TGIF, AMEN!

This has been a long week - as if everyone decided to have their meetings/luncheons/seminars/functions all in the same week! It was just crazy!!! It was one of those weeks when I really wished I had mommy's job (stay-at-home-mom).
To end my crazy week, my company sent me to this creativity seminar presented by a syndicated humor columnist and writing coach. What perfect timing!!!!
I've been feeling so burnt out and unmotivated lately, which makes me wonder if journalism really is for me. I guess my insecurities as a journalist kicked in full blast after I met reporters from our other office. They could all be "Woodwards" and "Bernsteins" - hungry for the most controversial, breaking news. I, on the other hand, would rather be an "Oprah." I wouldn't mind writing 10 looong human interest stories a week, if it meant skipping the ho-hum City Council beat. But having a community for a beat means giving as much importance to a bump on the road as the community member who just won the Nobel prize. Yadayadayada...
Bottom line is, covering a number of diverse community issues all at once can sometimes get so overwhelming. Just as you're starting to understand special education issues, a resident calls, complaining about zoning issues. You call a city official and ask him/her to explain how the zoning process works. You're OK until another resident calls about a spate of fires that broke in her neighborhood - you're on the phone again, this time with the fire marshals. You finish your story but not before your contact at City Council invites you to cover a city bond meeting - you dig up old files on bonds and in less than a day, try to understand what city planners spent months drafting. A lot of times I can't help but feel "stupid." I can go on and on and on about my little insecurities, which I'm worried will one day drive me out of journalism. Yadayadayada...
The speaker's entertaining seminar was just what I needed. He said all journalists are like children...our days are riddled with insecurity, fear, uncertainty and at times, guilt. I found comfort in the attendees' "nods" as he discussed the challenges journalists typically face. In the tradition of "misery loves company," I definitely found mine --- it was a relief to know even those I looked up to had bouts of self-doubt. Somehow that made me feel normal.
BUT as always, I'm glad it's Friday.

Fashion pasyon

Spent the entire morning at PV Mall and Desert Ridge Marketplace and, SURPRISE, SURPISE...I still couldn't find anything for tonight's party!!! I regret not going to the gym --- I forgot how frustrating clothes-shopping can be...
I ended up calling Jule at around 3 p.m., when I started getting desperate. She suggested I dress up a la Lois Lane!! The concept was really cute but NO WAY would I be able to pull that off! Ain't got no L.A. attiCHOOD.
Besides, I was also worried the idea of a non-32-22-32 leading lady might scare Clark Kent out of Superman-hood.
Finally, I gave up on the clothes and instead ended up buying a pair of metallic pink open-toed shoes, which according to a friend is "so00000 not Fall." Superheroes in mind, I told her: "bahala na si Batman."
After doing my rounds of the stores, I went home - tired and frustrated and ended up wearing a skirt and top that have been sitting in my cabinet for months (years, even). And if someone at the show asks, I'd say "OH THIS, IT'S VINTAGE!" (courtesy of Jule and her word of the season:Vintage!) Actually, it's more LUMA than Vintage, but who cares (secretly, I kinda did)!
Got to the show un-fashionably early, good thing I knew one of the photographers so didn't feel too out of place. I dragged Bev along and put her through the same trouble of finding the RIGHT outfit. She looked good in her black tube dress...i wore a black tube top too, embotido style nga lang! (If the stretched-to-the-max top could talk, it would say: GYM! GYM! GYM!)
The theme of the show was WHO ARE YOU WEARING? And as Scottsdale's most fashionable made their way into Neimans, they proudly announced the names of the geniuses behind the strips of cloth that barely covered their designer breasts...sorry, vests.
The fall line was really NICE (obviously, i'm not well-versed in fashion) I could actually see myself wearing some of the "featured outfits" BUT the only thing I could probably afford is the piece of tape dangling from a model's shoe. After half an hour, the show was over and so was the life of the poorly-charged batteries I stuck in our office's instamatic cameras. Kawawang camera, it looked so amateur beside the other photog's SLRs! AND it was a big mistake to wear a skirt/tube top - I couldn't crouch low enough to get the models' feet in the photos. So I'm guessing the cutlines for my amateur pics would probably read: "The fancy floating sticks..."
*******
Bev and I left immediately after the show and headed straight for the sushi bar a few blocks down the road. The food was great! Viva Las Vegas roll!

blogging

I never thought I'd start my own blog but after almost three years of typing, retyping, cutting-and-pasting and again, typing the same stories to share with friends and family via Email, I can honestly say: I'm all typed out! So, today I've decided to join the blog bandwagon and do away with multiple emails (and having just watched a scary movie, i'm desperate for any form of distraction)
sorry mom/dad, i know you just learned to use yahoo mail - now, you'll have to figure out accessing blogger.com!
The earlier postings were just lifted from my pseudo-journal of nonsensical ramblings...

