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.

The Age of Innocence

In the same vein that some good things come in small packages, sometimes we also come across instances which remind us that not everything that needs to be learned in life is taught in school. A lot of the things that we know are a synthesis of knowledge both from books and from daily experiences that start from the day that we learned how to prod mommy to buy us a toy.

I am quite unsure whether it’s the weird resemblance of purple Barney and McDonald’s Grimace that I find more revolting. Perhaps it’s the songs that the former sings to most nearly hypnotized kids such as the 6-year-old Angelita who already seems to represent an exaggerated free-spirit. She speaks like an outspoken fifteen-year-old minus the rebellious snide remarks. There are no traces of gibberish in her enunciation of words as she asks questions like a paparazzo without malice. Sometimes it is amusing just to listen to how she and her grandmother converse. She just seems wiser beyond her years. If you would close your eyes and imagine Angelita’s voice to be a few pitches lower, you wouldn’t think she is how old she is.  

Dora the Explorer is her idea of a style icon. From the fringe that frames her face to the pink-colored outfit down to the cute mini rucksack, everything is Dorafied. She never fails to sit in front of the TV screen to watch her idol while playing with her dolls and her miniature cooking set. It’s cool that kids nowadays are given more options on which cartoons to watch and which characters to impersonate. When I was her age Barbie reigned supreme and no one else dared to steal her spotlight. The Cabbage Patch Kids and the troops of Polly Pocket are simply runners-up to the throne. But even then I always tend to like those not so much in the mainstream such as the fat and orange cat named Garfield who I love to repeatedly draw. But times have indeed changed. Now there’s Spongebob, the Disney Princesses, Backyardigans, the kids of Twilight, and oh another Garfield in Spiderman. (Okay maybe not all of that are suitable for 6-year-olds.)  

But what I find adorable with Angelita beneath all the Dora ensemble is her insatiable curiosity. It’s a genuine naiveté that even some grown-ups try to emulate. Her emotions are always honest and unedited. She may be irritatingly naughty bordering on bratty at times, but I guess that comes with the whole package. Sometimes I wonder what will happen if all adults retain the same pure simplicity of emotions, without having to weigh one’s thoughts or resort to mind games.

As I muster enough wits to ask her why she likes to cook clothespins as her main dish, I realized that it’s time to go to the wet market. RC flew in all the way from Kuala Lumpur to visit his girlfriend Marie. Nanay and I figured that one of the best ways to show him how life is like in reality is through a shopping trip at the nearby wet market. With Marie at work in the city and myself not yet officially starting, I willingly obliged to be the tour guide for the day. Actually, this is also my first time to visit the local wet market. Since Marie and I arrived in Singapore, it’s been a no-brainer that we always head out to any air-conditioned grocery shop nearby which is usually Fairprice.

Back when my height was just an inch taller than the standard sink, my mom would take me with her to our neighborhood wet market. One of the local sellers would shout out “suki!” (loyal patron) at the sight of her slender frame. I can barely see how the old lady’s fingers maneuver the slimy Milkfish as she takes out its innards. Every item on her sink was drenched in water and no one can deny the distinct smell of raw seafood. She would then put everything inside a plastic bag, swiftly twisting and knotting it in a carefully choreographed dexterity that is coupled with a quick glance towards my curious eyes. I just didn’t like that she never used gloves, handling money and fish alternately. As soon as we reached home, I remember imitating the whole scenario on my mom’s bed, with socks and pillowcases as my goods. I don’t remember using clothespins though.

Crates upon crates of unwashed potatoes, turnips, ginger and a myriad of other root crops welcomed RC and myself upon reaching the nearby wet market. Their rough texture is so inviting that I couldn’t help but caress them as we pass by. Dried mud slowly crack and fall off along with some splinters of twigs. Pek Chye, Kang Kong, Spinach and other leafy vegetables cover another aisle like a verdant foliage. While the bright red bell peppers, plump tomatoes and crooked horseradishes add luminosity to one corner of this roofed open-air arena that is insufficiently lit by the ten o’clock sun. We slowly walked towards the meat section, cautiously avoiding the wet floor where I am quite certain that I saw a struggling shrimp or two. A stall sign on one side reads “Halal” where chicken and veal are sold. In this multi-cultural city-state, this term is a crucial information for customers especially to those of the Muslim faith.

