Long-distance Lovin'

Our feature is out now in the February/March 2012 issue of Maven Magazine!

That's actress Kim Chiu on the cover, oh, and I just noticed, the blurb on the righthand side for the article, "Real Long Distance Relationships That Work," yay!

Grab your copies now! :)

Lead photo: Pat Dy. Dress and suit: Kate Torralba. Makeup: Peddy Acebo. Hair: Bong Vicentico.
For wedding supplier info, read this post.

Are we there yet?

DAY 27

of the 30-Day Blog Challenge, 2011

I'm four posts away from finishing this year's 30-Day Blog Challenge, and it has been a real challenge so far coming up with a single post everyday, what with work, errands, yoga classes, and other things that occupy my time. But, I know completing it is a reward in itself.

I got to thinking about patience, persistence, and waiting:

1) Persistence pays off.

At mass today, the priest said, "God answers the prayers of the persistent." And, he also said this prayer of thanksgiving, "We thank You for all that we already have, and we only ask for more because of our reliance in You." I like the above quotes because, while I know that God already knows exactly what I need and want (chocolate), he also is a great listener. I akin it to a parent lovingly listening to a child narrating a Christmas wish list; a child fixating on a particular toy which, one morning, magically sits under the tree, topped with a gorgeous bow. It's a delightful moment for both giver and receiver. So, when you want something, ask, ask, ask! And then be grateful.


2) Patience is a virtue.

I think about my husband when discussing patience and (high) EQ—qualities that come naturally to him. You'll never see him harrowed by long airport lines or waiting in general (except probably at restaurants). He has the tenacity that comes from diligence, that's why he gets the promotion and lands the best deal when shopping. As for me, I'm pretty good at waiting and long lines too—having been an only child for the most part, boredom has rarely ever been an issue. Compared to my husband though, I am the impatient one. So it's good that we're together.

That said, I also believe that a little impatience thrown into the mix from time to time can be helpful, especially if it helps propel you forward. A nudge here and there, and you can go back to planting seeds and being patient.

3) Good things come to those who wait.

I subscribe to this quote as well but I can't help but think about Ann Boleyn, eep! Fine, not everybody suffers the fate of the beheaded queen—she did get the king after seven years of waiting before he decided to do away with her. Still, going back to #1, it's good to be persistent…and to try to find meaning in waiting.

University Fashion and Beauty

The 2011 version of what
I would have worn in college.

In retrospect, it perfectly worked out that none of the "cute" boys I liked and pined over back in college found me attractive—maybe because I looked like them and dressed like them.

I fondly refer to my college days as the time when I had fashion amnesia. (I pointed out my penchant for t-shirts and shorts back then in my "Blast from the past" and "Short Shorts" posts.) As a tween, I pretty much was as prissy as the next Selena-Gomez-Justin-Bieber follower if it were 2011 back in the late eighties/early nineties, but for some reason, by the time my college years rolled around, I had no semblance of fashion nor concept of beauty (I do remember purchasing one tube of lipstick in my junior year. I still remember what it was: Revlon Raisin Rage…so maybe I did have the makings of a beauty editor).

It would take a magazine internship, an editor promotion, and a makeover to snap me back to the kikay youngster I once was. One of my early purchases at this new stage was a pair of turquoise BCBG pointy mules from DSW (back when BCBG shoes weren't as readily available online) that I wore to one of the Seventeen anniversary parties. This is why when the whole magazine thing happened, university friends were baffled by my so-called "transformation," whereas my co-Sweet Valley Twins cohorts were probably just as surprised at how I managed to even start looking like a boy.

And, going back to those college guys, all the platonic friendships and unrequited crushes gave me enough time to climb, go to the beach and road trips, and make great friends—both male and female. If I had snagged a boyfriend back then, I would've been too distracted by the serious emotional involvement to create awesome memories of those carefree years.

Suffice it to say, I was finally asked out by good-on-paper boys during those early years as a magazine editor. True, it was fun and exciting, but now that I think about it, it was ironic because I was still the same person from college who wore t-shirts and Birkenstocks to class. Is it because of clothes that I attracted class clowns and geeks instead of frat guys, jocks, and politicians' sons? (On another note, those nerdy types turned out to be great career men and responsible partners later on.)

