'tangina, nagugutom na ang mundo,
fashionista ka pa rin'*
(*maybe a subliminal plug to radioactive sago project's coming album)

Browsing through my Friendster and (now defuct) Myspace galleries, I noticed something: these girls look the same.

In their main pics they all sport long, straight hair; smile that smile (either sweet and soft, or naughty and wide--all of it pa-cute). They pose in the best angle which would them look at their skinniest best; most are in sleeveless tops even if you haven't seen that girl in a tank top all your life; their cheeks flushed and lips glossed pink.

These are the dolled-up types. The Cute Ones. The ones you'd imagine giving you a head if you're a dude.

And there are those who try their best to project Attitude. These are those dressed up in whathaveyous, the weirder the better. They are convinced they're cool. They call themselves rakistaz, pasaways, bitches, goths. Those shit.

Gah. Posers.

Some are really genuinely cute and/or cool, though. But it is hard to distinguish these types. And oh, I especially hate the spillover of the "Clueless" era who have morphed into "Legally Blonde"'s Elle Woods clones. I'll call 'em the Duh Girls, them who speak with rolling R's (Parang sounds like p'rang. i.e. "P'rang mahirap kase to park here.").

Duh Girl, yes it's you, and it's duh as in D-U-H, not T-H-E as in The Girls.

Had I been a guy, I would have gone for the Template Girl: skinny, fair, soft, leggy, long-haired, sweet. Heck, I think I'd even go for the pretty Duh Girl, well, whoever has the bigger boobs.

Girls these days look the same. By trying hard to look different, they end up looking the same.

God. I remember the offset of the bohemian look. Jesus! Everyone was walking around in boho skirts, boho tank top, wide cloth headbands, and loud, dangling, boho accessories. Nevermind if they were just walking around the mall. Nevermind if they are pudgy and not taller than 4'11. Long skirt kung long skirt.

Boho was an overkill. Everyone suddenly looked like a manghuhula. I had to put my tunics and hippie wear in the closet sometime because of that. I had to channel my inner hippie, my inner Penny Lane into something else.

I am no model. Heck, I'm even overweight but I know how I want to look like. For one, I've embraced my curls. It's a liberating feeling to be the only kulot in a sea of rebonded, straightened, relaxed hair.

I'm not saying I couldn't be a fashion disaster, but hey, at least I don't wear tube tops, fat-spill and all, while walking on Taft Avenue at noon. And urgh, no yellow and brown combo for me (too Big Bird) or maroon and yellow (simply too hideous).

Suddenly remembered Radioactive Sago's next album which will be titled: "Tangina, nagugutom na ang mundo, fashionista ka pa rin."

How apt. I care about my looks, I could be as vain as the Duh Girls and I could look like the Template Girl, I had been a Boho Babe even before the craze. I was even a Jap Schoolgirl. I couldn't wear a lot of clothes because I'm fat, but I know how I want to look like.

I could wear a tiara in Starbucks when I feel like it. I have a kimono in my closet. Let's say I'll just always be a groupie by heart, a curly groupie at that.

nb.

My boyfriend asked me once while fixing my shirt: "Lahat ba ng blouse mo ganyan kababa sa harapan?" I said, "yup." I love low-slung necklines because it creates an illusion of a longer neck. He said no more, but seeing him trying to "hide" my boobs from onlookers, and watching if I am sitting properly (I sit the same way whether I'm in jeans or minis), I think I have to consider a wardrobe change. Aww.

how can you tell if a couple is 'active'?

L and I were having another eat-all-you-can siomai and yang chow rice Sunday dinner when I popped this question: "How can you tell, just by looking, if a couple is having sex?"

He was disarmed and nearly choked on his nth dim sum, laughed, and said he's not sure. He said maybe when a couple acts "sweet and intimate in public."

Our eyes raced to other couples in the Chinese fastfood.

"How about that one?" I asked, pointing to a couple opposite us. They were in smart casual clothes, hardly talking to each other, and ate their meals as if their lives depended on it.
"Nah," he said, "mukhang 'di nga sila eh."

"Eh yun?," I asked, pointing to a younger pair who's slightly sweet.
"Pwede." we concluded.

Then to another couple in their 20s who were really sweet. "They're doing it," we agreed.

"Iniisip rin kaya nila kung nagse-sex tayo?" I asked.
"Baby naman!," he said, aghast, and told me I was speaking too loud, hehe.

Back to the question: How can you tell if a couple is sexually active?

If they are all tootsie-wootsie and smacking every so often, are they doing it?

L is sweet and touchy, he kisses and hugs me in public so often that I had to "regulate" him at times ("Girlfriend naman kita, ba't ako mahihiya.") I wonder if we look, er, suggestive.

How about those reserved perfumed colegialas their boyfriends are forever fetching from school? Heck, how about the high-school girls, are they doing it?

