Alam ko na

I'm having a bit of a hard time expressing my point today, so bear with me. The thoughts I dug up for this post are haphazard, so beware.

There are people you just CAN'T live with. There are people with whom you just can't get along. For everyone else, you offer a mild kind of friendship hinged on a symbiotic form of delicadeza. Right? Err... maybe not.

Eureka! I think I know what's lacking in our living arrangements and why it's making me go so crazy. I mean it's not that we're rude or whatever. It's just that the delicadeza we seem to be operating on isn't, well, "complete". It's not, errr... "mature and fully-formed". Madami pang kulang.

It goes almost without saying that I don't mean delicadeza as defined by some generic dictionary (i.e. sense of propriety, tact, etc). I mean the kind of delicadeza that is almost instinctive, second-nature, omnipresent; the kind of delicadeza that isn't a set of rules, but rather, is a way of thinking and acting in a space that you must share with others. It's thoughtfulness, patience, and a regard for other people, yes. But more importantly, I think means being open-minded enough to realize that your way of doing things is not default, that other people might not agree with your views, and that what you do WILL affect others (which is why you should consult other people before making decisions that WILL also affect their lives, however small or momentary the effects may seem to be). It's just plain decency, isn't it? It seems like common sense. Delicadeza lang, diba?

Hmmm... but how does one define delicadeza to someone outside its cultural context? I don't know. I just always took it for granted that nice, decent people have delicadeza. Then again, maybe delicadeza is a uniquely Filipino/Spanish/Latino thing? Maybe other Asians just aren't that into it? I have a theory, but I'll save that for another post.

I guess delicadeza stems from being such a community-minded people. It's a direct offshoot of "pakikisama" (simplistic definition: ability to relate to people) and in our society, it's a necessity. Looking out for the needs of the people in your immediate vicinity and thinking about their welfare is a survival tactic ingrained deep in our psyches. Back in the dark ages, good relationships with people meant being able to feed your family one more meal. Banding together was the only way we could plant and harvest rice or haul in our nets of fish. It was the only way we could fight our wars or protect our loved ones. We needed to know we could count on our neighbors, and the best way we did this was to make sure they knew they could count on us.

Because of our history, we have developed into an interdependent people. We have a penchant for developing close ties with not just our nuclear families, but also with cousins up to the nth degree, barkadas, classmates, batchmates. A good number of us would rather forge happy alliances than operate alone. We forego our own independent dreams for the comfort/safety/well-being of everyone else. We run in packs. The common good prevails in nearly all things. With such a system in place, it's only natural that we've developed an almost intuitive sense for relating to others. It's just the way we've evolved.

I may have done away with a lot of traditional values and I'm as selfish as they come, but I know my delicadeza is still firmly intact. In fact, I firmly believe that delicadeza is one of the things that has allowed me to move in and out of different cultural and social environments as successfully as I have (naks). I don't rely on a set of superficial rules to carry me through a social situation. I rely on an inner gauge. Delicadeza, after all, is transcendetal.

Hay naku. Maybe I'm just expecting too much? Maybe what I think of as common decency isn't actually all that common? Maybe I was just raised in a hyper-sensitive environment? Or maybe this is just a bunch of self-righteous drivel. Hah. I don't know anymore. Ewan ko ba.

I want to eat

I'm so hungry for honest-to-goodness Pinoy food.