By the time that we finished, our hands were already swollen from the weight of our baskets. But whatever minor discomfort that we experienced was immediately refreshed by the impressive talent of this youngster at the payment counter. As soon as we put down our baskets in front of him, he started to shout out the price of every individual item as if he had memorized the price of everything in the market. There were no price stickers to look at nor any list to guide him with. No tabulating machines either. The rapid pace of dumping a week’s worth of goods into plastic bags culminated with his calculator-like revelation of the total price, which was only given a nod of approval by one of the market custodians. People within the area simply broke out into manic laughter. But the weird part is that I think they laughed at us for being so astonished at what was apparently just a regular occurrence in this side of town. I really wish I have captured that moment and posted it on YouTube.

For a moment I was tempted to mumble the thought that was running through my head, which goes along the lines of “Who are you people?!” But gladly I didn’t. Long after Bill Cosby had proclaimed that kids say (or do) the darndest things, I realized that it feels good to be entertained by kids for a change. Sometimes their sheer candor in itself can be a source of joy even for the most jaded of souls. Their lives are bereft of any complications, their wants more trivial than vital. And when things don’t turn out as planned, Angelita can always rely on her cuddly Elmo stuffed toy, press its belly and hear its contagious giggle. And that tickles.  

Not an Ordinary Day

It is almost 6:00pm and I am once again entrusting my punctuality to my now heavily earmarked map guide pocketbook. The sun only begins to set by 7:00pm in Singapore and somehow this afternoon’s rays make me more giddy than usual. The thought of the sun stealthily escaping the skies by the back door as the moon sneaks in makes me wonder if this day will end just like any other. By now my heart is doing skip-rope inside my flat chest. After all, I have an interview to catch.

For a moment it feels as though I am rushing for a go-see, portfolio in hand, frantically searching for the correct building along Stamford Road. The glass windows of every shop that I pass by give me a blurry reflection of my deteriorating poise and quickening pace. I always felt that I am fresher and livelier in the mornings which is why this unusual call-time only makes me extra conscious.

Finally I reached the building, entering its main threshold facing the road junction. The dark and unruffled interiors are a stark contrast to the intensely bright and animated city life outside. It is almost bare. The high ceiling that are lit up by the seemingly antediluvian brass lamps breathes a distinct air of enigma that I only get whenever I step inside a colonial house-turned-museum. The wooden cornices and doorways are like the dark chocolate complement to the cream concrete walls. As I try to remember which floor I am supposed to be in, I almost imagined a cigarette-toting Marlene Dietrich walking across the hall in an all-black ensemble, plumes and all, mingling with her entourage of dapper guys dressed like mafia and girls dressed to the nines.

But I got distracted by the escalator in the middle which reminds me that I am in the 21^st Century, and that it’s time to hop on to it. The second floor gradually reveals itself as I slowly rise from below, extending my neck left and right like a mother hen in search of her chicks. The overall yellow lighting adds drama to the dim corners that partially cloaks some narrow passageways leading to who knows where. The building’s dark and solid balusters emphasize the old world charm while the echo that every step on its polished wooden flooring creates calls attention to its classical grandeur. I keep reminding myself that I am not here to check out an art gallery or a specialty store that runs the gamut from elaborate picture frames to fancy doilies, although they are both present here. But I am here to undergo an interview and I am looking for the atelier.

“Where oh where is that atelier…” I asked myself in a hush-li’l-baby modulation, trying to shake off any bottled up nervousness.

