The Aftermath.

Gawd, I'm tired.

Playing hostess got me all wound up last weekend.  Then we drove to the cousin's place in San Rafael, a mere 30 minutes away from San Francisco, my most favorite city (so far), Sunday night.  A tour of her newly renovated kitchen and master bathroom was pure delight, sending me into oohs and aahs of (secret) envy.  Haha!  I love my kitchen though, make no mistake about it.

I woke up Monday morning and forgot it was my birthday.  The cousin reminded me with a quick peck on the cheek before she and her fiance headed out to work, leaving me with Oscar fashion reviews on tv and a mild debate with myself whether I should rejoin the husband in bed or enjoy the quiet morning.  The latter won by a fraction, ignited by fears of oversleeping — something I'm very good at.  I didn't want to miss San Francisco on my birthday, off-and-on rains be darned.

The first order of the day was going to the PAL office for the husband's ticket.  It was all Union Square sophistication until you step into the building's escalator, and then it all goes downhill from there.  Alighting from the escalator and walking the tiny hall towards their sales office, you are suddenly transported to the feel and look of government offices back home.  The place is dingy, the carpet dirty, the walls old and shabby.  If you sit there long enough, you'd forget you are in San Francisco, and in Union Square at that.  The upside:  at least the restroom was clean and Josie at the sales desk was nice and efficient.

We were told later on by the cousin that the Philippine Embassy itself, which is at the upper floor of the PAL office, isn't any better.  This saddens me.  Why the propensity to "make do" instead of maintain — or improve?  Surely, it can't be that hard to change the carpet, repaint the walls, and change the furniture once every few years.

Oh, but let's not go there.  Let's go to Bloomingdale's and Nordstrom instead, where the husband paraded me in front of impossibly expensive purses and, with the false bravado of one who knows I won't take the bait, said, "Pick one and I'll buy it for you."  Haha!  He is such a sweetie, I tell ya.  Even though I knew I wouldn't be taking home that Dior saddle bag, I felt so loved and pampered nonetheless.  Two shopping bags and two sets of aching feet later, we met up with the cousin for a lovely dinner before we finally drove home.

All that excitement over the weekend, and the driving, and the (window)shopping has got me bone-weary.  It will take days for me to recover from my birthday.                  

Almost Hostess.

After playing hostess for a night and half a day, I've come to the conclusion that you can never have too many pillows, and tucking away an extra air bed (or two) is surely worth the space it occupies.

My aunt and her family and the cousin and her fiance came bringing "gifts" of crispy pata, Max's fried chicken, chicharon, bangus, bananan turon and wine for their "supposed" birthday surprise for me.  I say supposed because somehow the plan leaked out and so the husband and I found ourselves buying barbecue, a couple more bangus and a couple more crispy patas (we only knew they were coming but didn't know what they were bringing), tubs of Magnolia ice cream, coffee and tea (they enjoy their coffee and tea after big dinners, as gleaned from previous parties). 

The three of us (the aunt, the cuz, and me) being the only close relatives here in Cali, it is always a delight when we get together.  We never run out of stories to tell.  So as the night wore on, it became more and more clear that they were going to spend the night here.  Alas, being new at this hostess business, I was totally unprepared.  My aunt's two teenage sons ended up sleeping in the TV room recliners.  My aunt and her husband slept on the only air mattress we own.  And the cousin and her fiance had to make do with comforters on the floor. 

(Two extra bedrooms and this is all we have to show for it.  Outfitting rooms with beds and  the whole shebang of sheets and duvets and comforters is not as easy as it sounds.)

There was no other way to save face, so I just smiled weakly and said, "Pasensya na."  They are good people, my relatives;  they waved off my apologies.  Still, I lost sleep thinking about how uncomfortable they must have been.  

In the morning, I cooked them a big breakfast of bacon, eggs and leftover food from the night before.  There were more stories and laughter around the kitchen island.  It is really true what they say, here in the US, people converge in the kitchen.  The kitchen is the heart of the home.  Living rooms  merely become show places;  people rarely use them for conversations.

They all left at noon, leaving behind a trail of leftover food that the husband and I will not be able to consume for a week.  After sending them off to their cars, we both looked at each other and said, "We have to buy some real beds."

I'm sure they all went home with aching backs…  but I hope the time spent together more than made up for it.         

