One Fine Day

I will go back to Paris with the man I love.
And he will want to go to Paris whether or not he likes Paris.
He will want to go because I love Paris and because he loves me.

The Quiet City: Winter in Paris

(Photos taken during my last trip in 2007. I shall return.)

"Each divorce is the death of a civilization."

http://mightygirl.com/2012/06/26/divorce-and-grief/

I was a wife, and now I’m not.

The product is so much cleaner than the process. And in the beginning, this is how I thought of divorce. Discrete, an event. So I waited for it to be over.

There were mundane moments of suffering — my thumb would feel for my missing wedding band, I’d overfill the teakettle, or be half-asleep and bewildered to find only a single toothbrush near the sink. Every time, the surprise of it was clarifying, a series of breathtaking realizations. I moved the tissue box from room to room.

Beyond these details there was a progression of endings — moving out, quitting therapy, getting a lawyer, signing papers — all of it mounted toward the final goal. But each milestone passed without much change in my feelings. The finish line I imagined was in motion. Slowly I came to understand that divorce wasn’t so much an event as a death.

The distinction is crucial, for two reasons. First, because we have fewer expectations of when we’ll recover after a death. We understand that feeling normal again is more a function of time than effort. Second, because we have better tools for coping with mourning than with divorce. There’s a protocol of care, we forgive outbursts, moments of insanity. And if we’ve lost someone, perhaps we go easier on ourselves.

I did not go easy on myself. The grief eclipsed me, and embarrassed me. And thinking of it as an event only increased my suffering. When each phase found me still mourning, I worried that I would never be myself again.

Pain and confusion aside, just the paperwork seemed insurmountable. It was easy for me to get caught up in logistics and mistake them for the journey. Once you’ve taken actions A-Z, you are no longer married, and you get your life back.

Except, as with a death, once everything normalizes it doesn’t resemble your life anymore. The plans you’d made, the things you’d thought settled, are blown apart.

Now I’m no longer a wife, but the afterimage of that identity remains. Sometimes my habits still bend to accommodate the preferences of a person who isn’t there. I don’t know how long it will last, only that I don’t need a finite date anymore.

Divorce has changed me, matured me, perhaps more than marriage did. Now I know that our loneliest moments are some of the most universal.

If you’re going through a divorce, try not to worry so much about when everything will end, just know that it will. You’ll get through it, and there’s so much possibility waiting on the other side.

For those of you who have gone through it, when did you start feeling better? Did your thinking about the divorce process change over time? Advice appreciated in comments.

***   ***   ***

A reader's comment:

I got married 8 years ago today, and divorced 6.5 years ago. I sobbed my way through yoga last night because sometimes, it still hurts so acutely.

I think that one thing that was difficult for me, as a generally Successful Person, was that it felt like a failure. I felt like I’d failed someone else, and I felt like I failed myself. Being a divorcee didn’t jive with the notion I had of who I was.

And you’re right on that it’s like a death. It’s the death of the life you shared, but it’s also the death of the hopes, dreams and plans you’d made as a couple or family. I remember thinking that I’d never do some of the things we’d planned (travel, have a baby in a certain year, etc.) and some of that was hard, but once I felt a little better, I was able to make some of those dreams happen for myself, albeit differently.

I remember that about three months after we’d split (and my ex has chosen to never speak to me again, btw) I came out of the gym, and picked up my phone to call him and tell him what I wanted on my salad for dinner that night, as was our Wednesday night custom. The forgetting and simultaneous remembering hurt so badly, and I remember sobbing to a friend that “there would never be someone who’d go get my salad and know what I didn’t want on it again.” And sometimes, it felt like no one would ever know me that intimately again.

At first, I set tiny goals for myself each day: wash sheets, make cookies, don’t lay around and cry. And after a few months, that became unnecessary. There is no deadline of when you will feel better, and sometimes, even years later, the pain does kind of take you by surprise. But you WILL feel better. You will adjust to a new normal, you will learn surprising things about yourself and your strength and you will recover. Divorce made me more sensitive to myself and to others.