1. Sisig (dish made from parts of a pig) at Gilligan's - the one in Katipunan (is that still open???)
2. Tapa mix (fried marinated meats) at Mang Jimmy's.
3. TRUE BLUE chicken inasal (Negrense-style grilled chicken). John and I had some so-called inasal at a mall when we were last there. It was okay but it wasn't GREAT. I want FANTASMAGORMIC inasal!
4. TRUE BLUE pancit malabon (rice noodles with a plethora of toppings).
5. Sizzling bangus (milkfish) belly with aligue (crab fat) rice. OHMYGOD heart attack.
6. Assumption siomai (Philippine-style siu mai)- yeah, for some reason, assumption siomai just has a taste all its own. I have no idea what it is about that siomai that makes it taste like that.
7. Inihaw na tilapia or inihaw na tanguige (spanish mackarel) eaten beside some body of water.
8. Sweet-sour green mango and spicy bagoong (shrimp paste).
9. Hot Sinigang (sour broth) on a cold rainy night.
10. Just cooked bibingka (dessert/snack made with rice flour, bears a vague resemblance to pancakes) with itlog na maalat (salted egg) and coconut and butter.
11. LONGGANISANG VIGAN. This is my favorite longganisa of all time, hands down. I didn't even like eating the other longganisas until I got to the US. I love the garlicky, vinegary taste. Ahh... garlic. I love anything with GARLIC. My mom used to fry garlic chips to eat with steaks and rice and everything. Ahhh... YUMMY. Yes, in that way, I'm definitely my mother's daughter.

Bring on the FOOD!

Rumbling in my tummy

Man, my stomach is about to implode.

Tonight is John's mom's last day in Vegas, so for dinner, she treated all five of us to the World Carnival Buffet at the Rio Hotel and Casino. It was about $25 per person, and with literally over 70 entrees spanning five continents to choose from, plus dozens of desserts, it was a cheap price to pay.

I had slices of prime rib and smoked brisket, fried chicken, ahi tuna, mini samosas, a couple of rolls of sushi, fried wontons, a few bites of salmon, mashed potatoes, numerous vegetable sides, a few ravioli, and some pork roast. For dessert I had about four different kinds of creamy gelato, some cheesecake, and a choco cream pie. All washed down with innumerable glasses of iced tea. Good bye diet, hello ballena.

John had about 3 or 4 plates of crab legs, plus everything I had. Yep, the man can eat.

After all that we decided to watch a show and Sandy and I had our pictures taken with these incredibly greasy Chippendale dancers. We didn't buy the photos though, because at 39+ dollars, they would cost more than the dinner.


Me, John's mom, Sandy (John's sister)


Lei, Sandy, Me, John, John's mom

An epic of a post or "Says the Fish called WANDA..."

3 years old. I am twirling around in a yellow dress, in my grandparents' old house in Baclaran. The floor is dark, almost black. I can see the blurred lines of a Christmas tree. I see the hazy twinkle of fairy lights. I am twirling and twirling, dancing like only a little girl can. My aunts and uncles are clapping to the rhythm, but I don't even hear the song.

6 years old. Everyone at school seems to know exactly what to do. All the other little girls know the jokes, the words, the secret language of a world I can't quite figure out. They know what kind of socks to wear, what bag to buy, what shape erasers to put in what color pencil cases. They know all the games, the songs, the names. They are the daughters and sisters and cousins of girls who've done this a million times before. I don't know the rules. I don't know anything. I don't know why I'm here. I peer into my bag and stare at the neatly stacked pile of paper boats fashioned from old magazines that my nanny painstakingly made for me. I thought they would earn me friendship on this first day of school, but nobody wanted them. I step into the walls and disappear.

11 years old. I make my friends.

High School. I am the weird one. I have grown wiser, at least a little. I know how to wear my hair now. I know which socks to buy. I want to be like everybody else, but it's no longer possible. The other girls can sniff it out of me. I am not like them, and I am terrified. I discover fear. I learn to use it, to play with it, to make it my own. I rebel against myself, yet I have no idea who I am. I no longer dread school. I no longer find excuses to stay at home.

I am told that I can mold myself into whomever I want to become. I am told that I must become moral, upstanding, religious, like Mother Mary. I am told that I must grow into a modern woman. I am told that a modern woman is exactly like the old one, but with newer clothes. I am told that I am smart but lazy, cute but strange, insensitive, detached, naive. I listen to all of this. I swallow all their words.

