tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72989213400548811002023-12-23T18:12:10.226+08:00Here, Tishie TishieFamily, friends, food, Frisbee, fashion, fun...<br>Life is f-in' good!Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.comBlogger368125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-60781485854334600372017-10-31T21:50:00.001+08:002017-10-31T22:38:45.191+08:00Pause<div style="text-align: justify;">
So my knee's busted up.</div>
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About a week ago, during scrimmage, I was sprinting hard to the left before I abruptly changed direction to try and save the disc. I felt my knee twist and heard a series of cracks before I went down. At that point, I was more overcome by fear than by pain. And when our captain firmly said, "No lifting. No running," that's the only time I teared up.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBGECIVOxzD0WFyUv7cMhCVN5m-0ziKsD0tSs2PY1ALnkuQBVgw0d6u5-8tGmADvEDaaBoJ8eC_zRBpQHYBbHGVm8dJ7jxn_maFV5A7X3Cx0ieT3c-jKXIooBSvYeX6Rur2QVNHS-V2R4p/s1600/catch.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBGECIVOxzD0WFyUv7cMhCVN5m-0ziKsD0tSs2PY1ALnkuQBVgw0d6u5-8tGmADvEDaaBoJ8eC_zRBpQHYBbHGVm8dJ7jxn_maFV5A7X3Cx0ieT3c-jKXIooBSvYeX6Rur2QVNHS-V2R4p/s400/catch.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Two weeks before</span></i></div>
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With a major tournament coming up in a few weeks, I wanted to know what was what, so I went to see an orthopedic surgeon (someone I've been good friends with for two decades). He asked me what happened and examined me, and said he was "90 percent sure it's a meniscus tear, but the ACL seems intact." I told him about my upcoming tournament, my voice dripping with the sound of hope (<i>Please tell me I can play,</i> it implied). "Oh, honey," he sighed. "There's always next year." He said we could wait it out to see if there was any improvement, or I could go get an MRI scan so we would know right away. Being the impatient person that I am, I opted for the MRI.</div>
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I don't think I've ever believed in anything as much as I believed in that 10%. I was so confident, so sure that it was nothing but a sprain. For a few days, I was haunted by that terrible sound--I shuddered as that <i>crrrrack-crrrrack-crrrrack</i> of my knee played over and over in my head. But I told myself it just sounded a lot like the really bad ankle sprain I got years ago. I was walking (OK, hobbling). I didn't really feel any pain except when I bent or twisted my leg. The only reason I took pain meds was to manage the swelling, but other than that I could do without.</div>
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I went to get my MRI results in great spirits. Finally, the little anxiety I had (if any) would be put to rest. I would be proven right. I was giddy thinking about how happy I would be to put this silliness behind me and be given the go-signal to work out.</div>
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And then I read it. Some parts of the summary jumped out at me:</div>
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<i>Complex tear involving the posterior horn of the lateral meniscus, extending to the superior and inferior articular surfaces.</i></blockquote>
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At this point, I felt my stomach sink. But it got worse: </div>
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<i>Complete tear of the anterior cruciate ligament.</i></blockquote>
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<i>Mild to moderate grade partial tears involving the medial and fibular collateral ligaments.</i></blockquote>
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I was stunned. I was heartbroken. At worst, I thought it would be a meniscus tear that would need surgery and six weeks' recovery time. But this? This meant I was out for at least six <i>months</i>.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1v-rbimMokmtfLknTGpwhCK-uPOW3R906hXuNABMiL8HhETsyd12bgypeAMojv7f3olh23PXfusAXGuMQxJemMEt4KqD7SDstSR2BkW346oVBcYQg7MoZe0FxrM8WqqCyVrCqRadcaeZt/s1600/22814129_10155881270281457_7224927049775641525_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1v-rbimMokmtfLknTGpwhCK-uPOW3R906hXuNABMiL8HhETsyd12bgypeAMojv7f3olh23PXfusAXGuMQxJemMEt4KqD7SDstSR2BkW346oVBcYQg7MoZe0FxrM8WqqCyVrCqRadcaeZt/s320/22814129_10155881270281457_7224927049775641525_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Can they see my broken heart in my MRI results?</i></span></div>
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My doctor's first question: "Do you want to be competitive again?" I was still in shock, still trying to process everything, but without a doubt, the answer was yes. And that meant surgery. I was in a haze as we talked in general terms about the procedure and costs and recovery time. "Why are you crying? You can still walk! You'll get through this!" he said, upbeat. I knew there was much to be thankful for, and there was no doubt in my mind that I would come back from it, but the whole situation still sucked. For someone who works out almost every day, six months feels like an eternity.</div>
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I'd pretty much reformed my eating habits as I was committed to reaching my fitness goal by the end of the year. But the weekend I got the results, there was a whole lot of emotional eating going on. (There was also a lot of swearing and just utter disbelief.) But I gave myself a deadline, and told myself I wasn't going to wallow after that. I was going to re-commit to eating clean since that's the only thing I could really do, and I was going to come back stronger.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0k4p6Zx900Pk22LVkDksUOGo2yURCfzV7uxQV20hLTibHLJ1p80XSgciWqfmRXKEpNKHoT_Pt2k-U7RCSIA8ASqI8YtyY936Y_TOuNR7dFYnm5_nFnMIC6k7edyw4egzXL9a9fx8s-ky3/s1600/22855710_10155881256936457_2018249951_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="539" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0k4p6Zx900Pk22LVkDksUOGo2yURCfzV7uxQV20hLTibHLJ1p80XSgciWqfmRXKEpNKHoT_Pt2k-U7RCSIA8ASqI8YtyY936Y_TOuNR7dFYnm5_nFnMIC6k7edyw4egzXL9a9fx8s-ky3/s320/22855710_10155881256936457_2018249951_n.jpg" width="179" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">My IG story says it all</span></i></div>
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One of my best friends, M, remarked that mentally, I seem to be in a different place than I was a few months ago. I seem stronger. And she's right. I have absolute confidence that I'll be back (even with nega people telling me it took them years or blah blah--I tend to tune them out). I've asked those who've had similar injuries about the toughest parts of recovery, and I'm preparing myself to face those challenges. It helps that I'm getting so much support and encouragement from friends and family.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>My moral support, I, when I got my results</i></span></div>
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I remember at my son's parent-teacher conference, his teacher mentioned that my kid is "single-minded"; when he puts his mind to one thing, he fully commits to it. And I marveled at that because at that time, I felt so unfocused. I wondered where he got it from. Now I'm starting to see that, hey, maybe he got it from me.</div>
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As with every other crappy thing that has happened this year, this made me wonder what the universe was trying to tell me. "The universe doesn't want me to get abs." "The universe is telling me to take a break from ultimate." And, with the looming cost of surgery: "The universe is telling me to get a job!" But one of my best friends, P, was more insightful: "With everything that's happening to you, it's like the universe is telling you to pause. And maybe redirect your attention to other things." </div>
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And I think she may be right, too. (This is why she and M are my best friends.) This "pause" has allowed me to revisit some of my dreams, and they're starting to take shape. And the focus and drive I have when it comes to recovery is spilling over to this neglected area of my life.</div>
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When I had to tell the staff that our beloved magazine was being killed a few months ago, I said, "This could be the best thing that happens to you." I'm repeating these words to myself now. This injury, this pause, could be the best thing that ever happens to me.</div>
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-80663314500941886492017-09-14T14:42:00.000+08:002017-09-14T14:46:34.781+08:00Coming Clean<div style="text-align: justify;">
I've had many attempts over the years to get my best body ever. I used to think I could outrun the way I ate, but the older I got, the less viable that became. In recent years, I've heard that abs are made in the kitchen, not in the gym; that being in shape is 70% food and 30% working out (or 80-20? The point is, it's mostly about the food). And I know that a week of eating clean does more for my body than a week of working out.</div>
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But try as I might, I always seem to falter after a few weeks. I get sugar out of my system, and I get headaches when I have a taste. But the taste turns into a serving, and soon I'm addicted again. It's an endless cycle. And I never quite understood people who would say, "I worked out so hard. I don't want to ruin it with a piece of cake." My thing was always: I work out hard <i>so that</i> I can eat cake.</div>
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Yesterday was the culmination of a few days of binge-eating, which started on a trip to Singapore. (My willpower likewise went on vacation.) I rarely eat burgers nowadays, but I couldn't resist 8 Cuts' P88 Day. I got me a Q Daddy, which had a quarter-pound of beef, peppered onion tanglers, jalapeno-garlic-ranch-tossed lettuce chiffonade, house-made smoked bacon, sharp yellow cheddar, Sauce no. 3, and sweetly spiced BBQ sauce. (And I also got spaghetti because there was a two-order minimum per person.)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOoGYuvz4BcoAXL8pOG_xqzP433FZ9DY_3b_DCNbhWyiq3h6w81MZnC0h9cHhEt0nlWtsWc3yyv1R8SJtUapyCoI-DvaRuE2zUErjO5APCXVBO8H1Zue5G-3RiG39_QSHWb0Xi25zdM2sZ/s1600/IMG_2404.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOoGYuvz4BcoAXL8pOG_xqzP433FZ9DY_3b_DCNbhWyiq3h6w81MZnC0h9cHhEt0nlWtsWc3yyv1R8SJtUapyCoI-DvaRuE2zUErjO5APCXVBO8H1Zue5G-3RiG39_QSHWb0Xi25zdM2sZ/s320/IMG_2404.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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It was glorious. And I told myself that I would enjoy the burger without guilt or regret. But in the back of my mind, I knew I would have to pay for it. I had worked out that morning, but I resolved to go for a run that evening.</div>
