i used to write for an online magazine, LegManila ("a decidedly literary site that remarked on the good and the bad in the city"). due to some business decision, LegManila was shut down about 5 years ago (not sure about this, i tried to block it from my memory) and my humor pieces disappeared into oblivion.
sniff.
i've resurrected some of my essays here and there*, and today is a good time to bring one out. below is a slightly edited version of one of my favorite essays. i wrote this 8 years ago but it still makes me giggle. (if you can entertain yourself, you're set for life.)
my older sister is married and mom to two extremely pinch-worthy kids, who have starred more than once in my blog. she doesn't make life a living hell for me anymore and, on the contrary, has turned out to be one of my best friends – not to mention best shopping mate, eating mate, spa mate and salon mate. oh and she now lets me eat the full range of colors of m&ms. just fyi.
happy birthday, ate.
--------------------
Anatomy of an Older Sister
by Orange de Guzman
November 2000
Expecting the world to treat you fairly because you are a good person is a little like expecting the bull not to attack you because you are a vegetarian. – Dennis Wholey
There used to be tan M&Ms.
Do not dare challenge the truth of this statement. There are only a handful of things that I am sure of in this world. The existence of tan M&Ms is way up there on my list, ranked somewhere below the reality of God and a little above the certainty of a hearty laugh while watching an 80s drama flick on the Pinoy Blockbuster channel.
Before I digress, allow me to introduce my villain, the true atribida of my existence. Her name is Ate. (Names in this essay have been changed, albeit quite uncreatively, to protect the unwilling victims of my diatribe. Regardless of my valiant efforts to conceal their identities, I will, most definitely, still be strangled upon publication.)
Being 4 years younger than Ate, I had no choice but to be the submissive sister. Blame it on blind obedience, but I simply never learned to disagree with her. After all, Sesame Street did not ever teach rebellion or vengeance. Sadly, the lowercase ‘n’ standing on a hill (who’s not lonely anymore, mind you) did nothing to affirm my dignity.
Ate loved to manipulate my pliable mind. While watching Discorama, Ate convinced me that Bobby Ledesma, as well as the rest of the cast, was part of a set of triplets. What other explanation could there be for three identical faces appearing on screen? That favorite camera trick was probably the height of technology in the 70s. It also marked the start of my gullible years.
I believed with all my heart that it was very magnanimous of Ate to take charge of dividing M&Ms between us. (I also believed that I would never have to use the word ‘magnanimous,’ so you can pretty much imagine how adulthood has corrupted me.) Every pack was carefully opened and the contents laid out on a table of questionable cleanliness. Somehow, I always ended up with the dark brown and tan M&Ms. While Ate had all the bright colors melting in her hand (yes, they DO melt in your hand), I had to settle for my blah-colored candies.
One time, I mustered up all the courage my feeble spirit could generate and asked her why I had to eat the brown ones. Her answer?
‘But those taste better! The brown ones taste more chocolate-y!’
How could I have doubted my idol? Even after I stole and tasted a bright yellow M&M from her pile, I convinced myself that my pieces DID taste better than hers. She was right all along.
For one with semiformed values, I was forgiving to a fault. I easily overlooked the times when I woke up with large scribbles all over my legs. I learned never to fight with impeccable reasoning (‘But Mama, it’s so nice to write on skin!’). Somehow, I always ended up playing with Bad-Hair-Day Barbie, whose short blond locks adamantly refused to be tamed, while Ate reveled at the way her doll’s shiny hair moved gracefully in the breeze. Thus was the story of my childhood: too Brand X for words.
One glaring proof of how badly she treated me still remains to this day. Back then, she called me Engot – the closest English translation of which would be ‘stupid’ or some other terms I cannot mention right now, on account of my refined nature. I’m still trying to fathom what possessed her to give me such an endearing nickname. Unfortunately for me, the name stayed around for 25 years. My family and dearest friends now call me Eng, a blatant reminder of my singular childhood with Ate. I’m just monumentally grateful that I didn’t get stuck with the less-appealing shortcut Ngot, which sounds downright foul, if you ask me.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t grow up writing dark, angst-y poems about the harsh blows life has dealt me in the form of an evil sister. I don’t even remember hating her. Not even when I realized that the layered look, which she instructed the gay stylist to give me, would not be in style until a good 10 years later. Did I mind that I looked like a hairy lizard in my elementary yearbook picture? Not one bit. Forgive me for the visual torture.
