Mama Mia Que Horror

Busy me. But peak season is about to wrap up in our academy soon which will supposedly provide me more allowance to read and write. In a dash though, the weekend has given me time to respond to somebody’s weird words in her blog.

Sometimes, misplaced hubris can reach across from the huge (Asian) land of bodies emitting air of unexplainable pungent funk. For instance: this overrated female blogger who has a penchant for calling her fellow blogger names (e.g., additionally soliciting backup from her community after naming directly her nemesis, that is – another female blogger, who had thought her writing skill was amateurish) this time poked her nose on something that had absolutely nothing to do with her. She did it probably because she felt so strongly about this male blogger who happened to be the subject of a previous post of mine. She had, in fact, written blog posts in her site about an undeclared love and bond she secretly shares with him.

In this age of single-click links, what you put out in the ether is subject for perusal and interpretation. If mrs. siddharta thought her passion could be hidden behind codes and vagueness that readers surely won’t get it, she should have done some considerable thinking first. Furthermore, instead of mr. “european” blogger getting upset (for the reason a few people could read between the lines), it would be better to just take those entries down. Again, just take them down. Very simple. Because for a married woman to pine for a married man, it’s a double gobbling Que Horror.

Anyway, Asian female blogger must be patting herself on the back these days for branding herself a “sweet” angel and me the opposite. Not to mention making fun of my 5’1 frame.

Frankly, I don’t know what her real husband was thinking when he carelessly released their most recent photos on the internet. Because as soon as I saw them, I went “Mama Mia!” Why get caught without upper chest support when gravity and time have already started pulling some major tissues down? And surely if she had time to call me names for being forthright on my own site, she could also allot some to jump on a treadmill to slough off all those massive pounds. Hey Prissy gurl, go a little easy as well on your favorite whopper McSandwiches, ok?

I’m removing her from my bookmark anyway. Mr. blogger jestingly called her a genius. Hunting for a good read, I kind of believed him and occasionally opened her blog in search of a single incandescent piece. So far all I’ve seen are dead serious, pedestrian entries – not to mention corny poems. Let me give you an example:

Holes! Holes!

Holes left and right

Now where’s my froggy

Who hops on them quickly

There you are!

Oh Jumpy, Jumpy!

Do come to mommy

So I can give you salami.

Now call me shallow if I botched up in my interpretation of her poems although I swear they basically look that way.

Poetry can be technical, too, according to her. I guess we’d better shape it into a diamond. After all, the value of the art is priceless. Which made me come up with a short one – dedicated to her. The title: “If Big-bodied Hubby Finds Out.”



And blue

Plus a big bruise too

Are what will show through

When your heart




Look, my past blog posts are just that – past. Except for my writings about the important people in my life, I want to put the insignificant ones behind me. But if you wish to drag them still, be my guest. Just make sure to air what you have to say right here – if you want to get my attention – since I choose to be more discriminating in click opening blogs. You know I don’t aim for likability or to belong to any blogging community; it’s more essential for me to maintain an outlet for my real thoughts and feelings. This is my blog. You can likewise do whatever you want with yours.

Besides, nobody in this blogland could be pure enough to carry a license preaching others about kindness. Your previous blog posts disclose you’re not that sweet Miss P you claim to be.

March Babe Musings (A birthday girl with bohemian sentiments)

A day meant to be celebrated went by as this month holds a personal milestone, marking the addition of one more year to my ongoing life saga. It’s a special day I’ve always looked forward to so the sun, the moon, and the stars could take turns in crystallizing my yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows.
It’s a day to honour the lady who’s reaching a certain age – fretfully counting the unreturning years. The lady who has somehow learned to surface in a pool of her own perplexities, and who has felt better and better for being comfortable in her own skin.

woman waiting

My life has been lived only by me. My journeys solely taken by nobody but me. Which means my convictions could only be my own. I may not be without faults and I am far short of perfect – yet I believe I’ve got every right to form and hold up to whatever hard-won tenets and wisdom I might have earned or culled. I’m sticking by my beliefs, notwithstanding the fact they most probably line the outskirts of other people’s orthodox thinking. I’ve lived it, and I’m keeping it, simply because I got it.

It’s true: I still have nothing much to show except for my current jagged disposition and my weary soul. No material riches to display, or pages full of thundering philosophies to uncover. When your life gets salted by events and deeds you could only wish to do over, you begin to seriously question how you’ve lived your life. But despite the unfavorables supplied to me by nature and by my circumstances, I’d always find this need to strain to be better – with hopes that I may come back again in full force. No matter what foolish mistakes I’m prone of committing each day, there is really no one else I’d rather be.