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So last night, after much hemming and hawing, I laced up my running shoes and went. And I hated every damn minute of it.</div>
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That's when I finally understood all my friends with admirable willpower. As I huffed and puffed my way up those little hills, I realized: I hated running more than I hated giving up junk. You just get more bang for your fitness buck by saying "no" to the bad stuff, than by suffering through a 45-minute run. I resolved to eat to fuel my runs, not to run so I could eat.</div>
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So here I am, recommitting to eating clean, but with a different why this time. I just don't want to keep running up and down those damn hills any more than I have to.</div>
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I normally start my day with a healthy breakfast so that if sh*t should happen during the day, I would at least have had one good-for-me meal: smoothie bowls, scrambled eggs, homemade granola, Greek yogurt are staples at home. Today, I added something new to my repertoire. My son wanted pancakes, so we made flourless ones (recipe below). This is me trying to convince myself that even when I'm eating clean, I don't have to feel kawawa--I can have my (pan)cake and eat it, too.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0I0MOMIcVY4lJpNyHsltRezy6xVyGf6oWMgbvlF-E9qO0R6GdSNVJ8LBiqSYFOBgfb5XeLdYLKJi588FKqOBSpXv2fDLx_1tarxInZPda3-nDBkJrQ8edcc-0fjjG6oGRCWp8BecjiJ69/s1600/IMG_2411.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0I0MOMIcVY4lJpNyHsltRezy6xVyGf6oWMgbvlF-E9qO0R6GdSNVJ8LBiqSYFOBgfb5XeLdYLKJi588FKqOBSpXv2fDLx_1tarxInZPda3-nDBkJrQ8edcc-0fjjG6oGRCWp8BecjiJ69/s320/IMG_2411.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>Flourless Banana Pancakes</b> (original recipe from <a href="http://simply-delicious-food.com/easy-healthy-banana-oat-pancakes/" target="_blank">here</a>; I just added vanilla*)</div>
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<i>Takes</i> about 20 minutes</div>
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<i>Makes</i> 6 small pancakes</div>
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<i>Ingredients</i></div>
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2 bananas</div>
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2 eggs</div>
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1/2 cup oats</div>
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1/2 teaspoon baking powder</div>
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1/4 tsp vanilla extract</div>
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Pinch of salt</div>
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1 Place all ingredients in a blender and blend until smooth. Let stand about 10 minutes.</div>
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2 Pour a small amount into a nonstick pan and cook over low heat until golden brown, about 40 seconds a side.</div>
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3 Serve with honey, maple syrup, or sugar-free nut butter.</div>
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*You can also add cinnamon or chocolate chips, or top with fruit and/or walnuts.</div>
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Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-52343435955425131112017-04-07T08:00:00.000+08:002017-04-07T16:35:51.607+08:00The Saltwater Cure<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Two years ago, </i>Smart Parenting<i> magazine asked me to write about my most memorable summer with my kid. And since he was only two, I only had two summers to choose from, and both of them were intensely personal: one was about the time I got my heart broken, and the other was about the time I started to heal. I was hesitant to open up because I didn't ever talk or write about these things in public. But that's the magic of a deadline. Lol.</i></div>
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<i>In honor of Boracay Open, which I'm missing this year, I'm republishing the piece I wrote. </i></div>
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~*~*~*~ </div>
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Almost every year, I go to Boracay for the annual Boracay Open, an ultimate Frisbee tournament which attracts teams from all over the world. Last year, I decided to take my then-15-month-old son along. It was his first plane ride, his first trip outside of Luzon, and our first family vacation.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Though his face doesn't show it, A appreciated that the pilot let us into the cockpit.</i></span></div>
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While I struggled with a fussier-than-normal toddler at the airport, the rest of the trip was much more enjoyable. It was fascinating seeing my son pick up handfuls of fine white sand, letting it run between his tiny fingers. I marveled at how someone who loved swimming pools and bath time so much could sprint away in alarm as small waves washed up against the shore. It melted my heart when, in the middle of playing, he would run up to me and throw his arms around my legs, a look of pure joy on his face. And it was a treat seeing him charm my friends with his bag of tricks: "pogi eyes" (his version of beautiful eyes), "tiyanak" (when he would growl like a little monster), and all his other funny little antics.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfj6bL-Yj0LfaD7KXkPh7KuW5oKQcI6PsjQsKfGXasoXV-P285TBo16QgtHF376mgYuy5akOhvO81-KjzOSOyMVvx-7OKNuK70Pt6X1eWwkGeilN3zX8q2ASwciwO8_b12si-jG9-9tAr/s1600/10153072_10152372289776457_736315156_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfj6bL-Yj0LfaD7KXkPh7KuW5oKQcI6PsjQsKfGXasoXV-P285TBo16QgtHF376mgYuy5akOhvO81-KjzOSOyMVvx-7OKNuK70Pt6X1eWwkGeilN3zX8q2ASwciwO8_b12si-jG9-9tAr/s320/10153072_10152372289776457_736315156_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo by JP Santos</i></span></div>
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But the trip was bittersweet. Less than a year before, my son's father and I had parted ways, and I was still getting used to the dynamics of our family. My ex would come to visit regularly, but I realized that this was what a "family vacation" would be from that point on: me, my son, and maybe his yaya. I still hadn't fully recovered from the separation, and I still had so many apprehensions about raising a kid on my own, but there was nothing for me to do but soldier on.</div>
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On our last morning on the island, my son and I spent some time on the beach. There weren't a lot of people around, and yaya stayed some distance away, letting my son and me enjoy some quality time together. I watched as my kid, entranced, repeatedly dipped his little bucket into the water and let its contents fall back and merge with the sea. He would call out "Mommy!" just to make sure I was right there. In that quiet, fleeting moment, I felt at peace.</div>
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There's a quote that goes, "The cure for anything is salt water—sweat, tears, or the sea." I had spent the previous months running when I needed to clear my head. I cried for weeks, mourning the end of a 13-year relationship. And now the sea was doing its work. I had my son by my side, and we had the whole world in front of us; he and I were going to be OK.</div>
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~*~*~*~</div>
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<i>And we are. </i></div>
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-46346234704242438912017-03-21T23:30:00.001+08:002017-03-21T23:33:21.454+08:00Baby StepsThis evening, I had an epiphany. On my walk home, I was inwardly reciting a mantra in time to my steps: "I. Have. Enough. I. Have. Enough. I. Have. Enough."<br />
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See, I have a lot of anxiety, and the thing I am most anxious about is money. I always worry about my future and how I'm not financially prepared for retirement, how I'm spending my money all wrong, and how I pale in comparison to my more "successful" peers. But earlier in the day, I read about a guy who makes P3 million a month (!). He said, "I try not to need things. You can be the wealthiest person in the world, but if, at the end of the day, you still keep needing some things, that's not really being rich."<br />
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And I thought, well the problem really isn't a lack of money, but an overabundance of "needs." And so, I started telling myself: "I have enough."<br />
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I thought that was my big a-ha! moment for the day, this reframing of my mindset. But interestingly and unconsciously, I found myself shifting from "I have enough. I have enough. I have enough" to "I <i>am</i> enough. I <i>am</i> enough. I <i>am</i> enough."<br />
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Hmm.<br />
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I started to tear up, because I hadn't even realized that that was (still) an underlying issue. After experiencing massive failure a few years ago, my self-esteem was pretty much dragged through the mud. With the support of the people around me, some counseling, and my built-in stubbornness, I was able to pick myself up, but I guess old demons have a way of rearing their ugly head.<br />
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I have a lot going on right now--I'm trying to expand my skill set and I'm tentatively venturing into unknown territory. But it's only today that I realized that the real reason I'm so tentative is that I am still haunted by the ghost of failure. I think about a fellow single mom whom I look up to, who met great success in her mid-30s after years of struggle, and think, "There's no way I can reach that level of success." I look at the goals I've set for myself, and though they seem small-time, I am still overwhelmed by what I have to do to reach them.<br />
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After the usual day of taking care of my kid and working, I sat there with a blank piece of paper as I thought about a setup for a small event I'm styling. I had a computer screen in front of me as I wondered about what online classes to look into. I had my phone beside me as I thought about what I needed to discuss with a partner in a fledgling business. It was just so many things at once, and I was shutting down. A friend prodded me to do what would take the least amount of time. I set aside the million and one things I was thinking about, and just started to sketch. In half an hour, I had a setup planned out for the event, and I felt so much better.<br />
