:the Chronicles of Ms. Grumpy

   Cheers! 

Finally I am relocating my Blog to a bigger, brighter and better blog service provider.  The Chronicles of Ms. Grumpy is moving out of Friendster to accommodate PurpleInk’s sudden tweak of creativity.  As a culmination of my 1^st anniversary as a Blogger, Ms. Grumpy’s C shall be updated in terms of form and design - except for the theme and original content, I am sticking with my personal documentation (rants and raves) about love and life. 

For every farewell is a signal of another beginning …

                                      … welcome to myPurple Scribbling!

No Comments

  If God sends us on stony paths, he provides strong shoes.”— Corrie Ten Boom

Strong shoes - I used to have one. Mama bought a pair for me as a graduation present at Cardams in 1998. It was a dark brown, suede leather, and ankle-hi ladies lace up boots. And true to form and function, it served me for a total of four years before it finally departed the material world and for it – I bestow the title, “my favorite shoes for all time.”

I won’t classify this blog entry as a fashion rave because I have never been fashionable in my entire life to be credible enough to give one. I would just say, this is an honest-to-goodness recount of my good old boots. For the record, my brown boots or combat boots as for my jeering bros, are the most “wearable” pair of shoes I ever had. It passed the durability test with flying colors when I scaled mountains and trodden rocky terrains during my greenhorn years as a researcher. I refer to my brown boots as my survivor shoes since it went through a series of ultimate wear and tear challenges - I fed it with dust, mud, water, stones and even insects and subjected it to all weather conditions – and given little time to dust, dry and brush – Voila! lookin’ instant brand new again. Exaggeration is not my style but indeed with a few magical brush strokes, my boots seem to say, “Ok I’m good to go, next destination please.”

Literally my boots went where I went. Since I wore them the moment I am off to the next field assignment, it saved space for a backpacker like me. My boots were so adaptable. I wore them when I attended courtesy calls and meetings in some big-comfy-carpeted offices. I also wore them when hiking and crossing shallow waters.

Memorably, I wore my boots during my baptism of fire, my first and longest field assignment; it was 1999 and our team of 3 was to survey rubber-planted areas in Mindanao. As fates would have it, I wore my boots during a field visit to an area in Davao del Norte where vast tracts of areas planted to rubber trees were converted into banana plantations. The experience was sending feelers relative to one aspect of my future which I failed to decipher. Who would think that the man I was destined to marry in 2003 spent a significant portion of his young life in this particular town before their family permanently resided in Davao City.

My good old boots was with me through my active years of field work. I never slipped nor faltered for it kept me steady on sloppy and stony pathways. It more than protected my feet from getting beaten and sore from the long treks, it helped me walk with confidence and courage to cross unfamiliar landscapes and step into unknown territories. After four years of service, ageing came in form of worn-out rubber soles, wash-out and dried leather, I wrapped my boots in onion paper and laid it to rest in a shoebox. I did not have to heart to discard it so I kept it behind my closet. Two months later I purchased a replacement that never measured up to my old boots, since then I never wore boots again.

Living in this tropical country I reverted to wearing sandals and rubber shoes. However when I got pregnant with my firstborn, flats and flip-flops became my greatest allies in the midst of stilettos and pumps in the jungle called the Office. Can’t relate with me? I can only say, to each its own.

No Comments

This is for all the women who have live beyond the limitations society has confined us into. We may assume varying roles – we could be a harried mother of 5 children or a bank teller or a market vendor or a company CEO or even a mountaineer—and have different priorities – aside from managing households and nurturing children and relations, we also have jobs to keep, companies to run, skills to hone and one thousand and one other responsibilities to attend to–but what makes us women altogether is our common capacity to become humans of compassion.

This is the core of our strength. We care beyond our families and the four corners of our home. We involve ourselves in ways that help make this world better and its inhabitants sane not only for our sake and our kids but also, with utmost sincerity, for the whole of humanity. Our efforts indicate an exercise of “humanity” which is of richer character than of our “femininity.”

