Letters to Marge (Chapter 31): Meet Messrs. Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith, and the Time Machine called Music

Dearest Margaret,

Hello there, little girl. Hmm... you would probably argue that by now you are a "big" girl because you are, after all, due to become a big sister very soon. Fine... Fine... But know you this, even if you get more little brothers or sisters after this next guy, even when one day you fall in love, get married, and have kids of your own (yes, in THAT order dammit!!!), you will always be my "little girl."

Now read on...



my Maverick glow stick of new wave devotion

Last night, your mom and i went to the Araneta Coliseum out in Cubao to catch a concert of two wonderful musicians and the rest of their band. These guys wereRoland Orzabal and Curt Smith, better known to 40-somethings and almost-40-somethings like me as "Tears for Fears." While there, i saw an acquaintance and client watching the show with her husband, and there was also my old boss and mentor, Kenneth Quintal. Remind me to tell you about him one of these days.

stupid phone camera...

And as i write this, i keep clearing my scratchy throat since i lost my voice screaming and cheering while they played and sang music that threw me back to that time when knowing a bunch of British pop songs that few people know about was cool, and having vinyl records imported from Hong Kong was even cooler. And the fewer people who knew those British songs, the better. No, i didn't own a lot of imported vinyl records, my dear cousin Jan did. I owned only that odd record or two he gave to me out of friendship. One of these days, ask me about him, too. His story is interesting as well.

It was a lonely time, because your grandmother had to leave for something back then, your grandfather never really came to terms with that until much, much later, and your uncles had no idea what the heck was going on.

But it was also a simpler time. It was a time when i began meeting the people and building the friendships that kept me strong when i needed them, the people who would be my islands and shores in my long swim in the sometimes turbulent seas of my young life. It was a time when my weekends and summers were spent alone with an old notebook wherein i doodled odd-looking cars, imagined new video games, my own superheroes, and wrote poetry. It was a time when i looked around my then quiet life and told myself that i knew there was going to be much more than that.

And every so often in the background, i would pop in a cassette tape where i recorded Curt Smith crooning out "Welcome to your life, there's no turning back..." randomly followed by Roland Orzabal declaring "...my features form with a change in the weatherrrrr..." along with so many other lines that at that time seemed to me like slightly sensible British metaphysical rubbish. But they weren't, not by a long, long mile. These were songs that meant something deeper, and wanted to say something bigger. These were great songs. This was great music. This was a great band.

So yes, last night your mother and i saw a great band, Tears for Fears. I was young again, and the future was an infinite ocean waiting for me to dive in and find my own treasure. And while i was skirting the shores, Tears for Fears was one of the bands playing in the air.

I hope that as you grow older, you will learn to love music like i do. Songs will be capsules to times in your life where you have to look back to from time to time. The times when friendships began simply because you both liked the same book or the same TV show (in your case, probably the same website), or perhaps the same music. Let music make you look back to remind you that at one time, you either had more than what you have now, or perhaps you had less. But for better or worse, times definitely can and will change. If they have changed for the better, then that's great. If they have changed for the worse, then take comfort in the surety that things can change again for the better.

As you get older, you will join people like me who complain about how life is too short. But it really isn't. It's long enough to look back and be happy for what you've had, and definitely long enough to look forward to all the good and better things that can still lie ahead. And it's long enough to enjoy good music from bands like Tears for Fears.

Love,

Dad

Letters to Marge (Chapter 29): Who are you?

Dearest Marge,

Who are you?

I took you to ballet class one sleepy saturday. And after shooing you into the studio, i proceeded to try and watch you and the entire class from behind through the breaks in the window blinds.

Call me an idiot for a dad, but for a couple of seconds, i couldn't tell which one was you. See, each and every one of you were in your cute pink ballerina uniforms and doing your damnedest best to follow your teacher. Except one kid standing in the front row who couldn't keep still and incessantly chatted with the other girl beside her. Yup, that was you, kid. A long time ago, i remember being told about another kid couldn't sit still. That kid still can't. Not even while waiting for his little girl go through ballet class.