If I can offer one piece of advice, it’s don’t punish yourself. I’ve spent far too long punishing myself for what I could or could not have done, not just in my mind but in the way I’ve treated myself. I regret that time period, because the truth is, I don’t know if anything I did or said could’ve saved the marriage. I am still learning to be nice to myself.

***   ***   ***

An article that tore into me.

The greatest fury comes from the wound where love once issued forth. 

***   ***   ***

No, we weren't married. But in my heart we sorta kinda were. After fifteen years (longer than some marriages) it sure felt like it. So much so that I was getting seriously nutty. Crazy-person-on-Facebook-crazy.  And then I remembered this place. Where I can write and the wind can catch it. Or let it go.

Dylan is saving me. Joni is saving me. Tori has always been with me. It's this ebb and flow of grief, of doubt, that kills me. My poor kitchen sink, witness to so many breakdowns. My orange rubber shoes and my blue yoga mat, a place for peace and endorphins. 

Making the bed without anyone on the other side to tug at the covers. 

Feeling for a ring on my left ring finger. (Why oh why did I get used to putting that there?)

Wondering what I'm supposed to do with all these men's clothes and shoes and socks and jewelry and TVs and all this shared property.

It's only been a month and three days, I tell myself. That's why you're climbing the walls and crawling into wine bottles. 

One day there will be peace. One way or the other. 

Sometimes you have to forget what you feel and remember what you deserve. - Unknown

Food for thought.

(That might get me stoned to death by the angry mob.)

http://pisceschick.wordpress.com/2011/05/29/single-vs-married-women/

My one beach trip for the summer

We were already in Tagaytay when a tree branch fell on and CRACKED the car windshield. What are the odds of that happening? So we drove back to Ortigas to change cars. I drove up to Tagaytay (Me! Driving!). Burgy drove up to Nasugbu in the dark with me navigating (Me! Navigating!). Aprille kept us smiling. 

We got to Fuego past 10pm. Accuweather said it would rain Saturday. Lola and friends said no, let the child turn brown. So we had one whole day of sun and sand. I swam laps in the sea. I sat on the shore. I stared at where sea met sky, where the sun played with the leaves. I watched a kid play in the sand. I think one should visit the sea regularly to feel awe, to feel small, to feel strong. 

Thank you, Universe, for letting me see the beach before the rains come back. I am so very grateful.

Seize the Scissors

(This is a very long tale about my mane. Beware.)

People called me a bunch of names growing up: Annie, Curly Sue, Curlilocks, Santo Nino. 

If this look were to have a name (like Blue Steel and Le Tigre) it would be...The Burot.

When I was younger it was a love-hate thing...especially since most of my friends had stick-straight hair you could run your hands through without breaking your joints or losing a finger.

When I got older and got over the standard parlor line ("Ma'am, ayaw niyo magpa-unat?") that morphed into the standard salon line ("Ma'am, ayaw niyo magpa-rebond?"), I started liking my hair. It didn't hurt that digiperms and them Korean girls got popular; some salon people even started complimenting my hair ("Ma'am, natural curls yan?"). 

But curly hair can get big, can get hot, and can get itchy. So I've spent the past few years pulling her into a bun or a ponytail. And then I saw this picture of me with my niece and freaked out:

The picture that made me realize my hair was seriously thinning.
Which is my karma, because I've always wished for thinner hair.
The gods are funny that way.

Naloka ako sa kanipisan ng buhok ko sa tuktok ng ulo ko. This picture sent me running to an organics store and buying all sorts of oils and hair masks and conditioners--the combination of which freaked my scalp out. (Note: I am super-pro organic stuff. I'm just saying my crazy combination freaked my scalp out. Because I was freaking out. Now that I don't use all of them at the same time they're nicer to me.)

I turned to my ever-wise sister and she said, "Do a vinegar rinse." It saved her from decapitating herself when being pregnant gave her crazy-itchy skin and scalp.