As a matter of fact, we’ve become good friends. A 4-year gap becomes negligible as siblings grow up. A priceless bonus I’ve gotten from all those years of harassment is that I’ve become tougher and less sensitive to teasing. I don’t remember ever being called pikon. I suppose it’s because no one comes close to Ate’s creativity in dishing out pure agony. Either that or I’m just all cried out.
Besides, we’re on the same team now. I’ve become an Ate myself. My younger sister, who arrived 8 years after my birth, thinks I’m the funniest person alive. And why shouldn’t she? I treat her infinitely better than how my Ate treated me. Need proof? Ask my little sister. I call her Gross.
Revenge is sweet. (About as sweet as tan M&Ms – but then again, you’ll just have to take my word for it.)
--------------------
*someday, i'm going to resurrect ALL of my old humor essays ... and then some. watch out for that. oooooooooooooo.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
a bigger blog (title)
not that anyone cares, but i've slightly changed my blog. i've had to update my blog's look to incorporate some new features, but i can't really change my main template (whose official name, by the way, is "dots dark") because my first-ever blog entry was about it.
zzz.
on the upside, my blog name is now a bit bigger. whoopdeedoo.
on the downside, i can now clearly see how i've been so lazy the past two years. i wrote 79 ... note: SEVENTY-NINE ... blog entries in 2004, when i started blogging in june and i was still a full-time employee.
in 2007, when i was already working as a freelance writer, i wrote only ... well just LOOK. the number is on the left side of the screen. it's beside "2007". it's in parentheses. it looks like an "8".
upgrading can be a bitch. a bitch that will slap me silly into writing more often.
zzz.
on the upside, my blog name is now a bit bigger. whoopdeedoo.
on the downside, i can now clearly see how i've been so lazy the past two years. i wrote 79 ... note: SEVENTY-NINE ... blog entries in 2004, when i started blogging in june and i was still a full-time employee.
in 2007, when i was already working as a freelance writer, i wrote only ... well just LOOK. the number is on the left side of the screen. it's beside "2007". it's in parentheses. it looks like an "8".
upgrading can be a bitch. a bitch that will slap me silly into writing more often.
i'm from pasig. look it up.
two weeks ago, i was on a plane on my way to chicago for a month-long vacation, trying to contort my body into a shape that could possibly induce sleep, when i heard my seatmate – who was majorly awake – ask, "where are you from?"
hearing the all-too-often-asked question brought me back to 3 months ago, when the same question came from the lips of a middle-aged white man and was directed to me and a girlfriend. we were hanging out in front of our beach hotel, enjoying the sun and a fantastic view of the water, when the guy came up to us for small talk. because i was usually the noisier one, my friend expected me to answer for us. the problem was i didn't.
the main reason was i was trying to figure out if he was the father of a friend we met the day before. thinking about it now, that probably didn't make sense because if he were that guy i suspected he was, he wouldn't have asked the question in the first place. i also had to pause a bit because of a mild case of foreigner anxiety. i'm 35 years old and i suspect every nonfilipino who tries to talk to me wants to kidnap me. i refuse to justify my illogical thoughts.
however, the most embarrassing reason why my vocal functions didn't work at that time is the simplest one:
i do not like saying where i'm from.
it's not because i don't love my country and don't want to declare it. it's just ... ok, say i answer "the philippines", i always get the follow-up, "where in the philippines?" and i have to say "manila" with a heavy heart. everyone knows where manila is, sure, but am i really from manila? i have to restrain myself from overexplaining, "i'm not really from manila MANILA. i'm from pasig. which is in luzon. an island. where manila is. but it's not near manila. at least not by car. and not during weekdays." it's enough to make me want to live in manila, just to avoid the apprehension.
i should probably just say "pasig" and educate the world. but "manila" rolls off the tongue so much easier. and i like having weird dilemmas every now and then.
aaaaand there you have it. two minutes of your life down the drain thanks to reading my useless mental script. how to drive people to boredom/insanity 101.
anyway, after a painfully long 15 seconds of dead air, my friend realized i wasn't planning on speaking and answered, "manila." (yey.)