At three and a half years old, it's still too soon to tell if you will grow up into which of the following: a general, a trooper, or what i've come to refer to as S.W.A.T.

No, we have no plans of drafting you into the military! Let me explain what i mean...

I believe that people are born hardwired as certain kinds of people.

As of this writing, there are over six billion people on the planet. That's six billion unique people with unique thoughts, unique sets of talents, unique habits, unique this and that and so on. So yes, despite the cutesy pink ballet uniforms, you are absolutely unique. When you grow up, you can choose to play on the strengths of your uniqueness, or you can choose to keep putting on uniforms, whether to become a nameless trooper in an army following orders or eventually becoming a general and giving them.

Or you may be a S.W.A.T. (my own lame version of this acronym is: Special Wants And Talents)

SWATs in the army are usually only called when their unique abilities and personalities are really needed. They do not necessarily conform to the regular regimen of the "everyday troopers." They are still soldiers and are part of the whole concept of defense and law enforcement, but on their operations, they make their own rules.

Your dad is a S.W.A.T.

It does not make me better or worse than generals (like your Uncle Pom), or troopers (like your Uncle Wilson). But it does make me "me."

Sometimes, i admire one of them for their command of people. Sometimes, i envy the other one for their simple outlook in life. But i have tried and found myself utterly uncomfortable in their skins. So i have settled into my own and have not looked back much. I still find myself wishing i was this or that, but i have found my life to be much more peaceful inside upon settling on the person i have decided to define myself to be.

The sooner you define yourself and stick to it, the sooner you will be at peace with your space in the infinite spectra of personality. It allows you to still stretch yourself and reach out, but at least your heart and mind will be anchored somewhere. So while you learn new things, meet new people, and see new places as you go on through life, all these things will enrich your life, without changing who you are.
'catch you later.

Love,
Dad

Letters to Marge (Chapter 28): Happy Halloween

(Originally published last November 1, 2011 in that OTHER blog...)


Dearest Margaret...

It's been a whole two months since my last post on this blog. Oh well, life seems to have taken over...

And i know that i said i had decided on ending this series of letters, i guess today i finally found myself bored enough without anything particularly intesting to write about, so i decided yet again to do another one.

You called me on the phone a while ago. A simple, short phone call that wasnt particularly earth shattering, nor memorable. We didnt talk about food, movies, books, politics, or even your mother. But it sure made the day of one bored dad who had to sit and wander around the store all day while you, mom, and a handful of others went to the beach. Paying my dues, i suppose...

But you called. And you made my day. Thanks, sweetie,

Around a couple of decades from now, when i've become for you the pest your mother swears i am when i'm not looking, nor listening, please give me a call once in a while. By then, you and i can talk about food, movies, books, politics, and yes, even your mother. Or, you can just ring me up to say hello-how's-life-dad-sorry-gotta-go. And i would answer and tell you that i'm doing just fine. Probably shorter than that shampoo commercial that just flashed on your screen right this very second. But believe you me, that phone call will always make my day.

So, here's a note to future Marge... Call me. Please.

Love,

Dad

P.S. Happy Halloween!
P.P.S. call mom, too, while you're at it.

'catch you later, kid.

Letters to Marge: Chapter 27 (See you in the future...)

Dearest Margaret,

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything in here. You’ve learned how to sort of “really” talk for over half a year or so now, so what I might have written here before, I have been saying to you personally.

You should know that as of now, your mother and I classify you as quite noisy, but adorably so.

So far, it has been quite a wonderful year or so since my last e-letter. Your young achievements so far include:

- Finally starting to go to school.

