Crossroads 3

Spent the past few days saying goodbye to the good peeps at both jobs. Will be taking a new direction in the new year. It's a scary leap but a necessary one.

Sure is nice to be told left and right I'll be missed.

Once the bosses get notice, this is it. A new chapter. No turning back.

To think that I've been doing this for 15 months now. That's a significant chunk of time. There are things I'm gonna miss, for sure. I have met some really nice people. We've had some good laughs. The dogs and kids I get to visit are the best. (And one cat too. Who knew?) I've enjoyed the ride, appreciated landscaping and vegetation at various homes. It's a pretty neat gig.

This eve, I found myself savoring every element. Every stop could very well be my last at that destination. I encountered lilies so huge and delicate, they resembled bridal gowns. How lucky I am exiting during the holiday season, able to take in all the lights and decor, I thought. Even the bone-chilling air was exhilarating.

"You'll never get to do this again," I told myself. "Remember this."

Yes, I will.

Seems obvious that we tend to treasure more what we are about to lose. That's human nature.

This is how we should live though. Every moment. This is it. This very moment is never going to come again. Feel it with your core and your being, so may you have no regrets later. Oh, fleeting moments. For what is life but a compilation of moments? The beauty and sadness of this very thought is almost unbearable - it leaves me gasping.

Divulged, Engulfed

In our household, instead of Sunday Funday, it's Saturday Funday - it's long been established.

So imagine my astonishment when I got up this brilliant gorgeous Saturday morn, showered, and did not feel the least motivation to head out.

The putting on clothes... the applying sunblock... Eeek!

I'm against doing anything I don't want to do. I don't need to know why. And so... I didn't.

RJ is a sweetheart for going along... pretty much with anything. Without judgment. Without so much as a question.

But I'm bewildered.

Is it the crazy work schedule that finally wore me down? The unpredictability of life itself that's been eating at me?

We ordered pizza. We stayed in. It felt goooood. Peaceful. Sane.

When I told RJ about the sanity I was reveling in, he said something to the effect of "Is sanity something you struggle with?" to which I answered, "Constantly."

I am reminded of the one day my mother got really mad at me when I was in elementary school. One day, I decided that I didn't want to go to school. I missed the pampering when I'd be home sick, the privilege of being homebound, but most of all, the NOTHINGNESS. No responsibility, no clock-watching, no putting on clothes. Or socks. Uniforms.

Since one couldn't just possibly take the day off a such a tender age, I decided that, indeed I was sick that day. Even after the adults took my temperature and announced that, clearly, I wasn't.

Still, I insisted that I was not fit to head to school. And no one was gonna make me. And so I stayed home. And my mother was infuriated. But off to work she went and in bliss I stayed.

This is the core of my problem. To say that I am simply lazy or an ill-adjusted adult would not paint a just picture. I didn't ask for this. This life. This thing called LIFE.

And thus, still, every once in a while, I want a sick day. World, please, just go away. I don't want to be part of you. I never asked to be here. I don't have it in me. Day after day after day...

I have shared with RJ a bitter childhood memory: often, on Sundays, my mother wouldn't get up. Noon would come around. Then 1 p.m. And she'd stay in bed. She wouldn't be necessarily sleeping. She'd just be lounging, reading the paper from the previous day. In other words, enjoying herself and the little time she had to herself.

The behavior bled resentment. I thought, if she loved us, she'd want to be with us. She'd get out of that damned bed.

Not to mention the practice further complicated the food issue. We waited. For her to get up. For her to get ready. For her to choose a pair of shoes deemed appropriate for the day's activities. Meanwhile, our stomachs were growling.

Surely she didn't care. Not about our suffering. Not about our anguish. Not about the years of an unhealthy relationship with food to follow and haunt us. Well, just me.

I'm pretty sure deep down that is one of the key reasons I didn't want to have children. That way, there's no chance of hurting someone that deeply. Whatever I may be doing wrong, I wouldn't be hurting a child.

But what does it mean when both RJ and I sleep till noon? When life is too much to face. When it is ALWAYS too much to face.

Thanks to FB, even my usually tacit mother, in a rare moment, recently reminisced and shared a sentiment from her career-driven years, "Sometimes you're exhausted, but there's no one to tell. So you just keep going."

