Of Making New Plans, Letting Go, and Being Loved

It was just last night that I broke down and cried myself to death to sleep for some thing that is still unclear to me.  I don’t even know what exactly am I crying about.

Yesterday, I received the news of my brother’s MRI results: the doctors in St. Luke’s said that he needs to undergo operation on his lower back spine, since they found out that the fluid stopped circulating there.  That is why my brother’s feeling pain.  They also found out that there is something blocking, if I understood it correctly, the fluid from nourishing the bones, so they have to remove that.  It costs PhP180,000, and they (we) don’t have much.

I refuse to feel pity and not do anything about it when I knew I should be doing something; it hardly does anyone any good anyway.  Okay, I’ll quit fooling around with the ‘any’s.  I guess one factor that led me to break down last night, other than some pent-up frustrations or well-kept sadness, is that I’m somehow finding it difficult to muster enough courage to totally let go of money that big.  I’m not saying I’m materialistic–the money is from my company stock shares, which was awarded to me roughly two years ago–but I also had plans for that money…plans I would be doing less for myself and more for my parents.  It’s not much, but its a start, and I felt reluctant letting go because its like throwing away what I have planned  for a long time in doing to the two most important people in my life (my mom, especially). No matter how small, that money was supposed to be my biggest step.

Yet last night I found myself deciding on using the money for my brother’s operation.  Its a little funny…thinking about it now that I have planned on setting aside enough dough for my own operation.  Ha ha.  Well, I’ve placed an indelible period at the end of my decision of letting go.  I prayed for strength and comfort, and (understanding it now) cried all inhibitions, reluctance, and distrust out of me.  So when I express my wanting in helping them to my brother or my sister-in-law, I would say it with conviction and a smile.  No hard feelings, no internal squabbles, no meaningful and imposing looks as if to tell them they owe me their lives.  I don’t want to feel any of that crap.  Else, I won’t deserve loving from anyone this much….

But it looks like I do.  Job made my day and wiped that forlorn look on my face cause by horrible eyebags.  He gave me a surprise: downloaded MP3s of the Prince of Tennis soundtrack; a Mandarin, instrumental, and piano versions of “Because I’m a Girl” by KISS; and an MP3 of “What More Can I Give?” by Michael Jackson with various artists.

My boyfriend?  He brought me juice from the pantry–something he doesn’t normally do.

Best things in life are free, and great joys always come in small packages.

Its fun to watch, and most people love it than just listening, so I’m going to share the vidz of the aforementioned songs above.

Enjoy!

What More Can I Give?
Because I’m a Girl

Breather

This week is a hectic week, not just to me but also to my family:

…My lola had her eye operation today to remove (by scraping) the cataract from her left eye

…My brother had his MRI today to check on his lower back.  He had some sort of complication in his spine, which made him incapable of bending to his left side and made his right hip protrude.  The protrusion looks too obvious he had to wear baggy clothes to work.  He can’t run now, but he can at least brisk walk yet not without pain.  I’ve heard from my sister-in-law’s cousin that there came a time when he couldn’t even walk.  Anyway, if the MRI shows that he has to be operated, well…

…I’m going to have two exams on Friday

…I’m meeting a project deadline on Friday.  I swear, it’s the most BO-RING (not to mention shoulder-straining) thing I’ve ever worked on in my life!

…I’m currently torn between keeping every thing and every one I have now and responding to the call of, well, being a nun.  It’s a long story. Or I’ll probably write about that on a separate entry.

I’ll try not to think too much.  (Not to mention that I still have to plan on how to tell my boyfriend of my plans of becoming a Pink Sister) For now, I need to thank God for this morning’s little miracle: He gave me a breather by letting one of the exams be moved almost a good week from now, which means giving me extra review time–something that I know will greatly suffer this week.

This is my second chance, I know, since I haven’t been really religiously reviewing the main review materials…to make sure I’ll pass.

This Pastor has Guts!

The text below is fron a college friend and thought that I might share it with everyone.  Yes, Reverend Joe Wright has guts.    Innards, I have, but guts, hmm…

It was said that this prayer was prayed in Kansas at the opening session of the Kansas Senate.  Read on…

“Heavenly Father, we come before you today to ask your forgiveness and to seek your direction and guidance. We know Your Word says, ‘Woe to those who call evil good,’ but that is exactly what we have done. We have lost our spiritual equilibrium and reversed our values.

We have exploited the poor and called it the lottery.
We have rewarded laziness and called it welfare.
We have killed our unborn and called it choice.
We have shot abortionists and called it justifiable.
We have neglected to discipline our children and called it building self esteem.

We have abused power and called it politics.
We have coveted our neighbor’s possessions and called it ambition.
We have polluted the air with profanity and pornography and called it “freedom of expression”.
We have ridiculed the time-honored values of our forefathers and called it enlightenment.

Search us, Oh, God, and know our hearts today; cleanse us from every sin and set us free.

Amen!”