- Going to ballet school

- Talking in fully comprehensible sentences
- Having seen the following movies in a cinema (in no particular order): Rango, Tangled, Mars needs Moms, Kung Fu Panda, Shrek, complete with gorging on pop corn.
- You also like taking pictures

Little quirks you have developed so far include:

- Calling all forms of meat on the dining table as “Chicken”

- Learning to discriminate and prefer low-fat milk, because “mommy said…”

- Holding my head and face and turning me to the direction of whatever it is you’re talking about.

- Being an absolute camera-whore

Oh, and you have thus far been able to spell and write your name. Congratulations, baby.

But I am sad to say that this is for now my last letter to you in this series. Because instead of writing to you about things, I am currently able to say them to you face to face. A much better deal, frankly.

So while this letter seems to sound like a long-winded goodbye, it really is my “official” hello to a fully talking you (batteries not included, nor needed).

I love you.

‘catch you later.

Dad

Letters to Marge (Chapter 26): Watching you sleeping...

Dear Margaret...

I watched you sleeping... And i imagine you must be dreaming of cupcakes in the clouds, flying fish, and dogs that talk and makes jokes with you.

The yellow bricks on the road before you must be lined with little flowers that bat their eyelashes at you when you walk by. At the very least, because your own eyes are no less beautiful.

How big is the world for you to yet know, so many more colors than the forty eight crayons you doodle with, so much more music beyond the little rhymes we sing together with your mother. So much more life ahead...

Wake up tomorrow to a beautiful sun that may not last forever, but will shine for you and make blue skies and turquoise oceans that wrap the earth while you walk on it.

Do not forget to smile and look for the good in people before thinking ill of them. At least for now, while the innocence has not left you.

Walk through the day knowing that you are loved like the moon is loved by the stars that shine around her. The very stars that watch over you tonight like i do.

Love,

Dad

Letters to Marge (Chapter 25): Another Pointless Weekend 020511

Dear Marge,

So last weekend was totally unexciting and uneventful.

And i loved it.

Between a brief morning meeting for me, a morning dental appointment for your mom, Saturday found us lazing away at the house ALL DAY. And yes, i loved it.

Sunday wasn’t any better. After a restful Saturday night, we went to hear mass, then proceeded to take your grandfather out to lunch in Chinatown. This was followed by an afternoon at a mall in what used to be the Rockwell Power Plant in Makati. The mall is called (in a rather tongue-in-cheek naming) the Powerplant.

Yep, you guessed it... i loved it.

As life goes on, you may find yourself always on the run. Running after deadlines, running from people who you have deadlines for, or simply trying to get more out of each day as though it were your last. Sometimes with barely enough time to sit down for lunch.  Well, these are not necessarily bad since being wanted and sought after is a pretty neat way to live, too. But that shouldn’t be the status quo, so to speak. And to have a weekend like the one you, me and your mother just had is something special.

We ran into more than a handful of people in that small mall in a big city: we ran into a cousin and her husband, another cousin’s husband and their son, an old college friend, an Indian supplier, two old ad clients, and at least three celebrities that your mother and i know, who we’re sure don’t know us.

You had mango ice cream, your mother bought you a gray jacket at Zara that i’m sure you will not wear because it isn't pink, and i bought another Transformer toy on sale for P400 which is so hard to play with that i swear they hired the guy who designed the f*cking Rubik’s cube to do those damn robots.

And freshly roasted pork jerky.

'hear that? i loved it.

The last weekend was filled with absolutely unimportant things to do. Exactly what weekends are for, my dear. Don’t forget to have some of those from time to time. Even in the supposed prime of your life.

There was one thing important in all that: giving you more reasons to run around, laugh, and just be happy for no real reason other than being alive.

I love you.

Dad

Letters To Marge (Chapter 24): A Tale of Two Cities and a Mobile Home

This was taken on New Year's Eve
of 2011 (So that's December 31, 2010),
just to be clear.

Dearest Margaret,

You are a child of two cities, Manila and Baguio City.  Three, if you include San Diego, where we had you retrieved from a freezer tank, thawed like bacon, then shoved into your mom. But more on that some other time.