This is what my hair looked like after:

Pinaka-winner compliment from an artistic dude who paints:
"This would make an excellent painting." *blushes*

It was like setting her free. Be curly, dear curls. This is who you really are. I wore her down, and I wore her loose, but curly hair can get big, and hot, and itchy, especially during a crazy-hot tropical summer. 

So I made two PowerPoint presentations with hair options and made an appointment with a stylist who cut my hair once before, in a way that I loved so much that she exclaimed, "Camille, stop looking at yourself in the mirror!" 

Distracting myself with Time Magazine.

Three people said three different things to me that made me seize the scissors:

1. My Kulafu, after I protested that I can't have short hair (which he loves) because my face is round: "Your face will always be round. So?"
2. My Dear Sister, right after Drea the Super Stylist said she'd give me time to think about it: "Think of it as a reboot for your scalp."
3. Drea the Super Stylist, when I gave her the green light to chop it off: "We shouldn't be imprisoned by our hair."

A whole lotta hair.

It's been two days since I seized the scissors. The last time my hair was this short I was  around eight years old--which probably explains why my reflection and my shadow made me jump when I walked home from the salon. 

Short hair is definitely more fun to wash (I keep grabbing the back, like a phantom mane) but harder to style, and I'm getting to know her all over again. I've semi-retired my hair elastics and dusted off my bobby pins. I've realized that putting my sunglasses on top of my head (which I normally do) helps me "set" my hair but isn't so nice when the sun hurts my eyes. (And can make me look really stupid when I'm walking home at night.)

I'm on the hunt for a blow dryer with a diffuser attachment, but most stores sell them hair iron thingies (Camille, this is the Philippines! What did you expect? They want everybody to have straight hair!) I'm still on the hunt for products that will keep my hair curly but don't contain all those nasty chemicals that made my hair so dry in the first place.

Yesterday my hair made me feel like Julia Ormond; this afternoon it felt closer to Wolverine. I guess my hair and I will be stuck with each other for at least a year...here's hoping we figure each other out!

A Julia Ormond/Felicity/20s Flapper moment from yesterday.
Not in picture: my current Wolverine/80s New Wave moment

Wristful Thinking

This wrist is 

a) making me think I'm crazy, because the pain comes and goes; but I know something's really wrong because I can't even do a push up or down/up/any kind of dog

b) making me think I'm crazy for admiring my mom's veiny hands when I was younger; had I known what those veins FELT like!

c) making my left wrist hurt na rin! CURSES!

The house now looks like it belongs to a serial killer who likes to chop up bodies because there are rubber gloves everywhere--utility room, kitchen sink, labada banyo. Kulang nalang huge sheets of plastic ;)

The doctor says it's synovitis. I've ditched the wrist brace and can now type (but not for too long). Everyday stuff I took for granted (opening doors and faucets, putting my clothes on) are now easier to do, but again, the pain comes and goes. Once our latest major project is done (something I worked on is going to RUSSIA! Russia!) I'm hoping to visit an old Chinaman in Manila who, according to Dad's friend, has performed miracles on other malfunctional humans such as yours truly. ABANGAN!

If I were REALLY honest with myself, I would ask the following to testify under oath that they were not responsible for the state of my wrists:

a) The heavy clasp of my Nine West bag (NO!!)

b) My beloved Kindle (double NO!!)

I plead the 5th!

Three Bees

Three bees have been buzzing in my ears: babies, bags, and ballet flats.


Babies 
I blogged about money matters a few posts back. Since the birth of The Sprout last May, my  Internet search history has been full of baby-related websites, and I've stumbled upon some useful information along the way:

1. The Happiest Baby on the Block
This whole "fourth trimester" thing kinda makes sense.
This whole 5 S's System is pretty effective!
If I do decide to have a kid, I'm going to take EVERY class known to man. 

2. CRAZY CRAZY MONEY MATTERS
From pregnancy to delivery
From 0 to 6 months

P221,000??? Say it like Olivier Martinez in SWAT. P221,000??? *Faints* I made the mistake of sharing this information with two co-workers (one married and trying to conceive; the other engaged) and our world got all high-pitched.