I learn to smoke cigarettes. I learn to drink alcohol. I learn to talk to boys and smile even when I feel dead inside. I learn that my mother is human, and is entitled to her imperfections. I learn that my father is not invincible, and that I can hurt him with my words.

I learn to play my part. I learn to play the game.

Junior Year in College. I learn to unlearn everything.

I listen to the voices in my head. I pay attention to the monsters growing inside. I no longer want to be like anyone. I become obsessed with finding my "I".

Slowly, ever so slowly, I find myself in bits and pieces. I am in little cafes with stale air reeking of smoke and melodrama. I am in hesitant kisses and awkward embraces. I am in the bottom of a hundred bottles of beer. I am in the love affairs of friends, in colegiala scandals, in pages of yellowing books. I am in eyes cast down, in hot tears, in maniacal laughter. I am like a puzzle, I tell myself, and I must make the pieces fit. This is who I am, I say. This is me.

New York. I miss everything. I am confused and uncertain and I have lost my hold on who I once was. I miss her, wherever she may have gone. I miss her arrogance and her confidence and her flirty little smile. I miss the sureness with which she held all her tomorrows in the soft palms of her hands. I miss the ease by which she moved around in a city she knew was hers. I miss the banter with friends - kindred souls who knew all her secrets, all her mysterious codes, all the nuances of her laughter and the secret corners of her smiles.

I write but the writing is sparse, halting, hesitant. I am in limbo, and I don't know what borders this vacuous space. I am pretentious, eager, sincere, jaded, careless, carefree, reckless, pathetic, and intense by turns. Nothing fits. I have grown and shrunk in odd places and everything hangs over me like they were made for someone else.

But I find other things. I find love while eating raw meat and sourdough bread. I find independence straining against my impractical dreamer's mind. I find strength in tears. I find passion in comfort. I am yet to find myself, but I chance upon glimpses of her along the way.

Now. I surrender. I surrender myself. I admit my ignorance, my naievete, my uncertainty, my pretensions, my failures. I don't know where I've been, and I don't know where I'm going. I only know that I will get there. Eventually.

Once upon a time I said that I wanted to go wherever the stars would take me, except I couldn't see the stars. Now I understand that I don't need to see them to know that they are there.

I still believe in myself. I believe that there is something in me that's unique to me alone. I know that I was made for something more. But sometimes we're not meant to know exactly what were made for - at least not right away.

Sometimes, as my head sinks into my pillow, I ask myself why I'm where I am. Why did I leave Manila when I could have had a much easier life there? I would never have had to face the realities of debt at such an early age. I would have been able to watch my sisters grow. I could have laughed with my friends as we struggled to find our places in the world. I could have lazed under the comfort of my parents' wings. I could have had a nice life - one filled with privilege and pomp and freedom on the arm of some generic well-off young man who would open my doors and buy me a multitude of pretty things.

I would not have had to chain myself to years of servitude to fulfill a monetary pledge. I would not have been mugged or otherwise molested while walking through the streets of New York or the parks of Las Vegas. I would have my religion intact (or at least part of it). I would know my place. I could have been happy. Maybe.

The fact is the reason is pretty simple. I couldn't help myself. The world called out to me and I had to listen. Perhaps it's not talent or ambition or arrogance or megalomania that sets me apart. Maybe it's just that - an ability to hear and a willingness to listen.

I can feel myself changing and sometimes it scares me. Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and find myself unable to stop staring at the reflection I've made. The contours of her face are unfamiliar. The light in her eyes are strange. I don't know how others can still recognize me when I can barely recognize myself.

Once upon a time I would have panicked and I would have done anything to stall the transformation. But I'm either wiser or too tired to do anything now. I simply let go of my million ghosts and untether myself from the past. I accept that I must grow. I accept that I cannot hold on to what was. I accept that the world has not yet found a way to bend itself backwords over time and space. I accept everything. And I accept that I will always be who I am. Nothing more, nothing less. I like to think it's enough.

