Duplex

The house we live in is a sort of duplex, but instead of being beside each other, the units are perpendicular to each other. The Hubby and I think this was one big house before, and the owners just put up a wall in the middle (which explains why there are weird pillars in the middle of nowhere in our dining and living rooms).

The entire building is on a corner lot, so we have separate entrances. Even our street addresses are different. On our side of the street, it still looks like one huge house. Their floor-to-ceiling window is on our side of the yard. When we moved in, it freaked me out because I thought there was a mystery window that you can't see from inside the the house--with people that you can only see from the outside. Now the neighbors keep their blinds closed.

I think we have the better layout though. Our front is a small yard and garage, and our service area is in the back (so we don't have to air our dirty linen in public). The neighbor's service area, however, is an extension of their garage. If you walk by their street, you can see their laundry hanging in the garage. Not ideal. Imagine all the exhaust on fresh laundry!

And speaking of laundry, since our service areas are separated only by a cement wall about eight feet high, we can pretty much hear everything going on in each other's service areas. Which means, since we do laundry at the same time, we can hear when one's spin cycle ends and so on. Which means that I can hear all the music they play on their side of the world.

First on their laundry playlist is some good old Star FM. But thankfully, this is just the warm up. Soon they move on to classic Air Supply. Now I admit to growing up with Air Supply. So I know that there are two less lonely people in the world, and that you can make love out of nothing at all. After the entire Air Supply concert series, they start to play Bob Dylan reminiscing about this house on in New Orleans, that they called the rising sun. Next, Rainbow tells of how one day in the year of the fox, there was this guy searching, seeking, and he ends up in the temple of the king. Then the grand finale: Tom Jones wailing why, why, why Delilah.

This is their playlist. Every. Single. Week. I can tell how far along their laundry they are by what song is playing. I tried playing my own music, but my musical posse always gets drowned out. I once briefly considered going over to ask them to tone down their music, or at least change it. I thought of sending over a paper plane with a note made of letters torn out from different papers, ransom style, "If you know what's good for you, you will cease to play such music..."

Finally, one Sunday, I couldn't stand it. I just couldn't.

I started singing along. Forgive me Delilah, I just couldn't take anymore.

Violent Streak

For the first time in over a year, I put on my boxing gloves and gave my punching bag a good beating. Never realized till now how much I miss beating the crap out of something.

I don't even remember why I started boxing. I just know that after one session in the ring, I shelled out money for my 12 oz gloves, wraps, and a membership at Red Corner. Then for some reason, I transferred to The Spa at RCBC Plaza (now Fitness First Plus), got into the kickboxing/street defense class--and discovered I had a violent streak.

I can't describe how good it feels to hit something. When I hear the thwack of my gloves on the pad or bag, when I feel the dull pain on my knuckles and the jarring force travel down my arm, when I feel whatever I'm hitting give a little--it's sheer release. Exhilirating.

Then there's the mental workout I get. I have to react quickly. I have to calculate my next move. I have to duck. This part, admittedly, needs more work. I have always been on the slow reflex side, since my tendency is to analyze and break down the situation before I do anything (which is why, I think, I don't make an excellent driver).

Three minutes of actual sparring is more exhausting than three minutes of padding because thinking of your strategy--to score without getting knocked out--burns hundreds of calories (disclaimer: this is my personal theory only). Then you have to act out your strategy. Or at least attempt to.

Fear also burns calories. Everytime I go spar with someone, I'm scared of getting hit. Sure we have body armor and gloves. And we aren't allowed to hit above the neck. But what happens if you duck the wrong way? This happened to a good friend of mine--he bobbed right into my jab. Broke his nose. I feel guilty about that; though in an evil sort of way, it felt good too, the realization that I had the power to do such damage.

Not that I come out unscathed. I know what it feels like to have my breath knocked out of me, thanks to a jab-straight to my chest and a front kick to my stomach. I've had roundhouse kicks to my un-armored sides. I have flown across the room, wiping the floor with my butt. I have also walked around with shoeprint bruises on my arms and legs.

I guess that's one reason I enjoy contact kickboxing. I'm a wuss when it comes to pain. So sparring lets me face my fear head on. You feel the pain, but you shake it off and fight on. To sort of steal a line from Kenny Rogers, there'll be time enough for cryin' when the match is done.

Sometimes I think, when the actual need for punching someone comes up (no, this does not apply to The Hubby; I think it's in our marriage contract somewhere--he made sure), will I be able to do it? Will I be able to remember the right combinations? Or will I freeze? Though I can't imagine being in that situation, I hope I kick ass like Charlie's Angels, Sydney of Alias, Lara Croft and Mrs. Smith. And I want to look as good too.

