I still haven’t finished giving away the Kick A** Award and today, I have just the person in mind. Before we proceed to that, however, I’d like to answer a Google image tag from Little Miss Firefly. I had such a great time looking for pictures! If you must know, I’m also addicted to Google, and if such a thing as a PhD in Google-ology exists (I think I beat Jenny McCarthy to this), I bet I’d have gotten it by now.

The rules are:
a) answer the question below, do a Google Image search with your answer, take a picture from the 1st page of results, do it with minimal words of explanation; and
b) tag 5 people to do the same once you’ve finished answering every question.

Okay, let’s take a deep breath… *hu hu hu… hi hi hi…* and agree to this: how about we do the first one and skip number 2? Everyone happy with that? (I bet people just heaved a sigh of relief with this one.)

1. The age you’ll be on your next birthday:

Do you see it? I hope you don’t, heehee. Ah, well, I don’t look a day over 39, anyway.

2. Place you want to travel to:

Easy enough to answer, this one is. (Do I sound like Yoda?) A and I haven’t traveled a lot as a couple (well, he does, but for work) and almost everyone who knows the circumstances of our lives knows why. But one of these days, before we get too old and wobbly to move on our own, we would like to spend a little time here, in the City Of Lights. And if it doesn’t happen, I think I can photoshop myself very well in one of these pictures, heehee.

3. Your favourite place:

My favorite place in the whole wide world is the bedroom. This is where the family congregates most days: A and Alex watching movies on DVD, me playing with my Hello Kitty doll, and Alphonse blowing bubbles by the side. And of course, this lovely picture-perfect room isn’t my bedroom, but this one is:

(from Alphonse’s PECs cards)

Notice how there’s a blanket on the headboard? It’s to prevent Alphonse from banging his front teeth on it. He’s already chipped one.

4. Your favourite food:

Yummy! I could eat a quart in one sitting! This is also my favorite flavor. A little trivia: did you know that this uses red cabbage juice for coloring, and not some nasty allergy-inducing Red #40? Hooray for Ben & Jerry!

5. Your favourite pet:

Alex used to have a guinea pig named Genie who looks almost like this little fellow, except she was slightly darker. He was five when he begged to get her but like most little children, he failed to realize the responsibilities that came with having a pet. So Genie became mine. I gave her baths, brushed her hair, fed her carrots, celery, and nuts and cleaned her cage. I even taught her some tricks using ABA.

Sadly, she’s passed on to the place where all good guinea pigs go to after life. Her cage now stands empty. I still miss her little shrieks. *Woot! Woot!*

6. Favorite color combination:

Pink and brown- these colors are gorgeous together!

7. Favorite piece of clothing:

I’m a jeans girl at heart and am thankful that there are very good local brands that cater to full-figured women. When A and I were planning our church wedding, I was seriouly considering getting married in one, but my mom vetoed my suggestion. Yeah, maybe she was right on that one… maybe.

8. Your all time favorite song:

My all-time favorite song comes from the movie “Bituing Walang Ningning.” It’s “Sana’y Maghintay Ang Walang Hanggan,” with lyrics and music by Willy Cruz and Baby Gil. I get 99 on Magic Sing with this too! (Magic Sings says “What a excellent singer!”)

9. Favorite TV show:

We’re doing “Monk” marathons at home so this has got to be a current favorite. On shows for more mature audiences, A and I love “Deadwood.”

10. First name of your significant other:

No, not Maria.

11. Which town do you live in:

We live in a little barrio in one of the most populous and biggest cities in the Philippines, where sidewalks are brick red (or will soon be), and where urban lifestyles meet with rural surroundings. I’m a Kyusi (Q.C. for Quezon City) girl, born and bred.

12. Your screen name/nickname:

Kittymama is Kitty’s mama.

13. Your first job:

I wasn’t as cute as that little girl, though.

14. Your dream job:

I’m living it!

15. One bad habit that you have:

I’m a verrry late sleeper and my hours don’t always coincide with A’s. He sleeps early and wakes up at the crack of dawn whereas I can’t sleep until the wee hours of the morning. Thankfully, Alphonse doesn’t wake up early too often and I can make up for lost sleep then. I ought to change, I know.

16. Worst fear:

Loss of my loved ones. And I’m not even going to think about it right now. Just thinking about it makes me weep.

17: Things you’d like to do before you die:

And maybe sing back-up to Sharon Cuneta.

18. The 1st thing you’ll buy if you get $1,000,000:

This is my dream home, a Tokyo Mansions home smack in the heart of one of Metro Manila’s most affluent cities.

19. Your husband/wife:

Kitty’s boyfriend is Dear Daniel. If I’m Kittymama, does that make A Danielpapa?