This blog will remain to house my stories, contemplations and sensibilities. How I wish for my writing to evolve. Even if I have to take risks, attempt at experimenting with whatever style I fancy, and inevitably fall flat on my face. I can take that. When it comes to my passions in my life, relentless is the word that swells inside. Besides, we’re not sure whether time would run out sooner than expected. The completion of my bucket list – which includes a few magical places in Europe, and being able to hold a baby tenderly in my arms; courtesy of my (hopefully) soon-to-be-married son – is about to be done. It’ll be ever-so-sweet I suppose when I’ve come to share it here.

Meanwhile, I’m looking forward to getting a pretty swell haircut, a complete relaxing facial, and a new pair of lovely shoes one of these days.

November Babe Musings (Random Ruminations About Blogging and A Nondescript Existence)

Make no mistake. This seems to be the best time of my life, although nothing earth-shaking or exciting has been happening. I go to work on weekdays every morning. Go home at around 6pm. Read, eat, sleep, study, write. Very simple and quiet. It makes me wonder: how come I’m loving every minute of my present peaceful existence? Maybe I was meant to lead a run-of-the-mill life after all. To go through an average routine day in and day out. The kind I resisted in my younger years. I thought then fulfillment means seeking out what other people have. Heavy romance, material stuff, full schedule, night-outs with friends and flames. I thought having more people that constantly surround, recognize and validate me would make me feel better. That included working hard to keep my marriage afloat in order to maintain a stable family life. Yet during those periods when I was struggling to have it all, I was not happy and I felt miserable.

I could have grown plain tired of them all.

Or maybe, this certain “maturity” has given me a new appreciation for the things that truly matter.

603509_366843926718096_1450682356_n[1]Funny, falling in love with an illusion has become more appealing to me. A trick of the light so distant it’s beyond anyone’s grasp. If it breaks my heart, I figure, there will be fewer complications. Lesser damage, I suppose. And I get to go through crap which is unlike the ones I experienced in my past.

And maybe too, I am not making much sense at all.

There seems to be some paradox that exist within me these days. One undeniable paradox I’ve got to deal at this point: even though I seem to have finally found my balance, guilt creeps in everytime thoughts of someone dear to me – whose life is fast slipping away – come to mind. Everything is going well, yet the person who has been instrumental to my current equanimity will be leaving me for good anytime soon. An inescapable reality that at times leaves me in a bind. Complete utopia continues to elude me.

This blogging thing also feels like there’s a whole new world in here which I may never get to understand. I simply want to be myself and be able to express everything. As in everything that’s on my mind. But I’m afraid that’s not always possible. I have to keep on reminding myself there will always be people who won’t feel comfortable with my honesty and some of the things I’ve got to say. It might have been a principal reason why I’ve been passive in the two years this blog has been in existence. This medium I never intended for some particular ends. Certainly not to become popular, do business, start a romance, widen my network, or harbor any hidden agenda. As I’ve repeatedly said before, I just wanted to put my f%*#ing thoughts down.

But I’d hate to be misunderstood. Clicking Like and commenting on other blogs should be practised with more caution I guess. I like reading so much though – ditto for appreciating good prose and the writer’s corresponding prowess. You see, I take pleasure in reading – a thousand times more than writing itself.

Because of time constraints, I admit to regularly following only around three to four bloggers. I’m not the kind of person who needs an array of people to cheer me up. If something in my life works well, I tend to stick with it until the end of time. Same goes for food, jobs, friendships, hobbies, relationships, etc. The fewer the choices, the better for me. Why am I always guilt-stricken when I receive a Like from a co-blogger? For the reason that my present state of affairs can’t allow me to reciprocate or accommodate them all. Shame on me. I do hope to add more blogs in my Follow list as soon as more elements in my lifestyle permit me to.

There remain quite a few things I wish to write here. I’ve chickened out for some time because I’ve come to feel more shy. The fact that I am no angel, committed heavy mistakes in my past, and my life hasn’t been that phenomenal, I worried about what my fellow bloggers might think. It’s a cop out I know. I need to do what I’ve set out to do.

I remain in awe of this blogging world we hope to inhabit for eternity. But it seems both my heart and mind have a lot to learn still.

The woman you see and know here and whose words you read on the pages of this site is no different from the woman that I am at my side of the globe. If ever you find the fancy to offer a handshake, my sole request could only be: Do it warmly; make it every bit as true as the loyalty and friendship I’m willing to extend – in all sincerity. I won’t ask or need anything else from you, my fellow bloggers.

Just please don’t let me settle for less.


