September Sensibilities

Well, I haven't been here in a while. It occurs to me that I write most when I'm sad, and I've been keeping from posting because I haven't been sad in a while. Or at the very least, I haven't had time to be. Anyway, allow me to break that cycle now, what with time and a different kind of happiness now in my hands.

It surprises me how I managed to survive the past two weeks. Yes, I understand how petty the issue of academic hell weeks seem compared to, the lack of world peace, for instance— but the cosseting of my university life (and upper middle-class++ life in Manila, in general) has lead me to believe that it is entirely possible to die from too much school work. There's something to be said about getting two hours of sleep a day for the past 14 days, and waking up each day thinking, "Crap. What the hell I'm doing to my body?" I can only hope it doesn't take it out to me when I'm in my wrinkly forties.

When I looked at the mirror this morning, for example, fireworks went off. BOOM BOOM BOOM went the three full throttle zits that have conveniently decided it would be pleasant to plant themselves on my face for a while. My skin is all flaky, my under-eyes look like I smudged unfortunate kohl eyeliner all over them. My hair has definitely seen better days. I haven't been to the gym in two weeks, and already I can feel my trainer and nutritionist breathing judgement down my neck.

I blame it on thesis. I blame it on work (which I don't really, because I love what I do, PS one more week until Women's Health October issue!). Mostly I blame it on my professors who, I'm certain, deliberately conspired against me and my health by setting similar deadlines within two weeks. I also kind of, sort of blame it on the stubborn side of me that fervently believes that weekends are for Sex and the City marathons, and not… much else.

But like every university hell week survivor, I'm proud of what I've achieved these past two weeks. Heck, I'm proud of everything I've gone through these past two months. August and September were roller coaster rides (the Six Flags kind, and not Space Shuttle, ew)– I've done my share of mistakes and complaints, all of which I surprisingly don't regret making.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, here's both to working hard and playing hard, not always doing what's right, but turning out stronger and smarter in the end. Here's to me too, and the fabulous realization that it will take more than two weeks of academic hell, and two months of frenzy to take me down.

As such here are a few things I'm looking forward to in the coming days, weeks and months: 1) my thesis group's defense on Thursday, 2) the Westlife concert... also (coincidentally) on Thursday, 3) the October issue of Women's Health, 4) the freedom that is sembreak, 4) going abroad with my family for my birthday, 5) second semester (really, and truly), 6) the November issue of Women's Health (plus plus, an extra surprise), 7) my first Christmas in two years as an Independent Woman, 6) 2012, 7) graduating, 8) three lazy months in New York City and finally, 9) what I'm assuming will be the beginning of an amazing career in publishing. 

(I highly recommend what I just did there, bulleting all the stuff you're looking forward to. Getting it all out there makes me realize I have a ton to be thankful for, contrary to the "More! More! More!" cravings of my heart. I hope it has a similar effect on you.)

Mama

My mother doesn't know how to cook.

When I tell my friends this, they almost always ask-- "So, who does the cooking in your house?" "My yaya," I admit. They nod, somewhat sympathetic.

I wonder what kind of image this conversation builds up about my mother. Maybe she's one of those mother types, my friends might think, the kind that holes up in the office for more than 20 hours a day, and goes home only to take a shower. Or on second thought, maybe she's one of those trophy wives who need to spend every minute buffing, waxing and polishing every inch of their body-- in the club, in the spa, in the salon-- all day, every single day. Or maybe she just doesn't care if her children have nothing to eat.

Often I think the question of cooking doesn't do my mother any justice. Try asking, "Who's your best friend?" Or "Who do you first talk to when you receive news, good or bad?" Or "Who knows exactly what do to make you feel better?" Or even, "Who do you look up to?" The answers are my mother, my mother, my mother. And my mother.

My mother doesn't know how to cook, and even if we live in a culture that measures the competence of a wife and a mother on her capability to mince and fry, I don't care-- because she is a mother to me where and when it matters.

She was there to watch my ballet recitals and theater plays growing up, not just to give me rides to and from the theater, but to give moral support (a bouquet for every bow I took, no fail) and to teach me practical things (like sometimes it's okay to use lipstick for eye shadow and blush, a make-up tip I still use to this day).

She kept a close eye on me during my era of struggling adolescence, a solid couple of years where I preferred to talk about her behind her back, always gabbing to my friends over the phone or in school. I don't know how many times I skipped family dinners during this time, often under the guise of homework, when I just really didn't want to talk to anyone related to me by blood. She stuck close, careful not to suffocate, but also wary about setting me completely free. As far as good parenting goes, I'd like to think she struck a good balance between the two extremes.

