We Eat Them First Then Take a Shower

I’m never the Martha Stewart kind of mom. I eat take-away food and often recycle them in the microwave. I prefer everything ready-to-use or ready-to-eat or ready-to-wear.

But something changed.

Last Christmas, a colleague of mine came up to me and said, “Because the ones you buy in the supermarkets have got loads of chemicals and animal fat in them…” and handed me a very fragrant rose-shaped soap that she herself made. I took a shower that night and gave her soap a try. It was awesome on the skin!

It was then that the Do-It-Yourself bug bit me. And last night I made my very first soap bars.

Because I’ve been vegan for months now (well, I’d say only about 75% of the time because I indulge on weekends and on one or two weeknights and eat animals–cooked of course! 🙂 ), I often don’t know what to do with the fruit and vegetable pulp from my juices and smoothies. So last night, after I juiced a whole pineapple and some oranges, I took the pulp and popped them into my soap mixture. And voila! I got what I would call my Fruit Salad Soap. It’s made of shea butter and the pulp from my orange, pineapple (and a little apple) juice.

 

 

The I made another batch. This time, Lemon Soap bars.

My sis and sis-in-law have just tried them and they said the soaps feel really good on their skin. They liked my soap bars!

My sister said she didn’t have to use a moisturiser on her face after shower. 🙂

I’m glad my first DIY soap venture is not an epic fail. Gotta make more!

Let me know if you want the recipes! 🙂

Flashback

I’m listening to very old songs from the 40s, 50s and 60s trying to relive those weekend mornings when I would wake up to the sight of my dad cutting grass outside our house, with huge shears while listening to Andy Williams, Paul Anka, Frank Sinatra, Matt Monro, as my mom busily buzzes in the kitchen after buffing the floor with her trusty lampaso and cleaning all nooks and crannies. 

The Righteous Brothers are just starting on the first lines of Unchained Melody when my 13-year old daughter burst into my room, eyebrows stitched together, her face an amused question mark.

“What on earth are you listening to, Mum?”

“Old songs!” I smile and say. 

“Ya. VERY, VERY old songs! You’re old.” She declares teasingly.

“Forty years from now, your Harry Stiles, Britney Spears and Justin Bieber would all be gone and I’d still be listening to these songs.”

She then rolls her eyes and goes back to her room and her One Direction playlist.

Two seconds later, my 10-year old son jumps onto my bed and asks, face looking as if he just saw me swallow a live lizard,

“Mommy! Why are you listening to that song?”

“Because I grew up listening to these songs and I miss your Dada (their grandpa).” Sheesh! Why are my kids making such a big deal out of my music?

“Blechh! Your songs are ANCIENT.” He says.

This brief exchange with my kids is a copy and paste of my usual harmless early weekend morning spats with my Dad eons ago when he would drag me and my siblings out of bed by playing his marathon of Oldies songs on full blast you’d hear it even if you’re a kilometer away. 

I feel a little sad for my kids. They would never get to have the kind of childhood I had had and do those fun, simple silly kid stuff we used to do. To them, what they have now, may be what they would think in 50 years as an awesome childhood. But come on, nothing beats weekends spent playing tumba lata, shatong, tagu-anay, climbing trees and being chased by the neighbour’s dogs.

I wish my kids could play and run in the rain with the other kids in the neighbourhood, chasing cats or hunting spiders until sundown. But MineCraft and other video games will keep them from doing that. 

I wish my kids could play bahay-bahayan using banana leaves for roofs and empty rice sacks for floors, and cook gulay made of grass leaves, tree barks, shoots and all sorts of seeds all mixed into one big empty Milo tin can. But they have Farmville, CafeWorld and Cityville for that. And where in this first world suburb that we live in could we ever get those banana leaves or coconut leaves that I and my playmates would carefully interlace together to create nice walls and roofs for our playhouse?

I wish my kids could hear those crickets and those weird insect and animal noises that used to scare me to sleep at night in the province. But they always have their headphones on.

I wish my kids could hear those scary stories that my Dad and uncles used to tell us children on those nights when electricity was just a luxury few people enjoy.  Stories of “tikbalangs,” “aswangs,” “sigbins,” and other supernatural beings that lurk in the night were what we looked forward to. But I can tell they enjoy the Twilight series or the Transformers better.