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I have to remind myself to think of just one thing at a time. And to take everything one step at a time. And with each step, I have to remember: I. Am. Enough.Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-57524518589703599052017-02-28T23:43:00.000+08:002017-03-01T15:59:08.514+08:00Four<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Been a while. Part of the reason I haven't been blogging is because I'm in a different place in my life now, and I kind of feel like I have to start a new blog to reflect that. It feels a little weird blogging from somewhere I feel like I've outgrown, if that makes any sense. We'll see about that new blog. One of my flaws is I always like doing things right the first time so that tends to paralyze me into inaction. Just thinking about a domain name and figuring out the design and looking for a host and all that...GAAAHHH. For now, it just doesn't feel right to let A's fourth pass without the usual reflection on the past year. (A couple months late, but better late and all that.)</div>
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He joined a football camp. Started school and lost his trademark, charming Tagalog; only recently started properly pronouncing "fff" instead of "p". Went to Palawan. Outgrew his fascination with "up-and-downs" (parking barriers) but is still into construction stuff. Developed a taste for cartoon characters (particularly Transformers, Paw Patrol, Lightning McQueen, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles). Loves his Darth Vader and Storm Trooper PJs though he hasn't seen an entire <i>Star Wars</i> movie. (Kid can't sit through two hours of anything.) Still eats like a champ--my friends joked that he has an old person's breakfast (oats, fruit, boiled egg), but I made the mistake of introducing him to sugary cereal, so he munches on that for breakfast and as a snack and, well, pretty much all day. Can't blame him. I used to have Oreo-O's for dinner. (His teeth are fine, in case anyone's concerned.)</div>
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He is especially demanding of my attention at this age, and it can sometimes take a toll. I've been told that I'm so patient (which is something my mom will find hilarious because patience is definitely <i>not </i>one of my virtues), but honestly, it drives me up the wall sometimes, all the "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"s and the "Look at me! Look at this!" as he thrusts whatever I'm supposed to be looking at one millimeter from my face. And "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?"? IT'S REAL, GUYS. And it's not quite as funny in real life. Sometimes when it's the weekend and it's just the two of us, I send out an S.O.S. to my friends: Help, I need adult conversation!!!</div>
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But he is also especially affectionate at this age. My heart feels like it's going to burst from sheer happiness when I see him waiting for me at the door, a big smile on his face as my car pulls in, and he joyfully calls out, "Mommy!" Like this is the best part of his day. When he wakes up and finds out it's the weekend, he's <i>ecstatic </i>(like jumping-on-the-bed ecstatic) because it means two things: ice cream, and Mommy doesn't have to work! (At least usually.) Sometimes we're both sitting quietly, doing our own thing--him watching something on his tablet, me reading--and he just reaches over and holds my hand, not taking his eyes away from the screen. When he knows I'm sick, he says he'll make me feel better by giving me a hug and a kiss, and offering to make me "pretend coffee" (because I don't drink coffee).</div>
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When I was in grade school, we were given some morbid exercise wherein we had to write our life stories, right until our death. I wrote that I would die of breast cancer at 45, because I was, like, 10, and thought 45 was ancient. And now, the nearer I get to 45, the bigger my fear gets. Because what if what I wrote comes true? It doesn't help that I have a family history of breast cancer. </div>
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A few weeks ago, I was going through my mental checklist as I plotted out my schedule, "We have to make cards for his friends. He has to bring pastries to school on Tuesday. He has to wear red on that day..." and I thought, "Sh*t I can't die! Who else is going to remember this stuff?" </div>
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So guys, it looks like I'm going to have to live forever.</div>
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When they're teeny tiny helpless babies, you feel like they're completely dependent on you, and it's overwhelming. Now that he's four, I feel like he needs me less, but needs me still. He needs me to remember all the stuff he needs for school. He needs me to make sure he gets fruits and veggies every day. He needs me to regulate his sugar intake, because I don't want him to turn into a sugar addict like me. He needs me to keep some order and routine in his life. He needs me to say no.<br />
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And while there are other things he doesn't need me for, it's nice to know he still <i>wants</i> me. He wants me to stay home with him. He wants me to be the one to give him a bath and tell him a story and tuck him into bed. He wants me to be the one to play with him (unless his cousin/best friend is around, then I'm just a poor second option). He wants to be in the same room as me, even if we're not doing anything together. When it all gets to be too much, I imagine his rebellious teenage years, and that's sometimes all I need to face all the "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"s with a smile. This will go by faster than I can imagine. And then he won't need me. But I'm hoping he'll still want me around.<br />
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I need to live forever for this kid. How do I live forever?Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-63578313600427813532016-06-10T20:53:00.000+08:002016-06-10T21:10:28.945+08:00Star PlayerMy sister-in-law asked if I wanted to sign A up for a summer football clinic. I was unsure about it, given his previous experience in a sports-oriented class (the coaches couldn't really rein in my hyper little man), but his dad was all for it. So we signed him up, and—true to my mantra of "If you can't perform, japorms"—got him a pair of cleats and some knee socks.<br />
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He and his cousin (a week younger than him) were the youngest ones in the group, and the others had already been exposed to football before. It was the first time for my son, so he lagged behind when it came to following instructions. Although I suspect that had more to do with the instructions being in English; he was, after all, the only Filipino-speaking kid in class.<br />
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<i>Coach Ricci: Who wants to run?</i><br />
<i>Other kids: Me! Me! Me!</i><br />
<i>A: Ako din.</i><br />
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(By the way, Coach Ricci was awesome. It amazed me how A actually listened to him. Kid probably recognized that he wasn't the alpha in this group!)<br />
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As the days progressed, I became increasingly frustrated, seeing A run off somewhere, or be more interested in playing with the dirt than in scoring a goal. He probably spent more time eating on the sidelines than actually joining the scrimmage (or what counts as scrimmage for three- and four-year-olds). <i> </i><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(From top) Eating a cookie during drills; having some taho; snacking on cereal. He is his mother's son.</i></span></div>
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Babycenter sent me a relevant email ("Should you sign him up for an
organized sports team?") a few days too late: "Watch a little-tot soccer
game and you're apt to see a child or two off
picking dandelions and another in tears on the sidelines." <i>That's my son! </i>I thought. <i>Except he's pulling up grass and playing with rocks. </i><br />
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On one particular day, my competitive spirit was getting the better of me. All the other kids were eagerly chasing the ball around, trying to score, while A was busily knocking over cones. I kept calling out to him, but he was off doing his own thing. And then as he ran across the field, laughing his hearty, infectious laugh, another soccer mom remarked, "He is such a happy kid!"<br />
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And that's when I caught myself.<br />
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My son <i>is</i> a happy kid. He laughs so easily, and he would crack up whenever they would do new things (like heading, which he thinks is the most hilarious thing). He would run around the field pretending to be Spider-Man until a bunch of other kids also started pretending to spew out webs from their wrists. Who cares if he wasn't quite living up to his Messi jersey just yet? He was having fun! Besides, he's three—there's loads of time for him to grow into an athlete.<br />
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And even if he doesn't, that's fine by me. I used to joke that he would
be the next Lebron (same birthday, also raised by a single mom), but
I've realized: I'd much rather have a son who's watching from the
sidelines, but who's bursting with joy over the simplest things.<br />
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Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-46812536101817756852016-01-15T15:14:00.000+08:002016-01-15T15:16:47.714+08:00ThreeTwo weeks ago, my little boy turned three. And I've been wanting to write something to mark the occasion, but I just couldn't figure out what to say.<br />