20. What present would you like for your next birthday? (Note: make it anniversary, heehee.)

This, I would love to have. I’m partial to the first edition Hello Kitty Build-A-Bear because Hello Kitty is traditionally a white cat, but the sunkissed Kitty is just as beautiful. I would love to have any of these two, with lots of clothes and shoes. Ah, eBay, here I come!

~~0~~

Thank you, Odette, for this enjoyable tag! As a thank you gift, I pass on this second Kick A** award to one of the most creative people I know. Odette (or Little Miss Firefly) makes beautiful things by hand, and if you go visit her blog right now, you’ll find that she’s been very busy these past few weeks with her household projects. She’s also one heck of a photographer with an amazing eye for detail. I wish I was even just half as creative as she is.

So here’s to you, Little Miss Firefly, and may you continue to light the world with your beautiful creations.

I normally stay away from blogging till Wednesday morning, and only after I’ve submitted my articles for the week. This I do as a matter of discipline since blogging eats up a lot of my time (verrry, verrry addictive!). But just this once, while sending out an article to my editor this afternoon, I finally gave in to the temptation to bloghop and surf the web. Lo and behold, I found this:

See the arrow I put over there? See the name?

Yipppeeee!

No Special Effects is a finalist in the Food and Beverage Category of the 2008 Philippine Blog Awards! Man, I am definitely impressed. And soooo proud!

To Manggy, my young friend, whose amazing talents have given us this wonderful, quirky, enjoyable, and highly compelling blog, I send you all the positive energy of the universe and wish you success. If it were up to me (and no insult to the fine blogs who are nominated with you), I’d hand you over the  award, hands down.

And with this in mind, I hereby bestow this award that has been waiting for quite a time to move on to its next recipient: The Kick Ass Award given to me by the very generous Teacher Julie.   

This is for you, Manggy, because you definitely kick a** (sorry, I try not to use the word very often because my son reads this blog, heehee).

Hats off to you! Hip, hip, hooray!

It must be the season for adolescent angst as I deal with two hormonal young men in my household. While Alphonse grapples with his feelings of jealousy and insecurity, Alex seems to find his way into mischief now more than ever. All weekend long, he and I were constantly bickering, and I suddenly missed the days when my son thought of me as divine and infallible. Nowadays, it seems the first words out of his mouth always begin with a “But.”

By Sunday, I was worn out from all the explaining and discussing, and yes, arguing. I ignored him as long as I could; I didn’t want him to see me lose control. Worse, I didn’t want him to see me cry. I crawled into bed in the middle of the afternoon and slept.

When I woke up, I saw a piece of paper neatly folded by my side table. On it was a poem Alex had written for me. This time, I gave in to my tears.

How the heart weeps and cries,
For such a useless thing
How meaningless can a man die,
When he starts to weep and sigh

On accounting of my deeds
I’ve oft but shown my pride
I say with lack of dignity
“I’ve been all I’ve needed to be!”

“I deserve a right to do
Whatever I may wish
To rampage through lands unknown
To scour the globe with steel and bow!”

“I’ve done what I’ve needed to do!
The time now is to relax and be through!
With useless chores and laborious days
I deserve my break!”

But on reflecting of my crimes
I’ve seen with sorrow and dread
Unknowingly and grudgingly
I caused my own death

My death from times I might’ve enjoyed
If patience I had had
And times I may’ve laughed and smiled
When all I’d done was sigh

And in seeing my attitude
Of how I sit upon a high horse
I scurry down with fearful dread
And change my heart’s ways

“Have pity!” I cry
bending down on knees that creak and groan
“Have mercy, please, I beg of thee
I’ll change now and forevermore.”

This I said with a changing heart
That smiles as it did before
Before, when I was proud and grim
Before, when I was seated on my high horse

I didn’t think adolescence would be this tough and right now, we’re barely at the starting line. The days when my son tests my patience and parental control while he searches for his sense of self, his identity, and his autonomy seem at hand; I dread more days like these. And yet, as long as he continues to dialogue with me- with us- and as long as he expresses his feelings of confusion, anger, remorse in ways like these, I am pretty confident we will weather this teenage storm. I pray. I hope.   

This article was originally posted in HerWord.com on September 8, 2008.

A few years ago, a friend of mine rang me in the middle of the day and started screaming at the top of her voice, “He lied today. Oh, my, he has learned to lie!”

He is her nine-year old son with autism.

Apparently, he was playing hide-and-seek with his little brother that afternoon, when little brother asked “Are you in the bathroom?” Normally, he would answer a direct question with a yes or no, oblivious to the fact that his little brother was using his honest replies to tag him and get an edge in the game. That day, for some strange reason, he shouted “No!” though he was, indeed, inside the bathroom. Little brother, expecting victory on his side, ran to kitchen and asked “Are you in the kitchen?” at which time he was surprised to find his brother appear from behind him.

“No fair!” little brother cried out and tried to tell on him. Big brother just smiled delightedly.