Today, after I did my drills, practised some combinations, and drove The Boo crazy with the punch bag (he kept running around me, looking for the enemy), I felt so good. I know I'll be in pain tomorrow, but the exhiliration is back.

Anyone want to start a kickboxing class with me here in Merville?

The Two Hundred Peso Challenge

I look through our cupboard and I see canned goods, instant soup and sauce mixes, and some junk food. In our ref, we have some veggies, frozen ham, fish and meat. Who's to think that a couple of weeks ago The Hubby and I had only P200 to spend on five days' worth of meals?

We've been having some cash flow glitches lately, and a couple of weeks ago was the worst. For two people used to buying things at will, The Hubby and I were in new territory. He'd gas up P100 at a time. I hunted down loose change around the house before I could go to the neighborhood grocery. We had to prioritize and reprioritize which bills were to be paid first.

Then we had that Extra Challenge/Survivor thing: Five Days. Fifteen Meals. Two Hundred Pesos. Will they make it? Stay tuned!

Well okay. It wasn't that bad. We didn't have to buy basics like rice, and I still had some leftover tomato sauce and cheese; and we had some cereal and milk in the house, which took care of the two breakfasts. And The Hubby didn't eat lunch at the house for two days. And we skipped dinner and just went to sleep once. So that's still about 10 meals.

The first challenge was to decide what to buy. We ended up with:

• eggplants
• sitaw
• kalabasa
• okra
• tomatoes
• Baguio beans
• potatoes
• eggs
• small, tiny tin of mushroom pieces
• half a stick of butter
• 1/2kg ground pork

Then next was deciding what to cook. I think this part was the most fun. Made me cook creatively. And the best part was, The Hubby HAD to eat everything I prepared. He had no choice! I came up with:

1. adobong sitaw with ground pork
2. some kalabasa with ginger recipe of The Hubby, which didn't turn out too well, since the only ginger I was able to locate in the house was a shriveled little piece
3. okra with tomatoes
4. ginisang beans with tomatoes and some ground pork
5. eggplant parmigiana
6. tortang talong with ground pork
7. tomato omelet (turned out rather nicely!)
8. dill potato soup with--surprise!--ground pork - this was a surprising hit; a hearty soup that's a meal in itself, and super easy to prepare (actually all the stuff I made are idiotically easy to prepare)
9. cheese omelet
10. fried eggs

The amazing thing was (aside from the fact I didn't lose weight, despite the fact there was no more junk food in the house), through all that, we always had just enough. The Hubby had enough gas money to get him to wherever he had to be. There was enough money to buy food. And pay some of the more urgent bills. And though things were tight, we never felt poor. Broke, yes. Poor, no.

I felt like one of those Israelites wandering around the desert. When they woke up in the morning they got manna, just enough for their needs. And on special days, they got the Old Testament version of spring chicken. For water, Moses just needed to speak to some rock. They knew that God wouldn't put them through all the drama of leaving Egypt just to let them starve in the desert.

I guess that's the real challenge. Having the faith that God will provide for our needs (note to self: want radically different from need). Because he really does. It may not come in the form that we want or expect, but I know that God is always looking out for me. He will always provide.

Actually that's the one thing that God tells us we can challenge him on--provisions (try challenging him on anything else, you might end up zapped!). And The Hubby and I are taking God up on this challenge. We are. We pray that he gives us more than enough. Beyond what we ever could think for ourselves. Then we could just pass on the excess to others who need it.

That's the next challenge.

Writing Blanks

I had so many great ideas for my blog the past weeks. But now that I do have some time to write, my mind has gone blank. Where have all my brilliant, hilarious stories gone?

Thirty And Life

I spent July 13 turning 30.

In between that, I also spent the day fielding calls from my client who so nicely told me that I could stay home that day to turn 30 in peace, and then proceeded to load me with tons of work.

The Hubby decided to work at home as well, to keep me company as I turned 30. So we spent most of the day sitting across each other at the dining table, furiously typing away on our respective laptops. I suppose we could've played footsie to make it more romantic, but it completely slipped our minds.

I barely recall what what we had for lunch--if we did have lunch--but I won't forget dinner. Because The Hubby cooked for me. Aww. Next year, I will tell him that he can also wash the dishes, instead of leaving them in the sink for me to wash the next morning. Nevertheless, I was thrilled.

It was pretty close to an ideal turning-30 day.

In the perfect world, I would have woken up to breakfast in bed, with no chores to do. None at all. Then clients would all tell me, "It's your day. Go ahead and do what you want; we're moving all deadlines. Here's a bonus, no strings attached." No planes would be flying over, and cars and trikes would pass a different route. The sun would be shining, and crisply cool Baguio-type wind would be blowing. I'd be on the white-canvas-and-wood Lonely Planet rocking chair out on the balcony, catching up on my reading, dogs would be asleep by my feet. Then, when the Muse pays me a visit, I'd boot up my laptop and type out perfect story after story.

