tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72511832024-03-13T07:58:34.883+08:00The Orange Express<b><i>A slice of humor cannot give you a paper cut</i></b>orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.comBlogger268125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-10345110244040707212019-07-19T16:57:00.001+08:002019-07-19T16:57:08.034+08:00Silent night<strike>I haven't blogged in a while. Which is possibly the most cliche thing for a semi-retired blogger to say when attempting to write again. So maybe I should delete this part. </strike><br />
<br />
Tons have changed since I last wrote anything for this blog, including (but not limited to) having ANOTHER niece!!! More on the adorable Cami later, I hope. My memory is, shall we say, challenged.<br />
<br />
I consider myself completely blessed (HASHTAGBLESSED!!!) to have been able to help my sister in the US the two times she's given birth. When Cami was born early 2018, I was around again. Her older sister Carlie was about 2 and a half years old when Cami showed up. Carlie was growing up to be a sharp and funny little girl, much to my constant amusement.<br />
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For instance, one time she heard me groaning when attempting to stand from a sitting position on the floor, and asked why I was making sounds. I said I was old. Which of course prompted her existential question, "<i>Why are you old?</i>"<br />
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Why indeed.<br />
<br />
With a newborn in the house, we usually kept it pretty quiet. We were especially muted when Cami was napping because she was excruciatingly shrieky when she was awake and upset (thanks to her tummy issues).<br />
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It was during one of those Cami naps when I saw Carlie intently watching one of her cute TV shows with the volume set to like ... 2 or 3. It was really soft. I could barely discern words. I watched Carlie for a while and she seemed to be highly entertained and focused. Wow, I thought, this toddler's hearing is amazing. My curiosity got the best of me and I had to ask:<br />
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"Carlie, can you hear anything? Do you know what's going on?"<br />
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"Yes!" she said. Nodding. Not breaking eye contact with Peppa or whoever it was.<br />
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"Really? What are they saying?"<br />
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And Carlie said, in all seriousness and in a very soft voice:<br />
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"<i>Wawawawawawawawawa</i>."<br />
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Oh Car. Never change.orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-53341075104057046332017-11-11T23:07:00.000+08:002017-11-11T23:07:36.730+08:00Dr Carlie is inThere's nothing like a funny family member to make me want to blog again. This latest story has a semi-new character, Carlie, the 2-year-old daughter of my younger sister, Mia. I sort of introduced her to you, my <b><i>millions</i></b> of readers, in <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2015/10/an-open-letter-to-little-carbar.html" target="_blank">this post from 2 years ago</a>.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5053OwVa414/WgcOqYLNLyI/AAAAAAABhr8/33v_-e8LdGsELnVjtqK8ylopg6mVyVfkQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4498.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="1176" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5053OwVa414/WgcOqYLNLyI/AAAAAAABhr8/33v_-e8LdGsELnVjtqK8ylopg6mVyVfkQCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_4498.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Carlie, having none of this selfie nonsense</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anyway, little Carbaroni is in town for a while so we are all overjoyed. Carlie has grown up (well, sort of) to be an adorable girl who just won't stop talking until she gives in to sleep. Which can be good or bad, as I've learned from all my conversations with Carlie's cousins, <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2014/04/things-that-make-me-smile-and-overweight.html" target="_blank">Juancho and Martina</a>, when they were younger. <i>(I can link dozens of posts, but I chose just that one because it's past my bedtime. Please feel free to search my old entries from a time when I blogged regularly and furiously, and I was probably funnier. And thinner. *Sob*)</i><br />
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Today, I had to watch Carlie for a bit because her mommy was taking a much-needed nap. I was getting a bit sleepy myself so I had to end our catching and throwing practice (we used a tiny, fluffy dinosaur as our ball, but with my energy level, it felt like an oversized bowling ball ... on fire). We sat on the couch instead and she started to pretend to be a doctor examining me.<br />
<br />
Oh no.<br />
<br />
Because I've had countless experiences with too-honest kids and their evaluations of my body parts, I braced myself for the inevitable. After all, just a few months ago, a chatty and most entertaining 4-year-old girl told me – after a few minutes of careful observation and pinching – that my arms were, decidedly, 'too big'. She wasn't wrong.<br />
<br />
Back to my niece.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Carlie: <i>I look at your leg. </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: <i>OK. It's big, right? </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Carlie: <i>No, small.</i></blockquote>
<b></b><br /><b></b>
<b>(YES! Small victory! Literally!)</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Carlie: <i>The other one. </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: <i>This leg is big? </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Carlie: <i>No, small.</i></blockquote>
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<b></b><br /><b></b></div>
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<b>(WHOOHOOO!)</b></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Carlie: <i>I look at your tummy. </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me (in mortal fear): <i>OK. It's soft? </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Carlie: <i>No, it's <b>beautiful</b>.</i></blockquote>
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<b>AWWWWWWW. </b>Sniff. Thanks, Car.</div>
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Not all my blog stories have a weird ending, after all. </div>
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(And I'll stop there before I tell you about the real ending of the night: her mini-tantrum during my futile attempt at brushing her teeth. When dealing with small children, just like the rest of life, you really can't win 'em all.)</div>
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<br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-14808530619859055022017-05-11T10:15:00.000+08:002017-05-11T10:15:13.692+08:00Martina is her mother's daughterEven at the ripe old age of almost-11, Martina still gives me many reasons to blog. Yesterday proved it. And how.<br />
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I was hanging out with Juancho (who just turned 15! FIFTEEN!!!) and Marteens, each of us doing his or her own thing involving a screen of some sort. I was working, Juancho was watching a sitcom and Martina was playing some modern revival of the Nokia snake game (I hated that damn game).<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_JKPWucEqhg/WRPCoVgl4VI/AAAAAAABaLw/KkrdL3BESfkIQb2C5PZhNuRn5jSkd7qDACLcB/s1600/be-our-guest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_JKPWucEqhg/WRPCoVgl4VI/AAAAAAABaLw/KkrdL3BESfkIQb2C5PZhNuRn5jSkd7qDACLcB/s320/be-our-guest.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martina has never seen the cartoon version, can you believe it?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then, without provocation, Martina started singing with all her might from "Beauty and the Beast":<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i style="text-align: center;"><b>Course by course!!!</b></i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><b>One by one!!!</b></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><b>'Til you shout ...</b></i></blockquote>
(To those who have no idea, the next line is supposed to be <i>"Enough! I'm done!"</i> ... but my niece thought it was ...)<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">TARANTANTAN!!!</span></i></b></blockquote>
Wahahahaaaaaa! Juancho and I couldn't stop laughing.<br />
<br />
To be honest, I quite like how it rolls off the tongue. 'Til you shout tarantantan! "Do you want more bread?" "Tarantantan."<br />
<br />
This really shouldn't surprise me because Martina is so much like her mother, my Ate, who also tends to <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.co.id/2009/05/tip-of-misheard-lyrics-iceberg.html" target="_blank">mishear Disney lyrics</a>. Three words: a pretty walk. (If you click that link, you'll see that this isn't the first time Martina has mangled songs either.)<br />
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Full disclosure: Martina cannot sing a single phrase of that movie correctly ("I need success!" is definitely NOT in the opening song "Belle" – figure it out), but life is short, and we must get on with the next story.<br />
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Another topic we discussed was Ate's height (hahaha sorry, Ate).<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Juancho: What's Mom's height? 5'2"? </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: No way. I'm not even that height. I'm 5'1.75" and your mother is smaller. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Juancho: She says she's 5'2". </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: Don't believe her. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Juancho: Martina believes her. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Martina: <b>Of course I do. She buys me donuts.</b></blockquote>
