One to Adele

“On a scale of one to Adele… How bad was your last break-up?” 

(http://www.imglols.com/on-a-scale-of-one-to-adele/)

I saw this cartoon shared on Facebook recently and it made me laugh. While I could totally relate to the feeling of going through a very bad break-up (Read: Set Fire to the Rain), I wasn’t the type who would say, “Never mind, I’ll find someone like you” because that it precisely what I don’t want to do. I don’t want someone like you. I want someone better. Someone who will treat me better. But I do agree: “sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead.” There’s pain, but there’s also hope.

As this generation’s Queen of Break-up Songs, Adele captured the varying emotions one feels when a relationship breaks up. We’ve all probably felt like getting back at unfaithful exes, wanting them to go “Rolling in the Deep” and never resurfacing again.  Or maybe we feel like we’re just “Chasing Pavements”, feeling like a car crash waiting to happen but still trying to make it work. Or maybe we felt abandoned and not knowing why just makes it even more painful. “Don’t You Remember”?

Beyond the lyrics of Adele’s songs, though, there is the beauty of her voice. It’s smokey, full of authority, yet wise… It’s open and full of emotion. When she sings, you hear the longing and the regret, the anger and annoyance… Or is it irritation? It’s deep and rough, like cornmeal in a can. It’s perfect for expressing strong emotions in a song. And then there’s the music. It’s soulful. It catches your attention and doesn’t let go, and then you realize you’re hooked… swimming in the messy emotions stirred up by her songs.

It’s like Ally McBeal’s “walking wounded” meets Breakfast at Tiffany’s meets Edward Scissorhands. Does that make sense? You’ve got these icons of heartbreak (in my head at least) of varying “personalities” --- the quirky, funny, self-deprecating, open, angry, and awkward to the classy, sad, ethereal, and hopeful to the gothic, haunting, magical, thought-provoking, and surreal --- and all of them are in this one person’s songs. It’s pretty impressive.

So, on a scale of one to Adele…? I’d say, Adele.

The Mystery of The Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, and The Hardy Boys

I saw a set of Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books being sold at a second-hand bookstore. The sight of these old friends took me back many years ago.

I remember at around the age of 8 or 9, I fell in love with the hard-bound books of The Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, and The Hardy Boys. I’d walk into the elementary school library --- which the school called the “Learning Resource Center” --- and checked out at least 2 of each kind. I thought Laura Lee Hope, Carolyn Keene, and Franklin W. Dixon were amazing authors and detectives themselves. I wanted to be Nan Bobbsey, but adored Freddie and Floss. I also wanted to be Nancy Drew and marry Joe Hardy. (Who cared about Ned Nickerson and Iola Morton?) Nancy and Joe were my fictional Ken and Barbie.
 
I went around with a checklist of book titles for each series and every time I borrowed from the library, I’d tick them off my list. If I went into a bookstore, I’d ask to be left there while the rest of the family went shopping. Knowing that I won’t be wandering around the mall or anywhere else, I’d be left in peace to prowl the aisles and search out my friends Bert, Nan, Freddie, and Floss; Nancy, Bess, and George; Frank, Joe, Chet, Phil, Biff, Jerry, and Tony.

I’d devour 6 to 10 books a week, replace my borrower’s card twice or thrice a year, and cajole or beg or bribe my parents for a new book every weekend. Such was my devotion to these fictional characters.

They opened the doorway to other writers of mystery and suspense, like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Baroness Orczy, Lemony Snicket, and a whole bunch of others.

Every time I cracked open a new mystery novel, whether it was a Bobbsey Twins or Nancey Drew or Hardy Boys adventure, I always mentally girded myself for the challenge of figuring out the perpetrator of the crime before the end of story. Many times I’d get it right, but on those occasions when I didn’t, I’d go back and look for what I missed. And then I’d contemplate a bit more on how cool these authors are to come up with these plots and weave them into a compelling tale that the clues are scattered within so subtly and seamlessly.

“I want to be able to do that,” I used to say to myself every time I finished a book.

So as I stared at these incomplete sets of hard-bound books from the first few volumes of each series, I asked myself, “How come I didn’t get to write those mystery books I told myself years ago?” I realized that I didn’t want to write the stories. I wanted to unravel the mysteries.

My musings stayed with me until I got to work where I quickly pulled up the ever-reliable know-it-all, Google, and keyed in the titles of each series.

Lo and behold! They were created, produced, and written by Edward Stratemeyer, founder of Stratemeyer Syndicate. (Well, he and a bunch of other ghostwriters wrote all the series.) I wanted to be upset, seeing as how my childhood heroes were actually a great many people. Definitely more than 3 authors. But then, I realize I’ve got only one real hero. His name is Edward Stratemeyer. The brains behind all the series --- and apparently the entire book packaging firm. (Thanks, Wikipedia!)

So, thank you, Edward Stratemeyer, for coming up with such wonderful characters I could admire and grow up with. They taught me a whole lot.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

               --- Invictus, William Ernest Henley

Invictus. Latin for unconquered.

To conquer. According to the Oxford dictionary, it is a verb that means to “overcome in war or by effort”. Its nearest synonyms are 'to crush' or 'to defeat'.

To conquer the known world. Many great men have such glories under their belts. Sargon. Xerxes. Alexander the Great. Ghengis Khan. Attila the Hun. Caesar Augustus. Napoleon Bonaparte.

