Why I won't vote for McCain

So, this it.

The day before elections.

I am giddy, nervous, prayerful and a tad scared all at the same time.

I have kept close watch on the campaigns, slowly weeding out the candidates before I settled soon enough on one.

It is no secret this stepmama is for Obama. And I guess, like everyone else, we are all sick and tired of hearing all the reasons why. Suffice to say, he is a good man and he has my vote no matter what. He has lead a steady campaign. Having been trained in advertising, I like that. Just like disgustingly huge fonts with all the colors of the rainbow, with matching 15 exclamation points can make any ad person cringe, a single-minded campaign with clean lines and minimal copy can make any ad person's head turn.

Instead, let me tell you why I won't vote for McCain. Now, just like in the case of Obama, I know we are all sick and tired of the reasons why. The fact that he lies through his teeth, his sorry choice for a running mate, the way he says one thing and refutes it at any given time whenever it suits him, his corny old man jokes, the fact that he looks like a gnome with his short arms, trying in vain to wave to the crowd, the fact that a vote for McCain is just another vote for the Bush regime... sure, sure... I agree that all these are true and are all reasons why I will never vote for him.

But let me tell you the real reason why I will never vote for McCain.



McCain makes me want to go to sleep.


That's it. Every time I see him go up the stage, I feel an immediate sense of lethargy come over me. When he starts to speak, I want to curl up on the couch and snuggle deeper into my throw. When he tries to act all defiant and starts throwing barbs at his opponent, I feel my eyelids get heavy. I feel no sense of urgency, no reason to get up from my comfy couch and be part of a movement that will heal this country. His words drag and drone on, just like the way Ben Stein monotonically roll called "Bueller... Bueller..." in that movie. There is nothing inspiring or uplifting about McCain. When he's done talking, all I want to do is ask him to take a nap -- after he drinks a glass of milk with some B12 pills, of course.

This country needs new blood to be pumped into its veins and say what you want, but I don't think there's any more new blood to be drawn from a snarl of 72 year old veins. This country is too sick, too desperate and too tired to be let down yet again. We all have been asleep for the last 8 years. I think it's high time we all start waking up to smell the coffee and watch the sun rise again.

And that, my dear readers, is the reason why I will never vote for McCain.

Pockets of Happiness

Ever have one of those days where everything is just all right?

Today is one of those days for me.

I was driving to work this morning when out of nowhere, a wave of happiness gushed all over me and was immediately followed by a hum of peace. It was a really powerful emotion that started as a frisson from the middle of my chest and like a shot of whiskey, proceeded to burst and flow languidly through my veins. It was a heady, delirious and calming experience.

For the first time in a long time, I feel happy; a storm just passed and the sun's rays are slowly filtering in again through my life's vertical blinds.

God gave me a nudge and a wink today as if to say: "What did I tell ya, kiddo? Told ya it wasn't going to be that bad..."

My stitches were taken out yesterday. No more surgeries. No more drugs. No more pain. I have come out wiser and more vigilant when it comes to my health.

Randy and I are moving to a bigger place by mid-August.

I got two freelance writing jobs coming up. I'm praying there will be more and these would be constant.

I just got a haircut that I absolutely luuuuurve. I haven't said that in a long time about a haircut and yes, my stylist Myra, is pure rock star.

We are moving out, moving on and slowly, with patience, hope and hard work, moving up.

I am exhilarated, excited, fearful, hopeful and humbled with what is to come.

I am blessed.

I am grateful.

I am happy.

Misery

Last month was not the best of times for me.  And sad to say, it will carry on until the end of July.

Mid-June, I was suffering from foot pain that became excruciating to the point that I was limping and could not get out of bed. Yeah, fun times.  A trip to a podiatrist merited therapy and a shot of steroids right smack in the softest part of my foot.  A little known fact about me:  I am deathly scared of needles.  Pointy, sharp, metal things sticking in my skin with the syringe sticking out and wobbling are enough to make me pass out.  Well, the gods are cashing in on their sick sense of humor and I am their hapless and helpless guinea pig;  for I am the human pin cushion and my most dreaded nightmare is playing out right in front of me.

To add insult to stinging injury, I went to the dentist early June to take advantage of my dental insurance.  "Oh, goody", I thought oh, so naively.  "I can have my pearly whites cleaned."

