Forbidden Kingdom

For those who are thinking of watching it: don't.

Enough said.

That's it, I'm now a Cookie

Right from the moment I had seen and heard David Archuleta sing Waiting For the World To Change for his American Idol auditions, I had been a fan. And at the beginning of the formal competitions, it had seemed like there was no one who could come close to him in terms of charisma both on and off stage, having mass appeal to all ages and genders alike.

And then, Eleanor Rigby happened, and I began to have grudging respect (and reluctant crush) on David Cook. Still, he was my number 2, and deep inside, despite his Billy Jeans and Little Sparrows, I had kept rooting primarily for David A.

Today, things changed.

For one thing, he came out in the unkempt-tie-and-vest look which I adore. And then he sang something so sweet and pop and maraiah and made it dark and sexy and manly. And then, they kept panning the camera over his brother (who had brain cancer or something and had only been able to attend this particular performance of his). And then, David Cook cried.

And now, I'm a true, blue cookie. Go David C!

Word Recall: Parfait

It's funny how certain mundane words have the power to bring back memories of ages past. I mean, I can understand how scent does that to you, or how names and places can rouse nostalgia, but more interesting to me are the ordinary words that spark some long unused brain cell into remembering the past.

Recently, I had encountered one particular, seemingly innocuous word: parfait. There I was, just browsing casually at some menu, when I saw the word parfait and on cue, time slowed down, camera moved closer as I found myself drawn into a flashback.

Back in high school (god, that's been like over a decade ago), parfait meant lazy, hot afternoons after school wherein my best friend and I would cross the street to go to a small store that served what was then, in my limited estimation, the best parfait in the world. I remember small, inconsequential details of those times: the dark, chocolate brown color of Gate 4 (the nearest gate to the store); the hushed rustle of trees that seemed to mumble greetings as we passed; the glare of the afternoon sun that, for some reason, seemed to be more unbearable outside school premises; the high pitched clinks of smell bells as we entered; the 45 peso price tag to our ice-cold luxury (that was expensive back then, but my best friend and I would have gladly skipped lunch for this indulgence).

And of course, since I was already there, it was so easy to get lost in the myriad of memories of high school. From the parfait shop, I remembered we'd hop to the small school supplies store that sold, among other wonderful things, magnificent greeting cards. I, and a lot of girls my age (or should I say, the girls I hung out with), had a thing for greeting cards then. And we'd hungrily scour over the various kinds of greeting cards, collecting those we can afford, salivating over the ones we couldn't (after all, in the battle of parfait vs. greeting cards, parfait always won). There were small greeting cards with beautiful little sentimental notes; large ones with extremely cute pictures of babies and dogs and butterflies; medium sized ones that played music-box melodies; odd shaped ones that had funny anecdotes and witty (or sarcastic) little bylines. After our little tour of the school supplies shop, we'd go back to school, sit down on the concrete floor right beside St. Cecilia's auditorium, and talk, or sing, or read. I didn't know it then, but in retrospect, I was happy.

Nowadays, though conceivably, I can afford to buy parfait on a more regular basis, I don't anymore. I've lost some of my sweet tooth as I grew older, and the parfait, with its whip cream and chocolate syrup seems too much for my adult sensibilities. As for the greeting cards, they've also sadly lost their appeal. I hardly even pay attention anymore to the greeting cards I personally receive, feeling somehow that their messages are trite, overly sentimental, saccharine sweet.

Oh, how things have changed.

Sleepless in Manila

Besides the heat, which, for some weird reason I can't get used to yet (meaning outside, its way too hot, inside my office, its way too cold), I've been dealing with a lot of issues with the pregnancy that has whiners like me (yep, I admit it, I'm a certified whiner) complaining and grumbling for most of the day. I do, however, try to limit my whining when the sun is out, simply because I know that while my husband is great, even he will probably throttle me if I keep piling on him my discomforts after he had gone through a hard day with work and traffic. As much as possible, in fact, I try to be nice at night, saving all my good humor for the time when I can wind down with my husband and cuddle up to him to sleep.

However, lately, its becoming difficult. For one thing, I haven't had much sleep. What, with my additional weight (I can't seem to position my arms and belly in a way that I'll be comfortable anymore when I sleep), the creeping back pain (which starts out small, but starts to gnaw on your nerves after awhile), the toothache (according to the dentist, this is the baby stealing calcium from me, since I'm off calcium supplements temporarily), my allergies (the extreme itchiness that I am unfortunately cursed with) and, more recently, my colds which has given me grief over such a simple thing as breathing, its not wonder I can't sleep at night.

The sad part of it is that I keep my husband awake too. Every time I toss and turn, I jostle him awake, so that he too, has to share in my tragedy.

The only thing good so far is that my baby kicks a lot now. While its not always a pleasant experience (try getting a few more minutes of sleep when someone is kicking you [furiously] from inside clamoring for food), it is a reminder of what truly matters at the end of the day.

Now, if only that reminder could get me some better sleep....

Are Feelings Actions?

Hot on the heels of a terrible row with one of my close friends (and I'll tell you right now, it's all been fixed and tidied up and we're both fine), I've gone introspective again by questioning what truly constitutes 'action'.

