Holding Hands

    There are a lot of things about the night of May 15, 2010 that I want to forget.  As a matter of fact, I have been quite adept at trying to forget that I browse through my journal and I realize I never wrote anything about that night or the days that followed.  The stash of photos is still waiting to be sorted out, stuck to albums or posted online for relatives who live time zones away to see but I have put off doing that for one whole year.  Putting everything in the backburner is a good thing.  I neither cry too often or too much.  I go home, enter a half-empty office and tell myself my grandfather is somewhere on vacation, probably a little too selfish to let us tag along.  "I'll see him tomorrow,"  I tell myself.  Then when tomorrow comes, I say the same thing and the lie incessantly perpetuates itself into an endless indeterminate string like the value of pi or the uncontrollable sprouting of gremlins when the sprinklers go haywire.

    The night of May 15 began like any other.  Dinner in the hospital.  Reading the local daily and spotting an interesting ad about a 60-something Caucasian man looking for a girlfriend who, he said, had to have "huge thighs."  Passed the ad to my Lolo who guffawed and told his amused nurse to send in an application.  A few minutes later he couldn't breathe.  Then the nurses and the doctors started streaming in.  The sight of plastic tubes being readied was disorienting.  Ran downstairs to the chapel to pray.  Broke down to my best friend over the phone.  Hunched in the hallway with my fingers to my ears, trying to block out all the sounds which still made their way into my auditory nerve and soldered themselves into my memory chips, sounds which still come back crisp and clear no matter how deep into my ear canal I shoved my phalanges wadded with cotton on that night.  By one in the morning, our whole world had been turned upside down and kicked across the field to Timbuktu.  That was the last night my grandfather ever spoke.

    My Lolo and I talked to each other all the time.  He always gave me the best and the most memorable conversations.  Period.  He was articulate and could clearly express himself through the spoken word.  Ever since I was a little girl, I would sit in front of his huge desk in his office and we would trade stories much like hawkers dealt with their wares.  From my vantage point, my grandfather was a man in control.  He was literally on top of everything and anything that came running down his way .  Whether it be a rolling boulder or a gigantic mastadon, he could take it down just like a single shot from a Gloc could topple a rampaging elephant.

    The sight of him, helpless and frail, was too much for me to take that making a single step towards him was impossible.  The lie that I forgot everything about that night continues to rear its ugly head as I can still vividly remember the sickening smell of antiseptic and the scent from Dr. Danucop's shirt as she put her arms around me.  The guilt still hangs around like a lamprey with its vicious teeth sucking at my neck.  Up to today, I still feel I was too chicken to stand beside my lolo in his moment of greatest need when he was a constant presence in all of my valleys.

    I remember shuddering and gagging at the odd mixture of antiseptic and alcohol which bordered closely on being labelled a "stench".  My lolo's eyes were closed.  The room was silent except for the steady hum of machines along with the mechanical sound of air rushing in and out of the respirator, much like Darth Vader inhaling and exhaling through the breathing vents in his black mask.  My lolo lay very still.  No matter how hard I tried to swallow, a stubborn bolus seemed to be stuck in my throat.  Approaching his bed took all of whatever remaining strength I had left, which was actually very little.  He was as helpless as a newborn baby but sadly was not as unencumbered.  No matter how frightened I was, I did the most logical thing: I took his hand and held it in mine.

    That was the first time in a long time that I ever held my Lolo's hand.  Unlike my sister, my grandfather and I were never touchy although I hugged him every now and then and pinched his cheeks, especially when he was being obstinate.  In contrast to my desperate attempts to completely obliterate everything I saw and heard on that night, the feel of my Lolo's warm palm encased in mine was one fragment of memory I fervently wish an occasionally treacherous mind would never lose to time and dying brain cells. 

    If I had the fluidity with words of a truly unimpeded wordsmith, I could clearly describe to you what it felt like to hold my grandfather's hands in the last ten days of his life.  His palms and fingers were hard, rough and calloused, owing to years of manual labor.  The skin in the back of his hand was thin, translucent and inelastic.  I would pinch a section of skin and it would stay in place for a few seconds before slowly drifting back to its original state.  Mottled brown patches were scattered sporadically around his knuckles.  I could make out the veins underneath his skin which stuck out prominently akin to a network of thick wires running through the entire length of a thin carpet.  His wrists were bony and his pulse was steady.  Oddly, his hands felt very warm in contrast to the iciness of my own fingers.

    Initially, my grandfather was obviously uncomfortable with having his hand held.  He wanted to wrench his wrists from the cloths which bound them to the bed rails.  After all, he was indeed a man on top of everything.  He probably felt we were holding him down and he would glare at me when I would hold him back and plead with him to be still.  He would comply, albeit begrudgingly, but he never did respond to my touch.

    After about a day or two, I was surprised when he closed his fingers over my hand.  I looked at his hand in mine and then at his face.  His eyes were closed and he was quite relaxed as he breathed steadily.  Then he slowly released his grip but I refused, wary that he might try to pull his tubes off again.  He looked at me and motioned with his hand that he was not going to do anything.  I let his hand go cautiously with my fingers just millimeters away from the cloth which bound his wrists. 

    Slowly he lifted his hand over the bed rails, rested his palm over my right shoulder and closed his eyes.  I tried so hard not to cry as he moved his hand back to the bed.  I held his hand and he held mine back.  We would be like this for the next couple of days, in a comforting - and comfortable - state of silence until his heart finally stopped beating.