Wrong!

The frigging dentist took one look at my not-so pearly whites and declared:  "Off you go to a periodontist!  You, you shameful wench, have gum disease!"

I was dumbfounded.  Periodontist?  What for?  I'm quite regular and I do get my period like clockwork every month.  And what does that have to do with my teeth, pray tell??

Well, corny jokes aside, I schlepped my way to the periodontist's office which in my opinion, is the first portal to hell.

The tall, imposing doctor probed and poked, pushed and heaved, grunted and clucked and finally announced:  "You need periodontal surgery."

Oy.

I won't go through the sordid, cringe-worthy details.  I'll just let you google "periodontal surgery" and you can cringe on your own private time as you read about this procedure that would make grown men whimper and call for their mommies.  Hell, I know I did.

There are two (yes, two) surgeries.  I had the first one last Thursday.  The second one is in the works and will commence in two weeks. Surprisingly, the pain was a non-issue and dare I say it, bearable.

What got me was the constant pumping of drugs into my system.

I have been on antibiotics for the past three weeks.  Three times a day of what seems to be constant pill popping.  Prior to surgery, I was on Ativan.  Post surgery, I took Vicodin -- which was why the pain was a non-issue and bearable.

Last Sunday, my body surrendered to the effects of this daily pharmacy cocktail and I was brought to the ER for chest pains and shortness of breath.  The doctor said I had an anxiety attack, that could have been brought about by the fact that I'm just not used to taking meds.  

Half of my face was swollen, I looked like a puffin, I couldn't eat, I couldn't open my mouth, I couldn't sleep and to top all that, I couldn't breathe.

Yep.  Mazal Tov.  

Today, I had my stitches taken out.  I am a whole lot better, thank you very much, but still, I am miserable.  I am still on the antibiotics, I still can't fully open my mouth and the cherry to top this tall, sad sundae is that I'm always hungry.

And I mean, always.

I have no habits to break in my life.  I don't drink, I stopped smoking three years ago and I think it has been fairly established that I cannot do drugs.  One of my greatest pleasures has been cruelly snatched away from me.  I miss food.  I miss eating food.  I miss closing my eyes and savoring a morsel of steak or sopping the last bit of sauce with a hunk of warm, crusty, french baguette.  

There is no pleasure when I eat.  I am literally eating just to get through the day.  After five days of pudding, soups and oatmeal, I am ready to tear my hair out.  Today, I tried eating a grilled cheese sandwich.  Halfway through the whole thing, I gave up.  I couldn't taste the soft, gooey, warm cheese oozing from in between the buttered and perfectly toasted bread. All I was aware of were the awkward chewing and the immediate swallowing just so my gnawing hunger would be satiated.  Where, I ask you, is the pleasure in all that?

I am still on meds and I suspect, they add to my sense of malaise and overall feeling of defeat.  I wake up at odd hours at night and for the rest of it, I am left channel surfing.  I miss feeling well and upbeat.  I miss going to my boxing classes.  With my feet on the mend, I cannot even venture and go out for a brisk walk.  I feel weepy at times and quite sad with the fact that I have three more weeks of this.  I am losing weight and normally, this would be cause for celebration.  I cannot enjoy the loosening of my clothes though, because it came at such heavy a price.

When this whole thing started, I comforted myself with the fact that I will have the Vicodin and other sleep inducing drugs to knock me out and lull me into a painless stupor.  I was wrong.  You can have the Ativan and the Vicodin -- hell, I'll give you the whole bottle for free.  Just give me back my warm pie crusts, my caramelized onions, my greasy fried chicken, my crunchy nougatine, my rich carbonara, my sweet and salty caramel with fleur de sel... fuck, just give me back my sense of taste, my appetite and all the wonder and happiness that come with it.

This whole exercise has made me wonder how people can get addicted to these drugs.  Call me stupid, but how in God's name do you enjoy this crap?  I see no pleasure in being sad all the time.  The little respite I get from the pain after taking these pills is no prize compared to the overall sluggishness I feel.  Why would anyone subject themselves to this lonely, slow and ultimately, pleasureless state?

I cannot wait for the day when I can finally stop taking these little suckers.  In two weeks, I'll be going under the knife again.  I say, bring it on.  Bring it on and let's get this over and done with.

Screw pain.  Screw being sick.  I just want to be well again.