More from the email: The response was immediate. A number of legislators walked out during the prayer in protest. In 6 short weeks, Central Christian Church, where Rev. Wright is pastor, logged more than 5,000 phone calls with only 47 of those calls responding negatively. The church is now receiving international requests for copies of this prayer from India, Africa and Korea.”

Commentator Paul Harvey aired this prayer on his radio program, “The Rest of the Story,” and received a larger response to this program than any other he has ever aired. With the Lord’s help, may this prayer sweep over our nation and whole heartedly become our desire so that we again can be called “one nation Under God.”

Amaaaaaazing!

The Letter ‘M’

I just checked on the mango tarts I bought for myself and my boyfriend the other day and, oh my God, the chunks of sliced mangoes on top looked like it became pale wooden strips. I tell you, the fridge in our office can kill! It must be below below negative adgjowtfadfs degrees in there!

The poor little things…. Bet it hurts to be a naked Inuit, too. =\

Speaking of mangoes, I suddenly found myself looking for info about Joe D’Mango. Instead, I found an old LoveNotes posting site back at ‘05. I’ve read some of Joe’s “Love cases” and replies and, well, it’s pretty interesting.

Read on, and have fun.

Those Penshoppe Days

Cross over walls
Cry out with one voice
Make up no sound
Love beyond words
Open your heart
Share your soul
Let’s build bridges
And live in one world
So come on!
Just be there
Let’s make it work together
Do your share
Let’s make a pact
As we learn to just be there….*

(*Lyrics from memory. I’m not sure if I got all of them right though….)

Ah…the days of the good, the clean, and the fun. High School. I went in an exclusive all girls’ school in Baguio, and back then I consider lesbianism, or the act of engaging into romantic relations with a fellow girl, as something good and clean…not to mention natural in a male-deprived environment. Sure there were male instructors around, but they’re either gay, married, or simply maniacs.

I recalled the Penshoppe jingle while cleaning my room, which to me is some sort of preparation for the coming days of this Holy Week, between dusting books and throwing trash I have a knack of keeping and rearranging the lower contents of the built-in dresser. As I found myself singing the jingle while working, I remembered that year in high school when I heard the news about a certain Derrick Hamada as being one of the new Penshoppe endorsers on TV. (Back then, Penshoppe had reportedly conducted several screenings for models in their new TV ads, and they all want fresh faces. Derrick was part of batch 1.) He was a senior in an all-boys’ school there, and people say that he’s rich, popular, and extremely good-looking. I’ve never seen the ad yet at that time but my best friend did. I can still remember that goo-goo twinkle in her eyes when she told me one day about Derrick and hinted of planning on following his footsteps to stardom. Yep, that was so like Bet: always planning on shooting at something but never really aiming.

Inside, I wished her the best in that, though I felt a little envious because she had looks to back up what she was planning. I also wanted to tell her hey, I want to be a star, too, but I can’t help imagining that look of repulsionon her face if I said so, so I kept my mouth shut and smiled. Since then, I never cared much about the whole Penshoppe thing until I finally saw it on TV myself. And by God, Derrick was the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life! My then limited sight of the world couldn’t believe that someone with a face like that existed in this city. I think I loved him secretly then.

Now, well, all I can say about that time was…they could have placed a jingle in Derrick Hamada’s Penshoppe ad. (The jingle above was for batch 2.) It could have been more memorable, more appealing to the public teens. It could have stretched this Baguio boy’s legacy more. When the second Penshoppe ad featuring batch 2 came after a couple of months, batch 1 was slowly overshadowed then totally forgotten. A couple of years after, no more Penshoppe ads were seen on TV.

Consequently, as media had evolved in itself, so were the people who benefit from them. Gone were the days of teenybopper-trendsetters, bizarre dancing on MTV, killer clogs, and the age of pre-relativism. I now live in an era where people dreamed of ousting “Her Excellency” (whom they found out to be not so excellent after all), where “wise” people should think of ways to acquire more money than think of ways to improve their relationships, and where some dull-witted man proudly confesses that his favorite book is FHM.

I don’t know which era is worse.

Whole-Day Quickies

I was at work in less than an hour with my brother. He had to do a bunch of stuff before finally bidding “Good ridance!” to the company for another job, and I had to do a bunch of stuff before finally bidding “Good ridance!” to the company for Holy Week.

While I was picking up some last items, I saw our dear Momma’s Martha Stewart magazine called Living on her desk. It was a 2003 edition and its about everything in the holidays. I browsed it, drooled over the featured food, and wished it would be Christmas tomorrow.

I haven’t gotten over that wish so I just took borrowed the magazine for a while.

After looking at the receipt coughed out by the ATM machine in a grand mall in Ortigas, I wanted to cry. First, I just realized that my annual increase this year felt like it all went to my witholding tax; second, having recalled what my manager told me about the new salary increase, its effectivity, and the total coverage of my retroactive pay, I felt that what they’re giving me is less than what I have earned. I’d like to think that they didn’t miss including my pay for the promotion from last position I had; the people in Finance just, well, they didn’t want to include it. What’s bad is that my manager didn’t seem to notice it.