Let us be proud of ourselves for even in the presence of unjust cultural and societal structures, we continue to prevail. We have climbed Mt. Everest and still the world does not run out of other conquests. We shall continue to look for new roles to fill other than those provided by the norm because we are more than worth it. 

*for Janet, Noelle and Carina

No Comments

I call him Dad. My son calls him Daddy-daddy.

But then “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

by any other name would smell as sweet." (Romeo and Juliet , II, ii, 1-2)

He is my strength and foundation like the root is to a tree.

He inspires me no end, reminiscent of Yellow and Stripe. (Hope for the Flowers).

His kindness is infectious.  Loving him makes me want to be a better person each day. (As Good as it Gets).

Oh well in the words of my beloved poet, “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.(sonnet 17, Pablo Neruda)

No Comments

Here I am again in the same conspicuous spot. Brooding. Confused. Uncertain. Restless. Why is it every time I am confronted with a life altering decision, which obviously requires shrewdness, my mind begins to stall? I choke at my own words and feel terribly disappointed for losing my acumen in translating thoughts into words with clarity and affirmation. I feel like 5 again, the frustration seeps into you like hot fluid when your grandmother buys you candy but you wouldn’t dare touch that “damn candy” due to an aching tooth cavity.

An attempt to contemplate seems to swirl my wholeness like a spinning top. Troubled, I would retrace my steps until I figure why I ended in this turn of the road. No this is not a dead-end. Not yet! Just a fork in the road. Once you make a decision, a solid one not the kind that easily dissolves on a single nudge, a commitment to traverse an unfamiliar terrain begins. It can never be one foot inside while the rest of your humanity left outside the line. I’ve been there a lot of times already. I made mistakes and paid for it dearly. Life is never cruel, it is only fair for it is through this chain of decision-making that makes or breaks a man. In this case, I’m borrowing words from Kundera when he said that love is all or nothing. Hence just like love, life for me is all or nothing.

Nevertheless, the question remains the same. I am again standing on familiar ground, unmoving but pondering. I cannot hide from the world for it stares and asks for the same question, “Hither and yon, where do you go?” I wish I have the courage to provide an answer right away. Does time still lends me the privilege to resolve all my qualms and to confront my demons? I mustn’t forget the world never waits. It is a very impatient world.

The walk I am to resume is no longer a stroll, for me to make it I must take a steady and a swift stride. Recovering my words, it is not always about the destination but the journey that determines if a person could totally claim he live his life well. The picture seems to clear now for tomorrow I will have my answer ready. May it be a “Veni, Vidi, Vici ." May the life force guide me.

No Comments

January 2007 - You arrived in this world in a hurry.  Unlike your brother where the waiting seems no end, you came in a dash. For 39 weeks, you were nestled in my womb and only in an hour you were tossed into this world that is all foreign to your senses.

You are beautiful.  You have your father’s countenance especially his sovereign nose.  The amazing part is that you are mine.  And what’s more amazing than that… - I am taking you home! 

No Comments

Do you remember one wounding incident in your young life?  I do. 

Some say that children are bound to forget both pleasant and unpleasant events that have transpired in their lives from age 1 to 5.  However I got this memory lodged in the inner corners of my brain, reminisced unexpectedly with great fondness whenever I am into contemplation.  A memory of an event that I never imagined would merit laughter as the story ages and the “owner of the memory” finally grows up. 

It happened in 1981, I was 5 and living with my grandmother in her old house along Calye Callejon.  Living away from my parents was easy because in the old house, there also live 5 of my cousins.  My grandmother’s house sort of served as a repository/boarding house of her grandchildren ages 5 to 16.  Nanay looked after all of us and managed the household with precision. 

Among my cousins, I grew fondness for Kuya Jay and Ate Bing during my long stay in the old house.  I stuck with them despite the 4 to 5 year age gap and we were a troupe. 