After this whole experience, I am realizing that no matter what happens, I will always choose to be happy.  In whatever pant size, I will always choose to be happy.

I will always choose life and all the calories that come with it.  Loose pants and shirts be damned.  

Oh, Happy Day

Today, it begins...

Four Fathers

I sometimes laugh at life's ironies.

There was a very colorful, crazy and admittedly, tiring period in my life, where most of the men who entered it (willingly or unwillingly is another topic altogether) left much to be desired. Or was it I desired them and they didn't desire me? Anyway... let's just say that it is quite safe to surmise that my bad streak of luck when it came to the male of the species is well-documented and witnessed by a bunch of friends. And thank God for these friends for they were the ones who cried with me, warned me, left me out in the cold when I didn't heed the warnings and took me in again and embraced me when I realized the sheer stupidity of my actions.

And thank God I am singing a different tune these days. For all the men in my life now are angels and have made my life so much richer. I have great, no, fantastic relationships and I'm not just talking about the romantic kind. I have a beautiful marriage, a strong bond with my only male sibling and I have two guardians who mean the world to me.

And they are all fathers.

So, today, the day where we honor the other half of our foundations, this is my twenty-one gun salute to these men who are my everyday heroes, my sources of inspiration and the reasons why my life's joys are brimming.

Bibi, thank you for giving me Christopher. I have an instant son whom I'm proud of and I am prouder to be called his stepmom. I cannot wait for us to have one (or two?) of our own. I love you.

Japot, I am proud of the kind of father you have become. Although it stings at little that at 28, you already have two and I have zero, thank you for giving me two of the most wonderful little girls any auntie can be proud of. I love you.

Daddy Freddy, I miss you everyday. Thank you for welcoming me with open arms to your family. I know the greatest honor I can give you is to love your son and I intend to do that all the days of my life. Save me a fried egg sandwich. We will be in Georgia soon. I love you.

Dad, thank you for allowing me to be the person I am destined to be. Thank you for allowing me to fall, for allowing me to fight for my sometimes questionable decisions and for staying on my side of the ring even if those decisions proved to be indeed, questionable. Thank you for your quiet pride, your humility and above all, for teaching me that in this life, all you need are a sense of humor, gratitude and kindness and if you have all those three, then you're going to turn out just fine. I love you next-time daddy. I love you, I love you, I love you.

To all my friends who are fathers or a father figure to someone, have that extra bottle of beer (or wine), that extra piece of pie, that extra scoop of ice cream, that extra slab of barbecue or whatever it is that places an extra inch of grin on your face. And we promise today, the kisses will be more heartfelt and the hugs will be a tad tighter than usual. God knows you all deserve it.

Happy Father's Day.

Equality

"Our state now recognizes that an individual's capacity to establish a loving and long-term committed relationship with another person and responsibly to care for and raise children does not depend upon the individual's sexual orientation."

-- The California Supreme Court overturning the ban on same sex marriage

Today, the law did us right.
Today, we have redefined what a family is and learned that it can never have just one definition.
Today, shrieks, cheers, tears and shouts of triumph filled a San Francisco courthouse.
Today, my heart swells with pride for all my dear friends who have made this their cause.
Today, I laugh, cry and shout with them.
For today, love became truly universal.

And today, if only for today, we have shown what it truly means to be equal.

Love

Today, Randy and I went to have our usual Sunday breakfast out.  After walking around Balboa Park, we settled to nosh in one of our usual places, Coral Cafe.

As we sat down to peruse the menu, a couple came in the door.  There was nothing special about them -- just a regular twosome enjoying a lazy, scorching Sunday as any couple in that place.  

They asked for a table and were told to wait for a few minutes.  That's when they decided to pass the time by necking and nudging each other with their lips.  What started out as nuzzle quickly turned into a series of quick kisses on the cheeks and neck until they reached the piece de resistance:  a full blown, slightly-opened mouth display of osculating.  

The tonsil Olympics was abruptly interrupted when the guy's name was called for their table.  I watched them pull away from each other, the girl smoothing down her hair as he held her possessively by the waist, while making a beeline to their booth.

I smiled to myself as they disappeared from my view.  

Ah, young, burgeoning, hot love.

