transformer: me as optimal prime

I recently bumped into a writer from another publication in a limited-collection makeup presscon (oh, that was actually soft news). She was my roommate in a Bicol junket a couple of years back and it was fun catching up with her. I got her e-mail address, added her up on Friendster and saw this on her album:

This was after a hiking trip in Camarines Sur, that's Diane on the right. I was the one wearing pink shorts. I was that thin in 2005. I wasn't even skinny, I never was, but I realized I turned into a BLIMP.

I was convinced I'm cellulite incarnate at that time and thought I was at my biggest. Apparently, I could get a LOT bigger. What the hell have I been eating in the past two years (aside from PR food and buffet dates, er...)? The only good thing about that pic was I could still wear that pink beach shorts now. It's probably 80 percent highly stretchable Lycra.

This, I think, was during the Holy Week of 2004. Hindi ko rin alam kung ano gusto kong palabasin noong time na yan. Maw e-mailed me that photo she unearthed from one of her folders. That's me pre-braces, pre-waxing, pre-threading, pre-H Salon—by and large pre-kikay—somehow pre-sex, drugs and rock and roll. Those swimsuit and shorts won't fit me now. I've always had a big tummy as far as I could remember and I think I've had a beer belly since I was 4. I suspect the baby fats are really inborn. 

I dunno why but this photo reminds me of the "LOTR" Golum scene where he was trying to catch fish. Make that Golum on Prozac, hence, the Sesame-Street smile.

Nope, that's not me in fifth-grade PE class. This photo is neither retro or vintage; this was taken just last week. Maybe I could pass off as a contortionist. I, at least, have the gift of flexibility, which could really come in handy. *wink, wink*

There goes me as a Transformer. Next time I might be Optimum Prime, Octoarts Prime, Octagon Prime. Who knows?

But my only dream now is to be the Next White Castle Girl. I don't even know ride a horse and I look like a mashmallow man on a red bikini, but I believe (in a pronounced beauty pageant Q&A tone) that dreams (pauses) do come true. I, thank you.

meet the mother cat

fairy godninanghood and bombshell fantasies

Kitten: How's my new hair?
Mum: Kamukha mo si IWA MOTO.
Kitten: Hindi sha target ko eh.
Mum: Sino?
Kitten: Si Minerva ng "Yellow Handkerchief."

Pero shempre chika lang yun. I had my hair chopped again, shorter this time, with a Meg Ryan feel in it. Can't imagine maintaining long, heavy hair again after this.

Apparently, I have the same cut as my oldest Tita. Only that I've gone to H Salon and she went to Nena's Beauty Parlor. That's roughly a P600 difference.

Almost all of my cousins are getting married/having children, and that means I'm usually the ninang. I better start doing a list of my inaanaks' names and birthdays else I'd lose track.

for someone who's not crazy about babies, i have a lot of godchilren

I was in Bulacan last Sunday for yet another godson's christening. Too bad the fairy godninang was on gimik mode the night before and didn't even make it to the ceremonies. Bad ninang, talk about being a surrogate mom.

What I like about Bulacan celebrations is there's always the fiesta feel. Food is catered; all the kamag-anaks are there (we could easily round up a hundred); tents, balloons, tables and chairs are set up in the tree-lined compound. We even own a videoke machine—the big one where you usually insert P5 coins. And we rent a band that my titos lovingly call combo (go old school!). The guys play mah-jong or tong-its in the terrace; and the ladies eat and gossip till everyone's drunk or broke or both.

After the christening party, I found myself at the infamous National Book Store Cubao where you can find bargain books on the 4th floor. That's haven for geeks who'd want a pushcart for their finds. I dunno how they could sell hardbound stuff for roughly 1/4 the cover price, they just do. The only downside is you have to look for the books ala ukay shopping. But there's much sense of accomplishment there.

I've got two books. One is a wonderful illustrated hardcover catbook at P100 and "The Bombshell Manual of Style"—a very witty take on being a Bombshell (it's a proper noun), how they get away with stuff Ordinary Women can't like  tantrums, lack of domestic prowess, crossing the steet without looking, and PETTY CRIMES.

I read this at Taco Bell Gateway while waiting for L and found myself laughing in my lonesome corner over quesadillas, churros and bottomless drinks. Thus, ending another week with with family chikas, hugs and kisses from my baby, potato puffs in sour cream, and newfound Bombshell fantasies.