Yada Yada Yada

Words. I love words. I have always enjoyed playing with words --- stringing them into sentences, paragraphs, verses, poems, essays, stories, and (someday) into novels.

 

I love the sound of them on my lips. It’s so much fun forming them by puckering your lips or opening your mouth wide or baring your teeth in a wide grin-like way or by rolling your tongue!

 

I love discovering new words --- their meanings and their etymology. I even love coming up with my own words! Who knows? Maybe one day one of my new words makes its way into Webster’s or Oxford’s dictionaries. That’s if I can remember what my newly-invented words are. More often than not, I forget them a few moments after I’ve used and explained them. Ah well…

 

Anyhoo… I have a whole bunch of favorite words like odious (which means hateful or abhorrent) because of the way it sounds when you say it. So hoity-toity, snooty, and nasal. Very Regency English. It’s fun! “What an odious man he is, don’t you think so?”

 

Then, there’s bollocks (which actually means to make a mess of or to destroy, but has become some sort of British expletive), and bullocks (which means castrated bull in plural form). And either of them can be made into expletives! How lovely is that?

 

How about tizzy (which means to be in a state of nervous agitation or confusion) and titter (which, to those with less lascivious minds, actually means a high-pitched giggle)? Putting both words in the same sentence makes me grin. “She was tizzy enough to make her titter at every little thing that odious man said.”

 

I can actually go on and on with the words that I love, whether it be for their sound or spelling or meaning, but it would take forever and a day to finish. (When did we switch from etcetera, etcetera to yada, yada, yada? Hmmm… Yada, yada sounds fun though.)

 

However, there are words (or phrases) that I don’t really like. Take for example, sort of. It’s never quite there, is it? Like it is, but it isn’t. It’s such a so-so phrase that gives off a so-so vibe. It’s like it’s got an incomplete thought or something. Sort of. See! It makes me impatient.

 

Or what about when people use irregardless?! To explain my annoyance with the use of this word, let me quote the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. “Irregardless is a word that many mistakenly believe to be correct usage in formal style, when in fact it is used chiefly in nonstandard speech or casual writing. Coined in the United States in the early 20th century, it has met with a blizzard of condemnation for being an improper yoking of irrespective and regardless and for the logical absurdity of combining the negative ir- prefix and -less suffix in a single term. Although one might reasonably argue that it is no different from words with redundant affixes like debone and unravel, it has been considered a blunder for decades and will probably continue to be so.” Case closed.

 

But really… It’s not just about the words. It’s the power that words have to evoke sentiments, feelings, emotions, thoughts, ideas… greatness! Words, when strung together like beautiful Christmas lights, can move a person to do, to feel, and to think about things. You can wax lyrical or turn prosaic in a matter of seconds just by using the right words.

 

In the English language there are a lot of powerful words, but I think the top three would probably be: I, love, and you. (What do you think, Mr. Darcy?)

Knowing and Writing

“Write what you know.” This has always been a standard line given by writers to fellow writers and non-writers alike.

 

Write what you know. Well, what do I know? What do I know? What do I know? What do I know? Seriously.

 

I would like to take that advice and use it. Truly, I do. But when faced with a blank sheet of paper (or a clean, white screen of a new Microsoft Word Document), I am struck dumb. What do I know, indeed? What do I know that is worth putting down on paper (whether on the kind that we killed a gazillion trees, which we turned into pulp and then into nice, clean, and white sheets of biodegradable material or its digital version) for?

 

I can’t very well write about medicine or molecular biology or nuclear physics. I suck at science. Besides, I didn’t study those things. I made it a point to forget all my lessons the minute I was sure I was done with anything remotely close to pure science and math, particularly calculus and statistics.

 

Write what you know. And I can’t think of a single thing that I know so I can actually put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, as the actual case may be) to start writing about it. Sigh. It galls me no end to realize that I may not know everything after all. And here I was thinking that I am the most knowledgeable creature on the face of the planet. NOT!