They came. They saw. They conquered. Maybe Caesar should have said “I overcame. I oversaw. I conquered.”

Yet, the other side of the coin is to be unconquered. To prevail over adversity. To win. To be a victor. To triumph.

It is that which we all strive to do and to be. To conquer and to be unconquered. To triumph over adversity. To win. To be invictus.

That is what I am. Invictus. No matter what. No matter where or when. No matter how hard the world may press down. I am invictus. Bloody, but unbowed. Soul unconquered. Ever unconquerable.

Hoozaah!

Lovely start to my first draft of the speech I am writing for when I finally achieve world domination, don't you think?

Forgive me. I am trying to keep myself sane by amusing myself with thoughts of strategies for world domination.

While Jack Dawson from Titanic declared that he's “the king of the world” before promptly dying an hour or so later, I do believe I have a better strategy than standing at the prow of an ill-fated ship destined to (literally) go down in history as a symbol of the hubris of man.

Strategy one: Line up all stupid people, then start shooting. Pros: We rid the world of stupid people. Cons: I don't think the International Court of Justice would approve.

Scratch that.

Strategy two: Buy off all those who disagree with you. Pros: We can finally have proof that money can buy happiness. Cons: I will be flat broke, which would effectively bring me back to square one.

Scratch that.

Strategy three: Marry the most powerful man in the world. Pros: It will be an affirmation that behind every powerful man is an even more powerful woman. Cons: Who IS the most powerful man in the world anyway?

Scratch that. Too iffy.

Hmmm... It's becoming clear to me that there is no clear path to world domination. I must go back to my drawing board.

*Muttering to self* You are invictus! You are unconquerable! You must conquer! You must win! You must not give up! You are invictus!

Note to self: Must change medication.

Sticky note to self: This is what happens when you spend too much time staring at numbers.

On a final note to self: Must find Mr. Darcy soon or will run mad.

A - She's Adorable!

“To be loved, be lovable.”

                        --- Ovid, Ars Amatoria

I am in love with this little girl with bright eyes and a heartbreakingly beautiful smile. When I take her in my arms and embrace her, she feels so soft and warm and fragile. She smells like powder and milk and that lovely, undeniably baby smell. She loves to laugh and dance, especially when she hears and sees her favorite cartoon, Backyardigans. And when she cries, my heart breaks easily. Her copious tears stream down her face as she bawls and reaches out to anyone willing to hug her.

She isn’t mine, but she is ours.

At the early age of one and a half years, she has clearly entered somewhat prematurely into her terrible twos period. More precocious and naughty, she recites the alphabet completely and clearly... counts higher than ten... sings Backyardigan songs... recognizes Dora the Explorer... and can name at least ten capitals of the world, including the capital of Finland! (Helsinki, if you don't know it yet.) Her sentences are clear, her memory is excellent, and her sleeping habits are adorably funny.

Because of her, my sister and I find it difficult to even contemplate on leaving the country, whether to work, migrate, or even have an extended vacation, for fear that we would miss out on things she does as she grows up.

Clearly, she's got us wrapped around her dainty little fingers.

I am not one who is overly fond of children. In fact, my tolerance for kids is rather low. I am always relieved to return them to their rightful parents at the end of seemingly interminable three hours. That's my threshold. Three hours. Except for Andie.

With Andie, I can have her with me for as long as she wants. If she never wants to leave my side, I wouldn't mind, but I'm pretty sure my lovely brother and my wonderful sister-in-law would.

People have asked me if I want to have children of my own, and, believe me, I have thought and pondered on this life-altering question quite a bit. Despite the fact that I am probably past my ideal childbearing years (at 35, having your first baby would put you right smack on the endangered list) and the fact that I neither have husband nor boyfriend, having children is not something that I can actually plan for or consider at the moment. Of course, thanks to medical science, it is no longer impossible to have children beyond 35, but the truth is... I don't want one now. And I'm not sure I want one in the future. I'm not saying I'll never want one, but... hey, if Mr. Darcy comes along and sweeps me off my feet... why wouldn't I want his child? As it is... there's no Mr. Darcy for me... yet.

So, happily, I will take on the role of doting aunt to my lovely, wonderful, beautiful, precious niece.

(That word actually brings my dad's joke back into my memory... A woman gave birth to twins. The nurse comes out to inform her anxious husband who arrived late for the delivery. He asks, “What are their names?” The nurse replied, “Oh, your brother named your daughter 'Denise'. The husband was quite relieved, saying, “Whew! I was worried for a while there. My brother has an awful sense of humor. What did he name my son?” And the nurse answered, “Oh, 'Denephew'.”)

I know the joke sucks, but you'll have to forgive me. My brother did name his daughter 'Andrea Denise'.

She Will Be Missed

Many that live deserve death. And some die that deserve life.

    -- J.R. Tolkien, Lord of the Rings, Bk 4 Ch 1

    I lost an excellent team member last week. She and I may not have a deep friendship, but as her manager, we did have a very good, cordial, and strong relationship. She and I have taken time to speak with each other. I've listened to her talk about her hopes and her plans, both professionally and personally. She was a very good person and it is a shame to have lost her so soon.

    Death touches us, whether we knew the person well or not. The fact that you were, at the very least, acquainted with each other will affect you. What more if you worked closely together for a year?