    As I held his hand on that morning, I hummed softly.  It was some random song - a spontaneous mash-up of "Over the Rainbow" with some unidentifiable tune.  In my palm rested not just a mass of flesh, blood and bone but a hand which brought twenty-seven years of stories, laughter, love, forgiveness and encouragement.  This was the hand which taught me how to deliver a strong straight and a swift uppercut.  This same hand smothered grape jelly on my toast during 9 p.m. "midnight" snacks when I was six.  This hand demonstrated how to properly hold a fishing pole and tug when something started biting at the other end.  It showed me how to pluck a guitar.  This hand had fingers which could contort into a bangi-bangi (local term for tiny crustaceans) and would tickle me to no end until I could no longer breathe.  This hand also held me in dozens of family pictures, gripped my arm when I would stumble and planted more trees than I could count with my fingers, most of which would definitely outlive me.  This hand made me countless dinners.  This hand also curled into a fist when I said I was going to have a date for my high school prom.  This hand wrote me countless notes.  The very same hand would send me off with a wave from the front yard every time I would leave home at the end of every school break.

    One of my lolo's favorite songs to sing to his grandchildren and great-grandchildren as toddlers was a Hiligaynon lullaby called "Uy, Alibangbang."  It is a song directed to a butterfly, asking it to take care of a tapulanga (vernacular for "gumamela") as it flutters about.  He would sing this tune in the top of his voice and what made it particularly endearing was the corresponding hand gesture.  He would flail his palm around the air like a butterfly's wings and he was so convincing that the grandchild he was singing to would be compelled to imitate the action.

    The song has always appeared to be innocent and straightforward but it is only upon closer examination that the last verse seems rather foreboding as far as my grandfather was concerned.  There is, after all, no way we could hold on to him, no matter how much I wrapped my fingers around his hand.  Much like the alibangbang in his favorite song, he had to leave at some point.  That left us, the ones who had to stay a bit longer, in the same state as the tapulanga in the song - saddened and grieving with heads bent to the ground. 

Uy, alibangbang,
Kung ikaw ang maglupad,
Tatapa sing maayo
Ang tanan tanan nga bulak.

Basi sa ulihi
Kung ikaw ang maglupad,
Pobre si Tapulanga,
Sa duta ayhan mataktak.

    On the other hand, maybe my lolo had his reasons for loving the song about the butterfly and the flowers he left behind.  There is more to the act of flailing one's hand in an awkward attempt to imitate a flitting butterfly.

    Because flying through the air will be the very same hand which still holds his memory.

- In loving memory of my dear grandfather
(March 24, 1925 - May 25, 2010)

A New Year's Eve Letter

31 December 2010

My dearest Lolo,

    I'm going to be straight out honest with you because I haven't been for the past seven years or so.  First, I owe it to you to be honest.  And second, no matter what I say, I will never get to see your lips droop into an upside down crescent moon in disappointment or your eyes make aim for some far off place I will never fully understand in my lifetime.

    All right, here goes.

    Some teeny weeny tiny part of me dreads the minute the clock strikes midnight on the 1st of January of every year.  This feeling began when I hit the age of twenty, when I realized I was actually starting to grow some semblance of maturity.  Ever since my sister and I were kids, you would have a new year package for the two of us consisting of a huge bundle wrapped in layers of newspaper and plastic.  As if we had built in X-ray eyes, we knew exactly what was inside that package: thick clumps upon thick clumps of colorful sparklers, all ready for lighting.  Oh boy, did we love those mini torches of color!  If they were candy instead of combustible powder, we wouldn't think twice about sticking them up our tongues with delight.

My sister bending over some of the sparklers (New Year's Eve 2007).

     When my sister and I were little children, you would sit by the front door and watch us run around the front yard with the sparklers in our hands, drawing all sorts of figures in the night air.  I liked to pretend my sparklers were the propulsion and combustion mechanisms of a rocket and I'd make them soar through the air like Voltes V spewing blue or green flame from its soles.  Sometimes, we would stick the sparklers in the ground in all sorts of configurations, light them with the embers in a piece of firewood from the kitchen stove and then dash through the entire length of the glowing sticks in the darkness, dancing and singing like tomorrow would never come as the sparklers were ignited one after the other. 

My grandfather - with his Einstein hair - checks
on our "sparkling" progress (New Year's Eve 2007).

     It was a fun and safe way to celebrate the coming of each new year until one day, I came to realize I was growing too old to be playing with them.  Of course, there was no way I could tell you that outright.  There was no way I could utilize that brutal frankness, not when you'd still call my sister and me to your room every new year's eve and proudly present us with the usual set of sparklers with excited eyes which seemed to say "I got you what you really wanted!"  I did not have the heart to tell you that maybe it was time to put an end to that literally sparkling tradition, even if I carefully rehearsed my speech year after year.  I could not do that, not when watching us run around the front yard gave you so much joy, even if you eventually had to do so from your bedroom window since all the smoke caused your weak lungs to act up in spasms and made you cough.  It now seems to me like we never grew up in your eyes and that to you, we would always be little girls carrying colorful little torches in the middle of the darkness, playing make-believe and tracing smoke through the air with our fingers.  So for the past seven years or so, I had to pretend that I was still seven years old and that I still loved to do that new year's game - all in the name of keeping your heart and your smile intact.