Bags
I feel kinda shallow talking about this (especially since some of my dear friends are talking about big stuff like making ethical food choices and self-publishing in the Philippines), but a bee is a bee, and a buzz is a buzz, and this bee has been buzzing.I've never been one for brands. 

My favorite bag in the whole world is an Army bag I picked up at Fort Magsaysay, Nueva Ecija, during one of my favorite GamePlan shoots. 

Around the world with my trusty bag.

She's been with me on shoots and trips; she magically expands when needed, and has endured countless cramped MRT rides without becoming a victim of some evil pickpocket shithead. I am grateful and full of love, but I'm beginning to wonder if it's time to level up. No, I've never been one for brands, but the world kinda is, and like it or not, I live in this world. That point was probably best driven home by an old friend who wrote, "Tumatanda na tayo. Gone are my $20 bag days." This from a woman who, like myself, used to wear tie-dyed shirts and black boots.

If money were not an issue, I'd bag one of these babies:

If it's good enough for Buffy, it's good enough for me.

As classy as the lady herself.

Probably impossibly impractical. (Unless you're hiding a baby bump.)

Mind you, I've never seen, felt, or even smelled any of these bags. I don't even think I've gone into any of their stores. My trusty Army bag might go into shock. I might go into shock. (P70,000+++ for a bag? A bag?? Can it do my laundry?)

Obviously hindi ko pa keri ang ganyang level ng level up. So I now have a bookmark folder named "Bag Lady", and more accessible girls like Kate Spade, Coach, Nine West, and Tory Burch hang out there. I still shudder at the prices. I've gotten compliments from friends and clients on some of the bags I own (St. Francis Square, Market! Market!, dear ol' SM, I heart you all), so I must be doing okay. But again, there are some places and people in this world who look at stuff like what you wear or own--and while they're not my friends or my places (thank GOD), sometimes I wind up there and a woman's gotta arm herself. 

(I understand now why Scarlett O'Hara made a dress out of her mother's drapes and wore it like armor against Rhett.) And speaking of armor...


Ballet flats
Almost a year ago I wrote about jeans and juju. I was a good girl about the juju part (two out of three plants are still alive and kicking, Sir!), but after buying a pair of straight jeans I went on with my life.

I realized that I can look a little bit more presentable by trading my trusty Chucks for my trusty ballet flats from Hush Puppies. Unfortunately, my ballet flats are slowly dying, and trying to find a good replacement has made me feel like one of them knights looking for the Holy Grail. 

Are they in Payless? Sorta kinda, but I still got to put band-aids just in case, and my baby bunions are not happy. So I flexed my Google muscles and wondered, "Could they be somewhere else, in places that I find too fashyon for scruffy ol' me?"

Abangan! (Wow. I just made a new label: fashyon. Kalowka.)

The Sprout is Out.

She took her time (all 19 hours of it), but the Sprout is finally out.

Sing with me now! The first picture of you/the first picture of [Alessa by Tita]

I am relieved. I was climbing the walls, sending white-night email and text messages, and harassing the doctor in the labor room at ungodly hours. Poor, patient woman--she had to deal with me through the night, and my Mom come morning.

To the bat cave! The Parental Units rushing to the viewing area.

While I know women have been doing this for eons, and without any of this modern medical equipment, all these horrible thoughts were going through my head. It's ironic that new life made me think so deeply about mortality and all that jazz. Or maybe that's the point of new life.

May you have your mother's strength, wisdom, humor, and heart. I've been blessed with it for almost 34 years now; may you cherish it as much as I do.

Induced insomnia

I can't sleep. (Akala mo ako ang manganganak. Or asawa ng manganganak.)

Unfortunately, there are no more carrots to grate for some carrot cake with chocolate chips. And I finished a whole loaf pan of it in 24 hours. 

Again, akala mo ako ang asawa ng manganganak. Nervous eating.