"oh i know where that is," he replied and scrambled off towards the water, where he would undoubtedly find more amiable creatures. my friend said we should've just said "siquijor" to challenge his knowledge of philippine geography. except i didn't really know where siquijor was either.
back to my long-drawn-out airplane story.
if i were back in med school, sleeping in cramped spaces at odd hours wouldn't have been a problem at all. when i was an intern, all i had to do was lean on a semi-clean wall and i would've dozed off instantly for a precious 30 seconds. ok, that was a lie. i would've slept even if the wall was filthy.
however, med school years are way WAAAAAAAAY behind me (this deserves another 'yey' ... so, um ... yey.) and it's not as easy to doze off. even with an empty seat beside me, it was really hard to pass out. i lost count of the number of times i tossed and turned in my teeny airplane seat, constantly waking up to be greeted by the number of hours we had to go before landing.
(incidentally, those airplane monitors that show time until destination, speed of plane, outside temperature, time at destination, time at place of origin, number of calories in airplane meal, future of my career, meaning of life, etc, ARE HEAVEN-SENT. the fact that i love those is probably connected to habits of wasting massive amounts of time watching candles burn until the wick runs out, checking the clock every other minute and being hypnotized by progress bars.)
without warning, a 30-something korean guy took the empty seat beside me and energetically tried to start a conversation in the dark with sleepy me. why. explain.
"hi there!"
of course he had to spray me with saliva every other word.
"hi." i turned my back on him to strike a stereotypical napping pose – yknow, for him to get the hint that i was trying to sleep. and to protect my facial orifices from his oral fluids.
"where are you from?" (see first paragraph of this blog entry to establish coherence of said entry)
i faced him and after a lightning-fast inner debate, answered "manila." i closed my eyes again and covered more of my body with the airplane blanket. i was not very fond of the instant in-flight saliva shower.
"oh i had a filipino maid for 5 years! she was good!"
i smiled faintly, trying to convey a multitude of thoughts with one tight-lipped expression: acknowledgment of the outstanding qualities of filipinos – maids or otherwise; a silent apology for not having the strength to continue a decent conversation; and a sincere plea to LEAVE ME THE HECK ALONE ... at least until a) i've had at least 30 minutes of deep sleep or b) i've found an giant umbrella.
proving that miracles are alive and well in the 21st century, the man moved back to his original seat. and i, having given up on sleep completely and having watched all the interesting movies and short films in stock, stared at the monitor again. after all, 6 hours and 37 minutes of staring is nothing, what with a plane going at 540 mph at 39,500 feet above sea level.
hearing the all-too-often-asked question brought me back to 3 months ago, when the same question came from the lips of a middle-aged white man and was directed to me and a girlfriend. we were hanging out in front of our beach hotel, enjoying the sun and a fantastic view of the water, when the guy came up to us for small talk. because i was usually the noisier one, my friend expected me to answer for us. the problem was i didn't.
the main reason was i was trying to figure out if he was the father of a friend we met the day before. thinking about it now, that probably didn't make sense because if he were that guy i suspected he was, he wouldn't have asked the question in the first place. i also had to pause a bit because of a mild case of foreigner anxiety. i'm 35 years old and i suspect every nonfilipino who tries to talk to me wants to kidnap me. i refuse to justify my illogical thoughts.
however, the most embarrassing reason why my vocal functions didn't work at that time is the simplest one:
i do not like saying where i'm from.
it's not because i don't love my country and don't want to declare it. it's just ... ok, say i answer "the philippines", i always get the follow-up, "where in the philippines?" and i have to say "manila" with a heavy heart. everyone knows where manila is, sure, but am i really from manila? i have to restrain myself from overexplaining, "i'm not really from manila MANILA. i'm from pasig. which is in luzon. an island. where manila is. but it's not near manila. at least not by car. and not during weekdays." it's enough to make me want to live in manila, just to avoid the apprehension.
i should probably just say "pasig" and educate the world. but "manila" rolls off the tongue so much easier. and i like having weird dilemmas every now and then.
aaaaand there you have it. two minutes of your life down the drain thanks to reading my useless mental script. how to drive people to boredom/insanity 101.
anyway, after a painfully long 15 seconds of dead air, my friend realized i wasn't planning on speaking and answered, "manila." (yey.)