 

Seriously though, if people are limited to writing about what they know, then what would happen to creativity and imagination? What abut people like J.R. Tolkien or C.S. Lewis or J.K. Rowling? (Notice how all these excellent fantasy writers have initials at the beginning of their names? Hmmm… That’s an idea. Maybe future fantasy writers should use their initials so they can have a better chance at succeeding. Anyway, I digress…)

 

But then again, maybe if we look at it in a different way… Write what you know. Well, I know about friendship and love. I know about family and forgiveness. I know about having much and having none. I know about pain and suffering. I know about trauma and redemption. I know about laughter and tears. Maybe I don’t need to know about math or science or law or painting or computer languages. These things I can easily research. Maybe what “write what you know” is really about that --- what you know… about life.

 

I can do that. I can write about life. Mine. I can write about dreams. Mine. I can write down what I imagine life to be. I can write about what I want to do. I can write about other people as I observe them. I can write about anything I want because I will be writing what I know. Because I will be writing in a world that I inhabit (with Mr. Darcy perhaps?).

 

So, yes. Write what you know. And I know everything there is to know about what I want to write about. And if that isn’t enough… then, I will write about that, too. About not knowing enough. And then… Then, I’ll know.

Siblinks

There is, in Pride and Prejudice, a certain kind of relationship that Jane Austen explores and juxtaposes throughout the novel, and which most readers overlook --- that of siblings.

 

Allow me a bit of sentimentality and rumination at this point in my written ramblings. This is a subject matter that I hold dear to my secret heart.

 

Not a day passes when one or all of my siblings --- I have one sister and two brothers, all younger than me --- get in touch with me or with each other, whether through phone calls, text messages, or email. I usually take this for granted, but not today.

 

I know for a fact that compared to a lot of other brother-sister relationships, ours is a very close one despite all the seeming evidences to the contrary.

 

Growing up, we’ve had our share of arguments, bickering, tears, teasing, annoyances, pestering, fighting --- and oh, what fights they were! --- tantrums, door slamming, stomping off in the middle of a shouting match, slamming phones down and cutting each other off… I can go on and on and paint an ugly picture of a very boisterous and violent household. But in truth, it is nothing like that at all. Absolutely nothing.

 

More often than not, we talked over each other during dinner, poked fun at each other every chance we got, and teased one another mercilessly at the drop of a hat. We laugh a whole lot, though mostly at another sibling’s expense (or sometimes our very own parents, much to my mom’s dismay and consternation).

 

My sister and I are very different, like night and day. But we are not so different either. She is the epitome of girlishness while I am probably borderline tomboyish. (I’m sure my entire family would even say that I’ve gone past the borderline on this one, with my short hair and restless and adventurous nature.) She played with dolls, I killed them. She played house, I ran after dragonflies and climbed trees. She loved clothes and makeup, I threw on the first thing I could lay my hands on that were clean. She loved to shop, I hate malls. She walked gracefully, I skipped and bounced along.

 

We shared a room for most of our growing up years. And though, I wish we were more like Jane and Elizabeth Benett, sharing secrets and giggling under bed covers, what my sister and I had was something just as close and as precious.

 

Whenever my thoughts touch upon her, I instantly wish and hope and pray that she may have the same kind of friendships that I have. It pains me sometimes to think that she may be missing out on the wonderful freedom and candidness and strength that best girl friends bring to each other’s lives. I know she has her good friends, but I sometimes wonder if she has those lifelong bonds, like the ones I share with my best friends. I fervently wish for that for her, even just one. She deserves very good… the best kind of friends.