Fast forward to 2004, when I met the man who would become my husband, it was time for yet another makeover: I'd gained a lot of weight and was in the middle of trying to shed it all off. Simply put, I met my husband when I was fat, and no amount of beauty or fashion could have covered up all of it. That, too, surprisingly worked out. And, that's the subject of another blog post.

Image courtesy of Bluefly.com.

College Musical

One of the most memorable movie soundtracks around.

While in the kitchen prepping ingredients for banana bread and chocolate chip squares, my Pandora Quickmix suddenly played the song, "Crash" by the Dave Matthew's Band. I stopped in my tracks and took a moment to listen to the song I hadn't heard in YEARS. I found it odd that the anthem of my late teens never found its way to my iTunes playlist. So, suffice it to say, I have been fixating on songs I used to listen to back in the day.

It also occurred to me, how, for a good decade—from the early nineties to the turn of the new millenium—I'd regularly played the guitar as a hobby. As a teen, one summer I taught myself to play, and that school year in high school, I chose guitar as a music elective. I didn't become quite the expert, but I learned the basics in a more academic setting. I played random classical pieces, and my teacher—a lanky, long-haired guitarist who probably had his own band and was working as a music instructor during the day—would sneak in some contemporary hits during practice sessions. Eventually, as college rolled around, I learned how to play songs by Dave Matthews, D'Sound, Everything But The Girl, and all of those artists who were popular back in the day. It felt like a lifetime ago, and I instantly started to wish I had a new guitar to completely reminisce, as well as relearn, the tunes of my yesteryears and actually pick up new pieces (Taylor Swift's "Love Story," perhaps?).

One particular song that got my heart thudding today was "We Meet Again" by Nancy Wilson, which was featured in the Jerry Maguire OST (sample the iTunes track here or on Amazon.com). Now, this one was incredibly memorable and special because at the time, my ex-boyfriend and I were just friends at the climbing gym we both frequented, and I tried to impress him by learning the complicated track, which required precise plucking of certain notes, versus collectively strumming chords. So what I did, since the College of Music was just across the street from MassComm, I approached a random musician and asked if he could translate the song into sheet music for me, into "tabs" as what they're commonly called. 

Looking back, I couldn't believe I did that(!)—both the fact that I commissioned a music student AND went through all that effort to get a boy's attention. How I wish I still knew who the guy was—he did an excellent job that within a week or so, I had pages of music to study. I probably told my ex the story when we did get together about a year after. He and I are actually still friends to this day (his wife did my beautiful invites and they both were guests at my wedding). I do have some thoughts on staying friends vs. not staying friends with people whom one dated and that would merit another post altogether. 

It's just amazing how my life changed throughout the years, and how the music I listened to changed with it in the process (now it's plenty of house, Chicane, Phoenix, Katy-Perry-pop), and, now that I'm married and living here in New York City, how I'm rediscovering good bits and pieces from my past and finding ways to incorporate them in my current life.

Image courtesy of Amazon.com.

Ikea My Way

An affordable way to cheer up.

While the Ikea in Red Hook, Brooklyn is miles from where I live, it's surprisingly easy and convenient to get to, thanks to a reliable subway system and the free shuttle one could take upon alighting from the train (in the wintertime, just be sure to bundle up for the wait at the stop).

Before I go on with a fairly recent afternoon's trip to the Swedish megastore, let me tell you a story:

In the middle of Times Square, one night I found myself crying in public while on the phone with my husband. It was from all the bottled up frustration—coupled with the loneliness from being far away from him—that I shamelessly started to tear up amidst the crowd and on a very busy street. If you've been reading this blog, you would know that I'm big on positivity, going with the flow, and living in the moment. But, that night, I succumbed to a weak moment and the reality of my situation suddenly hit me: I was jobless, alone, and somewhat broke. I also felt like a nobody—a feeling triggered by a previous visit to the Fox Newscorp building where I went in to use the ATM and was turned away by the guards (it was a holiday so they weren't really letting people without a company ID in). I thought: Will I even end up working here to get my Julia Roberts moment a la Pretty Woman? (Cue script: "Remember I was here the other day and you wouldn't let me in? Big mistake, HUGE. I have to go shopping now...")

In New York, I have no clout, no influence over office buildings... I knew it was a very mundane situation and it was the job of security to screen people out, but that night was a compoundment of all the exasperation I'd been feeling ever since I lost my last full-time job and embarked on this bumpy journey of a jobhunt. I felt overwhelmed by the rejection, the uncertainty, the waiting... I just wanted to cry. So I did.