I remember my friends who have/had a healthy sex life, some of them were really, really virginal you'd think they are not capable of having anything between their legs. But some of them were the first ones to go.

I even know someone from med school who had a quickie with her married senior surgeon in the doctor's quarters, two minutes flat. Beat that. She was, still is, a geek.

Do parents wonder if their younglings already know the art of fucking making love?

If your mom or dad catches you in the act (say, you doing the spread eagle; worse, doggie; worst, you on top straddling your partner) would they feel the same the same way if you catch them in the act (say, seeing your mom's head bobbing up and down your dad's thingie)?

Pardon, did you just cringe?

If a couple reaches the one-year mark, is it safe to conclude that they already made love? If they are "cool" and not glazy-eyed or fleeting in lurvvv, does it mean they have no sex life?

How many among these girls I see day in and day out have been in motel rooms? How many do it with their guys? When did they start doing it? Did they ever had a one-night stand? Were they protected? Do they give head?

Another thing: Is virginity still an issue with guys? Sabi nga sa tagline ng Virgin Soda: "Everybody wants one."

I wish someone would do a study on the Filipino youth's sex life. But the problem would be the veracity of correspondents' responses.

During our first-month dinner at Heaven and Eggs (check out the Market! Market! branch, there are less people than in Glorietta where you have to make reservations just to get served by waiters with wings. Try the porkchop and bacon and omelette meals) L and I, again, couple-watched.

This time we looked at couples to see if they were "bagay." There was a tall rich-looking guy who looks like a soap-opera contravida, the girl was a cute, shapely chinita. "Olats yung guy," in his words.

Then there's a preppie mukhang-mabango guy and a slightly slutty looking girl. "Olats ung girl," my words.

Are they doing it? Hmm.

(*That's John Lennon and Yoko Ono as photographed by Annie Liebovitz for Rollingstone magazine, during Lennon's last day on earth.)

'kwentong parlor'

My TV time is an average of two hours a month. Yes, two hours. I'd rather ball up on my bed, go online or hog the phone when I'm not at work.

Those two hours are mostly spent in someone else's home or, in this case, a parlor salon.

I was having a pedicure and on TV was a talk show featuring celebrity mothers and daughters.

"Sharon" showcased local personalities Ruffa Guttierez and Annabel Rama who wore bling-blings the size of marbles. Ruffa was wearing fur with her blings---in the Philippines, during this summer.

Other guests were actress Dina Bonnevie and daughter Danica Sotto.

While the manicurista was busy removing my ingrown nails and buffing my foot, host Sharon Cuneta asked the mothers what their proudest moment of their daughters was.

Annabel said when Ruffa won runner up in Miss World.

Dina said she was gleaming when Danica finished culinary school, when she saw her modeling for Bonjour de Corp, and when she released a single.

Culinary school is fine. But Bonjour de Corp? The show even showed a clipping where the girl trots in a bar wearing those so-so clothes and Dina and celebrity ex-husband Vic were crying as they watch their "model" daughter.

But Bonjour de Corp, an obvious knock off of Esprit de Corp is always better than RRJ. Or is it?

And she sings? God. Anyway, even Manny Pacquiao has a single, so I guess I have no right to complain.

Dina's gesture just made me feel soooo succesful. Or maybe she has floor-low expectations of her daughter who'll never be as pretty as her, or will never be an FHM cover girl like her.

What do I have against these celebrities? Nothing, it's just that if you're a celebrity, you should, at least, be an eye candy. And that Sotto girl isn't even one.

And Sharon, ahhh, she smokes a lot but no one mentions it. No entertainment reporter would dare mention that because she's the most overweight and overage TV sweetheart. She even banned photographers from taking her photos during her peak weight.

And please, don't even get me started on Ciara Sotto and her hideous fashion sense.

I am buying a TV for my room, primarily for "Eat Bulaga" and HBO. That, and commercials.

weddings

A friend got married yesterday, I am still amazed that people get married out of *love* and not because the guy knocked out up the girl (my friend is on the way but they really wanna get married anyway).

I haven't been a bridesmaid, nor a secondary wedding sponsor. I was a flower girl once, though. Come to think of it I haven't attended too many weddings because one, my friends and family seldom get married, living-in has been the way to go; two, most couples have civil weddings instead, because a Church wedding is too grand and costly.

The invitation says 9:30 a.m.; I've been out in a Medittarenean bar till 3 a.m. and woke up at er, 9 a.m. I've never been a morning person, nor a wedding person at that. Dressing up is the only thing I like about weddings.

It was a little before "you may kiss the bride" when I arrived. And of course, there was the mandatory photo-op with everyone which lasts longer than the actual ceremonies.