And so, when my friend called me up that afternoon, I got caught up in all the shrieking and rejoicing, too. After all, it isn’t everyday that our children with autism get to reach a cognitive milestone.

Just last week, Alphonse reached his own cognitive milestone. For the first time in a long while, I caught a distinctive glimmer of the soul hidden behind his autism. Last week, Alphonse learned the rudiments of jealousy.

It started quite unexpectedly. My sister dropped off her infant son and his nanny here at home, asking if I minded looking after him while she worked. She had some things to finish at the hospital that day, after which she would pick up her son to go to a friend’s house. Since my house was nearer their secondary destination, she asked if he could stay a few hours here with me. “Of course,” I readily agreed, excited at the prospect of having a baby in the house. Since my next-door neighbors (my cousin and her two gorgeous children) left early this year, I had missed having little visitors come to the house to eat and play. Baby J was a little too young for rambunctious play, but he’s been very giggly these last few weeks, and he does give out the wettest, slurpiest kisses of all my nephews and nieces.

Baby J was playing quietly on my bed with the boys’ old toys when Alphonse came up after his morning class. I took Alphonse by the hand and re-introduced his baby cousin.

“Alphonse, this is Baby J. He is here for a visit. Do you want to say hello?” I said enthusiastically.

“Ha!” Alphonse grunted and waved reluctantly.

Then he inched away from the baby, preferring to watch from a few feet away. He looked disinterested, or so I thought, though I did catch him stealing a few glances from the side of his eyes. I asked him if he wanted something. He smiled shyly and turned away. Again, he stole a few glances at the baby and suddenly scowled a little. I was a little concerned at his reactions, so I thought to distract him from his preoccupation with the baby. I asked him to join me for lunch. I was rather surprised when he said no.

“No? Aren’t you hungry, Alphonse? Let’s go eat lunch,” I gently coaxed him.

He would not budge.

I decided to leave him in the room. Alphonse is a predictable fellow, and there are some things that we’ve all learned will work with him. And this is one such formula: when I leave a room, he follows. That particular moment, he stayed behind, lingering and looking at the baby intently.

Then, and this is according to Alphonse’s nanny, he made his way to the bed, sidled up close to the baby, and gently took his baby toys from the bed, away from Baby J. Smiling, he put them as far away as possible, almost near the floor. Only when he was assured that the baby would not be able to reach his toys did his face betray the first signs of a smile.

When his nanny rushed down to tell me about it, I could not believe it at first. Alphonse has never felt territorial with his toys or any of his possessions (okay, except for food); most of the time, he would not care less who touches or plays with them. But that day, he didn’t want to share at all.

In the afternoon, just before his class, he went back to the bedroom again, and upon seeing the baby beside me on the bed, slowly crept up and gingerly inserted himself between the baby and myself. He flashed a smile of triumph, as if to say “I’ve claimed my bed and my mother,” while baby J mewled softly beside him. He also kept asking for kisses and would not leave my side, despite his nanny’s reminders that it was time to study anew. I had to escort him back to his study room.

When my sister fetched Baby J, Alphonse was visibly relieved. In the following days, he seemed a little anxious, although we simply ascribed it to the minor changes in his routine. Unexpected visitors always seem to ruin his rhythm.

A few days later, however, he was back to his jovial, relaxed self. It was a good day, just one of those days when all his answers were smiling yesses, as he seems to want to please everyone.

“Are you a good boy?” Alphonse nods to say yes.

“Do you like ice cream?” Yes.

“Do you want a kiss?” Yes.

“Are you happy?” Yes.

And even “Do you have body odor?” Yes. (For the record, he does not have body odor.)

So it was turning out to be one of those funny days when he says yes to all you ask, but my sister just happened to ask this question: “Do you like Baby J”

Alphonse smiled and shook his head.

“You don’t? Oh, my poor baby!” my sister cried.

Alphonse kept smiling and shaking his head. No. No. No.

My thirteen year-old son, my Alphonse, is jealous of a little baby. Oh, what a glorious day!

I’ve been enjoying dressing my Kitty doll so much that often, it actually feels like I have a “daughter.” I shop for clothes on a regular basis, and my loved ones, feeling the happiness I derive from this experience, have also contributed to Kitty’s growing clothes closet. Aside from her original yukata and polka-dotted bikini, she now owns a pink ballerina dress, a white satin Sunday dress (you know, for more formal occasions), a pair of blue denim pants, a pink denim skirt, and a couple of shirts. 

One of my new friend Marge’s legacy to Kitty lovers like me was this chance to own a closet drawer for my Kitty. Thank you so much, Marge! Kitty and her mama love organizing her tiny drawers! (*Hugs*)

And how nice that Kitty gets presents too from her aunts? My sister gave me these clothes to add to Kitty’s drawers- pretty pink jumpsuits and dresses!