Thank You.

I rarely get sick, save for the occasional headache, so it was a big deal for me that I had to stay in bed 80% of the time yesterday. 

Also, I am not used to people fussing over me when I do get sick.  But there they were, our couple friend, staying over for the night because they were extremely worried about me.  They were just planning to watch a couple of DVD's (our home has become their movie theater), have dinner, and drive home.  But seeing as the husband had to go to work, that I was too weak and dizzy to even finish my favorite TV show Grey's Anatomy, and that I was too nauseous I couldn't even eat dinner, they opted to stay — just in case I needed to be brought to the emergency room in the middle of the night.

Such a sweet gesture, really.  The wife-friend, B, even offered to give me a massage, which I kindly refused.  I have become so self-reliant I've forgotten how nice it is to just relax and have people take care of me.  I don't know where this comes from, as back home, I've always had people around me when I got sick.  Maybe as we grow older, we think ourselves more and more capable of taking care of ourselves, of being invincible even.  And God knows I've grown up a lot since we got here and made a life for ourselves.  

For all my insistence that I would be fine (Go on you two, go home…  I'm okay, really), it was   comforting to know that there were two people in the next room that I could count on to help me get through the night.

Thank you, B and A, my night shift nurses.  And hello, dear husband, my morning shift nurse.  (Yes, all three of them are, incidentally, nurses.)   

Just A Thought.

The husband has been asking me what I want for my birthday.  And for the first time, I am stumped. 

I honestly don't know.

Maybe I've become a bit conscientious when it comes to money.  Lately, I've noticed that when I see something nice, I don't feel the urge anymore to buy it.  Before, I used to go by my gut feel:  I gotta have it.  Of course, this was when I was making my own money.  LOL.  Now, with a mortgage to pay for, we've both become very watchful of the purse strings.   After all, the house and the bills won't pay for themselves.  

Ah, bills.  Where do I begin?  I don't bemoan them; they are simply a part of life.  But wouldn't it be nice if there was one month in a year where we don't have to pay for them?  Just one month, is all I'm asking.  One month of absolute freedom from sending out checks or making online payments.  One month of unadulterated bliss.

Wishful thinking, I know.  Haha.     

I Get Weak in the Shins.

Is it me or are salespersons getting more aggressive these days?

At the Victoria's Secret store this afternoon, just as my friend and I came in, a sales associate came up to our faces to give us a rundown of what was on sale and what was new, and proceeded to give us each a shopping bag (the equivalent of shopping carts at grocery stores, to carry all those delicious VS goodies with).   We weren't planning to buy anything.  In fact, my friend just wanted to get an application form.  So we went around the store, shopping bag in hand, trying to find ways to surreptitiously return them.  Instead, que horror, we ended up picking girlishly cute panties from their Pink collection which were on sale at 5 for $25.  (To the VS management, whoever came up with the idea of thrusting shopping bags at unsuspecting customers as soon as they come in deserves a raise.)

At the cashier, we were again met with two ladies who went up to their eyeballs convincing us to sign up for a Victoria's Secret credit card.  No annual fee, discounts available only to card holders, a  rewards program in place, and free catalogs sent regularly to our homes — those were the bait (and might I say, chanted over and over again with the sweetest of smiles).  I was hesitant.  Do I really need another credit card?  But then, in my mind, I was already envisioning myself using the card to buy a pair of the cutest T-strap cheetah print suede espadrille sandals that I saw in their latest catalog.  Absolutely perfect for summer.

My friend had no hesitations whatsoever…  and in minutes, she got approved.  I, on the other hand, have to wait a few days because they have to verify my records as I have moved homes in the last 6 months.  I am hoping — with all my heart — that this is code for You are actually disapproved;  you have too many credit cards.  (On a side note, this may be The Secret actually working:  my friend believed she'd get the card — and she did.  I hesitated, so I didn't.)    

I really don't need one more credit card.  And hindsight being 20/20 vision, the one thing I really regret is having my credit run, and for such a capricious whim as wanting a pair of sandals.   

What can I say?  Shoes make me weak… in the knees, in the shins, in the ankles, in the feet, in the toes…  (Purses hold the same power, but that's a different story altogether.)

Sigh.    

Cold Coffee.

It is harder than I think, being positive 24/7.  Or at least during my waking moments.