I wish they could hear the ‘wisdom’ of our old folks when they wanted us to do or not do something or when we used to ask them questions about things we didn’t understand.

“Never eat conjoined banana’s or else you will give birth to conjoined twins when you grow up.”

You can never make me eat conjoined bananas UNTIL NOW.

“When a stranger taps you on the back, they are likely a cursed witch passing on the curse to you so you need to tap them back to pass the curse back to them.”

I once came home all freaked out and in tears because someone tapped me on the back (mistaken identity apparently) and I wasn’t able to tap him back. I was sure then I was going to be a witch at full moon. I was twelve then.

“Don’t take a shower after drinking hot cocoa (sikwate) because hot cocoa “has a different kind of hot” that will make your stomach explode if you take a shower right after drinking it. And then you’d die.”

I once had a mug of hot sikwate that my Nanay Dadang (my father’s brother’s wife) made me drink and on my way home, it rained heavily and I was so drenched that my Mom made me take a shower. After taking a shower, I ran up to my room, locked the door and knelt down by the bed and prayed like I never prayed before, “Please God, don’t let me die. I don’t want to die! I promise I will not drink sikwate then take a shower anymore!” I was praying in tears and very sure that I was going to die.

My kids never knew any of these “nuggets of wisdom.” 🙂 I give them scientific facts as much I can. Or if I didn’t know the answer to their question, I tell them to “google it.”

I’m now into the second hour of my Oldies playlist. It’s a beautiful weekend. I hope my kids would also have really good memories of their childhood weekends as much as I do, however different they may spend them from the way I did years and years ago.

 

 

 

 

A college degree is good. But I want the Nobel Prize. No Pressure.

Not so long ago, I used to breathe down my daughter Angela’s neck reminding her over and over again to study hard, get good grades, be an honours student. And I breathed fire! It was easy to see that, like most parents, I wanted my child to be top of her class. The topnotcher. The valedictorian.

(I had wanted to deliver a valedictory speech. But then I realised, you had to be a valedictorian in order to do that. I never became one. Oh well.)

I had made a blood compact with myself years ago–that my kid will become a valedictorian and that I will do everything I can to have a topnotcher daughter and/or son. Even when I was still merely conceiving the idea of having a mini-me children, I was already envisioning them delivering their valedictory speeches. Or accepting the Nobel Prize –for discovering another Earth perhaps.

In first grade, my daughter managed to get first honours. Although she wasn’t able to sustain this standing in the later years, her grades were still good. At some point, I got disappointed, even panicked at the thought that my daughter might have already lost her drive or that she might have gone dumb. Horrific thoughts sometimes crossed my mind. What if she becomes a college dropout? What if she doesn’t get a good job?

My son has been first in his class, too. But he’s very shy, so quiet that you’d be lucky if he takes off his eyes from the computer or a book he’s reading and say more than ten words to you in conversation. This also got me worried. How could he stand in front of an adoring crowd marveling at his genius if he’s too shy? How could he deliver his Nobel lecture if he could barely carry on a conversation with anyone other than me? (He squabbles with his sister but I don’t think that counts as a conversation.)

Sigh.

Yes, I could only heave a deep sigh. Not because I’m worried or disappointed in my children. Absolutely NOT! My kids are two of the smartest kids I know. And I could not be any prouder.

During Angela’s graduation. Came to this school in the middle of the school year but still got a Commendation. Proud mommy!

I sigh because, not too long ago, I had misguided myself into thinking that grades are the measure of their intelligence or capacity. That awards and medals, and accolades in school translate to a good future for them. Worse, I had in some way pressured motivated my kids with this wrong notion.

I do value success. Always have. But while a college degree plays a role in achieving this, it most certainly doesn’t guarantee it. Hard work does. And drive. Raw talent and brains. Self-confidence. Even failure. There’s a much wider world out there that could offer more or better education than (or in addition to) what the four corners of the classroom give.

