I Am The Walrus

This is for my friend, Mayan Pimentel.

If you search for her name on the Friendster list, an account with her picture and her personal details (age, where she works, where she lives, etc.) will appear on the profile, but along with it are very disturbing messages from an obviously deranged person.

The person (who is most likely a very disturbed if not retarded girl) goes on to call her a slut and boyfriend-stealer, among many other shocking and completely untrue statements.

We, her collective girlfriends, have thought that contacting the Friendster management would prove futile since they already have a lot on their minds (like getting a trademark for "It’s complicated". Wow. Really.). And even if they do something about it, it might take forever before the account is taken down.

I’ve decided in my little way to make use of the same tool (although obviously with more intellect and finesse) to discredit this person who is lambasting my friend. So here’s the PSA:  If you are acquainted with Mayan, please know that she no longer has a friendster account. The Mayan Pimentel in this little universe of ours is an impostor and most likely unattractive and smells bad. Not to mention uneducated. No decent person, nay, WOMAN, would go to these lengths to hurt the reputation of another person just to get a man back.

And to the Fake Mayan, here’s my message to you: What you did? It’s sad. Really. I feel sorry for you. Need a tissue? Here, let me shove it up your nose.

From Mayan’s bestfriend who is a lot smarter than you.

As we reach the second half of the year, one of the most important lessons I’ve learned is this: You must respect the process.

Everything in life goes through a process. An organism’s gestation in a mother’s womb, turning a caterpillar into a butterfly, photosynthesis, evaporation and condensation (and I’m not talking about milk), cryogenics, asexual (and even sexual) reproduction. And each of these processes are bound by an uncontrollable variable: TIME.

[QUICK SIDEBAR: This has helped me, for example, be a better cook. I used to be very impatient, cooking over high fire, undercooking vegetables, for example. But since I've learned to be more patient, more respectful of the process so to speak, my cooking has improved (I think).]

And I realize that this applies to every other aspect in our lives. In our careers. In our relationships. In our personal struggles.

Do you believe that right now, right this moment, everything around you is conspiring to make you reach an inevitable goal? The weather, the tiniest comments of people about you, circumstances — all of these are aligning to put you in a situation that will get that train going.

Do you believe that right now, someone has you on his mind, it could be because of what you can do, what you have, or how deeply you mean to that person? Do you believe that his daily thoughts will culminate to an event that will change your life forever? He could either fire you or promote you. Or ask you to marry him or break your heart.

Either way, it’s part of a process. That’s what’s so magical about it— how millions of different variables will come together to make you who you will be.

But the trick to accepting it all is to have faith. Have faith in the process. Like my friend Tisay used to tell me: “It’s always okay in the end. If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end.”

I’m about four years too late to be a fan of Michael Buble but lucky for me he’s still around. The man is an angel. I mean, as a singer, his voice, it’s a God-send. Maybe he cheats on his girlfriend or throws paper cups on the sidewalk or calls black people "niggers" but his voice is definitely from heaven. Proof: I put on a Michael Buble CD on the player on a usually turbulent Saturday morning — what with my mom preparing the laundry, my dad cleaning the car, me wrestling Cojie out of bed — and at the cue of "Come Fly With Me", everybody just kind of dials down. We all settle on the couch, tapping our feet, swaying our heads, my parents reminiscing about Frank Sinatra. And for the rest of the CD, it’s a nice, quiet time.

And for the romantic in you, look up "That’s All". If a man sings that to me the way Michael Buble does, I will give him my ATM.

-0-0-0-

This message is for my fashion designer friend in Folded & Hung. Hoy, Ley. Your clothes fit me now. Where’s that discount card?