July Babe Rhetoric (Coming Up Against a Brick Wall)

The rains have kept on coming. The rains that have never failed to mesmerize me seem to be taking up residence on my side of the globe. Still, these are the raindrops that hold promise to heal and cleanse the afflictions of my soul.

As usual, I can’t let go of this month without unloading here some stuff I’ve been lugging around. Hence, my July Babe Musings, or rather my July Babe Rhetoric.

I erased another of my oldest post again after finding out there’s one who managed to excavate the oldest remaining entry that features a beach photo with my totally unmade up face, together with my so-so bucket list. It isn’t a good idea. Deleting post archives I mean. But I got self-conscious considering that my writing efforts then had been quite minimal too. In all honesty, I get this urge every now and then to eradicate all of my prior posts.

It’s getting uncomfortable to have to watch what I say here. There’s a big difference between knowing who your readers could be and writing with faceless unidentified readers in the back of your mind. Because there are days when I simply want to blurt “Oh f*#k!” instead of “Oh great!”

Yes Scarlet, it gets tiring to be the proverbial good girl all your life.

Perhaps it’s time for a confession once again. When I try to ponder and see things more clearly, I can’t help but realize how many areas in my life are actually unmanageable. Or aren’t working well. There’s been a leak on the ceiling again, my teenee apartment badly needs some spring cleaning, I’ve neglected applying eye cream for weeks now, the mirror keeps reminding me how time can ravage all things corporeal, I don’t visit my ailing father that often, I can’t spend quality time with my child as often as I want to, etc. Sometimes it makes me wonder if I’ve been spreading myself too thin. And have I practically let the blogosphere eat away a sizable chunk of my time? Aaw, that’s excruciating to answer in light of the fact this special sphere has served me well as a welcome, intermittent release from my reality.

So what do I do?

Well, this is how I sail my ship to escape getting sucked into an abyss of the giant whirlpool. For the most part, I refuse to acknowledge the things that might assist on pulling me down. I mean matters that are beyond my control I do my best not to dwell on. It could have been a key element to my survival. It’s good that my job and other things mundane have been keeping me grounded for quite some time now. They’ve become a crucial force that shoves me to continue putting my one foot in front of the other.

Should I therefore strengthen the tenets that are meant to be held dear? I am not sure. The thing is, I’m just as uncertain and apprehensive of the present and the future as everybody else. I’ve still no possession of any magic formula for keeping afloat. Even with all the things I’ve learned, there are days when all I ever want is to curl up in bed, close my eyes, and sleep with the rays in the light of day.

People around me have been wondering if I’ve been keeping them away at arm’s length. It could have been a misconception on their part or they might be right to a certain point. Maybe I’m simply trying to home in on the things left that I want to do with my life. My time on this planet is getting shorter. I’m not a very sociable person as well. I tend to feel lonely in a large group. I thrive better in smaller groups. But the few people who managed to get close I have clutched dearly inside me. Sometimes to a fault.

My thoughts can’t help but fall hostage to my emotions. Passion has this power to consume my whole being, with a dash of drama magnifying on its own tailing behind. How many times have I released my heart out into the wild only for it to seek the path of least resistance to unmitigated rupture? How many times have I tempted fate by giving this heart away? What do I do when mellow sensibility refuses to go hand in hand with a reckless spirit? Call me quixotic, call me impetuous. I could have been misconstrued and deemed impractical. Or illogical even. Needless to say, I could act only within the vicinities where my affections reside. Never with an ax to grind.

People take for granted the opportunity to be able to float in the air of freedom, where everything feels light. A respectable degree of liberty from the leash of sentimental bonds can be soothing. I have always longed for that. Oftentimes I simply want to take on the spirit and essence of the quiet. Nothing to ruffle the calm.. in between states of mind..

But just when I think I’m ready to leap and swim my way in the sea of serenity, something will come up from behind to snatch me from my stance. Do they know I have been waiting for this shot in tranquility for a long time?

My autonomous veneer has served as a smokescreen for my bashful soul. What people don’t know about me is I crumble easily.., and in silence.., coz I’m such a baby when it comes to pain. Venturing into the meadows of uncertainty could as well only tighten the tethers that bind me to heartache. How can I possibly take back any scintilla of power that gets hurled out the window after my feelings have compelled me to follow their commands? How can I extricate myself sooner from the shackles of wretched emotions?