There are so much more than just good grades and degrees. It would be cliché to mention Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Mark Zuckerberg to stress my point. So how about I mention Albert Einstein, who was thought to be mentally retarded when he was young? Or Isaac Newton who had very poor grades in grade school? Or Abraham Lincoln who only had 5 years of formal education? These people have one thing in common, apart from their smarts. They never gave up.

Don’t get me wrong. I do put value in getting formal education. I do love the thought of getting my children’s report cards and flashing their impressive grades in neon lights, and I would love to be in the front row cheering with pompoms as my kid delivers his or her valedictory address.  But if these don’t happen, it’s not going to be the end of the world.

I will always be there patting their backs, guiding and telling them to do what they love doing and TO NEVER GIVE UP. This is where I put the most value on.

(Of course, that Nobel Prize would be a happy bonus.)

How to Not Die Alone

Behold! Hereunder are ten tips to hook your Mr. Right.  These are tested and proven to give you the results you only dreamt about. Follow these tips and you would soon be walking hand in hand with the love of your life. Maybe.

1.  Create a Picture of the Guy of Your Dreams.

What are the characteristics that define your quality guy? Do you prefer someone who’s got more brains than brawns–a Mark Zuckerberg who could be your loyal puppy and who will make you ridiculously rich? Or a Brad Pitt with overflowing testosterones, a poster-perfect hunk that you can parade around? You have to have a specific idea of the type of guy that you want. Otherwise, you might end up sending friend requests to just anyone in your friends’ friends list.

2.  Seek Out Your Target.

Unfortunately, your Mr. Right wouldn’t just fall from the sky or come out of a genie bottle. You have to get out of that loser-hole called your house because you obviously can’t get a lovelife while pitifully watching Twilight for the 74th time all by your lonesome boring self.

Be on the prowl for your target in places where you think he’d most likely hang out–ball games, coffee clubs, art galleries (who knows, guys who dig art may not be extinct yet), men’s boutiques in malls, gay bars (no, no, no. A Mr. Right who hangs out in a gay bar is definitely not a Mister for you so no, stay out of gay bars).

3.  Zoom-In on Your Chosen One.

Once you have set your eyes on the guy who’s lucky enough to be chosen as your object of affection, channel all your energies, charm, and cunning in making him fall for you. Like all projects, this needs careful planning. Anything short of a well-planned strategy is bound to fail and you could end up watching Twilight for 48 more years.

4.  Dress Appropriately.

Dress to impress. But don’t look like a drag queen. Just look human–and stay away from any Lady Gaga fashion advice.

5.  Make Him Notice You.

You don’t have to moonwalk your way towards your guy for him to notice you. Don’t walk. Rather, STRIDE gracefully. Like a cat. Without the meow. Do the hip swing and swing your hips like a pendulum. This requires practice so grab a full-length mirror and practice the hip swing till you become Valedictorian of HipSwing.

6.   Strike a Conversation with Him.

Be interesting. Most importantly, make him feel he’s interesting. Ask him questions about himself. Just be casual and don’t ask him about his opinion on death penalty or the procedures in building a rocket ship. Keep the conversation casual. Wait for him to ask you questions about yourself. When he does, don’t give him a barrage of personal information such as you’ve had an emotional breakdown because you’ve never had a date in 50 years or that your ex dumped you because you stalked him 24/7 and now his new girlfriend too. Stick to less personal matters such as your interests (those wholesome ones only), your hobbies (don’t tell him you collect dead bats for display), etc.

7.  Have that Air of Mystery.

This doesn’t mean talking in codes. Or making a grand exit by disappearing into thin air. Simply leave out some things about you or hint on some things you think he’d be interested to know more about. Don’t give him a chapter by chapter chronicle of your life. Give him a reason to want to see you again to know more about you.

8.  Do the Hair Flip.

When you need to walk away from him to go to the bathroom, for instance, when you’re about three feet from him, pause, do the hair flip as you slowly turn your head in his direction, then give him your million-kilowatt smile. Don’t do a 360-degree head rotation to flip your hair. You’d give him a heart attack! Three words: walk, pause, flip, smile.