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The milestones: He was potty-trained by two and a half, and he self-weaned from the bottle shortly thereafter. He speaks fluent Tagalog, and has a thick Filipino accent when he tries to speak English ("One, two, three, pour, payb"). I think it's some sort of cosmic joke that I have a son who says things like "iskol bus" (school bus) and "kohkies" (cookies). He says the funniest things, and I have a collection of much-Liked Facebook posts to prove it. He eats like a champ--the first thing he does when we get home is open the fridge to see what he can munch on. And while he does love ice cream and chicharon, he will sometimes ask for vegetables for breakfast (!). He throws a tantrum like a pro, but also knows how to go up to the people he hurt and say sorry once he's calmed down. He loves to pretend to cook, and also helps me bake. He has blue-collar aspirations, pretending to be a taho vendor one day and a bote-dyaryo buyer on another. He's obsessed with construction vehicles (especially backhoes) and security barriers (which he calls "up and down")--it was a dream come true for him when a security guard let him assist with raising and lowering a barrier. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhViuwqnA-f-2f3fFx0epUcM8C2HPe6k7JxB5zurmRt1n802qCCyE351hy_KcZ4Sya4LBAWyzzJcJ8fjOA4zcYLOLmwBd1TEEygeBEjR4z74RxnQLDLYE63h-BcJ_PKCPAvMvBphyphenhyphenkCGFiN/s1600/1425553_10153875970881457_6175673363132177582_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhViuwqnA-f-2f3fFx0epUcM8C2HPe6k7JxB5zurmRt1n802qCCyE351hy_KcZ4Sya4LBAWyzzJcJ8fjOA4zcYLOLmwBd1TEEygeBEjR4z74RxnQLDLYE63h-BcJ_PKCPAvMvBphyphenhyphenkCGFiN/s320/1425553_10153875970881457_6175673363132177582_n.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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And while it's easy to describe those things, I can't put into words just how overwhelmed I am when I look at this boy, my boy. How my heart breaks when I watch him play because I wonder just how many more times I'll be able to watch him like that, content in his own little world where his imagination rules--no <i>barkada</i>, no crushes, none of the emo-ness of adolescence. How he infuriates me with his stubbornness, and yet I wouldn't trade this spirited, strong-willed kid for anything in the world. How he makes my heart swell so much when he smothers my face with kisses that it feels impossible, impossible to hold all the love I have for this little man.<br />
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In the morning, one of the first things he asks me, with a hopeful look in his eye, is "Mommy, <i>hindi ka aalis</i>?" ("Mommy, you're not leaving are you?") He just wants to be with Mommy, so much so that I sometimes can't even go to the bathroom without an audience. And it makes me a little bit sad when I have to tell him that I have to go to work, or that I have to run some errands--but I'll be back, I say, Mommy will always be back.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LI9Mtpe7E9rJRw04HmbFPvLNunF9zbWQQpcnqHyImb9wtFLvBJbwcIFeiQJXFCS58hSX8rycH17l0FYiQ_a5OwjRPkITSuxKBT7abR2wwz66maAmiYjhELV1TkdEbS9dzUdya6k5wRGc/s1600/12507588_10153899001626457_5562164118720214915_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LI9Mtpe7E9rJRw04HmbFPvLNunF9zbWQQpcnqHyImb9wtFLvBJbwcIFeiQJXFCS58hSX8rycH17l0FYiQ_a5OwjRPkITSuxKBT7abR2wwz66maAmiYjhELV1TkdEbS9dzUdya6k5wRGc/s320/12507588_10153899001626457_5562164118720214915_n.jpg" width="240" /></a> </div>
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And sometimes, I want to ask my little boy the same question, "<i>Hindi ka aalis</i>?" Because part of me wishes he could be like this forever, that he didn't have to grow up and eventually go out on his own. But I understand that that's how things work, that's how things are supposed to be. I just wish with all my heart that when he's all grown up, he'll also feel like he has a compelling reason to go back, to always go back home.<br />
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-6941061264585652082015-09-15T17:08:00.000+08:002015-09-15T17:28:06.409+08:0010 Struggles Only Ultimate Players Understand1. Chasing after you mark when your teammate lets a break pass through<br />
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<a href="https://imgflip.com/i/8v24n" target="_blank"><img alt="https://imgflip.com/i/8v24n" border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55AL3eR_UjwVTvnrHtobdij-UGowtlW0oHNJSNCfXUztjc7OoxNXMaqa_BkrSYA77YHkhY1rwjeL0a5aDvlxhg4j4kFW1ObXSZHEF1bfbwaZX-Qpo08x9k66KauHdKX3b-D0RmWaIrRaD/s320/8v24n.jpg" width="320" /><span id="goog_904333952"></span></a><span id="goog_904333953"></span></div>
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2. Seeing zero cutters<br />
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<a href="http://giphy.com/gifs/sad-alone-lonely-hM6GJJK4RXdQY" target="_blank"><img alt="http://giphy.com/gifs/sad-alone-lonely-hM6GJJK4RXdQY" border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgFmEqaT_fNkWtvPcS3k70PwM_yLcoEexpj6UF7tpdvohev1CdgY5dswQmBN27Jg_BbKVK1n6Ptl0CBN6gE9_HeDPmxAeAIKqSDJvJE55YoTgFbZqRplfbXJqwNmpRD9F2OZtq2-9tBni/s320/alone.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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3. Being surrounded by super fit athletes and getting your self-esteem trampled on<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2wpDtyUjykXa9N7-A94L9yQaSe7eL_cuQRV5dr6J5mXLdXofxE7ITSQcZciAl7xZ2vcJG5zgmLDyWbNjKk3Mjq_F0rHdNTpcY-CGYgmzBz8SoyGYzHEHYQSd7AmawYxLURURbyR73wyg/s1600/spartans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2wpDtyUjykXa9N7-A94L9yQaSe7eL_cuQRV5dr6J5mXLdXofxE7ITSQcZciAl7xZ2vcJG5zgmLDyWbNjKk3Mjq_F0rHdNTpcY-CGYgmzBz8SoyGYzHEHYQSd7AmawYxLURURbyR73wyg/s320/spartans.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Images from <a href="http://s1.dmcdn.net/JFOXs/1280x720-l3a.jpg" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/0OgrmwO4k4E/maxresdefault.jpg" target="_blank">here </a></span></i></div>
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4. Zombie toenails<br />
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<a href="http://cdn.meme.am/instances/500x/45320766.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="http://cdn.meme.am/instances/500x/45320766.jpg" border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJHe5RVgTHw1gGSRfpPk1C2FxmM2KoJUolAhNtXlN05cw812EzwjJs7SHzCCzynYfWB04r6O8AeYI4NrT7dIOAaYKNUhMv_hI9BV0e9EcEt7xChxV9GxRXHusNuxf7ulFl94b0ykhCeZpE/s320/051807_toenail.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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5. Swapping spit from sharing Nalgenes<br />
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<a href="http://www.quickmeme.com/img/c6/c698d06ba6846f9ad5895665ecb9877ceac1f3b33b3074b06620178518738482.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="http://www.quickmeme.com/img/c6/c698d06ba6846f9ad5895665ecb9877ceac1f3b33b3074b06620178518738482.jpg" border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8sDUEasif4s302jzbkbCXabvNMCMhjgaBkeUesGOkCcAAZ1Ke3sidVEVsSon_7B6ICJsUGuDEClx561T1s8iF-MY1ZdvROt2uJpbVxMLotU1vlqXUMrbXLu_nwwh9H8_wMX9HMEoHKVp2/s320/c698d06ba6846f9ad5895665ecb9877ceac1f3b33b3074b06620178518738482.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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6. Spending a bundle on sunblock...<br />
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<a href="http://cdn.meme.am/instances/500x/45320766.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="http://cdn.meme.am/instances/500x/45320766.jpg" border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtV9ZMVEZudOg7kDUAr_P0np4L5oZQ8bS_jEdTsu1wDeWlBsrdRcYbVGA13FlSZ_NSpfLY7rx6XAPyHIfBkdM_2NtIFcKL3XdIMpfWRh9UqobSV8rYxY4O-5kYjpMOyUm1NdCK6N5aEqX1/s320/45320766.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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7. ...but still ending up with weird tan lines<br />
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<a href="http://giphy.com/gifs/transparent-friends-T5ewlwT0N20hy" target="_blank"><img alt="http://giphy.com/gifs/transparent-friends-T5ewlwT0N20hy" border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilzJtLCUII5P5x8jfAozXKNtDeGsp0mFtOnb2Cwv6YYJQfDssSfg0ifh1ByS9lpex0GGyj3IKDHEjGJmWlS0X1_Y41Fvnjmow1uyZKgTnBy5NkazB3Ix5v7X6dVK5Yr6TsnvCLkas2DVuI/s320/tan.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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8. Forking out money for league fees, provincial/international tournaments, gear, and Golden Siomai<br />
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<a href="http://giphy.com/gifs/broke-money-dave-chappelle-JoMzG3js8rtxC" target="_blank"><img alt="http://giphy.com/gifs/broke-money-dave-chappelle-JoMzG3js8rtxC" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_IO9OC-ad2vTQSdiDGBGZ31dYHHctBqp3o246hY1U0w7gDgVmykRH29eRkW6WHxt6mXtE4s2Y3nAkqmNd30N9MOoghdjHGmQYTQjsRTGafmO8V0_6vT85wRUggHg4dXWX2PcHWMGVyUt/s1600/broke.gif" /></a></div>
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9. Being judged for ordering extra rice<br />
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<a href="http://giphy.com/gifs/food-snl-chris-farley-hnQSde7LHE0Qo" target="_blank"><img alt="http://giphy.com/gifs/food-snl-chris-farley-hnQSde7LHE0Qo" border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ihzMrS4TWAUJ3hh9bN7ZHPAhkgbp-XYr1phk3jqaTPKAhDJVg_GRXDL7DqrX_pd-VlG-JeA-6XA2ypBxUsvRpUyQaC8A5NLVE0IMnLzYr_EDbQtffMfjQburozxU-b40MRgUDIxLwY9h/s320/food.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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10. Dreaming of an 8-to-5 job playing disc.<br />
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<a href="http://giphy.com/gifs/true-matt-bomer-white-collar-qEROJ5akWWMAU"><img alt="http://giphy.com/gifs/true-matt-bomer-white-collar-qEROJ5akWWMAU" border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIAtq4U7D22PtFQ7aY9qa0CcON8A0jYepebIHWh-TBC6sK4Jsvs_wIt_-HKQfUsVdPLYEFKtslDrD0SoPFur5V34qyFMn4c_QisgyH9P57kcM2657LLbK8QJTnB2iJd2XWUEDYN4OhIO_R/s320/daydreams.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-88965168126261613462015-09-08T17:56:00.000+08:002015-09-09T13:25:13.932+08:00WaitingI'm struggling with a massive case of writer's block, and a friend suggested that I write something—anything—just to plow through it. And so, as I wait for inspiration to strike, allow me to share something another friend sent me recently.<br />
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<b>Wait</b></div>
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<i>by Russell Kelfer</i></div>
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<i>Desperately, helplessly, longingly, I cried;</i></div>
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<i>Quietly, patiently, lovingly, God replied.</i></div>
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<i>I pled and I wept for a clue to my fate...</i></div>
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<i>And the Master so gently said, "Wait."</i></div>
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<i>"Wait? You say wait?" my indignant reply.</i></div>
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<i>"Lord, I need answers, I need to know why!</i></div>
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<i>Is your hand shortened? Or have you not heard?</i></div>
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<i>By faith I have asked, and I'm claiming your Word.</i></div>
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<i>"My future and all to which I relate</i></div>