Photo from picfor.me

Words of Wisdom (Teeth)

I rode the MRT today, and it was the most (well, only) documented MRT ride of my life because a) The Boyfriend made pasa-load his beloved phone, and b) today is the first time in a looooong time that I've had the energy to even consider the mosh pit that is the MRT. I even took the stairs everywhere--sometimes even two steps at a time.

This is a far cry from how I was eleven days ago: pushing a bag of groceries down the hallway with my right foot and thinking, "I want to be well," tears in my eyes and the taste of blood still in my mouth after carrying the bag for only a few seconds.

Today is Day 8 of Food Freedom. As I look back on that dark, dark period of my life--all 34 days of it--what pearls of wisdom (teeth) can I dispense?

1) Food is more than just fuel.

I've never had a healthy relationship with food. I've done incredibly horrible things like eat while walking, while working, while watching TV, and even over the kitchen sink. I've spent days eating nothing but sweets, or bread, or cereal, or McDo. I've never thought of food as a friend...on my worst days I've thought of food as a dirty secret. Which is ironic, because 80% of the people I love are foodies, and not just in the enormous appetite sense, but in the "I cook/bake/roast with gusto and it all tastes great" and "I will critique a restaurant or a dish or a dessert because I know what I'm talking about" sense.

I started staying up late going through recipes here. I couldn't take my eyes off Giada and Ellie and Ina and Nigella. I was even drooling over the local home shopping channel when they were selling knives and bullet blenders.

So yes, food is not just fuel. It can also be a source of joy, of ritual, of bonding (who wants to bond with anyone over congee for a month). It can reflect desire and longing that is guilt-free and not about stuffing yourself when nobody's looking.

2) Food is definitely fuel.

...Which is why I can never be a vegetarian. The very day I started eating bits of chicken, meat, chorizo--anything that used to have blood running through its veins--I instantly felt better, stronger, happier, and so much warmer. I shivered my way through my Dark Ages (and to think I live in a tropical country!).

3) The weak need to be more patient.

As opposed to my usual bara-bara methods I had to figure out how to

• open cans and packages
• carry bags and chairs
• wash dishes and clothes
• cut fruits and vegetables
• and even make my fricking bed

with the least amount of force. Doing anything took so much longer, and I had to calm my mind--and my jawline.

4) Being weak sucks.

See #3.

5) Having a handicap/injury that people can't see sucks.

I was very tempted to walk around with a sign that said, "Three holes in my gums. Please help me carry/push/open/close everything in this world."

(Which is why I wanted to kiss the guard who carried my bag of groceries to the side of the elevator.)

I've been walking home again. Not as quickly as I'd like, and I still hold on to railings just to be safe. But it feels wonderful--WONDERFUL--to run under my own steam again.

Back to School

I found myself today in the kind of place I haven't been to in years. And the littlest things took me back just like THAT.

These lockers were the first time machine. I thought of a hallway back in grade school, where I first discovered how nice it was to stay after classes and just talk to friends. And then my Hollywood-obsessed self thought of Angela, Jordan and Brian in the hallway. Le sigh.

And then I had to pee. And then I peed while reading stuff like this. Which made me laugh real hard. Because it was so...high school.

And then I wound up in Math class. Math! Class! The scariest place in the universe. I saw the formula for percent, base, and rate and almost puked. And then I saw these chairs and I remembered one that got vandalized within an inch of its life.

And then we went to my Happy Place. Where I remember going nuts about Laura Ingalls Wilder and Nancy Drew. And something about the Dewey Decimal System.

And throughout the day we were surrounded by kids like these. Smiling laughing singing running reciting. And I realized the...fleeting but potent beauty of youth. Full of promise and hope and all the corny things that we say and think we don't mean but we do. And I felt its energy like a slap in the face. And I felt the weight of being older--not in a "Crap, I'm getting wrinkly and rickety" way but a "Crap, we wrinkly and rickety people are responsible for these kids' futures and I don't think I'm built for it" way.