    I hope I was a good manager to her. I hope she enjoyed her time in our company, within our team. I hope she had the chance to fulfill most of her dreams. I hope she had the opportunity to have a grand adventure. I wish we had a chance to say good bye. And I wish, no matter how briefly, she was able to find her own Mr. Darcy.

    I'm glad that she is now at peace and no longer suffering. And while that previous line may sound trite and cliché, I find no other words to find comfort in.

    I still stop and think of her in the middle of the mundane tasks that occupy my everyday responsibilities. I remember her smile and her laughter. I remember the way she spoke of her learners. Best of all, I remember her courage even in the midst of her disease. I admired her for it. I respected her all the more. She was not one who gave up easily. She was not one who caved in to staggering and overwhelming depression. She did what she felt she had to do and what she wanted to do. She lived.

    The world lost someone beautiful that day. But we will always remember. We will always be thankful for the brief time she was in our lives.

Shimmy, Shiny, Sunny

I want to shimmer, I want to shine
I want to radiate
I want to live, I want to love
I want to try to learn not to hate

                                                -- Shimmer,Shawn Mullins

    It's been awhile since I last uploaded anything in my blog. Call it writer's block or having a dry spell. Either way, you'd be right. This is me making the effort to get out of this funk. So, to all those who sent me emails, MSN messages, and SMS messages asking, encouraging, threatening me just to get me to start writing again... Funk you very much. This one's for you.

    A couple of months ago, I idly watched as my birthday slowly crept by, passing me like some sort of shadow on a nice Indian summer kind of day. I wanted to do something special like maybe throw a really fun party with this great theme and lots of heavenly food. Aside from the fact that I was too lazy to get off my arse and start planning, I was also being a bit of a scrooge. [Hey, go back and read one or two blog entries past and you'll know why I'm a bit of penny pincher nowadays. This is a direct consequence of my memorable shopping binge.] Suffice to say, nothing happened on my birthday except that it did pass. Unlike me, my birthdays tend to go gently into that good night.

    A month a ago, I sat terrified as I watched my mom struggle to overcome a sudden onset of diabetes. Given the fact that diabetes is generally an hereditary disease and the fact that we don't have a history of it in our family, this was a great surprise for us. According to the doctor, a candida bacteria attacked her blood or something like that, which caused her blood sugar to suddenly surge to 400. Don't ask me what it was exactly because I hardly registered a thing. All I knew was that my mom was ill and I saw the terror in her eyes as she fought to control the violent chills her body was unable to prevent.

    As the eldest in our rowdy brood, I felt most responsible for settling all necessary details related to our sojourn in the hospital, from finances to logistics. I must say, hospital bills are nothing compared to the maintenance medication.

    A week after my mom's hospital confinement, it was my dad's turn to undergo laser eye surgery. His second. It makes me wonder how he actually managed to get his retina to disengage and separate from whatever eye part it is attached to.

    Holy Week passed by silently and unobtrusively as my birthday did. Both times I was working. The only difference is that I managed to get into a rather interesting email exchange that ruffled my feathers, raised my shackles, and got my dander up. I must have looked like a strange mutated animal then. Ah well... I know I made my point and I did it with great aplomb and a whole lot of civility. As much as I can muster anyway.

    I've been meaning to make use of this hardbound journal given to me as a gift by one of my dearest fiends (who is now probably enjoying her stint as a shepherd in the land of Aragorn and the Hobbits) for Christmas. I haven't gotten around to it yet. Mainly because I haven't felt like picking up a pen from the bookstore just yet.

    I have two editors from two different magazines running after me while I run after their deadlines. So far, I've managed to finish the race, albeit not exactly setting speed records. Interesting relay, don't you think?

    Now I just feel like I'm in dire need of a nice long break. I hear the surf breaks up north are great at this time of year. Hmmm... those couple of long weekends coming up sure are making me smile a little bit wider now.

    The first quarter of the year is over. I still have several months to make sure that this year shimmers, shines, and radiates with love and life for me. It's time to get off my lazy fat arse and start dancing the fandango to a fantabulous and abso-bloody-lutely fantasmagorical mid-thirties.

Talking in the Dark

When we were growing up, my sister and I shared a room. I recall many nights where we would lie there in the dark and talk about different things, mostly stuff that were on our minds. I have to admit that I was not the best sister when it came to these talks, being rather somewhat impatient and in a hurry to get to the heart of whatever it was my sister wanted to share. I was always a blunt and straightforward person even when it came to telling stories. I preferred keeping things short and simple. My sister, on the other hand, prefers to tell her stories like an epic poem --- full of background information given in the minutest of details. I'm sure there were times when I fell into a stupor or made impatient snorts. But, truth be told, I treasure these moments with my sister. We didn't always get along, but we both know without a doubt that we share a fierce love for one another.

Over the holidays, my sister and I had another chance to have one of those late night tête-à-têtes. It was probably the most interesting and most memorable ones we've had. What made it different and memorable was that this time I felt that we were talking to each other not just like sisters ought, but like women and best friends. She was willing to listen to what I had to say. In fact, she wanted to hear and sought out my answers to her questions. I, on the other hand, was more willing to share and elaborate on my answers.

She asked me only two questions: “What are the top three things you have learned about guys?” and “What are the top three things you have learned about relationships?”

