The Night of the Living Dead

(photo credit)

If there was one incident that would prompt me to blog again, it was what happened to me a week ago.

I got mugged.

I was on the ground. He had a gun. The worst part is I'm 5 months pregnant.

But apparently that doesn't matter because it happened. It's not the kind of thing that you imagined would happen to you. I mean, I've always been vigilant. There were times when I thought about it happening to me and the scenario always ended with me getting killed because my reflex would be to fight back. Of course, when I really think about it, it doesn't make sense to risk my life to protect trivial belongings. They can always be replaced anyway.

But during the moment of truth, things don't really go the way you imagined they would when you were still making them up on your mind. I was not prepared in the least. I was crossing the street. The light turned green. Suddenly, 2 guys in a motorcycle stopped by me and one of them got off. I did try to run even when he already got to me but he was too strong and too fast. He ran after me, caught my bag and yanked really hard. That's how I ended up laying on the ground. Then I saw the gun. Everything was a blur after that. He managed to pull my bag and they drove away. I got up. Witnesses and concerned citizens flocked around me as if I were a freak show, which is not to say that I did not appreciate their concern, because I did. There was one guy who was a few feet away from me when it happened but he ran away when he saw the gun. He was profusely sorry. He even went as far as giving me P20 so that I could get home because I have not got a cent in me. I was his charity case. If I weren't so worried about my baby I would have laughed so loud, they'd think I hit my head on the pavement and gone crazy. I called my office mate from the convenient store across the street so that I will have someone who will go with me to the police station to file a report. I could not describe any of the two men to save my life. But I just felt like I needed to do something. I did not delude myself into thinking that I'd get any of my stuff back; my pens, my IDs, my notebooks, even my journal wherein I had documented my now non-existent sex life. But it will not do me any good to dwell on what I have lost.

It was a long night. I went to work the next morning as if nothing happened except that I didn't have any make up on because  my vanity kit was in that bag. The office mates who went with me to the police station were not yet around so I was the one who had to break the news to those of them who were present. They could not believe it. Apparently, a pregnant woman being mugged is unheard of, shocking and offensive to the sensibilities of the righteous. I had to show them the humongous bruise on my knee to convince them that I was not kidding, as if I would ever joke about a thing like that. I do have a track record of shocking the bejesus out of friends and office mates. Like the time I told them that I was pregnant. I had to pull out my ultrasound report just so that they would believe me, and even then they were still incredulous.

I found it hard to sleep the following nights. I kept thinking that I have died that night and I was just imagining that I was still alive and people were still talking to me. When I'm on my bed at night, I keep reliving the events. Only this time I'm more of like an omniscient spectator. Like I'm standing a few feet from myself and I can see everything that is happening but they can't see me. I can't even remember how I felt. Everyone I know had his piece to say about the incident. Some were angry, some were scared, some were concerned and frothing at the mouth. They told me that I should not be alone at night again, that I should not ride a jeepney at night, that I should not have a substantial amount with me on my bag, that I should transfer to a safer neighborhood. And I could not agree more. But then again, if I learned anything from watching too many episodes of Criminal Minds, it's the fact that there is no safe place. You can be attacked in your own house. And you are always alone, even if you are in a crowd. But I cannot let that fear stop me from living my life. If I did then I would have completely lost. Not only had they stolen my stuff, but, by being afraid, they would have taken my freedom as well. And that is something that I cannot allow. To fear is to suffer. To fear is to surrender.

I got attacked and I lived to tell the tale. My unborn kid and I are survivors and all we got was a five-second local news TV coverage as souvenir. The cosmos has a twisted sense of humor. But "what does not kill me will make  me stronger."

Kris Kringle

Stuff I got for Christmas. If it weren't for the fact that Kris Kringle is more or less "compulsory" in the office. I wouldn't have gotten anything. It's a little sad, actually. But now I'm over it.

Thanks to my Secret Santa. Whoever you were.

Week 1: Something curly.

Week 2: Something sticky.

Week 3: Something hairy.

Week 4: Something "R".