"oh i know where that is," he replied and scrambled off towards the water, where he would undoubtedly find more amiable creatures. my friend said we should've just said "siquijor" to challenge his knowledge of philippine geography. except i didn't really know where siquijor was either.
back to my long-drawn-out airplane story.
if i were back in med school, sleeping in cramped spaces at odd hours wouldn't have been a problem at all. when i was an intern, all i had to do was lean on a semi-clean wall and i would've dozed off instantly for a precious 30 seconds. ok, that was a lie. i would've slept even if the wall was filthy.
however, med school years are way WAAAAAAAAY behind me (this deserves another 'yey' ... so, um ... yey.) and it's not as easy to doze off. even with an empty seat beside me, it was really hard to pass out. i lost count of the number of times i tossed and turned in my teeny airplane seat, constantly waking up to be greeted by the number of hours we had to go before landing.
(incidentally, those airplane monitors that show time until destination, speed of plane, outside temperature, time at destination, time at place of origin, number of calories in airplane meal, future of my career, meaning of life, etc, ARE HEAVEN-SENT. the fact that i love those is probably connected to habits of wasting massive amounts of time watching candles burn until the wick runs out, checking the clock every other minute and being hypnotized by progress bars.)
without warning, a 30-something korean guy took the empty seat beside me and energetically tried to start a conversation in the dark with sleepy me. why. explain.
"hi there!"
of course he had to spray me with saliva every other word.
"hi." i turned my back on him to strike a stereotypical napping pose – yknow, for him to get the hint that i was trying to sleep. and to protect my facial orifices from his oral fluids.
"where are you from?" (see first paragraph of this blog entry to establish coherence of said entry)
i faced him and after a lightning-fast inner debate, answered "manila." i closed my eyes again and covered more of my body with the airplane blanket. i was not very fond of the instant in-flight saliva shower.
"oh i had a filipino maid for 5 years! she was good!"
i smiled faintly, trying to convey a multitude of thoughts with one tight-lipped expression: acknowledgment of the outstanding qualities of filipinos – maids or otherwise; a silent apology for not having the strength to continue a decent conversation; and a sincere plea to LEAVE ME THE HECK ALONE ... at least until a) i've had at least 30 minutes of deep sleep or b) i've found an giant umbrella.
proving that miracles are alive and well in the 21st century, the man moved back to his original seat. and i, having given up on sleep completely and having watched all the interesting movies and short films in stock, stared at the monitor again. after all, 6 hours and 37 minutes of staring is nothing, what with a plane going at 540 mph at 39,500 feet above sea level.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
thanks, world.
i was in my pre-teen years and she was a 20-something-year-old stranger. although i did not know her, her eyes peered into mine with such eagerness and sincerity, i wanted to believe her every word.
"you are such a pretty girl," she told me.
i smiled a bit – but not because i was trying to be gracious or humble. it was just that ... well. ok. of course i should've just been grateful for the rare compliment, except i couldn't disregard few factors in that scenario:
1. she was a patient in a mental institution.
2. see #1.
3. still can't let go of #1.
i know that i am completely objective when i say i am nothing special to look at. i'm no supermodel, and my face could hardly launch a dozen paper boats. as a child, i'd gotten used to going to parties with my older sister, who everyone greeted with "you're so pretty". all i ever got at those events were a pat and a measly "you've grown up so quickly" or some unappealing variant.
in gradeschool, we were asked to write down our favorite feature, and for lack of an actual favorite feature, i thoughtlessly wrote down "eyes". upon seeing my answer, a classmate looked at me and my supposed favorite feature, and asked almost politely, "really? eyes? what's so great about them?" then ran off to laugh with another classmate about my choice.
thanks, world.
i'll stop the miserable narrative at this point and just say this: i had my share of sucky moments in childhood. it wasn't an awful time, but a few non-schoolwork-related compliments wouldn't have hurt. really.