The fact of the matter is I no longer claim to know anything. I have been emptied and I fear that refilling will take a lifetime to complete. My life is the movie and I am the director, the cinematographer, and the audience all rolled into one. I am the star too, but she stems from the most alien part of me. How ironic that the story seems to be written by someone else. I can change my lines or forget them altogether, but the essence of those words are already floating above me. It is, perhaps, the loosest of scripts, but it is there nonetheless. The scene has already been set. The choice is simple now. Stop the show, or live.

I'm turning into a regular CHINITA...

In a funny way, I almost feel as if I'm having a foreign travel type experience - a notion that is compounded by the fact that I am the sole non-chinese person living in the apartment. Just as I've gotten used to leaving my shoes by the door, walking barefoot around the house, and using chopsticks about 85% of the time, the world decides to up the ante. John's mom came to visit us for a a couple of weeks, and it's been homemade Chinese (Taiwanese, to be precise) food all the way, baby.

We've had dumplings made from scratch, tofu right out of the package, and little chicken bites marinated in rice wine. I've devoured loads of string beans, bok choy, bamboo shoots, mushrooms, cabbage, and other specimens of the plant family which I have yet to discover the names and origins of, all seasoned to oriental perfection. I've taken to drinking a mild flavored shake made from an unknown, and quite expensive, tuber. I also eat noodles with just a sprinkling of soy sauce on a regular basis, take my meals in a cute little bowl, and have consigned meat to a once-a-day luxury.

The only problem so far is that I think I'm having meat withdrawals. I'm a Pinay through and through, and my cravings for pork chops and garlic rice cannot be helped. My urge to pile my plate high with beef tapa, longganisa, and tocino, all topped with a crispy fried egg, are rooted in some dark collective island memory that is as much a part of me as my big, cushy bum. My predilection for cholestoral-laden, fat-filled, grease-covered carnivore cuisine is part of my cultural heritage. I *heart* sisig and I will not be ignored!

I have to admit though, all this healthy eating has been great for my diet. Maybe I'll be able squeeze myself into that bridesmaid dress after all...

I KNEED A GUY IN THE GROIN TODAY

It all started with the tea.

I've been chronically constipated for years now, so on my most recent trip to the Philippines, my mom gave me an herbal tea to help with my... err... digestion. I have to say, that tea is incredibly effective. IT WILL CLEAN YOUR SYSTEM LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE. I've been drinking a cup of this tea every night, and every morning I would wake up with an overwhelming need to go to the bathroom, after which I would feel clean, refreshed, and ready to face the day.

Right.

Last night, as usual, I brewed a cup of tea and I drank it just before I went to bed. As I was bringing the empty cup out to the kitchen, John turned to me with a look of sudden realization. "You shouldn't have drunk the tea." I turned to him with questioning eyes... and then it hit me. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. I had an 8 AM appointment with the USCIS - right about the time my bathroom dependency kicks in. Crappity Crap. A wave of tremulous horror settled in the pit of my stomach. I went to sleep with the knowledge that by morning, that horror would be squeezing past my intestines.

The next day, John dropped me off at the Homeland Security Building on his way to work. He would be picking me up during his lunch hour to bring me home. My stomach wasn't giving me any trouble at all, so I was feeling pretty good about our little transportation arrangement. I went to my appointment and stated my case to the very unsympathetic immigrations officer. Unfortunately (as is the norm with these immigration things), I was told that I was missing some important documents and that I would have to come back some other time. So with quite a lot of time to kill, I decided to walk to the nearby park.

Then the problems started.

By the time I got to the park, my stomach was twisted out of its mind and screaming for mercy. I found myself looking for a bathroom QUITE desperately. I finally found a fairly clean one by the baseball diamond, so I went in and did my thing.

This is where things get interesting.