********
Had dinner with Jeff, Jenn (this Filipina I met a few weeks ago) and Bev at Kona Grill - first time I've gone back since I wrote their corporate office to complain about one of their maldita servers. Of all people to wait on our table tonight, we got the same girl! The same server who refused to wait on me and sina aunts. I'm not sure if she recognized me BUT she was extremely nice this time around. If the manager I spoke with a few weeks ago did what she told me she'd do, then I'm guessing the ex-malditagot an earful from her bosses. Anyway, I didn't realize how much i missed Kona's goat cheese pizza and other happy hour yummies until tonight!!!
From 3-7 p.m., Kona is definitely the HAPPIEST place in Scottsdale.
After dinner, Bev and I watched "The Exorcism of Emily Rose" and the lights in my room are definitely staying on 24/7 (My apt. is semi-basement so it can get really dark!). I hate myself for agreeing to watch that stupid movie! How could I have forgotten how BIG a sissy I am!!! Tuloy, it's 4 a.m. and I'm still so awake. Though I'm not really sure if it's the horror I just saw or the horror I'm afraid I'll see later tonight that's keeping me up. My boss told me at the last minute that I'd be covering a "by-invitation-only" Neiman Marcus fall fashion show.
Uhmmm...in case, she hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly the office's fashionista. A chi chi fashion show is the type of event I need months to prepare for (read: crash diet, well-planned clothes shopping). I wanted to back out but it would be too pathetic to say no to an assigment just because I had nothing to wear. So tomorrow or is it today already, I expect to spend the whole day at the mall...hopefully something would look decent enough. The prospects however, look a bit SCARY!! hASSLE!

Punch air; Cross eye - A Boxing Story in Double Vision

It started with a big, and I mean obscene-blob-of-a-waistline BIG, wake up call.
I made the mistake of pestering Jiggs to send me copies of our San Francisco-Monterey trip. I should have known something was wrong when he said he couldn’t upload the photos to one of those freebie sites. The file was just too big, he said.
Soon, I’d learn why. My tech-challenged friend finally managed to send me all 70 plus photos of obscure-looking streets, somewhat-interesting curbs, striped freeway railings and a few recognizable faces.
One particular blurry photo caught my attention: I had puckered-up like a fish, attempting to mimic the hundreds of tiny sardines swimming in the aquarium above me. A herring, however, I definitely was not.
With a bulging gut that screamed “Orca,” it seemed I was destined for BIGNESS even as a creature of the sea.
Though I never really fit the svelte-seductress mold, I didn’t think I’d pass off as the “Before lypo” poster-girl either.
I guess I always thought I was just – as my parents politely put it: big-boned. Looking at the photos however, it seemed the only problem with my bones was the fat wrapped around it.
Over ice cream and brownies, I drowned in self-pity; wondering HOW those pounds and inches ended up in body parts I could no longer see (like a second gut now covered by a third).
Then, driving home one day I chanced upon a fitness enclave where scantily-clad women huffed and puffed non-existent fat out of their reed-thin bodies.
My gut, quite literally, could not have felt more out of place. But the ex-car salesman of a gym instructor sold the idea of a “reunion with my lost waistline” all too well – I signed up.
I could almost hear “Eye of the Tiger” playing in the background as I scoured through bags of old clothes for salvageable sweats.
Thank heavens for the 80s revival, I could once again put my old leggings and tights to good use. Eat your heart out, Jane Fonda.
My first destination as a registered gym member: the weights floor.
With Schwarzenegger fierceness, I looked my reflection in the eye and did the first of three sets of standing army presses.
It was quite embarrassing to grunt and gasp like Mr. Universe while raising Tinkerbell-weights. But I couldn’t help it, five-pound dumbbells are definitely enough to leave me short of breath.
Halfway through my second set, the intense stares of other iron-pumping maniacs weighed down on me. It was time to leave.
Just as I was getting ready to throw in the towel, I saw five curvaceous (read: chunky) women bending and stretching on the other side of the thick glass that separated the weights from the weighty.
On the door, it said: KICKBOXING. In my mind, it read: YOUR ONLY HOPE.
Although my last encounter with the Tae-Bo man cost my VHS player its life, I thought I’d give kickboxing a try. Seeing other women struggle to reach their toes gave me some hope.
I walked in the room, chin raised to the heavens with pride. I knew I could still bend and snap with ease - this class would be a breeze!
I picked my spot on the wooden dance floor, gave my reflection a stern “don’t-chicken-out” stare and anxiously waited for the kickboxing master.
In a minute, the speakers blasted: “One, little two, little three Macarena.”
What place did the Macarena have in an exercise class? That, I still don’t know.
Out came the instructor – bursting with Richard Simmons enthusiasm – screaming: “We will bring the Macarena-fun to kickboxing! Are you readeh?”
“Keep your eyes on your nose, keep your eyes on your nose” – she chanted while throwing punches to the air.
Being the obedient student that I was, I stared at my nose, not understanding how being cross-eyed would help me throw a meaner punch.
An hour of punching and nose-staring went by and by then, I was too dizzy to notice I had turned my neighbor into a reluctant punching bag. She asked me to sit or leave.
So I sat and waited for the class to end - Macarena tunes screeching in my ear.
Still woozy from the cross-eyed boxing experience, I approached the instructor and said: “I really enjoyed your class, but I don’t understand how everyone else managed to keep their balance while punching and staring down at their nose?”
I watched her jaw drop as her hand reached up to scratch her sweaty head. To her, my question probably sounded as stupid as her choice of music did to me.
However, not wanting to lose my business, she calmly said: “I’m sorry, I meant look at the REFLECTION of your nose in the mirror – I didn’t think I needed to be that specific.”
With that, my chin went crashing to the floor. I rubbed my belly and thought: Orca, it’s time to go home.