At this point, the three of us have been on the road a lot. Yup, A LOT. We drive up and down so daddy (yours truly) can keep his little ad house running in Manila, while doing his share of work for the family business in Baguio City. Lots of people i know maintain more than one business, but i’m probably the only guy i know who’s regularly involved in two companies that are literally 5 hours apart. i know what i put you and mom through. And i am both grateful and apologetic at the same time. To both you and your mom, but mostly your mom since you didn't know jack about what the heck was going on.

So your mother has two houses to take care of, one with a nice garden and lots of flowers, a big kitchen, two living rooms, and an old piano she has no idea how to play. The other house is smack in cosmopolitan Manila, a bit tiny, but is our very first home, and your mom really poured her heart into making it a nice place to live. Lucky her, huh?

So which one is home?

Well... at some point, when one is on the road so often, and one can literally choose from a whole bunch of addresses and know that one will still get his mail (is there still mail by the time you read this?), it becomes almost bothersome to have to label just one place “home.” But for me, it no longer matters where the roof i’m under is in. As long as you and your mom are with me, then i know i’m home.

In a world that gets smaller every day, we often don’t have the time to settle our asses in just one couch long enough to call it home. So always keep tabs on the people you love and love you back even more (oh my, guess who those are?), wherever there are people who love you, who will take you in and accept you for everything... yup, you guessed it... you’re home, kid.

Come home to us anytime, baby.

Love,

Dad

Letters to Marge (Chapter 23): Breakfast, and a stupid phone camera that got misty...

Dear Marge,

I would like to tell you a little story about breakfast...

* * * * * * * *

I woke up knowing i just farted from the cold. Not sure if i smelled it, or i just felt i did, or i simply assumed i just farted because the cold weather has been making me fart a lot lately.

After reading the above, please look up “fart.”

Done? Great. Let’s keep going...

You and your mom were already awake, and i quickly offered to do what i’ve been doing for your mom for the past ten years. No, silly. Not THAT (whatever it is you’re thinking). I meant breakfast. As in pancakes and bacon. As expected, you pleaded to join me down to the kitchen. The photo above shows you trying your hand at stirring the batter.

Now these photos show you eating, while i finished up the stack, then followed by photos of us bringing it to mom.

numnumnum...

There. That was this morning. It’s a Saturday.

‘catch you later.

Love,

Dad



you giving mommy a hug after

serving her breakfast. The camera

on the phone fogged up. resulting

in this stupid blurry photo.





you offered me a bite.



parting shot



Letters to Marge (Chapter 22): All About You

Greetings, Kiddo...


This is Happy the Poodle

As you may probably guess, you already talk by now. Not talk in the “Dad, there’s something i need to tell you about what happened at the prom...” talk (Lord, I hope NOT!!), but talk in the “blankie... me me me... watch Dora...” kind of talk (which is really quite adorable, while you’re still under three years old. Any further up, then we’re in trouble, kid.).

But i write this now to tell you about funky little tidbits at this point in your life that will fade with time (unless i can do something about it... something new and groundbreaking... like... err... uh... blog!?!?! Bwahahahahaha...). Anyways...

Here goes:

1. You used to describe something hot by saying “ca-ca.” Most likely stemming from the tagalog word “kakapaso,” i think. But you’ve grown past this one. Just like you’ve grown past pointing your index finger up instead of your thumb to express your approval.

It’s October, 2010, and you can now say “hot,” “very hot,” and even “warm.” Cool, huh?

2. Your mother tricks you into drinking any beverage she wants you to by prefixing everything with the word “Choco.” (e.g. white fresh milk is called “white choco milk,” and plain water (which is

good for you) is referred to as “choco water,” “Choco-medicine,” etc.).

The bad news is that it works. You’re being had, kiddo! So one day, if she says that she never lied to you, you can log back in here and show her this. Bwahahahahahahahahaha...!