    This new year's eve, I was half-glad there were no sparklers.  There was no need to pretend anymore.  Or so I thought.  I laughed off that idea as I sat on the rattan sofa in the living room, watching my grandmother lug her pillow into your room for a quick nap before media noche - the very same room where we would claim our new year's gift annually with feigned surprise and excitement that could easily merit a grand slam acting award for my sister and me. No matter how much I denied it, there was still a need to pretend and play that game of make-believe that maybe, just maybe, there might be sparklers waiting inside that room because then that would mean you were alive and well and that everything that transpired within the last seven months was just a horrible nightmare.  Then again, no matter how palpable the need to pretend was, the truth remained that there was no room for such a game this new year's eve.  Much like Christmas, this New Year's eve was more than a mere reality slap.  It was like being pummeled relentlessly by a pugilist with fists as fast as the Flash and as solid as Mike Tyson's.  No one even dared to sit on your chair in the dinner table.  The poor wooden thing just stood there empty for the entirety of Christmas, much like a silent sentry staring at all of us mutely with unseen eyes.  That chair was akin to your shoes - cavities of leather with huge gaping mouths that were very difficult to fill.  The best anyone could do was perhaps waddle in them.  But then again, who in the world would ever take a duck (or anything that waddled, for that matter) seriously?

    When someone asks me what I miss most about you, my head starts spinning like a broken compass with an arrow that goes round and round endlessly in both directions in a rather crazy fashion.  I miss buying you little gifts that make you laugh, small things like the wobblehead ceramic basketball player which has your photograph for its face or the little toilet clock we bought for you in Hong Kong.  I miss watching so many movies with you.  You allowed me to watch silly flicks like the Problem Child series and Child's Play (with the occasional reminder to cover my eyes when Chuckie started waving his knife) and then you would chuckle when my mother would walk in, roll her eyes and tell you to stop exposing me to nonsense.  Little did she know that you also introduced me to a lot of pretty good films such as "Rocky," "The Godfather" and "Come, See the Paradise."

    I miss talking to you everyday.  After all, you were the first person I'd call when I woke up in the morning and among the last ones I'd talk to at night.  You were the best at conversations.  Period.  Everyone else pales in comparison.  There was always that depth of understanding and the insights that came out of nowhere.  You always listened intently with your hands folded above your belly and whenever something either amused you or peeved you, you would always let out a naughty snicker before giving out a piece of your mind.  You had the ability to talk and listen to me like an adult and yet treat me like a child all at the same time without ever casting the net of antagonism or causing me to feel like a pre-schooler wearing my mother's heels.  You taught me the value of listening, of breathing in everything I hear, holding it in for a couple of seconds and then exhaling only those which needed to be healthily expelled.  I have lost count of the many things I wanted to tell you about long after you had gone.  I sometimes find it unfair that you had to leave just at that precise moment when we had more relevant things to talk about and discuss.  When I write my papers for class or my pleadings for the clinical program I'm enrolled in, I sometimes vividly imagine how butchered and bleeding my written work would look when they passed your scrutiny.  I used to always ask you, "What do you think, Lolo?" and you never failed to tell me exactly what went on in your mind by drawing lines, tracing circles and making word changes with your red Pilot pen, leaving crimson blots which looked like gunshot wounds scattered all over the paper.  Seven months and counting, I still find myself reaching for the phone, dialing your number and stopping midway, knowing I will never hear you at the other end of the line.  As much as I miss enjoying every conversation with you, I also miss sharing the comfortable silence, usually while we're waiting for the sun to set, watching the sky turn to smoldering gold and the mountains to royal plum.  Then when the sun's descent is complete, you turn to my sister and me and ask "Let's go home?"  Why you kept on asking a question to which you knew the answer is something I cannot quite put my finger on.  Perhaps it was to emphasize that the day had finally come to close, no matter how much we did not want it to end, and that there was nowhere else to go but home.  Or maybe, just maybe, there was a faint hope in that question - the belief that seeing the sun set meant that you would definitely see its resplendent glory in the morrow.

    I miss your sense of humor, your eternally optimistic spirit and your ability to find joy even in the worst of circumstances.  I miss watching your face and eyes light up when you're planning to spring another naughty prank on my grandmother or when you're thinking of the best gift to give her on special occasions.  I miss the sweetness of your smile when she kisses you or when she has fits of jealousy which you find completely unbelievable given your age and the length of time you have been married to each other.  I miss your adamance at forbidding me to drive a motorcycle or a truck because of your perception of the supposed inappropriateness for a girl to exhibit a tough, masculine side.  I can still see the pleasant surprise in your face when you realized I could actually handle your truck despite its size and your eventual warming up to the notion of me being your occasional driver and you being the passenger.  It felt good to be trusted by you, to know that you had faith in my ability to handle the wheel, the clutch and anything that could spring out from the road that stretched out before me all on my own, although you sometimes gave the reminder to watch out for a pothole or to be less of Speed Racer.   I miss seeing the incredulity in your eyes when I half-coerced you to wear pink and the sheer glee in your face when you realized you actually looked good in the color.  Among so many things, I miss listening to you attempt to apologize. 

    I am being straight out honest when I say I really did not want to play with sparklers again this new year's eve but I am not going to deny I will miss going out into the darkness of the night with those little torches of color, waving them around the air as the skies literally explode into the threshold of a new set of 365 days.  Those were moments when I felt most carefree, most fearless and most confident that I could conquer the entire world with just my little set of flame-emitting wands.  Perhaps it was because I was aware you were watching from the front door or from your bedroom window and that the moment the sparklers go out, I knew exactly where to go to despite being swallowed by darkness, smoke and the deafening sound of the pla-plas and piccolos. 

    This new year's eve, the sparklers are conspicuously missing.  I do not need to run around outside anymore and do my awkward smoke-and-fire gymnastics.  The front yard lies empty and dark a full half an hour before midnight.  I stand for a while in the muddy grass and walk a bit.  In the pitch black night, in the absence of someone keeping an eye out for me from the front door or from the bedroom window, I still know where to head back to.  And I know, Lolo, that this is one honest revelation which, in no way, will make your lips droop like an upside-down crescent moon or your eyes make aim for some far-off place.