1. I actually enjoyed shopping today.
2. For the first time in the eight years I’ve had mid-year bonuses (GMA’s such a great company….cough), I only bought ONE BOOK and about TEN pieces of clothing and not vice-versa.
3. This one is a milestone: a blouse on a mannequin by the store window? Looked for it on the racks. Tried it on. It fit me. Bought it. Ain’t that a Pretty Woman moment there for ya?
4. I bought a blouse that didn’t have a size. I’ve never bought free size blouses before.
5. I was able to buy two pairs of jeans for the price of one because they had my size — a normal size (let’s not get numerical, basta it’s NORMAL). If I was my usual humongous self, I wouldn’t have gotten that bargain.
6. Got a denim jacket. A MEDIUM. I haven’t been medium since I was seventeen.
7. I tried on a dress (that was too expensive, but it was near the fitting rooms haha) and it looked great (yet slutty) on me. Too bad there’s no occasion to buy it for.
8. While jogging in UP, I chanced upon a guy ( who was jogging in the opposite direction from me) twice. The first time he just looked at me, the second time, he smiled at me. He was GOOD-LOOKING (by usual standards, not mine. As any friend of mine would attest, I have very bad taste in men haha).
9. Did I already say I was a medium? I’m a fucking Medium. I can’t get over it.
10. Looking at mirrors are especially enjoyable.

I’ll be pestering you with more post-weight loss stories so keep coming back.

On the jeep ride on my way to work, I sat beside a man who was probably
in his sixties. He was your usual old man, with the old man smell and the old
man skin. I didn’t take notice of him — the way I didn’t take
notice of anyone else on a public transport — until his phone rang.

His conversation with the person on his cell went like this:

“O?….. Anong
oras?…. O sige tatawagan ko si
(name I forgot)…”

A few seconds after his phone rang again.

“O?….. Ano
raw sabi?…. Eh nung mamatay ba
yan anong oras?….. Sige
tatawag ako ulit”

After ending the second conversation, he banged his hand on the seat
beside him really hard and shook his head. Obviously stating the obvious,
someone close to him just died.

This time, he was the one dialing his phone.

“Hello…. O, andiyan si Mama mo?….. eh patay na
si Papa mo…”

At that point, the old man’s voice started to break.

“Eh… ikaw na bahala sa Mama mo, wag mong biglain….” He finally said and then ended the
call.

The way he talked to the person on the other line made me think he was
talking to somebody young, a teenager or a young adult. So I assumed he was
talking to a grandchild of his. And their father who just died was his son.

The man started to do a man-cry — you know, choking back the tears,
wiping the eyes like it was itchy, but his bright red nose giving him away —
took off his glasses, and turned his face away from all the other passengers
who by now (like myself) have been clued in on his story.

Good fathers are becoming a rare species, you know, what with single
mom families (like the one I’m running) becoming more and more common.
And, God bless mothers, but fathers are so underrated. They have such a hard
life — they have to be the strong one, keeping it together during times of
crisis. If a mother breaks down and cries, the children would understand. But
if a father does, the children would panic.

And I remembered that this Sunday is Father’s day and I just
wanted to share this story to remind us that though our dads occasionally annoy
us, they (like all the other members of the male species) love us in their unique way. The least we could do is let them know. At the very least. You could, of course, do more.

EPILOGUE: For Father’s Day, I bought my Dad a CD of Astrud Gilberto (who I thought was a guy haha) because he’s been bugging me for months to
download songs for him. He didn’t jump up and down or cry when he got it,
but I know he appreciated it because when we all settled for bed last night, he
stayed up and the song "Girl from Ipanema" lulled the
rest of us to sleep.

This is an all-time first. And I feel like I should chronicle it and bug my friends with it because I think it’s worth telling.

This week, I was heartbroken. Without getting into the pathetic, sad, menial details, it was your usual run-of-the-mill disappointments over a guy.

In the past, I would react with a classic “Why not me?”, “What’s wrong with me?”, “I need to change something so I could get him back.” But something was different today. It was as simple and as basic as three words (four without the apostrophe).

It’s not him.

There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s nothing wrong with him. It’s just not us. On the surface, we seem like a logical pair (at least for me and my support group of giggly girlfriends). But then I found out stuff about him that, frankly were disappointing, but the truth is it was more liberating and freeing.

And you know what? I don’t hate him. I’m just not crazy about him anymore. But I don’t want to judge who he is — maybe it works for some girls. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work for me.

This could be a by-product of a newfound self-esteem I’ve had in the past few months. I’m more positive and hopeful about life, so minor bumps in the (lovelife) road won’t rock my world.

Hmmm. Enlightenment maybe? I could write a whole discourse on this thing. But I would need a publisher.