She was literally there when I spent half a year abroad in Paris-- there to bring me to Europe, there to pick me up before going back home to the Philippines. She was there, even through the thick of time zone differences and technological unfamiliarity, to say good night every single night, and hello every time I woke up.

She was there, most recently, through my first break-up-- an episode that I thought would take me years
to get over-- only to have the recovery time cut to a couple of months, thanks to rude awakenings ("Let go of the past, anak") and a strong financial support over my frequent salon trips.

I wonder how many girls my age still cuddle up to their mother before they sleep or say "I love you, Ma!" like it's the most natural thing to do. I wonder if they text their moms about pimple problems and bad hair days, and expect a good laugh from the reply back. I wonder if they're able to both scream bloodily at their moms in the morning, and still manage kiss her goodnight before bed. Granted, it's a weird relationship. Granted, I'm also blessed.

My mother is the strongest, most respectable and most sensible woman--no wait, person-- I know. And to be fair to all the other mothers in the world, I guess she simply insists on not knowing how to cook.

"Syempre if I know how to cook, sobrang perfect ko na, diba?"

And that’s straight from my mother’s mouth. Happy 47th, Mamita!

Cancer and a Cup of Tea

Today, over cups of coffee (and later on, tall glasses of milk tea), I talked to cancer survivors. 

It's an unhappy kind of serendipity when work assignments hint on our personal problems. Two weeks ago, when I was given this story to cover, I didn't think anything of it. But when a week ago, I found out that my favorite tito's cancer came back, I couldn't help but notice how many times I used the word "malignant" in daily conversations. It was unsettling.

I'm confident my tito will get through this, just like he did in 2004, but it does occur to me how unfair the situation is. Cancer once is a lesson learned, but what does one get from cancer striking a second time? He's paid his dues, and his entire family-- a wife and two kids-- have taken all the necessary pre-cautions after the first episode. What's the point of a second round? I think not knowing the answer to this question is what devastates my lola and my mom (my uncle's sister), the most.

Cancer is nobody's cup of tea, but like all things in life, you have to deal with what you were served. Often, that's what makes a victim a survivor-- the ability to deal, and eventually, the strength to overcome. The survivors I talked to earlier today, though they didn't say so explicitly, appeared to have acknowledge the role cancer played in changing their lives. One met her husband after her diagnosis, while the other founded a local foundation geared towards helping other patients cope with the disease.

Maybe that's what makes me secure in my tito's chances of beating the Big C a second time. Because I know he can take this specific cup of tea without recoil, or even so much as a single flinch. Because if he's gone through it a first time, how hard would a second encounter be? As for the rest of the family, we try to find peace in the thought that there's a point to all this, that it will strengthen our relationship, and make us stronger people in the end. 

I hope you can find time to send a happy thought or a prayer towards my tito, his family, my family and our grandparents after you've read this entry.

Shopping, Day 3

Okay, so I kind of understand what Jinkee Pacquiao was getting at when she decided to set up this store.

Maybe, she thought, Southern Philippines needed a more luxurious kind of shopping experience, like the kind she presumably went through while popping in all of Las Vegas' designer flagship stores. That's probably why the interiors of Jinkee's Fashion World include a hot pink suede couch (stop smirking), blatantly white walls with fancy lighting and similarly hot pink throw rugs on the floor (I said stop).

They were probably meant to say: hey there visitor who'll leave empty-handed anyway... We're totally classy here! Except well, for all the extremely expensive brands her store carried, we were all hearing something else.

Maybe it's the way Love FM was blasting in the speakers the moment I entered, or how upon seeing me, a lady with Kewpie Doll-like make-up started half-yelling "Ma'am, leepstick! Leepstick Ma'am, leeeeepstick!"

Or maybe it was just the hideous pink couch.

But hey, Jinkee was after an experience, and an experience is definitely what you get in Jinkee's Fashion World. You're not there to buy (an P11,000 Bebe dress? No thanks), but you are there to see her insane collection of designer wear and accessories. Jinkee's Fashion World after all, isn't a store-- it's a museum of all the fabulous things she can throw to your face after you poke fun at her leeepsticks.

Prada, Balenciaga, Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Burberry, Gucci-- it's way more than what 20 brand-conscious girls, put together, can ever own in their lifetime.

It was a momentarily amusing experience, but in an afterthought, also pretty impressive. The clash between baduy and glamour can be summed up in my final conversation with the Kewpie Doll saleslady. She was trying to sell me a long, rainbow-colored pendant made out of Swarovski crystals, which upon a few twists, also doubles as a bolpen.