Even before I finished convincing myself that I correctly pronounced the word atelier, there it stood, gleaming like a vintage Van Cleef & Arpels bling. This is it. Inhale… exhale. Every moment felt surreal from then on. There’s no other way to enter but thru the floor-to-ceiling glass double door that is framed in heavy wood. As I slowly pushed it open, holding its tarnished brass handle with clammy hands, excitement soon overcame the nerves. It’s the same feeling that you get whenever you receive a present where you can’t wait to open it and see what’s inside. The only difference is that this one has its price tag written all over it.

A young and slim lady approached me as she was trying to hang back an obviously glamorous dress onto one of the racks. “Hi, how can I help you?” she plainly asked. I told her that I came for an interview with The Boss. She then asked me to settle in for the meantime while I wait. But the gorgeous ivory gowns are so captivating that my eyes kept wandering from one gown to the next. They line the walls as if they are radiant marching brides in single file. Before I sat down, I gently caressed the wedding gown on one of the mannequins. The delicate fabric looked so pristine, and the beadwork so intricate that I couldn’t help but ask myself: How much could this be? When will I ever get to wear such? As soon as I sat down, a smartly dressed guy, tall, tan and slim, sat down and introduced himself. He is The Designer. But even before we finished the customary personal background shtick, he introduced me to his assistant Jill, the lady who first approached me. Looking like what seems to be an ordinarily busy day, Jill briefly asks The Designer’s approval on the correct shade of fabric to order as she shows him the swatches. I can sense a split-second crucial-decision-making-moment for them as they both look at the limited selection of greens. And while this is happening, I myself am also having my own split-second moment that flashes back the “cerulean” predicament that the iconic Miranda Priestley had which proved to be an embarrassment for poor “Emily”. Fortunately, theirs was blue and ours is green. And luckily I know the difference between emerald and chartreuse. Ha! Plus, I also know when not to chuckle. Not that it matters now.

Jill went off and The Boss arrived in a rhythm that the sun and the moon will eventually mimic. The proper interview commenced with the completion of the triumvirate: The Boss, The Designer, and myself. “How do you find Singapore?” they asked. To which I quipped “Clean!” without batting an eyelash. The questions that followed range from the hackneyed “Describe your previous job” to the more technical “How much is the estimate cost for a similar embroidery?” referring to the blouse that I was wearing. It was a rather fast-paced and straightforward interview that didn’t give me time to think of how to embellish my words or edit my thoughts. The verdict has not yet sunk in even after they dropped hints to my favour. They have a forthcoming fashion show and added help is crucial. Knowing that my papers will take time to process therefore I could not yet officially start work, I volunteered to work as an intern at least for the next two weeks leading to their big event. Talk about hard selling.

Perhaps it is a potent combination of desperation, passion and optimism that always come into play whenever I find myself on the verge of taking some calculated risks. Besides, there’s nothing further to lose once you have already lost a lot, be it time, money or opportunity. 

I think I threw a smile to the guard at the ground floor as I make my way out of the building. Somehow everything looks brighter than they actually are. And although the moon has already chased away the sun as it always does, tonight’s velvet skies tell me that the day is not going to end just like any other. Past the traffic lights, I crossed the street knowing that everything will be green-and-go from here. And that also makes me feel giddier than usual.   

Gotta have the "F"

I thought I would never see the end of my continuing saga. My relationship with my future self is not really going well. I have this notion that how you envision yourself days, weeks, months or years from now affects how you live out your present life. I know this thought may seem esoteric and totally the opposite of what actually happens, i.e., the present affects the future and not the other way around. But perhaps it is my way of harnessing the benefits of positive thinking, mind mapping, and all the other psychological babble that I often ignore everytime I pass by the “Self-Help” section at the bookstore.

In reality, it is easier for me to close my eyes and see myself prancing in Prada stilettos living out a highly successful life. Such visions that appear overhead like a Peanuts comics dialogue cloud are easier to conjure up at times when I feel like “bad luck” – also known as the universe conspiring for my downfall – has struck me once more. Because sometimes, as they say, “When it rains, it pours.” Is this saying applicable to bad times as well? Heck, yeah!