Meatballs and more.

Now back to Ikea. I did mention that I was somewhat broke, meaning, not totally. My wallet hasn't been empty (at its leanest, it still had coins), thanks to a little help from loved ones. And, I do have my writing jobs, but the checks have been delayed, and when this Times Square incident happened, I had been lagging behind my rent and I had an upcoming bill to pay.

I needed serious cheering up—fast, and on the cheap. I couldn't think of a better way of drowning my sorrrows while being productive than a super sulit, affordable meal in the Ikea cafeteria and a quiet moment to tip-tap-type away...somewhere distant, somewhere neutral, somewhere I could gather my thoughts, re-compose myself, and get back on track with the whole positive thing. And, good food and good design are pretty much excellent antidotes to melanchoy and self-pity.

Over a refillable cup of good coffee and a slice of chocolate cream cake, compose my thoughts, feelings, and self, I did. It occurred to me to make the Ikea café my back-up office when I needed a change of scenery from the one I had at home. I also thought of applying in retail and making my Swedish store fancy official...whatever it takes to keep moving, to keep applying, to keep interviewing, until I finally find a new office and land myself a job that would make all these New York plans and dreams a reality. It could be a spot selling well-designed housewares, it could be a cubicle in a shiny high-rise tower writing some sort of snappy marketing copy, it could be anything. But, one thing's for sure, the next time you see me in Times Square you won't find me sobbing.

Jumping In

Marriage truly was a leap of faith for me. Like I've said in this post, I come from a family of many separations, with weddings having been few and far between. And, growing up in an enviroment where there had been no shame in this issue, I've been privvy to all sorts of marital upheavals. I won't go into detail—because a blog is still different from open dinner table talk—but let me just say that if anybody gets knocked up among the grandchildren, my Lola would simply laugh and brush this off, because that's peanuts compared to all the drama she'd been through in the past. (By the way, if you're pregnant and perhaps looking for new additions to your wardrobe, check out the UK-based Vertbaudet website for maternity wear.)

My husband and I have just celebrated our first year anniversary, and, the biggest challenge so far has been the distance. But, it helps immensely that we really, really like each other and enjoy each other's company that we somehow are able to live each day as if the other were just there. We send random and frequent text messages such as what we've eaten, where we're headed, having woken up from naps, and so forth. It's the little things that propel the day forward—minute to minute, hour for hour, moment by moment. While I do get lonely from time to time—because nothing still beats being in the same room/car as the person you love and sharing cayenne fries—being together "for better or for worse" has made the journey a lot more bearable...and meaningful.

And, back on the subject of faith, I take comfort in seeking God's help (it's unbelievable what I pick up at Sunday mass; more on that in an upcoming post) and knowing that things ultimately have a way of panning out in the most delightful way. Again, one simply has to have faith.

On Affirmations

In the movie, Sunshine Cleaning, actress Amy Adams looks at the bright (and clean) side.

I've come across the concept of saying affirmations over the years, but haven't really consistently enacted the habit in my life. I also noticed how in movies, people who do them are portrayed in a cooky kind of way (e.g. Amy Adams in Sunshine Cleaning) and are in situations that don't necessarily immediately reflect the words they repeat to themselves.

However, every now and then, I write notes to myself and tack them on the wall, but they're usually goal and career-related, hardly ever, "I'm a rockstar, I'm gorgeous!" The most vivid that I do remember and one (or two) that had quite an impact in my work life was one I'd written back in 2002 and put up on the wall near my bed. It listed the following words:

editorial assistant
lifestyle and fitness assistant
beauty and fitness editor

In between the lines were arrows that mimicked a flow chart of sorts. This note reflected the trajectory I wanted my career to go. I had a goal of being an editor at 24—which was two or three years from the time I'd posted the note.

Another one on the wall read (from what I can remember):
"I am a good and talented makeup artist."

This resulted from an early experience as a freelance makeup artist when I'd encountered doubts about my talent; an incident wherein a starlet-then-model completely mocked the bright lime green eyeshadow I put on her. The green was actually the makeup theme given by the director of the fashion show and I was simply following directions, and picking up from a beauty forecast I'd read in Elle that time (that green was going to be the big thing that year/season in eyeshadow).