I glanced at my own knight in shining armor.  Looking resplendent in a tattered shirt, sweats and with mussed up hair, my dear husband was too busy shaking off sleepiness with his second cup of coffee.  He missed the whole show.  As he yawned and rubbed his eyes while making low, guttural sounds, I just had to laugh to myself.  So much for being a knight in shining armor. 

Not that I was photo shoot ready myself.  I had my hair up in a loose bun and was sporting my own old shirt and sweats ensemble.  The point is, we have settled comfortably into coupledom.  We go out in public, looking like a pair of frumpy bums (although I don't know of any frumpy bum who totes around a Marc Jacobs purse -- I'm just saying) and no, we don't succumb to the temptation of copping a feel every chance we get in public.  

Not that I'm complaining.  In fact, I thoroughly welcome this phase in our relationship.  We are definitely past the honeymoon stage of our marriage.  We have seen each other in our worst, yet I know we have not seen anything yet.  We know each other's weird quirks from talking in our sleep to saying inappropriate things at the most inappropriate time.  We know our differences well enough to celebrate them.  Our kisses may be less passionate, even perfunctory at times, but he never fails to kiss me in the morning before he leaves and to kiss me before nodding off at night.  Our days begin and end with "I love you".  Fights are minimal and at times, downright silly.  I buy his underwear and socks.  He does my laundry and folds my underwear.  I cook his meals.  He washes my dishes.  And he always, always opens the car door for me.

We have been talking about expanding our family and moving to a bigger place.  We talk about our dreams.  Every day.  His dreams are my dreams and vice versa.  His tears are my tears and vice versa.  At the end of a long day, my heart still flutters when I hear his key turn the lock of our front door.  Our love may not be as tempestuous or as crazy as before.  We may not be pecking at each other like a pair of horny teenagers anymore.  Our life may be clouded with mundane tasks like paying the bills or doing grocery shopping.  But I gotta tell ya -- my heart still skips a bit when, in the middle of pushing a cart in Trader Joe's, my beloved reaches over and gives me a kiss on the head while looking at me like I'm the prettiest girl in the room -- loose bun, sweats and all.

Our love is steady.  And as experience has taught me, I'll take steady over crazy any time.

While we were walking around Balboa Park, we passed an old couple sitting on a bench.  They were probably in their late 70's. They were feeding the ducks and laughing quietly with each other.  At some point, I glanced back at them, just in time to witness a scene so beautifully intimate, it took my breath away:  The old man reached over and with his gnarled, wrinkled hand, took his wife's gnarled, wrinkled hand and held it tight as they continued to feed the ducks.

Quiet, simple, sweet and above all, enduring.  

Now that's love. 

Home

Last Friday, I received an email from the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services, also known as the USCIS or to take a cue from Prince, the government agency formerly known as the INS.

They were happy to inform me that my Petition to Remove Conditions of Residence aka Form I-751 has been approved and that I should be getting my spanking new green card in 30 days. For those not savvy with the intricacies of immigration, this simply means I can stay in the US for good and that I am eligible to apply for citizenship in three years, should I be inclined to do so. The temporary conditions on my residency have been lifted, Randy and I have proven that our marriage is not a sham and it also means I don't have to deal with immigration and its hefty fees anymore-- at least until 2011 when the citizenship carrot is dangled in front of me.

I have been in this country for almost seven years. I have lived in Los Angeles all that time. When I first got here, I was defeated, lost and angry. I had no money, no friends, no career to speak of. The only light in my otherwise dark and cold tunnel was my family. But even they, because of my stubborn, independent streak, could not, at times, fill the void that sat miserably in the pit of my stomach. The loneliness was palpable. If tears were a commodity, we would not be in a recession now.

I had a few relationships, most of them laughable, others, particularly one, was devastating at the time of its ending. I had to get used to the ways of L.A. but quickly, I learned -- by God, how quickly I learned. If assimilating were an Olympic sport, there would be no need for trials -- I would win that gold for you in my sleep. It amuses me to no end, when people ask me how long I've been here and I answer, "Almost seven years." The inevitable jaw dropping and gasps of disbelief would ensue, to be followed by, "No shit! Really? That's it? Seven years? You speak better english than most Americans!" I laugh modestly and thank them but inside, I am preening my feathers, swishing my coattails, buffing my fingernails on my collar and grinning with unabashed smugness. Damn straight, white boy, damn straight...