See, I didn't know that there were a couple of guys drinking by the bleachers next to diamond. There were four of them, I think, all pretty old and very, very drunk. They were trying to make me to go to them, but of course I just ignored their pathetic pleas. I started walking away as fast as I could. But then two of the men stood up and started walking towards me and struck up a conversation. I couldn't really understand what they were saying, so I just kept on telling them that I had to go because I was going to be late for school (I didn't know what else to say and I'm not a very good liar). This kept on for a couple of seconds...

And then one of the guys put his disgusting hand on my shoulder.

The smell was the first thing that got to me. I mean, the stale alcohol on his breath was bad enough, but the smell emanating from his body was even worse. He had the unmistakable scent of someone who hadn't seen the inside of a shower stall for at least a week. His clothes look like they had been renting a room in a dumpster. And his hair... oh lordy. Greasy doesn't even begin to describe it... perhaps it was greasy once, a long, long time ago, but it was WAY PAST that now. It looked as if the grease had congealed in clumps all throughout his head and we're now being harvested by some enterprising insect for sale to his other insect friends. It reminded me of the time I went to the La Brea museum in California... the clumps had a vague resemblance to tar. I almost felt sorry for the civilizations of lice that must have met their death in the dark, anarchic forest that doubled as this man's head.

But back to the repulsive hand. It was on my shoulder. Thank the heavens my shirt had sleeves. His hand was dirtier than his hair, if that were even possible. I couldn't take it. Images of all the germs and bacteria digging their way through the dirt-stained ridges of his palms just played over and over in my brain. And well, I kneed him. Yep, right in the baby maker. It wasn't my plan or anything - I don't think I actually had a plan - but there you go. He doubled over and started yelling something like "that little girl hit me!" His drunken buddies just watched and laughed as he clutched himself. I was too shocked to do anything myself. "What the hell did I just do?" I just stared in utter amazement.

Then some security people (cops?) came and took over and I had to file some kind of report. Apparently, people had already seen the old guys drinking and had already called the authorities.

Obviously, I don't recommend you go kneeing people in the groin every time someone tries to lay an arm on your shoulder. It could backfire, big time. For my part, I was in a public park in the middle of the day, pretty near a busy intersection, and in plain sight of a lot of people. So yeah, I felt pretty safe and I didn't feel like I was in REAL MORTAL danger or anything. The kneeing thing just happened.

And mom, it was really all because of that tea.

PARTY TIME

Okay, Manilenios,

I'm THROWING A HALLOWEEN COSTUME PARTY, and YOU'RE ALL INVITED.

It's gonna be on October 31, naturally. We all know November 1 is a holiday, so no excuses. The venue is still up in the air (so if you have any suggestions, feel free to email/text/message me), but I'm working on it.

Come one, come all - yes that means YOU, even if we haven't spoken to each other since we were in college. Heck, bring your friends - the more, the merrier! Yes, really. I'd honestly love to see you. Just don't forget to bring a bottle of something. (I'm a balikbayan, after all, so I don't have a ready, steady supply of alcohol.)

The one and only requirement - Be in COSTUME. It's halloween, people. When else do you get FULL LICENSE to pretend to be Superman, or Godzilla, or a slutty nurse, or Paris freaking Hilton? C'mon, you know you want to dress up. WE both know you have your fantasies.

Throwing a party already? Hey, maybe we can merge. Not sure I'll remember you? Come anyway. Think I might still be mad at you for whatever? C'mon, I don't keep grudges! Other questions, concerns, ideas, etc? Drop me a line - warcar@gmail.com.

C'mon guys, it'll be fun. Just because we're twenty something doesn't mean we can't dress up like Cinderella.

Well, at least for one night.

Cam-whorage

Because it's all ABOUT ME, baby...



Random pictures at home.


Desert Rat?


I guess the desert can be pretty too...


Home... well, almost.



We bought some KFC and drove over to Red Rock for an impromptu picnic. It was fun. Red Rock is purty.