Anyway, suffice it to say that I've enjoyed a fun, engaging, and exciting beauty career on both counts as an editor and makeup artist. The makeup part has been on the backburner for quite some time now, but recent events and opportunities have again piqued my interest. So let's see how that goes.

The point of this post being, I wanted to share with you an affirmation I'd actually verbalized the other night, part of a string of messages that also included the "I'm fabulous" kind which I shall keep to myself:

"I will not put up with bad behavior."

It's so simple, straightforward, and encompassing. It's applicable to work, friendships, and relationships. And from there stems all the other facets of affirmations such as feeling confident, having clarity and conviction, and so forth.


Image courtesy of Indiewire.com.

Couples Therapy

Ouch. The world never got over what happened between these two in real life.

In the past, I noticed having the uncanny ability to sense that a couple was going to break up.

At a party among college friends, I caught a glimpse of an underlying tension when my friend P's ex, A, casually signaled to her watch that it was time to leave.

At a small get-together at my old apartment, I sensed a particular discontent and yearning for something else with my friend I and her then boyfriend, M.

At a college friend's bridesmaid's fitting, I noticed the same fidgety feeling between a long-time couple I didn't really know very well.

Subtle, yet palpable, is how I would describe each incident.

The first couple would separate for good and move on to marry other people. The second, magically, touchingly, and beautifully reunited, got married, and now have an adorable baby boy. (I eventually apologized to my friend for having voiced out the info above when they were broken up; only to be embarrassed and proven wrong when they got back together and turned out to be right for each other. See, sometimes I really should just shut up.)

As for the third couple, I have no idea if they're still together, like I said, I didn't know them very well.

The point to all of this is that, when it comes to gauging the underlying things in life, a.k.a. my personal gut and instinct, I have a 50/50 accuracy rate, which for some may be disappointing, but to me is a huge relief. I am actually happy to be wrong every now and then, and well, to be wrong half the time.

Because whenever I get neurotic about weddings, proposals (by the way, if you're on the lookout for princess diamonds, round diamonds, or any other loose diamonds, you might want to check out the choices at Samsclub.com), breakups, failed/failing marriages (so common in my family, and not to mention, issues of infidelity), I take comfort in my hit-or-miss ability to judge things for what they are. Sometimes, I'm content to chuck it all to paranoia and move along with a productive sense of positivity.

Image courtesty of Channel4.com

On Blooming Late

I’ve accepted that I’m one of those people who experience things at a slower pace and learn via a more languid approach. I tend to take my time growing into things, and getting familiar with my situation and surroundings. It doesn’t help that I’m slow to move in the morning. That’s why I find it very convenient that I no longer have to make a mad dash for the train doors before they close, and that I have, for the time being, traded my stilettos for fluffy bedroom slippers. My “office” is now wherever I can connect to the internet.

In terms of being a late bloomer, I can list so many examples showing why I’ve taken this description to heart, and here are a few:

• I got my first kiss and first boyfriend at 20, an age where most girls are touching bases and hitting homeruns in the XOXO department.

• Of the seven girls in my high school barkada, all have gotten married ahead of me, and my own nuptials are about two years away from the last girl’s I do’s. She now has two babies. I reckon I am going to be the last to bear children as well; probably when my friends’ kids’ are in high school is my wild guess.

• Back when I did Taekwondo, most of my teammates got their black belts within two years. I (finally) got mine by the fourth year.

• In terms of writing, my former boss gave herself a deadline of one year to finish her second novel. I’ve been working on my own manuscript for years, with plenty of pit stops along the way. And just when I thought I’d finished, it turns out I need to overhaul the whole thing. So far, I’ve spent the past couple of months paying closer attention to the delicate and intricate mix of plot, conflict, and resolution, and making sure I have a better understanding of how to incorporate the three to make for a compelling story. Ask me where I am now in terms of editing and rewriting? Chapter 3.

Sometimes I get frustrated with myself. But most of the time, honestly, I’m okay with it. If stretching things out over time is the best way for me to learn and understand life, slow be it.

I was reading O, The Oprah Magazine wherein the famous talk show host had recently interviewed Jay-Z (The O Interview; “Oprah Talks to Jay-Z”; October 2009; p.184). In it, the rapper, entrepreneur, and music producer listed his favorite books. Among them was Outliers by Malcom Gladwell.

“This book is about the principles of timing and repetition—about preparing yourself for luck, really,” Jay-Z shares. “[The author] talks about a hockey team, and how the players born in January had a year up on the guys born in December.”