The reception was three hours long. The bride, whom I have known since grade school but only came to be friends with during senior high, came from a very close-knit family. And by close-knit, I think there were roughly a hundred of them in the wedding. Think "My Big Fat Greek Wedding."

Every key family member gave a message (welcome and closing remarks, wishes) or offered a song during the three-hour program. Some were really touching that I shed some tears. They released doves and butterflies, too. They are a sentimental bunch, and I don't mean that in a Grinch-y manner.

My friend was the only bride I've seen who actually ate at her wedding. She is known for a big appetite and for being a good cook. And she heartily ate lunch (as in kanin at ulam) while the program was going on.

She is the marrying type. The eldest among 5 kids, she has enough training to be a wife and a mum. She even practiced on us.

They are one of the few couples that, I could say, has a big potential to last forever.

They flashed growing-up photos of the couples on a short  AVP. There were our college photos, us in uniform and most with cropped hair. It struck me that we are not those colegialas anymore. We are pratically adults now and so many thing have happened since then. Heck, she is married. Two works for a bank, one is junior producer for a news magazine show, another has been nursing heartache since what, graduation?

Is growing up a requirement?

A friend nudged me during the "kiss the bride" portion: "Dude, your ex would be like that when he gets married to his girlfriend soon."

I said: "Pare, I haven't even thought of him. But now that you have reminded me... I can't picture myself as a blushing bride, I can't imagine him up there with me. Can't even imagine myself up there."

Seeing the couple happily floating in *love* while having their first dance as husband and wife made me think of  X. If he could be this happy with Her, I don't think I could deprive him of that.

As I've said to him: "I really really hope I am not 'the one' because you just lost me for good."

And now I'm more convinced that I am not. That, I believe, is a good thing.

I don't have blushing-bride fantasies, sweetie. Have fun on your wedding. It ill hurt me, but it won't kill me.

andrea querida
(december 2005)

I'm sorry, I forgot that I am not your life.

That simply put, I am a spice, a condiment to you monotonous living.

I am an add-on, a freebie, a special offer.

I am your as-seen-on-TV, your get-now-while-supplies-last, your midnight madness.

Something you can't resist but may forego.

And she is the something that you can't live without.

"I'd rather die than lose her," you said.

There is much pain there.

As Anne Sexton said in one of her poems: "She is solid./
As for me, I am  watercolor./I wash off."

And here I am, some temptress with innocent eyes and a not-so-innocent pout.

Your pleasure of the guilty kind.

She is to be your wife, the would-be mother
to your would-be daughter whom  you'll name after me.

("Milan Andrea sounds good, right?")

She makes sure you have dinner.

I make sure you have dessert.

I am a vice, a drug, an addiction, even.

I am not a necessity.

A want and not a need,

I am your luxury.

breathless/braless *champorado search

I woke up at 4 a.m. gasping for breath.

It wasn't because of a bad dream or an orgasmic screaming neighbor. I can't breathe. My chest felt like it was contracting into a small tight ball, getting smaller and smaller.

I have been on a sick-well-sick-well mode for a month. It struck me: maybe that's how a prelude to a heart attack is like.

I have seen doctors and they all said it was allergies, my boyfriend knew better: it was because of smoking.

If it was a dying moment, it would have been a bimbo moment. Because the only  people I thought of were my boyfriend and my ex; my mom didn't even cut it in.

It scared me, like, if I'd die right there on my bed, I would still be with washed-off makeup, khaki jeans and navy-blue shirt I wore yesterday. I haven't even got the chance to change last night after L and I had an eat-all-you-can siomai and yang-chow rice dinner. Bedlam at its finest.

Maybe that was it! I slept with my bra on. (Or maybe it was siomai OD).

Anyway, back to drama. I was texting L and he told me I might be having an asthma attack. I said I don't have asthma, unless I contracted it from him, which is obscene.

I, instead, got water. Can't even remember why I have a full glass of water in my study table. Maybe it had beeen there for days. But I drank it, I was too weak to even get a fresh glass in the ref.

I can't even take the water in. It was as if I was so full of some bad air and my orifices has been sealed. Like my body had been vaccumed and air can't get in or out. I was breathing hard. But my room seems to be getting more stuffed with every deep breath.

It was scary.

This is what 8 years of smoking, lack of exercise and rakenrol lifestyle does to you. (I mean, to me.)

Champorado search

I tried to sleep but how can you sleep if you can't breathe? So it was a muni-muni moment. And the next thing I know, I remembered Baguio and I was softly crying.

And the next thing after the next thing, I was craving for champorado.

I am a hardcore goto fan. I especially love the streetside variety. Champorado is too sweet for me, although it brings me back to childhood. It reminds me of our old Sta. Ana house where stood nearby was a stall which serves breakfast classics in plastic--pancit bihon/Canton/palabok, sopas, ketsup-ghetti, and yes, champorado.