All my love now and forever,
Albutra

Seeing Double

    Ever since high school, there was always one other person in school who supposedly looked like me.  Now that I find pretty amusing since my own sister and I barely resemble each other and the closest people who supposedly share some of my facial features are my Tita Vilma and my cousin Denise.

    Who knew that law school would yield another person who seems to bear an uncanny likeness to my physical appearance?  After years of reading about how much fun it would be to have a twin, I was finally able to slip into that opportunity just last week thanks to the fact that my supposed doppelganger (actually reflexive since she could very well say I am the clone) was also fun-loving and was willing to capitalize on an opportunity to potentially sow confusion in the optic nerves of anyone we would meet.

    It all started when Rach and Cha told me that I had a "kamukha" or "kahawig" - same facial features, practically same length of hair, about the same height, similar build (I was slightly pudgier) and so on.  When I was finally introduced to Phibs, my supposed "twin," I really took the time to study her face and to see for myself whether or not we really did look alike.  I was not sure if she was told the same thing though since she really didn't say anything about it. 

    By the second semester, we were in the same team in legal aid.  Rach and Cha still continued to label us as "twins" so Phibs decided to go along and call each other, well, "Twin."  It was all together quite amusing since the more I looked at photos of us, the more I came to realize that we indeed looked alike.  The semblance was more apparent when we were were not smiling (since Phibs has smaller teeth whereas I have humongous choppers and showcase three quarters of my gums like the Cheshire Cat).  Our profiles were undeniably similar and our bangs fell in the same way across our faces when we tilted our heads.  We both even like the shade of purple!  Good heavens, we even part our hair in the same way!  We tried to look into our family lines to check if we were indeed related but apart from the fact that we both trace our roots to the north (she is from Baguio whereas my father hails from Pangasinan), our bloodlines do not seem to have intersected at any point in time...except perhaps if we go ahead and do blood compact.

Phibs and me.  I saw this photo on her Facebook page and for about
three seconds thought I was staring at myself.  Even our
shirts are quite similar.

   Phibs and I both thought such indicators of resemblance were not enough to make people mistake one of us for the other.  Even if we looked somewhat like Chip and Dale when we hung out, it still had not gotten to a point wherein someone actually thought Phibs was me or vice versa.  I had always thought we were somewhere in that area about three blocks away from "deadringer."

    Until one day about three weeks ago when Cha's boyfriend Allan saw me in Uncle Moe's, a restaurant in UP Village, at around 7 or 8 in the evening.  Allan texted Cha to tell her that he saw me in the restaurant with a couple of friends.

    That would have been all right if I really had been in Uncle Moe's.  But the truth was, I was at home with my dog somewhere in the southern part of Metro Manila when Allan supposedly saw me in Diliman.  What was even more hilarious was that Phibs had texted Cha at about the same time as Allan, telling her that she had just seen Cha's "Prince Charming" in Uncle Moe's.  In Cha's words, this was how the text exchange went:

Phibs: Charito, andito sa Uncle Moe's ang prince charming mo. hehe. :-)
(simultaneously)
Allan: Hi hon. Bahay, kasama ko sina sis pau. nagtext sila. nakita ko sina aida.

***

Cha: San ang uncle moe's? And kasama mo ba si Aida? Haha nagtext si allan grand, nakita daw nya si aida. :)
Phibs: Dito sa Teacher's Village, and nope, hindi ko kasama si twin. hehe....
Cha: Haha malamang napagkamalan kayo. Bwahahaha!! :) or ibang prince charming ko nakita mo. :)
Phibs: Haha, ano ba yun. :D

    Phibs told Cha that Allan even said goodbye to her when he left with his friends, thinking all the while that it was me he saw in Uncle Moe's.  Poor Allan only realized his mistake in a clarificatory text exchange with Cha later that evening.

Allan: Bahay ka na?
Cha: Bahay na. :)
Cha: Aida?
Allan: Yup. Aida . 3 silang sis mo, dito sa may malapit sa bayantel.
Cha: Si Phibs yan. :)
Allan: Ay oo nga pala. Si sarah (another nickname for Phibs since she supposedly looks like singer Sarah Geronimo). :) Magkahawig eh.

    I am quite sure that the last response by Allan was as sheepish as Baa Baa Black Sheep could possibly get in the same situation. 

    Since Phibs and I had unknowingly (and unconsciously) precipitated an ever-so slight wave of confusion (either that or Allan just had eyestrain from work), we decided to go all-out on one duty day just for the heck of it.  And if anyone should fall for the ploy, that should make the entire thing well-worth it but confusing people was not a major objective.  We just wanted to play around with the concept of "looking alike" We had initially decided to wear an all-black top and go for any kind of bottoms we wanted but in the end, I decided to match Twin's weapon of choice: grey skirt and black heels.  I was not quite sure if my grey skirt was even ready for pressing and I made up my mind to hang it in the back of the refrigerator just in case it was still a bit damp.  The next day, the very minute Phibs walked in to the room for case conference, I just knew coincidence was a gleeful and willing conspirator because even the style of our respective collared, frilly black blouses was almost identical.

    The day ended without any casualties although we did get a lot of inquiries about our wardrobe.  Everyone in legal aid knew the two of us pretty well to be able to distinctly identify Phibs from Aida or Aida from Phibs.  Except for, well, one applicant who was being interviewed by Twin.  I was working in a separate cubicle when the applicant walked in, clutching her photocopied documents.  She was heading straight for the cubicle where Phibs was conducting her interview. Unmindful of the applicant, I spontaneously rose from my seat to get my bag from another table across my cubicle.  I unmistakably saw the applicant do a double take when she saw me.  She made a quick U-turn then walked towards my direction, holding out her photocopied documents to me.  I was initially puzzled, wondering why some person I didn't know from Adam was handing me documents.  Then I belatedly realized she thought I was Phibs so I gestured that I was not the interviewing intern.  For a while she had a confused look on her face but after about two more hard stares my way, she realized was thrusting her documents upon the wrong intern.