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<i>Hangs in the balance, and you tell me to wait?</i></div>
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<i>I'm needing a 'yes,' a go-ahead sign,</i></div>
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<i>Or even a 'no' to which I can resign.</i></div>
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<i>"You promised, dear Lord, that if we believe,</i></div>
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<i>We need but to ask, and we shall receive.</i></div>
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<i>And Lord I've been asking, and this is my cry:</i></div>
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<i>I'm weary of asking! I need a reply."</i></div>
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<i>Then quietly, softly, I learned of my fate,</i></div>
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<i>As my Master replied again, "Wait."</i></div>
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<i>So I slumped in my chair, defeated and taut,</i></div>
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<i>And grumbled to God, "So, I'm waiting for what?"</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i> He seemed then to kneel, and His eyes met with mine...</i></div>
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<i>and He tenderly said, "I could give you a sign.</i></div>
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<i>I could shake the heavens and darken the sun.</i></div>
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<i>I could raise the dead and cause mountains to run.</i></div>
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<i>"I could give all you seek and pleased you would be.</i></div>
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<i>You'd have what you want, but you wouldn't know Me.</i></div>
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<i>You'd not know the depth of my love for each saint.</i></div>
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<i>You'd not know the power that I give to the faint.</i></div>
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<i>"You'd not learn to see through clouds of despair;</i></div>
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<i>You'd not learn to trust just by knowing I'm there.</i></div>
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<i>You'd not know the joy of resting in Me</i></div>
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<i>When darkness and silence are all you can see.</i></div>
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<i>"You'd never experience the fullness of love</i></div>
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<i>When the peace of my spirit descends like a dove.</i></div>
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<i>You would know that I give, and I save, for a start,</i></div>
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<i>But you'd not know the depth of the beat of my heart.</i></div>
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<i>"The glow of my comfort late into the night,</i></div>
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<i>The faith that I give you when you walk without sight.</i></div>
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<i>The depth that's beyond getting just what you ask</i></div>
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<i>From an infinite God who makes what you have last.</i></div>
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<i>"You'd never know, should your pain quickly flee,</i></div>
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<i>What it means that My grace is sufficient for three.</i></div>
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<i>Yes, your dearest dreams overnight would come true,</i></div>
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<i>But, oh, the loss, if you missed what I'm doing in you.</i></div>
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<i>"So, be silent, my child, and in time you will see</i></div>
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<i>That the greatest of gifts is to truly know me.</i></div>
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<i>And though oft My answers seem terribly late,</i></div>
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<i>My most precious answer of all is still...Wait."</i></div>
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I've mentioned a few times before that patience is my weakness, so the universe keeps putting me in situations wherein there's nothing I can do but wait. You know that bumper sticker that goes, "Lord, give me patience...right now!"? <i>So </i>me.</div>
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Recently, I was stuck in traffic near my office, and I found myself reflecting on where I was, both literally and figuratively. I looked out my window and saw the restaurant where my co-workers and I would go for a nice-ish lunch when we couldn't go too far from the office. I thought about how mundane my life was, and wondered how long I would have to wait for amazing things to start happening. "This couldn't be it, could it?" I thought. My life just seemed so...ordinary.</div>
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And then I thought about myself ten years from now. And even though my future is still so unclear, I knew in my heart that I would look back on these days with fondness, even longing. I thought of Future Me thinking about the silly-to-serious conversations my team and I would have over pork chops and garlic rice, while <i>Just for Laughs</i> played on the restaurant's flat-screen. And I realized that if I stepped back and viewed my life from a different perspective, I would see that, in fact, amazing is happening every day.</div>
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It's in the camaraderie that my co-workers and I have developed, banding together through collective stress and working holidays. It's in the moments when I clutch my son close to me and spin him around, dancing as he belts out a made-up song. It's in the times I'm stuck in traffic with my teammates, singing along to a boyband playlist. It's in the Sundays spent under a scorching sun, playing a sport that I truly enjoy. It's in the nights when my son insists on hearing the same story ten times before he goes to bed. </div>
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The big, bells-and-whistles events I'm waiting for are awesome, for sure, but I'm realizing life is more about the little things, the everyday. And when I think of it that way, well, it's not a bad life at all. </div>
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<i> </i><b> </b></div>
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-20362110766613586972015-08-22T01:30:00.004+08:002015-08-22T01:43:40.163+08:00"The storm that shook thy nest taught thee to fly"A friend sent me this over two years ago, when I was going through a difficult time. I just thought it might give comfort to anyone who's dealing with anything heavy right now.<br />
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<i>As an eagle stirreth up her nest. </i>(Deut. 32:11)</div>
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God, like the eagle, stirs our nest. Yesterday it was the place for us; today there is a new plan. He wrecks the nest, although He knows it is dear to us; perhaps because it <i>is</i> dear to us. He loves us too well not to spoil our meager contentment. Let not our minds, therefore, dwell on second causes. It is His doing! Do not let us blame the thorn that pierces us. </div>
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Though the destruction of the nest may seem wanton, and almost entirely come at an hour when I do not expect it, though the things happen that I least anticipate--let me guard my heart and be not forgetful of God's care, lest I miss the meaning of the wreckage of my hopes. He has <i>something better for me.</i></div>
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God will not spoil our nest, and leave us without a nest, <i>if a nest is best for us. </i>His seeming cruelty is love; therefore, <i>let us always sit light with the things of time.</i></div>
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The eaglet says, "<i>Teach me to fly!</i>" The saints often sit idly <i>wishing that they were like to their Lord</i>. Neither is likely to recognize that the prayer is heard <i>when the nest is toppled over!</i> </div>
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The breaking up of a nest an act of God's benevolence? What a startling thought!</div>
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Yet, here is an old writer who makes it a subject of praise; blesses God for it; declares it to be the first step of my education! I can understand praising Him for His gifts to body and soul; but I lose my breath in surprise when I am asked to make the first stance of my hymn the adoration of His mercy in loosing the ties of home!</div>
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Nay, my soul, it is to <i>strengthen these ties</i> that my Father breaks up the nest; not to get rid of home, but to teach thee to fly! Travel with thy Teacher and thou shalt learn that</div>
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<i>The Home is wider than any nest!</i><i><br /></i></div>
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He would have thee learn of the many mansions of which thy nest is only one. He would tell thee of a brotherhood in Christ, which includes, yet transcends, thy household fires. He would tell thee of the family altar, which makes thee brother to the outcast, sister to the friendless--in kinship to all.</div>
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Thy Father hath given thee wings in the breaking of thy ties! </div>
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<i>The storm that shook thy nest taught thee to fly!</i><i><br /></i><i></i></div>
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<i>God spreads broad wings;</i></div>
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<i>And by His lifting, holy grace,</i></div>
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<i>We find a wider, fairer place,</i></div>
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<i>The freedom of untrammeled space;</i></div>
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<i>Where clearer vision shows us things</i></div>
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<i>The nest-view never brings.</i></div>
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<i>The wing-life is characterized by comprehensiveness. High soaring gives wide seeing! </i>(J.H. Jowett)</div>
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~*~*~*~<br />
<br />
