated to Perry and Angel (former teammate and boss, respectively) through texts about my uber "normal" day and some holiday perks (paid leave on Holy Week YEY!!!).

Went home to a cranky daughter ("Mommy you're late!) and unloaded some first day blahs to my sister and her hubby. Took a refreshing bath that felt so gooooooood - only to be rushed by my mother.

Now going to sleep... after I put on some night cream. Goodnight, world. See you tomorrow.

The birds and the bees... and I don't mean Tweety or Jollibee

Ging and I were watching an episode of Glee (the one where Finn and Quinn tell her parents she's pregnant) when a new word caught my ever perceptible daughter's curiosity.

"Mommy, ano yung 'sex'?"

I sorta like grunted and continued to munch on a corn chip. Crickets chirping.

"Ano nga yun Mommy?" Ging repeated when it became apparent I wasn't giving her any answer.

"Er, well, it's something for grown-ups only..." I vaguely answered, and tried to divert her attention by reminding her not to drop crumbs on the bed. It worked, at least for that time.

But I couldn't help but think about that instance. What if Ging heard that word again and she wasn't with me or any other sensible adult (Ok I'm not saying I'm always a sensible adult, but I am mostly when she's around. It's one of those required motherly stuff)? What if she Googled the word and found out for herself what it really meant?

What's the best time or age to talk to your kid about the birds and the bees? With all these modern technology and Internet being accessible almost anywhere, it's so easy for kids to get information, even wrong or distorted ones. Hey, even I get wrong information. (Damn that Daily Mirror website, I should have stuck to People.com).

Let's face it, kids are acting older at a younger age. Ten years ago I was having sex at eighteen; imagine what they can do today! Add to my paranoia: my sister telling me that some girls are getting their period at the age of 10, 9 or even 8 years old! Eight! That's my kid! That can't be. She just stopped breastfeeding like, 7 years ago! Hello! She is not wearing a napkin any time soon!!!

I racked my brains and realized I myself never had a real sex talk with my parents. I guess they were from the school of thought that if we don't talk about it, it doesn't exist. Or they trusted us to be intelligent well enough to figure it out ourselves. Unfortunately, I must have inherited my mom's scientist-like gene that believes in experimentation, so voila! Knocked up at 18 with the first guy who came along.

I'm not saying for sure that if my mom or someone older had sat down with me and showed me cartoons of swimming sperms and multiplying egg cells, I would not have had the irrepressible desire to know more about sex at an early age, but I guess it might have helped to stall my raging hormones a bit more. Addison (from Private Practice) got it right when she told Naomi to talk to her 13-year-old daughter about sex, "so she can stay a kid a while longer."

My Sex Ed 101 is basically gleaned from reading Tiktik and Barako my male friends sneaked into school during our sophomore year, and giggling over porn tapes after COCC training. In senior year at HE class, Mrs. Dayan had us watch a video about the facts of life, which had most of us yelling "Ew!" when the baby's huge head popped out of the woman's vajayjay. Then she told us that sex is good, that when it's the right time, reaching "high heavens" would be so, so worth it. "But not now," she sternly emphasized, to which I could hear some of my classmates giggling nervously.

(Years later I would find out that while I have the reputation of being the most uhm, liberal, among my batch mates for getting pregnant first, some of my "quiet, innocent" classmates were getting it on years ahead of me. Wow, still waters do run deep, huh?)

Other than that, we mostly got you'll-be-struck-by-lightning-if-you-so-much-as-think-about-sex lectures from our elder professors. I get that their intentions were good, but I think at that age and time, an honest approach to responsible sex (talk about birth control or STDs for crying out loud) would have been more effective than trusting "Ang Propeta" to teach us about life's most valuable lessons.

So I guess my question now is, when would be the right time to take Ging to a quiet corner and tell her that having sex before she's 30 causes unwanted pounds, zits and body odor? Or I should just tell her that her idols, the Jonas brothers, have this thing for chastity jewelry?