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End scene.<br />
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Happy mother's day?<br />
<br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-10758854614317235772017-01-23T09:29:00.000+08:002017-01-23T09:29:28.972+08:00Martina fires some shotsMy 10-year-old niece Martina is turning out to be quite the loaded weapon. Of zingers. Not that this should surprise me, as I've documented many of these attacks in my blog throughout her life. But it's still quite shocking when I get hit.<div>
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Just yesterday, while I was in the car with Marteens and Ate, her mom, she fired two awesome shots targeted at very innocent victims – all within 5 minutes.</div>
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<b>First victim: <u>JUANCHO</u></b></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Martina: </i>Mom, Juanch has so many friends. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Me and Ate: </i>That's a good thing, Marteens! </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Martina: </i>... but I have more.</blockquote>
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<br /></div>
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Boom.</div>
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<b>Second victim: <u>ME</u></b></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Me, longing for ice cream and aiming to make an announcement that I would treat them:</i> You know what I REALLY want to eat right now? </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Martina:</i> Everything. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Me:</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Martina:</i> You like everything.</blockquote>
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KABOOM!!!</div>
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My advice? Run and hide. </div>
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orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-18919492579697696722016-12-11T15:55:00.000+08:002016-12-11T15:55:00.595+08:00Weekend radio tales, starring Mama<i>[Before you accuse me of bullying the saint who brought me into this world, please know that I told her I'd write about these. And I told her I look forward to her bloopers because without them, my blog would be dead. OK, now you may accuse me.]</i><br />
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On Saturdays and Sundays, I drive my parents to tennis at an ungodly hour. I get to listen to the radio only when I drive, so twice a week, Mama and Dad have to bear with my station choices. This was a particularly good weekend ... for blog fodder.<br />
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<h4>
<b>Saturday, Mellow 94.7 FM</b> <span style="font-weight: normal;">(Hahahaaaaaajudgeme)</span>:</h4>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://infinigeek.com/assets/car-audio-automobile-radio-history-through-the-decades-tech-classic-2013-600x280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://infinigeek.com/assets/car-audio-automobile-radio-history-through-the-decades-tech-classic-2013-600x280.jpg" height="149" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just some random cute photo of a car radio ... <br />and the right station!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The <i><a href="https://youtu.be/zD5NQtf5YL4" target="_blank">Star Wax jingle</a> </i>is a song that's particularly hard to get out of your brain, which makes it a very effective, very irritating commercial. When Mama heard it (apparently, for the very first time) yesterday, her reaction was:<br />
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"Wow, I didn't know they had commercials like this now."<br />
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Which was a strange thing to say, given that most of the local brands feature original songs in their radio spots.<br />
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But I know how Mama's mind works. So I said, matter-of-factly:<br />
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"Ma, Star Wax. That's not an ad for <b><i>STARBUCKS</i></b>."<br />
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"Ah. So that's why."<br />
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Hahahahahaha.<br />
<br />
Now sing it with Star<b>bax</b> in the lyrics. Go. I'll wait.<br />
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By the way, the previous link was an older version of the song. <a href="https://youtu.be/L_KWq81u-qg" target="_blank">This</a> is the newer one. If you click this too, I admire your courage. You're a star (wax). (I apologize.)<br />
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<h4>
<b>Sunday, Magic 89.9 FM </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">(Throwback! I don't know if this station's as cool as it used to be.)</span>:</h4>
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Speaking of "hard to get out of your brain," Nicki Minaj's <i><a href="https://youtu.be/4JipHEz53sU" target="_blank">Super Bass</a> </i>was playing softly in the car this morning. I didn't think Mama was listening until she heard part of the verse that said something like "yadda yadda yadda American guys."<br />
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"American guys again?! I heard a song yesterday with American guys. American guys, American guys ..."<br />
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I was just quiet, because I had a feeling this was going somewhere absurd. And of course, Mama didn't disappoint.<br />
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"Oh no wait. It wasn't American guys. It was <i><b>QUEEN ELIZABETH</b></i>."<br />
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HAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHA!!!<br />
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Wrong country, wrong sex! Christmas came early this year! Thank you, Mama!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">PS: I was curious so I looked for the Queen Elizabeth song. It might be <a href="https://youtu.be/pty7dF8K50k" target="_blank">this one</a>. As to where and how Mama heard it, don't ask. Or ask her, and tell me if something funny happened. I'll need the material.</span></div>
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orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-82958146785624219372016-12-02T20:34:00.000+08:002016-12-02T20:34:21.741+08:00My first taste of Starbucks pee-et-elIn late 2015, I stayed with my sister Mia in New York for a few months <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2015/10/an-open-letter-to-little-carbar.html" target="_blank">to help her out with baby Carlie</a>. Despite the long semi-vacation in the Broadway state, I wasn't really able to fit in much theater. So I was happy when Mia's friend from Chicago, Patt, was in town to watch one of her favorite musicals, multi-Tony-award-winning <a href="http://funhomebroadway.com/" target="_blank"><i>Fun Home</i></a>, for one of its last shows with the original cast. My sister couldn't join us, what with motherhood and all, but relieved me of nanny duties and even treated me to a free ticket.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qDI2ZpYc6Os/WEFgvS5k_9I/AAAAAAABUcc/YmUosT09x38oeXfB-0f2OaBeK4sTP-n5ACLcB/s1600/IMG_4218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qDI2ZpYc6Os/WEFgvS5k_9I/AAAAAAABUcc/YmUosT09x38oeXfB-0f2OaBeK4sTP-n5ACLcB/s320/IMG_4218.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(L to R) Little old me; the amazing star of Fun Home, Beth Malone;<br />and the equally amazing Patt!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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After watching and thoroughly enjoying <i>Fun Home</i> – which was, for something with "Fun" in the title, so unexpectedly heartbreaking and emotional – Patt asked me if I wanted to join the lottery for <i>Hamilton</i>. I had two questions: what was the lottery and what was <i>Hamilton</i>? What was <a href="http://www.hamiltonbroadway.com/" target="_blank"><b><i>HAMILTON</i></b></a>?!? That was the same day I found out I was living under a rock. (I included the link for those who are still under it.)<br />
<br />
As it turns out, theater ticket lottery is super fun. Every day, ultra-discounted seats are raffled to people who show up just before the show. Thrilling! Especially if you're on a budget and/or couldn't get seats for really popular plays (read: <i><b>Hamilton</b></i>) and just want to try your luck.<br />
<br />
So Patt and I went to the theater venue and waited in line to drop our names into a bowl. There were 10 front-row seats up for grabs, so chances were slim that we were going to be picked out of the throng of people who were also there for the lottery (and, unlike me, actually knew about <i>Hamilton</i> and how impossible it was to buy tickets).<br />
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Oh and here's an important fact I need to stress about that fall day: <b>It was effin' cold.</b> If I remember correctly, it felt like about 5°C according to my weather app. And the wind was blowing because, apparently, the world hates me. Aaaand because my brain doesn't always work, I wasn't wearing a very thick jacket. Which was bad. Considering I'm a tropical girl who gets cold in Philippine malls.<br />
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We were outdoors for 2 hours.<br />
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Don't get me wrong – I don't regret a minute of that mini-adventure (OK, maybe I regret the choice of jacket). I loved the excitement just outside the theater, and I'm happy that Patt brought me to that lottery. But ...<br />
<br />
<b>Two. Hours.</b><br />
<br />
In. The. Frigid. Wind. Of. Manhattan.<br />
<br />