 

My younger brother and I used to be playmates, but as he grew older our relationship changed. I don’t know when he started to carry himself like an older brother to me. Of course, he can’t be an older brother figure to me in all aspects, but in some… especially when it comes to protecting me (and my sister) from horrid men and lousy relationships… that’s when I see how much he values us. And as I watch him with his daughter (whom I love to distraction and with a never ending supply of joy), I realize that he’s grown up to become a good man. Flawed (well, who isn’t?), but good. He is sometimes like Mr. Darcy to his sister, Giorgiana, to me. His demeanor is proud and aloof to the world, but with genuine affection for his sisters deep inside, which he doesn’t always show. He is himself a Mr. Darcy.

 

My youngest brother is like Mr. Bingley to his sisters, always affable and with a sense of humor. He tends to indulge us whenever he can, treating us to movies and meals. He and I usually go on a weekend movie date whenever we get the chance. It’s our bonding time, though not too much talking takes place. It’s just good to know --- comforting and touching --- that we’re together and in complete affinity with the rest of our world.

 

My brothers and sister, though I may sometimes complain about them with such vigor, are irreplaceable. They are a part of me as much as I am of them. I don’t think I can do without them, really. We will always be in each other’s lives and business. No two ways about it. And if my Mr. Darcy does come along, this is something he has to learn to accept, understand, and value.

Flirting Issues

It takes me two songs on my iPod to walk from my flat to my workplace. Along the way, I get to observe a variety of people walking along or hanging around the eating places I pass. And as I bounce along to the happy beat of my walking music (or should I change it bouncing music?), I can’t help but notice that sometimes while I observe people, there are those that also seem to notice me. I figure it’s because I usually find myself smiling and singing along to the music. (I really can’t help it. I’ve tried. I swear.)

 

Anyway, this morning, a peculiar thing happened. Okay, maybe not peculiar. It was more surprising, really. As usual, I was bouncing along, a goofy smile on my face, and bits of whispered singing escaping from my lips when this tall Caucasian man paused mid-stride to stare at me. Then he smiles and winks as I pass him by. I look around to check if he was directing his attention to someone else near me, but I wasn’t beside anyone else. So, I, too, paused mid-stride and looked back. (I was, by this time, two steps past him.) He was about to turn away when he caught me returning his smile with a little wave. I didn’t bother to check for his reaction. I just turned around and continued on my merry way.

 

I didn’t think too much about it until now. I wonder. Would that be considered as flirting? Mind you, I was not interested in the guy. I did not even find him attractive. I was just minding my own business when he decided to show some friendliness (in the non-freaky way) towards me. It was only right that I acknowledge his efforts, right? It’s not in my nature to ignore someone who makes an effort at being nice. (I didn’t get the lewdness vibe from the guy so I’m assuming that he was really just being friendly in a foreign country.) Besides, I know deep down --- all the way to the marrow of my bones --- that he wasn’t going to be my Mr. Darcy. So, why bother?

 

Anyhooo… To get back on track… Flirting.

 

Was that flirting? Who was flirting with whom? I sure wasn’t. Well, I didn’t think I was. Was he? What is flirting, anyway? What are the rules? How does one go about the whole process? Are people naturally equipped to engage in this social endeavor? I’ve heard of natural flirts and studied flirts. Which category do I fall under?

 

Apparently, with all these questions, I am making the world think that I am an artless, flirting-inept, social failure. I don’t think I am, but then that’s just me. One would think that I would feel crushed and embarrassed by this if it were true (being a social failure, I mean), but, surprisingly enough, I don’t. Feel crushed or embarrassed, I mean. I think this feeling of equanimity in the face of male-female interaction disaster stems from the fact that despite my questionable knowledge of the how’s and what’s of flirting, I have managed to attract some fairly decent men throughout the years. Some even managed to stay in a relationship with me for years. Whoop-dee-doo. (Getting into the why’s of my relationship failures is a topic for another day.)

 

Does this mean I’m not a total failure in the art of flirting? Or am I just oblivious to the whole thing and I simply don’t realize that I, in fact, flirt? (With disaster, more like.) Hmmmm… Interesting thought.