Sometimes I just want to TELEPORT out of here...

Considering how things in the apartment are going, I'm pretty glad I'll be home in two weeks.

Don't get me wrong. I like these people. So far, they have been absolutely lovely.

It's just at this point, they could all be angels or clones of Santa Claus and I couldn't care less. I need my space, I need somewhere I can be alone. I need a place that's mine. I need a place where I can express myself and not feel the need to tiptoe around everyone else all the time. I hate that I have to smile and laugh and put on a good face everytime I want to leave the room. I hate this constant inane niceness. I feel so gadam pinned up against the wall here - like I'm perpetually skimming the brink of my claustrophobia - and there's nothing to take the edge off. No alcohol, no friends, no nothing. My only consolation? Work.

And my work right now sucks.

I hate being so bitchy, but I'd hate MYSELF if I ever got used to this crap, so bitchy it is.

But enough ranting. I just need to hold on to my sanity for two more weeks...

I NEED SOMETHING

Hey Guys,

I need a BIG piece of art to mount on my living room wall.

Requirements:

It needs to be vibrant, passionate, and saturated with a deep, rich color. A raging red would be lovely. If you're a friend of mine, you probably know what I like. If you're unsure, here's a clue: I like my art strong, vivid, confident, quirky, and imaginative. I like images that burn and colors that can haunt my dreams. Elemental, fiery, unapologetic, a little surreal. That kind of stuff.

The one currently sitting in my living room (thanks Carlo!), which I had to lug from Manila to here, is probably about 24 by 32 inches. I'm going to be putting the new piece on an adjacent wall, so they do sort of need to complement each other, which is why I need something similar in size.

It could be a painting, or a print, or something you found by the side of the road. You can make it yourself or steal it from your brother's studio (please?) or "borrow" it from your grandmother's attic. Or you can just point me in the right direction. I'm open to ideas.

I will be in Manila from 10/25 to 11/8. If you've got something in mind, drop me a line - warcar@gmail.com

Hah!

Eureka!

The answer to our living room dilemma: PAINT ONE WALL A BRIGHT, UNMISTAKEABLE RED.

And then:

1. Cover the couch in either black or white.
2. Get a horizontal panel in either black or white for the windows over the couch.
3. Get throw pillows in punches of vibrant color.
4. Replace our neither-here-nor-there lamp with a definitely HERE lamp.
5. Load up on the art.

And Voila, Wanda's HOME.

Of course, this will all have to wait until I get back from Manila... but yey, I have a plan! The light at the end of the tunnel, finally!

Oh and guess what? LAS VEGAS HAS AN ARTS DISTRICT. For real. What's more, they have a thing called First Friday - basically a block party organized by the arts community. On the first friday of every month (well, duh), from 6-10 pm (yeah, 6-10 - I KNOW), the galleries throw their doors open to the public, get bands to play on the streets, have stalls sell beer and wine, display art in various forms, and create all sorts of hullabaloos. Oh and the ubiquitous punked up kids in their skinny jeans and post-modern mullets come to play nice.

I only wish they weren't so sorely lacking in cozy cafes and cute little bookshops. Maybe I can set one up...

Well, it's not New York (haha, watch me ride my gadam cosmopolitan high horse until it keels over and dies!), but beggars can't be choosers.

And Speaking of, You Know, That...

My Biggest Insecurity has always been my looks. (There, I've said it. I suppose you're happy now?)

A good male friend of mine (yes, that means YOU) once told me that I should never worry about having to be pretty because I already looked interesting. (Hah. Ayon naman pala eh. Interesting naman pala.) A part of me really wanted to conk him on the head with the bottle of beer I was holding (and render him unconscious). He laughed when I told him about this a couple of days ago. "Hey, we were in high school and you cut your hair. How was I supposed to know you wanted to be pretty? I thought you were making some kind of statement."