So after we found out we didn't get the tickets (aww), Patt asked if I wanted to get coffee because she knew I was freezing. There was a nearby Starbucks, and I got excited all over again because I'd never tried their pumpkin spice latte (PSL, if you want to be cool and acronym-y). And maybe more than that, my gloveless hands wanted to hold something warm.<br />
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Entering a building after being outdoors for 2 hours (have I mentioned we were outside for 2 hours?) was nothing short of glorious. I felt my body start to warm up and was happy to feel my forehead move again. Little did I know that some parts of my body had yet to thaw.<br />
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When the barista asked me what I wanted, here's what my frozen lips and tongue came up with, to my horror:<br />
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<b>"A punggin spite latte."</b><br />
<br />
"Excuse me?"<br />
<br />
After a long inhale, I attempted again: "A pun ... kin ... spite ... latte."<br />
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I don't quite remember if Patt read my lips and helped me out, or if the barista saw my mouth desperately trying to function and guessed correctly that the cold foreigner wanted the most <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Basic" target="_blank">basic</a> fall drink out there. Embarrassing? Maybe. Entertaining? Definitely.<br />
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And if you're curious, that latte, like that whole day, was za-may-zing.<br />
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<i>(I remembered to blog about this because of my first taste of Korean bingsu in a cold mall. My stiff tongue brought back all the PSL-after-lottery memories.)</i><br />
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<br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-25951559697312503452016-04-17T21:37:00.000+08:002016-04-17T21:37:47.697+08:00Family status is very quoAfter a fun two-week vacation with friends, it really didn't take very long for the parental bloopers to come rolling in.<br />
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Oh by the way, the two conversations below transpired in Taglish, but for the sake of my non-Filipino-speaking readers who rely on the unreliable Google translate <i>(I'm looking at you, <b>Malinda</b>)</i>, I've translated everything.<br />
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<u><b>Story #1: On the night of my arrival</b></u><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: blue;"><b>Me</b> <i>(showing some of my favorite pics on <a href="http://www.myswitzerland.com/en-us/titlis-aerial-cable-car-with-rotating-gondola.html">Mt Titlis</a>)</i>: Look at how pretty the snowy mountain was! Nice view, right? </span></blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8h0peA7WEoY/VxOAR_yVJ4I/AAAAAAABHaQ/SDMyRukXv60sRmgWRoISjL58wPGpoN5mgCKgB/s1600/IMG_7206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: blue;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8h0peA7WEoY/VxOAR_yVJ4I/AAAAAAABHaQ/SDMyRukXv60sRmgWRoISjL58wPGpoN5mgCKgB/s320/IMG_7206.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue;">A very. nice. view!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: blue;"><b>Mama</b>: Wow! You rode on the <b>SkyCable</b>!<br /><i>(As in the local cable TV provider)</i> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: blue;"><b> Dad</b>: Hahahaha. SkyCable!?! Hahahaha!!!<br /><i>(I think they take turns <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2005/07/why-they-are-still-together.html" target="_blank">laughing at each other's booboos</a>, just FYI.) </i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: blue;"><b>Me</b>: Um, actually ... it's called --</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: blue;"><b>Dad</b> <i>(still laughing)</i>: SkyCable!?! It's called ... hmm ... wait ... *isn't* it called SkyCable? Seems right. Hmm. <i>(then, convinced)</i> It's SkyCable!</span></blockquote>
OK then. As long as they agree.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Story #2: Two days after I arrived</b><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>Dad</b>: I want to watch the Batman v Superman movie. It looks good. And in the ending, Superman ... <b><i>(PROCEEDS WITH WHAT I'M THINKING IS A MAJOR SPOILER BUT I'M NOT POSTING IT HERE IN CASE IT IS!!!)</i></b> </span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>Me</b>: Um, first of all, spoiler alert? I haven't seen it! Also, I thought you haven't seen it either? Why do you know? </span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>Dad</b>: I read it in the newspaper. But you know, the person I really want to win is ... <b>Robredo</b>. <br /><i>(As in Leni. A real person. Not part of any comic universe. The VP candidate. The *best* one.)</i> </span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>M</b><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>e</b>: Well that was a big topic change.</span></span></span></blockquote>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br />
So there's that. All's well in the homestead. Except no one has seen the movie yet. Maybe I can just wait for it to be shown on ... wait for it ... SkyCa --<br />
<br />
OK, I apologize.</div>
orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-87964369759984264562016-03-13T16:56:00.000+08:002016-03-13T16:56:08.505+08:00My memory palace is in ruinsI suppose very few people in the world can't relate to forgetting names. Everyone's familiar with that sinking feeling of meeting someone unexpectedly in a public place – or worse, while you're with a friend that should be introduced. You can forget the name of the person you meet. You can forget the name of the person you're already with. It happens. It's messy. It's hilarious and perfectly natural and messy. I've heard people who automatically move away from their companion when they encounter a familiar face to spare him or her the agony of introductions, just in case a name is forgotten.<br />
<br />
I admit having a strange name means that people rarely forget it, but just in case they do, I often point to myself while saying "Orange!" Hashtag charity work. Hashtag toddler habits.<br />
<br />
I've also become very comfortable admitting to people that I'm ... well ... old and forgetful. More often than not, I just blurt out the generic "Um ... I'm sorry I can't remember your name." There was one time though, when I probably got too honest. It happened in the mall, while I was striding down an escalator. From where I was, I spotted a very smiley woman who was waving to me and, as expected, I couldn't figure out who she was. I had half a mind to run back up the escalator but I wasn't feeling particularly confident in my grace so I approached her and said, "I'm sorry, I'm sure I know you but ... can you tell me why?"<br />
<br />
*Sheepish grin*<br />
<br />
The most embarrassing encounter happened a couple of years ago, after I accompanied <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2014/12/a-haha-in-middle-of-huhu.html" target="_blank">Joemar</a> to a chemo session. We were walking out when a really pretty girl turned to me and happily said, "Orange?! Hi!!!"<br />
<br />
Aaaand, as you could probably guess by the way this blog entry is going, I couldn't remember her name. I knew I liked this woman from my past, and I so desperately wanted to make introductions because it was a good-vibe moment. Joemar – who knew all too well that I had a history of not recognizing people* – was just standing there quietly, no doubt amused and waiting for the comedy to ensue. As it usually did (does).<br />
<br />
Seeing no way out of it, I said, "Please don't hate me, but I don't remember your name."<br />
<br />
And this pleasant, wonderful woman said:<br />
<br />
<b><i>"Orange."</i></b><br />
<br />
Her name was Orange. HER NAME WAS ORANGE!!!<br />
<br />
NYAAARRGGGHHHH.<br />
<br />
I knew her from high school – she was a year younger than me. I remember I had to call her home phone one time (it would be futile to try and recall why I had to) and had so much trouble trying to explain that I was Orange looking for Orange. The person who picked up the phone was having none of it. I ended up saying I was Anna just to finally end our shared misery.<br />
<br />
So ... permanent nametags? Discuss.<br />
<br />
<br />
--------------------<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>*While I was writing this, I started having doubts about whether or not Joemar was actually there when the Orange encounter happened. I think my mind, in an attempt to cope with his loss, has transformed all memories of him into unreliable mashups of scenes. I do know for sure that one time, he saw one of his friends at the mall and started talking to her while I respectfully kept my distance. I realized all too late that he was talking to one of our med classmates, and I was respectfully avoiding someone I actually knew. Again, NYAAARRGGGHHHH.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-24113764055192559322016-02-03T19:44:00.001+08:002016-02-03T19:46:16.097+08:00Yes, you may laugh at me. Namaste.My regular lunchmate (AKA Apple, AKA older sister, AKA frequent housemate) and I ate at the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/omindiankitchen" target="_blank">Om Indian Kitchen</a> a few weeks ago just to check it out (and, you know, hunger).<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-hkg3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xlt1/v/t1.0-9/12243273_956298311119967_389259742664398200_n.jpg?oh=df2cd96b339ffbba529754ee839ff59c&oe=57398F1A" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://scontent-hkg3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xlt1/v/t1.0-9/12243273_956298311119967_389259742664398200_n.jpg?oh=df2cd96b339ffbba529754ee839ff59c&oe=57398F1A" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Butter chicken! <br />
(From the resto's Facebook photos)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