At this point, I cringe and get a bit worried: My birthday is in December. I think to myself, So is Jay-Z saying I’ll never really be successful simply because of my birth month? I keep reading. “They were fortunate that their birthday was early, but they also practiced—they put the work in.”

Whew! Reading further, I discover Jay-Z’s birthday is also in December. Double whew!

So the point, after all, is the amount and quality of work one puts in. I now realize, I may be slow, but I get a kick out of being productive. True, I make a ‘Today to-do’ checklist for Monday and actually end up ticking everything off by Thursday, but at least when I look back on the sheet after some time, I know I’ve crossed everything out—I’ve done what had to be done and have tangible results to show for my efforts.

And by then, the pace by which I’d finished, experienced, and accomplished something no longer matters.

Part of this month's Cosmo Series, 10th of 16 posts also published at Cosmo.ph.
(Image courtesy of stock.xchng®)

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Three Types of Men to Avoid

Is the guy you're seeing anything like John Tucker?

Because of my previous post, that nasty lawyer I dated briefly (who broke it off with me via text) crossed my mind again. I realized, while I haven’t been out in a while (I’m getting married to my boyfriend of five years), I could properly categorize chumps that women in the dating scene should steer clear of. I am assuming these warning signals will still hold water for a long time coming. Beware of…


…The "Busy" Big-Shot Flake

I once met Mark* through a group date. (This was around the time after my Blind Date Boo-Boo.) He was a successful finance guy who partied/went to college in Boston, who had a brimming platter of back-to-back activities. I was impressed: I’d never dated anybody so…high profile? My circle at the time consisted of co-writers and editors, struggling artists, and bohemian rockclimbers. Yuppies were like aliens from outer space.

One time he asked me, “What do you spend your money on?” I was baffled—because he meant it on a level of cars, interior design, or maybe even investments. I was a young editor on a young-editor salary. I 'splurged' on Starbucks and shelled out cash for pulled clothing and accessories I wanted to keep, which also explained why I was always broke. Oh yes, and I also paid rent: the concept of which was as alien to him as crunching numbers was foreign to me.

Suffice it to say we became quite fond of each other. I was amused by his world and, with his sheltered upbringing, he was amused by mine (“This is the age of women who drive themselves!” he once exclaimed, referring to my very 'independent' way of living by not having a driver. Okay…) He had so much going on, all these grand plans for himself. He spent Saturdays running big errands, like scouring dealerships deciding on what car to upgrade to or shopping for Scuba gear.

Here’s the catch: He filled up his plate so much that I kind of fell off the menu. He told me he just got carried away at first, but he wasn’t ready for a relationship (we were actually both rebounding from long-term exes).

One Friday night he called to check in and said, “Hey, I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

He called back the next Friday. And then I never heard from him again.


…The Lying Ladies Man

Ah, Raffy*…I’ll never forget him. Why? He was dreadful! But of course it took me almost four months to figure that out. Raffy was the lawyer who swept me off my feet by playing the role of the perfect suitor, and his stories played out perfectly, at least in the beginning.

“How many girlfriends have you had after Elaine*?” I asked.

“Two,” he replied. “[Name of ex-girlfriend #1] and [name of ex-girlfriend #2].”

“Oh, wow.” I’d assumed after getting his college girlfriend, Elaine, knocked up, he had a whole roster of lady loves. Two was quite a conservative number, judging from his reputation of being a Class A flirt.

Naive as I was (and remember, since I shy away from lying, I am quick to assume people around me do the same) I never questioned his stories. Two ghosts of girlfriends past it is, plus the mother of his child. Surely I could handle that.

Despite later on noticing a large circle of women friends, long and intimate phone calls with them—he would promptly put the phone down as I entered the room—and even going as far as seeing him walking around law school side by side with one of these friends(?), I kept dating him. I brought him food and candy during study sessions and practically became his bar exam caretaker.

The thing with us women is that we persist and persevere in an effort to make something work, even if it means putting up with bad behavior, dealing with immense stress, and going against our gut. And for all those months, my gut kept screaming, “No!” Even my beloved, sharp-witted grandmother, who’s never met him, promptly gave him the thumbs down.