Deja vu?

The good thing about being a young mother is getting to relive my childhood and still be able to relate to my kid. Watching "Hannah Montana" or going to Enchanted Kingdom is not as tedious or boring as it would be if I'm, say, in my forties or fifties. We get to swap clothes, read a magazine or do our nails together. She's not (yet) embarrassed to be seen in public with an old foggy like me.

The downside of this is that I am still young enough to vividly recall the experience of growing up as well, especially the kind that would make parents stay up all night. It starts with making new friends and discovering that there is a whole new exciting world out there that doesn't include the family.

I remember saying my first "P---mo!" at the tender age of seven because a classmate called me "maarte." I had not one but two crushes in second grade, and I told another classmate she's "malandi" because one of my crushes happened to like her instead of me. I told my mom I was staying at my friend's house to do a group project when all we did was watch VHS tapes and play Barbie dolls. And let's not get started on all the little white lies in high school, which made me an expert forger of my mom's signature for all those pesky excuse letters and permits the guidance counselor would require if I missed a class or needed my parents to know I flunked yet another Math quiz.

I wanted to grow up so fast, and I guess having my kid at nineteen is proof that I indeed tried to do it all so early. This is exactly what I told her when she asked me why I had her so young, and I could only try as much as I can to tell her that while I don't regret having her, being a young mother is so damn hard. I know it's still kind of early for her to grasp this. In her age, being a mom is like faking care of a doll: change her clothes, give her a pretend bottle and sing her to sleep. When she's had enough, ayawan na.

As a mother, I want to shield her from all those bad things she would have to endure, yet I don't want to be overprotective lest I smother her and she would turn away even more. I want her to experience life to the fullest, however tired that may sound. Cliche, yes, but true.

Last night, I accompanied her to school for a show the upper grades were presenting. We got there before it started, but all her classmates were already there, the girls all sitting together. Ging tried to squeeze in but they told her, "Puno na, wala ka ang seat." And I stood there helplessly watching her face fall and trying in vain to look for another seat. I motioned for her to sit with me but she shook her head no, and decided to settle in the row behind, with the loud, noisy boys she usually tries to avoid. I watched her lean forward to try to catch what the other girls were laughing about, trying to include herself, and I wanted to march over there and scold the other young girls for excluding my daughter! Ten minutes into the show, one of her classmates (who happened to be named Jasmine as well) took the seat beside her and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw their heads close, giggling and whispering. Mental note: get this Jasmine kid a nice birthday gift.

I want to tell her that there will be kids like those other girls, kid who will be cliquish, who will make fun of her because she looked different. There will always be people who will put her down hard if she's too smart, stomp on her harder if she's dim or slow, and just plain talk behind her back if she happened to dress or speak or think differently than the general public does. There will be "cool kids" who will dictate the rules, whether in the playground or in the social scene, and she will spend most of her time trying to impress them or to look like them, because if she tells them she doesn't care, that she is content with being "herself," she will be labeled a freak, a rebel, an outcast who's not and never will be "in" with the popular crowd.

I know because I was one of "them." In elementary, we made fun of the "bobo" students, the ones whose snot bubbled when they sneeze, who brought a baon to school when the "cool" thing was to buy at the canteen, who drank from old water bottles instead of Coleman jugs, the ones who got left behind to repeat a grade or don't make it to the honor list.

In high school, the geeks at the library got flak for not participating during Intrams; the "goody-two-shoes" got taunted because thy won't cut class to smoke or drink or play pool with us, or share their exam answers; and the "weirdos" stayed on their seats while we all paired up during slow songs or did wacky group numbers during the Acquaintance Party or Barn Dance. We made fun of the kids who had to put their names in a hat to get a prom date, kids who pooped in their seats or kids who are just deemed, well, different.

And then we all went to college and work and had families, and suddenly those little things that bothered us, that set us apart back then either didn't matter, or is what actually made us succeed later on.