No regrets there. Samosas were OK, naan was good, butter chicken was grrreat. I'll try it with rice next time. (Accept me.)<br />
<br />
But that's not why I'm blogging about that particular lunch. I'm not a food blogger, after all.<br />
<br />
<i>(Side note: Many people have urged me to become a food blogger, but I don't think I have an adequate gastronomic vocabulary or enough objectivity to write about food. My intimate relationship with food cannot be put into words. Or maybe it can, and I'm just lazy. Yeah, that's it.)</i><br />
<br />
Our server's name was Angel. This piece of information will come in handy later. Just wait for the horror.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Our bill for the very satisfying meal was PHP 501.25, which was money well spent, I thought. I got a thousand-peso bill from my wallet and gave it to Angel. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
After more than 10 minutes, I didn't have my change yet. Which was perplexing because there were just two other tables occupied, and Angel really wasn't doing anything after I paid. She was just standing by the counter, looking around. This made my blood start to boil a little because, honestly, how hard was it to give me my change? Some people! So incompetent!!! I HATE THE WORLD!!! (My emotions escalate quickly.)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So with all the control I could muster, I asked Angel (in Filipino), "Excuse me. Why is it taking so long? Where is my change?"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And the poor Angel looked at me kindly and said,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>"Ma'am, 500 <i>po ang binigay nyo</i>. Actually, <i>kulang pa po yung binigay nyo pero</i> OK <i>na po yon</i>."</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
(Translation: Ma'am, you gave 500. Actually, it's not enough, but that's OK.)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
HUUUWHAAAATTT? Mwahahahahhahhahahaha. I felt a direct punch to the solar plexus of my ego.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In the middle of laughing my face off and apologizing, I somehow managed to get 50 pesos (yes, it was really 50 ... I think) to pay for the rest of my bill and leave a little tip. I felt like I should've given her my entire wallet to ask for forgiveness and redeem my humiliated spirit.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Angel (who could not have a more appropriate name) saw the money I left on the table and said, "No, it's really OK." Someone please give this woman a raise. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Anyway, I said it was for the 1-peso-something and begged her to take it. Then we left. In shame.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Needless to say, my sister (AKA moral support) couldn't stop giggling, if you define 'giggling' as an open-mouthed, throaty cackling. I couldn't blame her. For the rest of that day (and for most of the next), whenever I thought about that Indian lunch, I burst out laughing uncontrollably. Fortunately, I was alone for my LOL explosions the next day. I've reached my monthly quota of embarrassment, thank you very much.</div>
orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-62758732653621137602016-01-17T12:05:00.000+08:002016-01-17T12:05:09.227+08:00Martina and marriage. Again.I think marriage is a concept that interests my 9-year-old niece Martina to an unhealthy degree.<br />
<br />
Over 3 years ago, I posted about <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2012/10/are-you-going-to-get-married-or.html" target="_blank">Martina harassing her then 6-year-old friends about getting married</a>.<br />
<br />
Even before that, when she was 4 years old, <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2011/06/martina-marriage-and-lack-thereof.html" target="_blank">she attacked me with the WHY AREN'T YOU MARRIED question</a>. I thought my answer appeased her at the time because she never brought it up again.<br />
<br />
Just recently though, my sister (Martina's mom) told me that her daughter was at it once more. Oh no. I was told the conversation went like this:<br />
<br />
Martina asked her mom, "Why isn't Tita Eng married?"<br />
<br />
And my sister answered, "She hasn't found anyone she liked."<br />
<br />
(Just FYI, I liked this answer a lot. Apart from it being true, it was slightly better than her latest sarcastic reply to a family friend who asked the same question. "She's too young," my sister said, which made her crack up like a drugged hyena. Sisterly love.)<br />
<br />
Then my sweet, lovely, thoughtful niece said, <b><span style="font-size: large;">"That's unfair!"</span></b><br />
<br />
When I heard this, I almost teared up. A thousand dramatic thoughts ran through my head: <i>Yes, Martina, I suppose it's unfair in a way. Don't be sad though. Not all societies look down upon single women. Thank you for implying the world is cruel to me. Thank you for the caring sentiment. I'm so deeply touched that –</i><br />
<br />
" ... It's unfair because I have only one cousin on your side!"<br />
<br />
Um. Oooookay then, Marteens! Thanks for teaching me never to assume that a question about my status is about me.<br />
<br />
:)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mbut3LFlPpU/VpsObwTgyRI/AAAAAAABCzE/KeGCyCfJJGE/s640/blogger-image-17422747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mbut3LFlPpU/VpsObwTgyRI/AAAAAAABCzE/KeGCyCfJJGE/s320/blogger-image-17422747.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martina in 2011, praying for the grace to ask the difficult questions</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-12701145894370274722015-10-19T18:14:00.000+08:002015-10-20T06:38:36.701+08:00An open letter to a little CarBar To my dearest Carlie Barlie Boo,<br />
<br />
<br />
There are two important things I need to discuss with you today.<br />
<br />
<b>Number 1: You are a ridiculously cute 1-month-old baby.</b><br />
<br />
And believe me, you were ridiculously cute from your first second of life. I know. I was there. When the doctor pulled you out, even he looked overwhelmed by your cuteness.<br />
<br />
<i>(OK, to be honest, he looked shocked because you were bigger than we all expected you to be, but it could've been about the cuteness too. So let's go with that.)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>(Lesson: Honesty is a good thing.)</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7Rv5B4W9ZoE/ViRBDOZAYFI/AAAAAAAABN0/H4yjSrfCboE/s1600/IMG_3910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7Rv5B4W9ZoE/ViRBDOZAYFI/AAAAAAAABN0/H4yjSrfCboE/s320/IMG_3910.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's you on your birth day, emanating cuteness.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I remember <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2006/10/call-me-kleenex.html" target="_blank">when your cousins Juancho and Martina were babies</a> and I couldn't get enough of them either. I could watch you all day long (and I do, mind you) and never get tired of your face. Your squishy, perfect face.<br />
<br />
When you get old enough to read this, remind me to teach you about 'bias'. It's mildly related to what I said above.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Number 2: It's your mommy's birthday today.</b><br />
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
Long before you came into existence, about 8 years ago, I wrote a blog post about your mommy on her birthday. So if you want to have some idea of who she was before you, you can read all about it <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2007/10/random-thoughts-about-birthday-girl.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I want to talk to you about your mommy after she found out she was pregnant with you. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Your mommy was so thoughtful that instead of being 100% excited, part of her felt a little bad because she knew that we wouldn't be able to do all the things we wanted to do on my US trip. I had really planned to visit her, even before she peed on a stick <i>(Again, something I can explain to you later)</i>. She apologized that what was supposed to be a long vacation for me would turn out to be a babysitting gig instead. Not all people are selfless, Carlie. But your mother is.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pl3wjHoMF5k/ViRYGgTtlaI/AAAAAAAABOE/29i7mnlYRpY/s1600/IMG_4160.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pl3wjHoMF5k/ViRYGgTtlaI/AAAAAAAABOE/29i7mnlYRpY/s200/IMG_4160.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Your mommy made this ze-raffe<br />
(who's wearing your bib and foot flowers, btw)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
Also, when I found out your mommy was pregnant, I wasn't worried at all. I knew she would prepare for your arrival like crazy. She took her vitamins and listened to her doctors and made sure you were safe and healthy inside her. You see those stuffed animals around you? She made those! She researched everything that you needed (and you needed/need a multitude of things!) and read up on pregnancy and all things related to it. She definitely knows more about pregnancy and early childhood than I do, and I'm a doctor! She can tell you about foremilk and hindmilk and the cause of frothy baby poop and why it's important to pace your never-ending feeding. I know you will always be able to rely on her. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Your mommy is determined and competitive. These are not always good traits when she's on the opposing team (I know this from playing Wii and poker and made-up games with her) but because she will always be on your side, these will be your blessings. She successfully pushed all 8lb 12oz of you even when she was in so much pain from back cramps and intense heartburn (after an epidural!) because she's a fighter and she will do anything for you. If you need to pick teams someday, pick her first. I promise she won't take revenge on you for not letting her sleep during your first month of life.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Your mommy's great, Carlie. You're going to have a fun time knowing her, as much as she (together with your daddy) will have an unforgettable time knowing you. Pretty soon, she will be more than a food supplier or a diaper changer or a hug provider to you. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To you, she'll be everything she is to me, and so much more.</div>