A new FB friend comments that my posts are all "eat, drink and be merry", and says that she's envious.

Seriously? That's one shot out of seven days. Don't be oblivious to the highly censored and filtered that is our online presence that caters to the audience.

The world doesn't see the days I'm eating salad and cold rice in my car, dear. Glory gets documented. Not the dreary moments. Not the loneliness and the doubt and the big question: Why?

We didn't ask for this. No one did.

I'm starting to wonder if my mother at one point or another also thought, "Not this. Day after day after day..."

Or her father before her, who finally committed suicide. Because he never asked for this. No one did.

Throes

The hormones are back.

My menstrual cycle went completely on leave while I was on Depo-Provera, as is the phenomenon with many women. I did not miss it one bit. One recent study shows that it has become common practice for women to skip their period on purpose with Seasonale, Depo, or monophasic birth control pills. In fact, between 2007 and 2013, tampon sales have gone down by hundreds of millions of dollars. 89% of those surveyed report to be happy about not having the monthly visitor anymore. I am shocked. Really? It took research to determine that?

What they didn't tell me (cuz they didn't know, apparently) is that no one should stay on Depo for more than several years. Beyond 3 to 4 years, they simply do not know the long-term (adverse) effects (beyond the calcium absorption problem leading to brittle bones in old age, that is).

Long story short, I went off in March, after having been period-free for seven years. Seven!

Not to mention that I had not had a "natural" cycle since age 18, when I went on the pill. Bracing myself, I didn't know the whole enchilada to expect. For months I had recurring nightmares about a surprise onslaught of a bloodfest in public, with crimson-soaked garments and that unmistakeable warm and moist sensation in one's loin (not in a good way).

When it did arrive, it took me a week to get reacquainted with my anatomy and to relearn planning bathroom sessions during the work day.

And the sadness. Oh, the sadness.

Depression has never left me. But this is different. In depth and in profundity. I feel like a teenager again. In a way, I feel more alive, more myself. If one can even define that.

A fisherman friend once told me he welcomed the cold, frigid cold. It made him feel alive. I would realize later that pain does that, too.

Last Friday, I ran into my boss at #WorkNo1. CEO at a start-up, she is brilliant and driven. I admire her beyond words. Even though she is nearly two decades my junior, often I am reduced to a stammering fool when I'm around her.

She was outside the building, on her phone, as she often was (poor reception indoors). She waved hello, and I responded with my signature enthusiastic big wave (and big grin).

Once off the phone, Moiselle* asked, "Are you cheerful because it's Friday?"

"I'm always cheerful," I said.

"That's true," said Moiselle.

But it isn't true. Still waters run deep.

As far as the world is concerned, I'm this happy, positive person. At least at work anyway. At both jobs, I've been told time and again.

And I am this person - at the core. That you can't fake.

That said, trust me, no one is this happy. Not all the time.

Which is not to say I am not happy about life. One can be happy and sad at the same time. Those are not mutually exclusive. The bubbly and the weepy - both real and intense.

I reckon back to a sci-fi story I've read about an alien attempting to understand human emotions, among which happiness is concluded to be the most complicated and near impossible to decipher. Or the cliché tale in which you could be granted anything, except "happiness". Then the genie is stumped.

There is something assuring about being able to explain a state of mind with the chemicals in our brain, our bloodstreams. For the longest time, I thought maybe if my mother would've been more sensitive to my emotional needs, I would've turned out better, less needy. Less messed up.

Even in our relationship as adults, my mother refuses to acknowledge sadness, let alone address it in any way. If I was waiting for her to validate that part of me I'd be wasting my time. Everything must be hunky-dory. ALL the time.

Oh, so I got that from her.

Does not mean I am pretending to be happy, though. One learns to shift focus.

The severity of depression can still take me by storm. The unbelievable bleakness. Having been in the deep end, though, can be a gift. It enhances the human experience. You don't have to remember drowning. Just stay afloat.

I've always been sad. I've always felt too much. My mother couldn't have changed that. Nobody could've.

Something freeing about that notion.



*Not her real name

Miley

I don't care what they say. I still love Miley.