3. You are now very good at naming things you see. Quite smart for your age, actually. But you always call pictures of little dogs “Happy.” Most likely naming them after our dog “Happy,” who is the smallest member of the bunch.

4. You love joining me in making popcorn, where i let you help me slice off a chunk of butter and throw it into the pot. The same way i let you help me beat the eggs when we make pancakes.

5. You love pink. Seriously. So if one day you grow to become some black-clad emo-goth who thinks the Care Bears must die, then remember that once in your life, you genuinely loved pink.

6. You love Dora. The photo at left is your favourite pair of shoes. Dora-edition Crocs. We are waiting until this pair gives you bunions, so you’ll finally give them up.

7. You also used to have this funny roll call where you point, then say: “YOU mommy”... point again, then say: “YOU daddy”...then finally point to yourself and say: “YOU Maaaaaarge...” By now though, you’ve learned the word “ME” and use it often. A little too often...

8. And as of October 3 of this year, your mother has effectively eliminated your dependence on your comfort blanket (a.k.a. “lampin,” “bwankie.”). Let’s see how long that lasts. Heh heh...

I’ll keep ‘em coming, kid. You just keep doing what you do.

‘catch you later.

Love,

Dad

Letters to Marge (Chapter 21): Father's Day

Dear Marge,

Yesterday was supposedly Father’s Day. Happy Father’s Day to me. Yipee. You’re only a month over 2 years old, and still can’t greet me. But every time you reach for me and plead “carry...”, it feels even better than Father’s Day every time.

But hey, i’m not a father without you, of course. So if i get that cool “father’s club” greeting, it will be because of you. And best of all, you make being a father really fun, and totally great.

So i don’t care what kind of lame-ass marketing they threw around yesterday. Father’s Day was YOUR day, Marge-baby, because THIS father is YOUR father. You make being a dad cool.

By the way, you love positioning yourself at the edge of a bed, then telling me “jump!” which means that you’re asking me to catch you, and i do. Your mother hates it when we do that. She thinks you’ll hurt yourself with that stunt someday. (Just thought i’d say that...)

So, was Father’s Day exceptionally happy? Hell, no. Every day is happy, when you’re around.

‘catch you later, kid.

Love,

Dad

Letters to Marge (Chapter 21, prologue): Busy busy busy... zipping to and fro...

Hey there, Marge...

Been a hectic few days, kid.
You, me and your mom drove back to Manila last 14th, then dad went to work in Maverick for a day on the 15th, then early on the 16th, the three of us flew to Hong Kong to work on what will become a bad back ache from the shopping and carrying you, along with foot blisters from all the walking.

Above injuries are almost exclusively belonging to this author. (More on the trip in the next blog entry, hopefully.) But yes, I happily blame YOU. Operative word: "HAPPILY."

We flew back to Manila yesterday (June 19th), then quickly drove up to Baguio to get ourselves ready for your uncle’s elaborate Super-duper Chino-Oriental engagement party, referred to in Chinese as the “ting-hoon.” (More on that in another post. Again, hopefully.)

And now we’re back and settled in Baguio for the remainder of the week, then dad has to drag you guys back to Manila for him to run a little house called Maverick. Hopefully sooner than later since dad is quite homesick, Maverick-wise.

But pardon me for rambling as i usually do... on to another post... the supposedly REAL post...

Travel Blog Entry Preview (but not the next post. am i confusing you? don't worry, i'm confusing myself): photo at right shows you waiting for your first Hong Kong meal.

‘catch you later.

Love,

Dad

Letters to Marge (Chapter 20): Pizza and Parenting

Dear Marge,

Today is the very first time you prepared food. Your mom and i were there, but we weren’t totally there. We were busy stuffing ourselves with chilli crabs, homemade ice cream, medium rare steak, and more. A LOT more...

But you supposedly put together the little bite-sized pizza you and your nanny-of-the-day brought to the table.  You were proud of it, your mom and i were both amazed and said our “wows.”