Bed Weather

I love the rain. It’s my favorite kind of precipitation. When the sky turns a bit gray and the clouds start obscuring the sun… I get a bit more cheerful. When my nose tickles with the faint smell of rain… I get a little bit excited. There’s just something about rain that touches me, and, no, not just physically because that’s a given, but something deep inside… down to my very soul. Or is it my inner child?

 

Well, in any case, I love the rain, especially great big thunder storms. It’s exciting and thrilling and powerful. The air crackles with so much energy yet, at the same time, makes me feel lethargic and sedentary. It makes for fantastic bed weather! It’s my time to grab a bunch of good books (and DVDs), set them beside my bed, stock up on basic pantry fare and microwaveable meals, and snuggle up in bed for some rest and relaxation. Of course, it would be great if you could snuggle up with someone other than your imagination and a fictional character, but, hey, I’m not one to complain. I like my own company.

 

Unfortunately, as all good fantasies and wishes go, reality smacks us upside the head with a gentle sledgehammer. So, despite the lovely bed weather of gray skies, rain lashing on my windows, and the air temperature lowered to cool my skin, I throw back my blanket and get my ass out of bed. I find myself trudging to the bathroom to relieve myself, take a shower, and perform my ritual oral hygiene. After these ministrations, I pick out clothes to wear, don them, and then check my bookshelves (and the floor beside my bed) for a book (or two) I’d like to read (or reread in some cases). Soon enough, I find myself ambling out of my flat, locking up, and flinging myself into the death chamber masquerading as an elevator. After my quick dalliance with death --- willingly locking yourself in a metal enclosure that’s suspended in mid-air, albeit only five floors up, while said encasement is held up by thin metal cables is like tempting death to dance the hula in front of you --- I break free and make my way out of my building to head to --- yup, you guessed it --- work.

 

I have no need for umbrellas. They are cumbersome, annoying, and distracting. It gets in the way of rain falling on your skin (or your clothes) and soaking you all the way to your bones. Where’s the fun in that? Besides, it’s a dangerous weapon to have around. You can poke a person in the eye and blind him for life if you don’t open it properly and all business-like. Your arm can get tugged off forcefully as you keep an iron grip onto the handle as the wind blows hard upon it. Not to mention that it causes a girl in a skirt to ungracefully contort her body as she tries to manage her umbrella’s errant behavior of flipping its canopy inside-out while she’s desperately holding on to the remnants of her shredded dignity. (So, women who insist on wearing those dresses and skirts with soft, chiffon-y material knowing that they are bound to scrimmage with wind and rain are pretty stupid in my opinion.) Besides, it’s not at all a sexy maneuver. And I, for one, wouldn’t want my Mr. Darcy to come strolling along (whistling a tune while basking and enjoying the wet weather himself) to find me in an unglamorous state of dishevelment. L’horreur!

 

Anyway, rain. I love rain. I think I’ve mentioned that several times already throughout my ramblings today. Who cares? I love rain. And yes, I am aware of the irony of it all. I love rain and my name is Sunny.

Radio Gaga

I was listening to the radio in my car this morning, and I am left wondering about the evolution of radio shows. Every station I tuned into had some kind of talk-radio going on with not enough music to alleviate the barrage of DJ commentaries. Sure, some of them were quite amusing with their quips and comments, but it does get tiring listening to their dismal attempts at wit and humor while having pretentious pseudo-intellectual discussions among themselves or with their call-in listeners. (And don’t get me started on those people who actually have the guts to call the radio station to share their two centavos worth of drivel!) I turn on the radio to listen to music, not to mindless babbling about topics so inane and often ridiculous they make me want to pound my own brains in. This is why I hardly listen to the radio nowadays. I have no wish to willfully subject myself to such forms of mental torture, thus, causing me to inflict bodily harm upon myself.