How can I trust love again and again when most of what I’ve learned of it has only ever hurt me?” A rhetorical question that brings forth a cemented wisdom from one of my most favorite bloggers. He has always known how his sometimes unruly mind can generate words of beauty like sprinkles from the sky. His every sparkling word I yearn to catch with my bare hands. My brain which at times is in danger of short circuiting when I try to grasp out-of-this-world rhetoric rolling down the pages of his site. Nevertheless, he renders me breathless.. Or I just literally fall off my chair. Every time. In a league of his own, he could be one of the best kept secrets within the confines of WP. I hope he never gets to be Freshly Pressed. Because I don’t want to have to jostle my way to a crowd just to click Like on his post or make a comment. I know, I know. That’s a bit selfish on my part. But a touch of exclusivity has never lost its appeal to me.

And then, there is this other fellow.. This one who brightens me up with his grace, pragmatic intelligence and wit. I wonder if I’ve become a bundle of contradiction here once again. But oh, how I lie in glory with the feeling at times..

What do I do when I’m currently mooning over someone who also happens to be breaking my heart?

Go with the flow of inspiration I was once told.


To my beloved Muse, You who helped me carve out my own truth. For you who could see past the secrets of my soul. In ether or on earth, my thoughts can only fly out to where you are..


April Babe Musings

I was apprehensive April would come to a close without me having posted a single thought or update about my less than sensational existence. The pact I made with myself of at least a single entry finding its way to this blog of mine once a month is in danger of annihilation I was afraid. Yet here I am, feeling relieved to have made it.

Starting off on the lighter side of things, I’ve been anticipating the movie Avengers which is slated to be shown here at the end of April. I make no bones about the fact that I normally watch movies for the eye candy. Nothing wrong with letting my brain go dead for a while I suppose. Action movies are my kind of thing. Besides, I’m thrilled to be able to lay my eyes on Chris Hemsworth again who was adorable in the movie “Thor.” There’s something distinctive about his handsome face that makes me not want to take my eyes off him. Again, let’s not get to the body or I might not be able to put an end to this post. Just watching him and hearing his voice will be well worth the movie ticket. I happen to fancy Jeremy Renner (Hawkeye) and Chris Evans (Captain America) too. How lucky could Scarlett Johansson (Black Widow) get for being able to work side by side with these Hollywood hotties. Robert Downey Jr. (Ironman) is one hell of a talented actor, that I’m aware of. But you know, there’s no way he can compete with the younger ones in the looks and brawns department. Sorry, Bob. 🙂

Oh by the way, my son just turned 20 last weekend. Gone is the teenager in my house. But I’m proud to brag he’s been doing well in his studies, and my heart is glowing with the fact that he’s still devoted to his mom. Life can be good at times. We celebrated his birthday by simply opting to go the nearest commercial center that houses a nice, reasonably-priced Italian fastfood restaurant named “Sbarro.” We ate a few slices of their mouth watering pizza and a delicious serving of their fetuccine specialty. Yummy. I plan to go there again this weekend.

Now if I may touch on to the more introspective side.

Reading has become so much of a delightful activity to me that writing gets jostled aside most of the time. The humbling reality that I am more of a reader than a writer has become more lucid than ever. I don’t mind though as long as I can find my way to the best reading stuff in the blogging world of WPress to bring interminable felicity to my life. I’ve been spending my extra time digging the archives of a few of my most favorite bloggers recently, going into the vaults of treasures they managed to write from the not too distant past. Such joy I get from dropping by their blog terrains, hanging around at times, soaking up various kinds of expositions that exhibit the incandescence of their minds, breadth of their experience and delectable writing prowess. How the hell did they get that good by the way? Why didn’t it occur to me that blogging would someday be the coolest thing for a wannabe writer like me that I should therefore have done my best to hone my writing skills intensively in my younger days?

Too late for regrets now. I just gotta be happy with whatever I’ve got and do what I have to do. For I had hoped this blog of mine would be my residence that houses the reflections of my heart, soul and mind – providing me freedom not just in expressing my innermost thoughts but also freedom to be as fallible, human and average as I can be. I want it to shelter me from the outside world too, devoid of needless complications that can entangle my heart, mind and soul. Haven’t I had enough of that already in the wilderness of the external world?

I’ve always looked forward to the opportunity where I can be daring in my writing attempts and not worry as to how others might perceive my intellect and aptitude as a writer.

Only in here can I find closure to my quest for endless new beginnings. That’s the sanguine solitary line I managed to write for my gravatar profile. Words of truth and intent I might inevitably have to go through again and again in this domain of mine. Having to wipe the slate clean every now and then. Telling it like it is. Hoping to finally become the blogger I’ve always longed to be.