The latter reminded me so much of Kitty in Wonderland that I decided to play around with photoshop and do this:

Kitty in Rabbit’s home

But my sister’s kindness didn’t just end there. My sisters and I all went to Maryknoll College (now Miriam College). I did my stint in grade school while they stayed in MC till high school. She thought Kitty might want to go to school there too. Well, I’m not sure they accept cats, though, even the brilliant ones. :-)  (For high school, Kitty’s definitely going to Pisay, heehee. I’m having her uniform sewn out of my old ones.)

Aww, my Kitty’s all grown up! She’s now a schoolgirl!

Lastly, I wanted to show off her custom socks. These are sewn out of some of Alex’s preemie socks; I’ve made a few others in different colors from the boys’ leftover baby socks. How cute that their little “sister”  gets to wear their hand-me-downs? 

Now if I can only find some shoes…

(I’m getting really good with Photoshop, thanks to sites like this where I learn all sorts of cool things.)

A good friend of mine I’ve reconnected with just recently over Facebook sent me a message about the name Okasaneko. I am glad that he shared his thoughts with me; he is, after all, quite fluent in the Japanese language as he took his doctorate studies at the Nagasaki University Medical School in Japan.

Here is what he told me:

“Okasan would translate to Mr. Oka.

“Okaasan (with a long second syllable) would be Mommy, or you could drop the honorific O and just   have Kaasan. Or much easier would be the third person form, HAHA. But HAHANEKO doesn’t really have the same ring to it does it?

“Just my 2 cents.”

And here is my reply:

“My tita (aunt) said the exact same thing, but I was going for more of the sound than the spelling. Oka, she says, means “hill,” but in the beginning, when I was starting my blog, everyone (meaning, people I know) read it as o-ka-a-san, with emphasis on the a-a, (read separately as ah-ah with the short a sound) as in a-a-sa-han of Filipino (I will hope). It (Okasan) was just easier on the ears but okaasan is indeed the correct form.

“Oh, at least you know the intent, and you can breathe easy that I do pronounce it with the long second syllable, heehee.

“Just my luck to run into a guy who took graduate studies in Nagasaki! (Actually, he took his doctorate degree there, in molecular virology! What a brain!)

“Thanks a lot! I miss bumping heads with brainy people.

~♥Kittymama

So, now, we know. Everyone, let’s try to read it the correct way so Kittymama does not turn into Mr. Hill- O-ka-sa-ne-ko (prolong the ka, please!).

Once again: O-ka-sa-ne-ko.

Thank you! Have a great Day!

This was written by my youngest sister Jasmine. I asked her permission to put it here in honor of our Dad’s 67th birthday today. I am not able to write about this as bravely as she has and so, I am borrowing her words today. Thank you, Jas.

Daddy and his first grandchild, Alexander

And to our dearest Daddy, the first man I ever loved, the man who gave all five of his children the sun and the moon and the stars- Happy Birthday! We love you so much.

~0~  

Lost-And-Found Daddy

by Jasmine N.O.

My father smells awful.

And I am glad.

Most days, the smell of sweat, cigarettes, rust and hard work cling to him, trailing his every movement. It is an odor that has followed him every working day of his life. And for a time, during my adolescence, I found it quite embarrassing.

But now I welcome it.

It is the smell of a self-made man.

When I was growing up. My father made a decent living managing a factory he single-handedly built from the ground up. Daddy worked incessantly, day and night, weekdays and weekends- always with the seemingly untiring precision of a clockwork figure.

During those early years, we lived in a modest house half-perched on top of the factory. And each day, he would descend the stairs wrapped in a cloud of soapy freshness. Yet he would always come back smelling like the chemicals and metals of his trade.

As a matter of routine, upon returning home, he would lie down, still reeking like a sack of rusty nails. Then we would scramble up his bed and sidle up next to him, unmindful of the odor.

As we grew, his business flourished. Daddy’s hard work provided us with all we could ever need, and much more besides. We were by no means spoiled brats, but all our young lives, we never knew what it was to want for anything.

We lived a privileged existence. Pampered with more books and toys than we knew what to do with, chauffeured to and from the best private schools, encouraged to bloom through dance, art, and music lessons. We had the best of everything, all due to his tired, sweaty factory smell.

As the youngest child, I was Daddy’s Girl. On shopping trips, when a clean-shaven and perfumed Daddy would firmly tell me that a certain purchase would be my last for the day, I would turn on the charm and get him to agree to buy me the last, last item. And the last, last, last after that. And the last, last, last, last after that. And so on. I was loved.

When I was about four years olds, I lamented being born three days before Christmas. Much to my dismay, I would always get joint birthday and Christmas presents from relatives and friends. To make up for this “gross injustice,” Daddy declared that my birthday would officially begin on December 1st and stretch all the way down to January 6th, the Feast of the Three Kings. True enough, beginning the first of each December, I would receive little presents from Daddy.