In this world that we do live in, the only things I cranked out were articles-on-spec, proposals and letters. I still had to get breakfast (which is why I so loved The Hubby for making dinner). The dogs were still not allowed in the house. Merville will never ever come close to Baguio's crisp air. The world noisily rushed by with no respect for the aging.

But, The Hubby was with me all day. People who really mattered called or texted to greet me. The sun was shining. I took a nap--without guilt--in the middle of the day. And most of all, I am alive.

I am overwhelmed by gratefulness and awe. Thank you Lord for my life.

Vindication

Today, The Hubby paid me the ultimate compliment.

In between reading www.inq7.net and sips of freshly brewed coffee, he looked up straight at me and said, "Nice omelet."

I. Am. Victorious.

Biker Chick

I've always had this biker chick fantasy: me looking totally hot and kickass in a black leather catsuit, boots and silver mirrored Oakley shades. Never got to the part about what kind of bike I'd be riding though (don't know how to drive one anyway). And never mind that at the moment, I have the makings of a bike tire around my waist, not on my non-existent bike. Bottomline is, in my fantasy, I am such a babe.

Now, I sort of get to live the biker chick thing vicariously, through my babe of a sister, Rix. She recently bought herself a motorcycle. Not a kickass one yet, but a typical, practical bike. I tease her that she might be mistaken for a messenger, but so far, people seem to know that it's a girl driving her bike.

Couple of nights ago, I finally had the chance to ride with Rix on her bike. She picked me up in Galleria, for a sisterly ride home to her apartment in Pasay, where I would wait for The Hubby to pick me up. This was an impulse ride, so I was totally unprepared. For my next ride, I don't think I'd wear stilleto mules, a semi low-cut blouse (it had long sleeves though) and capris. I got toe cramps from clinging to my shoes.

Conversation with Rix right before the ride:

Rix: Ok, here's your helmet.
Me: Um...how do I put it on? (Note: this isn't as dumb as it sounds; I was wearing glasses)

I put on helmet over glasses, the latter get knocked off. I take off glasses and put on helmet, then attempt to wear glasses through the face plate. Won't work. I take off the helmet, put on glasses, hold glasses in place, then put on helmet again. Glasses become part of my head, but at least helmet is on.

Rix: (all through out helmet wearing session) Hehehehe.
Me: When you stop in traffic, do I put down my feet?
Rix: No.
Me: When you turn, do I balance the bike?
Rix: No! Go with the flow.
Me: Any other tips?
Rix: Don't make sudden moves.
Me: What if there's a bee on me?
Rix: Stay very still.
Me: Does mom know we're doing this?
Rix: Get on.

You know when you're in a car, and some biker weaves his way through the cars, and you look out your window, a bit freaked because the bike seems too close for comfort? Well, it's worse on a bike.

I could actually feel the buses and trucks breathing down our necks. Without turning my head, I simply knew if there was a bus beside us. And you can hear the pure unadulterated honks sans filtering through the car windows. Each time a bus or a car honked at us, I felt like jumping, except that Rix said not to make any sudden moves. I wanted to yell at the cars, buses, pedestrians and anything that moved, "Get out of the way!!!!!" I was glad that my main view from the back of the bike was the back of Rix's head (I didn't want to lean out to far to enjoy the view, in case that disrupted the balance of the bike). Imagine how it would be if I had an unobstructed view of where we were going.

I also felt like the Princess and the Pea. I could feel every pothole, every hump, every tiny pebble on the road. I swear. I felt it way down into my marrow. I had a slight headache when Rix picked me up. By Buendia, my brains were rattled and knocked all around my skull, exacerbating my headache. I almost got bike-sick. I was really thankful that I didn't have to pee.

But once I got used to the ride, I started to enjoy it. The cool wind was whistling through my helmet. The view a little past Rix's helmet was a different perspective. I even managed to pry a hand at a time from its death grip on Rix's jacket to fix my helmet and adjust my glasses.

We finally got to the apartment. Rix dislodged me, shaky-kneed, and windblown, while she went to park the bike next door. Inside the yard, I discovered that I forgot to ask Rix how to take the helmet off. I couldn't figure out where the unlock clasp was. I struggled with it for several minutes, trying to look like I did this everyday, while the neighbors watched. I finally gave up, and decided to scrounge around for the keys instead, so I could wait for Rix to help me with the helmet inside the privacy of the apartment. Try looking for keys in the dark, with your head sort of flopping around from the helmet, without looking stupid.

When Rix came, I was sitting on the couch, watching TV with my helmet on. A portrait of the ultimate biker chick.