March Babe Musings

I just got to remind you, please don’t take the word “babe” in my blog titles seriously. I just couldn’t think of a spunkier term so I’m simply settling for the meantime.  But in case you’d want to think of me as one cool Bb, it’s your choice. Who am I to stop you? 🙂

Not exactly a fan of the summer season, I have to give in to the hot weather that has just stepped in here recently. On the latest happenings in the domestic front, impeachment of our Chief Justice of the Supreme Court which is the first in the history of our land seems inevitable, but I’m kind of getting tired seeing it all over the newspaper headlines or hearing about it in the evening news. In fact, I’m more interested in who our bachelor President is dating these days and whether he really intends to settle down and give us a First Lady soon.  🙂

Psst, ssshh.. don’t tell but I’ve been actually stealing wifi connection from my unwitting neighbor for months now and though sometimes I feel guilty, most of the time, I don’t. hee hee.. You see, wifi “joey” suddenly turned up like a mushroom one cold evening November of last year. From then on, my son and I got hooked.  That’s the reason I previously held out on having any internet server installed in our home. I knew this would happen. So now, gone are the weekends when my son and I would think of more fun and productive ways to pass the time. Instead, the usual weekend scenario would have my cat sitting in front of us, staring at my son and I completely glued to our respective netbooks all morning till afternoon until she couldn’t take it anymore and literally screams at me for neglecting her. Well yeah, I’m the one she bullies around alright when she gets hungry coz I unintentionally got a bit delayed in giving her cat food. I guess my cat is justified for doing that. If not her, there are other things I tend to neglect due to my current preoccupation. Like I was in the middle of reading an interesting blog, then suddenly I remember,

“Oh yeah, the laundry!” or

“Woops, time to do the dishes.”, and the worst,

“ Oh MG!! My food! It’s burned!!”

And this tiny abode where we live? Definitely needs some cleaning.

Tsk tsk.. Yeah I know, I need some kind of Extreme Measures.  Don’t worry. I’m planning to do something about it. Soon.

I wish to write pretty thundering pieces all the time but frankly, I also miss posting just about anything in here. Anything (Just like what I’m doing now). Without taking much into consideration the repercussions or my readers’ perceptions. That I did pretty much in the earlier days of this blog because I honestly predicted a 2% probability somebody would visit this site. Much like during my kiddy days when my brother and I would each light up a firecracker at the dawn of New Year’s Day to throw to the ground then run and hide to escape from our neighbors’ suspicions. In the infancy stages of Bohemian Sentiments, I would bravely gab about gushy and silly trivialities, hit Publish then say “bye bye blog. See ya next time. When? I ain’t sure.” And you know my previous posts with contents I had thought of as balderdash? Kaput! Gone. Most of them I already deleted. I’m a shy girl, you know.

I recently saw an excerpt from Joan Collin’s kind of memoir where she stated how women spend too much of their younger years on men. It makes a lot of sense to me now. I guess things like these become crystal clear only after having been graced with the gift of years. Just thinking about it, I wish I had devoted my youth more wisely on loftier pursuits like being the one to be able to unlock the “Mysteries of the Universe.”  Instead, I foolishly spent a huge chunk of my time in the company of the “Masters of the Universe.” 

And so it got me thinking of Whitesnake’s hit song of the 80s “Here I Go Again”:

I don’t know where I’m going

But I sure know where I’ve been

Hanging on the promises in the songs of yesterday

And I’ve made up my mind

I am wasting no more time. 

I’m actually happy with my life these days. I feel peaceful. I get bad days of course once in a while, especially after a night with not much sleep. But whenever I walk home after a long day at work, all I’ve got to do is look up to the magnificence of the afternoon sky and my day is redeemed.

I’m a pretty fortunate babe indeed.

The Middle Child and the Intricacies of Favoritism in Family Bonds

Bristling with naked truths and honesty, my previous posts would have me flinching in embarrassment at times. Part memoir of sorts, this is supposed to be an anonymous blog coming from a lady in near mid-life with a few tales to tell. For she’s been around, been there, done this and that; possessing a faint hope that the few readers who’ll manage to visit here can learn a thing or two from her life stories.

I belonged to an average-class family and was the middle child, having an elder sister and a younger brother for my siblings. My family has been my wellspring of joy, hope and love. But it hasn’t been all peaches and cream for us. Like the majority of families in our society, I belong to a dysfunctional one. I have no problem admitting that. And don’t we all have some things in our past that fall under the categories of unresolved issues and painful recollections specifically when it comes to our relationship with our parents?