I have no idea how this man manages to get laid. I can only surmise that he has NOW GROWN A BRAIN. I mean, hello? I was a female adolescent, I was an Assumptionista, and I had a little crush on him. Of course I wanted to be pretty. I wanted to be so pretty, he'd break his damn neck trying to sneak a peak of me walking into a room. Idiot.

But that's not what I told myself at that time, of course. I didn't even make the slightest move towards conking him on the head. To the contrary, I merely brushed the backhand off his compliment and swallowed it up. I think I may have even smiled. I thought, hey, interesting sounds good to me. Who needs all this pretty shit? I started to think that maybe pretty was overrated. Hell, if pretty didn't want me, then I didn't want it.

It wasn't my friend's fault, of course... it wasn't anyone's fault. I just happened to be a weird kid with funny ideas. Besides, I had somehow caught a rather timely song on the radio. Ani DiFranco spoke straight to my heart. "I'm not a preeetty girl, that is not what I do; I'm no damsel in distress, I don't neeeeed to be rescued..." Right on!

If only it were that easy.

The thing they don't tell you is that pretty is a predator that never gives up. It may give a you a reprieve, but that's only to make you soft and easier to prey on. Even though you may think you've grown up and accepted yourself for the imperfect creation that you are, even though you may think you're past all that pretty girl nonsense, and even though you think you're beyond all that pathetic self-abuse... well, you're not. Pretty will haunt your ass every day of your life. It will sneak up on you when your guard's down. It will plague you FOREVER. It's like the disfiguring mole on your nose - short of an operation, it will NEVER, EVER go away. (Why? Because someone somewhere has a sick sense of humor.)

As of this moment, I have just gotten back from the gym. My legs are numb, and my arms are exhausted. With no coercion or any use of force whatsoever, I willingly got on the elliptical machine and kept my legs moving like some gadam hamster. I rode a bike and pedalled my ass off with the KNOWLEDGE that the bike will never take me anywhere. I've been eating like a rabbit. I slathered an oatmeal and grease concotion on my skin. I go through the painful process of pulling out the hairs on my body on a regular basis. I paint my face with powders and oils made from pulverized rock and liquified fish scales.

Why, God, why???

Because try as I might, I can't let this stupid "pretty" thing go. Because I'm a spineless coward and no amount of feminist rhetoric will ever give me the courage to to go out in shorts with hairy legs. Because, while I try to act to the contrary, at heart I really am just as superficial as the next girl. Because, well, everyone's gotta dream that impossible dream. So yes, damnit, I want to be pretty too.

Hah. Who's the idiot now?

Back to topicalities

So right now we have this not-quite ugly but totally un-Wanda sofa (FYI, it was already here when I arrived):


It's a Nikkala from Ikea. Just imagine the white sofa covered in the late 80's-early 90's beige material up there and you'll get what I mean.

The good thing is we can actually potentially have a GREAT very Wanda-like sofa, and all we need to do is switch the cover. The bad thing is this line has been discontinued at Ikea, so slipcovers are very hard to find. I can go to Bemz and pick from their selection of over 50 colors and patterns, but at $250+ a pop, it would be like buying another (albeit secondhand) sofa and I'm two stops away from skint, so no. And yes, I checked under the beige cover - it's not fit for public viewing.

So I made the rounds at ebay, and guess what I found? The potential to turn my boring beige into this:



It's not my first choice of color, but anything is better than beige. (Sorry, I just really have this thing against beige... it's so blah blah badoomp.) I mean it does have a lovely vibrance to it, and it's a color that I know I can work with (which is WAY more than I can say for beige). But is Php 3,500 too much to pay for a slipcover? That's about $70. I know I sound a bit err... miserly, but you know, people are dying in Africa and here I am covering my couch in a color that's probably best friends with fuschia pink. Plus, as I've said, my check book and I have had a major falling out.