Kuya Jay was tall, gangly and inventive.  His imagination has often resulted to playtime innovations such as turning the mosquito net into a moviehouse.  I will never forget the red Coca-Cola yoyo he gave me. It was the hippest toy in school then.      Ate Bing on the other hand was my constant playmate. We were like Batman and Robin.  Whatever she does I copy to her detriment.  She had a gift with her hands and she drew really good images of flowers and houses.  Not to be outdone, I remember racing ahead of her towards Nanay to show off my drawing of stick-like people.  We would pester our grandmother to choose which drawing was better and to it she would only say, “parehong maganda.” 

Dinner on a Sunday in the old house was special.  Nanay would put extra effort in cooking the meals.  To compliment the special meals, she buys a bowl of great tasting Lomi from the nearby Chinese restaurant.    

In the long table I was seated most of the time next to Kuya Jay. A blessing or a curse, I do not know but in this case, being OC was a curse.  I have this practice of eating my meals orderly.  I would first sample the basic dish before savoring the centerpiece meal.  The Lomi was to be eaten last for it was my centerpiece meal.  The noodle soup was teeming with meat balls, squid balls and my favorite quail eggs.  It’s save the best for last for me and I would set aside the quail eggs from my bowl to a saucer while eating the rest of the soup. All of a sudden Kuya Jay dove his fork to the helpless quail eggs and gobbled them all.  I was stupefied for a moment with my eyes large in disbelief until I let out a loud cry in protest. 

The adults were caught in surprise since they were busy conversing.  The pleasant dinner turned into a commotion as I could not be stopped from my fit of temper.  I could not be consoled nor bribed with a refilling of my soup bowl or a new serving of fried chicken leg.  I wanted my cousin to produce the quail eggs he wolfed.  Amidst desperation and tears, I wailed my lungs and heart out in searched for justice while Kuya Jay disappeared from the crime scene.  The bawling did not stop as I recall it went for hours until sleep silently crept and rob me of consciousness. 

The next day I did not talk to my cousin. And for the succeeding days I never went near him again for I still shiver at the memory of betrayal. I was young but vindictive I was obsessed with the idea of avenging myself. 

Not until my mother took me to live with my immediate family did I see my behavior at the Lomi incident as ridiculous.  When I was separated from my cousins for years, I realized that I missed them somehow.  I saw Kuya Jay again when he was already in college while I was in high-school.  We exchange a few words every now and then but we were never close again.  It was more than the Lomi incident I guess.  We already grew apart. 

I found this bit of my life amusing but worth a pause.  I have neatly stored it in my memory library for reference and reflection.  There are times when I become the 5-year old girl again in the story who wanted revenge for the pain she suffered from an injustice.  Now a grown-up I found it useful to look at pain as also a condition of existence. 

1 Comment

I sat quietly in my corner.  Slouched against my cozy seat…touching my belly…feeling it rise and fall with  every breath … I no longer could keep to myself…my thoughts of You….

Kahlil!  Mommie calls for you…

She wants you to know that she loves you very much,

Like the parched land waiting for rain,

She eagerly waits for the moment she could hold you in her arms,

She promises to take good care of you and provide the best for you.                

The pain of labor no longer scares her because her love for you strengthens her.

Like your Daddy and your Kuya,

She is waiting…thinking…wishing…praying. 

No Comments

My firstborn turned two last August 9. How time flies! In a span of two years, Keith grew from a quiet and contented baby who spent hours snoozing in his crib to an hyperactive toddler who plays explorer all day.

Surprise is an everyday element to me and his Dad. Once arriving home from work, I was greeted with what I thought was a newly painted bedroom. Wow!? Colored scribbling all over the place with the use of crayola and a green stabilo. I spent half-day of Saturday scrubbing the walls clean for fear that I might shell out money to get the walls repainted. Ricky was more optimistic, “Hey Mommie artistic lang ang anak natin.” Though no spanking took place, I tried my best to explain to Keith that crayons are meant for his drawing papers and coloring books.