I know kids are mean, and there's really nothing I could do to stop that. It's part of growing up, and I know Ging needs that to be able to build her own identity. The only advice I could give her - however hypocritical it may sound, given my own personality growing up - is to be herself and to never lose sight of who she really is. The memories of my kalokohans during my younger years are coming back to bite me in the ass, and I am becoming so paranoid it's not even funny!

Of course, I could just find those other girls who snubbed her and give them a piece of my mean girl mind, but then I realize they are just being kids, and I'm no longer a kid myself to indulge in such pettiness.

Hmn, maybe I'll just look for their parents then, right?

Manong conductors

Now we all know there are scores of maniacal drivers littering our busy highways and streets. For simple commuters like us, they are the captains of our vast transportation system, taking us to and from work, gimmicks, motels, beaches and anywhere else where public transport is present. We thank them for getting us out of traffic jams via detours and shortcuts. We blame them for another motorist sprawled dead on an intersection. We curse them for unloading us a kilometer away from our stop, and yell at them for holding up traffic by picking up passengers on a no-loading zone.

I ride a bus everyday. An ordinary, non-airconditioned clunker plying the Santa Cruz-Alabang route. And for every horn-bleeping, over-speeding bus driver, there is the ubiquitous bus conductor. If movie leads have sidekicks, then these conductors are the perfect foils for these drivers. After all, who would give the passengers tickets while the driver is busy trying to outrun the MMDA patrolman demanding for his license? Who would collect fares while the driver is trying to watch yet another Jean Claude van Damme on the overhead TV while simultaneously snaking along SLEX?

I find the driver-conductor relationship interesting. It's almost like a little of every kind thrown in: the witty banter of old friends, the familiarity of an old couple, the machismo of two buds. One cannot do without the other. It is also funny how despite being totally co-dependent on each other in the manner of how they operate the entire ride, it is clear that they know their roles well and stick to it. The driver handles the machine, the traffic and the other cars around them, while the conductor takes care of the happenings and the people inside the bus. They don't overstep on each other.

I remember once there was a drunk inside and was arguing with the conductor about his change. They got into a heated argument, with the former challenging to knock out the other man's teeth, while the latter barely able to conceal his irritation. When the drunk tried to punch him right then and there and the other passengers (including me) were screaming in fright ("Manong, ibaba nyo na siya!") , the driver was almost oblivious to what was going on, calmly snacking on a bag of peanuts and listening to Christsuper banter with Nicoliyala on the radio. It wasn't until the conductor knocked on the door to make him stop and threw the poor drunkard out of the bus that he got an inkling something was amiss. When the ride resumed, the driver threw his partner an innocent glance and asked, "Ano nangyari, pare?"

I've met masungit conductors, giving passengers who hand over large bills a hard time. "Wala ba kayong barya?" Duh, if we had, we would've given it already, spare me the attitude.

I've experienced being hit on by one. After mindless small talk about the bus schedule and the traffic situation in Anos, he suddenly asked for my cell phone number! And when I politely (yes, politely, with huge effort) said I don't give out my digits to just anyone, he pouted and asked, "Dahil ba hamak na kundoktor lang ako?" Ay, feeling Robin Padilla in a Sharon Cuneta movie. "Wala namang masama, single ako." Uhm, I think I'll pass, oh by the way, this is my stop, stooooop the freaking bus!

There are those aspiring DJ's who play the stereos way too loud, and kept on changing tracks mid-song. Sometimes they would sing along too.

I try to steer clear of the chatty ones, especially when all I want to do is sleep through the entire trip, but he has already taken the empty seat next to me. "Sa call center ka ba, ne? Ano oras pasok mo? May asawa ka na ba? Grabe e di lagi ka puyat. Magkano sweldo mo? Naku e di ang laki ng bonus mo nung Pasko, balato naman." Friends we are not, manong.