We totally neglected to take photos of your first food foray. We were already half an hour out of the hotel when your mom exclaimed that we didn’t take photos, and even worse, didn’t even take a single bite.   We’re bad parents.  Photo on the upper right is sort of what your little pizza looked like.

The photo at left is obviously you. You were totally knocked out after all the fringe buffet food you downed at the Hyatt’s Market Cafe (photo below).  And yes, pointlessly, this is the first time you made food, and we didn’t even take a bite.

Sorry, baby. Won’t happen again. We’ll try everything you make next time, even if it means a week’s worth of diarhea.

Love you.

Dad

Letters to Marge (Chapter 19): One Finger

Dearest Marge...

First things first… HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY! You turned 2 today!!!

On to this letter… Last election day (May 10, 2010), you almost lost your index finger. Your playfulness found you sticking your finger through the grills of an electric fan. Good thing all you got was a little cut.

The day marks the first time you cut yourself in an accident of your own doing. It is no exageration when i say that your mom and i were totally nervous. Relieved that you sustained a relatively minor injury, but nervous because it could have been so much worse. And you could have gone through the rest of your life sticking your left hand's middle finger at everybody.

As you go on through life, you will do various things that might result in you hurting yourself in various ways. Some physical, and mostly emotional. But the most important thing you should remember is that like your finger, wounds heal sooner or later. Nature has made it so.

Which isn't to say that you should not be careful. But it should tell you to have faith that no matter how bad things get, things can and will get better with time.

In time, you may or may not hear about a very dark time in our little family's life. And at more than one point, your mother and i were more than tempted to believe it was better to quit, not while we were ahead, but while we weren't as behind as we could be if screwed up any more than we already did. Or at least screwed up as much more as she feared i would.

On another note, that day should also tell you to not stick your finger where it doesn't belong. And as you get older, fingers will become a very tricky subject. But better take care of yours, just to be sure of things.

You be careful, sweetheart. You were blessed enough to have been born with an appendage and organ count considered normal by human standards. Doesn't sound like a big deal right now, but if events last Election Day turned just a wee bit differently, you'd look for that finger whenever you see a piano, think of picking your nose with your left hand, or want to give some idiot the "loser" sign if your right hand was busy holding a frappuccino.

Unless you grow up not liking frappuccinos.

I love you, baby.

Dad

Letters to Marge (Chapter 18): S'Mother's Day...

My Dearest Margaret...

Today is your mother’s second “official” Mother’s Day. The first “unofficial” one was when she was pregnant with you. That was practically just a bit over a week from when you were born.

Soooo... as of today, you were still too young to greet her, or supposedly give her that “honor” of greeting her. But she totally feels the love, kiddo... so i greeted her for you, anyways... and yes, i’m still doing my best to kiss your mother’s ass (literally and figuratively...).

Your mom is a great, great gal... let me tell you a little something about her...

Growing up, your mom always knew what it was like to make a living. I have thrown in here a bonus handful of old photographs of your mom in various stages and ages of her young life. I have selected the least hilarious and embarrassing, by the way... but you can tell from the photos that even as a little girl, your mother was beautiful. Just like you.

At the time we were about to get married, she was maintaining a little clothing shop back in Angeles, Pampanga. She saw herself through an additional two years of school to get a full degree, and supported herself and her mom (your grandmother) from that shop.

Not too long after your mom and i got married, she sold the rights to that little old shop and moved to Manila with me. She proceeded to open a little food place near the University of Santo Tomas, where your dad sweet-talked his way to a degree in architecture a handful of years before. I have since used that degree to design the dresser in your bedroom, design some really cute baggage counters for your other grandmother’s store, and our units on Plumbing & Utilities has enabled me to perform immediate repairs on the water closets at home, as well as courageously change the lighting fixtures even while the switches are on.