And I realized (yet again) that I can't work for an NGO or foundation because flagpole ceremony pa lang lumuluha na ako. And I can't work with kids because even if they think I'm one of them and they like me my cuss word combos come out at the funkiest times. (Who am I kidding? They come out anytime.)

And when I looked down I realized that all of us were wearing blue shoes, young shoes, and I thought, "Maybe this kind of job is what keeps us young and wearing blue shoes, young shoes."

I thank heaven for my blue shoes, my young shoes.

Sometimes I think they're the only shoes I really feel like I'm me in.

Keanu Fix

I know I'm getting stressed out with work, hilo, hunger, and the absence of nicotine + alcohol in my system because

my boy is back in town. (I've cyber-confessed this before.)

Here he is, willing the wounds in my gums to come together.

Here he is, telling me to relax, that everything will be all right, I got this.

Here he is, shedding a tear for me because I have another week of buying food from the drugstore.

You'll have to forgive this kulot child. Sometimes when I get up from a chair or the bed I'm all a-spin-a-win.

While You Were Teething...

...a new year was just around the corner.

And you kinda-sorta knew that a trip to the dentist was just around the corner. Your gums were ITCHY. But you hate dentists and denial is the only stage for you.

And then you had dinner with a friend who said, "Don't be an idiot. I have one false tooth now because I didn't go to the dentist early enough. Go."

But you still didn't go immediately because you had work and stuff to do. Then it was three days into the new year and the right side of your mouth--no, your FACE--was so painful you tried to make it go away with a lot of red wine.

But by 3AM it was still giving you hell so you wound up in the ER. They stuck a needle in you and gave you painkillers but it still wouldn't go away, so the next day you FINALLY went to the dentist and there she was, sleeping like it was nobody's business.

No wonder the painkillers weren't working. They called your sleeping tooth big and fat (HEY!) and close to the nerve and said you had to get it out STAT so you were in the operating room two days later.

Six hours after the nice anesthesia lady said, "Welcome to the OR" you woke up in recovery and they brought you to your room, all drugged up.

What you didn't know:

1. The sides of your mouth were crusty and bloody and they looked like stitches.

2. Your right cheek was taped up and the tape was all squiggly, like there were stitches.

3. Your Mom hid in the bathroom and shed a tear or two because she thought they were all stitches. Then she called home and said, "Nobody says ANYTHING about the stitches."

What you now know:

1. The sides of your mouth were crusty and bloody but they were wounds, not stitches.

2. Your right cheek was showing the big fat stitches that were INSIDE your mouth.

3. Your Mom is a worst-case-scenario Mom who will protect you from anything and everything. You are (perhaps to a fault) so unconcerned about what you look like (or kinda slow and stoopid) you didn't think about possible scars from your "stitches".

4. (to the tune of Wild Thing):

Tramadol, you make my heart sing

You make everything groovy

(Lalo na kapag naka-IV)

You saw yourself doing split leaps over and over, like a cow jumping over the moon.

Your dentist visited you the next day and said, "I've been doing this for 36 years but your teeth are something else! All three wisdom teeth were big and fat, with roots that were not only long and curved but had little balls at the end. Ano ang pinainom sa yo nung bata, gatas ng kalabaw??" And he said his hands were so painful he skipped his golf tournament.

So since Jan. 7 you've been on a crazy person's diet (liquid to soft only). "Eating" the soup of oatmeal, the soup of nilaga. Drinking more milk than you ever thought you would. (And you LOVE milk.) Wondering how anorexics do it because you're so dizzy dizzy and hungry hungry always

You never thought you'd envy your mother for eating OATMEAL. Or your father for eating pandesal. Or for wanting something that wasn't SWEET (You! Queen of Gummi Bears + Red Vines!).

Your boyfriend celebrated his birthday, and while everybody was eating steak and drinking alcohol you had mashed potatoes and pumpkin soup and a pitcher of water. But after days and days of drinking the soup of the oatmeal, the soup of nilaga, and milk, milk, milk, that first teaspoonful of mashed potatoes was HEAVEN. And when that tiny piece of foie gras hit your tongue and stayed there you shed actual tears.