 

One station had this heated discussion on relationships --- breaking up, getting married, and everything else in between. Another station talked about the kind of women men are attracted to if they have the hots for particular celebrities like Julianne Moore, Angelina Jolie, Beyoncé Knowles, or Britney Spears (Gag me with a shovel, why don’t you?).

 

It was rather frustrating flicking from one station to the next just desperately trying to find good music playing on air. Whoever said that DJs’ voices yammering on air is better than hearing good music (or any kind of music at this point) ought to be shot. Twice. In the head. And skewered in a spit. Over a thousand pounds of burning coals.

 

Calling all radio stations! I want to listen to music. Good music. Excellent music. Music that speaks to my soul and mirrors my moods. I do not want to listen to your DJs imparting their ideas of pearls of wisdom! If I wanted anyone’s advice on whatever is going on in my life, I’d consult my best friends, my family, Jane Austen, Mr. Darcy, or the Pope! (Why would I listen to and take advice from a DJ who doesn’t seem to know what a mature relationship is all about? All he ever advises to the poor pathetic lovelorn sap is… dun-dun-dun-dun… break up! Mind you, he actually proudly owned up on air that this is always his first advice. Admittedly, sometimes that advice would be the best option, but not in every stinking situation!)

 

I know that people are always happy to talk about love and relationships, but please… let the music do the talking!

Ratios

According to the CIA World Factbook, global population is estimated at 6,602,224,175 as of July 2007. Broken down, the age structure would show (a 2007 estimate) that 27.4% are 0-14 years (931,551,498 males and 875,646,416 females); 65.1% are 15-64 year (2,174,605,518 males and 2,124,494,703 females); and 7.5% are 65 years and over (217,451,123 males and 278,474,917 females). The sex ratio, which is defined as “the number of males for each female in five age groups - at birth, under 15 years, 15-64 years, 65 years and over, and for the total population,” now stands at an estimated 1.07 male/female at birth, 1.064 male/female under 15 years, 1.024 male/female 15-64 years, 0.781 male/female 65 years and over, and a total population ratio of 1.014 male/female.

 

In the Philippines alone, the 2006 estimate is a ratio of 1.05 male/female at birth, 1.04 male/female under 15, 0.99 male/female 15-64, and 0.77 male/female 65 and over.

 

Once again, according to the CIA World Factbook, “sex ratio at birth has recently emerged as an indicator of certain kinds of sex discrimination in some countries. For instance, high sex ratios at birth in some Asian countries are now attributed to sex-selective abortion and infanticide due to a strong preference for sons. This will affect future marriage patterns and fertility patterns. Eventually, it could cause unrest among young adult males who are unable to find partners.”

 

However, these are not the only causes, though they are grave indeed, of gender imbalance. This gender imbalance is a demographic effect that may also arise from war or from large-scale immigration of male laborers who are unable to bring their families along with them.

 

Why am I interested in these numbers, you may ask?

 

Well, with these numbers, we can safely say that the male-female ratio, particularly within my accessible circle is 1:1. Quite lovely, numerically speaking, don’t you think? It gives all single and unattached females some hope that they may one day (hopefully, soon) find their Mr. Right (or Mr. Right Now or, dear God, please, Mr. Darcy).

 

But wait! The picture really isn’t as rosy or as complete as we would like to paint it.

 

Where are the numbers that would tell us how many of these 1.05 or 1.04 men are actually single, unattached, monogamous, and heterosexual? Where is the ratio for healthy pureblooded males versus gay men? Where is the ratio for alpha males versus mama’s boys?

 

How many women have stood at the doorway of a new bar or restaurant or bookstore or sports shop or friend’s party baffled at the seeming disparity between males and females? How many of us have stood there making a quick scan of the place and found the situation rather disappointing?

 

Despite the numbers, the future still seems rather bleak. And that light at the end of the tunnel? It’s a pinprick.

Still… a pinprick would give one enough to hope. Right?

(Mr. Darcy? If you are indeed out there, please... don't be a pinheaded prick.)