Mourning over my salary won’t do me any good now. I guess I just have to take that part-time technical writer job I saw almost five days ago in Jobstreet. But before that….

I went straight to Red Ribbon “harken” the cries of my stomach. Knowing in this stage that I am already tight on budget, I decided to treat myself a good plate of my all-time favorite Palabok. I was extremely deprived.

Digging into the palabok, alone on a solo table with cake and a tall glass of Sarsi, was heaven in its most simple (Oh, that luscious meat!). I remembered I would be fasting tomorrow, and then I was like “Yes, you are going to deprive yourself with food this good.”

“Ah,” I said, then put another meat in my mouth.

Thank God I didn’t mind the time when I was inside that packed, non-airconditioned bus…else I’d be muttering traffic-and-discipline jibberish to the mother seated on my right to get her to talk to me, like the guy who had been muttering traffic-and-discipline jibberish to me on my left.

When I got off, I felt I was sweating like a pig, and when I reached home and went inside my room, I wanted to melt. Worst is I can’t take a bath because I just had a back treatment. Worse is that the spa center where I’ve been treated won’t lay off in reminding me to settle my payment on my next visit. That they have to ask about it and remind me twice! Yesterday was just my second session out of twelve, and their “nagging” would be understandable if I weren’t told that clients have a month to complete the pay. A month, not two weeks. So I was taking my time in paying, nothing bad about that, but it doesn’t mean that I’m gonna run away. I mean, jeez, talk about poor customer service. =|

The Last Goodbye

I decided to let go of my belly ring for the second time in two years to finally set free the mushing flesh within the wound from the body jewel’s soft sawing mercy.  I’m beginning to think that, apparently, some of my flesh would really be pouring out red-tinted-flesh-colored ectoplasm from the wound…the bottom pierce to be exact, which is just above my navel…if I keep “torturing” myself like this.

I thought it has completely healed after more than six months; it’s been weeks now since the last time I felt pain down there.  I realized that I could have been doing something wrong when the pain shot back three days ago, and that everytime I look at my belly to check on the ring, to my surprise, I’d find this odorless, often transluscent mucus on top of the belly jewel that already hardened.   The other day, I found flesh: an itty-bitty lump of what looked to me like inverted flesh has formed around the bottom pierce.  Oh, its raw flesh all right.  It was watery, had very little blood, soft to the fingertip…and then the idea of suddenly seeing my innards gush out like water from a faucet scared me bleepless.

Yesterday morning, I gave the wound a rest, and by the time I came home from training and tried wearing my belly ring again, I said to myself that it can’t be done anymore.  The exitwound closed more quickly than expected, and I no longer have the courage (not to mention the right amount of threshold of pain) to pierce it again as I did the the first time it closed.

So there I was, lying half-naked on my bed, contemplating and recalling the days from the time I first let go of my belly ring to the time I decided to have my belly pierced again after six months.  I may be feeling 80% reluctant of losing it but the remaining part of me is glad.  My days of belly-and-ring checking is over.  

The wound still stings if i touch it or if I contract my stomach too much, but at least I know that the pain would cease in a couple of days.  I find consolation in the thought that if I’m still be wearing that sexy, sexy little thing on my navel, I don’t know when the pain would really, truly stop.  

I’m very tolerant with pain, but I just can’t live with the same pain forever.  They’re like…pent-up longings for fatherly love from childhood…or a grade of 66 for low quality work…or utter indecisiveness as to whether one should or shouldn’t stay with their three-year-long boyfriend when he failed them for the umpteenth (and still counting) time.

Besides, I’m better off nursing a facial cut done by accident than nursing a bleeding navel done by a really foolish and prideful heart.  I had to let go because pain should go away as it always does.  Slowly, one at a time.

Scarface

As I stared at the blood that formed beside my right eye in the mirror, I knew I’d be calling myself Scarface from now.

The deep obtuse triangular shape of the wound somehow disappeared into a fat, semi-elongated line of blood that seem to glorify the bigger gash my face sustained from the “freak accident”, which involved me, my grandmother’s house’s spare room, and one of the unused wooden beds that stood on its side. It happened after I woke up, blacked out for a moment from getting up quickly, supported myself on that bed before deciding to sit down then WHAM!  I didn’t know what hit me (literally) until my vision started to clear.

“Oh well,” my mind began to say after I dab the wound with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol, “at least you look good bloodied.” And then it laughed maniacally.

Fak-yews:

Scarface is the title of a 1932 gangster film of the Pre-Code era about gang warfare and rivalry over the control of the city.  It was later remade in 1983, which was directed by Brian de Palma and starred Al Pacino as Tony Montoya. 

The remake is actually popular enough that famous Rap/Hip-Hop musicians in the States swore that they’re not “cool” without a Scarface movie in their gazillion movie collection.