So well, maybe I'll wait. Poor living room. Right now the "others" have draped a red bedsheet over it, as if trying to use concealer on a really bad pimple... or an atrocious boil. It's not working, and everyone can see through it, but we say nothing and merely clap our hands encouragingly at the effort.

Huay. It's hard trying to prettify a place when your co-inhabitants don't necessarily share your sense of aesthetics. Especially when your tastes are admittedly a little on the unconventional side. At least I've got John. It's a good thing I've managed to pull him over to the dark side. (Then again, he wasn't exactly an unwilling victim.)

Enough chatter. Time to sleep.

Room-ee-doobeedoo

This is my our room at night:



Obviously, it's still a work in progress. The bed hasn't been properly set up (actually, it may never be... we're kind of liking the low profile). There's a dresser or mini bookcase of some sort missing in the right corner. And some art work has yet to be hung. But you can tell where the design is going.

I love my bedroom. I forget the name of the color we used on the wall - it's kind of a grey-sky-blue, like a dirty sky blue - but I like it now. (I had regrets about the paint the first couple of days.) The bed is a platform bed in espresso with a leather inlay headboard. I really like the bed. I think it's the best thing I ever bought for the house. The sheets are 600 TC eyptian cotton in crimson - all our sheets are in the same color family. The mattress is divine and has a nice pillowtop, which is absolutely perfect for my body. The cute purple throw pillow is from Ikea. So is the floating shelf that's mounted on the wall. We also bought curtains. You can't really see from this shot, but they encompass one whole wall and they really pull the room together. They're from Pier One and with the exception of the bed, they cost more than anything else in the room.

As you can probably tell, I like deep, rich colors. I like exotic plums and mysterious purples and sexy scarlets and bottle greens. I'm just not a pastel girl, I guess.

Phase 2: the living room. Ah, the living room. Now that's probably gonna take some work. I wonder if I can convince everyone to go with my plan to cover the sofa in cerise...

Things

Because there is no work to be done today, I decided to unearth old online journals (pre-blogger). I found a list of "things to do before I die" (one of many) in one of these forgotten repositories of old thoughts and old memories. I think I may have been thirteen of fourteen.

Things To Do Before I Die:
1. Live in New York - check!
2. Fall in love - check!
3. Go skydiving
4. Go bungee jumping
5. Travel to Europe - check!
6. Dive Tubbataha
7. Go to Palawan - check!
8. Get published - partial check? Technically, I've already been published, but I think I meant an actual book of my own, so...
9. Raise a child
10. Live on my own - check!
11. See my face in print (newspaper or similar) - check!
12. See my face on TV
13. Buy a beach house, preferably on my own island
14. Live in a monastery (huh???)
15. Go surfing - check!
16. Swim with dolphins/whales - check!
17. Buy a house with a pool
18. Build my own school
19. Travel around the world
20. Make my mark (be great!)

Notice #20. Hah. The arrogance of youth. Then again, 25 is too young to label youth as arrogant.

My old list got me thinking.

On paper, my life seems pretty good, doesn't it? I had a happy childhood and I never really wanted for anything. My parents are still together, my siblings are all pretty smart and nice, and we're as close as a family can get. I went to good schools (Assumption, then Ateneo). I even went to New York for graduate school. By age 24, I had already managed to snag a Master's degree. I've worked in a nice variety of fields - I've been a Real Estate Agent, a Teacher, and an Editorial Assistant. I've been published a fair number of times. I travel regularly. I live in a pretty nice gated condominium complex with a gym and two pools. My boyfriend loves me more than anything else in the world. I'm my own boss and on a good week I make enough money to buy myself a nice vacation in a tropical paradise.

Life IS good. And yet.

I don't know.

I haven't been writing. All the writing I've done reads like crap. I wrote better when I was in college. Truly.

I don't have friends. All the friends that ever meant anything to me are not in this country.

And I feel displaced.

Nooninooooninoooo.

saree

My saree and me:



:)