In no particular order and from the top of my head, I answered.

Three things I learned about guys:

1. They are not mind readers. Just like women cannot possible know exactly what a guy thinks, it is even more impossible for a guy to know (or even understand) the way a woman's mind works. Tell him. He cannot read your mind and mind-games will only make things worse. They'd appreciate it more if you told them what you think, how you feel, and what you want. They can't keep guessing and messing up all the time. They won't get it right and you can't expect them to.

2. Always take care of a guy's ego. Sometimes you'll need to shake them up and swat them down a bit just so they don't get too full of themselves, but in general, you'll have to be mindful of their very sensitive egos. If there was anything more fragile in a guy's make up, I'd say it would be this.

3. It takes them awhile to realize that they actually do like you. And I'm not just talking about the initial rush of attraction. I'm talking about the reality of liking you as a person and seeing you as someone he can actually commit to being in an exclusive relationship with. It's not because they're wishy-washy about you. It's more about a guy not really being quite sure about himself and about what he wants. After all, women have to understand that by nature guys are generally less inclined to commit themselves to a monogamous and serious relationship. The thought of that alone can turn any healthy and emotionally stable male into a blundering, claustrophobic bundle of nerves. So, be patient. If you find yourself surer of him than he is of you, don't worry and don't rush. He'll get there. And oftentimes it's worth the wait.

Three things I learned about relationships:

1. You get as much as you put in. If you invest a lot of yourself in your relationship, then you can expect greater rewards. If you hold back a large chunk of yourself, then you won't grow in the relationship. You won't find out who you are and who you can be. Relationships shouldn't hinder one from being who he or she is. Relationships are supposed to make you better. So if you hide who you are, especially in a relationship, then everything you have are just artificial. Even artificial growth in economics is liable to collapse if not backed up by solid investments and economic policies. The same way it is in relationships. No one can tell you when you've invested enough. Only you can determine that. But then again, what is “enough”?

2. A relationship is hard work. Just like I said about getting as much as you put in, I also say that when you do decide to invest, you will find that making your investment grow is hard work. It's about striking the balance and working hard at making it work. However, I do have to say that a relationship being hard work does not necessarily preclude that it has to feel like it's hard work. You work hard at making your relationship fly. You expend a whole lot of energy just to lift off and to stay up in the air, but it doesn't mean you can't enjoy the flight. It's a glorious feeling, isn't it?

3. Relationships require trust. Just like in flight, you need to trust that you will hold each other up. Just like the bird trusts the wind and his wings to make him fly, both of you should trust each other enough to let the other fly high on his or her own wings and power. But you should also know and be secure that the other is right there flying beside you. Without trust there is no relationship.

That night --- the evening of New Year's Day 2008 --- I shared my thoughts and answered my sister's questions. And as I lay there on her huge bed, I wonder about how lucky she is to have already found her own Mr. Darcy. Maybe all those talks we had growing up helped her somewhat. It's a comforting thought. Maybe soon we can have another sleepover and I can ask her those same questions and hear her answers. I think I'd like what she has to say. After all, my little sister seems to have grown up at last.

A Year-End Massage

“Some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity...”

                            -- Gilda Radner

Another year is nearly at an end, swiftly flying by, with no Mr. Darcy in sight. But I am neither sad, lonely, nor depressed. It was a full year, with lots of surprises and big decisions made.

When I think about the year that was, I think about family and friends... and how we've gone through so much and came out all the better for them. I think about work and the people I deal with every single day... and how we've effected change and continue to strive for more without losing our sense of humor. I think about my flat and the many hours I've spent hibernating and recuperating from the battering I get from everyday life. I think about the world... and worry about peace and climate change and stupid politicians with no real agenda except stupid coup attempts in hotels. I think about Mr. Darcy, the man who is, but one I can't seem to find... and I wonder if he truly is out there... or if he's decidedly just meant for my books and dreams.

I wonder about my story. I wonder if, at the end of my own life story, people would say they enjoyed being a part of it or wish they were edited out. I wonder where and when my story started, if it has even started, and where it is heading. I wonder about the little subplots that make the whole. I wonder about the genre, whether it would be filed as a mystery/thriller or a general fiction or a classic or a romantic novel or a movie tie-in or a science fiction/fantasy or even a general reference. Or will it have a category all its own?

Then, I think about what I already know. It's amazing how much I still don't know even though I know that I already do know a lot.

I realize that my life is mostly made up of ad lib moments. A lot like a stand-up comedy sketch. It's actually fun. I'm not the type who would have a detailed ten-year plan for my life. That would be too anal-retentive for me. I mean, I do have a general direction and an end-goal that my internal compass seems to be pursuing. I am not a hitchhiker in my own life. I'm more like the weekend driver, cruising down life's highways with the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, and driving music blaring out my life's soundtrack... Destination: not quite known. Hey, it's all about the journey, right?

In any case, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman with enough wit, common sense, and her own income is in need of a... good massage. I'm pretty sure that anyone with wit will have enough friends and good conversation to enjoy as she goes through life. And anyone with common sense would generally always know what it takes to enjoy work and accomplish other mundane tasks needed for everyday survival. And any woman with her own income should have enough power over her life to make decisions relevant to her pursuit of happiness. In other words, anyone worth her salt must have a life of her choosing, which would also mean that she will encounter enough stressful moments for her to be in need of a regular massage.

