always an eyeful

2008-11-02T00:39:00.001-07:00

photo exhibit

2008-07-12T00:50:00.001-07:00

How can anyone not find it adorable to find a two-year-old girl taking photos of herself?

"Mommie look! picture, picture!" She also took this. The concept was to take both our photos, unfortunately, it was out of focus. I guess the newbie photographer still needs training. Ha Ha!

And although I find it so endearing to see The Princess growing up and getting more kikay and clever by the minute, sometimes I still wish there's a pause button I could press to make time stand still even for a moment, just to bask in her sweet innocence.

winter fashion

2008-07-11T23:23:00.000-07:00

With barely three weeks before flying to Hong Kong, The Princess is already gearing up for the winter season...

earth to you

2008-07-04T12:10:00.000-07:00

I missed talking to him.

I missed our small talks.

I missed our little gossips.

I missed asking about his day—if he’s eating on time, or if he caught another cold because of the blasted weather.

I missed the man who can feel I’m hurt without me saying it out loud--the one who knows when I need a hug.

I missed the man who makes me laugh everyday.

I missed his jokes-- his quick quips about trivial stuff.

But, most of all, I missed his “I love you’s”.

I missed you.

midnight tea

2008-06-03T18:34:00.000-07:00

Of all the things we share -- besides everything that has anything to do with Kimiko, of course -- I will miss our midnight tea the most.

It's a special hour, which usually starts with one cajoling the other into heavy labor, mainly consisting of heating some water and dropping tea bags into cups. Slicing and squeezing lemons, despite being optional, only makes the task more dreadful.

Some nights we start on the wrong foot, and it usually takes a few minutes of silence, sitting on stools that we imagine to be lounge chairs, to cool off. But once the dagger looks are exchanged, we know the argument's over.

In that hour we talk about anything, including other people's past, present and future. Some call it gossip, but what do they know?

Our favorite, of course, is our present and future, with the past thrown in for laughs. Our darling Kimi's latest misadventures or -- to use her own term -- "ideas'' never cease to amuse us.

On the balcony, it sometimes bothers us when it rains or when it's freezing or both, or when it's muggy and every insect known to man -- especially those which scoff at Off -- is out. Most of the time, though, we're at peace with our own little universe.

At the end of the week we'll be flying home, and a precious nine days after that I'll be leaving both of you behind. For the next six weeks or so I'll retreat in my shell, to be lured out only when my girls have returned.

But I can't think about that now. It might spoil your birthday.

You have touched my soul and heart, my honey, and blessed my life, and for that I will love you and will be in love with you forever.

Needless to say you make me very, very happy. But I don't think I can find greater joy than to see the most beautiful, kindest, smartest and most loving woman on Earth making tea in our kitchen tonight.

an escape to fantasy land

2008-03-26T20:00:00.000-07:00

The alarm went off at 8 a.m. and, surprisingly, I was the only one who jolted from its shriek. After two snoozes, I finally got up and peeked through the window. It was cloudy and a bit foggy outside—not a good sign—but I decided to get up anyway and started fixing breakfast for the three of us.

Later, Daddy Bear peeped inside the kitchen and asked if we should wake The Princess. I nodded and that’s when the chaos began.

Actually, The Princess didn’t know the agenda for that day, and the look on her face when we told her we’re going to fulfill the Disney promise was priceless.

It was like someone pushed the fast-forward button as everything seemed to zoom, and next thing we knew we were taking turns taking photos with Mickey, Minnie and Mr. Whale (so sorry, I didn’t know the mammal’s Disney monicker, hee hee).

The last time we went to Disneyland, our camera’s battery failed to deliver. Although we had loads of fun and just as much memories from the trip, there was a hint of disappointment on my part for not capturing those precious moments. It was a thing of the past, though, as I made sure that this time the battery was fully charged, and, of course, the spare, too.

We grabbed every photo op that came our way, much to The Princess’ frustration.

She even feigned blowing if we didn't get into serious business anytime soon.

Of course, we caved.

