100 Words

Who decides? A patient lies motionless on a long operating table, seemingly sedated by the halogen lights that dot the ceiling. The skin is off-white pale, its texture decidedly delicate. I bent down to examine its entirety, my fingers gently lifting it before quickly putting it back with a fervent gasp. I stepped back with my left hand over my chest and my cupped right hand over my gaping mouth. My prognosis: DOA. Divine On Arrival. Someone else’s fate will soon be changed by this wedding gown. But who decides?

“Once upon a time” starts here. That’s all I know.  

(100 Words is inspired by some of my favorite bloggers’ theme of a blog with just a hundred words.)

You Live, You Learn

One of the amazing pretexts of independence is self-exploration. Sometimes you just have to learn things on your own and discover how good or bad you are at certain things. But it’s only amazing if the spirit is as willing as the flesh.

Going home to an empty dinner table after a day’s work is a common scenario. Cooking for myself is easy. Every ingredient that I toss in just seems right, every procedure perfect. I can cut the vegetables however I prefer, be it julienned, diced or simply halved, no matter if such vegetables are not meant to be cut that way. But cooking for someone else can be far more exhausting than the 9-hour job itself. Just like tonight. Is it the right amount of garlic? Will they like how I marinated the chicken in calamansi (a smaller local version of lemon) and soya sauce? Does it look appetizing enough? This is probably the reason why I pat myself on the back every time my housemates don’t notice anything strange about the food. I’m so glad that my cooking skills now merit a remark succinctly put as edible. Read: human-friendly.

I am reminded of how my former Spanish language instructor taught the phrase Mas o Menos, which literally means “more or less,” referring to something that is just fine or good enough. I like the way she casually enunciates the slithering “s” with that essential gush of air in between the two front teeth. I studied the language for the same reason that I got motivated to learn how to cook: for my resumé self-enrichment.

No, I do not maintain a list of 100 things to do before I die. Aside from the fact that I find that quite self-indulgent, failure to accomplish certain tasks might only lead to unnecessary self-deprecation. But trying to learn things as your viscera dictate, on the other hand, fuels you with a certain energy that is fulfilling in itself. Sometimes I allow myself to be surprised by circumstances all too often that I do not get the desired outcome. I guess that is part of the learning process. Striving to achieve that balance of planning and letting things be is something that I am constantly figuring out.

Nanay rushed to the kitchen to check on my progress. She took an aluminum ladle and tasted the sauce straight from the wok. “Add a little more vinegar,” she said, “Then simmer for about 5 more minutes and then you’re done.” The queen of the kitchen has spoken and her verdict almost made me chuckle out of relief. I am just hoping that when she said that I’m “done” she meant “done with the task” and not “done with my dear life.” Over. Finished. Kaput!

As I was wondering what’s for dessert, our pseudo-cooking lesson 101 was slightly interrupted by Ray who was smoking by the window. “You must watch out later for the pair of teens making out over there,” pointing towards the opposite block’s brightly lit 6^th floor staircase. “They do it past midnight,” Ray revealed as if he’s a regular “moviegoer”. Indeed, anybody can easily be spotted in that column especially amidst the dark surroundings. Two nights later, I chanced upon the suspects seated together on the stairs. Despite the light rain, everything was clear from my vantage point save for their faces. They cuddle and huddle as I fill my glass with cold water from the fridge. But after 5 minutes of inaction on their part and perversion on mine, I decided to go back to sleep. So much for exploration.

It’s been raining in the wee hours of the morning for the past week and I prefer to slumber in indifference under the sheets. It is during these times that I wish someone else would take back my laundry away from the open drying area. The cold air-conditoned room temperature only worsens this laziness to which I easily give in. I am realizing how inspiring it is to start a chore yet very challenging and inconvenient to commit to it. In the mornings I couldn’t anymore just leave my empty mug of milk in the sink no matter how late I am for work. Nor could I ask my clothes to iron themselves out. If only I could only make the frozen meat instantly thaw every time I get back home. Or teach the plates to clean themselves up after every meal. That would be fantastic. The advent of technology doesn’t help much either. And I don’t even want to mention cleaning the bathroom. Ugh!

In bed, I usually end up snoozing my alarm clock more than necessary nowadays. I glance at the time on my cellphone and see 8:00am. I couldn’t accept how every second that I close my eyes thereafter translates to 10 minutes or so. Contrary to when I’m at work where what seems to be minutes of staring blankly at the window is actually just a few seconds of idleness.

I guess there are simply good days and not-so-good days. Pay days are always good days even if they only come once a month. It is a source of sheer joy for a lot of reasons. To pay the bills, the rent, the groceries, and what-nots. It is pathetic to imagine how someone so single as myself whines about the attributes of being independent, when George who supports his wife and their child Angelita, as well as their parents Nanay & Tatay, seem all too cool about everything in life. I am tempted to raise my hand, visualize a bar staff and order, “I am having whatever he’s having!”

Perhaps Ellen’s naughty adage “When life throws you lemons, make a lemonade” applies here. I’ll just have to make the most of every situation that comes my way and learn from them. And I guess knowing how to properly slice a calamansi is not a bad start.  

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Models On The Go

I almost gave in to a lingering temptation to entitle this day’s blog as Models To-Go, but I considered that as just an obvious slip of my Freudian id.  Besides, having your favorite model as a takeaway dessert might not be a source of good nutritional value.