<div>
<br />
So mark the date, Carlie. October 19. Greet her when you get the chance. Or when you start talking or something.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R0Gv2MKYGBU/ViS5_FATfeI/AAAAAAAABOU/zqj3VQ9VV08/s1600/IMG_3857.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R0Gv2MKYGBU/ViS5_FATfeI/AAAAAAAABOU/zqj3VQ9VV08/s320/IMG_3857.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's your mommy.<br />
You're somewhere inside.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That's all. And have I mentioned how cute you are?<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Mama Omie<br />
<br />
<br />
**********<br />
One last thing:<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>(I know I said I would discuss just two things, but people lie. Take note.)</i><br />
<br />
Your mommy calls you, among so many other nicknames, 'CarBar'. That's short for 'Carlie Barlie', which I called you when you were still a fetus and caught on. Interestingly enough, with two strategically placed E's, 'CarBar' becomes 'CareBear'. This is significant for no other reason except it allows me to segue into one of my favorite childhood stories about your mommy.<br />
<br />
The first movie your mommy forced the whole family to watch was the Care Bears movie. She couldn't have been older than 10 at the time. Just a few minutes after the movie started, your mommy complained and wanted to leave, and we all said something like 'NO WAY! WE ARE GOING TO FINISH THIS MOVIE WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!' Which was ironic because the movie was about caring. And bears. The Care Bears. Look it up.<br />
<br />
Lesson: Before asking to watch a movie, make sure you really, really want to see it. Your mommy has issues she's bound to take out on you.<br />
<br /></div>
orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-27513485963904172512015-07-20T13:02:00.000+08:002015-07-20T13:04:55.923+08:00Parents and fairy tales don't go well togetherI shouldn't be surprised by this story, given that Mama has always had a <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2014/10/mama-in-new-york-part-2.html" target="_blank">clear grasp</a> of fairy tales and similar stories, as well as <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2014/03/neck-and-neck.html" target="_blank">excellent vision</a>.<br />
<br />
It was the night before Mama's scheduled operation (it was elective surgery and she's OK now, thanks for asking), and we were already at the hospital trying to make bedtime come faster. We settled on watching the movie version of <i>Into The Woods.</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/03142/Into-The-Woods_3142052c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/03142/Into-The-Woods_3142052c.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hi Chris Piiiiine.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Mama was watching it for the first time, so I expected (and got) a lot of questions about what was happening. During the opening song, I was explaining that it was a bunch of fairy tales merging into a single story.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: So that's Cinderella. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mama: OK. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: And that's Jack, the one with the beanstalk. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mama: OK. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: This baker and his wife are new – they were created for this story. And this is ...</blockquote>
<br />
<i>[Here's what was on the screen, and for all my readers who haven't seen the movie, the character in question was in a <u>red cape</u> singing about going to <u>grandmother's house.</u>]</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-usvGFIitrk4/Vaxku9jhVXI/AAAAAAAABJI/dVtttSmiMAY/s1600/redridinghood.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-usvGFIitrk4/Vaxku9jhVXI/AAAAAAAABJI/dVtttSmiMAY/s1600/redridinghood.tiff" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mama: That's <b>SNOW WHITE!!!</b></blockquote>
<br />
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Ma. No. <i>*long inhale* </i>HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!<br />
<br />
These are the moments that make my life bloggable.<br />
<br />
I'd also like to point out that I so lovingly waited for Mama to be out of surgery and back home, recuperating, before I shared this anecdote. I'm a good daughter.* Sometimes.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Get well soon, Ma!</i></b></div>
<div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
--------------------</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*To be fair, Red Riding Hood in the movie was extremely fair and had poofy sleeves, like Disney's Snow White. Like I said: Good daughter. Me. Sometimes.</span></div>
<br />
<br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-89357313074670243732015-06-09T18:42:00.000+08:002015-06-09T18:42:40.342+08:00The day I thought Dad got itShall we start with a spoiler? OK!<br />
<br />
<br />
My little (let's get back to 'little' in a while) sister Mia is <b>pregnant</b> with her first child!!!<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>WHOOOOHOOOOO!!!</b><br />
<br />
<br />
When she found out, she told me and older sister Apple first through Viber. Then we thought it would be a good idea for Mia (who lives in the US) to videochat with my parents the next day to tell them the good news so she could see their reactions. We planned it so Mia would call early Saturday morning, while Dad, Ma and I were at the tennis court.<br />
<br />
On the morning of the call, everything was going according to plan: I had Mia on the phone and there were no other people on the court. Clear video, check. Relative silence, check. Parents' full attention, check.<br />
<br />
So I showed my parents that Mia was trying to tell them something. And they focused intently on my phone's screen.<br />
<br />
Then Mia held up her pregnancy test stick.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.bestieswithtesties.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/pregnancy_test_positive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.bestieswithtesties.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/pregnancy_test_positive.jpg" height="152" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Not the actual stick with my sister's pee on it)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And my parents looked even closer. And squinted. <i>What is that</i>, they whispered. And were quiet for what seemed to me like a very long time.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then I saw Dad's face slowly light up.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>This is it</i>, I thought. Someone finally got it. I got ready to celebrate with them. And I heard my Dad shout happily, excitedly:<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>"YOU HAVE A FEVER?!"</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>HAAAAAAhahahahahahaha</i>. Kill the fatted calf because my daughter has an infection!!! <i>Hahahahahahahahaha x 500,000.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Anticlimactically, I had to tell them the news in a clear sentence, and we all screamed in delight. Lame ending, I know.<br />
<br />
<b>But Mia is pregnant!!!</b> (Just in case you missed it.)<br />
<br />
:)<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>[<b>Update</b>: The fever anecdote happened a very, very long time ago but I was warned not to blog about it early in the pregnancy. The baby is actually about 24 weeks along now. Little sister is not so little anymore, parents are super excited to have another grandchild and, thankfully, no one at this moment has a fever.]</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-69953286514466476492015-01-01T14:32:00.000+08:002015-01-01T20:55:23.149+08:00Because Apple is the new MamaOn the very first day of 2015, I had breakfast with older sister Apple and her family at my place. As it was turning out to be a lazy day, and no one seemed to want to go home yet, 8-year-old Martina suggested that we try out their new card game of Scrabble Dash.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.funandgamesmontville.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/scrabble-dash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.funandgamesmontville.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/scrabble-dash.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo included here for your gaming knowledge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So everyone pretended to have acute-onset hearing loss. (I did say it was a lazy day.)<br />
<br />
After a few more pleas from Martina, we all finally succumbed. Fine. Brain games. Whatever.<br />
<br />
Scrabble Dash turned out to be a F - U - N game, which probably explains the box design. And by 'fun', I mean it brought out the shrieky competitiveness in us. Which is more than I can say for the Game of Life, which we played begrudgingly on New Year's Eve. (And PS, I have enough trouble with real life. Don't let me deal with life, in card form or otherwise, any more than I have to.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.hasbro.com/common/productimages/en_US/2f37949f5056900b106eafae4266e721/2F40B1F65056900B105535B6F3361828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.hasbro.com/common/productimages/en_US/2f37949f5056900b106eafae4266e721/2F40B1F65056900B105535B6F3361828.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No FUN on the cover ... or while playing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Towards the end, most of us (Martina, <i>Tatay</i> Jesse and me) were standing and shouting, one of us (Juancho) was writhing in laughter-aggravated back pain, and the rest (Apple) was ... well ....<br />