Los Angeles is a tough city to live in. There are some places where your body fat ratio is more important than your intelligence quotient. Being stupid is the new black and it dnt mater if u spel or tok like dis coz, hey, 4 az long az u gotz d bling, u r d shitz, ya hrd?!? This is paparazzi country, reality show island, where Botox Barbie reigns supreme. This is the place to go shopping -- for a new wardrobe, a new home on the hills or even a new face. This is the place where it does matter what you drive, what zip code you live in and where the only size that matters is zero.

Then there's the dark, dank and downright depressing side of LA. There are places where you would be stupid to be driving around after seven at night. Gangs abound, homeless people wander, crackheads scratch their arms while their eyes dart furtively as they scrounge for their next hit. Illegal immigrants run this city. If the government did a crackdown on all the restaurants, car washes and factories in LA, we would all need to learn how to cook, wash cars and make all sorts of things all on our own. Illegal labor is cheap and there will always be some hapless illegal, fresh from crossing the border, who would be willing to do back-breaking work, for way below the minimum wage. There are some cities in Los Angeles where the streets are so filthy, the buildings are so dilapidated, where no one speaks a peep of english, that you would have to constantly remind yourself that yes, you are still in Los Angeles and yes, you are still in the United States of America and no, you did not magically cross some border to some third world country.

Los Angeles is a city that is easy to hate. Fake people, road rage-inducing traffic, high cost of living, a dismal school system, smog and pollution -- name it and it will be served to you on a sterling silver platter.

On the other hand, this city gave me back my family, introduced me to the love of my life and his son, taught me to be more independent, showed me that I have more courage than anyone could shake a stick at, allowed me to fall and rise again with grace, ingrained in me that saying "no" is always an option and that backing down does not always mean conceding defeat. So, for all those reasons and so much more, to me, Los Angeles is a city that is easy to love.

I might have chosen to live in a different country. I might relinquish my citizenship in the future. But my brown skin, bridge-less nose and unwavering pride will always make me a Filipino. In my heart, I will always know who I am. My husband knows it. Our children will know it. Things might change in the future, but for now, Los Angeles is my home. I look around me, I look at the life I am building with my husband, the friends I have made and I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

During the first two months of this year, Randy and I did a little bit of traveling. At LAX, as we walked wearily to the baggage claim section of the airport, a souvenir shop caught my eye and made me smile. It was called "I LOVE L.A."

After six years, three months and ten days, I can truly and unequivocally say, that I do.

The waiting game

Woody Allen once said: "90 percent of life is just showing up."

Now, as much as I love the bumbling, stammering schlub that is Woody Allen, I would have to respectfully disagree.

I'd say 50 percent is more like it. The other half is waiting.

I am in a current state of waiting. For what, you may ask. A lot, I answer. A lot of things.

I'm waiting for the phone to ring.
I'm waiting for an email.
I'm waiting for a signal that I can finally move on.

I'm waiting for that windfall.
I'm waiting for that negative sign to turn into a positive sign.
I'm waiting for my world to change.

Sorry to be so cryptic. Waiting sucks. I am feeling a bit down in the dumpster and it ain't feeling good. But I know just like any bad season, this will run its course and move away and pester someone else.

The flip side to this is I become more insightful. I have the chance to take a peek at my insides and see what's really going on there. In times like this, I have no choice but to be hopeful. And grateful. I look around me and I know there's a lot to be thankful for. I guess that is the purpose of this post. A written reminder that compared to a lot of people, I have a lot. A whole lot. And that with each step I take, I have to remember to be brave and hopeful and thankful and gleefully trudge on.

In the meantime, I wait. And pray. And hope. And work harder.

I hope in your own waiting game, whatever it is your heart is yearning for, you will remain resilient, intrepid and always, always utterly fabulous.

So now, we all wait.

Funny face

I just wanted to share.

This is Alex.
She is my brother, JP's second daughter.
She is my niece.
She is a year old.
As you can see, she takes after her aunt.
No matter if we have a boo boo on the nose,
there is always room for a mouthful of ice cream.

Happy Sunday everyone.