This morning, on our newly installed ritual of going out on a breakfast date each time the husband is off work, we went for the buffet at the nearby casino.  (My excuse is, I can eat as much as I want for breakfast.  After all, isn't that the most important meal of the day?  *grin*)  We braved the bitter-cold winds as we brisk-walked through the parking lot, went inside,  got in line, paid up at the cashier, and were quickly whisked off to our tiny table (I forgot to visualize a bigger table). 

I also forgot to visualize an efficient server.  My coffee arrived while I was 3/4 through my first plate, and that's stretching it because I eat rather slowly.  The creamer?  It got to the table five minutes after I've polished my plate off.  By then, the coffee had gone cold.

Through it all, I smiled and remained calm.  I said to myself, Maybe she's new.  She hasn't gotten the hang of things yet.  True enough, moments later, somebody had to help her out with the confusion of which beverage goes to what table.  Poor girl.  And voila, moments later, our favorite server, Alicia, appeared with her big sunny smile asking us if we needed anything.  Turns out she was really our server; she was just on break when we came in.

Any other time, I would have been a bit cross.  I would have told Alicia that the one who covered for her didn't do such a great job (nicely, of course). But I smiled and laughed with the husband, telling myself these are minute matters in the grand scheme of things.  And it really does wonders, thinking only the best of people, putting ourselves in their shoes. 

After discussing with Alicia the merits of a glass of cold pineapple juice, we decided it was time to go. We were only sorry we didn't have enough spare change to add to her tip.

It is still 12 noon, but I'm guessing I will be smiling the whole day.             

Sounds (Nothing) Like a Plan.

I will lose weight.  *invoking the universe to conspire with me that it happens, and soon!*

Our primary care physician, aside from performing physical check-ups and dispensing prescriptions, also hawks books.  Well, his book in particular.  He looks at the husband then he looks at me and he starts talking about proper nutrition and exercise.  Not that we are anywhere near obese, but doctors surely must have an eye for people whose eating habits are poor and who barely lift a toe to exercise.  The flab around our waists didn't help either.

So after his speech, he says, "If you want to know more, you may buy my book."  

And because we are gullible (and desperate), we did.  

The book suggests weighing one's self everyday as opposed to the common belief that one should wait a few days or a week before the next weigh-in.  The latter is anchored on the perception that really, one day doesn't make a difference.  Wrong.  A day does make a difference.  And only through daily weighing can one maintain one's weight. 

The first goal is to maintain weight.  And after this has been achieved, that's when one starts devising a plan to lose weight and continue monitoring his/her weight every day, until the desired weight is achieved.  According to the many testimonials at the end of the book, this system works.   

So okay, I've been at it, everyday.  And much to my horror, not only am I 5 pounds over my weight at the start of the year, it seems my weight is increasing two pounds at a time.  Of course I'm bloated and PMS-ing, but I will have none of those excuses.  This calls for (semi-)drastic measures. 

I think back to a time the other year (2005), when, in less than 3 months, I managed to lose 12 pounds.  How did I do that?  The husband reminded me that all I subsisted on was yogurt (I bought boxes of them) and that despite the cramped space of our apartment, I jogged and did jumping jacks till I was blue in the face. 

Oh yeah, I remember now.  I was that desperate to get into my old Levi's jeans once again.  That pair of jeans was my measuring tape.  Time and again, I would try them on and couldn't even close the buttons.  And then one day, not really expecting anything, I put them on and they fit!  I didn't even realize I'd lost 12 pounds by then.   What a hoot that was.

These days, I don't think I can live on yogurt alone.  But the husband and I, taking advantage of the beautiful weather, have been doing our afternoon walks for almost a week now.  And I've bought cans of soup and crackers.  And there's a list of grocery items I need to make:  Slimfast Optima shakes, low-fat cheeses, tuna, salmon, tofu (need to find delectable recipes first), brown rice, frozen veggies, and the like.  

Happy days, woo-hoo!

Or not. *insert glum I-can't-give-up-adobo face here*

How to Apologize.

How I know I am PMS-ing is when I snap at the husband from out of the blue, for the flimsiest of reasons.  I would be totally fine the day before, or even moments before, and I suddenly turn into this monster who magnifies everything — words, gestures, a sigh, silence.  Feeling aggrieved, I would lash out, my words descending like an unexpected slap across the face.