Cooking for Idiots Recipe #1: Pseudo Eggplant Parmigiana

When I was a kid, I loved to cook. I would experiment, serving instant noodle soup embellished with carrots, beans and egg. And I would bake a lot (in Baguio, you don't really notice the heat from the oven--in fact, it's nice to hang around the kitchen when someone's baking).

Since I came down to Manila for high school, I sort of lost touch with that side of me that likes to cook. However, now that I'm married, and officially in charge of putting something edible--and hopefully enjoyable--on the table, I've been reviving my cooking skills (yes, dear Hubby, I can too cook ;p).

My favorite recipes so far are the ones that require minimal ingredients (five or less) and even more minimal preparation. That's why I love my toaster oven recipes. I have about three so far, and this is the simplest.

Enough with the intro. This is good for one meal for two people, and can be cooked in a smallish toaster oven.

Equipment
- toaster oven/Turbo Broiler/Oven
- toaster-able pan (I use those ceramic ones that come in the woven basket, so out of the oven and straight onto the table)

Ingredients
- 1 large eggplant or two small ones
- butter or margarine (if you're cutting from a regular sized-block of butter, an inch-thick slice would do). Health buffs can use olive oil instead, I suppose, Haven't tried.
- 4 to 5 cloves of garlic (add more or less, depending on how garlicky you want it)
- grated cheese (I used edam, but any hard cheese would do, even Eden; quantity depends on how cheesy you want it, but I guess half a cup would be ok
- salt & pepper to taste

Procedure
1. Slice the eggplant diagonally (dunno if they cook better this way, they just look nicer).
2. Arrange on the pan, preferably in a single layer (if your toaster and pan are really small, you can layer the eggplant rounds, but make sure you layer the cheese and butter as well)
3. Add salt and pepper to taste.
4. Peel and crush the garlic.
5. Add garlic to softened butter or margarine (you can make this garlic-butter mix the day before; it's also good for garlic bread, and for putting on veggies) and mix very well.
6. Add grated cheese to butter-garlic mix.
7. Spread the butter mix on top of the eggplant rounds. Sprinkle extra cheese on top.
8. Put the pan in the toaster and bake for about 25 minutes. Cooking time depends on your toaster. So for the first time you cook this, you might want to keep on eye on it.
9. When the cheese topping is nicely browned, and the eggplants are soft and tender and kinda see-through, it's done.
10. Serve immediately. Goes well with rice.

The Hubby liked this one, so I consider it a success. Good alternative to tortang talong.

Hair, There and Everywhere

I recently had a very drastic haircut, thanks to my friend Mich, one of the most fasyon, on-the-cutting-edge-of-style people I know. She's currently in beauty school at Franck Provost, learning all about the unglamorous things behind the glamor. I got my haircut for free, with Mich and this superstar senior stylist (who, I heard, costs about P1,300 a pop) named Python tag-teaming my hair. I got it for free because I was one of the brave souls willing to be beauty school guinea pig. Or 'model', as they dubiously refer to anyone who subjects herself (or himself) and her hair to the hesitant scissor-holding hands of the students.

Other than the fact that my haircut took more than two hours, since every snip was subject to Python's (and Alvin, the other senior stylist, whose specialty, apparently, was blowdrying) scrutiny, it wasn't such a terrifying experience. It was actually liberating.

For over a year, I had been growing my hair for my wedding. And for the first time in my life, my hair was past the bra-strap mark. But I have absolutely no patience to fix my hair. I like wash-and-wear hair. I cannot blowdry, plait, twist or do anything French with my hair. The most I will do is brush it, and ponytail it. This at least has two variations: high and low. On really, really special occasions, however, I will crouch in front of a fan and shake my hair dry.

The heat of the past months made my hair unbearably heavy, hot and unbelievably annoying. No matter how neatly I tied it back, some strands would always manage to escape, totally irritating me by hanging around my face and tickling my nose or poking my eye. Plus I felt that I was going bald! Between the strands on my pillow in the morning, and the strands that came out in the shower, plus whatever got stuck in the brush, I felt I had enough hair to make a wig.

When Mich said that she needed a few guinea pigs--I mean models--I was only too willing to chop everything off.

I like my new hair. I think it suits me. Now the only problem is, for the life of me, I cannot fix my hair. Mich et al said to apply some 'product' and--to quote them directly--"ganyan-ganyanin mo lang, o," (loosely translated, just do whatever). So far, my "ganyan-ganyanin" has produced some freaky Einstein-inspired 'do; an overdosed-on-product-do-you-ever-think-of-washing-your-hair-icky-oily-limp-hair 'do; a let's-all-curl-in-this-direction-no matter-what-direction-we're-being-styled do; and an I-give-up-fine-do-whatever 'do.

So far I've gotten the most compliments for the last style.