Eight days after the surgery they asked you to come in so they could take the stitches out and you thought, HOORAY! HOORAY! and you made a list of all the places you would go to and all the food you would eat (Shakey's Special, Cibo's Alfonso, Quickly Taro-Taro, Hainanese Delight's kuchay dumplings, Pivo's Wagyu Burger).

And then the dentist said you still couldn't eat anything and everything, or do yoga, or go firing, or do heavy housework. But he finally said you could eat arroz caldo. So that's a good thing. But you smell food and you feel horrible and hungry and you realize, "Yes, I came from cavemen who loved their meat."

So now you're crossing your toes that when you visit him on Tuesday he'll set you free and you'll make it to Tikoy Land in time. And you'll stop being so dizzy and hungry and STUPID all the time, stop walking so slowly (You! Walking slowly!), have enough energy to take the stairs again, and holy kamote you still remember the EXACT date and time you last had an alcoholic drink and a cigarette.

But until then, these guys are your friends:

A definite upgrade, considering you only had these guys to work with last week:

(Yes, this child ate GERBER. What is act of desperation?)

And it wasn't that long ago that you had to use this (lovingly supplied by Da Sister):

And you're super-duper glad you bought this (what is perfect timing):

So now you're losing weight at a rate that scares you because when you were a lollipop gymnast you did a lot of crash dieting and you know you're so going to balloon after this.

Your mother said, "Stop making your eyes so big" and you said, "They're the same size, but my face is getting smaller."

Your boss said, "I can see your jaw and your neck is getting longer. But mygad ang putla mo umuwi ka na muna." And your officemate said, "We can't have you collapsing."

And your sister said, "Your butt is disappearing!" which you know is big trouble for you because you don't have any boobs and your tummy isn't going anywhere.

And now my neighbor is frying PORK so help me GOD

Casualties of Mold

(I started writing this entry last 11 August 2011. Yes, painful things are hard to say out loud.)

1. DVD bookshelf (The Tower of Power)
2. "Foyer" table
3. Countless framed photos and artwork
4. A bag of cloth I was supposed to experiment on with Daisy the Sewing Machine

5. TV stand
6. The k2 Couch

7. A few DVDs (sosi ang mold ko; ang tinira yung ibang binili ko pa sa US)

8. About 90% of my book collection.

Number eight was the most painful. I did not cry when I threw out my old journals, photos and letters. But when I came back from the garbage chute and saw my practically bare bookshelves I did this whole dry-heave-slash-Toni- Braxton-in-the-shower thing in the middle of the living room. When Mom arrived the next day to pick up the dead TV stand I cried like a baby all over again.

I remember when and where I bought them, how I found them, what reading them for the first time felt like, what reading them for the umpteenth time felt like, where I brought them. It wasn't just the story of the book itself, it was MY story with them, you know? Sigh sigh sigh.

I have never been a fan of reading books on a laptop or iPad (even The Bourne Identity couldn't do it for me), but mold just might swing my vote the cyber-way. I've started reading up on the Kindle. We finally found ONE store that sells it in Greenhills (the place where you can supposedly find ANYTHING; so parang hindi patok ang Kindle sa Pinas), but the lady wouldn't let me turn it on because it was their only unit, so medyo pointless; I wanna see what the words look like!!

Anydahoo.

Lessons learned:

1. I don't really need a lot to live.

2. The stuff you hardly use (bags, shoes) are the ones that get screwed over. So use them or lose them.

3. There's nothing like fresh air.

But oh, my books! My books!

(Wo)Man vs. Mold

Mold and mildew (a variety of fungus with a particular affinity for fabric and paper) can release particles that may cause headaches and aggravate asthma, allergies, and sinus problems -- and even change your mood.-- marthastewart.com

Those little shits are changing my mood, all right. They're making me hate cleaning (which I so don't want to hate because it keeps me sane). They're making me feel depressed--like a dirty child who can't keep her room clean. (But I do keep my room clean, I do!)