It is not good, not good at all.  

My apology would come later in the day, and in spurts:  asking him if he's mad at me while he is preparing to vacuum, cooking him his favorite pina-uga chicken adobo, cleaning all the bathrooms, and doing the laundry.  Not very articulate, hence not quite well received.  So we spent the entire day in silence and said tepid goodbyes as he set off to work last night.  

So today, I made sure to say it:  "I'm sorry.  I apologize."  And just like that, we were beaming like little kids again, sharing a walk in this beautiful spring-like weather (in February!  How lucky can we get?) and talking about the sorry state of politics in the Philippines (at this, we stopped beaming and started tsk-tsk-ing and shaking our heads).

The Secret.

People all over the world are talking about The Secret.

Or so Oprah says.  

The Secret is a book and DVD by Rhonda Byrne… and the secret is simple.  It is even no secret at all;  it is something we've all known at one point or another in our lives:  the Law of Attraction.  What you give out to the world is what you get back.  It is about the power of thought and visualization.  It is about focusing on what you want, and not on what you don't want.  It is about believing that you can have the best life that you can ever want or imagine.  

I do not understand all of it yet.  I was thinking of buying the book and DVD, but being the impatient person that I am, I looked it up in YouTube and true enough, a good soul has already posted it there.  I am still about to view Part 3, and already I feel like something in me is shifting.  If not for anything else, if the skeptic in me finds it hard to believe that I can channel my thoughts into becoming a millionaire, having a vacation home by the ocean, driving a Murcielago, and owning a publishing house and actually have it happen, at least I will come away from watching this knowing that I have the power to control my feelings, my life on a  day-to-day basis.  That I can decide each and every day upon waking up to be happy, that I can say "It is a good day" and it will be.  That everyday, I can find something to be grateful about.  That already, I am living the life I want because I am happy. 

In the final analysis, what we all want really is to be happy.   I remember Meryl Streep's character in One True Thing where she told her daughter, "It is so much easier to choose to be happy."  

So I have made my decision.  Everyday, I will choose to be happy and grateful, no matter what my circumstance is.  (But having the millions, the house with the ocean view, the car, and the business of churning out books is not bad either, hehe.) 

———————————————————————————————————————————————————-

The videos were taken down by YouTube due to violation of use.  I guess I will have to buy my own copy then. 

Valentine’s Day Recap.

Breakfast at the cafe corner of our favorite grocery store, Raley's:  panini sandwiches, cafe mocha (mine) and cafe latte (his).  Poring over People Magazine (me) and the San Francisco Chronicle (him).

Two hours later, picked up items for Valentine's dinner.

Rib-eye steak, potato salad, champagne and chocolate truffles with our couple friend (who happened to swing by that afternoon to watch some DVDs and never left, LOL) at 8pm.  Conversation ranging from Willie Revillame's Wowowee and how it has booted out Eat Bulaga as the number one noontime variety show, to Gwen Stefani's concert in our area this summer, to terrorists and conspiracy theories.  

And yes, a dozen beautiful red roses delivered via DHL at 2pm that day.  This after 5 years of the one and only time that the husband ever gave me flowers.  I had made the mistake of telling him, years ago, that I wasn't the flowers-and-chocolates kind of girl.  Being a man, of course he believed it hook, line and sinker — even when years later I would drop hints here and there that I wouldn't mind receiving the occasional bouquet of tulips, daisies, or roses.

Everything fell on deaf ears…  until Valentine's Day.  

Unaccustomed as I was to receiving flowers, I had to drive to the nearby Target to buy a vase for my roses.  And there they sit on the kitchen island, smug and beautiful.  

Smile Sheepishly if You’re Embarrassed.

Amazing how we think something to be true and agonize over it for days until we finally get the courage to ask someone and are proven that:  1.) we were just paranoid and 2.) no, it really is not about us (and in this, allow ourselves to be appropriately embarrassed).

I will not elaborate.  Suffice it to say that I am relieved and I will march on and do what it is that I love best:  writing my thoughs, mundane and trivial though they may be.

Frida.

"I hope the exit is joyful and I hope never to return."

I am suddenly very tired.  

Katie’s April.

I never thought I'd say this…  I love Katie Holmes. 