    As for my next project with Phibs, it's all still under contemplation.  For the time being, we can perhaps work on reading each other's minds and finishing each other's sentences while saving up for eventual DNA testing.  And that also means I should postpone any plan to cut my hair.

The Night I Learned I Owned a French Poodle

    A set of shears can be a deadly thing.

    As a frequent victim of a couple of scissor-wielding, manic haircutters, I should have thought about a hundred times before I decided to bring one of our five dogs, a 9-month old puppy, for her first serious haircut.  At the bare minimum, I should have known what kind of haircut I wanted for her.  That way I could tell the...er...doggie barber my specifications for the cut.  However, for me to know what haircut options I have for the puppy, I should have known what kind of dog she was in the first place. 

 
    "What kind of dog is she?" the doggie barber asked me.  I stared back blankly as a chorus of yelps and barks from the other dogs in the shop overwhelmed my ears.  Gee, I didn't know what kind of a dog Deting was.  My aunt gave her to my sister and me back in June, a few week after my grandfather died hence the name copying.  I knew she was white and had thick, fluffy hair which covered her eyes so we kept the furry mess on her forehead in a cute ponytail held in place by a pink rubber band.  That left me with a couple of options but I was not confident enough to offer an intelligent guess,  "I don't know," I finally relented, shrugging my shoulders.   

    The barber pulled up my now-shivering puppy's face and gave his verdict.  "She looks a lot like a poodle to me," he said.  Here we go again, a poodle.  My sister and I had long been locked in an endless debate as to whether or not Deting was a poodle.  She was a mutt so it was quite difficult to pinpoint her exact lineage but I was not ready to concede that we finally had a poodle in the house.  I was not exactly a big fan of poodles.  They often struck me as high-class, fancy, snooty dogs fit for royalty.  My dogs were all rambunctious, mischievious, naughty, rough, stubborn, reckless types who liked to run around the yard, make sky-high leaps for the clothesline, wade in mud and be everybody's absolutely adorable headache.  Deting is particularly that kind of dog.  She runs into my room and jumps into bed if she can't wait for me to wake up.  She loves to play fetch with her spiked fuchsia rubber ball and rubs the thing on my leg when she's in the mood for the game.  When I'm getting ready to leave, she pulls at my shoelaces, takes nips at my socks, bites my sneakers and pulls my pant leg as if she could stop me from going anywhere.  She has to send me off at the elevator every time I have to go out (or else she goes into a riotous flurry of barks and screams) and will sit as sentry in the front door at around dinner time, waiting for me to walk in.  At nine months she has been trained to relieve herself outside of the house but when she does not want me to leave, she does the job in the floor just so I would be forced to stay a bit longer to clean up her mess.  So based on her very behavior, there was no way my white little furball was a poodle.

    "What cut do you want for her?" the barber asked.  Kind of cut?  Was there even such a thing in the doggie world?  I looked at the barber.  Exactly how good was this guy in chopping off my little canine's hair?  The guy had cropped his hair so close to his scalp I wasn't exactly in the best position to judge his cutting skills or his taste for hair fashion.  "What cut do you suggest?"  I asked him.  He motioned for me to follow him and pointed to a fat, cropped shih tzu sitting on the grooming table.  "This one," he said.  "A summer cut."  The hair was cut really close to the skin and I was not quite sure if Deting would look good with fur that short.  Oh well, this guy seemed to know what he was talking about.  I thrust the puppy and her now booming heart into his hands and the dog started clawing for me silently.  Uh-oh.  Was this a sign that Deting herself felt that this was a really bad idea?

    The barber told me to come back after an hour so I pretended to be husband/father waiting for his wife/daughter to finish her salon duties.  I went across the street to SM Hypermart to buy some stuff, check out the second-hand bookstore there and to read up for the devotional I was going to give the next day in my small group.  After about an hour, I walked back to the shop to claim my dog so I could go home and get some sleep.

    The barber was now starting to give two more dogs a trim when I walked in.  "Hi," I said.  "Can I get my dog now?"  He looked at me for a moment and said, "Oh yes, you're getting the poodle."  Oh boy, poodle again.  I wish I could roll my eyes and tell him to stop calling my dog that.  There was no way in the canine world that I was ever going to own a poodle, buy a poodle or even have my dog look like a poodle.  Poodles were, like I said, high-class, fancy, aristocratic...LEAPING LIZARDS OF MARS, MY DOG IS A POODLE!  There in the hands of the barber was a white, furry dog which closely cropped hair, a fancy tail, a shaved snout and a rounded forehead typical of those show poodles with Swarovski crystals for collars.  She looked absolutely ridiculous.

    I eyed the quivering puppy in his hands.  "That's not my dog," I squeaked.  "Yes she is," he said while handing her to me.  My head started to race with all the possibilities of bringing home the wrong dog.  I mean, if they can exchange infants in a hospital nursery by mistake, how much more dogs in a grooming salon?  This trembling little thing in no way resembled the dog I had brought in about an hour ago for a cut.  If this was indeed my dog, what she had was a complete makeover.  Before I could even decide on the thing's identity, the barber placed her in my arms.  I took another hard look at the now happier looking dog.  She started licking my face (her usual greeting) and when I looked past the shaved snout, I found the familiar round, dark eyes and I knew this was indeed my dog - just looking a little bit more posh and flamboyant in a subdued Adam Lambert kind of way.

Back in December, hours before her first trim.

After a very conservative cut, Deting looks
quite presentable.