I believe am that she. And I do need that massage. So, as this random rambling comes to a close... Could Mr. Darcy please step up and give me a good, long, satisfying one? ;)

Shopping Schlopping

I hate shopping. In fact, my idea of shopping is knowing exactly what I need, where to get it, then going in and out of the shop in fifteen minutes flat. I am a man's ideal shopper. (Ask my brother. He was amazed and very happy when I brought him along on one of my shopping trips. Make that “trip” because we only went to one shop and we were done in fifteen minutes. He still refuses to shop with my mom and sister. Typical female shopaholic proclivities. It skipped me.) I can never make a career out of this activity. The only kind of shopping I'm interested in is for books.

Just an aside...Why did they use the term “window shopping” for that particular activity where you aimlessly wander around a shopping complex pretending to be interested in items you want but may not afford to buy at that precise moment? Sure, you look in through the windows at the items on display, but you aren't buying the windows... Har-har. Okay, shutting up on this subject.

Anyway, I also hate malls. There are too many people walking too damn slow and making sudden stops reminiscent of jeepneys along the road.

I hate department stores where there are just too many selections of one item. It's overwhelming to stare across the floor, particularly by the women's shoes section, and figure out where and how you will find those dratted pair of brown shoes you need.

Unfortunately, my strong dislike of shopping has affected my Christmas list. I haven't bought any gift for any single person yet. There are just too many people in the malls. And no one... and I mean no one, not even wild horses can drag me to Divisoria, Christmas season or not. I've paid my dues and have come out feeling physically and mentally violated... my personal space invaded violently by jostlers with no sense of personal hygiene. No more. Enough.

So, I will do as I normally would on any ordinary day when I need to go shopping... either I make my sister do it for me or I wait till the last minute in hopes that everyone's finished with their shopping and will no longer be clogging the lanes in the mall. Hopefully, there are still items worth buying.

May I just say that I do like giving well-thought of gifts to people close to me. I am not a scrooge. If I could afford to give them their hearts' desires, why not? Key words here are “if I could afford,” just in case you missed that part.

Basically, what I'm saying here is that I haven't done my Christmas shopping and that I hate shopping of any kind. And if you've read my previous entry, you will know that I now have no more money. Putting these facts together, you will most likely come to the correct conclusion... that I have no Christmas tree.

Stress Therapy

I am welcoming myself back to my own blog. Huzzah!

Now that we've dispensed with that...

I just have to say that it's been a crazy three months at work. Having to deal with around fifty individuals --- all of whom I consider beyond the range of normal --- every single day has driven me to run (more like sprint, in fact) back into the arms of my most faithful man named Jack Daniels. There were days when I felt like being run through a wringer and days when I felt like I was running a day care. On most days, my role resembled more of a zoo keeper. I survived by the skin of my teeth and with a whole lot of sense of humor. Thank heavens for partners who are actually more evil than I am despite assertions to the contrary!

Despite all the rantings and the mumblings, I honestly like my work. It's gratifying. Besides, I enjoy the company of the people I work closely with. Of course, we still need HR to hire some serious eye candy (and I mean SERIOUS eye candy like Hugh Jackman or Matthew MacFadyen) to stand beside my workstation and be at my beck and call twenty four-seven, but I'm willing to wait.

I have to admit, though, that the stress has gotten to me enough that I've gone crazy. Yes, I know that some people would actually go so far and say that I've always been crazy, but it really isn't true. I was normal before the stress.

Anyway, because of stress I went shopping. Now, normal people would go shopping for clothes or furniture or even jewelry. They call this retail therapy. Then there's me. I think I belong to a completely different type of retail therapy. I went for a condo unit. So now I am cash poor and about to live a hand-to-mouth existence once again just to make sure I make the payments. What did I get myself into?!

Now I imagine myself scrimping so much that if I actually went out to buy a kilo of meat, I'd make it last a month by boiling it and making a gallon of broth, then drying the meat to turn into jerky. The end of the month will be the only time I can actually feast on the meat. Or I may just completely forgo eating. How sad is that?

I don't regret buying the unit though. It's an investment. I can always sell or (when it's completed) have it rented out... or so I keep telling myself. I'm really too selfish to have someone be the first to use something that I worked so hard to purchase. I'm sure I'll be living there myself. With or without Mr. Darcy.

Impossibilities

“How could a city crammed with so many millions of people remain, for so many of them, precisely one person short?”

                -- Nicholas Weinstock, As Long as She Needs Me

 

We single and unattached persons between the ages of twenty and forty have been given such labels like singletons or walking wounded. It makes me wonder if these tags are meant to be derogatory terms or merely statements of fact.

 

I am single. I am unattached. I am my own person. And yes, I have had relationships that ended badly. (The others ended without bitterness or rancor or very hard feelings. Honest.) So yes, I agree. I am a walking wounded singleton. But it doesn’t mean I am defeated. I am Invictus.

 

Yet. I do agree with the words I read from Nicholas Weinstock’s novel. “How could a city [like this city that I live in] crammed with so many millions [and I literally mean millions] of people remain, for so many of them, precisely one person short?”