To give you a little perspective of what I'm talking about, the fight was about him not wanting to have to censor his words, and me not wanting to have to censor my feelings. My stand, for sometime now, was very pragmatic about emotions, especially since I have a temper and calling me "emotional" would be an understatement. I basically adhere to "judge a person by his actions, and not his thoughts", with thoughts not being limited to the cerebral but to the emotional, and the actions coming to include hurtful words that are spoken out of spite.

It's because of this code that I've always felt guilty about losing my temper - I turn nasty and sarcastically succinct not caring about the other's feelings - and why, especially for my loved ones, I tend to shy away from confrontations (as opposed to with people I care less about where I'm slightly [okay, more than slightly] more aggressive). I need to time to calm down, to think about why I'm upset, to differentiate whether or not I'm overreacting, to arrange my thoughts and pinpoint what exactly bothered me and, if I'm still bothered, to find a way to say these things without being hurtful. Unfortunately, I'm also a terrible liar and I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve. So when I'm bothered by something in public - bar me walking out - I tend to be obvious about it.

Which got me to my current introspective dilemma now. My close friends (and even to some extent my husband) have been subtly hinting that I should be more open about my feelings, to confront them and not to be afraid to them, to tell people outright when I feel like I'm being offended or hurt so as to prevent escalation. Some of them even had stated that they prefer the hurtful words over the awkward silences wherein I would ensconce myself in my own turbulent thoughts, letting them to be unwilling witnesses to my despair.

But how can I stop the way I feel? How do people learn not to get hurt? And yet, despite this, I do see their point. When you see someone you love feel bad, you want to do something about it. And the very inaction of the loved-one-who-feels-bad could cause you tremendous pain or, at the very least, incredible discomfort. Should I really subject my friends to that just because I need some time to calm down? Should I start thinking that my emotions, by virtue of being felt and because it is so obvious, is an action in itself?

And if it is, does that mean my obvious solution is to become a better actress, to learn to hide my discomfort and my distress behind a more comprehensive mask?

For my close friend and I, we've come to a compromise about what we should do when something similar happens without compromising who we intrinsically are (because it would be a tragedy if you're not yourself with your friends). Only time will tell if it will work - if I will remember the code words and be calm enough to say them, and if he will remember the code words and remain calm enough to give me space until I can state my reasons.

But for the rest of my friends and family - what do I do?

What do I do?

What's in a Name?

Apparently, a lot. Of hard work, that is.

Especially if you're female and you got married and you have a ton of licenses, bank documents and the like that are in your maiden name.

What's worse, is that no one actually tells you and prepares you for this stress. Either by conspiracy of revenge or simple forgetfulness, my mother, my husband's mother, everyone's mother or wife, while always ready to spout wedding and marriage advice in the early days of my wedding preparations, neglected to tell me how difficult it would be to change my maiden name to my married name. So now, two years and some odd months later, I'm still dealing with the stress of changing expired licences and insurance documents etc.

It has pushed me to even keep my maiden name with a dash to help avoid even more paper work. Its not that I'm trying to assert my feminist side, and sadly, its not even that I'm trying to sort of rebel against the age old (and admittedly chauvinistic) tradition of losing one's maiden name for a husband's last name. I'm a feminist, but I'm not that much of a feminist that I'd be willing to go through the inconvenience of always having to type (and more annoyingly, print) four more letters and a dash to my last name (as if doing so will change how people would treat you, gender wise, which, ya know, is what truly matters to me).

But still, the paperwork haunts me. Don't they understand I got married? Why can't they just accept my photocopy of a wedding certificate (authenticated by the NSO, no less)? Why do I have to file millions of paperwork? Why do I have to file the millions of paperwork in their hard to reach head quarters and not in their more convenient satellite offices? Why can't bank systems simply allow me to put a dash in my maiden name and my last name (I can't even begin to tell you how stupid some of their reasons for not allowing me to do so, beginning with their system doesn't accept dashes in the last name)? Do all recently married women go through this or did I miss some special seminar that tells you the most efficient way to survive the name changing process?

Ugh. Times like these, I wish I just didn't have to go through my birthday.

Turning 28 and Other Stories

Twenty Eight

One more day 'till my birthday.

Unlike previous years when I would look forward to my birthday with about the same excitement as a four year old, I feel decidedly more calm about the event this year. I think I'm getting old - I just can't get myself to even hope that the world will all stop to give me a day to remember. Or, it could be that I'm just pregnant, and every event until the big event in July pales in contrast.

If anything, I'd just be happy to get through tomorrow without any nasty complications from my pregnancy. I don't really expect anything to be significantly different tomorrow (I will have lunch with my parents and then litcrit and then dinner [hopefully] in dampa) and all I can hope for is that everything goes smoothly.

Other Stories

Two stories in the news troubled me. One was about the Jersey Children's Abuse Scandal (read here) and the other about the re-use of syringes in hospitals (read here).

The first, troubled me because it feels so much like the young adult horror stories I've read and watched, only this time, it's all too real. Unlike books and movies where I could comfort myself that its all exaggerated, this proves that such places does exist, and people do suffer in cellars and attics, perhaps even shackled and raped. And the fact that they're children, makes it worse.

As for the other one, it troubled me because I didn't even know that re-use of syringes still existed in modern times. Knowing that i would soon be confined for the delivery of my child (and knowing that I'm terribly frightened of needles and such, can't be trusted to actually look when the nurses supposedly open them up to be used) only magnifies my fears.

Oh well, just goes to show how pregnant women can get extremely morbid with the slightest provocation.