To be sure, Daddy was not a selfish man. The success of his kamalig (translation: warehouse), as he liked to call it, allowed him to send all five of us to college, and the other four on to medical or law school. But he always kept his widowed mother and younger siblings in mind.

The kamalig allowed him to provide jobs for his younger brothers and sisters. It allowed him to build a spacious house of his own and an even grander one for his mother. He was a father to the entire extended family. Even down to our less fortunate cousins, majority of whom he sent to school.

But in 1992, a series of strokes and a family dispute put an end to life as we knew it.

While in his sickbed, Daddy was accused of theft by the siblings he loved and employed. Never mind that he gave them more than he ever kept for us. Never mind that the deeds to majority of the property he had accumulated were in their names. Never mind that he had to do without a lot… for us, for them.

Confused, weakened, so much unlike himself, he yielded. And he lost everything he had ever worked for, save for the home and the cars. He lost the kamalig and with it, that kamalig stench.

I was still in college then. And pretending like nothing was different, I plodded my way through school, surrounded by the din of friends and classmates, many of whom were none the wiser to my new predicament.

When left to my own devices, I would try not to cry. Yet sometimes, sorrow and anger would get the better of me and I would wrap my fists tightly around a bunch of coins. Then I would wait. Wait for the rusty smell to grow on my sweaty palms. It was almost like that kamalig smell. It was comfort when I needed it most.

From school, I would often return to a quiet and darkened house. To a grieving family suddenly thrown into hard times.

We were not used to worrying about money. But more than that, we were not used to having to take care of Daddy. He always took care of us.

Robbed of his pride and his notion of self worth, he withdrew into a deep depression. His strokes left him with virtually no physical deficits and yet he remained bound to his bed. His work-calloused hands and feet grew soft and smooth from disuse.

What disease could not do, his siblings and his mother did effortlessly.

They broke him. They defeated him. They all but killed him.

Whereas before, he hardly ever raised his voice, he became prone to fits of rage. He lost his laughter- a man who once seemed invincible, reduced to muted tears of anguish and anger. Gone was his enviable zest for life and living. In its place was much sadness and thoughts of death and dying.

He became a stranger to us.

That above all was the greatest loss. Far greater than the loss of money, property , or extended family.

He was robbed of everything that made him who he was. And we found ourselves just as lost as he was. Perhaps more so.

A very good school friend who knew a similar fate once told me how much of a stranger her own father had become. “I love him,” she said sadly. “But I no longer like him.” For a time, that summed up how I felt about my father. I could not find even a glimmer of the man he once was. And that is a horror and tragedy that I never would have thought was possible.

But opiating forgetfulness is kind.

In time, the gaping wounds healed.

Grandchildren brought back a twinkle to daddy’s eyes. He found his laughter again. He regained his pride.

The sale of the lavish residence, so close to his mother’s and siblings’ homes, gave him renewed vigor.

It was like cutting ties again. Only willingly this time. And permanently.

We packed up our things and never looked back.

And from the sale of the house, daddy constructed a new home. And a new factory. A modest one that can’t compare to what he once had, but it’s his. All his. Pabrika (translation: factory), he now calls it.

And each day, he leaves the new home under a cloud of soapy freshness.

And each night, he returns, the smell of sweat, cigarettes, rust and hard work clinging to him.

Like old times.

Well, almost…

For a few minutes yesterday at lunch, I was a queen dressed up in the fashion of Henry VIII’s reign. I should have expected it when the invitation for the advanced screening of HBO’s The Tudors landed on my hands. It was just the kind of kooky and fun thing the creative people behind Virtusio Public Relations would have up their sleeve. And really, as a  prelude to the screening, it was a perfect way to break the ice with a group of journalists.

I had some misgivings at first with the heavy period costume, with its faux fur collar and sleeves, layers of petticoats, and heavy satin lining; besides, I did not relish the idea of dressing up, only to be decapitated. :-) After a while, however, I started to enjoy the lavishness and outrageousness of the costume. I mean, how often in one’s life does one get the chance to be a queen, if only for a few minutes? Before I knew it, I felt immensely royal and, ehrm, queenly. I was also seized with this sudden urge  to command people around.

“Let them eat cake!” I wanted to scream. (Oops, I channeled the wrong queen; that’s Marie Antoinette.*) 

“I will make you shorter by the head!” (Still the wrong queen; that’s Elizabeth I, daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. I am a history nut.)

I was brought back to earth when I was introduced to the wonderful Ms. Karen Lai, Director for Communications for HBO. Over a sumptuous repast, I also had the privilege to exchange a few thoughts with Mr. Romy Virtusio, the man himself, the force behind Virtusio Public Relations. He is a thoroughly engaging man, with a quick wit and a very unassuming manner that makes one feel instantly at home with him.