When she was finally, thankfully pregnant, she gave up the food place, and poured all her time and love to that little angel gently kicking inside her belly. And yes, that little angel was you. It wasn’t easy for us to become parents. In fact, when i had all but given up, your mom didn’t. She really wanted us to have you. She didn’t care what on earth she was injecting herself with, what meds she had to take, or how much anaesthesia she had to sniff or get pricked which was followed by her saying a string of funny, crazy things to the doctor. She really wanted us to have you.

You are special to us, not only because you are our child. But also because we begged God for you for almost eight years. Especially your mom. You live right now, because of her more than anyone. Even more than me, i must admit.

Your mom has consistently found something productive to do since she wanted to remain relatively independent, even after she gave birth to you. She sold little foodstuffs to canteen operators in local schools and has made a nice living doing those. She has saved all that money up for you, kiddo. Remember this twelve years from now when you bug her for shopping money and she says she doesn’t have any. I grant you the right to cackle like a witch and keep asking her... bwahahahahaha...

On some days, you and your mom will find yourselves not agreeing on a few things, and you may resent her for keeping you from things you may think you may want or should have, or from things you may think you should be doing. Or, your personalities may find themselves totally clashing on a bad day. When any of those things happen, please click your way back to this page and read the above.

Whenever you read this, greet your mother a Happy Mother’s Day, and that can be any time of the year, and for any number of days you will want.

And should YOU already be a mother while you are reading this, Happy Mother’s Day to you, my dear daughter. I’m sure you’re doing as great a job on my grandchildren as your mom did on you.

Love,

Dad

P.S. so far, your teeth are great. And yes, you have your mother to thank for that. She has great teeth, too.

Letters to Marge (Chapter 17): Touching Base 050210

Dear Marge...

Now where was i...?

Been a while since i last wrote you one of these... By now, you’ve learned to say your name (or something close to it, anyways...). Although at this point, you still pronounce it as “Marsh.” You can now identify dozens of things correctly, and your current favourite word is “no.”

You are now a proponent of this wonderful family phenomenon called the “group hug,” as illustrated in the inserted photo.

Pretty soon, we’ll start having some real conversation where you will ask me things, then refuse to believe them unless you google it, or catch it on the Discovery channel. You’ve already gotten tired of M&M’s, still refuse to try using your potty trainer, but can now inform us of the presence of “pooh,” or excrement in your diapers.

Where you used to have this cute way of pointing a finger upwards to indicate your approval, you have devolved to the rather pedestrian thumbs-up, as shown in this photo where you enjoy a slice of pepper steak at Alfredo’s along Tomas Morato, one of your mom and dad’s favourite places.

You like to eat fish, and love sniffing flowers in the garden... (a.k.a. “fwowers...”)

You and mommy are napping at home, and my brains are melting from spending a no-brainer Sunday at the Harrison Road store... And this is where i end today’s e-time capsule... no lectures or anything today...

‘catch you later, baby...

Love,

Dad

P.S. on the way up here yesterday, we drove through a Jollibee, then proceeded to present you with a thigh of Chickenjoy... this was followed by a loud and gratifying "WOW..." from you upon seeing the food... cool...

...a REAL Saturday.

A Saturday with no serious agenda is a real Saturday in my humble opinion.

So today is/was a real Saturday.

Wife asked me to wash the van before we head out to our “no agenda” day and i concurred. Only to be reminded while doing so, that being 5'5” is a total bitch... washed the vehicle’s roof on a step ladder and was abso-tively certain i was going to fall off and scratch the side of van... thank heavens for some serious rubber traction on the ladder’s legs.