 

Her present authentic French poodle look

    Deting wouldn't sit in the front seat on our way home.  Instead she clambered into my lap and fell asleep as I drove.  This was another trait of hers which came up especially when she has anxiety attacks from what she perceives to be prolonged separation from her humans.  When we got out of the elevator, she ran like mad out into the hallway and headed for our front door like she usually does.  Only this time, she was not bouncing around like the little furball that she was.  The cut made her look like she was prancing and flitting around like a half-dignified little princess out on her first walk.  It was even more hilarious when she was running after her ball and she forgot to brake that she half-smashed into one leg of the dinner table.  True, the cut highlighted her lean, light frame and made her look squeaky clean. 

 
     I admit, however, I miss her disheveled hair and how she looks much like the abominable snowman, especially after she has not had a brush after about a day.  There is something about my little wildchild of a dog that makes her a lot more adorable.  Oh well, as for now, I'll have to wait until her hair grows back.

    If it ever grows back.  Yikes.

Don't you worry, baby.  I'm still gonna
love you, even when you look funny.

 

2010 in a Nutshell

1.  What did you do in 2010 that you'd never done before?
a. Drafted a real pleading, affixed my signature on it and filed the uber thick thing (all 40+ pages of it) in court;

b. Represented a client in court, officially entered my appearance in my first court hearing and argued with a real lawyer;

Just one really scary day which made me want to vomit.

c. Voted in the Philippines' first automated elections;


d. Got up close and personal with a tiger cub by stuffing a feeding bottle down its cute little throat;

Can I bring you home?

e. Went on a zip line;

Great view from here!

f.  Dyed my hair blue-black which left my hair looking…just plain black-black;

g. Stood less than 10 meters away from where a bomb exploded during the Salubong in September.

2. Did you keep your new years's resolutions and will you make more for next year?
I didn't exactly keep all my new years' resolutions but I did fulfill most of them.  :)  So I should carry them over to this year and I am definitely making more for 2011.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
My cousin Jodi gave birth to my niece Emily Capito Medeiros.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
I lost my grandfather to a lingering illness in May of this year. 

With my sister and nieces before laying Lolo to rest.
We will see you again, Lolo.

Our church's senior pastor Dr. Luis Pantoja also passed away in September.
And though our only connection remains to be Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger's death was also quite depressing.

5. What countries did you visit in 2010?
First time in Macau and second time in Hong Kong

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?
Understanding as wide as the expanse and as deep as the bottom of the ocean

7. What date from 2010 will remain etched in your memory and why?
15 May 2010.  That night my grandfather was intubated.  Everything happened so fast (and without warning) that I couldn't comprehend what was happening.  It was just one very horrible memory that I still cannot shake off no matter what I do.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Surviving my first hearing without making a complete fool of myself or getting a scolding from the judge.

9. What was your biggest failure?
I can't think of anything in 2010.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Afflicted with chickenpox in early September because I'm such a loser who gets it at age 27.  Good thing the early doses of Acyclovir pre-empted the welts from going full-blown and all I got was a mild case.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
My iPod Classic!  I think I'll manage to fill up all 160 GB of it when I turn 40.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Raissa Laurel.  That girl is pure inspiration.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
The Philippine Supreme Court.  Since when did plagiarism require "intent?"

14. Where did most of your money go?
Photocopies, gas, food, chocolate milk and in the latter part of the year, apple pie tea lattes.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Attending my high school reunion!  It was great to be back in the best high school in the galaxy after ten years.

Batch Y2K is home!

 
16. What song(s) will always remind you of 2010?
a. King of Anything by Sara Bareilles
b. You Make My Dreams by Hall and Oates because it was my year-long ringtone
c. That Baby, Baby song by Justin Bieber.  That song drives me completely nuts and it doesn't help that my nieces sing it all the time.  If my ears could bleed, they'd be hemorrhaging intensely.
e. Far East Movement's Fly Like a G6.  Still working on the crypt walk!  Yo!

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
i. happier or sadder? -- Sadder. :( But I'm keeping my chin up.  It's gonna get better.
ii. thinner or fatter? -- Ha! Same, I guess...still fatty. :D
iii. richer or poorer? -- Richer! YES! :)

18. What do you wish you'd done more?
Write for fun.   I seem to have lost the drive to do so.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Play Plants vs. Zombies instead of reading. :)  Great thing I have now been successful in restraining myself.

I love, love, LOVE this game. :)

20. What was your favorite TV program?
Glee! :) Even if I didn't catch the regular programming and had to settle with season marathons, that was more than fine.  Always something to look out for in every episode, especially Artie. :)

21. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
No…not really.  Just disappointed, I guess.

22. What was the best book you read?
The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery.  Ever since Wuthering Heights, I've never read a book so beautifully written.

23. What was your greatest musical discovery?
That singing the Hallelujah Chorus in alto was actually something "conquerable," especially the early barrage of "hallelujahs" which come one after another.
Amy Winehouse was a belated discovery.  I admit the tattoos, the drug issues and the scary hair put me off from listening to her for years but when I finally did, I stumbled upon a goldmine.  Runners-up are Lady Antebellum, Arcade Fire and Leona Lewis.

24. What did you want and get?
a. Elusive three-inch red heels in patent leather for less than P1,000 (it came in a half-size for that perfect fit);
b. Finding the ultimate swimming/snorkeling companion in Madison, my Canon D10;
c. A portable hard drive in red!

25. What was your favorite film of this year?
Avatar, hands down!

26. What was the worst film you saw this year?
That Kim Chiu - Gerald Anderson starrer.  Wasn't that bad but it was not as good as the other ones I saw.