That’s when we realized she wasn’t having a blast in her favorite place on earth. It was supposed to be her day. Guilt-stricken, we started tackling the snaking queues in the rides she dragged us to.

We finally managed to get her to sit down for a breather, with a box of popcorn and a bottle of juice as bribes. Whew! That was exhausting, but nevertheless satisfying. She was relentless, it was like she was running on a week's load of sugar fix.

Adorable wasn’t enough to describe The Princess. Her enthusiasm was contagious...

the sound of her laughter was addictive...

And most of all, her mesmerizing gaze left us powerless to say no to her every whim.

oscar bug

2008-03-02T01:43:00.000-08:00

No Country For Old Men--the Oscar’s best picture-- was, in Angelo’s words, “a load of crap.”

The first half of the movie—also Golden Globe’s best screenplay-- seemed promising but fell flat towards the end. Well, I guess the people in the Academy have plenty of good reasons to give it its highest award, and I’d like to hear ‘em out. I was like, “Hey Tommy Lee, can you speed up on the melancholic yada-yada and get on with the cold-blooded shootings puh-lease!” It was a struggle keeping my eyes open, but I managed it only because I had faith that it will have riveting ending or something to that effect. And then the much-awaited finale came, it was unexpected alright, for 10 solid seconds, I was gaping at the TV, fingers crossed, still hopeful for the anticipated finale. It didn’t come. Damn!

On the other hand, kudos to Javier Bardiem. Anton Chigurh made oxygen tanks look very disturbing.

Maybe, I found it boring because I didn’t realize the film’s attempt to be profound. Boo hoo.

the master got lost

2008-02-21T00:29:00.000-08:00

Discovery health website studies reveal that some substance that can be found in commonly-used local and general anesthesia can cause memory loss. Some cases of memory loss can be severe and lead to Alzheimer’s, while some can be like me.

I keep forgetting stuff-- where I should put it, where I left it, where I last saw it—and although sometimes it can be cute and funny, more often than not, it’s pretty annoying.
I can’t help it, hon. I can go on and on and on about how it’s not my fault, but there’s no point in doing that.

You have this amazing skill that made me change my mind about arguing with you.

I hate confrontations. Engage me in a heated debate, count one to 10, and you’ll see me sobbing even before you get to seven. But when I met you, I realized, getting into an argument is not the worst thing after all. I was introduced to a more stressful form of battle: Cold war.

You mastered the art of cold war. You’re like Kasparov in a chess match, swiftly making the right move then you'll sit back and watch until I make the wrong one. Am I even making sense? Well, guess what I’m trying to say is, you win, I’m sorry.

You know what I hate about confrontations? Its when I couldn’t give the final blow.
But it doesn’t matter now, because I will lose more if I say more. I'm sorry, you’re my prize. In Kimi’s words “We’re home” what more could I possibly need? Well, maybe, you, talking to me.

for the drifter

2008-02-17T23:53:00.000-08:00

Kubler-Ross identified the five stages of grief as: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. I actually don’t know what stage you’re in now, but, I do hope you passed the bargaining stage and you’re on your way to acceptance. Nah, that would be wishful thinking.

I will make a wild guess and say you’re still in denial. Denial to be upset, because you think that one day you’ll wake up and everything will be back to where it was before. I can’t say you’re in the second stage, because, I simply think you’re not there, yet. You told me before I left, you can’t feel any remorse towards that person, and for that alone, I felt sorry for you.

You think of that person with sympathy, thinking that that person is crying for S.O.S. and nobody was listening. When in fact, it’s you that wasn’t listening, did you ever think that that person will change, and is ever capable of changing? You’re a believer. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just that, you put your faith in the wrong person. You’re stuck in a vicious cycle where no one will win and you’ll just end up hurting yourself, that person, and the people around you. Loving that person was not a mistake. Trying to make it work wasn’t, either. It’s trying too hard that put you in deep shit.

You can still get out of it. Anyone can. You just have to start crawling your way up NOW!

There are no shortcuts. Some of us may have the fortune of getting to where we want to be in a jiffy, but it’s simply because they started early. It’s still a long road. The world doesn’t stop just so you can catch up, after you stumbled. But we’re here. We’ll provide a GPS for you.