 

We’re all walking around in search of that one person to be with for the rest of our lives. Like swans seeking their one and only lifelong mates. But in the melee, one or two… or more… get lost. Some of us end up mismatched, so we try again. Sooner or later we start wondering when we’ll ever get things right… if we ever do. [Suddenly, I am reminded of the Indigo Girls’ song, Galileo, that sings, “How long till my soul gets it right? Will any human being ever reach that kind of light? Call on the resting soul of Galileo, king of night vision, king of insight…”

 

In another book, this time by Nicholas Sparks, A Walk to Remember, the heroine, Jamie Sullivan, tells the hero, Landon Carter, that she “prayed for him.” It’s interesting how even that small phrase has more than just one meaning.

 

When we pray for someone, we always think of asking favors in behalf of the person we are praying for. But then, as Jamie points out in a subtle way, her prayer was really quite simple and quite literal. She prayed for Landon. To be hers. It was a simple matter of asking for something you want. It wasn’t so complicated after all. And maybe the simplest prayers could be granted much faster.

 

It reminds me of something I learned when I was very young. This came from a wonderful Jesuit priest who had a wonderful way with words. “The difficult we do at once. The impossible takes a little longer.”

 

So here I am… wondering if I should ask for Mr. Darcy, but at the same time thinking that it will never happen because if God took me too literally, I will never find Mr. Darcy. After all, he is a fictional character from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. But then again, maybe I should still ask for my Mr. Darcy because I’ve asked for difficult things that have been granted in one way or another. This impossible request of having my Mr. Darcy has taken longer than expected, so… I fit the bill of the difficult being done at once while the impossible is taking impossibly longer. Right? Hmmm…

 

I’m still short one person.

Make and Have

There is only one very simple rule of language. Make sense. And there is one important rule in surviving life. Have sense.

 

Following the first rule, I always try to make sure that what I say makes sense to the people that I am saying what I am saying to. [Notice how I cleverly avoided a dangling participle. And yes, it is quite acceptable --- even to Strunk & White --- to end a sentence with a preposition.]

 

Unfortunately, not many people are as conscientious about making sense as other people would like them to be. They seem to take perverse pleasure in speaking without any real point or having no idea how to make their point. It’s quite aggravating, really.

 

Since one of the qualities I look for in my Mr. Darcy is wit, then I can safely assume that he isn’t among those that I have encountered whose language skills leave much to be desired. And that lack is but just the tip of the iceberg. Behind the underwhelming language prowess is the overwhelming realization that there really isn’t much sense behind the words themselves.

 

It isn’t just about making sense. It’s also about having sense. One can easily make sense if one expresses himself clearly and purposefully. And anyone can easily make sense if he puts his mind to it. But to have enough sense to deal with various situations will demand for more of a person’s abilities. Making sense requires one to exercise his tongue. Having sense requires one to exercise his brain.

 

These two should go hand in hand. Sadly, it is not always the case.

 

I find myself with impatient thought bubbles whenever I get stuck in situations where one or both (making and having sense) are missing from the conversation. Thoughts like: “What was it I said that makes you think I give a shit?” or “If I throw you a stick, will you go away?” Unkind and plagiarized, I know. But many times, I just couldn’t help it. I do have one original thought bubble though… “Help! I can feel my brain imploding on itself!”

 

So, to a snob like me, all I really want when dealing with people is to interact with people who make sense whenever possible, which is often, and who almost always have some sense, common or otherwise. Is that too much to ask?

 

Apparently, it is.

Eye Candy

It’s amazing what a good looking face can do to a group (or should I say “a gaggle”?) of women, particularly eye-candy-deprived women.

 

It was quite amusing to watch, really. They were like friendly vultures circling their prey. No real intentions to devour, of course. Just to look their fill. I hope.

 

These women… they could get really inventive when finding an excuse to be in the viewing vicinity of their target. I’ve had to field various reasons, one more ridiculous than the next. It was hilarious! The best kind of amusement I’ve had in a few weeks really. I am heartily thankful for it.

 

Unfortunately, while I do appreciate the tall, dark, and very good looking bloke who made the happy mistake of entering our work premises to seek employment within our erstwhile organization, he is not my Mr. Darcy.

 

I’ll have to sit out this dance a little bit longer, I believe. I don’t mind. I’m sure my Mr. Darcy would make his way through the assembly crush and find me tolerable enough to tempt him to dance a reel. Maybe he might discover that I have fine eyes, too.

 

No matter. Eye candy is always a good distraction. It helps make my day lighter and more interesting. Maybe I should ask our HR Department to include that requirement for applicants…? Oh, wait! Here’s another novel thought! Maybe I can get our HR to find me my Mr. Darcy!

A Dull Life?

As a long train of grain-bearing ants frequently comes and goes,

     Bearing the usual food in their mouths,

Or as bees, having reached the woodlands or the fragrant pasture,

     Fly through the flowers and above the thyme,

So rush the most elegant women to the crowded shows:

     Often has the throng impeded my judgment.

They come to see, and they come to be seen:

     That place is the ruin of chaste decency.

-        Ovid, The Art of Love, lines 93-100

 

I had dinner last weekend with my best friends at this wonderfully posh and classy place. For appetizers, we had Portobello mushrooms ravioli and a salad of fresh vegetables and beef carpaccio. While they went for fish, I went for the duck. All were beautifully plated. Even the complimentary bread basket was marvelous. (It was my first taste of tomato-basil bread. Yum!) And how can I ever forget the two bottles of chilled champagne (Veuve Cliquot)? They were divine!