27. What did you do on your birthday and how old were you?
On my 27th birthday, I was singing "Jesus Take the Wheel" (one of my favorite songs) with Harvest (among my favorite bunch of people) for the ultimate audience, my Lord and Saviour.

Backstage before we headed out to sing.

28. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I wish I made it to my cousin Darryll's wedding in Texas.  That would have really made my year!  And, sometime in the middle of 2010, I wish I took an offer to run under the rain.

29. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?
Preppy with lots of button-downs, skirts and heels. :D Asenso...heels! :)

30. What kept you sane?
A lot of praying and reading the Bible…spending time with friends who made me smile…and, of course, Plants vs. Zombies or Burger Shop.

31. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Richard Poon and his cute eyes, Romola Garai and her endearing portrayal of Emma, Jonny Lee Miller and his killer dialogue as Mr. Knightley and after downloading Last of the Mohicans, went gaga over Eric Schweig all over again.  Oh...and Rum Tum Tugger (John O'Hara) was one rockin' cat.

32. What political issue stirred you the most?
The plagiarism issue and the show-cause order for the UP Law professors.

33. Who did you miss?
My Lolo, especially during Christmas and New Year's Eve.  Will most likely have the same answer next year.

34. Who was the best new person you met?
Atty. Oposa.  How many professors you know make you plant something at the beginning of the school year with the intention of harvesting the fruits by the end of the semester? 

35. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010.
Say what you need to say and show love when you can.  Love is never forced, it is always spontaneous.  When the time comes to say goodbye, the ones who are gone are no longer concerned with the trappings of the physical world.  It is us, those who are left behind, who will have to deal with the "what ifs" and the "if only."
And, a little something from the law school dean - to do the right thing for its own sake and not your own.  It is not about you.

36. What was the nicest thing someone told you about yourself?
My mom, to me, when I told her I had always known as I was weird but was quite glad about it: "You're not weird.  You're just different."  Of course, she's my mother. :D

37. The most touching experience you had this year.
Lolo was already intubated so he couldn't talk at all and only communicated via sign language or by writing.  My parents were trying to keep him amused despite the situation and it was not difficult to lift his spirits.  Mom started teasing me to one of the medical residents in charge to monitor his situation and asked my Lolo to do the proper, archaic introduction.  He wrote this on his clipboard: "I would like to introduce you with bursting pride to my granddaughter" and he appended the legal title (which I am still working on) to my name.  Then when the resident turned around to leave, he raised his fist at the resident's back right on cue then smiled at me.

38. What did you like most about yourself this year?
Being quite strong, especially for my mother and my grandmother when we lost my grandfather in the middle of the year.  Keeping my tongue in check and refusing to retaliate even when I have every reason to validly do so was very difficult to do but it was something I could - and had to - do.

39. What did you hate about yourself this year?
Asking a lot of "whys" when I knew the reason behind them…and wishing for some things when my hands were full and obviously could not take anymore load.  On hindsight, all the "whys" seemed really stupid, selfish and whiny.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
"Jumpstart my kaleidoscope heart
Love to watch the colors fade
They make not make sense
But they sure…made me."
- Uncharted by Sara Bareilles

41. Was 2010 a good year for you?
No, 2010 was not a good year.  But it's in such times when you realize you can still find many reasons to smile.

42. What was your favorite moment of the year?
Snorkeling with my 81-year old grandmother in Balicasag Island, Bohol.  She kept on telling us that we were all going to drown and was perplexed that the guide gave her a pack of bread.  "What am I going to do with this?" she wondered aloud.  "I am not eating this."  I told her it was for the fish.  "Aaaaah," she responded then went back to being the harbinger of doom by telling us once again that we were all going to drown.

My gwamma getting swamped by fishies.

43. What was your least favorite moment of the year?
May 15-25, 2010.  Those ten days were the toughest of my life.  Watching someone slowly slip away from you is torture enough.  Feeling absolutely helpless to ease his suffering was even more difficult.

44. Where were you when 2010 began?
In Taguhangin, Ajuy, Iloilo.

45. Who were you with?
With my parents, sister and grandparents.

46. Where will you be when 2010 ends?
Still in Ajuy, Iloilo.

47. Who will you be with when 2010 ends?
With my parents, sister and grandmother.

48. Do you have new year's resolution for 2011?
To keep my focus and eyes on the goal, to remain steadfast and strong, to work so hard I can feel my heart pounding inside my chest, to never lose faith, to carry on the good fight and to make it to the finish line with a heart full of thankfulness and hope.

49. What was your favorite month of 2010?
June.  That month was a period of major adjustment but that was also when I felt the love and support from friends and family.  Thank you so much!

50. What was your favorite record from 2010?
Sara Bareilles - Kaleidoscope Heart
Glee soundtracks 
Alicia Keys - Element of Freedom
Noel Cabangon - Byahe

51. How many concerts did you see in 2010?
Watched Cats in July and it was spellbinding and jawdropping.
 

Saw the Gin Blossoms concert!  It was like being 11 years old all over again!

52. Did you drink a lot of alcohol in 2010?
No.  Ha!  I should scrap this question in next year's survey.

53. Do a lot of drugs in 2010?
Last time you're going to see this question in this survey.
And the answer is no.

54. You do anything you are ashamed of this year?
As always, yes. :)

55. How much money did you spend in 2010?
A lot!  Haha!

56. What was your proudest moment in 2010?
My sister graduating from law school.  I watched her hurdle each day with mounting courage and unparalleled perseverance and to see her finally get that Bachelor of Laws degree was a promise fulfilled.

57. What was your most embarrassing moment of 2010?
I'm too embarrassed I don't even want to talk about it.  To put it simply in keywords: "Corpo class," "Ramon Fernandez," and "El Presidente."  Prof. Jacinto had one good laugh and I wanted the earth to swallow me whole.