<br />
In a nutshell, you play Scrabble Dash by laying down words as fast as you can based on an instruction card. So if the card said 'Proper noun', you can put B - E - Y - O - N - C - E on the table. Simple.<br />
<br />
In one round, the instruction card said 'Three-letter word'.<br />
<br />
So Jesse immediately put down three cards:<br />
<br />
L - A - T<br />
<br />
Me: What in the world is LAT?<br />
<br />
Jesse <i>(trying to demonstrate)</i>: Lat! Lat!!! Lat machine. You know, like at the gym.<br />
<br />
Of course he was referring to something like this:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://img.webmd.com/dtmcms/live/webmd/consumer_assets/site_images/articles/health_tools/9_least_effective_exercises_slideshow/webmd_photo_of_lat_pulldown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://img.webmd.com/dtmcms/live/webmd/consumer_assets/site_images/articles/health_tools/9_least_effective_exercises_slideshow/webmd_photo_of_lat_pulldown.jpg" height="217" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with a different race and body type. So, in effect, not me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Me <i>(without knowing what that machine is really called, but desperate to win)</i>: No way!!! 'Lat' is not accepted!<br />
<br />
Apple: Lat??? No!!! And besides, that's spelled with a T - H.<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Whaaahhaaaat?</span></i></b><br />
<br />
What's a lath?<br />
<br />
Presenting ...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/68/HwacheonCentreLathe_460x1000.jpg/300px-HwacheonCentreLathe_460x1000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/68/HwacheonCentreLathe_460x1000.jpg/300px-HwacheonCentreLathe_460x1000.jpg" height="307" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... a lathe. With an 'e'. And a completely different pronunciation. <br />
FYI, Apple.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And that's how my 2015 began: With a whole <b>lath</b> of laughs.<br />
<br />
BOOM! <i>(Season-appropriate ender)</i><br />
<br />
<br />
--------------------<br />
<i><u><b>Update</b></u>: So I was informed by more than one person that there is such a thing as a <a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/lath" target="_blank">lath</a>. My apologies for not researching enough. I would still like to point out that Jesse was not referring to either a lath or a lathe. As my loyal friend Marie told me when she read Apple's defense on Facebook: "Too lathe!" Hahahaha! </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-54105669347386931302014-12-15T00:36:00.002+08:002014-12-15T00:38:55.099+08:00A 'haha' in the middle of a 'huhu'It was my most dreaded day. A day that I thought would be described as 'sad' at best, but turned out to be more like one endlessly, heartbreakingly painful ordeal.<br />
<br />
It was the day <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2012/08/wising-up-to-whys.html" target="_blank">Joemar</a> died.<br />
<br />
After his last breath on that sad 4th of September (and after I regained my sense of responsibility), I texted our close mutual friends and my sisters about what happened. My sisters and my parents, who all loved Joemar as well, were in the United States at the time. It was before 5 am in their part of the world.<br />
<br />
Mia, our youngest and the New York resident, was first to read the message. She immediately burst into tears and tried to wake Apple, who was sleeping on the couch. Naturally, it was a futile effort, so Mia tried the other people in her home.<br />
<br />
When she entered my parents' assigned bedroom, Dad was packing because it was their last day in Mia's apartment.<br />
<br />
<i>[This is an important fact: It was their <u>last day</u> in New York. Just had to emphasize it. You may proceed.]</i><br />
<br />
Mia, while hysterically sobbing, hugged my <u>hearing-impaired</u> father <i>[<--Another important fact] </i>and told him the news about Joemar.<br />
<br />
In response, my Dad tearfully said ...<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"We'll miss you too, Mia."</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAaaaaa ... <i>*fade out*</i></div>
<br />
<br />
So upon realizing that Dad thought she was crying over her family's departure, Mia went to Mama and explained what was going on. Third time's a charm.<br />
<br />
And then they all cried.<br />
<br />
:(<br />
<br />
Ummm, I don't know how to give this story a happier ending, so here's a video of a baby bewildered by twins. You're welcome.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/CBO1m4Hr-xA?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-37950628039383508072014-10-27T18:46:00.000+08:002014-10-27T18:53:09.729+08:00Mama in New York (Part 2)*Mama, Dad and sister Apple watched <i>Wicked</i> for the first time in New York this year. To the surprise of no one, they all loved it – including my father, who admitted later on that he did not understand a thing.<br />
<br />
So when they got back home, Apple tried to explain bits of the play to Dad (this, to me, was the real surprise: that Ate actually paid attention) (LOL).<br />
<br />
<i>[Warning: 'Wicked' spoilers ahead]</i><br />
<br />
Apple, speaking to Dad:<i> (paraphrased)</i> Some characters in <i>Wicked</i> became characters in the <i>Wizard of Oz</i>. For example, Fiyero became the Scarecrow, and Boq became the Tin Man. And then we saw Dorothy on the yellow brick road ...<br />
<br />
Mama, the person who allegedly understood the play: <i>(not paraphrased) </i>So what happened to <b>Alice in Wonderland</b>?<br />
<br />
(I'll let that sink in for a bit.)<br />
<br />
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!<br />
<br />
My mother – defying both gravity and logic.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://img2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130725021339/wicked/images/d/d6/Tumblr_m9wuxz9kYe1rfph73o1_500.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://img2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130725021339/wicked/images/d/d6/Tumblr_m9wuxz9kYe1rfph73o1_500.png" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elphaba became the Mad Hatter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
--------------------<br />
<i>*You can read Part 1 <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2014/10/mama-in-new-york-part-1.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</i><br />
<br />
<br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-53007796887116307762014-10-02T20:29:00.000+08:002014-10-02T22:02:10.496+08:00Mama in New York (Part 1) Mama, Dad and older sister Apple were in New York in September to visit younger sister Mia. It was also US Open season so they were able to see a couple of games, much to my tennis-loving parents' happiness (Just an FYI: Apple couldn't care less about tennis, but she had nowhere else to go anyway. #shouldvebeenme).<br />
<br />
One time, while just chilling in Mia's place, they caught one of Serena's matches on TV. You'll need to know that at the US Open this year, Ms Williams (who eventually won the slam) was wearing this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://cdn.tennis.com/uploads/wysiwyg/2014/08/31/1408262214800616365_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://cdn.tennis.com/uploads/wysiwyg/2014/08/31/1408262214800616365_o.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Or sometimes this:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/incoming/article9705484.ece/alternates/w620/Serena-Williams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.independent.co.uk/incoming/article9705484.ece/alternates/w620/Serena-Williams.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
OK then.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So this is the conversation that followed after my mother, who was a teacher for most of her adult life, saw Serena for the first time:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Mama: <i>Wow, <b>tiger</b> outfit!</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Apple: <i>Wrong animal, Ma. Try again.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Mama: <i>Oh yeah ... I meant</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
...</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><i>LION</i></b>.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i1298.photobucket.com/albums/ag60/YouHaveBeenOwned101/Lion20and20Tiger_zps11438ab9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i1298.photobucket.com/albums/ag60/YouHaveBeenOwned101/Lion20and20Tiger_zps11438ab9.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L to R: Lion, Tiger (Not in photo: Serena's outfit)<br />You're welcome, Mama.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-11281251076902779002014-09-15T18:42:00.000+08:002014-09-15T18:42:11.499+08:00All the world's a (free) stageIt was September 5, 2014. A day had passed since my best friend Joemar decided to pack up his bags and move to a better, higher place. I promised his family I would buy some of the supplies we needed for the wake so as soon as I had some free time, I headed for SM Hypermarket, the most convenient option at the time. We had just a few hours to get the chapel ready.<br />
<br />
Speed-shopping while in the depths of sadness was one of the more surreal things I've ever had to do in my life. I shed some tears in the aisle reserved for party items, deciding between smaller versus bigger (allegedly) biodegradable plates as though making the right choice would bring my friend back. After what seemed like a very long time staring at disposable cups and paper towels, I queued up to pay for the stuff that somehow ended up in my basket.<br />
<br />
A smiley SM cashier started to ring up my items. She then asked me a question that seemed innocent enough:<br />