Touching on milestones - he can now count from 1 to 10 and backwards and identify numbers in random fashion. When he gets the chance to stroll around our neighborhood, he reads house numbers and plate numbers of parked cars. His vocabulary mostly consists of favorite words - buzz, car, water, flower, star, bear, ball - and remarkably he says “wow” with correct intonation when he is served with a favorite dish. He is also fond of coming up with his own version of words as follows: “lala” for umbrella; “nana” for banana; “Mo” for Elmo; “plank” for plants and; “el-phant” for elephant.

I worry for he hasn’t spoken a phrase yet except for a long babble when he asserts himself during tv viewing time. However, my heart softens when he calls me “Mimi” and he calls his Daddy “Didi”. Funny, he refers to himself as “baby” whenever I remind him of his first name. 

Playing good parents, my hubby and I hastily embarked on a new undertaking as we decided to enroll Keith in playschool. We realize that he was too confined to the house and adult interaction but had minimal exposure to kids of his age. So the verdict was to get him to playschool to benefit from an occasional change of physical and social environment.

I shortlisted two schools in our neighborhood and two schools adjacent to my office. The problem is Keith was a year shy for advance nursery schooling which neighborhood schools offered so I ventured to ones farther from home but close to the workplace:

          Playschool No. 1 is very nice. Take note of the adjective “nice”, I expect that it is as promising as it looks and as the brochure claims. The location and facilities are impressive as well as the teacher I spoke to. The school espouses the principle of developing the child’s motor skills in terms of flexibility, balance and rhythm towards enhancing self-confidence and social and intellectual skills. Going over the cost aspect, I found it too expensive. A student is required to attend a 45- minute session a week and pay a “nice” tuition fee. Not my idea of optimizing time and resources.

          Playschool No. 2 is ok. It has good location and satisfactory facilities and the teachers are accommodating. It is relatively cheaper to Playschool No. 1 and classes are held twice a week for an hour. In contrast, the school promotes a child’s self-esteem and skills through creativity in visual arts and form. Each class is expected to culminate into a stage recital. This is enticing.

With excitement written all over me, I decided to take my research on a higher level. I wanted to get a cost estimate of enrolling my kid to regular preparatory school so I could be ready in two years time. I inquired at the admissions office of a nearby exclusive school for boys which is reputed for churning out brilliant students in the sciences, aside from the fact that it maintains a high rate of UPCAT passers. After going through the basic questions with the pleasant lady from admissions, I lept into the interesting bit of the conversation, here goes…

         Thanks for the information, could you please give me an   estimate of the total tuition fee required in the pre-school program and any payment schemes available?

The sweet answer was,

        “Oh yes! Parents can avail of our various payment schemes and you’ll need at least 40k to enroll your child and that is exclusive of other expenses such as books, supplies, uniform, school bus service etc.”

My smile turned sour and her lengthy explanation on the various payment plans was drown by my thoughts (What is she talking about?) I am aware of the high price of good education but I wasn’t prepared for this. Two more years and the cost is expected to shoot higher. Are schools becoming a capitalist’s haven and a monopoly market as well? I hope I’m mistaken for thinking so. I still believe that getting my kid into a good school is a parental obligation.

Good education is a must and a survival tool in this jungle life no matter what Robert Kiyosaki of Rich Dad Poor Dad imply in his book. It might not be the sure way formula to becoming filthy rich but at least it could be a step. Even so, the definition of the word “rich” may vary from one person to another. Some may look at it in terms of monetary and material value while others may say, they are rich in knowledge, experience, friends or family.

What I only know is that I have to prepare my son for the world just as I have been prepared by my father and mother. This may not be the order of things often but I know it is the right thing to do.

No Comments

“When two people are at one in their inmost hearts,
they shatter even the strength of iron or bronze.”

December 2003 - “Ricky you are the most caring, generous and strongest person I know.  I love you for your braveness for you are always prepared to take me on and all that goes with me.  I am proud to be your wife.  I know that this is just the beginning of a challenging and rewarding life together, and I truly believe that we could make it.  I look forward to growing old and spending my whole life with you.  I love you very much.”

1 Comment