Bebot

For someone who weighs enough to remain grounded even with the help of Willy Wonka’s fizzy-lifting drinks, I’ve always had lofty dreams.

At 28, I still believe in Neverland, where I know I’m bound to be someday. I dream of: chocolate rivers and edible wallpaper; traveling the world in 79 days; my sister becoming the princess she’s destined to be; and of John Lennon leaving Yoko for me.

Although I never really saw myself as a princess – at least not until the likes of Fiona were elevated to princess-hood - I didn’t think settling for anyone less than a gallant prince was an option either.

While I have, unfortunately, let a few ogres into my life, I’ve managed to ward them off in recent years.

But that is another story.

Going back to my gay (I dare not say "fairy” and risk being accused of homophobic slur) tale: I guess I owe (or blame, depending on which end of the tower I'm at that day) my dad for my romantic disconnection from reality.

Introducing us to a life far from the ordinary, daddy was my and my sister’s very first knight
in shining armor, magical storyteller and bottomless well of wisdom.

I'm sure Tinie has her own stories of our chivalrous dad, whose childhood name, BEBOT, lends itself to less knightly tales -- I leave those for her to tell.

As for me, I will never forget the number of times BEBOT rescued me from mild amnesia:

I think I was about four years old when I first developed the I-forgot-I-had-feet syndrome. In my pretty little girlie dress (an oversized shirt mom got on sale at Fairmart) I would sit patiently (for a few minutes before screaming “daddy!”) and wait for BEBOT to carry me down from my tower – the top of a short flight of stairs - to the
breakfast table where queen-mommy usually waited.

In between spoonfuls of tinapa and rice, I would watch Bebot (sans dentures or puth-thi-tho) make a couple of hot pandesals disappear with several circular movements of his mouth.

My daddy’s amazing, I thought, he didn’t need teeth to eat. It was a secret power, I guess, since no one else seemed to know what he could do without his puth-thi-tho.

I’ve always felt lucky to have a hero and a magician for a dad.

Fast-forward a few years
and one too many hearty breakfasts later: when trips down the tower with an oversized teenager in tow became too daunting a mission, Bebot took his gallantry to different fronts.

By the time I turned 18, he became my official defender from the fearless-flying-multi-legged creatures that attacked in the middle of the night.

Armed with the day’s newspaper, rolled up and ready to rumble, he would charge at the pesky critters until they crunched no more.

To the Roach community of Sikatuna Village, Bebot was a monster, a killer. To me, he will always be the one who risked Life (the magazine - he used it to kill a
roach once) and limb (he now complains of shoulder pains, perhaps from all the frantic swatting he did) to save his not-quite-grown-up girl from harmless little bugs.