Infidelity

Before anything else is written, I think this post should come with a series of disclaimers:

1. I am happily married. "Happily" is a gross understatement.
2. This is not a cry for help. I am not a desperate, battered, lonely, yearning housewife. To reiterate further, refer to disclaimer no. 1.
3. I am writing this post for the sheer fun of it, it's Friday, I'm happy that it's Friday and Friday is usually date night. So quadruple whoop-whoops! for me.

That said, here are the men I would seriously think of leaving my husband for. This all started yesterday when a dear friend of mine, Tuxqs Rutaquio, who happens to have a permanent spot in one of my heart's chambers, posted pictures of a man I've had a crush on since I laid my googly eyes on him (more on this googly-licious man later). Since then, I got to thinking: Who are the men I would dare break the seventh commandment with?

Now, mind you again, this is all in the name of silliness. I think it is quite safe to say that while in theory, I MIGHT be willing to leave my lovely husband for a shot at love (or at least mind-boggling sex) with these men, said men will not be willing to leave even an anal probe for me.

So, with that overwrought intro, may I introduce to you, THE MEN...

(Intro music ala-Price is Right plays)

First off on the list of men whom Patricia MIGHT leave her husband for...

KIEFER SUTHERLAND!

Known for his role as Jack Bauer on the hit TV series "24", Kiefer is a tall, rich, cool, creamy milkshake of man-love. Those eyes, those lips, that voice that barely registers above a whisper... ay-ya-yay! Send in the motherfriggin' firemen! This love nest is on fire!

Unfortunately...

Kiefer doesn't like milkshakes. Well, maybe he does. But I bet he likes alcohol more. So much so that he ended in the slammer for drunk driving, possibly endangering his life and the lives of others. Now, do I want to be the glassy-eyed girlfriend accompanying him to his AA meetings and rehab? Uh, I think not. So, with that, we move on to the next...

Second on the list of men whom Patricia MIGHT leave her husband for...

MARK RUFFALO!

Oh, Mark, Mark, Mark... I saw you in a coffee shop in Silverlake. I was having breakfast with my lovely husband whom I just MIGHT leave for you. You were sitting three tables away. There you were, having coffee and sharing a laugh with a woman I surmised to be your agent or acting coach or whatever the hell she was. You were so normal, so approachable, so real. When you were done, you passed by our table and you smiled, SMILED! at me. I almost choked on the poached eggs I was noshing on. Oh, Mark... you can choke on my eggs any time you damn well want...

Unfortunately...

Mark is a happily married man with three kids and possibly a dog. So while I MIGHT be willing to leave my husband for him, he might not be so willing to do the same for me -- all for the sake of the kids. And the dog. You know how it is. Oh, Mark... such a waste... but fret not. We will always have Silverlake and poached eggs...

And with that we move on...

Third on the list of men whom Patricia MIGHT leave her husband for...

MARIO O' HARA!

Let us all bow our heads... for we are in the presence of greatness. In all seriousness, I am in awe of this man. Not only for his astounding abilities as a director, writer and theater artist, but also his gift of being one of the kindest men alive. I've had the pleasure of spending time with Sir Mario. We did a few productions in U.P. and lemme tell you something -- not only can we learn lessons from this man on how to be an outstanding purveyor of the arts, we all ought to take lessons from him on how to be an upstanding human being. Taking note of that, it doesn't dilute the fact that he is still one sexy beast. Thank you, my dear Tuxqs, for re-igniting my college crush.

Unfortunately...

What can I say? I respect the man. If ever we did the nasty... wait a goddamned sec... I can't even go there. Sir Mario, in order for me to consummate our love, I have to marry you. You know, so I can make an honest man out of you. We can't have sex before marriage! I can't even get past calling you SIR! And since, I did not think of going as far as getting a divorce, let me just love you and bask in the glory of your greatness... Amen.

Well, there you have it. My top three men whom I just MIGHT leave my husband for. I still have a few, but I'm tired and a fantasy can only go for so long. Besides, all three, as much as they are all breathtaking, are not, at the end of the day, for me.

So, I think I'll stick to my prince. The one who makes my heart sing. The one who ties my insides into knots. The one who endears himself to me everyday despite the fact that he drives me crazy everyday. Yes, the word "might" is highlighted all throughout this piece because, really, who am I kidding? All the Kiefers, Marks and Marios of this world can't stop me from feeling lucky. For I have the one and only...

RANDY KENT!