so then i grew up and realized that beauty comes from within and all that crap (important note to young readers: beauty comes from within). i mean i don't think a few nasty comments can still alter my self-esteem. however, once in a while, i get comments that make me want to dig a hole for the unfortunate shell that is my body. thankfully, these ego jabs are few and far between, and there are countless other things that make me grateful for my life and "favorite feature"-less body.
one of the most recent events that has put a crazy smile on my face is being at the receiving end of a well-planned surprise party for my 35th birthday.
it was everything one could ask for in a birthday party: a manually-operated mirror ball with a tall, shameless but sexy man dancing under it (note to sexy man: you owe me for the generous use of adjectives); the soundtrack of mamma mia playing in the background; table settings fit for a 5-star wedding reception; huge posters of me in full embarrassing glory; pictures of me and rafa nadal (sadly, not together) scattered all over the venue; homemade mexican food prepared by a non-mexican brother-in-law; a customized 'jeopardy' game that was so difficult i couldn't even answer questions about me ... etc, etc.
to say i felt appreciated is like saying oprah has a bit of money. when i got home that night, i shed a few happy tears thinking about all the people who thought i was worth the effort.
thanks, friends. you'll have to top it next year. (tips: better acting and maybe chocolate ice cream?)
and speaking of bodily fluids and feeling loved (wait for it ...), a few days ago, martina (my 2-year-old niece currently being potty trained), entered the bathroom while i was peeing rather peacefully. she ran to my side and, after hearing me tinkle, clapped for me, gave me a huge smile and said, "goojob!!!"
if a tiny, slightly inarticulate, extremely adorable child impressed with my toilet skills doesn't make me feel ultra-special, i don't know what will.
"you are such a pretty girl," she told me.
i smiled a bit – but not because i was trying to be gracious or humble. it was just that ... well. ok. of course i should've just been grateful for the rare compliment, except i couldn't disregard few factors in that scenario:
1. she was a patient in a mental institution.
2. see #1.
3. still can't let go of #1.
i know that i am completely objective when i say i am nothing special to look at. i'm no supermodel, and my face could hardly launch a dozen paper boats. as a child, i'd gotten used to going to parties with my older sister, who everyone greeted with "you're so pretty". all i ever got at those events were a pat and a measly "you've grown up so quickly" or some unappealing variant.
in gradeschool, we were asked to write down our favorite feature, and for lack of an actual favorite feature, i thoughtlessly wrote down "eyes". upon seeing my answer, a classmate looked at me and my supposed favorite feature, and asked almost politely, "really? eyes? what's so great about them?" then ran off to laugh with another classmate about my choice.
thanks, world.
i'll stop the miserable narrative at this point and just say this: i had my share of sucky moments in childhood. it wasn't an awful time, but a few non-schoolwork-related compliments wouldn't have hurt. really.
so then i grew up and realized that beauty comes from within and all that crap (important note to young readers: beauty comes from within). i mean i don't think a few nasty comments can still alter my self-esteem. however, once in a while, i get comments that make me want to dig a hole for the unfortunate shell that is my body. thankfully, these ego jabs are few and far between, and there are countless other things that make me grateful for my life and "favorite feature"-less body.
one of the most recent events that has put a crazy smile on my face is being at the receiving end of a well-planned surprise party for my 35th birthday.
it was everything one could ask for in a birthday party: a manually-operated mirror ball with a tall, shameless but sexy man dancing under it (note to sexy man: you owe me for the generous use of adjectives); the soundtrack of mamma mia playing in the background; table settings fit for a 5-star wedding reception; huge posters of me in full embarrassing glory; pictures of me and rafa nadal (sadly, not together) scattered all over the venue; homemade mexican food prepared by a non-mexican brother-in-law; a customized 'jeopardy' game that was so difficult i couldn't even answer questions about me ... etc, etc.
to say i felt appreciated is like saying oprah has a bit of money. when i got home that night, i shed a few happy tears thinking about all the people who thought i was worth the effort.
thanks, friends. you'll have to top it next year. (tips: better acting and maybe chocolate ice cream?)