Raffy turned out to be stressful to be with, selfish, insecure, hostile, uptight, and not anything like he was during the courtship stage. I always had to take freezing showers at his apartment, because he wouldn't turn on the heater, fearing his electric bill would go up. It didn’t help that the bar exams brought out the worst in him: he yelled at me on the phone and treated me like…gosh, I don’t even remember; the details are lost on me. All I can recall is this general feeling of dreadfulness.

Eventually our relationship deteriorated. Yes, at the very end, via SMS. A few weeks after the ‘breakup’ (we never really got together officially as a couple), I bumped into one of his friends, who assumed we were still seeing each other.

She asked, “Hey, are you coming with us to the beach?”

“Oh, no. Raffy and I aren’t seeing each other anymore,” I answered.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear about that. Did he ever mention that I was his ex-girlfriend?”

“Really? Um, no…” I trailed off, thinking how this girl was definitely not on the two-girlfriends list.

And then I wondered: So how many ‘undeclared’ girls did this guy have? I never really found out.


…The Elusive Drama King

Josh* was absolutely hot. At least that's what I remember from when I first laid eyes on him eons ago. He had the perfect rocker, bad-boy vibe: rugged Doc Martens, pierced ears, and a perma-five o’ clock shadow. He was also smart, diligent, and graduated on time (I didn’t, by the way).

Years later we would actually start hanging out. I thought I’d found a kindred spirit in Josh: We were both relatively ‘weird,’ eloquent with our thoughts and were able to put into words our feelings about the world and music—but unfortunately not our feelings for each other. I could never figure him out. He was just so…elusive.

One time, we went running. While stretching post-workout, he asked:

“Are you hungry?”

I answered, “Yeah…you?”

“Yup. And I’m having dinner at home.”

“Oh, okay. Bye.”

Talk about unpredictable. I thought he was going to suggest grabbing a bite somewhere.

This went on for a couple of weeks. He would call and ask how I was, and then abruptly say goodbye. Or send an SMS, and never reply to any follow up texts.

I finally snapped out of this "Does he like me?" hot-and-cold reverie when I bumped into a hot(ter) model whom I haven’t seen since I’d worked with him at a shoot a few years earlier. We flirted all evening at an event, and exchanged numbers by the end of the night. He promptly text-messaged. But he turned out to have a girlfriend (oops) so we never dated. What I took away from the experience though was that if a guy were into you, he’d show it—CLEARLY. He would even go out on a limb to make you feel like royalty.

Bottomline is, the E.D.K. either likes you but makes you work hard for it; or is conflicted enough to give you mixed signals. You’ll need a lot of pushing, prodding, walking on eggshells... But is that really what you want? I mean, if you enjoy a challenge, why not try Capoeira? Or train for a marathon? A relationship (or the beginnings of one) should be fun, lighthearted, and breezy. If you’re already working so hard now, can you imagine what it’d be like when this guy is actually your boyfriend?

On the flipside, the elusive guy may be acting the way he is because…he’s not into you (you’ve already read this so many times, right?). So move along. As in the case of Josh, he was acting strange and lukewarm because he was actually already seeing somebody else: a married woman whose situation already merited a barrage of drama in his life that I had absolutely nothing to do with! Don’t ask how I found this out; that qualifies for another (embarrassing) Cosmo Confession post.

In retrospect, I’m not bummed by the dating choices I’ve made in the past. In fact, I feel enlightened by these experiences. After all, with every glitch comes a lesson and realization that eventually leads to the right path, and God-willing, the right man.


Part of this month's Cosmo Series, eighth of 16 posts also published at Cosmo.ph.
(Image courtesy of RottenTomatoes.com)

*names have been changed.

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Happy Spaghetti

Reposting from the September 9, 2007 blog entry at Chocolate Soundboard, my first blog. Today is our fifth year anniversary and we're miles apart and both down with some sort of flu/strep. I've updated the photo from a batch of 'Comfort Spaghetti' I made a few weeks back. Enjoy! (Oh, and Happy Anniversary to Alvs and moi!)


Over the years I have mastered what I like to call ‘Comfort Spaghetti’—a very easy mix of onions, garlic, red pepper flakes, tuna, Italian seasoning, tomatoes, Hunt’s Four Cheese tomato sauce, tossed with al dente noodles and a big helping of grated cheddar cheese; and of course, Pinoy style, with garlic bread (smothered in butter) on the side. What makes this savory meal special and different each time is the variation of the ingredients: oftentimes I add in mushrooms and parsley, sometimes I use fresh herbs, other times oregano and basil, and almost always a tiny bit of sugar plus a dash of sour cream in the end (for this one, I used milk and lemon juice instead). These little touches make all the difference. Alvin’s mom makes a hearty version with cream of mushroom soup and green peppers thrown into the basic marinara mix. Yesterday, I sautéed chopped cremini mushrooms with the sauce and let the onions get extra sweet by letting them ‘sweat’ in the pan longer.