What's not to love? She's vivacious, vibrant and beautiful. And that voice! Oh, that voice.

She's young and living it up and feeling her way in the world. I admire that she is unapologetic about that.

Remember only God can judge us
Forget the haters
Cuz somebody loves ya

That's more positive a message than I have heard from many others her age, in her genre, in years. 

Yeah, yeah, I get the "role model" controversy. I even agree with Sinead O'Connor in that merit in talent chips away when one's over-pimped. But tell that to all the other female artists out there who feel the need to sell sex: Nicole Scherzinger, Nicki Minaj, Gaga. Britney started it with the serpent. No, she didn't. Go back. Mariah. Madonna. You can keep going, really. Blame it on society and the warped values we share and the pressure we put on women. I can go on.

Yes, I cringe when I see little girls wear makeup and dance around in their house in a provocative manner because these are the images they are imitating. But consider the imitated at this point. Whom did they watch growing up? We don't get to cherry-pick.

I think at the end of the day I like Miley's fearlessness. The kind that is accompanied by youth and youth alone. Even then, not all of us will have experienced it when we look back on life. Take that, haters.

My Ex-Mother-In-Law's Salad Dressing Recipe

I made that tonight. It is not exactly a recipe - just something she'd throw together. You know, as cooks do.

Hadn't made that in years. Had no desire to in years.

I got sick over Memorial Day weekend. Getting sick is always a good time for self-pity and reminiscence. The good old days of when someone would take care of you. Especially when you got sick.

I never grew up. I have to take care of me now. And it's hard.

At #WorkNo1, my fav personnel in admin just recently started stocking our mini fridge with juice boxes. At first, there were giggles. Diet-watchers were wary. Before long, everybody was digging in.

"It's like you're ten again!" Exclaimed Gerald*, one of the twentysomethings in our team. "When you didn't have bills to pay..."

Everybody chimed in. "All is good with the world again!" We'd take one sip from our juice box and relate in jest. But we all meant it.

Just as a high school friend has recently reposted in a meme: you spent your childhood longing to grow up, and then it is like, "It'd be fun, they said."

"My ex-mother-in-law would be proud," I told RJ tonight upon recreating the salad dressing from memory. "Except for the part where I broke her son's heart."

Inviting RJ for a tasting, I suggested, "Sort of a twisted Thousand Island, right?"

"A Kraft Russian," remarked RJ.

With which I'd had no experience, so I couldn't comment.

All the tang and all the versatility. Alive on my kitchen counter, twenty decades later. I'd never written anything down.

"Some things just stick," I told RJ. "The fact that she added BOTH mayo and olive oil freaked me out."

Oh, so much has changed. I was in awe that a seasoned cook could just whip up something with whatever she happened to have on hand - the ease, the innocence.

Everything was innocent then. The matriarch, my ex, myself. Because I was innocent.

Scrambling to feed my sickie self properly in a frenzy, my subconscious conjured up this matriarch, whose memory I'd buried along with many others, for the pain, for the memory of pain I had caused.

How I connected through food with folks who I wanted to be family, juxtaposed with how I long to connect that way with blood. We were almost there. Due to circumstances, it didn't happen, and probably never will. For that I am forlorn and sad. Always.

Here is the recipe that wasn't:

Mayo
Ketchup (tonight I improvised with a combo with Heinz chili sauce)
Lemon juice
Sugar
Mustard
Olive oil
Sriracha
Water

The fun part: put everything in a jar, screw the lid on. Shake like mad.

Adjust everything to taste and consistency. Even generic varieties will turn out tasty.

As I brought up with RJ tonight, Hulmes' America-born young nephew who would break bread with us at times back then would refuse to take his salad because we would only have this house-made dressing in lieu of ranch (the store-bought kind, of course).

He didn't know what he was missing. And neither did I.


*Not his real name

Faeire

Last week, my Android phone automatically updated its software. Without prompting for my explicit consent! I didn't recall it ever having done that before. I woke up to this strange icon on screen. "What is this?" I thought. "Do... not... compute!"

After an eternity of "packet x of y"s, when my phone finally was revived, EVERYTHING looked different. I am not fond of change. But, promised more stability, I learned to accept that change was inevitable.