My father had eight children with his first wife. Three sons and five daughters, two of whom had been crowned with prestigious beauty titles. Now why did I include that tiny bit of information? Because that could substantiate the magnitude my Dad placed on beauty as the ultimate mark of a woman’s worth. This philosophy has lorded over our household for as long as I can remember. It so happens too that I’ve got a sister with nothing less than stunning physical features to grow up side by side with. Yes, I was your quintessential plain-looking damsel with the gorgeous sister. My sister, who gradually metamorphosed into a truly lovely swan as we were growing up, was endowed likewise with a radiant personality and feminine ways that easily earned people’s attention wherever we went. And she was not just your typical pretty dumb gal. Always an active participant in innumerable school activities, she’s also got a lot more to her than meets the eye. Sure enough, she has gone on to become successful in her field as a broadcaster in the years that followed after she completed college.

Meanwhile, I suffered in comparison during those tender years. Shorter in height, bashful and afflicted with insecurity issues about my physical appearance that paralleled with an all-time awareness of my mediocre intelligence and abilities, I had begun skating the edges of poor self-esteem.  In contrast to my sister’s highly demure ways, I was a bit of a tomboy. More comfortable in jeans and t-shirt, I’d engage in certain male sports and climb trees with nary a halt. Neither was I an angel sister or daughter to my family in its strictest sense.

Clan gatherings would find me sitting in a corner, getting hold of a newspaper or any material on sight so I could pretend to be reading or busily engrossed in something. I’d fail to draw attention from anyone if I did just that I figured. Unfortunately, somebody would end up noticing me including my cousins who would take turns teasing me and joking about how I’d someday end up as a convent nun or a spinster anarchist. 🙂

People have said one inevitable part of family ties is when parents find themselves feeling more strongly about one child than the others. The parents then must make sure not to cross the line by making it obvious to the other children. I think they’re dead wrong in assuming it could be that simple. At least not in our case.

This is one of the most difficult posts I had to write from a long-buried memory I’ve been reluctant to dig once again. I knew I’d be coming face to face with my emotions as I start opening the wounds which explored the complexities that bind my present kinship with my family to the past.

A painful portion of my life that had me occasionally and seriously questioning my father’s parental skills.

Starting from childhood up to my teenage years, I feared for my father’s wrath whenever he’d come home as my sister would run to him to tell him about our squabbles. Oftentimes for the simple reason that I had talked back to my sister during our petty fights, my penalty would include a severe scolding and at times a slap or a hitting of some kind. I accepted every punishment without question. But secretly my hard feelings had begun to accumulate I contemplated running away from home. Completely sheltered throughout my fledgling years though, I knew it was impossible. There was nowhere to go.

My father repeatedly told us he was old school who had strictly insisted on the value of respect for elders. But sometimes I could sense another reason. Something else that must have been plaguing our relationship with one another from the very start. And that was Favoritism, or to put it more simply, “playing favorites.”

I also remember the shopping episodes that had me tagging along with my family, only to find at the end of the day when we arrived home that my sister had 10 new items or more in her wardrobe and me having only two. I admit to getting hurt I’d end up locking myself in a room crying. Everytime. Both my parents would somehow feel guilty and start consoling me by saying they simply got used to the tradition of hand-me-downs among siblings practiced in their generation. Ergo, they assured me that my sister and I could share things and she could definitely pass them on to me when she has outgrown them.

In all honesty, I was never jealous or envious of my sister being the blessed one because I do like what I have become as a person. For what it’s worth, those painful segments provided me the strength, discipline, self-love and insight I had needed to last this long. These are my kind of gems I won’t trade for anything else in this world.

We just all have our issues with our parents I believe. We’re all flawed as human beings. We can only make mistakes. And my parents unintentionally committed this particular mistake which put a considerable dent on my good memories with them. 

It didn’t take too long for both of them to become finally vocal in their admission to “playing favorites” as soon as they had seen the potentials of my budding sister and what she could clearly bring to the whole family at that time.

Although Dad surely had inadvertent ways of making me feel non-existent, I’ve got to admit I’m not the one he had given the least attention to. It’s my brother. My younger brother who I’m sure has his own story to tell. Dad made no secret of the fact that he prefers daughters. In turn, my brother has become the dearest child to my Mom’s heart.

In spite of everything, my strong connection to my father couldn’t be denied. I have no doubt of his love for me as one of his daughters.  He’d claim I’m the child who resembled him the most both in character and looks.  Pronouncements as such never failed to make me jubilant and proud. Indeed he was my rock and had been the center of my universe.

Although Dad was never a good husband to my Mom, he’d always been responsible and a good provider to us. I recall him coming home at night, only to leave as early as 4:00 a.m. to go jogging in the park and thereafter proceeding to work on his two jobs. Sometimes we’d see him only once a week or once in two weeks. We’ve always been aware of his first family so this was no puzzle to us at all.