The technology of the GPS doesn’t mean we don’t have to travel anymore; it just guides us so we won’t get lost (or at least minimize our chances of going in the wrong direction). It may provide some shortcuts, but it doesn’t mean you’ll get there without any traffic or snafu, remember that you still have to get your feet wet to get there. But getting there is not the reward, it’s the travel that will make it all worthwhile.

from him on valentine's eve

2008-02-13T23:17:00.000-08:00

Warning: Insulin alert, this one's too sweet.

Note: The warning sign is flagged once again. It will remain up until a new topic-- one that doesn't include him-- kicks me in the head.

I got this in my e-mail yesterday afternoon. He's always a step ahead when it comes to remembering occasions that he knows will make me feel special. Stick a fork in me, I'm done.

Indulge me.

From a bird's-eye view it looks like a ranch or farm -- yung parang may white wooden fence surrounding it, of which we're familiar through American photographs or films. Only this one's somewhere near the foot of a mountain in Europe.

The grass is uneven, some growing up to our hips, some up to our knees, but mostly they're just tickling our ankles. The place is dotted with big, old and branchy trees. The leaves and flowers have done their job and there's a splash of colors -- gold, yellow, pink, red, blue.

There are a couple of horses over there, a few sheep (sheep! sosyal!) over here. St Bernards guarding -- okay, napping on -- our porch.

Inside our rented cabin, family and kin are playing with a not-so-little-anymore Kimiko, sparing us of worries for the night. We hear strains of their laughter from the outside, where, miraculously, there are no bugs -- my sworn enemies.

It is some time in the fall, our favorite, yung palamig pa lang. The sky's turning violet, and then darker and darker. But not to despair. We know later stars will provide us all the light we need.

You're dressed in white. Maybe hanggang ankles ang dress mo, with hints of green or pink. Sleeveless. Hindi ka giniginaw because I have my arms around you.

We're sitting on an old wooden bench with a back rest. We have a stump for a foot stool. There's tea, but of course.

I don't want this to sound like poetry. We won't bother with that. But we do make small talk: what we saw and experienced on our trip with Kimi into town; how we're going to pack all the trinkets we bought; where we would place them in our home.

We talk about our dreams, those unfulfilled and those that have come true. We talk about how our families have been doing more than okay. We talk about how Kimi's growing up too fast. We talk about how we've weathered our own storms.

We talk about how, not too long ago, on one Valentine's eve, we were just thinking when this story's going to come true.

I love you my honey.

(now you know why I love this guy so much)

the return of the boogeyman

2008-02-12T23:35:00.000-08:00

(warning: barf bag alert for the mushy intolerants)

I woke up the other morning with a jolt followed by uncontrollable sobs. It was the most vivid dream—nightmare, perhaps—I had in a long time, now I wish I would be able to forget it. I didn’t want to describe it, for I don’t even want to honor that nightmare by telling it again. One thing mattered, it wasn’t true and I hope to high heavens it will never ever be.

I’ve had many misfortunes in my life and I dreamt of it over and over again, but I never woke up with a tear in my eye. I have never been so afraid of losing someone. You’re the one. The one who can make me cry and laugh at the same time. The one who looks at me without anything else but love in your eyes. The one who can make me feel there’s peace when all else fails. The one who can make me feel contented by simply touching the hem of your shirt--knowing you're right here, inches away. The one I will have many big and petty fights with. The one I’ll come home to at the end of the day.

I know there will be more nightmares to come, but I won’t mind, because I know, when I wake up, there will be even more dreams that will definitely come true for us. One already did, I’m waking up each day with you.

among the few

2007-12-13T15:30:00.000-08:00

Jack Cappon* once said “A really gifted writer will become obvious to anybody. It's a very mysterious thing, why one writer is very gifted and the other one is just able; it's very hard to say.”

And if anyone were likely to be blasé about his prominence and its spoils in the sports writing community, it would be Angelo. He had by all accounts a reputable career in sports writing. But he’s not one to brag. He never does.