The Hair Flip

9.  Refine Your Call-Handling Skills.

If he did call you like he said he would, it means you truly are the Valedictorian of HipSwing and Hair Flip and a second date is in the offing. Answer his call after the third ring. Don’t be too excited. You can jump up and down with joy, but QUIETLY. You can scream because of happiness, but QUIETLY. Don’t give an ear-splitting shriek when you hear his voice. You may thank him for calling but not 20 times during your entire 10 minute conversation. You don’t want to give him the idea that he just saved your pathetic, boring, miserable, pitiful, lonesome day. Even if he really did

10.  Don’t Make Yourself too Available.

Don’t say yes every time he asks for a date. Tell him you’re busy or you have other things to do and suggest another day instead. Don’t make it obvious that the only thing that keeps you busy is waiting by the phone for his call 24/7 and dreaming about a sunset wedding with him and having ten babies after. Don’t send him 200 text messages with quotations about love from the bible everyday.

Now, you’re dating your guy regularly. Take things one at a time. Don’t propose marriage on your third date. Who knows, if things turn out well down the road, he’ll surprise you with a ring on which sat a diamond bigger than your knuckles.

Most likely then, you wouldn’t have to die alone. Don’t forget to thank me.

I am Perfect Because a Troll and a Mascot Say So

I became a reluctant mom 11 years ago. Actually, reluctant is an understatement. Try terrified and utterly clueless. Picture me being dragged by an invisible hand, kicking and screaming, into the portals of motherhood and you’d get a clear idea of how I was in the early stages of being a first time mom. When the nurse placed my newborn baby in my arms for the very first time, there was none of that “falling-in-love-after-seeing-the-cute-bundle-of-joy-for-the-first-time” moment that mothers love to say when they describe how they felt when they saw their babies for the very first time.

For one, my newborn baby wasn’t at all cute. In fact, she looked like a troll. Her face was so round, her thick oily jet-black hair was all standing up (very much like a troll’s), her eyes were bulging, her nose was so flat you’d think she had lain face flat against my tummy while she was inside, and her skin was all red and wrinkly. There was one curious thing about her too. She liked to stretch her tiny body with both arms way up her head, legs like those of a ballet dancer’s doing the pirouette. All the time she would yawn then stretch. Feed then stretch.  Burp then stretch. Poop then stretch or sometimes stretch then poop. And then she would cry WHILE stretching. Funny little thing.

Time overtook itself and sped by faster than a bullet train. Before I knew it, I had morphed from a reluctant, clueless mom to a paranoid, overprotective ‘everyone-is-a-crook-who’d-grab-my-kid’ kind of mom–who’s still a bit clueless. I was a fierce mother hen. I still am. I am the almighty guardian guarding her kids like a feral cat guarding her litter against anyone and anything.

I’m sure you moms out there would understand the feeling that you couldn’t say I love you enough to your kids.  That feeling when you want to say it over and over and over again and still feel nothing is ever enough to let them know how MUCH you love them. I have long ago joined your club and become every bit a mother I never thought I would be.  I never thought I could pull it off.  Fact is, I haven’t pulled it off.  I am not yet done being a mother.  I don’t think I, or any mom, will ever be done being a mom.  This stint is forever.  And I love every moment of it.  I realise I am capable of loving so deeply and completely without expecting anything in return.

All the terror I had felt then, all those misgivings and thoughts of impending doom over being a mom unexpectedly with seemingly insurmountable responsibilities and consequences had come from my feeling of inadequacy, from my fear of not being able to love enough, and the fear of being less than a perfect mom.  I had thought that being a perfect mom meant having a nice job, a nice bank account, driving my baby in a nice car, going home to a nice house I share with a nice husband.  Having none of those when I became a mom for the very first time, to me, meant I wasn’t perfect, I wasn’t enough.  And that had terrified me shitless.