And it felt more than just rain. It was a downpour of hailstones when the company at Jurong East that I have applied at informed me that my work pass was disapproved by the Ministry of Manpower (MOM) – the governing body for work passes. The company thought that perhaps it was due to the local-foreigner ratio, that they have to hire more locals first before they can be allowed to hire a foreigner. This is the company where the boss has expressed eagerness to hire me so much so that even some confidential company plans have already been shared with me. This just proves that no matter how a company likes you but if your work pass application was rejected, you still cannot start working for that company. Yes + No = NO. Such is the mystery that is MOM. They will not explain their reasons for disapproving applications. It’s just either a straightforward Yes or a straightforward No.  

Just a few days after that, I followed up with my other application at the school. They informed me that they are momentarily putting all applications on hold. The opening of the school in Vietnam where I was supposed to be deployed to was postponed indefinitely due to recession-induced budget cuts. When it rains, it pours.

Add to that the numerous other job applications that were either uncomplicatedly denied, politely rejected, or seem to be plainly ignored. Those companies which replied simply expressed their preference for locals or those with permanent resident status. As for the rest of my applications, they were akin to Add as a Friend invites on Facebook which are neither confirmed nor denied. Just ignored. When it rains, it pours.

Am I really seeing the end of this saga of job hunting?

It was two hours before midnight when I decided to retrieve all my clothes that I had left outside to dry. I am still hesitant to try the bamboo poles after the occasional futile attempts. In our new “Big Brother house” on the fifth floor, the corridor in front of the main door serves its dual purpose as a Smoking Area (for smoking housemates) and as a “Drying Area” for machine-washed clothes. Really, clothes that dried under the sun smell a lot fresher compared to those that dried indoors or just via the machine dryer. Sometimes Nanay, the grandmother, would hang huge, colorful blankets over the corridor ledge and leave them all to bake under the scorching heat of the sun. Viewed from the ground, these blankets could be mistaken as parachutes or kites that got accidentally caught in, obediently caressing the breeze. It is not as hideous as it sounds. Our side of the building faces the backyard of sorts of well-maintained bermuda grass and other common foliage. Several tall trees line the edge of the wired fence that separates the HDBs from the expressway at the opposite. 

I passed by Tatay, the grandfather of the house, on my way back to my room. He was sitting by the dining table intently reading his Bible with such concentration that allows for his lips to alternately purse and mumble almost involuntarily. It reminds me of the way I used to read my other bible which is also spelled as V-O-G-U-E. (Sometimes it is spelled as E-l-l-e, or H-a-r-p-e-r-‘s-B-a-z-a-a-r, depending on which has the fiercest cover for the month.)  I tried my best not to disturb him by not making any unnecessary noise despite the shaking sound that the spider’s web-like clip hangers make as I carry them. But I guess even the faintest of sounds could instantly interrupt his reading, the way that a hypnotized person would immediately be awakened with just a snap. He cleared his throat, looked at me in a librarian-esque signature gaze with a lowered head, spectacles resting low on his nose bridge and eyes rolled up to the ceiling of his eyelids, and whispered:

“What job position are you applying for again?”

I was tempted to let him know that I am open to any kind of decent job with a decent income that is hopefully fashion-related. But then again, that idea of a reply is something that is better said in front of a potential employer pathetic. Besides, just the way I constructed that thought in my mind seemed too wordy for a simple question that is answerable by a word or two.     

“Fashion Designer,” I murmured.

He went back to reading like nothing has transpired in the past few seconds. I went back to my room and started to fold my clothes as usual. As my roommate Marie began to chat online with her boyfriend, I began to wonder about my brief encounter with Tatay. Perhaps he was just curious. Or maybe he just forgot that I already told him exactly the same thing twice before. But I hoped that he included me in his prayers. I have been remiss in my obligations as a Catholic and nothing can prove to be more helpful than a nudge from an elderly pious man like him.