Lopping off at least two kilos of hair has simplified my mornings. I now just get out of the shower, and, since I have declared myself hopelessly un-fasyon, leave my hair to dry at will. This produces interesting results--none of which will ever come close to what my hair looked like when I left Franck Provost, wonderfully whipped into shape by Mich and Python.

As for the falling hair on the pillow and shower, since The Hubby and I have about the same length of hair now, I just blame it all on him.

A Spoonful of Sugar Helps You Swallow Your Pride

I used to work with this magazine. I really lived and breathed it; The Hubby and I always argued about it. It was draining, but I loved it.

But it wasn't meant to be.

We parted ways amicably. I wished them well. I wanted that magazine to come out spectacularly. After all, that was my title, my tagline. My ideas were melded with it; part of me is in that magazine, no matter what happened.

It's finally out, a bit early, actually. And it looks good. Of course, the editor in me can't help but nitpick. But for a first issue, I have to say it's a good job. I have mixed emotions though. I'm happy for them. And I'm happy that I was part of the starting up. But--big but here, and I'm not refering to my own--I also feel this terrible disappointment.

I worked on it. Hard. And I'm not even part of it now. And my ego is hurting terribly. I can feel this huge lump in my chest. It's heavy and choking me up. Because deep, deep down, there's this part of me that wanted them to fail. Spectacularly.

I recently read about David, how he so wanted to build the grandest temple for God. But being a warrior king, he was tainted with the blood of his enemies, and God did not want a man of war to build his temple. God told David that it would be his son, Solomon, who would build it.

Did David stomp off in a huff? No. He said, "Ok, Lord. Whatever you say," and he went on to make the plans and gather the materials--for the temple that he wanted to build but could not; for the temple that would not even be credited to his name.

I pray that's how I react. With obedience and grace.

Lord, let me be like David. Let me swallow my pride. Because I know you have something greater planned for me. And that's all the sugar I need.

Lexi

Boracay. April 28, 2004
She joined us a few minutes before the pizza arrived--short-legged and very, very massive. Her head alone was bigger than my thigh, hence a rather considerable size. She was squat and wide, and obviously a mommy. She was a yellow labrador, and she belonged to Cocomangas.

"Hey doggie!" my sisters called, and she ambled over without a fuss. After we all had patted her head, she bounded away, then quickly returned, plastic bottle--her beach find--in mouth. Her huge body was a mass of excitement, though she still managed to maintain her dignity. Not so for her pale yellow puppy, who was a bundle of uncontained exuberance.

She presented the bottle to me for a game of fetch. I threw the bottle a pathetic distance, and she trotted out to retrieve. Alexis (the waitress called her "Ah-lik-ses"), or Lexi as we began to call her, was an equal-opportunity dog. She gave the bottle to Ro and Rix in turn before wandering off for a dip and a game of bottle-tug with Puppy.

When we left Cocomangas, we playfully called Lexi to come with us. To our amazement, she lumbered along, keeping perfect pace, acting for all the world like she was our dog. We went in for a dip and she followed, her short-legged doggy paddle and her so-serious face kept us laughing (except when she accidentally clipped me with a gigantic paw, leaving scratches that turned into bruises the next day). When we walked back to Pearl, Lexi turned in back at Cocomangas.

The next day, at about the same time, Lexi came out of Cocomangas. We called and she came, loping along--from Cocomangas all the way past Station One, all the way to D'Mall. She went in and out the shops with us, sitting and waiting outside when she wasn't allowed in.

Rix and Ro gave her mineral water--she licked it out of cupped hands. At Red Coconut, she drank milk and ice from our scuba mask, then happily slurped whatever was leftover from our halo-halo glasses (I do hope they washed the glasses well!). She was with us back and forth on the beach till dinner at Caribo (home of the best sinigang and the island's biggest shakes). She sat beside Ro and beseechingly looked up at her. Ro 'accidentally' dropped food from her plate, but apparently, Ms. Alexis does not eat off the floor and had to be hand-fed.

Walking back to Pearl, we had to walk Lexi back into Cocomangas, otherwise she would have come with us all the way to Pearl. We all felt that Lexi loved our company best.

Three days later, we were at Station 2, in Jommel's at D'Mall (among all the shakes on the island, theirs was the most expensive--and nothing even spectacular about it) when a group of kids--the exotically brown and beautiful ones that you know have got to be from a mix of races--came in, followed by Lexi. Lexi came over when called, allowed her head to be patted, then quickly walked back to that group of little girls.

I suddenly didn't feel special. "At least she's loyal to whatever group she's with at the moment," said mom.

"Whose dog is this?" asked the waitress.

"Mine," said the most exotic of the girls (sitting at the restaurant table, with one leg drawn up, you could almost tell what her mother looked like). and Lexi happily sat down beside her, wagging her tail.

Oh well. At least Lexi was 'our' dog for a couple of days.