But if the 80’s calendar girl is your idea of a model, then a debate of who’s where in the food pyramid might ensue. Not that I’m into girls. {pukes for a moment then recovers in haste} During our pre-teen years, my cousins and I would always visit our grandparents’ house in summertime. Often I would catch my male cousins huddling in front of our cool grandfather’s latest calendar, usually blushing in hardly contained giggles. The calendar of course shows more than just the days of the month and the dates of the rising tides. I guess those images of voluptuous girls – usually shot amidst the coconut trees -- plastered at the back of the door served as my first glimpse into the world of the models.

Such nostalgia distracts me sometimes like the way a whiff of cigarette smoke causes my nose to twitch in disagreement upon recognition. But somehow the direction of today’s wind keeps going my way as Jill tries to puff her cigarette away from my face. We are standing right outside our building, trying to avoid the sun under the generously extended eaves. I try to pay attention to her equally soft voice as she orients me on the day’s schedule. It is my first day at work, and every mental bullet-point note must be precisely organized. I am so excited that we are having a models’ casting today. In between her huff ‘n puffs my anxiety builds up, not only because of the mere mention of male Pan-Am models but also because we are standing not too far from the No Smoking sign. And in this “city of fines”, ignorance is definitely not an excuse.

On our way back to the atelier at the second floor, I could not forget how my jaw dropped at the sight of what seemed like an epitome of prince charming. He emerged from the glass door, his manly stance forming up a stark silhouette against the intensely illuminated interior. He walks closer. By now every aspect of his angelic, pore-less face and well-toned physique is edible visible. His looks alone is enough to stop us in our tracks. Pheromones must have quickly escaped from his contagious smile that is somewhere between sly and coy. He is here for the casting, and obviously one of the early worms. He asked us for directions on where the nearest restroom is, which Jill gladly pointed him out to. By then his charm has already captivated my senses in complete surrender. It is not too pleasant to see someone ogling at a hot guy, consciously or otherwise. But my seemingly out-of body experience made me see myself standing with side-tilted head, floating right foot and in an awkward spine-less posture, smitten and tongue-tied. His wavy black hair makes me want to stroke it with my hands against his porcelain-white flawless face. And I could not even begin to describe how his eyes are like deep wells that pique your sanity all too effortlessly.

If I am to survive this dilemma of being swamped with gorgeous guys for the entire duration of my job, I may have to try my best to maintain my composure. It’s tough, I know. There’s a fine line between losing control and losing my mind. Perhaps drooling is their symptom. As soon as the guy walked away, Jill leaned over and whispered something like “He’s cute… if I am into guys I think I’ll like him.” I think I know what she was trying to say, but with the numbing euphoria that the guy has caused, my mind failed to register her reaction at that moment.

Five minutes after entering the atelier, models started to trickle in. The casting is for an upcoming fashion show that will highlight wedding and evening gowns. Our task is to select twelve female models and one male model to complete the roster. This sad ratio all the more makes me want to scream “I love my job!” every time a hot male model walks in. Surprisingly, male models came in earlier than the females. The male model that we encountered earlier is first on our list. He walks up to the long white table where Jill and I are seated behind, introduces himself and hands over his portfolio. If only that handshake can be frozen in time…

I am overwhelmed to see the international brands that he has modeled for -- Dolce & Gabbana, Armani, among others. Each and every picture in his portfolio depicts a different side of his beauty much like a true blue chameleon of a model. Simply divine! These models were flown in from all over the fashion world by their respective agencies pretty much like how online-purchased Louboutins are delivered. The part that I like the most is the casual interview where they eagerly respond to questions like “Where are you from?”, “How long have you been modeling?”, and my favorite “Do you have a tattoo?”, after which the model gamely shows its location. Some have one on their biceps, while some near their chiseled abs. It is during such circumstances that I find myself dying more than once, only to be quickly resuscitated by their naughty smirk. Jill then shows me how it’s done as she requests the model to don one of the suits that hangs by the rack. A casting or go-see wouldn’t be complete without the standard snapshot behind a raised paper on which the model’s name is written. And for this task I’m glad that I’m the one behind the lens capturing beautiful faces. The model then walks across the atelier, strutting in his most dapper form.

A few more models arrive, bare-faced and rugged yet not even a tiny bit less beautiful. Equally captivating are the females whose mile-long legs, ET-like waistlines and elongated necks all seem to defy my earlier notions of the human anatomy. Even with my tall figure, I still feel extremely dwarfed by their height especially once they start wearing 4-inch stilettos. Their faces look perfect from every angle. I can almost feel their sharp cheekbones slicing up whatever they come into contact with. Once they converge inside the dressing room, it is like holding a cocktail party for the United Nations. Some of them are Brazilians and Russians, while most are a mixture of two to three different races. The small space that is just enough for two brides in big wedding gowns is now being occupied by not less than five skinny models at any given time. They seem so used to this that they spend this moment in an intriguing tête-à-tête where someone else might easily misconstrue it as a cacophonic prattle.

                                                              Typical scene at our atelier during casting

And as I help one slip into a gown, the others are in various stages of undress leaving nothing but a tiny dental floss of a thong. With each pearl button that I fasten, the conservative Asian in me prompts me to quicken my pace before they all catch a cold. It once again brings to mind the 80’s calendar girls imagery in their naked glory, only this time the body proportions have shrunken considerably.

For them this is just another day. They will be off to another casting after this while the burden of selection will eventually dawn upon us. I imagine how heart-breaking it must be to eliminate someone. I have seen lots of beautiful people and there’s still more to come. After all, this is just day one.

Now, if I can only have the guys who will not make it as my ta-paw*...   

*ta-paw : takeaway (Mandarin)

Online Community

I would like to thank the moderators of Kablogs Journal for inviting me to share a blog in their site.  You can read my piece here. Please do check them out as they feature lots of interesting themed stories every month, both in English and in Filipino.