I got this after my nest wasn't just shaken, but had pretty much been toppled over. It was the most painful experience of my life. Each day, I would wake up wondering if things were ever going to get better, if the hurt was ever going to end, if I was ever going to be able to say I was OK. (I wasn't even gunning for "happy"--OK was good enough for me.) <br />
<br />
After my world was turned upside down, I went to a friend's place, and I just cried and cried and cried. "It was the worst night of my life," I sobbed. After I had a good long cry, friend wisely said, "Well, if you say it was the worst night of your life, then the good thing is, it can only get better."<br />
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And things <i>have</i> gotten better. I've learned how to fly. I can't say I'm soaring, but I'm getting there.<br />
<br />
So if you're going through something right now, have faith--you're going to be just fine. You'll even be more than just OK.Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-62925430931735574622015-07-10T17:17:00.002+08:002015-07-10T17:18:25.134+08:00The Best Musical of the Year<div id="fb-root">
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My friend and former colleague Carlo Vergara (of Zsazsa Zaturnnah fame) penned a one-act play called <i>Kung Paano Ako Naging Leading Lady.</i> It was turned into a fantastic musical that has received such rave reviews. Watch the video below to get an idea of its awesomeness.</div>
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<blockquote cite="https://www.facebook.com/DalanghitaProductions/videos/1504322749857608/">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/DalanghitaProductions/videos/1504322749857608/">Kung Paano Ako Naging Leading Lady - THE REPEAT!</a>Na-miss mo ba ang unang run namin? Wag nang mag-alala! Ito na ang pagkakataon mo! Catch the most awaited re-run of the Musical to end all musicals! "Kung Paano Ako Naging Leading Lady The Musical" runs at Onstage Theater, Greenbelt 1 from July 3 to 26. Wag nang magpatumpik-tumpik pa! For tickets, call ticketworld at 891-9999 or visit http://www.ticketworld.com.ph/online/kpanllonstage #KPANLL #LeadingLadyTheMusical #KPANLLOnstage #KPANLLTheRepeat #DalanghitaProductions<br />
Posted by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/DalanghitaProductions">Dalanghita Productions</a> on Tuesday, June 23, 2015</blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Video courtesy of Dalanghita Productions</i></span></div>
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You can catch the show on its second run tomorrow night (July 11), 8 pm at OnStage Greenbelt. Tickets are priced at 1500 for orchestra center, 1200 for orchestra side, and 800 for balcony. More info below. Carlo will be there to sign books. :) See you!</div>
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Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-6958887666595598762015-05-13T00:37:00.002+08:002015-05-13T14:39:57.881+08:00Talking BodyAfter day 6 of my 30-day yoga challenge, I took off my shirt, stood in front of a mirror, and frowned at what I saw. Recently, I had accepted that I could not out-exercise the way I eat, so I've been trying to make better food choices (and not necessarily always succeeding). I know this is a great opportunity to build up the virtue life keeps prodding me to acquire again and again: patience. Sure, I've been working out more consistently and eating a bit more mindfully, but real results aren't going to come in a week or two.<br />
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After turning away from the mirror, I thought, "Life is too short to spend in a body I'm not happy with," and resolved to step up my efforts. I was tired of hearing people tell me that I "have such a thin face." (It happens a lot more often than you'd think.)<br />
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But maybe this yoga challenge is making me more enlightened, because immediately after that thought came another: "Life is too short to spend being ungrateful."<br />
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My body, for all my perceived flaws, has served me well all these years, and I realized that I hadn't even thanked it for all that it has done for me. So, body, THANK YOU.<br />
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For allowing me <a href="http://heretishietishie.blogspot.com/2015/02/first-love.html" target="_blank">to keep dancing</a>, and for remaining fairly flexible.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDj2QhxQ7bQSwXrjGiC7nlFNDM_wZ2SmhLaiJGr6Uwoc-AaKQsejd32TDUN4aXs-x0QWdC6ZIf3AOTYa9Jk51UFTDbaM4pWsq4Y8FPX9j3OiSY5AtInReIKNPPpYZ_JKtPJPo9xD0FDIQg/s1600/10352616_10152845215431457_2473986226806869853_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDj2QhxQ7bQSwXrjGiC7nlFNDM_wZ2SmhLaiJGr6Uwoc-AaKQsejd32TDUN4aXs-x0QWdC6ZIf3AOTYa9Jk51UFTDbaM4pWsq4Y8FPX9j3OiSY5AtInReIKNPPpYZ_JKtPJPo9xD0FDIQg/s320/10352616_10152845215431457_2473986226806869853_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo by Felix Angue</i></span></div>
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For letting me finish a half-marathon, even without sufficient training.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdoSSUA53rPn-YUxDDV3goTZRWhw_uqQf7lTlSTNI5kgGFaDPy3p1gEvF2ANPESGl03cWc2CqAFt04gO_6u8toYFvRUem2eWJ2c8UOyWTZduXgV4byksrsraDZ6sOrwVGjOxn4qTob5iG/s1600/178996_10150144656086457_6601685_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdoSSUA53rPn-YUxDDV3goTZRWhw_uqQf7lTlSTNI5kgGFaDPy3p1gEvF2ANPESGl03cWc2CqAFt04gO_6u8toYFvRUem2eWJ2c8UOyWTZduXgV4byksrsraDZ6sOrwVGjOxn4qTob5iG/s320/178996_10150144656086457_6601685_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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For letting me keep playing the sport I love.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsDr8UWTSipG-sb1sYGHq3DkHA4Zb6BW4Q5aC1ptmpSazHaR_D_R5ei1a7yUs_SON_oD_jQCwRbMhyphenhyphenEDmhj9G3X_rUYOz7owBTsXNywo_I5VI2FX7dJJX_OsXeLOfQs08izkD9pJL5Wkp/s1600/303148_10150371644816457_278266569_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsDr8UWTSipG-sb1sYGHq3DkHA4Zb6BW4Q5aC1ptmpSazHaR_D_R5ei1a7yUs_SON_oD_jQCwRbMhyphenhyphenEDmhj9G3X_rUYOz7owBTsXNywo_I5VI2FX7dJJX_OsXeLOfQs08izkD9pJL5Wkp/s320/303148_10150371644816457_278266569_n.jpg" width="223" /></a></div>
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For carrying a child for nine glorious months, and producing enough breast milk (with equal parts difficulty and determination) for 22 and a half months before my son self-weaned.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPpGBQvxAySX7F_pwszfczaV9VrAllJzpBPTCM_nBzkBzMNiGBotb8ab1O9z_KWNfoxuNHKUrlnbY2KOcjLYqe_IFOM4bMse9XLZiwpLJDgurLoRyXfZYO6IfcfnHq0ylIadYVyrGgg0FL/s1600/526029_10151391622906457_1040783039_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPpGBQvxAySX7F_pwszfczaV9VrAllJzpBPTCM_nBzkBzMNiGBotb8ab1O9z_KWNfoxuNHKUrlnbY2KOcjLYqe_IFOM4bMse9XLZiwpLJDgurLoRyXfZYO6IfcfnHq0ylIadYVyrGgg0FL/s320/526029_10151391622906457_1040783039_n.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo by <span style="font-size: x-small;">Sara <span style="font-size: x-small;">Black<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span> M</span>akeup by Omar Ermita.</span></span></i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span> </i></span><br />
For being able to do pull-ups, something I haven't been able to do before--not even when I was younger and lighter.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_xjmq1k8sV-KQRQrgXyA6lf8b9upB16pOBtslQqRTJ0Ix4UrOatJnpGxuObcue9zdOFCC-29PkE_QjIvz6YhvvVlNTrozV_cYFAMlQoccuFKmhg3jlAXM9MCiDTr4QyQ6RQaSIw5JNLv/s1600/1920256_10152845214411457_5165226759492413609_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_xjmq1k8sV-KQRQrgXyA6lf8b9upB16pOBtslQqRTJ0Ix4UrOatJnpGxuObcue9zdOFCC-29PkE_QjIvz6YhvvVlNTrozV_cYFAMlQoccuFKmhg3jlAXM9MCiDTr4QyQ6RQaSIw5JNLv/s320/1920256_10152845214411457_5165226759492413609_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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For allowing me to bear the weight of a toddler who's growing fast and seems to be all about the gains.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0jZondCsRkGRNV6UHUINshNlIR1DTa-ON1DhNLWuaQtATtM3rbZi12DxSXTDzG1zd6kiSPcU7TI7WLRzz5M_ny03eLFAbHsBqi4__tTFA05r7UpZ1ZKEN1-DG37INGRqfZo2zZ6-vFWW/s1600/1493253_10152923738306457_3617963823389254657_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0jZondCsRkGRNV6UHUINshNlIR1DTa-ON1DhNLWuaQtATtM3rbZi12DxSXTDzG1zd6kiSPcU7TI7WLRzz5M_ny03eLFAbHsBqi4__tTFA05r7UpZ1ZKEN1-DG37INGRqfZo2zZ6-vFWW/s320/1493253_10152923738306457_3617963823389254657_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This gratefulness doesn't mean that I'm about to let myself go--it's just enabling me to see my body in a whole new light. I want to work out and eat right not (merely) because of vanity, but because I know my body deserves to retain its strength and its resilience and its beauty (in spite of--or because of--everything it's gone through: childbirth and breastfeeding and just plain getting older). It deserves to be treated with respect, and it deserves to be loved and nurtured. Just like the rest of me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0L6hUHCKVvHzAaVf295X1yZw5lmINm-lIayTZrJgRhXC1F26EEtiBUm43jZ7Oq75l7EfT_AuJBw93J71vlq5tjsLVCrxTxKj7rhlkU4PJtRvYUBJwlaCj5QfpRypDt0KL_O9_TpPxmaUO/s1600/10959802_10153128562506457_4971291608395353263_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0L6hUHCKVvHzAaVf295X1yZw5lmINm-lIayTZrJgRhXC1F26EEtiBUm43jZ7Oq75l7EfT_AuJBw93J71vlq5tjsLVCrxTxKj7rhlkU4PJtRvYUBJwlaCj5QfpRypDt0KL_O9_TpPxmaUO/s320/10959802_10153128562506457_4971291608395353263_n.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo by <span style="font-size: x-small;">John Paul Santos</span></i></span> </div>
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-48926313714573410022015-04-13T02:18:00.001+08:002015-04-13T02:18:12.464+08:00Today<div style="text-align: justify;">
Today was tough.</div>
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A's yaya resigned last week, and it was our all-around helper's day off, so it was just me and A. Like all toddler boys everywhere, he found numerous ways to give his mother a heart attack--jumping from the top of his slide, climbing halfway up our steep stairs by himself, throwing things in the air that could possibly hit me or, worse, him on the head. He also stubbornly exerted his will and threw a couple of tantrums (he's two, after all, so all par for the course).</div>
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At some point, I was so tired from chasing after him, and saying no no no, and (shamefully) even raising my voice. I was in a foul mood and desperately wanted reinforcements. But I reminded myself of two things: 1) full-time moms everywhere had to do this every day, and 2) these days--of spending one-on-one time with him, of him wanting mommy's attention--are going by all too fast.</div>