Let The Countdown Begin

photo credit

Time is running out on 2010. A new year is beginning. A new chapter. This is what I love most about the new year. The slate is wiped clean. You can leave everything behind and start fresh.

photo credit

So here is to new experiences. New knowledge. New opportunities. To good health. good times and good challenges. To a happy life, happy family and happy friends. Let the good times roll and may they never run out.

I'll Be Home for Christmas

photo credit

Christmas is over but it is still in the air. Christmas decors are still up. People are still playing Christmas songs. I just love the Christmas season, especially since I get to spend some time in my hometown with the whole family. It is without doubt the most wonderful time of the year. I really find it hard to believe that statistically speaking, the rate of depression and suicide reaches an all-time high around these times. I mean. what could some people be depressed about? The lack of money? The absence of loved ones? That's the kind of things that you worry about for the rest of the year. Does other people's happiness amplify some people's sadness? Could be. But for me, it is still not a good enough reason to hang yourself. Happiness is supposed to be contagious. It's easier said than done, I know. But think of it this way. You probably have the same problem for most of the year. The holiday season offers a chance of respite from all that, even if it is just for a little while. So what if after Christmas you wake up and realize tat your problems are bigger that ever? What's new? As long as we're alive, we will have problems. Everybody is struggling one way or the other. But I simply can't believe that someone would like melancholy so much that he cannot appreciate the repose that Christmas is offering.

It's true that Christmas is not  like what it used to be. Very few people seems to be aware of its true meaning. For some, it is just a reason to splurge and this mentality has given rise to the kind of commercialism that equates happiness to spending. It is ridiculous of course but most people fall into this kind of trap, myself included. But to each his own and if some people believe that they could buy happiness, who are we to tell them otherwise?

I remembered when I was a kid, I used to receive gifts on Christmas from my aunts. I was very happy. Admittedly, the magnitude of my happiness is directly proportional to the price tag of the gift. But the mere act of receiving is a gift in itself. I never remembered being sad because I received less than what I expected. We did not ask gifts from our parents and they never gave us any on Christmas. On New Year's though, my parents have this long standing tradition of strewing coins in the living room as if they were confetti. My siblings and I would scramble to get as many as we can. We still do this up to this day but as expected I am no longer at the receiving end of gifts. Except for the compulsory gift-giving during Christmas party at the office, I do not receive gifts anymore. But you know what? It's okay. I like giving gifts anyway.

And the look on people's faces when they received their little wrapped presents? Priceless.

Christmas is almost here....

It's so near I could almost smell it. I have not blogged since last week but I promise to make up for it during my long Christmas vacation back in my hometown with my family. I'm so excited I'm just dying to get on that boat.

Hello, Cagayan de Oro. Hello, Christmas. One more day to go. :)

24 Hours in a Deserted Island

A goddess has a gift of clairvoyance. In the event that I get stranded in a deserted island, these will be the 5 things I will have with me:

My book of the month. In this case The Voyage of the Beagle by Charles Darwin. (photo credit)

My notebook.

My trusty, old pen.

A humongous bottle of water.

Okay, so this cheating because these are two different items. But what good will being stranded in an island be if you can't wear a bikini and frolic in the sand? Which is why it is just as equally important to wear sunscreen. (photo credit: suit, sunscreen)

There are a lot of runner-ups to this list, the front runner being an ipod, then a phone and then there is also a guy and, of course, food. But unfortunately those things tend to run out of batteries or just plain run out, period. As this is a once in a lifetime occurrence, I do not intend to sleep while being on the island and I am not gonna tolerate low-battery excuses from my companions either.