Yep, that's the one I ordered. So, ladies, care to play? Let me know the fine examples of manhood you would leave your men for.

Now, I gotta go. Date night awaits.


*PS: Much thanks to Google images and Mr. Dennis Marasigan's site for the pics used for this piece. Well, except for the last one. That one is mine, all mine!!!

Fury

Allow me to let you in on a little bit of trivia about me.

I am a blog and podcast junkie.

I am, I am. As much as I love purses and cookbooks and kitchen gadgets, I must say that listening to my favorite podcasts and reading blogs are part and parcel of my everyday existence. My ipod contains no music. Instead, yup, you guessed it, is brimming with podcasts I have downloaded. In my perfect world, I would be working with the likes of Ira Glass and writing for "This American Life". I could also be working for NPR and be one of the staff of "A Prairie Home Companion" or "All Things Considered".

More than half of the sites bookmarked on my browser are blogs. It's almost like a ritual for me every morning: Hit the alarm button when it goes off, traipse bleary-eyed to the little table holding my macbook, plop back in bed again, open the machine and one by one, check the sites to see if any of my favorite bloggers have posted nuggets of delicious stories -- all for my reading pleasure.

I would get email notifications from sites like Friendster and Multiply whenever friends have posted their own blogs. I enjoy that immensely too, for it allows me to stay in touch and makes me feel that people I love are close despite being thousands of miles away (7,307 miles to be exact).

Lately though, I have been seeing the darker side of blogging. In the past few days, I have read posts which are quite, in my opinion, cringe-inducing. I will not name names or post links to these blogs, because frankly, this is how I discovered them in the first place. A well-meaning (I hope) friend of a friend of a friend posted a link on his blog and well, a match was struck and the ensuing wildfire was a sight to behold. These are tales of betrayal, hurt and revenge. These are tales of people scorned, humiliated, let down and are now licking their wounds and screaming for blood through the oldest method in the book: public humiliation.

What appalled me with said posts was the lack of restraint. I'm no wuss and anyone who knows me can attest I can cuss like a gansgster rapper high on crack. I have no problem with people venting. Hell, I'll even vent with you. But I think there has to be a clear distinction between venting and airing your dirty knickers in public. One blog even had blatant, unadulterated threats made to the person who was the object of the blogger's fury. And mind you, these weren't vague, lame bluffs. They were detailed, stinging, I'm-gonna-get-you-sucka-and-your-family dead on serious. The clincher to the story was these threats were spewed by a jilted lover to an ex-lover -- with child!

Oy.

People, please. A word of unsolicited advice. Guard your privacy. Protect yourself, protect your children. To us mere spectators of your telenovela, this is just a hefty piece of scrumptious gossip. Bluntly, you are nothing but conversation fodder dished out after dessert while we imbibe after-dinner cocktails. To your children and loved ones however, this could mean years of bitterness and therapy. Underestimating the power of your own words is a serious offense in my book. I'm not suggesting that we sanitize the world of blogging. It is a dirty world we live in, after all. This is just an amiable reminder that we all ought to be civil and do our squabbling behind closed doors. We all have our woes and we each have our heartaches -- it is then up to us to heal those aches and ultimately, keep our businesses nothing but our own.

First post!

I guess as all blogs go, there should always be an introductory post.  Well, this is it for me.  

I have blogs at different sites and yes, I do toggle between them, just so friends from near and far can get updates on the status of my noggin.

Well, the toggling stops here.

This will be the central hub for all my thoughts, desires, rants, raves, musings and maybe the occasional recipe or two.  

To my friends who have dropped me notes to say how much they have appreciated what I have to say so far, allow me to reiterate my thanks. For a writer, there is no greater validation.  I can't feel any luckier for having people like you in my life.

So, here's to living.  Here's to good grub and good wine.  

Here's to love in all its sham and beauty.

Here's to pains in the asses.  

Here's to chocolate and cake and the hips that expand with each glorious bite.  

Here's to the silly and the whimsy. Here's to babies and boo boos and hugs that are warm and tight.  

Here's to movies and theater and books and stories that inspire and keep us wanting for more.

Here's to laughter bellowing from the soul. 

Here's to grief, outrageousness and WTF moments.  

Here's to the heroes who stay awake so we can all sleep soundly at night.  

Here's to us -- the players in this comedy of errors we call life.

Enjoy the ride.