For this one time and for one reason only:  Pieces of April, an indie film where she plays a wayward daughter who invites her estranged family to Thanksgiving dinner.

For the first time, I didn't see traces of Joey (Dawson's Creek, remember?) in her acting.  None of the tilt-my-head-to-the-side, shrug-my-shoulder, smile-my-tired-with-a-slight-grimace smile that has carried over to her portrayal of Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes in Batman Begins (she is not going to reprise her role due to scheduling conflicts).  In Pieces, her acting is authentic and honest.  She is just any other troubled girl who has managed to alienate herself from her family through rebellion and addiction, and who has now grown up and is trying to make amends, trying to make things right again especially with her mom who is dying of cancer.

There is never a dull moment in this film.  And even with the formidable truth of the mom's cancer, the movie does not drip with sentimentality.  Throughout the various challenges April (Holmes) had to go through to make Thanksgiving dinner happen, I found myself cheering her on.  And at the end of the film, I felt a lump in my throat, too happy and too relieved I couldn't even move from my seat long after the credits have finished rolling.

I love the Independent Film Channel.  Oh I do. 

Rain.

The rains have come, and with a vengeance too.  This after a bone-dry start to winter. 

Today is our fourth day of rain.

I don't love rainy days.  The rain makes me sad and lazy.  It makes me want to stay indoors.  The sound of rain does not bring me comfort.  Waking up in the middle of the night for my usual trip to the bathroom, I always get a jolt thinking there was a faucet somewhere I might have forgotten to close only to realize that it was just the sound of rain.  Rain that has kept me company through the night, unrelenting… unforgiving.  

Amazing how I forget that in my childhood, I used to dance in the rain.  I used to welcome it and revel in it.  How I made paper boats and watch them sail on the muddy waters.  How I laughed with my siblings, running through the streets, our faces to the heavens.  How I never cared about the dirt that has gotten caught in my rubber slippers.  How it was always sad to have to get back inside, take a shower and dry myself off, watching the rain now from the window.  

These days I drown out the sound of rain with the TV volume full blast on.  I try to ignore it by closing the blinds and pretending that it was sunny outside. 

For the life of me, I can't remember when I started hating the rain.

In the News.

You know how it is when you watch the news and the reality of horrible things happening doesn't really hit you until you realize that the one involved is actually someone you know?  

My cousin emailed me a video of a news report about a caregiver in an Anaheim vocational center who was caught slapping two mentally retarded men in two separate incidents.  He was subsequently arrested and is out on bail for $25,000.  Apparently, another caregiver recorded the slapping incidents on his cellphone and later on sold the cellphone to a co-worker, who then gave the information to the police. 

That person (who did the recording) is classified as a person of interest; the police want him for questioning.  He is now nowhere to be found.

He sounded so much like the brother of my classmate in elementary school.  And so I did a little sleuthing and found him on my classmate's Friendster list.  I compared the picture on his Friendster profile (the last time I saw him he was just a wee of a boy) to the one on the news report, and it looks like a match.  And the age certainly matched:  24.

He is not a suspect, just a person of interest.  But flight doesn't do well in these cases.  It makes one look guilty.  On the other hand, he may have reason to fear involvement in the case.  While the slapping was being recorded, taunting and laughing could be heard in the background.  If you were watching a crime being committed, that is complicity enough.  If you even so much as encouraged it, you are as guilty as if it was your hand committing the crime.  

I hope for hope's sake that I am wrong, that it's not him.  But I have a nagging feeling that I might be right.    

Immobilized.

Suddenly, I have this very strong urge to finish painting the house.  The last couple of days, I surveyed the whole place and felt its remarkable incompleteness, like a humongous comma staring at me.  

So tomorrow I'm off to Lowe's and Home Depot for some paint chips. 

This will tide me over until my friend K comes over to Cali in March — for that long overdue coffee date and that soul-to-soul conversation that might probably save me hundreds in therapy.  LOL.  

Someone asked me if I ever had to go through a quarter-life crisis.  And I remember my twenties to be a blur of hook-ups and break-ups and some clubbing (although we never called it that back then), social drinking, and smoking in between, I never really had time for a crisis.  

So this, now, is my crisis.  That I should feel so displaced for this long.  That I know I stand in a place where I can take a step in any direction — in all directions — and yet remain immobilized.