Having BFFs

It took awhile to get my thoughts down on paper. Days, in fact. I had to muddle through and sort out what’s what. Well… Hmmm…

 

The feeling of restlessness has been staved off temporarily by a relaxing Sunday in Tagaytay with one of my best friends. It was capped off quite wonderfully by dinner we shopped for and cooked together and served with white and red wine and shared with our other best friend and her fiancé.

 

The outing was upon my best friend’s urging, after I sent her a very short email about how very tired I was. After a series of email exchanges about it, I had to admit defeat. Je suis fatigue.

 

The drive up was filled with happy, relaxed talk and comfortable silences. There was no need to fill in the quiet with idle chatter. We’ve been friends for far too long and know each other far too well to succumb to awkward silences. We don’t do those anymore. We’ve gone past awkward. We already know each other’s deepest secrets. Nothing can be awkward anymore.

 

We took off very early in the morning to have breakfast at our usual stop along the ridge. We wanted our usual Tagaytay fare of crispy tawilis and vegetables, and, of course, the delicious hot chocolate served at Viewsite Restaurant.

 

We were among the first patrons that morning, so the place was rather quiet. Just as we like it. We spent more than two hours sitting and talking there. We consumed cups of coffee and hot chocolate while we talked. Topics ranged from the silly and mundane to the serious and reminiscent. It was pure good fun. I felt more relaxed right there in that moment than I had been in months.

 

We didn’t know where to go to next so we decided to hit the road and drive in one direction until something caught our fancy. Well, after some minutes of driving and going past the arch that told us we were no longer in Tagaytay (but still on the ridge), we found a place that did catch our interest.

 

This authentic Indian restaurant (with an inn, a wine bar, and free WiFi that’s available twenty four hours everyday) boasted of a nice view through its glass walls overlooking the ridge while seated on comfortable intestine-shaped sofas. But all those couldn’t compare to the attention and excellent service of our very own “Facundo” (a name we christened all our fantasy would-be personal man-servants). The food was divine! The tea was quite strong, so we had to desecrate it by pouring two packs of Splenda and a dollop of milk. (They used the espresso machine to prepare the Indian tea leaves.)

 

We continued to talk and make plans for ourselves and for our small, close-knit sisterhood. We shared our dreams of our own Mr. Darcys. We laughed and stole from each other’s plates.

 

When we got back to Manila, we headed straight for the supermarket to buy the ingredients needed for the meal we decided to cook together. The third of our triumvirate will be joining us for dinner --- with our groom.

 

My best friend, being a closet bartender, decided to mix us a personal concoction meant to be lemon drops. It was wonderfully refreshing… and quite a traitor to the senses. After that long drink, we were a bit beyond just sedately sober. (I couldn’t really feel the roof of my mouth for awhile.) It was heady!

 

We did manage to cook our meal successfully and without bumping into each other in the kitchen. (I think we’ve got that rhythm down somewhat after years and years of cooking together, including cooking classes in high school.) And the food was delicious, if I may say so myself. Don’t ask us what it’s called. It’s a seafood stew copied from Rachel Ray’s recipe, but with our own personal twist. (We didn’t have saffron. It was too expensive. We did think of replacing it with kasubha, but it wouldn’t have been the same. So, we went without.)

 

So much laughter rang and pealed across the table that night. The three of us couldn’t stop talking even if we tried. It’s a good thing that our groom is used to our antics. He even made us laugh a lot with his stories of wine and cheese clubs. (I would love to see what it’s like in that German club he’s part of.)

 

I realized when I got home to my lonely flat that early morning (we ended at 3:00 am) that I may not have everything I want or that I may not be where I want to be yet, but wherever I am and whoever I become, I know that I will always have the best friends I could ever ask for in this world. Not even the advent of my Mr. Darcy (if he ever does make his presence felt) could shake them from my life. And he better not even think it.