 

The ambiance was muted elegance --- candles and soft music. Conversation among the well-dressed patrons was discreet and polite. It was like having Breakfast at Tiffany’s except that it’s at night. We even had the whole little black dress with diamonds and pearls thing going. I have to admit, we looked gorgeous that night.

 

We started the weekend, which was actually a birthday celebration for one of my best friends, with a seminar with Sebastian of Bobbi Brown. The only real makeup my best friends and I use. The funny thing about attending the makeup seminar is that none of us actually use makeup on a daily basis. We’re the clean and scrubbed kind --- the wash ‘n wear lifestyle that suits our personalities rather well.

 

So, looking duly glamorous with our makeup (care of Sebastian and crew), we donned our little black dresses, strung our pearls and diamonds around our necks, ears, and wrists, clasped our little elegant clutch purses filled with cash and credit cards, stuck our freshly spa’d feet in three and four inch heels, and daintily made our way to the restaurant. (I probably wobbled and tottered, but I must have faked my way enough to pull off the whole catwalk strut thing.)

 

Remembering the whole experience made me think about the whole seeing and being seen concept. It also made me wonder… For someone like me --- one who’s hardly ‘seen’ because I hardly go out --- I would also be unable to ‘see’ anyone for precisely the same reason. No see equals not seen equals no Mr. Darcy. How depressing. I need to go out more. I live a very dull life with the occasional exception of those ‘outings’ with my best friends. I don’t go on dates and don’t get to meet new people. My choice in men is very limited. In fact, I have no choice because there are none to choose from. These ramblings are getting even more depressing with every sentence.

 

In an email I sent to a friend, I answered her query about how I was doing with these words… and I quote myself: “I trudge to and from work (distance: approximately 2 1/2 songs on my iPod from my flat to my office, including elevator rides), hardly going out of the building (unless I'm going to the bookstore to indulge my addiction or to forage for food), and never going out on dates. I've forgotten what women do on dates and, since I've been sporting short hair for a long while now, cannot hide behind glorious tresses or twirl strands of hair around my fingers in order to flirt to save my life... or at least my dignity. I have given up on ever starting on a diet. In fact, I've pretty much given up on even thinking about going on a diet. I do wish my building had a better cable network provider so I could at least claim vegetating in front of the tube as something that I actually do. Alas! Even at that I am foiled. I am in great need of a sturdy and solid bookshelf... or shelves more like. I have to get around to buying that LPG tank I've been meaning to get for the past 3 months but never got around to doing, therefore, forcing me to buy unhealthy fast food fare or those that come in cans, plastic cups, take away cartons, or microwaveable containers. I try to stick to a budget so that I could go clothes shopping (if not furniture shopping), but passing by bookstores is a great temptation I find hard to resist. (A wise man did say that the best way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.) I spend too much time at work. I keep hoping and dreaming that my ideal job would land in my lap. (Do you know of anyone who would pay big bucks to have me read books all day?) That's about it, I guess. All in all... pretty boring stuff.”

 

I have a strange life. Not quite a hermit, but very much alone. And then I ask myself… Am I sad? Lonely? Depressed? Hell no! I’m pretty content, actually. Except for one thing. No Mr. Darcy yet.

Over the Edge

Have you ever tried conversing with someone who is more monkey than man? Not literally, of course. I mean in the brains department. It’s really quite trying. It made me feel like I was hopelessly stuck on Planet of the Apes, population two. One ape and me. Hmmm… It would probably have been better if I felt like I was on the movie set of King Kong. At least that would have been somewhat romantic… of the huge and hairy… er… that didn’t sound good… uhh… let’s say, the gigantic simian kind.

 

Anyway, while stuck in the middle of that mindless and mind-numbing (and rather one-sided) conversation (if you can actually call it that), I wondered if I hadn’t seriously lost my mind yet. (And joined the bloody idiot in his little world of empty spaces between the ears… where all the lights are on but nobody’s home… where you’re always a few french fries short of a happy meal… where you’re one beer can short of a six-pack… and where you’re one hysterical laugh away from the funny farm.) After all, I’m not one to actually willingly subject myself to suffering inane chatter and pointless preening without chafing and champing at the bit. (Holy bloody hell! I’m using equine quips! I’m comparing myself to a horse now?! Bollocks! I’ve definitely lost my mind. In fact, I’m starting to miss it now.)

 

This supposedly silly and insignificant exchange with someone I wouldn’t normally spend an inordinate amount of time chatting with has now become a trigger that has successfully tipped me over the edge of reason and sanity. Proof that I am now certifiably mad --- I am now obviously babbling. I have finally, irrevocably fallen off my bloody tree and hit my head on a large protruding jagged rock, which has addled my brain, turned it into soup and mush, and has left me simpering and whimpering in the agonized throes of despair.

 

Ha! NOT!

 

I’m just bored and in need of stimulation. (And do get your heads out of the gutter before I take a knife to your distended yellow bellies and gut you! Not everything has or should have double entendre!) I simply meant mental stimulation. Right. Although… Never mind. *Giving self a quick and rueful shake of the head*

 

Fine. Just bored out of my mind, then. Bugger. Where’s Mr. Darcy when you need him?