It’s been a while since I last called on my hero, whose shining armor has since been replaced by his shiny au naturele un-brushed up look. It would be great to go back to those days of hollering from the top of the staircase, waiting to face my day’s biggest dilemma: champorado or sinangag for breakfast (btw, I usually ended up having both).

Where I am right now, not only do roaches come from bigger and more treacherous BUSHes, decisions are also more difficult to make. Imagine having to choose between sunny-side up or scrambled; poached or hard-boiled when all I want is itlog.

But I’m slowly learning to stomp on the roaches and to find comfort in hollering from the other end of a choppy long-distance phone connection.

The real world can get really frustrating and on so many occasions, I probably would have given up had it not been for the one great lesson Bebot and his magic puth thi tho taught me: in life (or breakfast), you don’t need fangs to survive, just a lot of patience and guts (or gums, in his case.)

Foot IN Mouth disease

Something happened today that reminded me of an incident that, for over five years now, I've been trying to forget.
When I was doing my journalism internship at the Inquirer many years ago, I requested to skip the police beat -- crime reporting just never appealed to me. But when I was assigned to cover showbusiness, I wished I covered murders instead.
For a few weeks, I was asked to cover follow this up-and-coming comedian, Arnell Ignacio - not exactly the kind of internship experience our dean expected us to get. Three showbiz presscons later, I asked for a transfer and was moved to the business section. However, before the biz editors agreed to take me into their department, they wanted to have an idea of my knowledge of business news.
During one of those post-deadline moments, a number of reporters gathered in the newsroom and one of the editors asked if I had any background on Music.
I thought she meant IN music so I proudly talked about the voice, piano and keyboard lessons I took as a child.
Then, there was silence...followed by howling laughter.I was lost! I didn't think failing keyboard lessons would be that funny?!?!?!?!
Later on I found out Music was the name of a company that was supposedly making headlines that time.
That one incident officially made me "DUH" intern of the summer.
And even when I started working for a business paper after college, I would still get the occassional "so that was you???" comment from senior reporters who had obviously heard about "DUH" incident.
Fast forward to this morning...I visited the state capitol hoping to familiarize myself with the state's legislative processess. A city staffer willingly gave me and some other AZ residents a tour of both houses. When we got to the Senate, I noticed that most of the senators had elephants - stuffed or carved - on their desks.
I knew that the elephant is to the republican as the donkey is to the democrat but for some reason - I guess I had my superstitious-feng sui-believing hat on this morning - when I saw elephants, the first thing I thought of was "good luck".
As we were getting ready to leave, the guide pointed out the cute figurines and asked if we had any questions. I should have just kept my mouth shut...but NO! I had to share my excitement with the rest of the group - I told them that I thought it was so cool that even legislators believe in the good luck that elephants - especially those with their trunks pointing upward - supposedly bring.
This one sweet lady grabbed me aside and whispered: dear, those elephants symbolize their party affiliations.
Again, there was silence, but because we were at the senate, the laughter that followed was muffled.
At that moment, I imagined myself in front of a TV camera..."From the State capitol, this has been DUH reporter. Thanks for watching."

First time blogger

A few months ago, my Web-guru friend asked me what Ithought about blogs. About what?!?!?! Not wanting to come off as even more tech-challenged than he already thought I was, I decided to just – as my nephew would say – "wing it" until i gathered enough context clues to answer his question somewhat intelligently.
Blog?!?!
Hmmm…Aside from the sound my belly makes when I struggle through the first three minutes (I usually give up on the fourth...) of Tae-Bo, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of "blogs" before.
Is it a new designer label? Band? Non-profit initiative? I didn't dare ask.
One light bulb moment please (c/o Nikko, the queen of light bulb moments)…
Well, we had been talking about cutting our contributions to the Phillip Morris Group for some time now... Cigarettes! That’s it!
How stupid of me not to have made the connection. Blog, obviously (or so I thought!), was slang for the chemicals that cloud your lungs as a result of excessive smoking.
"Those damn blogs," I said. "Can't even jog a mile now, no thanks to the addictive nicotine!"
Then, BLAG!
Falling off his chair, my not-so-subtle friend started laughing. He was obviously having the time of his life – thanks to me, his not-so-knowledgeable-but-too-proud-to-ask friend.
How was I to know that blogs were online journals instead of deadly chemicals? Well, he said, if only I clicked beyond Yahoo Mail,I probably would have saved myself the embarrassment and him, the bruise onhis back.