I last had champorado a little before Christmas. It was after a reunion drinkfest with my buddies in the college publication. I was devas shitless, then. So I drank, smoked, has a lil grass, hogged the videoke mic and finished a set of Beatles CD. "Help, I need somebodyyyyyyyyy! Help! Not just anybodyyyyyyyyyy!"

We haven't packed up by 3 am, so Bittermummy and I decided to go ahead. My Bittermummy said he's going to attend Simbang Gabi in UST. I tagged along, drunk and all, to ask for whatever guidance the Savior can spare me.

Never knew the mass would be in the football field. It was amazing. A giant Christmas tree of multi-colored lanterns was lit, on the stage was the altar, the lights were up as if there will be a championship game. People bought mats and newspapers to sit on. We chose to sit on the bright green grass, which were glistening, shining even.

The morning mist felt wonderful against my cheeks. The morning smelled crisp, fresh and dewy. Pity how I already forgot how morning feels like.

By then the beer and the vodka wore off. I was hearing mass and praying hard for a spotless mind.

Love pangs can make crybabies out of hardcore groupies, you know.

Missing mornings

Got home, walked around near my place and looked for bibingka or puto bumbong for breakfast. Never thought those stuff runs out at 6 a.m.

The city looks different in the morning. It was as if I was a seeing different one, a different plane. People are actually up, commuting, this early. It's so different from my world.

I passed by a very amiable manang who was selling pancit and champorado.I haven't eaten chocolate porridge in a long time, so I got one.

I missed it. And I started missing a lot of things. I missed my childhood. My dad. My mornings. I miss having breakfast (because, for three years, I've been waking up to lunch). I miss my life before I knew love. I miss my love. I miss school and schoolwork. I miss being alone.

This morning I, again, craved for champorado. So, I changed into a red-and-white floral summer dress (a glorified spaghetti-strap duster), didn't even bother to wear a bra and just wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, and looked for breakfast.

Breakfasts for me are a celebration because I've lost my mornings. And by breakfast, I mean the meal you take when you wake up early. Not the one you have after staying up so late that the sun caught up on you.

Today felt like that December morning. The air was cool and helped loosen up my chest. I walked around braless on the streets looking for champorado, the comfort food, but this time there was none.

I opted for ketsup-ghetti, it tastes ok, actually.

L suggests I quit smoking. If I have to quit something, I'd rather quit feeling too much. It wasn't smoking which made me breathless, not even the tight bra that cuts in my breasts, or too much siomai---it is that fleeting feeling of wrong hope.

I woke up today, gasping for breath. My chest felt tight as if being rolled into a small tight ball. Maybe I am having a secret disease of some sort. Maybe this is what they call heartache.

(*champorado photo from www.beyondadobo.com)

lola loves porn

I opened an account last week in a bank near the office. They didn't tell me first off that I needed to have my documents photocopied (could have done it in the office for free), so I had to go to the nearest copier which is inside a video rental shop.

I was waiting for my docs when a lola came. She was of those lolas who seemed to be fasyon in her heydays. The lady was probably in her 60s, she looked smart in her red sleeveless dress. Her salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed in place, she wore lovely gold earrings, and gold-rimmed glasses were perched on her nose; a yaya/nurse was behind her.

I smiled at her as she walked up the counter. She seemed welcome, might be a regular.

She asked the lady behind the counter if there are any new titles.

"Ma'am wala po."
"Kahit sa Playboy?" lola said.

I twisted my head a la gag show and stared at her from head to foot.

"Ma'am eto po, may istorya," the lady behind the counter said as she handed out two CDs. I peeked, on the cover were girls in, er, suggestive positions.

"Baka di nya magustuhan to," lola said. But she took the CDs, paid for it and ran through the movie list.

My documents were done. I left the store dazed.

Hardcore lola. It's impossible for her to rent it for her son. Husband maybe? A lover?

Ayus. 

 (NB: The image on the right says "Everytime you masturbate, God kills a kitten. Please, think of the kittens." So how many have you killed so far?)

wonderland deux

Nine dates, one psudo-ex, a first boyfriend by official count, 20 pounds of fat, one cat, one bra size up, 23 Dewberry cookies (current addiction), 34 Ritz Cheeze rolls, approximately 12 gallons of coffee and infinite number of cigarette sticks later, I've learned to accept the stupid fact that i accidentally deleted my old blog which I have kept for two years.

Sayang yung fan base ko don, gee.

Anyway, I've lost links to people's blogs so please drop me your URLs.

Why the header? You may ask. Hmm, let's say matured na ko. Charing.

Nah, I've been venturing into erotica as a literary form lately, and had been discovering the prose of pleasure. Naks. Heck, I might even post my work here.

Wonderland is up again. The ex_groupie is back and this is the cheshire kitten's project.

Meow.