But d’you know who, through the years, proved me wrong and showed me I am more than enough?  That un-cute, wrinkly little troll I told you about.  And guess what, she has morphed too. I didn’t know trolls could turn into beautiful, adorable butterflies–but my little troll surely did!

my pretty little troll (click to enlarge)

She and her little brother (who looked like a chinky-eyed mascot with big head when he was born) showed me, in their own little ways, that even though I am not perfect–I am to them. I look at them and in my heart I know that somehow at some point, I must have done something right.

they will always be my pretty little troll and my handsome little mascot (click to enlarge)

 

 

A Letter to a Teenage Me

I recently came across a really cool blogsite where published authors wrote letters to their teenage selves. I’m no Nicholas Sparks or James Patterson but we, along with the rest of you, do have one common denominator–we all have been teenagers once. And if there’s anyone in my past with whom I want to sit down and chat, it would be the cheerful, confused, pensive, insecure, idealistic sixteen-year old me.  So I’m hopping onto the Dear Teen Me bandwagon and writing that girl this letter:

Dear Teen Me,

I know you’re having so much fun in high school, especially now that you’re a senior and soon would be moving on to college. You transformed into this cheerful yet petulant teenager so fast. There are so many things you try to understand but don’t. You say your parents don’t understand you but, believe me, they are trying. You are not that easy to decipher yourself so cut them some slack. Your dad is being “mean” for a reason. He is just protecting you and wants you to make the right decisions, learn to do things the right way, and trust the right people. As you grow up, you will experience things that are far more complicated and your dad’s teachings and your family’s love will be all you’ll have to see you through.

yearbook picture, balot at sixteen.

You’re blushing right now because this boy, Ariel, is just right behind you as you and your friends head to church to attend the Wednesday mass. Don’t deny it, just like most high school girls and boys, you looooove Wednesday masses because it’s where students from the three high schools in your town meet, catch one another’s shy smiles and secret glances while saying “peace be with you.” But you know what, even though you smile like a clown and giggle in spasms whenever you see that skinny, good-looking Ariel, you two will never become an item. Just thought I’d tell you that so you don’t have to feel any pressure of acting all cute and adorable when he’s around, making your friends believe that you have a new crush and that you have forgotten that cute and funny boy you hung out with last summer–because I know you haven’t.

How could you? He took you to your first ball and slow danced with you for the first time. He was the first boy you liked and who liked you back. I wish I were there when you cried your little heart out when he left for college before you could even tell each other how you both felt. I wish I could’ve spared you from torturing yourself with those “what-ifs” and told you that you were going to bump into each other again two years later, and when you’re nineteen, he will be your first love–and your first kiss. I wish I were there when you broke each other’s hearts. I would’ve told you that everything was going to be okay even though it would hurt so bad and scar you for life that for years you never loved anyone again as deeply.

You will make mistakes—some small, some huge ones. You will love and trust the wrong people and let go of a really good one who loved you with all his heart. You will learn lots of lessons, most of them painful. But you are strong. In your darkest times, you never let go. When you made what would be the gravest mistake in your life and everyone judged you and virtually cast stones at you, you kept your head held high, your tears to yourself, and walked on.

My dear Teen Me, every time you find yourself in deep shit (yes, you tend to use “emphatic” words as you grow older 🙂 ), every time you cry your eyes blind to make pain go away, please listen to that voice inside your head telling you to “get a grip, this will be over soon.” That would be me, the future you. As you live your life, you will make some wrong turns but don’t despair because you’ll see some light at the end of the tunnel. No silly, it’s not the headlights of a speeding train. It’s the light that tells you to keep walking because there are some very good things in store for you. I’m savouring them now.

It will be a very bumpy yet rewarding journey for you but it will be worth the ride.  Please don’t be scared to fall in love again.  One day, you will get to know three people who will turn your world and your life around. You will be happy, I promise you.

In the meantime, enjoy being sixteen!

It’s me,

the Grown-Up You

grown-up Balot

 

It’s More Than Sunny Down Under

If there’s any one thing that would make Australians very different from Americans in general, it would be their warmth and sunny smiles–especially when greeting strangers.

For example, immigration officers in the US almost never smile. I say almost because some of them do manage to stretch their lips sideways into a smile and utter a perfunctory “hi.”

Australian immigration officers, on the other hand, immediately flash travellers their warm smiles even as they are still approaching the immigration booth.

A typical Aussie immigration check sounds like this:

Aussie immig officer:  “Hi, how are you today? Did you have a wonderful flight?
me:  “Hello. uhh…yup. Thanks.”
Aussie immig officer: “Is this your first time in Australia?”
me:  “Nope, I went to uni here.”
Aussie immig officer:  “Oh really that’s great! Which uni?…Oh, that’s wonderful…Did you like Canberra?…mahvelous…i’m sure you’d like queensland too.  here’s your passport…do have a wonderful stay. Have a great day! See ya!…Next please!”