Feet Be With You

I've been dreaming about going to Boracay since we came back from there April 2004. For now I'll have to content myself with memories. This is an entry from my travel book...

The Ship Virgin Mary, en route to Boracay. April 26, 2004
You can feel the ship tilting underneath you. We decided to go tourist class, and though this isn't bad, maybe the few hundred bucks extra for deluxe is worth it. Mom is in her element though, making friends left and right. For those who can't tolerate the crowd and crying babies, it's best to ante up for a cabin. Forty two rows times eight bunks equals a lot of people.

Families indian-sit on their bunks, eating out of Tupperware and microwaveables (you can never get away from rice!). Cans of biscuits, bags of food and boxes of appliances occupy half the bunks sometimes, sharing space with people all curled up underneath towels, sheets and jackets, their legs thrown over suitcases. If they aren't asleep, then they stare up at the ceiling or at the bottom of the bunk overhead. The lights never go out, yet it is never bright enough for the lower bunks, which are so low that you can sit up and bonk your head.

I heard that it's so much hotter in the economy section, with no aircon at all. I guess that's why people prefer to sleep on newspapers and cardboard along the slightly airconditioned hallways; and in the lounges where signs clearly state "No Sleeping". There are also signs that say Cabin Class or Economy Class or Deluxe Class--people classified according to how much money they shelled out.

It's a wonder that anyone gets to sleep, with the lights, the constant hum of conversation, coughing, non-stop flow of people drifting by, and crowing of roosters with warped sense of time. People, on the other hand, have a warped sense of space. You have complete strangers sitting on your bunk, engrossed in enthusiastic conversation with your across-the-aisle-bunk-neighbor. And feet and other body parts constantly cross bunk boundaries. If you don't position yourself correctly, you could end up playing footsie--or worse, smelling footsie.

Shoes are a sort of quandry. Do you not take them off? Take them off and keep them in the bunk with you? Or take them off and keep them under the bunk where they could get kicked, even stolen? Or what if the ship rolls and they slide off into oblivion? And if you're on the top bunk, it's worse. Technically, you don't have any space on the floor--how would you ever keep an eye on them, unless you hung over the edge of the bunk, terrorizing your under-bunk neighbor?

Across the sea of bunks and people, perhaps the most noticeable things you see are feet. And if you're unlucky, you can smell it too. All sorts of shapes, sizes and conditions--from the wide, toes-far-apart variety to the cracked-heel-and-soles to the pristine, to the gaudily pedicured.

How much of a person's life can you tell from their feet? Is Gaudy Pedicure a housewife who does her own pedicure in between dishes and laundry and cooking; who perhaps owns a single bottle of nail polish? Did Pampered Feet splurge her last paycheck on a foot spa, hence stuck in the tourist section?

At any rate, I can't wait for my own feet--slightly dry but nicely pedicured, thanks to the ship's sole (pun intended) manicurista--to sink into the powder white sand of Boracay.

Bare feet and Boracay. Perfect.

Survey Says...

I'm part of this Newlyweds@Work Mailing list, and once a week (sometimes twice), someone posts a list of questions. It's a great way to learn about other people...and about yourself. This "Three Things" survey is a great one.

Post your own list! Should be fun.

THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
1. Rheea
2. Ree
3.

THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
1. reewrites
2. morgan
3. hopesprings

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. hair color
2. lips
3. hands

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. abs area
2. hips area
3. facial skin

THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
1. Filipino
2. Spanish
3. possibly some Chinese

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
1. failure
2. looking stupid
3. pain

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
1. laptop/PC with internet connection
2. cell phone
3. cold drinking water

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW (am in full pambahay couture today!):
1. red sleeveless tank
2. dark green board shorts (yes Christmas theme)
3. super old tsinelas

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS:
1. EBTG
2. U2/Sting
3. Rob Thomas & Matchbox 20

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS (actually I love lots of songs—but top of my head, these were the songs from my wedding):
1. Can’t Take My Eyes Off You
2. You Are the Sunshine of My Life
3. Take My Breath Away

THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
1. same commitment to God
2. sense of humor
3. respect

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE (in no particular order):
1. I am a fabulous cook
2. I adore my dogs
3. I read everything—from books to bottle labels

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE PREFERRED SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
1. eyes that can make you feel like you’re the only person that matters
2. smells clean
3. looks clean, even if he’s rugged

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:
1. read
2. buy magazines and books
3. re-read things I’ve already read, except that I go straight to my favorite parts

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
1. nothing. Absolutely nothing. As in.
2. go to the beach for a month
3. have a complete Queer Eye type life makeover (just the surface stuff—I love my life now)

THREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING/YOU'VE CONSIDERED:
1. doctor: surgeon or psychiatrist
2. vet
3. but my ultimate career goal when I was a kid was to be a salesgirl in National Bookstore

THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
1. Caribbean Islands
2. Latin America
3. Europe

THREE KID'S NAMES YOU LIKE (when I was a kid I so desperately wished that I had been named “Strawberry Pie”):
1. Gaibrial Alsander
2. Tamara Ysanne
3.