The next day I was casually browsing the Internet when I chanced upon a job ad that has been there for 4 months already. It was not in the usual online job portal format and yet it described everything that I wanted in a job. And so I decided to go for it and immediately called the number. While there’s a high probability that the vacancy has already been filled up, I chose to take my chances. And I’m glad I did. I was quickly scheduled for an interview. I have always believed in gut-feel when somehow you feel that something good is bound to happen.

You get that unique this-might-be-it feeling where excitement is fueled by Faith…

You get that moment when you know for sure that this time it is really going to happen (despite the fact that you already thought of/felt/said the same thing a hundred times before, only this time it really feels different)…

You just know this is meant to be. Fate as they call it. And I believed.

Oh, but please don’t make me sing the high notes of that old Mariah-Whitney song.   

Diversions

While it seems like I spend most of my time tiptoeing along a wobbly tight rope between utter despondency and frustration on one end and a fleeting sense of triumph over adversity on the other, it isn’t always so. I do try to fulfill that “stop and smell the flowers” adage in my own little ways once in a while.

On weekends, it is all too easy to get lost in the euphoria of generally flat-tummied citizens walking around in a relentless state of oblivion. As if everything else is cool, stable and easy. The accessibility of malls here (read: no security guards pretending to inspect your bags with a measly wooden wand – I mean really, what’s up with that? Only in the Philippines, I guess.) allow for that much needed break from the monotony that has been strangling me for days. Window shopping is a form of diversion more than anything else. It is a way to alleviate the pangs of scarcity -- real or imagined, emotional and material – albeit temporarily.

But this diversion has its way of luring you in if you allow it to. One of the first few shops that will blind you is the jewelry shop. The diamonds that sparkle in all their glory behind glass cases will surely send any girl’s heart aflutter. They are the same “best friend” that can make your heart stop and throb all at once whether you are the one buying or the one being gifted with. It was my first time then at Tampines Mall and I realized that these jewelry shops were strategically located near the mall entrances. Business must be good and Singaporeans do love their blings. It might be a hypnotic attempt at attracting passersby the way that a male peacock captivates a potential mate with its flamboyant feathers. And before you even start to recite the 4 C’s, you are already singing your way in to the tune of Katy Perry’s “I wanna see your peacock” anthem. Just don’t echo the last syllable the way she does.    

The next thing that will catch your attention are the appliances and gadgets shops. Luckily, I am not a techie and I can be content with a modest version of whatever is on the market. But still, I can’t deny the intimidating presence of iPhone-wielding teens whose sole accessory should only be a solar-powered scientific calculator. But nobody said that life is fair. Nowadays they can have instant access to both the Theorem of Pythagoras and the theory of the Lady Gaga generation, where X equals iTunes + MAC cosmetics + jôie de vivré. Funan Digitalife Mall is built for the gadget-hungry. It is an entire building that sells anything and everything that could fit into this category. But I don’t fit in this techie mould. Perhaps it is indeed a guy’s world. It is the only realm where guys and girls alike understand the concept that smaller is better anyways. 

After all, size matters. I’m talking about food servings of course. I was at West Mall when I first tried Subway. I have always believed that the short interaction between the staff and the customer of any food establishment is crucial in the overall dining experience. Despite what I imagined to be a routine spiel, I still felt the “freshness” and sincerity of the staff as he presented me with the choices from the type of bread to the type of meat and veggies all the way to the sauces. He got me at the end when he spoke to me in Tagalog. He can easily be Malay/Singaporean with his looks and accent, but he is pure Filipino. Another reason to feel comfortable I thought. 