I can categorically claim that both my parents didn’t put much effort in hiding their preferences and partiality in dealing with their kids. It’s as if they didn’t put considerable thought on whatever repercussions it could bring to their affected youngsters then.

Do I resent my parents for this? It’s hypocritical to deny it as I still got a few emotional scars from the ramifications brought about by their open display of partiality. I felt it had somehow robbed me of a better sense of my fragile teen-age self.

My fate had provided me with only one child. There’s no way I can ever test myself with the same challenge of having more than one kid without giving in to the appalling temptation of favoritism.

Even if my son has continuously shown me unmitigated love, I’m aware he’s got issues with me and harbors some resentments with regards to my shortcomings as his only parent. It breaks my heart knowing I could have been the very best mom my son could ever have when he only has me in his life and yet I failed. What’s more, I’ve committed some grave mistakes as a parent I’ll be too mortified to confess here. My only salvation I guess can only come from my never-ending petition for my son’s forgiveness.

A kind of apology I know neither of my parents would be willing to ask from me.

Valentine Season Ponderings of Single Women Like Me

I hate to put out another sappy piece here but Valentine’s Day is coming around the corner and that gives me fair enough reason to write about love and men-my most favorite topics- once more. Yipee.

Please take note that I’m still resolute in granting my weary heart a sabbatical, which means I’ve no plan to put it on the line yet. Be that as it may, I find no reasons not to be happy. Life has been good recently and it still is.

To be honest, I’m not totally loveless on this special day. Aside from my son, there’s one in particular who’s gonna be so happy to see me and spend time with me. My cat. As soon as I get home from work, she’ll start following me around, making unintelligible sounds equivalent to saying she missed me the whole day, and then proceed to show me her undying devotion in her own feline ways. For sure, we’ll be having dinner together sharing a can of sardines afterwards. No kidding. Hey, it’s not that bad. I do love my cat. And some sardines can be tasty and delicious.

You know I put up this blog so I could start to chronicle my life’s narrative. The question is, am I ready to narrate to my dear readers my love stories of epic dimensions? (ho-ho, I’m exaggerating, of course) Nah. Maybe not yet. In the near future perhaps. But here’s the deal. Whatever you’ll learn about me and my past romantic misdemeanors, just promise you won’t report me to the nearest Police Love Station. Ok?

There’s one thing you should know about our race. We are widely known for indulging in the extravagance of our feelings and emotions. Crimes of passion are not extraordinary occurrences here. Only in this land can you hear of mortals actually willing to die for love, or surrender in all foolishness in the name of unmitigated, relentless ardor. How we revel in its sensations, never lacking in PDAs or ingenious ways to demonstrate our supposed infinite (?) affection for each other.  I have to admit that we sometimes find western movies on love lacking in dramatic embellishments. They’re a little flat and laid-back, in our honest opinion (sorry..). Our romantic films in comparison are intense, high-strung, oftentimes tempestuous, laced with intricate angles that twist and turn. That’s how we normally favor all things romantical here.

Freddie Mercury of Queen sang about this crazy little thing called love, remember?   

And there are times too when I liken this whole notion of love to an inconceivable dream. You try to reach for the stars and in certain magical moments, you feel as though they’re already within your grasp. Just as you’re about to touch one, you plummet back to earth and crash down explosively in unfathomable fashion. It’s as if we aren’t meant to mingle with the brightest in heavens, after all..

Alright, alright.. Before I lower the curtains on this entry, I’ll confess to keeping someone somewhere in the outskirts of my heart for this particular Valentine. Not so much on the romantic sphere though. But I consider this person special to me because he inspires me in a good sense with his gracious manners, erudite mind, elegant writing style and flawless grammar. Don’t dare ask me who he is or I’ll turn tail and flee. Comprende?

Happy Valentine Season, dear readers!


Solitude On My Own Terms

Warm on the heels of famous women and their recent breakdowns, Demi  and Heather were the “It” girls of my generation who were both destined to become eternally cute and popular. Having been casualties of humiliating divorces, they’re also now both enduring the ruthless passage of time. Recently pegged as poor little rich women who’ve somehow lost their way, many have slammed them for being spoiled by their wealth and fame that they couldn’t deal with their current mid-life crisis like the rest of us.

How good can people get sometimes at creating a smokescreen that obscures their true feelings and plights?

The inclination of these hapless celebrities to succumb to drugs and alcohol has puzzled me for too long. What really drives them to give in to such pernicious temptations? Has their pain become unbearable, resulting to their inevitable free fall into the abyss that culminated in their self-destruction?