We're now on our third year together, so perhaps subconsciously, whipping up this comforting meal on our anniversary was my way of celebrating and reminding myself that the distance doesn’t matter when you know you can make something as reliable as pasta, and that it can taste wonderful and different every time, no matter how familiar.

And consciously, today, I wore one of my favorite dresses, made a crisp salad of romaine hearts and arugula in a lemony vinaigrette to go with the spaghetti, washed it all down with iced green tea and apple juice, and finished this happy meal with a crunchy nectarine. And I’m definitely going back for seconds :)

My Sentiments Exactly

Jack Vettriano - In Thoughts of You

A few years ago I heard of this theory that one tends to feel the exact same way one did a year to the date of whatever triggered the emotion. The other night, I found myself feeling strangely melancholic for no apparent reason other than that time of the month. I realized, it had been exactly a year since I'd abruptly lost my first "official" New York job due to unforeseen circumstances. That was also the time when one of the first, genuine friends I've made in the city had to leave for Paris. She was a colleague of mine and she and I shared many lunches together, chatting over way too many things; comparing stories about our cultures. I'd always assumed the French had a more liberal take on relationships. It came as a surprise to find out they were quite Filipino in that sense.

The thing with the French is that they come across as snooty and impersonal when you first meet them. But once they warm up to you, they turn out to be amazing friends. My former colleage, Caroline, also patiently taught me one French phrase a week for six months straight back when I was doing my 2008 New Year's resolution of learning the language via easy sentences. (I'd hoped to learn a total of 52 by year's end.)

Unfortunately, I'll be navigating the streets of Paris with a very cryptic command of the language. Both the lessons and the job ended mid-year as our jobs—hers and mine—were consolidated and I became too expensive to keep around. On the bright side, that kick-started my editorial life in the city; the career I'd moved to the Big Apple for, picking up from where I'd left off in Manila and learning so much more along the way.

These days, the work I do is a very modern twist of working in Manhattan but enjoying being away from the hustle and bustle of the big city. One day I know I'll have to start looking for a new apartment again. But for now I'm enjoying work with my socks on and a slice of cake within reach.

Image courtesy of http://www.jackvettriano.eu

The Blogger is In

So tomorrow I'm doing the whole Grey's Anatomy/House/Scrubs thing by having two of the lumps found on my chest removed. This feels like TMI (too much info) in some sense, but I feel like writing a blog post before going under the knife.

I have confidence in my doctor and am steadfast in my faith in God so I'm not that worried. But I also can't help but entertain morbid thoughts about death, of all things. Maybe because of the phone call I got earlier today from my cousin's husband—a practicing neurosurgeon—genially warning me about the risks of general anesthesia, being intubated, and so forth.

That aside, I am truly inclined to call these lady lumps Little Angry New Yorkers. Seriously! In the last eight or nine years that I'd been regularly going to the doctor for annual checkups (a few skips along the way), it was only when I'd spent almost two years abroad and living in New York that I'd grown cysts. Is it the water? Is it the peeling paint in the prewar buildings? I'm told that there is no known cause for breast lumps.

Going back to my thoughts on dying, I can say that I'm not afraid at all. I'm just sad if it were to happen because it would be a terrible thing to leave my fiancé. Yesterday, was our fourth year and eighth month anniversary. In September we turn five. In February we're getting married. And hopefully we get to honeymoon in England. There is so much to look forward to!

Yet, if I were to pass away on the operating table, as if mimicking a perturbing episode of House, I actually feel fulfilled at this point. I can truly say that I am happy, I feel love and feel loved, I have a comfortable amount of debt that can be paid in mere weeks, the people I love are more or less healthy and living comfortably, I've enjoyed many happy weekends with Alvs, going to Sunday market, hearing mass, grocery shopping, laughing at our cute fat dog, going around Greenhills spotting gadgets and trinkets. The dinners, the lazy days, the desserts. I really am in a happy place.