The Subtle Art of Throwing Insults or What was it I said that makes you think I give a s--t?!

You only comprehend things which you perceive. And as you persist in regarding your ideas of time and space as absolute although they are only relative, and thence form a judgment on truths which are quite beyond your sphere, and which are imperceptible to your terrestial organism and faculties, I should not do a true service, my friend, in giving you fuller details of my ultra-terrestial observations…

-        Camille Flammarion, Lumen, 1873

 

Now that’s what I call a great put down of another’s insufficient and inadequate intelligence and perceived self-importance! I would love to be able to spout off disparaging remarks like that --- where the sting is hidden amidst such gracious and elegant phrasings. They wouldn’t know what hit them, leaving them dopey dazed and definitely confused. It’s the best kind of attack, if I do say so myself.

 

It’s not that I enjoy reducing people in their esteem or rank on a daily or regular basis. I don’t. I only enjoy it when the target is one who has truly annoyed me with a glaring lack of wit and common sense. Happily enough, I don’t get to practice the art of great put downs all that often. (I try not to associate with people who are easy targets for put downs like these. No fun at all. And it may just turn me into a homicidal maniac in a microwaveable instant.)

 

Call me an intellectual snob, but I can’t apologize for having very little patience with people who don’t bother to use their God-given brains even for the littlest of things. Ignorance is never an excuse. Never. And if one attempts to use it, it falls flat and pathetically short. I find it even worse when ignorance is coupled with a healthy dose of self-conceit. It then becomes intolerable.

 

I’m not saying I’m the world’s most intelligent person. I’m not. Hardly that. I just know how to use what I do have and try to improve myself at every moment. It’s the least I could do --- to spare those who are more intelligent than I am from mortification at having to endure my dull and trite conversation. Oh, and to make the world a happier place for all, of course… You know, world peace and all those Miss Universe platitudes…

 

I’m just waiting for a chance to pull out one of those glorious and powerful put down lines that I’ve been collecting and storing in my arsenal of great and witty put down lines.

 

I do have stupid moments, but they only happen because I was either befuddled or not thinking clearly. Well, okay, sometimes I find myself not thinking at all. Stupid me. It’s when I let my id have full reign and allowed to come out and play that I get into trouble. However, let me just state for the record that my stupid moments aren’t completely stupid in the garden variety lights-are-on-but-nobody’s-home kind of way. I do have a whole lot of common sense, which allows me to extricate myself from situations that have me possibly sinking further into the quicksand of idiocy or from digging for myself a deeper and darker hole all the way through to the other side of the earth.

 

I was not, am not, and will never be a *expletive deleted* golgafrincham.

Dissing

After more than a month of silence, I find that…

 

I am dismayed, disillusioned, disappointed, disabused, discontented, disaffected, disturbed, disgusted, displeased, discomfited, disconcerted, discommoded, dissatisfied, disgruntled, disconsolate, discouraged, disheartened, dissuaded, disenchanted, disquieted, disinclined, dispirited, and distressed, but not yet distraught, dissolute, dissipated, dispossessed, dispassionate, disparaged, dismembered, dismissed, disinterested, dishonorable, disheveled, disgraced, disfigured, disfavored, disenfranchised, disengaged, disemboweled, disdained, discredited, disadvantaged, or disabled.

 

However, not many people realize the state I am in because I have successfully dissembled and disguised my thoughts and feelings, showing them only to a select few… those who can actually fathom and distinguish the nuances in my various expressions.

 

I would like to disabuse you of any misconceptions brought about by my verbose discharge of fanciful words. I disapprove and disallow any conclusions drawn in the effect that I am disagreeable. I am quite the opposite, in fact. I can quite disarm initial acquaintances with my quirky and guileless charm. There is no false humility in my words for I disavow any belief that I am lacking in social graces. I am known to have some such skills in dealing with people, whether in a social, business, or personal situation. I can discern quite well the manner of my reception in groups, whether large or small. I have no illusions as to my self-worth. I’m rather rational and realistic that way. I can tell when I have earned the disapprobation of people. But I do wonder if they have easily discovered my own cleverly concealed disdain for their discourteous treatment of others, for their discreditable intelligence, and for their healthy disregard for discretion in matters confidential in nature.

 

This rambling of mine may seem discursive, but I really, I do have a point in my discussion. I realize that there are people who are not quite discriminating in their thoughts, actions, or speech. Oftentimes, they will appear disingenuous and dispossessed of any intelligence. Do not be surprised to discover that they actually are what they appear to be. It is a dismal thought, but one that’s very hard to dismiss in the face of reality. I don’t mean to disparage anyone in particular. I speak in the general sense. I simply find myself at the end of a very tenuous rope of patience with people (of the general population in which I find myself interacting with in one way or another) who seem to have a disproportionate amount of stupidity versus intelligence. Maybe I am too harsh. Maybe it isn’t stupidity they have much of, but they certainly have a disputable level of common sense. I find these people everywhere. It’s like they’ve discharged themselves like an atomic bomb on the general populace. I am sorely tempted to dispel any kind of association with anyone bearing similar traits. However, that would just turn me into a hermit and recluse. I doubt I’ll survive that kind of life.

 

Maybe we can simply sterilize and disinfect society of their presence? But then again… society may not be as fun to mock.

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?)