I’m in no position to cast stones at anyone this time as I have a gentle understanding of what these people have gone through. Melodramatic as it may sound, I too know what real pain feels like. The sickening ache that I’m sure can overwhelm even the strongest of hearts. How many times have I skirted on the very edges of despair when this soul of mine felt like crying out loud in the rain?

More than I’m willing to admit, I guess.

I don’t remember ever inviting drama into my life and yet it has come like a cat that has sprung unbidden onto my lap. Then there had been moments when certain kinds of melancholy or some sense of emptiness would creep in like a mysterious stranger in the middle of the night, and the only sensible way out was for me to relearn how to sail through the rough seas.

Growing up and even now that I’m an adult, I’ve always felt like an outcast. Exactly much the same as the eternal wallflower that prides itself on contemplating the paradigms of its existence, while possessing a pleasant awareness of an alternative route to an imagined realm at liberty from all things mundane.

Music, movies, literature, art, nature… They’re the outlines that characterize the wonderful breadth of my solitary world. The best friends I’ve had for so long. Even the stark beauty I find in the heart of loneliness has not shown any signs of fading.

Alone with my thoughts, I could conjure up happiness every now and then, muse on some lonesome episodes from my past, and in all its glory bring back the dead and gone..

Worlds might have come crashing down and prayers remained unanswered. I, who have gone off the deep end in certain unrelenting personal winters of my life, am still determined to tough it out.

As we’ve no choice but to soldier on.

I remember how my father, who had sensed my predicaments in his earlier ailing years, had told me these exact words with a smile, “Even if I want to, I can’t get too worried about you. You’re the true-blooded daughter of mine who can easily discern the correct path and decide on the right thing to do. You’ve always been strong.”

Oh dear father… if you only knew…

Sundry Reflections on this Delightful Blog Universe

I confess to the occasional taking for granted on my part the joy our blog world has been bringing me. But a recent happening that left my heart wistful yet smiling sweetly with gladness.. courtesy of this “virtual land” we inhabit as bloggers has got me pondering  how much our blog universe or whatever you call it has benefited our writing skills and, more importantly, our inner lives in a variety of ways.

My original purpose for setting up this blog; To blog my random thoughts about whatever comes naturally with substantial anonymity. It was my son who opened this account for me, which means I didn’t participate much in the details of its creation. Funny that in my earlier years, I managed to complete courses in Cobol and Dbase programming with flying colors, not to mention even attended various mandatory computer seminars, yet these days I get clueless in the latest technology involving cyber matters. Most often, I’m reduced to simply turning on my netbook hoping nothing ever goes wrong.

There are times when I get tempted to include exquisite, eye-catching photos like what the majority of creative and resourceful bloggers do, but I always end up deciding against it for two main reasons; First, I want only my prose to highlight my entry. Second, searching for the right images might take up too much of my time (read: I’m lazy to do it.). Ditto for links and other blogger paraphernalia. Now you know why this particular abode of mine is totally unadorned.

I get to look at Freshly Pressed blog posts once in a while. Some are good, some are mediocre. I mean, maybe they’re not just my cup of tea. And it got me thinking what it would really feel like if one gets to be featured up there. Honestly, I believe it can be daunting. I don’t think I might want that many readers or followers who would expect the same quality of output in my succeeding entries as a consequence. One case in point, a pretty gifted blogger who’s probably a couple of years older than me got to become so popular in the blogosphere after figuring on Freshly Pressed. I began to get enamored of her site that tells about her colorful yet tumultuous life punctuated by her witty and brilliant sentiments on the truths of life, lost loves, passionate romantic encounters, hopes and dreams, and even her bipolar tendencies. Those were her previous subjects. A selected number of her literature had me going “woo hooo..”  Then her writing gradually changed. Until one day she suddenly bid her followers goodbye giving personal excuses about certain family problems. I sensed that she might have felt overwhelmed by the sudden deluge of readers and felt obligated to write more about urm, wholesome topics. I’m still waiting for her to turn up again one of these days.

Different strokes from talented writers with interesting personalities and dazzling writing styles. Oh you’ve no idea how often I get blown away by these delightful circle of bloggers and their incandescent works in the blogosphere. I tend to get absorbed in their stories and perspectives, reading non-stop until my eyes start bleeding from the glare of my computer monitor, or when the intensity of their tales or convictions makes me want to lie down for a while.

So who needs TV when the world of blogging has much more to offer? Definitely not me. Magnificent blogs continue to bloom around everywhere. What a bonanza for readers and writers alike indeed.

That convinces me we’re all fortunate to have each other here.