Then I launched the Navigator app powered by Google Maps and BOOM! Who is this??!

It was the voice of a younger, more pleasant, more human female.

When I first started using the app for work, I was about a decade behind my peers probably. Old-school, I'd hung on to maps for dear life (even if they had turned digital), using my brain instead of relying on a machine telling me I was 500 feet away from my next turn.

I hated the voice of the Navigator then. She was older, stern and stoic. When Google Maps would insist that I had arrived at my destination, and I'd be in the middle of nowhere, it was her I'd get mad at. I have told her to shut up in the midst of angst and frustration.

And now she was gone forever. I felt like I had lost a friend without seeing the departure coming. We never said goodbye.

It gets lonely out there. Having a human-esque companion keeps one anchored. You know, much like Wilson to Chuck in Cast Away.

But who can deny the new, friendlier voice was an obvious upgrade? If she was hipper, I felt hipper.

Deep down, I don't feel hip. And boy, have I tried all my life. At work, where I consider everyone very hip, I have reverted to the kid who was trying to fit in at school, knowing full well that I didn't belong with the cool kids. It seems that the harder I try, the more I stick out like a sore thumb.

If only I could stop caring and stop trying. It's all very tiring.

One night, while driving with my trusty Nav, I made a naughty move, causing it to reroute.

All of sudden, it was the voice of that old witch guiding me through the next step. She's back! I was bewildered. She's not gone?

As soon as I was back on the right track, though, the mother hen was once again replaced by the princess of today. In time I learned that the ghost of guidance past would reappear briefly only in the event of my defying a pre-ordained route.

I was relieved. In a way, it was death that I didn't have to deal with. "Her" guest appearances are rewards to my rebellion or trespasses. I don't know what to make of this phenomenon entirely, but it makes me feel less uncool about not being hip. Maybe.

Bundle

Thanks to RJ, I am enjoying fruit, yogurt and chocolate again. The yogurt part indirectly. I'm sure it's all symbolic of joie de vivre.

We buy bunches of grapes, and they ripen at different rates. I always pick out the wrinkly ones to eat since I know they tend to be sweeter than their taut-skinned counterparts.

I hope it is the same with our own aging. In time, we may not be much to look at on the outside, but the core does get better. Not everybody is gonna know or appreciate. It matters only that you know.

Luminous Viscosity

Today was MLK Day. I was expecting a day off work (very entitled of me). That didn't happen (we're on call) and logic didn't apply.

That set me off. Last week the unraveling with job #1 started. It'd been weeks in the making. I joked with RJ that, hey, the honeymoon had to end sometime, right?

That was indeed part of my borderline diagnosis: that black-and-white assessment with people. Either I put them on a pedestal or, once they've crossed me, I scorn. Often with no turning back.

This could explain why I have never stayed at one job for long. I always wind up disillusioned and dismayed. I cut people off before they hurt me some more. The three and half year stint at Merry Lore was a miracle.

Once again, feeling disrespected and disregarded was eating at me. I was just a hot pot about to boil over. I tried not to take it out on RJ, but suffice to say he was not unaffected.

Off to work I went, like a trooper, trying to stay positive. Or, should I say, "turn" positive. That bitter taste of resentment was not cool.

I discovered that many changes had occurred over the weekend with no advance notice. I do not like change. I tried to cope without looking like it was a great challenge.

This morning, while waiting for word on whether I was to report to work, I had major anxiety, again, regarding food, present and future, driven, always, of course, by fear of hunger. Having a semblance of control is crucial to my sanity.

I dreamt of making chicken adobo, arguably the national dish of The Philippines, with variations and versions of it across the Pacific. I missed my piggy friends (who happen to be Filipinas). It's one of those very tasty one-pot-wonders that are oh-so-simple to make. I mean it's practically a five-ingredient recipe. Yet, 1.5 decades after I've been introduced to it, I've never attempted. Until today.

I hadn't been sure if I'd have the will left in me after my shift. Yet, I shopped, I came home, I cooked. I was determined to have (real) food for the next three days, I guess. I surprised myself.