After lunch, we headed to the theater, free popcorn and drinks in hand. We were shown the first two episodes of The Tudors and I must say that despite some awfully large liberties with history, this series is sure to catch the public’s imagination. Too bad they only have it on HBO Signature for now (starts September 10). I think I’ll ask A to buy for me the complete first season boxed set at Amazon (retails $20.99) so I don’t have to wait while Skycable Platinum finds its way into my area.

In the league of Henry’s Queens? 

The wives of King Henry VIII plus one: Queen’s photos from http://www.eriding.net/media/tudors.shtml#3a

At the end of the screening, we were asked to vote which of the people who had their pictures taken as King or Queen would be awarded King Henry and Queen Anne (Boleyn) for the day. Votes for the King were unanimous, but the Queens slugged it out neck and neck. Alas, I should have voted for myself because I lost by only one point. Boohoo! 

Still, I have have no regrets. When I got home late afternoon, I still felt very much like a Queen, surrounded by a retinue of gorgeous men (three, to be exact, heehee) who obeyed my every beck and call. Pondering upon the fates of Henry VIII’s queens, I realized, however, that perhaps I must exercise more discretion with all the commanding and summoning and beckoning that I do. For indeed, the last thing I want is suffer a tragic fate like this:

photo of headless Anne Boleyn doll from http://joycestahl.blogspot.com/2008/05/ghosts-and-pumpkins.html (Go visit this very creative, if a little morbid, site!)

For more gruesomely fascinating photos of decapitated Queen dolls, visit www.headlesshistoricals.com.

~0~

A thirty-second history lesson: “Let them eat cake!” is a statement often attributed to Marie Antoinette in the days leading to the French Revolution, but historical scrutiny has shown that this came from French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau in his autobiographical book Confessions which was written in 1766. And in 1766, Marie Antoinette was only 10 years old, certainly too young to be married to Louis XVI. 

I was officially released from my “husband-imposed quarantine” (sorry, hon) last Friday, when A, Alex and I took in the third-to-the-last show of Cinderella at the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP). By then, while I still couldn’t wear abrasive clothing (like jeans) which would scratch at my healing abdomen, I was well enough to put on a soft, slinky dress (imagine me in a dress!) that A had bought for me and stay out till late at night.

As soon as the lights went out and Lea Salonga’s voice filled the hall, I wept like a hormone-addled PMS sufferer. I couldn’t help it. Something about her voice evokes that same reaction every single time. Indeed, Ms. Salonga’s voice has definitely grown more refined and more elegant with time, mirroring her emotion and thoughts with subtle changes in inflection, tone, and body. And as old (at 41) as I am and as jaded as I am now of real life, I still wept when she finally found her Prince.

A held my hand tightly in his. I think he was a little afraid I would pass out from the excitement. I saw him glance at me a few times in the dark, as he wiped a tear or two from my cheeks.

A got good seats for us, just four rows from the stage. We were so close we could see the microphone stuck on the actors’ foreheads, heehee. And much like the four-year-old child I was when I first saw Disney’s Cinderella (technically, Disney’s Cinderella is much, much, much older, having been created in 1950), I had my mouth open for most of show, in turns guffawing in laughter, holding my breath in excitement, and weeping with happiness. Moreover, I was enthralled by the details- the lavish costumes, the wonderful colors, the elaborate sets, and the lightning-quick changes (Ms. Salonga changed from servant girl to fabulous-princess-of-the-ball in less than a minute). The production values were excellent in every way.

I loved Cinderella, loved it so much that I begged A to watch another show with me, even just a matinee. I knew, however, that with Alex’s exams coming this week, our weekend would have to be spent at home. I was sad to go but A always does the sweetest things to cheer me up. He gave me a souvenir program, a CD of the international tour cast recording, and a charm bracelet (with slipper, pumpkin, and Cinderella charms) to bring home. On the car on the way home, Alex was already singing lines from the song. When he asked me which song I loved the best, I said it was this:

Prince: Do I love you because you’re beautiful,
or are you beautiful because I love you?
Am I making believe I see in you
a girl too lovely to be really true?
Do I want you because you’re wonderful,
or are you wonderful because I want you?
Are you the sweet invention of a lover’s dream
or are you really as beautiful as you seem?

Cinderella: Am I making believe I see in you
a man too perfect to be really true?
Do I want you because you’re wonderful,
or are you wonderful because I want you?

Both: Are you the sweet invention of a lover’s dream
or are you really as wonderful as you seem?

While Cinderella and the Prince sang this song, I was reminded of myself and how I saw myself through my eyes. Sometimes, fairy tales do come true. At least, it did for me.