A typical US immigration check:

US immig officer: “Next please! Hi.”
me: “Hi, how are you?”
US immig officer: “Good. Passport please. What are you in the US for and how long are you gonna be here for?” stamp, stamp, type, type… “Look into the camera please. Don’t move…Okay…Here’s your passport….Next please!”

The distinct difference goes beyond the point of entry. One can immediately see it as they walk down the streets. People in downtown Brisbane or Sydney against people in downtown New York? I could scribble down a long list of contrasts longer than the line you would have if you put all of my sister’s shoes side by side.

I know someone who unabashedly declares he hates Australians.  I chalk that up to his being a misinformed New Yorker. Because I love Australians (except the axe murderers or the ‘typical’ psychopaths common in most Prozac-dependent cultures).

There’s a reason that people in Oz are often generally referred to as sunny Aussies.  One only needs to look at those warm, bright smiles to know why.

Now, excuse me, I need to sing the national anthem.

Should’ve Thrown a Sleeping Pill or Two

Have you ever felt so beat and dead tired that you think not even stampeding horses can wake you up?

I have.

Until two hours ago. Until the hammering and pounding of my next door neighbor brought me back from my happy world with Ashton Kutcher. Until the shrieking, bone tingling sound of tin roof dragged against concrete decided to split my ears into two while I crouched on my knees and elbows beating my pillows to a pulp. As if that’s not enough, my brain seems to be in sync with the hammering and pounding by responding with blunt, painful throbs. It’s like my head is into carpentry of its own.

Dammit. Why can’t silly neighbor build his house when people aren’t sleeping?? And by people I mean me.

I should warn people not to mess with a raving, sleep-deprived woman tonight. I breathe fire when trying not to stick my middle finger at anyone who shows the minutest sign of having had blissful sleep.

And the smoke billowing from my nostrils? Oh, it’s just there for added flair.

I’m Writing Again–Should Anyone Be Alarmed?

This feels weird.  So freakingly weird. It’s like walking into a dilapidated and deserted house with cobwebs hanging on chandeliers (ok, fine.  Let’s just pretend I have a chandelier in my house), and leafing through yellowed pages of abandoned books…

I never meant to stop writing.  Even if I probably have only a couple of readers who would miss my writing, it never crossed my mind to stop writing.

But I did.

I exchanged the little joys I get in subjecting hapless readers to reading my every thought, rant, whim–crappy or otherwise–with writing reports or allocating resources through graphs and charts.  For self-amusement, I sometimes had to color the charts all shades of pink before sending my reports just to elicit machismo reactions from a testosterone-dominated office.

I’ll resume writing from now on.  That may sound threatening to some readers who prefer to amuse themselves with, say… the World News, CNN, politics, social unrest… or whatever it is that would make them sound intelligent.  There’s nothing of that sort here–not when I’m the one writing.

My apologies to the intellectual elite.  I’m not in the running to become the next recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature.

This is me.  And this is my blog.

All work and play

My new boss took me aside to discuss some things about the new process being implemented in the department.  Then the discussion swerved a little to a discussion about higher positions that are currently open.  It was more like a we-have-a-senior-post-for-you-will-you-take-it kinda talk.  When faced with a question that puts me on the spot, I tend to have verbal diarrhea.  A simple Yes or No just doesn’t suffice.  So I went on a monologue about meeting expectations, responsibilities, etcetera that are entailed in climbing a notch higher.

And then I said, YES.  It wasn’t a yipee!-i’m-gonna-be-promoted! kinda yes, though.  It was more like an anxious Yes that made me think of SuperMario taking a leap to get a coin only to fall into a deep cartoonic abyss.

I’m excited, nevertheless–i’m spearheading the launch of a new account, a promotion is being handed to me in a  on a silver platter coffee cup, possibilities of travelling abroad…I am tapping my fingers on my desk in anticipation and “let’s-bring-it-on excitement. 🙂