<br />
"Do you have a <b>free stage</b> card?"<br />
<br />
"A what?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"A free stage card," she repeated.<br />
<br />
A free stage card. A <b><i>free stage</i></b> card? Did I have a free stage card? What is a free stage card? Was I too sad to understand what a free stage card was? Did all those sleepless nights finally kill off my remaining neurons? Maybe I HAD a free stage card but had completely forgotten.<br />
<br />
After a few long seconds of staring at the lady (who really just wanted to do her job well, I might add), I figured out that she was referring to this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.smadvantage.com.ph/sites/default/files/images/Promos%20and%20Events/What_is_SM_Prestige.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.smadvantage.com.ph/sites/default/files/images/Promos%20and%20Events/What_is_SM_Prestige.jpg" height="312" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And at that moment, as I felt a small smile involuntarily forming on my lips, I had a feeling that things would be OK somehow.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Eventually. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
--------------------</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>PS. Joemar would've loved this story (and probably has that card). </i></div>
orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-6932993459983936192014-07-13T13:30:00.000+08:002014-07-13T13:30:02.327+08:00You can't handle the tooth<i>[To understand this anecdote, the only thing you need to know is that we live in Pasig, which suffered from an inexplicable mosquito deluge a few months ago. Also, there are many plants and trees in our garden and backyard, which might explain the number of insects that frequent our home despite the screens. So, to recap: our home = insect city. You may proceed.] </i><br />
<br />
<br />
When I saw Martina last week, she gave me the biggest toothy smile about 2 inches from my face. She didn't stop until I noticed that she had lost another one of her front teeth.<br />
<br />
"Wow, Marteens! Did the tooth fairy visit?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes. I got 60 pesos ... but I really wanted 100."<br />
<br />
"I don't think you should complain," I said, preachily. "When we were kids, we got zero pesos when we lost a tooth."<br />
<br />
"WHAT!?!? THE TOOTH FAIRY NEVER VISITED YOU???"<br />
<br />
"Never."<br />
<br />
Then, after a longish pause and staring blankly for a minute, Martina excitedly said:<br />
<br />
"I know why the tooth fairy never visited. Because she's afraid of mosquitos."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_ppMvCOY2rI/U8IYlWwT_7I/AAAAAAAAAnI/ZR7GXi67ehk/s1600/martinatooth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_ppMvCOY2rI/U8IYlWwT_7I/AAAAAAAAAnI/ZR7GXi67ehk/s1600/martinatooth.jpg" height="319" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How to end a story</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span id="goog_2101276895"></span><span id="goog_2101276896"></span><br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-8145432132149345812014-05-12T22:05:00.000+08:002014-05-12T22:10:02.900+08:00Practically speakingThe fateful day has arrived. Juancho has started to read my blog (hi Juanchy!). Ulp.<br />
<br />
I warned him that there are a LOT of stories about him and Martina in here. He said, yes, he saw. He said the one about the '<a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2005/05/king-of-wistful-thinking.html" target="_blank">wist</a>' was funny.<br />
<br />
Martina overheard and asked, 'What's a wist?' Then, to my surprise, Juancho proceeded to paraphrase the entire blog entry, including all my extra comments, which just goes to show that he deserves an award for reading comprehension. Paging Xavier (the school, not the Professor)!<br />
<br />
After that 'wist' retelling, Juancho told Martina, 'Do you know that as of today, we are 5 years apart? I'm 12 now and you're still 7. Five years!'*<br />
<br />
Martina: Yeah, <b>PRACTICALLY</b>.<br />
<br />
Me: Wow! Big word. Good job.<br />
<br />
Martina: <b>I actually don't know what it means.</b><br />
<br />
<i>[laughter from everyone, loudest laugh from me]</i><br />
<br />
And then ...<br />
<br />
Juancho: You have to blog this!!!<br />
<br />
Ergo, this.<br />
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The pressure to make more blog entries begins. Ulp #2.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*<i>They are just 4 years apart, but Juancho's birthday comes earlier in the year. 'Did I really have to explain that?' I ask myself.</i></span><br />
<br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-85342328748386090032014-04-08T18:24:00.001+08:002014-04-08T18:24:19.620+08:00Things that make me smile (and overweight)My 11-year-old nephew Juancho and 7-year-old niece Martina seem to be on some kind of dessert theme recently. Maybe my love of sugar is rubbing off on them. (I never claimed to be the best influence on anyone.)<br />
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We had a family thing on Sunday so I saw the kids that night. After Juanch greeted me and gave me a kiss, he said I smelled like cookies.<br />
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'Is that good or bad?' I asked precariously.<br />
<br />
'It was a compliment.'<br />
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'Oh thanks,' I said. 'What kind of cookies?' <i>(Tag: Important questions in life)</i><br />
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'The ones you make.'</div>
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Which I guess meant I smelled of stress and shortening.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AKA coping mechanism</td></tr>
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Last night was Martina's turn to amuse me. To try and fall asleep, she was looking at a cupcake book on my bed while I was working outside.<br />
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After leafing through some pages, she excitedly ran out the room and asked, 'Did you watch the Vegas episode of <i>Modern Family</i>?!'<br />
<br />
<i>(She didn't really say it exactly that way because she calls the TV show '</i>Modern and Family<i>'. Please don't ask me to explain. I have nothing.)</i><br />
<br />
'No, why?'<br />
<br />
'I found a Vegas cupcake!!!'<br />
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She then ran back inside to get the book and show me the page. After a few seconds, I heard her shouting again from the bedroom.<br />
<br />
'Forget it. It's not Vegas. It's <b>VEGAN</b>.'<br />
<br />
Hahahaha.<br />
<br />
I love these kids. <i>(Tag: Bias)</i></div>
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orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-67689620131702802332014-03-22T12:06:00.000+08:002014-03-22T12:06:57.984+08:00Neck and neckApparently – and I was not aware of this until recently – Mama and Dad are in a prize-less race to accumulate the most bloopers within my lifetime.<br />
<br />
I used to think Mama would be the clear winner (because of stories like <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2011/09/quick-mama-related-snippet.html" target="_blank">this</a> and <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-quick-spanish-lesson.html" target="_blank">this</a>), but Dad is one competitive alpha male. Ergo, at present, it's pretty much [<i>insert blog entry title here</i>] [#laziness].<br />
<br />
Yesterday, as we were leaving the relatively new <a href="http://www.robinsonsmalls.com/malls_magnolia.php" target="_blank">Robinsons Magnolia</a>, Mama happily observed:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Uy! Meron palang <b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Cuma</span></b> dito!"</i></blockquote>
Which was, naturally, this:<br />
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<a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Aq9mHdgQZ4I/Uy0BbiA-7fI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/yetJmmVQphE/s640/blogger-image-1219884708.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="144" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Aq9mHdgQZ4I/Uy0BbiA-7fI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/yetJmmVQphE/s320/blogger-image-1219884708.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Dad, on the other hand, was admiring one of Mama's bags and started reminiscing about the time he bought it for her.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Maganda 'tong bag na 'to. May nabili din akong shoes dun eh. Sa <b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Calhoun</span></b>."</i></blockquote>
Which was, obviously, this:<br />
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<a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-9P5KOaQx9bE/Uy0BdMkn6uI/AAAAAAAAAeY/ZtPyPXmxksc/s640/blogger-image-1418977198.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="129" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-9P5KOaQx9bE/Uy0BdMkn6uI/AAAAAAAAAeY/ZtPyPXmxksc/s320/blogger-image-1418977198.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
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Wahahaha.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LpUUd6w3TXA/Uy0LrPXx7lI/AAAAAAAAAeo/XIyhpPP8lmw/s640/blogger-image--2144965452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LpUUd6w3TXA/Uy0LrPXx7lI/AAAAAAAAAeo/XIyhpPP8lmw/s400/blogger-image--2144965452.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The race continues.</td></tr>