~0~

I looked for this article which I wrote years ago and I read this to Alex when we got home that night. He was asking too many questions, wanting to understand why that specific song resonated loudly in my life. I think he understands now.

The Beauty of Loving

Early on in life, I knew I was no ravishing beauty. At an age when many little girls dreamt of becoming Miss Universe, I knew as early as then that it was useless and foolish to pine for this impossible dream. I didn’t chance upon this conclusion by myself. One of my earliest memories was that of my paternal grandmother pinching my flat nose and saying, “Eto, pango, hindi talaga maganda.” (This one has a flat nose, not beautiful at all.”) I was only three years old.

My younger sister Joanne (the one who grew up to call herself Joee), well, she was the beauty of the family, everyone agreed. She was lithe and petite, whereas I was chubby and chunky. Her complexion was golden and creamy, whereas I was pasty and white like a ball of dough. She had deep-set eyes fringed with long eyelashes, while mine were hairless Chinese slits I inherited from our father. She had pouty lips that I tried to imitate, only to end up looking like a fish without gills. She even had dimples — on both cheeks! Hands down, my Incredible Hulkette was no match for her graceful beauty.

Foolishly, I took all those against her while we were growing up, as if she had any choice on the matter at all. I deeply resented her luck. Thankfully, she didn’t quite catch on that I didn’t want to be around her most of the time. I’d devise ways to get back at her, though she always put one over me, no matter how deviously I tried. Looking back, I was a rather lame evil sister. I’d play with her Barbie toys and leave them lying around (so she’d get scolded by my mom), and as soon as I turned my back on her, she’d be running around the house innocently gumming and chewing on my Ballerina Barbie doll’s leg. By the time I rescued Barbie, my sister had already dripped drool all over the doll’s hair and painted face. She even decapitated it accidentally.

I was the big sister she desperately wanted to close be with. She hounded me like a sweet little puppy and tried to insinuate herself into my life. I kept her at bay and distanced myself from her. At family reunions, I’d sit as far away from her as possible so that our critical and tactless relatives wouldn’t have to compare her to me.

A funny thing happened when I reached adolescence. I sprouted a foot and a half overnight. I grew breasts and curvy hips. My face developed a semblance of cheekbones as puberty distributed the fat in all the right places. All of a sudden, I was no longer fat and plain of face. Sure, I was still no beauty, but I didn’t think I looked all that bad. My sister, on the other hand, remained a child for some years after I had grown. Because she was always small for her age, even in adolescence, she remained smaller than most. I got to wear hip, teenage clothes while my mom forced her to wear baby dresses with Peter Pan collars and Dumbo patches, much to my sister’s chagrin. I almost pitied her then.

When she finally caught up with me (I think she started to grow and develop around her junior year in high school), I lost steam again. Ah, that was it, I gave up. I felt that I had no chance of ever competing with her in the arena of physical attributes so I buried myself in books. I stayed up late at nights to do more work for extra credit. I made myself adhere to a rigid schedule of study and it paid off. When I got a science scholarship in high school and later on got in the state university, I heaved a sigh of relief. Finally, people were no longer wont to notice my funny-looking face or my large figure, only my brains.

There was a commercial advertisement many years back that struck me on a personal level, not because of the message but because of the character they employed to get the message across. In the past, I often identified myself with that girl in the commercial. Rosa Axion Bida had pimples on her face, a few blackened teeth, a large flat nose, and an ungainly, awkward build. In short, she was pimply, fat and ugly — a cruel stereotype of household help. Many days, I felt as ugly as she was depicted.

I carried that image in my heart for many, many years. I even dreamt of her, and in my dreams, I was Rosa Axion Bida. Her image was seared in my brain.

I didn’t realize it then, but when I finally acknowledged that I could achieve something on my own by sheer hard work, I stopped becoming preoccupied with physical beauty. I learned to laugh more. I learned to laugh at myself. I laughed from my belly and from somewhere deeper down, a layer I hadn’t known existed. I ran and played and enjoyed myself. I became comfortable in my own skin. And somewhere down the road, I forged a real friendship with my sister, never mind that she is and will always be the ravishing beauty of the family.

Still, I didn’t chuck all the cosmetic trappings; rather, I learned to use it for my own pleasure. I dressed to please myself and I made myself up not for anyone else but for my own satisfaction.

The people in my life attested to this change. They never flattered me and called me beautiful; that would be hogwash, of course, but many complimented my grace and my spirit. Some loved my feistiness and my grit, others my determination and my persistence. They loved my laughter, which they said was natural and devoid of artifice. They admired my words, which they said could evoke strong feelings in them. I was happy. I was being me.

I met my husband when we were both thirteen. When we were eighteen, he said I was the most beautiful human being he had ever known. I punched him hard in the arm and guffawed. Me — beautiful? He must be joking! He took it all in stride and punched me back lightly in the arm, all the while grinning and exposing his pearly whites like crazy. He learned never to call me beautiful again.