All Tricks. No Treats.

source

Unfortunately for us Filipinos, we never got to experience what American kids call Treat-or-Treating. Nowadays, malls organize Trick-or-Treats during Halloween where they invite kids to dress in costumes and the participants go together as one group to participating mall boutiques to get treats. So basically, everyone gets a treat and nobody gets tricked.Yeah, I really don't think that counts. I don't even remember anyone calling it Halloween when I was a kid. It was always All Saint's Day and All Soul's Day or Araw ng mga Patay or Todos los Santos or Undas. And the custom was to go to the cemetery and visit the graves of our dead loved ones. We even had to clean up the graves and rid it of overgrown weeds. Other people stay on the cemetery overnight and play cards or drink alcoholic beverages (or both) with their other relatives who are, of course, still alive. What the logic is behind this phenomenon, I have no idea. Maybe it is to show the beloved dead that they are still being remembered. But you can do that just by visiting the graves, right? Why stay overnight, play cards and drink beer? Maybe somehow it sends this message: Hey, dead guy, if you were alive, you'd be playing poker and drinking beer with us. But since you are not, take comfort from the fact that we remember you enough to do it on your grave once a year.

I don't know. If I were dead, I'd probably be smirking at those people and say, "I appreciate your pretense of remembrance, but I'm dead. You, however, are not. So why not worry about yourselves?" (Dead guys, I mean well by this. Please don't do the Lazarus just so that you can smack me on the head.)

Whatever. All I know is that on Halloween, the place to be in the Philippines is at the cemeteries, not on our neighbor's house. In a way, it makes sense. Because if Halloween is defined by Trick-or-Treating on your neighbors, then it's Halloween all year round in the Philippines.

To our beloved dead, please look down upon us with hope and love, not a smirk. (photo source)

Silence

source

Like everybody else, I am appalled. I have spoken about it in great lengths with my friends but I feel that I have not said enough. However, words are empty and meaningless and will not change anything. So many things that went wrong, so many things that if were done differently would have made a whole lot of difference. But here, today, I am not gonna dwell on those things. I am not an expert. My views on those things are mere speculations of a passive bystander. Instead, I want to take this time to be silent... silence I want to offer for those who died in the tragedy and for those of us left on its wake.

Life still goes on. But it will never be the same.

This is one big white space.

A reflection of my current state of mind. Or more probably, my life. Empty. I don't mean empty-meaningless. I mean empty-nothing to do. Boring. I mean, let's see, aside from tennis on weekends, there is not much that I do nowadays. I haven't watched any movie for a long time. I still haven't gotten around to finishing the book that I'm currently in the middle of, and I haven't tried anything new yet. So what should I write about. I cannot write about doing groceries. If I list down my groceries here, then maybe you should bury me because that would be like a nail in the coffin of my blog. So I'm just gonna retire for the weekend, look for something to do, maybe watch a movie and finish that damn book so that I will have something to rant about. Hopefully, something exciting will happen, like hail and brimstone. I'm kidding. A little.

Man, I have got to do something.

Le Grand Bal

And so it came to pass that the event that I had been dreading for days came and went without any incident. The truth is, I actually enjoyed it. In the world of creative design, where the people you see are wearing t-shirt and jeans everyday except for the big bosses, it was actually refreshing to see everyone at their finest. The guys were wearing coat and tie. The girls were all made-up and wearing fancy dresses.

Of course, I am still not a fan of such events. Nevertheless, I still went all the way. I bought a new dress, shoes and evening bag. I don't have any formal evening stuff in my possession, so I had no choice even if it pained me to part with that much money on clothing I'm gonna use for a grand total of 5 hours.

It was fun. The food was great, of course, as we held the event in one of the good hotels in our city. We had a trivia game during dinner where our group won. There was also a dating game where we laughed our dinner out of our nostrils from all the goofball answers that the guys were giving. There was dancing after the program wherein the guys proceeded to make a clown-in-formal-attire out of themselves. 

My general confusion over the event was the comments thrown at me for the dress I was wearing. For the first time in my life, I went to a formal event not hating the dress that I was in. No, that was an understatement. I meant, I LOVED my dress. Totally. The neckline was low but so? It was a good conversation starter, so that took care of one of my social problems.

Really, guys. I didn't understand why you were making such a big deal out of my dress. You were making me feel like the whore of Babylon. So the decolletage was low but it's not like you haven't seen me wearing less. You had seen me in a bikini, for crying out loud. Please don't go Simeon Ibarra on me. I am not Maria Clara. Wrong year. Tsk, tsk, tsk.