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I stopped looking at all the things that were going wrong, and instead decided to relish this magical time in his life. That change of mindset did the trick. It turned my frustration into gratitude. </div>
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I took him out, so he could expend some of his boundless energy. At the toy store, he spent so long in front of a keyboard with a microphone, and I just laughed as he put on a show for me. </div>
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He wanted to be carried around for the most part, and though my arms were tired, I figured he's only going to get heavier, and I resolved to carry him for as long as he'll let me. When we got home, I set out some dinner, and he uncharacteristically sat in his chair for the entire meal. He finished all the food I prepared for him, and even managed to feed himself (and the floor).</div>
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Later, after he asked me to sing and dance my way through Hi5's house hits (his version of a lullaby), we were lying in bed in the dark as I waited for him to fall asleep. Out of the blue, he said, "Mommy? Love you!" It was the first time he ever said "love you" unprompted. I don't know if two-year-olds even know what that means, but my heart just melted. It made this--this day, the doing-it-by-myself, the exhaustion--all worth it.</div>
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Today was amazing.</div>
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Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-62874864074575789092015-03-17T21:51:00.000+08:002015-03-17T21:54:22.532+08:00A Prayer for RosemarieWalking back to the office from dance class, I would normally pass beggars on the street. Shamefully, I've somehow become inured to street kids, blind people holding out cups, mothers cradling babies on a sidewalk. Perhaps it was a conscious effort to put up a wall, because if I don't, I would just feel so incredibly helpless. When a kid knocks on my car window, or a man in crutches holds out his hand as I make my way down the MRT stairs, I feel my heart closing up. Sometimes I even close my eyes. Because I can't take it. I often think that what little I give can't help anyway. Or that if I help one, I have to help everyone else. Or that they're just part of a syndicate.<br />
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Maybe this is what happens when you've lived in a developing country all your life.<br />
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But tonight was different. As I hurried along on the sidewalk, I stopped dead in my tracks. There, right by the bottom of the stairs of the Boni MRT station, in front of 7-Eleven, was a mother holding a kid in her arms. This kid had an enlarged head due to hydrocephalus (a condition wherein fluid accumulates in the ventricles of the brain). And I don't know if it's because I'm a mother now, or because I recently hung out with a real-life good Samaritan who always does random acts of kindness (hi, Mark), or because I was still on a high from dance class and my defenses were down, but I felt compelled to help. I fished out a bill and put it in their bowl filled with coins. But that just felt useless.<br />
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I bought them some bread and water from the convenience store, then I crouched down and talked to the mom. The child's name is Rosemarie. She's 9. The mom (Rosalinda, if I remember right) can't work because she has to take care of her kids. "<i>Sinasabi ng iba na ginagamit ko lang ang anak ko</i>," she said, "<i>eh paano naman ako magtatrabaho?</i>" The noises from EDSA would drown out her voice, but from what I could gather, they would go to National Children's Hospital whenever fluid had to be removed from Rosemarie's head. There are plenty of people who are willing to help (in fact, while we were talking, quite a few handed Rosalinda some bills), but it's the doctors who don't want to operate on the little girl. So there's nothing that can be done. All I could do was meekly offer to pray for them.<br />
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I cried the rest of the way back to the office. I kept asking, why does this kid have to suffer? What is the point of it all? Being poor is hard enough without throwing an incurable sickness into the equation. I just cried and cried. And kept asking why. And I hated that there was nothing I could do.<br />
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I remembered a book I read a long time ago. It was about a man who didn't believe in God because of all the suffering in the world. A monk took him to see a gorgeous mosaic picture, and the monk explained that there are dark tiles and there are light tiles, but if you put them all together, it is a thing of beauty. The atheist scoffed at the idea of comparing suffering to a dark tile.<br />
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I felt that way as I walked and cried, walked and cried. Was this all just part of a bigger picture?<br />
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Then I remembered the little girl who asked Pope Francis during his Manila visit, "Why do children suffer?" <br />
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And if the pope doesn't have an answer, what hope do I have of figuring it out? He's right about one thing though. I've learned to weep again.<br />
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Say a prayer for Rosemarie please. And her mother. Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-184898632956843672015-02-26T11:31:00.000+08:002015-02-26T11:37:14.089+08:00First Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For the past few months, life has been more hectic than usual. My
workload increased significantly because my mag went through a revamp
(keep an eye out for it next month!), we were working on two issues at once, plus I was editing two books on
top of already demanding magazine work. A typical day would have me
leaving the house in the morning, and going home to spend a bit of time
with my son in the evening (whether it was to have dinner with him, give him a bath,
or just say goodnight), then heading back to the office and working
until late. I was working 12- to 16-hour days. Even on my trip to Vietnam, I was in front of a laptop every chance I got. After weeks and weeks of this, I
was starting to burn out.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So I went back to my first love. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxB-bJhBNLO8Jj1AdGUgPr0q9H767Np6n0wl5XYXEeIdKfw_LVSBTgPs1_4hktaCWS-8lDUF3ryiMnpca5WlQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It seems counterintuitive, but I really believe that the busier you get, the more you need to pay attention to yourself. <i>But who has the time?</i> I've come to realize that moms never have the time—so you have to <i>make</i> time. The kid will always be there, needing your attention. Work will always be there, with an endless to-do list. And if you let these rule your life and you forget about you, well something's gotta give. You have to shut off the mommy guilt and believe that a happy mom is a better (more efficient, less harassed) mom, and the people around you—your kids, your co-workers—will benefit from that.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The minute I started dancing again, I felt happier. Dancing is the only thing in the world that can make me forget about everything else. I'm so focused on memorizing the choreography, and then on mastering the nuances, that for an hour there are no deadlines, there is no stress—it's just me, the movement, and the music. And the effects last well beyond that one hour in class. I go back to work or go home on a high, and the anticipation of the next class helps keep me afloat.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
What's one thing that you want to do for yourself? Even if it's just an hour a week? Think about it. Then go out and do it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Lots of people have been asking—I take dance classes (usually jazz funk) at <a href="http://www.actsacademy.com/" target="_blank">Acts Dance and Arts Academy</a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> (Unit B Messanine GA Tower 1, EDSA cor. Boni Ave., Mandaluyong City), </span>which is a short walk from my office. Join me!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> </i></span></div>
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-67440257985356255662015-01-10T23:08:00.000+08:002015-01-14T14:54:27.571+08:00Fear of Flying<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://tealcheesecake.tumblr.com/post/8548827843" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZpCo8v0LwHqvfpBI3yEIMfF6kmEJWgbka1B1wuBeZgf0paLCAe0a6yEou5BIKoGfbsMc5vrfW8V4NxdFoYu0hYuYSrqyq0bubSHd8jyM5kC3wrA7vh3DL0EJjIzP__qYqozpgR08DVsNi/s1600/tumblr_loxyehA0a61qzoegho1_400.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about dreams. It started when a friend told me about his amazing goals for the year, and I was so impressed by how he seemed so driven and confident that he could check them all off his list. And then (and this is going to sound kind of ridiculous), I caught <i>The Princess and the Frog</i> on cable, where everything Tiana did was in pursuit of her big dream of owning a restaurant. It hit me that I don't have that—a dream that I relentlessly pursue, that serves as my North Star. Of course there's my son, and my dream of a great future for him, but I don't have a dream that's purely for me.</div>
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<a href="http://www.fanpop.com/clubs/the-princess-and-the-frog/images/16452384/title/tiana-photo" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs4PtIPRmlZRObWNhRIO5_WRP5mQ4i-GPiDTejuk8IDJEoOKyTDB_C2X7296GtmaZvPQGjDk3Xx75GOGohYxxE_kM3A1Tbp_n73505ZPTly9fy28makB0qBWDSyy48-OZY2mJ_NIV7Gh3o/s1600/Tiana-the-princess-and-the-frog-16452384-956-1600.jpg" height="400" width="238" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I thought about it, I realized that the last two years of my life have just been about getting my bearings. (When I met an astrologer, he asked for my sign, looked at his chart, and said, "Well, you've had a shitty two years.") My thoughts were on recovery and on just getting through each day, working hard and raising my son, and just keeping everything steady despite whatever inner turmoil I was going through. But now that the dust has settled, I'm starting to wonder: What's next?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I've always been afraid of dreaming big, because the "hows" get in the way. I want to travel the world! <i>(But how will I fund it?) </i>I want to be a children's party stylist! <i>(But how do I even start?)</i> I want to teach a dance class! <i>(But how can that happen when I'm not a certified anything?) </i>That last bit is also telling of another barrier that I've erected for myself: Before I get serious about something, I want to know as much as I can about it. And when I get so overwhelmed thinking about the skills I need to develop and everything I (feel I) should learn, I end up being paralyzed. Often, I can't just jump in and <i>do it</i>. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