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<br />orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-84165052052838071552014-03-04T22:51:00.001+08:002014-03-04T22:51:59.780+08:00NOT a spoiler for FrozenDad finally got to watch Disney's <i>Frozen</i> over the weekend. Or so we thought. <div><br></div><div>[While the LAST scene was unfolding...]</div><div><br></div><div><b><i>"Ah magkapatid ba sila?" </i></b></div><div>(Translation: "They're sisters?")</div><div><br></div><div>Ka. Boom. </div>orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-27222597105787114582014-03-04T21:48:00.001+08:002014-03-04T21:54:01.476+08:00The 30 little pigsIt's been so long since I needed to tell Juancho or Martina a bedtime story. I miss those times a lot. There are several old blog entries here about those stories, but the one about the <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2011/07/naturally-muffy-is-short-for-fluffy.html" target="_blank">Two Little Pigs</a> is relevant today.<br />
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That's because I found an old audio file of Martina telling me another pig story from more than 2 years ago, when she was just 5 years old.<br />
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<i>(Note: I had to convert the recording into a movie because Blogger won't let me upload an audio file. Kindly do not expect a dazzling montage. Except for the first one, these are pics from the year that the storytelling transpired. I'll edit this someday, maybe?)</i><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwhC8eM2AyQpxN-HNvGUOzdeuDT3ahYX3V42GG-riOlt3b-Yx1oAPcaBI7aPbw4sV0HwuYy6XOUD8k' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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If you don't have time to listen to it, here is a rough transcription. I'm the one interrupting her (in parentheses). I urge you to listen to it though – the text doesn't capture the cuteness enough. Hers not mine.<br />
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<br />
<i>(Can you start your story again?)</i><br />
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The story is about … the story today is … the 20 little … the 30 little pigs!<br />
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<i>(That’s a lot.)</i><br />
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The 30 little pigs, their mommy said, build your own houses.<br />
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Then the first pig went to get some straw from the [???]. Can I have some straws please? He said OOOKAYYY!<br />
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Then the second pig he build a house with sticks. Can I have some sticks please? Oh SURE!<br />
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And after that the third pig, he build a roof, but it was made out of bricks.<br />
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And then there was a wolf!<br />
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<i>(Wait I thought there were 30 pigs?)</i><br />
<br />
Yeah.<br />
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Then the wolf blow the first … I mean and after that the fourth pig build it with soooome … spaghetti!<br />
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And after that … then the fifth pig, he already made a house out of some paper!<br />
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Then after that, the seventh little pig, he build it out of curtains!<br />
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And the eighth pig, he build it out of doors!<br />
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And after that, the ninth pig, he build it out of windows!<br />
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Then the tenth, build it out of bicycles!<br />
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Then the other pigs, the other pig, he made it out of [???]!<br />
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<i>(What happened to the wolf?)</i><br />
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We’re going to continue that later.<br />
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And the other pig, he build it out of the fan!<br />
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The other pig, he made it out of aircon!<br />
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And then the next pig, he made it out of a bed!<br />
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<i>(I think you have to end the story now. What’s the ending?)</i><br />
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And the wolf, he came and blowed all the [???].<br />
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Then the pigs went to the brick house then he couldn’t catch any of the pigs.<br />
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THE END!<br />
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<i>(Great story!)</i>orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7251183.post-88625985961340225072014-01-26T15:15:00.000+08:002014-01-26T15:15:28.247+08:00Wicked x 2<i>[If you know nothing of the musical 'Wicked' and still plan on watching it, stop reading. You may want to read my old entries though. Just a suggestion. Feel free. Or wait until my next new entry. Which may or may not be written in the next 5 years.]</i><br />
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I first watched <i>Wicked</i> the musical when I vacationed in Chicago many years ago. I really wasn't expecting much that night – I just wanted to finally see it after hearing that it was good, won a few awards, etc, and I was happy to spend quality time with my sister Mia who worked in Illinois that time. Little did I know that it would turn out to be one of the most clever stories ever (versus <i>Dirty Dancing</i> the musical, which we also watched during that trip by the way) with a score that I thought was so ridiculously appealing and heart-wrenching. It was so effectively emotional that when the first notes of 'For Good' started, I was already bawling like a woman in labor. (Full disclosure: I have never been in labor.) (Fuller disclosure: I am always effectively emotional. Ka-boom.) To this day I cannot listen to a recording of that song without tearing up like the Pavlovian cliche that I am.<br />
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So when I found out <i>Wicked</i> was going to be staged here, I was excited. Maybe a little bit more than excited. Maybe I let out a tiny shriek of delight. Maybe. There is no proof of this anywhere.<br />
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There were two major differences between the Chicago version and yesterday's.<br />
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The first was, thanks to the kindness of a friend, we were able to get seats five rows away from the awesome stage. It was great being so near the actors, seeing the costume details and the twinkle in Glinda's eyes. It was magical. I think back to some local showbiz-folk–filled musicals, and I'm grateful that I didn't pay more to see poor acting up close. (Pay me and I'll tell you what I'm talking about.)<br />
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The second doozy of a difference was that I heard another version of <i>Wicked</i> while the play was ongoing because I was seated beside an official theater narrator for the dense. Or maybe he was just a man ... who brought his 3- or 4-year-old son.<br />
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<i>[According to the ticket printout, children below 6 weren't supposed to be allowed in the theater, so I don't know how the parents of a child who should be watching the Disney Junior channel deemed him mature enough to handle unfortunately colored protagonists, extramarital affairs and classic unrequited love. Flying monkeys do not necessarily make a musical wholesome. Just an FYI to parents. From a nonparent.]</i><br />
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The young boy, who was curious of course (click <a href="http://orangeexpress.blogspot.com/2012/08/wising-up-to-whys.html" target="_blank">here</a> to read about another question-filled child), unceasingly asked his father 'why' throughout the show. And I mean <u><b>throughout</b></u> the <u><b>entire</b></u> show. <u>UNDERSCORED! <b>BOLD AND UNDERSCORED!!!</b></u><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Why is she green?</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Why is she angry?</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Why did she say that?</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Why, pray tell, can't I find more similarities to the original 500-page Gregory Maguire novel that you gave me for Christmas, father? </i></blockquote>
OK, maybe not that last one, but I promise you, it was the only question left unanswered that night.<br />
<br />
On the one hand: <i>What the hell, papah? </i>Isn't it common sense to be as quiet as possible while a show is ongoing? I mean I did my share by vehemently slapping my friends when they attempted to sing along (Kidding. I used duct tape on them before the show started.) OK, to his credit, the father tried to whisper, but because my right ear was just about a foot away from his mouth, I heard everything. Looking back, I probably should've asked him to speak softer or move farther away, but I felt bad for the boy and I didn't want him to think that asking questions was wrong.<br />
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On the other hand: The guy knew the answer to everything. I was this close to asking him about how to dissolve the culture of corruption and entitlement in the Philippine political arena.<br />
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I was determined to enjoy the afternoon anyway so, being the <u><b>extraordinary</b></u> person that I am (<u><b>BOLD AND UNDERSCORED!!!)</b></u>, I was able to tune out the Q&A beside me and focus on the main show.<br />
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... which might not have been the best plan after all, because I was crying so much by the last song that I was half-expecting the little boy to ask his father what in the world was wrong with the strangely emotional lady.<br />
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I'll explain it to you when you turn 6, child. Until then, just stick to adult musicals.orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15474225769941040554noreply@blogger.com0