Then there are the bolero-bordering-on-sexual-harassment types, the one who would always greet the passengers, "Uy blooming si Ma'am. Bababa na si Sexy, konting preno, baka umalog ang... bag! Mukhang nanaba si Ms. Ganda ah, buntis ba kayo? Naku estudyante tiniket ko sainyo, kala ko bata pa kayo eh," all with a ngising-aso smile.

Bata, bata, may kraz ka na?!

Umuwi si Ging for lunch today.

"Mommy, nakakatawa si Angelo at Carl Fritz."

"Bakit?" tanong ko habang sumasandok ng sinigang sa serving bowl.

"Kasi mag-best friend sila pero crush nila pareho, si Alex," sabay hagikgik sa salitang "crush."

"Sus," say ko in my best nagmamalinis-dahil-ina-ako voice. "Ke bata-bata nyo pa may mga crush-crush na kayo?"

Wait for thunder and lightning to strike me. Wala naman. Whew. Na-realize ang pagka-ipokrita ko.

"Eh ikaw, meron na?" sabay akyat ng kilay sa 44th floor ng noo ko.

"Wala po!" Angelic smile si Ging. Hmnnn.

"Well, okay lang naman yang crush kung ina-admire nyo lang. Yung humahanga lang sa isang person." Sabayy kambyo ng ganun, oh!

Napakunot ilong si Ging. Tapos bigla nag-clear.

"Uhm, ako po may ina-admire..."

Muntik nang ilaglag ang bowl ng sinigang at platito ng toyo. "SINO?!?"

"Si ___ po." (WAG I-TAG SI GING! SECRET NAMIN TO!)

"Ahhh yung ___ honor nyo? Kasi matalino siya?"

"Opo, saka nice sya, lagi siyang nagsa-smile sakin. Pero minsan nagpe-play din siya with the other boys na noisy."

"Ahhh, okay. Basta admire-admire lang ha, wala muna yang boyfriend-bofriend." Self-righteous mode. Wait ulit baka dumating na ang kidlat.

"YUCK!" sabi ni Ging sabay acting na nasusuka. "Bleah!"

Gooood. Freeze this moment. Wag na dumating sa 12, 14 or 16 years old na siya. SCARY!!!

Day 1

I realized why I've been extra stressed lately. Okay, there's a lot of reasons. A looot. But this hit me especially hard one day: I haven't been writing. Before my other accounts were hacked, I maintained a couple of blogs that I frequently updated, jotting down every little thought and any random event that occurred to me. It's great therapy.

Then I got lazy. Posting one- or two-liner status updates or tagging photos seemed so much easier. So now, my brain's turned to mush and I have months of lamentations and gossips to catch up on.

I will write and write, even when I have nothing to say, even when I sound redundant. I'm sure something useful and creative would eventually come out of my rants.

So before I go to sleep, I have to get this off my chest. For people who like to play their music players or phones on LOUD-SPEAKER-MODE in public places (i.e., bus, jeepneys, restaurants and - eek- even cinemas), I will refer you to a great little invention you should have brought along with your gadgets: EARPHONES.

I commute everyday, and when I ride with people who do this, I can barely contain my urge to push them off the bus while speeding on SLEX. It's a public space and I think it's quite obnoxious to shove your music choices down my throat. I'm trying to sleep here, or at the every least, try to enjoy what little peace and quiet there is, given the vehicle's loud exhaust pipe and the creaks and heaves of every bump, the other passengers' incessant chatter and the sound of other cars on the road. Do I have to suffer Michael Learns To Rock on repeat mode, from Los Banos to Alabang?

I'm not saying my play lists are better than yours; some of my choice would make others cringe. Which is why I wear earphones! So while I understand the need for you to flaunt your high-end phone's playback capabilities or your newly G-masked iPod, I suggest you keep your tunes to yourself. Not only are you incredibly rude and annoying, you're giving that man next to you the option to play snatcher today.

So if you love you player, keep it, and if you would prefer to stay inside the bus for the duration of the ride, be goddamn discreet.