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
1. write a book
2. travel around the world
3. leave a legacy

THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A BOY:
1. I eat a lot
2. I like action movies
3. I like beating up people—in a ring.

THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A GIRL:
1. I like romance
2. I love kikay things
3. I’m a crybaby

THREE CELEB CRUSHES:
1. Brad Pitt
2. Edward Norton
3. Piolo Pascual (we have a picture together! Heehee)

Marriage and Productivity

Marriage has made me lazy.

These days, I just don't seem to have the drive to do any income-generating work (I still have the drive for income-expending though). I sit at my laptop with a list of tasks, and my mind wanders. I think about what's for dinner. I strategize the best laundry routine. I think about world peace. Then I think about feeding the fish. So I stand up and go feed the fish. The dogs see me feed the fish, and they come up for some attention. So I pet the dogs and roughhouse with them a little. I check on their food and water bowls. Then I pet the dogs again. Back at my laptop, I check all my email. Whenever a message has a link, I click on the link. Then I start surfing. I'm thinking, "In five minutes, I start working," and before I know it, an hour has passed. And I promise I'll start working, but then it's already time to prepare dinner. Where did the time go?

I don't know what's wrong with me. I lack focus. My self-discipline, which was never admirable to begin with, is completely shot. The Hubby has been picking up the slack for me, working on more and more projects as I bring in less and less income, without cutting down on my expenses. I am so lethargic. Sometimes I border on apathy.

I know The Hubby is frustrated with me. I wouldn't be surprised if he gets resentful. He checks up on me: "So, what did you work on today?" And I get so defensive and my hackles rise. Then suddenly I'm spoiling for a fight.

I need help.

This Just In! Boo Update

Visited Boo at the vet last night--and I was so amazed! He was back to being Happy Boo, jumping up and keeping Jun Jun, the vet's assistant, busy untangling his IV line.

So far, he still has leptospirosis but his kidneys are starting to function (he now pees!). He still has UTI, but his pnemonia and fever are gone. His eyes are still pus-y, but he's bright-eyed again. The vet is optimistic, but has warned me about the symptoms of distemper, which Boo also has. Sometimes dogs recover and seem great for about three days, before they go back into another decline. So I'm keeping faith that God will see Boo through total wellness.

Boo needs his meds administered via IV, so we'll be keeping him at the vet's another week or so. We won't be able to give him the round-the-clock attention he needs at the moment, so am so glad The Hubby agreed to keep him at the vet's, despite the expense.

Now we just have to raise funds for the Save The Boo Foundation. But again, I trust that God will keep providing.

I'm just so happy that Boo is getting better.

To Market, To Market

I had a grand time in the supermarket last Friday. I managed to wangle a ride from The Hubby to SM Bicutan, and I spent an hour and a half working my way systematically through the Hypermart (what makes it a hypermart versus a supermart? How small does it have to be to be a mini mart? Does anybody ever shop at a plain "mart" these days?).

For me, going grocery is not a matter of zipping through the aisles getting the stuff you need. When done properly, going grocery is therapy. I start at the far end of the grocery, the side opposite the frozen/raw stuff. Then I push my cart up and down each and every aisle. I even pass through the aisles that have nothing I remotely need, like the diapers and baby milk section. Very Zen.

I enjoy looking at the variety. I enjoy comparing products and prices, making sure you get the best value for your money. And I like the challenge of making purchases fit in a predetermined budget (though I 'd like it better to shop without a care for the budget. When I'm rich, I will barrel into a grocery sans calculator and get what I want. Now that's a goal). I like the satisfaction of crossing things off my shopping list (and I like the inherent sneakiness of buying things that are not in the list, and then adding the item to the list after, and still crossing it out).

I miss going grocery with my sister Rix. Since we're both too big to fit in the cart, we make do with balancing on the front end of the cart while the other one pushes. And if there are not too many people around, we also enjoy testing the road-worthiness of the cart, zipping down the aisles, executing sudden turns and stops. If there's major traffic in the aisles, we content ourselves cracking an imaginary whip at whoever is pushing while calling out, "Shum! Shum!" (the opposite of Mush! Mush!, since we're facing the wrong direction).

Another thing I miss about going grocery with Rix is the innate silliness of it all. I remember smelling the Rexona Powder Scent Deodorant everytime we went to the store, and agreeing each time that it smelled awful. But that didn't stop us from smelling it again next time. Or the time that she begged me to buy monggo seeds--so we could grow our own bean sprouts--from aisle 7 to aisle 32. I finally gave in, and the resulting sprouts were subsequently eaten by a mouse.