As for work, I also feel like I've hit an equilibrium in terms of what I've done and what I want to do with my career. I've enjoyed working from home and penning pet projects that are now in the hands of capable managers. I feel like I've done my work, and I carry with me wonderful memories and hilarious anecdotes from a nine-year career in many branches of beauty, fashion, and publishing.

And if I survive tomorrow, I'll even let you in on some secrets and share tidbits on the Little Angry New Yorkers. Ultimately—literally and figuratively—finally get them off my chest :)

Coffee Chameleon

A whole latté love.

I woke up suddenly remembering this story from a couple of years back.

I'd befriended a guy at work and for the sake of anonymity, let's just call him Mark. I was 23 at the time and he was probably about 30. I was starting on full-force with my work in the magazine, going on trips abroad and running on caffeine, Starbucks pastries, and takeout. He was the resident cute guy from the Web department.

Mark was close to our group of gangly girls. We all took afternoon coffee breaks together, driving to the nearest cafe, taking turns on whose car to bring. It was usually his car because it was so cute and curious (like its owner) it even merited its own nickname.

Friends would joke about how crushable he was, and I was quick to notice this. After some time, our little 'coffee group' of five dwindled to just two: me and him.

The first time he text-messaged, "How about a coffee run?" I felt so giddy and delighted. "Me! Just me!" I thought, and I immediately told a friend who was out in a junket in Hong Kong. If she were in town, we would have laughed and laughed about the whole situation.

You see, Mark had a girlfriend.

In our futile early-twenties, a situation like this merited humor and drama. The drama part is all too real, and the humor bit is just cruel—and infantile, because nothing about cheating is funny.

Naive (and perhaps stubborn) as I was, the coffee break turned into early breakfast, an afternoon mall trip, and one late-night drive, with him showing me the part of town where he grew up in. Each 'meeting' was careful and calculated. There was nothing physical about it so in all honesty and innocence on my part, it felt safe. I wasn't doing anything wrong. And he also probably thought his relationship was not threatened.

Until an editor friend cornered me and said it plain and simple: "A guy like Mark would never cheat blatantly. He won't do anything as much (and stupid) as kiss you, and then break up with his girlfriend, not even close. In fact, your presence will even make him less inclined to break up with her."

I was stunned. Who would've thought that innocent coffee runs served as a prelude to emotional cheating, and cheating, nevertheless? I'd never been in a situation like that before because back then I was just fresh out of a three-year relationship with my first boyfriend. Clueless, I really was.

So immediately, the flirtation stopped. No more impromptu trips to Starbucks, no more hanging out by the car, reminding its owner how cute it was (just the car, but yeah right), and definitely no more driving in the dark.

Karma is quick, just, and sometimes cruel, always on the side of what's fair and right. That same year, I'd experienced heartbreak in many forms. I'm not saying all of what I went through that year stemmed from that particular situation, but it was a determining point and an important lesson: Never mess with what's not yours, even if it's something seemingly as innocent as breakfast.

Image courtesy of http://moneyning.com.

A Curious Case

I’ve successfully embarrassed myself way past my teenage years by ’fessing up to an old crush how “heartbroken I felt” when he took up with my cousin (1o years ago) and wondered if he liked me the same way back when we were “hanging out” as friends (five years ago). I’d explained that over the years, I had just gotten more and more curious, and craved some level of closure that should have been addressed a long, long time ago.

Perhaps it’s the journalistic streak that has gotten me in hot water one time too many. But I also thank this unwavering curiosity and desire to just know—even when the answers are obvious—that I now have this beautiful and amazing and unbelievable thing going on with the man I’m with.

'Journalism' case in point: A year ago, when I felt like giving up on our long distance relationship, I dealt with the doubts and what-ifs by thoroughly researching the subject matter, interviewing people who had left town and broken up with their respective partners. I’m not going to divulge the juicy tidbits of their relationship decisions, but I’ll share with you the results. Making a relationship work, far away or not, is a decision you make. And the distance is just something you deal with, like a trait or personality quirk, and it shouldn’t encompass all the great things that made you get together in the first place.

As much as I can’t stand getting all cheesy and relationship-y while blogging, (after all, this is supposed to be my “professional” writing space… although that is contradictory because a blog is some sort of online diary) I know I have so much to be thankful for, and need to acknowledge all the marvelous things in my life and stop whining, stop comparing.

Go back dreaming. And start believing.

Image source: http://www.first.lib.ms.us