Now that I have heeded the advice of a wise man who once said that if you must window shop, do not go on an empty stomach, I can now continue my diversion. One of the best cures that window shopping brings to hapless souls like mine is presented like a tableau by the mannequins. As a child I would recite my ABC’s alongside cue cards of the alphabet where A stands for apple, B is for ball, and C for cat. But once you step inside Ion, Takashimaya or Paragon malls, you end up unlearning your alphabets and replacing them with Armani, Burberry and Chanel instead. And the best part is, you are willing to recite your whole new alphabet until Westwood, Yamamoto and Zegna. If their chic displays will not captivate you, the lingering aroma of fine fabrics and luxe leathers will surely do.

I soon found myself eating my quick perk-me-up comfort food in the form of McDonald’s vanilla sundae cone, closing my eyes on alternate licks. At the end of a day full of walking, I felt more tired than the lady who just came out of the mall with several paperbags and an easy-breezy-beautiful smile of confidence. For an Andersenian matchstick girl like me, I am content on staring unabashedly at the glass windows. At least for now.  

Sisterhood of the Travelling Suitcase

I would never have thought of the maximum capacity of my big blue suitcase until this moment came. I was once again stuffing it with clothes, accessories, shoes, toiletries, etc. I still clearly remember how light my suitcase was when I first landed at Changi airport. Due to the 15 kg weight limit I was not able to stuff it with as much things as I wanted. Hence, the word “etc.” then was generously represented by “Lucky Me noodles.” But the situation now has changed. I could not imagine how my stuff seemed to have doubled in just less than 2 months. My friend Marie and I would be transferring, again, to another HDB.

We found this room-for-rent thru the online community portal called PinoySg.com where Filipinos converge and share experiences and post accommodation ads, among others. A few days before our intended date of transfer, Marie and I decided to meet up with Ray at Tampines MRT.

“Our flat is just few bus stops away, very near the MRT,” assured Ray, friend of the main tenant, looking all alert despite his hour-long train ride straight from his workplace over in Jurong East, which is actually located in the West.

Ray continued to share with us his own first-time experiences as we queue up and wait for our bus: “It was a rough start for me, I had to borrow money from relatives then. It took me quite a while to find a job. You’d be lucky if you manage to get hired before your visa expires. Most people I know took 2 months on average before they were able to get a job.”

In a way those words offered me half-comfort and half-worry. I realize that I’m still left with 2 weeks before I reach that 2-month average. But unlike a project deadline where I can choose to exhaust myself working for extra hours, none of that is applicable here. I can email as many resumes and cover letters to as many companies as I please but that’s just it. The rest is spent on praying and anticipating. It was akin to being stuck inside Big Brother’s house where every move is limited within its confines and all I could rely on is the powerful voice of Big Bro, er, the Supreme Being up there. All the while praying that I won’t get “evicted” so soon and so sudden. I still pondered upon that imminent 2-month “due date” as I stood inside the cramped rush hour bus ride.

We eventually reached Ray’s noticeably quiet neighborhood. I was excited to see what we would call our new home. After passing by three HDB blocks and parking lots, we have reached their flat.

“Come in, come in,” said Nanay, the grandmother of the house, as they ushered us into their living room.

Just the mere smiles on their faces instantly made us feel welcome. Ray then led us to the room that Marie and I would share. It was pretty spacious -- with a single bed that we would later on toss a coin for to decide who’s sleeping on the floor, fairly wide curtained windows, a “dextrosed” aircon and a huge cabinet – seems good. Later on we were shown their dining area, kitchen, and toilet. The main tenant George, coming from work, reached in time to introduce us with the other tenants that include his parents, 2 younger siblings, his wife, and their only child Angelita. They can never get any more close-knit than this. Just the flavorful smell of the simmering Adobo and the deafening sound of the TV made their household more typically Pinoy.

Even though I foresee the unbridled naughtiness in the 6-year old Angelita, there was no hesitation on our part when the moment to decide came. While we could not imagine how they will manage to squeeze themselves in this 3-room flat now that they are left with two, Marie and I were happy that we have found a new home, in the privacy of our own little room.

And after handing over to George the agreed 1-month advance payment, all he could muster was the jolly greeting: “Welcome to Big Brother House!”