Riding on the grocery cart is perhaps one thing that The Hubby wouldn't be caught dead doing. And like most males, he can't understand the logic of going through each aisle. And so far when we do go grocery, there's a bit of quibbling as we work out compromises on taste, preferences, likes and dislikes. But with each grocery trip we work it out.

More on Boo

The Boo is confined at the vet's clinic right now, hooked up to a IV. Still not eating. We're waiting for the results of his tests.

I miss Boo.

Boo Updates

Couldn't wait till tomorrow. I called the vet and asked him to come over and check on The Boo (more on the vet later). Boo was running a slight fever, but otherwise seemed fine. The vet analyzed some of his crap and discovered that The Boo had hookworms. Ugh. Both Chloe and The Boo got deworming meds, which Boo threw up 30 minutes later. The vet had to come back and give another dose. If Boo isn't eating by tomorrow, he'll have to be hooked up to an IV.

So far, Boo refuses to eat. Or drink. The Hubby and I tried everything--bones, meat, vegetables, sugar, toyo, cake--but Boo refuses to even smell the food. Had to give him some-sugar-and-salt water via syringe. Not good at all.

There are two vets in the village. One established one who comes pretty well-recommended by my old vet in Pasay, and this new guy who just out up his clinic three months ago (but he's been in practice for the past 10 years). Deciding factors were 1) the new guy does home service for free; and 2) the new guy is cheaper. I'm glad I called the the new vet.

He seems really nice, and concerned with the dogs. He's got a great bedside manner, so to speak. And for all that he did, he charged me a reasonable amount. Plus when he came back to give Boo another dose, he just charged me the cost of the dope. He also quoted extremely reasonable grooming rates. But will reserve final judgement till The Boo gets better.

And I pray that Boo gets better now. Aside from the added (and unplanned!) expense, I hate seeing The Boo so un-Boo-like.

Boo, please get better!

My Sick Boo

The Boo is sick.

He isn't his usual lively self. He doesn't want to eat. When you call him, instead of bounding over as he usually does, he just slowly wags his tail from wherever he happens to be lying down. Or if he will stand, it's just to change sleeping positions. I tried giving him sugar water, but he'd only lick it from my finger, and not from the bowl (and Boodie loves sugar--or any food for that matter). Chloe swiped his favorite bone from him and he just gave her a sad look.

That's the most heart-wrenching thing. The Boo is the happiest dog I know. He's joy in doggie form. And when Boo is a Sad Boo, then something must be wrong. The Hubby says he may just lack sleep, since last night was a horrible downpour. And Boo can't sleep much when it's raining hard.

We'll see if he has any improvements today. If not, will take him to the vet tomorrow.

I need to find a way to help Boo during the rainy season. This isn't good.

Show Me the Money!

Money and I have always had a pretty laid-back relationship. I'm happy to see it when it's there, I miss it when it's gone, I spend time looking for it, but I don't think I'm obsessed with it. And based on the length of time money spends with me, I guess you can say it isn't too enamored with me either. The Hubby, on the other hand, has a dictatorship going on with money--it does what he tells it to do. Well, most of the time anyway. I guess money's like that. It has the tendency to take over, unless you keep it in control (I know some people like that).

There are different schools of thought when it comes to married-life money. Some believe that the couple should divide the expenses, and each takes care of his or her particular set of bills. Some believe that you should pool together some of the money, and keep some for yourself. Some believe that only one person should handle the money, and should give the spouse an allowance. The Hubby and I sort of combined all. We pool our money theoretically, but keep it in the account that is more practical. We give each other allowances, depending who has money in their wallet at the moment. Admittedly, that's usually The Hubby these days.

This is major adjustment for me, making money that isn't mine alone. Even my regular tithing is already a joint venture. But when The Hubby is worrying about things like making the rent, car payments and insurance premiums, how can you possibly justify Single-Girl-Days essentials like the monthly P500 magazine fix, P300 manicure/pedicure, P600 full body wax (which is a definite bargain at that price) or the CPK-salad-as-a-reward-for-buying-only-one-book?

But for all the worry about how to manage it, how to make it, how to spend it and how to save it, the funny thing is, money isn't really ours. Like the rest of the stuff in our lives, it's just something that God owns and lets us watch over while we're here. It's just a question of how well we manage it. Managing it well is a sign of obedience and respect to the one who provides.

And if money management was a test from God, at this point I'd barely pass it. Maybe that's why he gave me The Hubby. So I could learn a thing or two or three about responsible moneyhood. Much as I hate doing the budget or thinking beyond this week, this payday or this bill, it's necessary. It's discipline. And that's something I could always use more of.

So show me the money, Lord. And I'll show you someone who tries hard to walk in your ways.