It doesn't look so bad now, does it?

The Unlikely Ineptitude Of The Goddess

If I were Superman, my Kryptonite would be social gatherings. I heard a statement from America's Next Top Model being said of one of the contestants and I am going to use that statement to describe my ineptitude: I have the social grace of an infant. Yes, I watched that show. Call me shallow then sue me.

Being surrounded by a bunch of strangers or casual acquaintances in an environment that requires me to mingle with them incapacitates me. I'm just not good with making friends or starting a conversation. I would rather sit in one corner and pretend to text all the people in my phone book as if my life depended on it. I don't know when this started. I was Most Sociable in Kindergarten. I swear, I'm not making that up. I don't know what happened between then and now that turned me into a hermit. I guess I was surrounded with close friends all the time that I didn't feel the need to make new ones. The thought of being involved in some mundane conversation with people I don't really know is not appealing to me. What's worse is I have to pretend that I give a rat's ass about these people's problems or their current preoccupation in life. Big deal. We all have them, get over it.

Maybe that's why I don't have a lot of friends. I am too... Sheldon Cooper, for lack of a better term. Maybe I should try harder. But on the other hand, I don't really have to.

Leonard: ...We need to widen our circle.
Sheldon: I have a very wide circle. I have 212 friends on MySpace.
Leonard: Yes, and you have never met one of them.
Sheldon: That's the beauty of it.

But here is another trusty quote from my old friend, Jean-Paul Sartre: "Hell is other people." 


How empathic.

Random Memory # 3: Prom Nights Straight Out of Stephen King's Brain

If a memory-erasing device had been invented, I would employ such contraption to wipe out my recollection of the prom night in my junior and senior years. As this was not the case, let me recount to you the horror.

It all started with the pairing. In our school, the teachers get to decide who you should go with. If you're a junior girl, you will be paired with a senior guy and vice versa. I had no cause to complain in the partner department as I had been paired with okay guys. By okay, I mean that it could have been worse. I don't mean any offense by that. I'm pretty sure that those unfortunate guys would have gladly gone with somebody else rather than me. But like I said, they were okay. The problem lies with everything else. The clothes, the shoes, the hair, the make up, and the event itself. I had the feeling that in some distant past, these events were meant to serve as punishment. Then I read Vanity Fair and all I can say was: Boy, I am sooo glad I wasn't born in England during that era. The social functions would have been the death of me.

I really hated the prom. What's funny was that I went to two of them. What? Attendance was compulsory. I hated my clothes, my shoes and my stylist had successfully made me look not myself but some has-been movie star from the 60's. If we were just made to sit around until the whole ordeal was over, it would have been more bearable. But, nooo. We had to parade ourselves around the ballroom and I had to see everyone raise an eyebrow to outer space upon seeing me. No, I wasn't being paranoid. And to make my humiliation complete, we had to do dance numbers whereupon my ill-fitting brassiere was threatening to stop doing it's job of covering my pathetic breasts and go on strike. The only thing I was thankful for was I still had the clairvoyance to avoid any photo ops, therefore, no OMG-is-that-me pictures of myself which my friends can use to blackmail me with. If you happened to be in those prom nights with me and have an incriminating picture in your possession, please contact me so that we can agree on some terms.

The book reminicent of my prom. Carrie by Stephen King (also had a movie version)

The Sitcom of My Life in Reruns

And so it goes that I find myself in another recurring episode. I am bored. I need a change. I don't care what kind. I just know that I am sliding into that pit again. The kind that made me quit my job and change my zip code. This is the reason why my parents are worried about me. They think that I will never be able to settle into a relationship or a job that I would be able to hold on to for a long time, like forever. Maybe I should be worried for myself as well. Nothing is exciting anymore, not even my budding love life and that fact makes me really sad. I need an existential electric shock to jolt me out of this.

I should change my hairstyle. I have been wearing it straight since birth. Maybe it's time to get bouncy curls. That's about all the change I could manage right now. I can't move. I can't quit my job. And I can't dump my boyfriend. At least, not yet.