Again, the dish is a no-brainer. Minimal prepping and supervision. Hey, I'm blogging now while the sucker is simmering, aren't I? (And it's smelling mighty good around here now, might I add, like a real home.)

Food is never about food.

Tonight I just wanted to know I could take care of myself. And my hubby (or feel that I could). I just wanted to feel worthy aside from who I am at work. Work doesn't define me.

Happiness shouldn't be relying on an external source to validate you. Work hasn't been validating. So I turn to food. Still not very enlightened. But it's all I've got for now:

I don't have any children, I don't have a definite career path, I don't know where my life is going. But hey, I can cook.

Idyllic

16 months ago RJ and I moved into our condo from the house he was renting, where we spent most of our time together for two years. For the longest time, I couldn't love the condo. It was quite an adjustment.

Don't get me wrong. It's a great condo. Great view, comfortable square footage, brand new appliances. Hot water heats up virtually instantaneously, and the climate control is efficient and economical. All factors that arguably trump the house.

But there are things I miss about the house. The backyard, mostly, spending time out there with supreme privacy, watching RJ with his charcoal grill, Alley rolling around on her back on the green, "applying perfume" as I would call it. Some nights I miss having a heater that runs on gas. The rustic kitchen. Gas stove, real fire. The swing on the front lawn.

For Christ's sake, this was where I fell in love with RJ.

For months the condo did not feel like home. And boy, I tried. We tried. RJ the handy man has done numerous things to make living here convenient. But I never walked around the condo with a sense of wonder like I did at the house. The house was like a permanent fantasy vacation and I was a dream guest who never wanted to leave.

And now, post-sabbatical, what could compare? Of course the condo is drab.

At the house, I once took a self-portrait of my reflection on a hanging colander, M.C. Escher style. I thought it was brilliant.

Last night, I caught a glimpse of myself on the same colander. I surveyed the reflected environment. It was not boring. I just never looked.

It's all perspective.

Now that I am working two jobs, some days are incredibly hectic. I went from running out of ways to kill time to bemoaning not catching a break to take a shit cuz I'm always out there in transit. Some self-pity set in. I did not like that.

Earlier today I found out that I was not needed for the dinner shift tonight. I was overjoyed. Oh, the much needed rest! I had practically gone 8 straight days of always being on the go.

And then the anxiety hit: I must do something productive with this extra time! So much I'm behind on: reading, house chores, projects, financial maintenance...

Ideas ran amuck in my head. "Only so many hours!" I tweeted.

The best thing about my day is coming home to RJ. I've told him that time and again.

Today I was extra happy to come home. I verbally listed a few things I could be doing later in the evening.

"Home sweet home!" I exclaimed, beaming.

A moment later, I realized: I really meant it. This is home. And I am glad.

It took two jobs for me to find having a roof over my head a beautiful thing. Having a moment to breathe is a beautiful thing. Breathing... is a beautiful thing.

Oh, Homo Sapiens

Last night I made a quick stop at a mini mart for milk. As I walked in, I greeted the shopkeeper, who didn't respond in any way. I proceeded to check out the place even though I had only one item on my list (and would wind up getting more than one thing, as usual).

The slightly dim place was big for the inventory it was holding. The shelves looked sadly far from well stocked. A couple of freezers were empty with a sign that read, "Ask for frozen food".

When I was getting ready to pay, another customer entered the store who also happened to be an Asian female. Quite cute, too, might I add. She greeted the man of the house with the same smile and upbeatness as I had, and again he was stoic.

"Okay," I thought. "It wasn't me."

Finishing up the transaction, the shopkeeper reached for a black plastic bag intended for my loot. I informed him I did not need a bag, holding out a hand à la "Stop! In the name of love..."

The man's facial expression never changed. Maybe he didn't hear me. Maybe he didn't care. I didn't hold it against him.

I went for my goods to lift them off the counter, thinking that it must be lonely to watch this store in such a hidden away strip mall in a quiet neighborhood. I smiled again as I thanked the shopkeeper.

Just then, the man flashed a BIG GRIN.

I couldn't believe it. That really made my night.

As I've always believed: be kind, be appreciative, be considerate. Add to the positivity of the universe. Don't expect anything back.

Incidentally, I suppose being green is all of those things. Glad to be part of that force.