* * * * * * * *

Drove to the Medical City for an important, but not urgent errand... had a late lunch with Marge and the wifey at Amici, Tomas Morato... brought Marge home... then crashed into a droll-looking Gruppo Barbero along Tomas Morato for some hand, foot, and ear pampering... then he-who-is-known-by-his-adoring-public-as-Michael-V comes in with his son for haircuts. Serious-looking and sounding dude... considering he’s practically one of the funniest guys filling up the TV screens. At least after the political campaigning is over... right now, nothing’s funnier than the preposterousness of many of the campaign ads running on TV. So yeah... for now, Michael V isn’t the funniest guy on TV. I give that to Manny Villar... everyone else is a close second.

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Went to Robinson’s Supermarket in that new condo building along Timog before heading home. Had to grab a few little things to round dinner up.

Was approached by one of those Nestle promo girls for their “let’s check your health and wellness” campaign. She offered the wife and i a “free assessment” on supposed things like height vs. Weight ratio and all that... told her, i already knew i was short and fat.

Then added that at least i know there are shorter and fatter people running around on the planet. So yeah... i’m fine with my “wellness.”

And while i have had my share of bad copywriting throughout my supposed ad-man career, some things are so bad they’re good... anyone for seafood? Try dropping by Robinson’s Supermarkets’ “Lenten FISH-tival.” Bwahahahahahaha...!

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My favourite masseuse desperately keeps trying to squash my “bayabas-sized” lipoma on my lower back around forty five minutes after a home-cooked dinner of munggo and galunggong... and now i’m blogging...

Now THIS is a real Saturday.

‘catch you later...

Letters to Marge: (Chapter 16) Breakfast and Holding On...

Dear Margaret...

Three days ago, we were in our Baguio house, and I woke up at around 7:15am. A bit earlier than usual, so i headed down to the kitchen to make breakfast for your mom.

Lo and behold... look who i found just freshly up from bed? Yep... it was you, kiddo...

So i promptly took you from your nanny, and proceeded to bring you downstairs for a steaming mug of Milo on that fine, cool and misty Thursday morning. You and i shared a single mug, alternately sipping. And before i proceeded to put your mom’s omelette together, we took a short stroll in the garden that slightly sparkled with morning dew drops on the leaves of the bushes and flowers.

When your mom came down to eat, i propped you up on my lap, and you ate with us a simple omelette of spicy spam, onions and tomatoes.

Before i left for work, you puckered up for a kiss, then waved me goodbye.

It is among the most beautiful memories i have of us... thank you for being such a wonderful child.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

As i write this, your mom and i have been having a pretty rough six months. And i don’t mean sandpaper rough, kid... we’re talking roller coaster running through the Grand Canyon without railway rough.

Your mom and i are still very much in love. But sometimes there are mistakes that cut really deep, and take a lot of time to heal. It’s difficult, and many in our shoes just throw in the towel and give up. But your mom and i aren’t like that. We’re both stubborn fighters, just like you’re going to be.

I’m praying that one day your mom and i are going to be able to look back at all this, and maybe not laugh (since this really is no laughing matter), but breathe a sigh of relief that we survived it. We’ll look at you and your beautiful almond eyes then, we’ll all smile together, and life will go on the way life is supposed to.

So far, we’re pulling through relatively well enough, and a lot of that has to do with you. Through the haze of vodka, and misty evenings clouded by tears of pain, regret, and flickering hope, you come through like the angel we’ve always called you to be.

For now, thank you so much, my daughter. I will make it up to you and mom...

When you’re old enough, ask me about this. I promise i’ll tell you EVERYTHING.

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When i was asked to say a few words at the wedding of Mike and Zeth, i said that “...married life is like a roller coaster... and that the most important thing in a marriage is to keep holding on, no matter what...”

But that’s not just something for marriage, kiddo. In life, when you love someone or something so much, hold on. Do everything you can to hold on. When your head tells you to let go, but your heart doesn’t, don’t. But when your heart really has tired and asks you to let go, then by all means, let go and move on.

My heart is telling me to hold on, and best of all, there’s a little voice from a little almond-eyed girl, who keeps smiling and laughing, that keeps cheering me on.

Thanks again, kiddo.

‘catch you later...

Love,

Dad