If you think that sports writing or writing per se is as simple as having a pen and a pad, well, think again. It’s not as easy as dotting I’s and crossing T’s. It takes talent, inspiration and an imagination as wild as those of a three-year-old kid on a sugar fix. So how come he makes it look so damn easy?

He doesn’t try to be profound; he just makes a lot of sense.
He doesn’t use fancy words to make the story more interesting; there are things better left to the reader’s imagination.
He veers away from clichés. You owe it to your reader to read something new.
He is fond of the smallest of details and the most trivial information. Because at the end of the day, those are the details that will be shared over a cup of tea.

I can go on and on, but I will just be bragging. Besides you will miss the whole point. Not all writers are gifted, some are just able. But among the few who got lucky, I get to take home one.

*Jack Cappon, who died recently, was a longtime editor of The Associated Press and president of the Poets' Corner-- a group of writers that include Pulitzer Prize winners Saul Pett and Hal Boyle, and Jules Loh, Sid Moody, Hugh Mulligan and others.

a touching story

2007-12-03T08:31:00.000-08:00

`Widowed'? No, That Box Can't Tell the Tale of a Heart

For our 10th wedding anniversary, he gave me a delicate gold bracelet that encased 35 perfect, tiny diamonds.

For our 20th anniversary later this week, I will bring 19 red roses and one white one to his grave. Nineteen for the years we had together; one for the promise of an eternity yet to come.

Please don't call me a widow. The word conjures images of an Italian grandmother in black stockings, a lace mantilla and a heavy shawl. I am a 43-year-old working suburban mother of two. I don't look like anyone's vision of a widow. More important, I don't feel like one.

Seven months have passed since he died and I feel as married as I ever have, maybe more so more committed to all the plans we had made together, whether for the toolshed in the back yard or for the 11-year-old boys now, inexplicably, absent their father.

I was first confronted with this idea that I was a widow, not in the hospital room where his body lay lifeless, his spirit already gone to a purer place; not following his casket down the aisle of the church; not the first night I tried to sleep alone in our bed. No, it was in an oral surgeon's office filling out new-patient forms.

There it was: ``Marital Status,'' followed by four boxes and the letters M, S, D, W. I barely managed to ask the receptionist for the key to the ladies' room before the mind-numbing shock gave way to body-wracking sobs.

Till death do us part. By all legal, moral and spiritual definitions, my marriage is over.

We had loved each other through lots of good times, some not-so-good times, in sickness, oh yes in sickness, and in health.

Yet, there is a part of me that still feels his presence in the home that he redecorated in the last days of his life, in the car he gave me for my 40th birthday, in the heart he stole the day I first met him 23 years ago.

The phenomenon of phantom pain is well-documented in people who lose limbs. They feel sensation --even pain -- from arms or legs no longer there. Their suffering is real, sometimes excruciating.

Mental health professionals describe the loss of a spouse as one of the most stressful events in a person's life. I know about phantom pain. Mine is not in my arm or leg but in my soul -- where a cannon blast has left a jagged hole that no prosthetic device can ever hope to repair.

I don't see my marriage so much as being over as being interrupted --rudely and unexpectedly interrupted. Some will say this is an unhealthy attitude, that I'm trying to keep my husband alive, that I'm stuck in the past, that I'm not ``moving on'' with my life. There are well-meaning people who advise me to date, remove my wedding ring, color my hair.

Understand me: I am not pining for what I lost. In the worst days of those 19 years, we had more happiness than some people have in their entire lives. I did nothing in my life to deserve the goodness and sweetness we knew, so I refuse to curse the fates and say that I don't deserve the sadness that is now part of life. I move on when I walk the dog each morning, talk the boys through the latest middle-school crisis, take on a new challenge at work.

But I believe that while we love many people in our lives, each of us, if we're lucky, gets but one ``love of my life.'' I have mine. He no longer shares my bed, but he will always share my heart. It is enough. It has to be.

When I fill out forms these days, I leave ``Marital Status'' blank. There are some questions that simply can't be answered by checking a box.

--Washington Post