and speaking of bodily fluids and feeling loved (wait for it ...), a few days ago, martina (my 2-year-old niece currently being potty trained), entered the bathroom while i was peeing rather peacefully. she ran to my side and, after hearing me tinkle, clapped for me, gave me a huge smile and said, "goojob!!!"
if a tiny, slightly inarticulate, extremely adorable child impressed with my toilet skills doesn't make me feel ultra-special, i don't know what will.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
martina and what seems to be some kind of a vocabulary
now that martina has started to understand the concept of telephones, it has become increasingly harder to actually talk to the person you want to talk to in that household.
me: hello?
marteens: hi! hi!
me: marteens! where's mom?
marteens: hi!!! mom?
me: yes, mom! please call your mom!
marteens: bye!!! *hangs up*
in spite of these slight inconveniences, talking to her on the phone is an absolute joy. for one thing, it's refreshing to get real answers to simple questions. for instance, when i ask "what are you doing?" i get answers like:
- "coughing! ... cough cough"
- "jumping! ... ung ... ung ..." ("ung" being an approximation of the cute grunt she makes while jumping)
- "working!" (i have no idea about her line of work, so don't ask)
i also particularly enjoy children at marteens' age (2 years old) because only about 50% of her spoken language bears any resemblance to actual human words. and even when her words sound vaguely recognizable, you just never know if she actually means what she says.
i shouldn't really be surprised. juancho (martina's older brother) gave me an equally hard time when he was a toddler.
just the other day, martina and i were watching the backyardigans (is there anything cuter than a backyardigan?), and the episode was about haunted houses. every now and then, i'd hear her exclaim, "goats! goats!" ... then it dawned on me that there were no actual four-legged bearded mammals on that particular show. she was talking about GHOSTS.
me: marteens, can you say GHOSTS?
marteens: GOATS!
me: g..g..ohhsssttt ...sss
marteens: goats! scoopy goats!
thanks to my medical education, i figured out that she wanted to say "spooky ghosts" but fell a bit short. after a few more attempts at correcting her, "scoopy" started to sound correct and i gave up.
i guess with maturity comes the art of letting go. martina thinks giraffes are called "wions" and identifies the color green as "wed". i honestly don't know if i want to do anything about it. maybe next year. as of now, i'm more concerned that i'm starting to think "scoopy" sounds better than the real word.
ooooooo. scoopy.
me: hello?
marteens: hi! hi!
me: marteens! where's mom?
marteens: hi!!! mom?
me: yes, mom! please call your mom!
marteens: bye!!! *hangs up*
in spite of these slight inconveniences, talking to her on the phone is an absolute joy. for one thing, it's refreshing to get real answers to simple questions. for instance, when i ask "what are you doing?" i get answers like:
- "coughing! ... cough cough"
- "jumping! ... ung ... ung ..." ("ung" being an approximation of the cute grunt she makes while jumping)
- "working!" (i have no idea about her line of work, so don't ask)
i also particularly enjoy children at marteens' age (2 years old) because only about 50% of her spoken language bears any resemblance to actual human words. and even when her words sound vaguely recognizable, you just never know if she actually means what she says.
i shouldn't really be surprised. juancho (martina's older brother) gave me an equally hard time when he was a toddler.
just the other day, martina and i were watching the backyardigans (is there anything cuter than a backyardigan?), and the episode was about haunted houses. every now and then, i'd hear her exclaim, "goats! goats!" ... then it dawned on me that there were no actual four-legged bearded mammals on that particular show. she was talking about GHOSTS.
me: marteens, can you say GHOSTS?
marteens: GOATS!
me: g..g..ohhsssttt ...sss
marteens: goats! scoopy goats!
thanks to my medical education, i figured out that she wanted to say "spooky ghosts" but fell a bit short. after a few more attempts at correcting her, "scoopy" started to sound correct and i gave up.
i guess with maturity comes the art of letting go. martina thinks giraffes are called "wions" and identifies the color green as "wed". i honestly don't know if i want to do anything about it. maybe next year. as of now, i'm more concerned that i'm starting to think "scoopy" sounds better than the real word.
ooooooo. scoopy.
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