58. If you could go back in time to any moment of 2010 and change something, what would it be?
None really. :)

59. What are your plans for 2011?
Work really hard, pray harder and just keep myself sane.  This year is really going to be epic.  Really.

60. How are you different now that the year has ended?
This year has been a major rollercoaster and I can say I've emerged more independent and more at peace with myself.  I have come to know a lot of people better, even those I have known for almost my entire life.  It is important to always keep a good measure of understanding and to really think not once, not twice but a million times before doing or saying anything. 

61. What are your wishes for the new year?
I'm wishing for peace of mind for me and for my family.  All of us have our own battles to fight and to finish.  Inasmuch as one wants to win every battle he finds himself in, a person often misses the key element in pursuing victory: the cause for which he is fighting for.  This year, I wish for a courageous spirit, a forgiving and loving heart, a sincere soul and a discerning mind.

"Angels We Have Heard On High" on a Silent Night

24 December 2010, 7:30 P.M.

    It is turning out to be one very interesting Christmas Eve for me.  Earlier this morning, I had my day all planned out:

1. Bake two more batches of Shepherd's Pie;
2. Drop off gifts which needed last-minute delivery;
3. Buy pink flowers for my Lolo's grave (because he always gets yellow ones from my mom and my lola);
4. Drive off to our hometown; and
5. Attend Christmas Eve service (and watch out for my four-year old goddaughter Ashley's opening spiel) then cap off the night with noche buena.

    I made it as far as "drive off to our hometown."  As I'm writing this, I'm sitting on my bed in the middle of our dark bedroom illuminated only by my laptop's backlight and the colored lights my grandfather had installed outside our window years ago.  Three of our dogs are in the living room and the foyer, padlocked inside the house with me.  Somewhere I could make out the sound of singing children from the little chapel situated near our house.  I'll miss out on seeing Ashley deliver her spiel as well as the other kids sing Christmas songs I know by heart.  I'm sure it's quite cold outside since I'm in the room but I'm snug in my sweater and blanket.  My X-Mini is softly playing Bocelli singing "Angels We Have Heard on High" in Italian (at least I think it's italian).  I don't speak or know the language but at the bare minimum, I wish I could hum along with the tune.  But, no, on Christmas Eve I have to be nursing a very sore throat and have completely lost my voice.  Swallowing is very painful and involves a lot of effort.  Early this afternoon I was starting to sound a lot like my parents' long-lost son and about a few hours ago, the only sound I could generate was the slight hiss generated by air passing through my throat as I attempted to utter monosyllabic words.  Since I intend to have some semblance of a voice tomorrow, I chose to stop talking altogether and to generate sounds only by drumming my appendages .  So on Christmas Eve of 2010, it's just me having a very silent night..all alone with just Bocelli and the dogs.  Maybe "alone" just up until around 9 p.m. when everyone else comes home from church.

    Save for the distant sounds of singing and the soft music in the room, it is indeed turning out to be one very quiet Christmas Eve.  It's not a exactly a lonely Christmas, just a very different one.  Okay, I admit, I just might be in denial.  If only I weren't feeling so whoozy and heavy-headed, I'd have half the mind to walk out the house, wade in ankle-deep mud and sit by my grandfather's grave just so tonight would feel a little bit more like the ordinary Christmas Eves we've had for the past twenty-six years.

    Bocelli still continues to sing in Italian, his rich voice blending beautifully with the grandness of the orchestra and the accompanying choir.  In the stillness of this night, it is now much easier to imagine how similarly quiet the shepherds of Bethlehem had begun their evening that very first Christmas 2,010 years ago.  In fact, unlike me waiting for family to come home from church and to partake of noche buena later in the night, the shepherds had nothing festive to look forward to.  It was just another night on the job, keeping watch over their flocks and perhaps exchanging stories just so they could stay awake.  Or so they thought.  They had absolutely no idea they were going to witness the birth of the One who would bring salvation to the world.  Neither were they aware that they were going to be visited by angels in the middle of the darkness, bearing tidings of the best news that they were to ever hear in more than ten lifetimes.  They did not expect to see and hear for themselves "a multitude of the heavenly host praising God" in the very same words Bocelli was singing so divinely at the moment.  I bet they sounded way better than all the Bocellis, Pavarottis, Carusos, Grobans and Richard Poons in the world combined.  This image is so grandiose and so astounding in my mind that I find it very hard to believe that none of the shepherds suffered a heart attack either from shock upon seeing the heavens open up to reveal the angelic celestial chorus or simply from sheer happiness. 

    In the middle of the darkness, the silence, the solitude, the struggling and the loneliness came a message of hope on that night 2,010 years ago.  It was a message that was to change the world, the very course of history and the lives of all mankind.  That message came in the grandest cosmic manner and filled the shepherds with euphoria so absolute they proceeded without haste to the birthplace of Jesus Christ and went back to their homes with hearts and lips praising God endlessly.  So on this night of silence and of solitude, in the middle of the chill and the rain, I look forward to the grandness of God's plan for me and my family.  This Christmas is new, different, lonelier and perhaps a bit more sentimental but the message of hope is no longer just a general generic reminder.  True, I may only have Bocelli in digital music and not angels on high, singing sweetly over the plains but the message and the reason for singing remains truer and closer than ever.  This Christmas, the hope which the birth of Jesus Christ has given mankind now resonates with a more familiar, more relevant connection in my heart.

    In my head, I hum with a heart full of thankfulness and joy, summoning all the grandness my non-existent voice could muster: "Gloria, in excelsis Deo, gloria in excelsis Deo."