Then late one night, a few nights after I had just given birth to our first son, I awakened to the light rustling of sheets as my husband sought to swaddle Alex in flurry of blankets. I heard him crooning softly to our newborn baby. “You’re the luckiest baby in the word,” he said softly. “I love you, do you know that? And you are as beautiful as your mom.” My heart leapt for joy. Fast-forward to today. My son is ten, and beginning to appreciate the different faces and figures of people. “Human beings are like art, Mama,” he says knowingly. “Some are abstract art, but their colors make you happy. Some are beautiful paintings, but they leave you cold inside.”

“What about me, then?” I asked in jest. I wanted to see what he would say. I remembered suddenly, with a twinge of pain, how in kindergarten, he wrote about his mother being the kindest woman he had ever known. He added that his best friend wrote that his mom was pretty and had a nice figure. Why didn’t he write the same of me? “But, Mama, that would be a lie.” I had to smile despite myself.

“You, Mama?” I heard him breathe deeply. “You are the most beautiful painting in the whole world because you make my heart sing. I love you.”

I should learn a thing or two from the people who love me. Maybe I am beautiful. In their eyes, anyway. And if so, it is their love that makes me that way. So today, in the midst of eyebags and stretch marks, cellulite and thunder thighs, I no longer see myself as Rosa Axion Bida. I am beautiful, this I’ve learned from those who love me.

I am beautiful because I accept. I am beautiful because I forgive. And I am beautiful because I love.

My Hello Kitty Dress Me doll arrived last Wednesday from the US. I had been waiting for her for months. She was a gift A bought for me on my birthday but since the Sanrio site does not ship internationally, she had to wait in New York with other items and gifts my father-in-law was sending back home. Finally, after a month and a half of a lengthy ship voyage, she finally got home. 

I got the idea for a Kitty travelogue from Travelocity’s roaming gnome, the one who was gnomenapped from his owner’s front yard in North Carolina and is now living a shussing, jet-setting, high-rolling lifestyle. I wanted Kitty to be part of my everyday life, never mind that I do get stares from people who think of me as nuts.

Kitty got here with very scanty accoutrements, just her standard underwear and two sets of clothing (a polka dot bikini set and a Japanese yukata). They ran out of other clothing designs before I could purchase them so I guess I’ll have to start looking for them on eBay.  

I made up my mind to bring Kitty to Friday night’s concert as early as Wednesday. But I didn’t think any of her two dresses would suit the concert scene so I simply dragged her along in her underwear. A promised to bring us shopping the next day, though.

Kitty at Burgoo Gateway

Kitty at Sharon Cuneta’s concert

On Saturday, we dropped by SM Megamall for a special Sanrio sale at the Atrium. I managed to pick up a few items on sale. However, I missed out on the afternoon activities (a meet and greet affair, a Kitty photo shoot, and face painting) because I went very early to avoid the crowds. Kitty managed to squeeze in some pictures, including one with an overweight Kitty cheerleader.

With Chiqui of Sanrio Surprises Megamall A

Then it was off to Trinoma for clothes shopping. My cousin had told me of an Animaland branch in Trinoma that might carry clothes for my 12-inch Kitty, and we weren’t the least bit disappointed. Animaland is much like Build-A-Bear, where you can stuff your own doll and choose clothing and accessories for them. Although there were a limited number of items for smaller female dolls like my Kitty, I did find jeans, shirts, a ballerina dress, sequined hot pants and matching blouse. The staff were very accommodating and very enthusiastic about their jobs. They even gamely posed for my camera. I liked Animaland a lot and they’re going to see much more of me soon.

With Ice (I hope I got his name right) of Animaland Trinoma

In the afternoon, before we prepared for Saturday night’s concert, Kitty and I tagged along with A to have the car’s matting changed. The car was parked near the sidewalk and people could see me taking shots of Kitty. Some smiled at me, others laughed, and yet a few others gave me shocked stares. Whatever.

Having a 12-piece car mat set fitted at Miggyboy’s

Notice Kitty’s new outfit? They didn’t have shoes in her size though. Early evening, A and I chose to have a light snack at the Gateway Food Express before heading off to the concert venue.

And at Tony Hadley’s concert, Kitty was seen jumping up and down with Kittymama. The cameras also pannned over them a few times.

The night ended with a quick repast at Cafe Bola. Here is Kitty, trying to decide on what to eat.

And before we knew it, another day was done. Kitty rested in her brand-new Disney Princess stroller because Alphonse wanted to crush her in his embrace. He was also quite intrigued with her pink ribbon.

*Yawn* Good night, Kitty!

~0~

Thirty-second note on Philippine Idioms: Itchy feet (makati ang paa) is a local idiom that means one is a gallivanter, or fond of going places