They have held hostage two pieces of living room furniture, one pair of my shoes, a leather bag, a leather WATCH, and three (!) pairs of Da Boyfriend's shoes. I have spent a small fortune on Messy Bessy's Tea Tree Mold and Mildew Spray, Pledge Lemon Clean Furniture Spray, rubber gloves, face masks, rags, dehumidifiers, and vinegar. But the little shits KEEP COMING BACK!

Giddemit.

This is what I get for being cheap and buying MDF furniture. But real wood costs an arm and a leg--and I like my arms and legs.

This is what I get for ignoring the little bubbles and cracks in the paint of our living room wall that first appeared about a year and a half ago (or maybe even more). The building contractors even came in and asked us if we were having any water problems (the people upstairs were), but at that time we didn't have any Mold Monsters running around. Now we do.

The building contractors are coming back tomorrow to check the wall out. Am I insane that I'm hoping there IS something wrong with the wall--even if it means construction work and being homeless for a few days--because that will mean I am NOT a dirty child?

Am I such a dork that I equate a great portion of my self-worth with how clean my home is? Is there a fifties housewife hiding underneath all this curly hair? Is there a shitload of mold hiding underneath the wall? Abangan!

Apocalypse Now?

Being alone on the 29th floor during an earthquake at 1:15am is not fun.

I was typing on the laptop when the couch started making a knocking sound while my fat ass was on it. Not cool. I felt dizzy, but wondered if I was just hungry. Then I saw two good friends post "Earthquake!" on Facebook. I shut the laptop down and wondered if I should run down 29 flights of stairs or run up 11 or 12 of them.

I woke my sister up with a phone call. Two streets and three floors down (they live on the 26th floor), she didn't feel anything. I asked about Tony. "Tony's asleep." I figured if Tony's animal spidey senses hadn't kicked in then there wasn't any cause for alarm. Either that or he was a clueless puppy.

I woke Da Boyfriend up with a phone call, too. I was so glad he wasn't out drinking or driving.

I changed into more "presentable" sleepwear and put all my stuff back in my bag (yes, I was still thinking about work). Four hours later, I was still wide awake and kind of freaked out.

Jeans and Juju

(Because I have been thinking about fashion and feng shui recently...)

Fashion

These are the kinds of tops I find myself buying, wearing, and washing over and over and over:

And I pair them with bottoms and shoes like these:

Take out what little boobies I have, ditch the girly cut of the top and pants, and I dress like a boy. (That's happened more than once: I'd meet up with The Boyfriend and we'd be wearing similar outfits.) We have a good friend who plays for the other team and she dresses beautifully; a part of me wants to start taking down notes.

So lately I've found myself wondering, "Is this all there is to my closet? Should there be more to my closet? Am I, as a 32-year-old female, being inappropriate?"

I've been flipping through the pages of this fashion bible of sorts, purchased when I started working here a few years back and had to know terms like "kitten heel" and "bubble skirt". Let's see if I go beyond the Post-It notes and highlighted text (yes, I treated it like a schoolbook) and start dressing differently.

Feng Shui

I've been thinking of getting one of these little babies for the apartment. They're cute, they're green, and I'm hoping they'll bring nature into the house and help with indoor air pollution.

I've also been thinking of getting (budget permitting) a tabletop fountain for that Zen sound and feeling.

See where my brain seems to be going with this? I know. It kind of seems kooky and un-Me. Then I ran into this book and she sounded so normal:

How Does Feng Shui Work?

The fundamental principle of feng shui is really quite simple and makes perfect sense: When you live and work in places that feel good to you, your attitude becomes more positive, and the quality of your life improves. Feng shui, at its most basic level, is a set of principles that you can apply to your surroundings in order to experience greater pleasure and satisfaction in whatever it is you are doing.

...Fashion and feng shui. Jeans and juju. I guess my insides wanna do some spring cleaning.