For the longest time, I held on to just one dream. And when that came crashing down, it not only added to my fear of dreaming, but it also left me without direction. Where do I go from here, after all my heart desired is no longer possible? And what's the point of dreaming when, even after giving it my all, it still crushingly doesn't come true?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Maybe the point, I've come to realize, is for me to be redirected towards a new path. Maybe the point is for me to have the courage to dream again, despite failing spectacularly the last time I allowed myself to do so. Maybe the point is to dream a bigger dream.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXauE_LlumkaBlt6_DWHwwW8ADjSx-Tfe9B6xpcRa_8plp4z306pdLxx8YtJD6KAFtw9d_qyGuuWMeKd4ccrpLYNwYiMSxWMfLU96Jc8KiQ0gcfe9iB_Qy8dlZsnCjr2J0NmDrP2duPyk/s1600/tumblr_mgfw42oRwC1qlkuhzo1_250.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXauE_LlumkaBlt6_DWHwwW8ADjSx-Tfe9B6xpcRa_8plp4z306pdLxx8YtJD6KAFtw9d_qyGuuWMeKd4ccrpLYNwYiMSxWMfLU96Jc8KiQ0gcfe9iB_Qy8dlZsnCjr2J0NmDrP2duPyk/s1600/tumblr_mgfw42oRwC1qlkuhzo1_250.gif" height="182" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdw3wk5DwCVavCdAR__bfMO3oMefOMaCVmxbRw4_4Qri4XRoAFgDPI9Y_XttPCSPyccM6uD-akKCBpJU8lbWhOQYebKhkwX8JYHGW5JN2Qpo19ZOgL5yfuKpZ8W_k8V9Cv8GoV3bZVUVzr/s1600/imageedit_3_5272333145.gif" target="_blank"></a> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black; font-size: xx-small;"><i>CHAROT.</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's an interesting place to be. It's a scary place to be. But I feel in my heart that it's exactly where I'm supposed to be.<br />
<br /></div>
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-19790251128583816452014-12-08T01:03:00.001+08:002014-12-08T11:02:53.531+08:00Nagpapaka-Martha<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">This morning felt like one massive Pinterest fail.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I had my day all planned out. I was going to wake up early, get a workout in, bake cookie cups (to be used for ice cream), decorate the tree with A (quality time!), then leave for lunch at a friend's house by 11:30 a.m. Take that, Martha Stewart!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">By 12:15 p.m., my experimental cookie cups looked like hardened golden-brown blobs that I couldn't manage to remove from the muffin pan (I ran out of butter for greasing), and I feared that the regular cookies I popped into the oven were burnt because I was so distracted by my extra-clingy son. A, being very good at being nearly two, decided to throw a fit, and I was left to decorate the tree on my own, while simultaneously trying to calm him down. The classic Christmas carols I was playing over Spotify ("for ambience") seemed like a discordant soundtrack to his sobs. A little later, I gave him a bath, and not for the first time did I wonder if I was bathing him or if it was the other way around, because I came out of the bathroom drenched.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I felt frazzled as I arrived at my friend's place, and was apologetic as I presented my container of freshly baked, nearly burnt cookies, which I deposited beside fantastic-looking store-bought desserts. But the delicious food and great conversation with the girls I've known for over two decades allowed me to let go of my disastrous morning. Plus, they devoured my cookies, so I suppose I did something right?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I had to go home earlier than everyone else as I had work to do. (Still do.) As my son napped, I decided to quietly finish trimming the tree, before buckling down to transcribe (my most detested work chore) and write. When A woke up and cried the cry of just-woken-up toddlers everywhere, I turned on the Christmas lights on the tree. He was mesmerized. I think he even said, "Wooow!"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv_RLA45RmpuI8W4dSstAIwqX3HTdngXR1Rf8Jg_t1pipeDE7S3fm8HDqEmQbLUXSH0JEUu6Ws2KSD3XOJh7CiGk7HXfXNukI51WpvpcyZ7MIpqezsBEtOeFoCxcP9YVO__3UdJWH9G3k_/s1600/10154302_10152958454961457_2099493079090666049_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv_RLA45RmpuI8W4dSstAIwqX3HTdngXR1Rf8Jg_t1pipeDE7S3fm8HDqEmQbLUXSH0JEUu6Ws2KSD3XOJh7CiGk7HXfXNukI51WpvpcyZ7MIpqezsBEtOeFoCxcP9YVO__3UdJWH9G3k_/s1600/10154302_10152958454961457_2099493079090666049_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">I had a crate made using wood scraps, and went with a Filipinana theme for the tree: capiz stars from Dapitan, raffia angels and twigs from Kultura, and sinamay from Carolina's.</span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I wasn't able to pull off the whole baking-decorating-looking fantastic thing the way Nigella would have done it, but in the end my cookies turned out OK, and my son seemed in awe of our tree. My domestic diva dreams weren't quite so perfect in reality, but eh. Whatever gets the job done! </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">P.S. I have two containers of crumbled chocolate chip cookie cups in case anyone's interested.</span></div>
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-83681339338359587122014-12-02T01:05:00.002+08:002014-12-08T11:02:36.478+08:00Infatuated<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I hadn't even left Ho Chi Minh yet, and already I was daydreaming about my return.</span><!--[if gte mso 10]>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQA7abywc-j4MPquQc3n7wJAYz_IxOC7n71QAOyqs5KXHH1YHrHWMovP9BIHLmuyJDsp7ZNYFZuU3p_Wni19V76AJjuP4yUH5go6AkaFekp6i7Huc4JCd9IZfB6NwUNKFZc8itRPhWw1O/s1600/10422218_10152944314751457_7135255103524700496_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQA7abywc-j4MPquQc3n7wJAYz_IxOC7n71QAOyqs5KXHH1YHrHWMovP9BIHLmuyJDsp7ZNYFZuU3p_Wni19V76AJjuP4yUH5go6AkaFekp6i7Huc4JCd9IZfB6NwUNKFZc8itRPhWw1O/s1600/10422218_10152944314751457_7135255103524700496_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I didn’t expect to fall in love with this city, but I guess
love has a way of sneaking up on you like that. (<i>May ganon</i>?) Ho Chi Minh, a.k.a. Saigon, wasn’t
even on my list of places to visit—I just booked a flight on a whim, while my
brother was still working there (free accommodations + foodie tour guide = why
not?). We landed at past midnight, so I didn’t get a good view of the city as
we headed to District 2 (very Hunger Games), where my brother is currently
staying. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">A few hours later, as the sun came up and I still lay in bed, my brother walked in and asked, "Have you looked outside?" I stood up, pulled back the blackout drapes, and looked out of the 13th-floor window: On the highway were hundreds and hundreds of people on motorcycles. "<i>Parang mga langgam!</i>" remarked my tita. Being from Manila, I thought about how hellish it would be to drive amid all those motorbikes, but I've discovered that people here are much more disciplined riders, and I'm told that there's hardly ever an accident. There's a rhythm to the way the motorbikes move here (in fact, when you're crossing the street, you're not supposed to stop, and it's second nature to them to avoid you), and entire families of four pile onto one motorbike, so you have to trust that safety is foremost in their minds. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">We flagged down a cab—something that's remarkably easy to do in Ho Chi Minh—which took us to
District 1. We stopped at what looked like an alley lined with knock-off Van
Goghs and other paintings, and came upon a decrepit (but clean) building
bearing a sign: “L’Usine.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpllO4kBKj0VoOGy2o7CGTnyMmhzuSUGstFoxSBKgzyZNggASV9Q6MOjpQvGUwebp7V5SYiibEjt3tTzXKi722tIllZYl4p5HLOzJzD-L9PjCqUbm4b_bG_KvIhSiNhO6WJeWgYY8uPzi/s1600/10150698_10152940243236457_814217590714874288_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpllO4kBKj0VoOGy2o7CGTnyMmhzuSUGstFoxSBKgzyZNggASV9Q6MOjpQvGUwebp7V5SYiibEjt3tTzXKi722tIllZYl4p5HLOzJzD-L9PjCqUbm4b_bG_KvIhSiNhO6WJeWgYY8uPzi/s1600/10150698_10152940243236457_814217590714874288_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">We made our way upstairs, and
found ourselves outside the most charming-cool café—black and white tiles, slate
gray walls, sunlight streaming through picture windows. I was smitten; if HCM
had little gems like this hidden all around the city, then I was in for a
treat.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDO9r1Kdb_Yi1j70UVbblEGUnzCITqHqNkjYNv0Qygo4bH3CO2j7hrIDbeYtRD6gCMuUTDnvRbhg3HlGSQUhbljytm3l8444cuevhwm-hvDoiizWTXfPIppOj-Qm8rLOlvFAJGjSgXRQ-/s1600/10486364_10152940243326457_8095672845774596151_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDO9r1Kdb_Yi1j70UVbblEGUnzCITqHqNkjYNv0Qygo4bH3CO2j7hrIDbeYtRD6gCMuUTDnvRbhg3HlGSQUhbljytm3l8444cuevhwm-hvDoiizWTXfPIppOj-Qm8rLOlvFAJGjSgXRQ-/s1600/10486364_10152940243326457_8095672845774596151_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">As the day progressed, I found many other things to delight
in: My mom and my tita said that the tree-lined streets and quaint shops
reminded them of old Manila. (Never mind that one of these “quaint shops” was
actually a Louboutin store.) I didn’t tire of seeing the French colonial
architecture, and I appreciated how the chipping paint and worn facades gave
buildings so much character. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGhBIakhqsby2YkquvlbKhE_LEpBg6Oj4dJThCaPDDWtCF4vDDoKFBOWp20XD9K2KISsAifcgjPwqfXvJ9cAQc63sk_sCUbrLWNzZMO9hhPq0oubxibwK6pHof8nJbF5gcpND7hyacZ2VC/s1600/10606264_10152942075551457_6150209721824038716_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGhBIakhqsby2YkquvlbKhE_LEpBg6Oj4dJThCaPDDWtCF4vDDoKFBOWp20XD9K2KISsAifcgjPwqfXvJ9cAQc63sk_sCUbrLWNzZMO9hhPq0oubxibwK6pHof8nJbF5gcpND7hyacZ2VC/s1600/10606264_10152942075551457_6150209721824038716_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">And the food! A few days before my trip, a
nutritionist told me that carnivore me had to watch my red meat intake as my
uric acid was higher than average. Vietnamese food was just what the doctor
ordered—fresh spring rolls, steaming bowls of pho, and lots and lots of
vegetables.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4WAC1eNNr19oq94R8Uk7X5MsAX8mvXcAcB-4FEj2Y6a8TjNLj3xKZd87dGY_0KwoaA2a4UX1PVcBKJD9IqQK0bi81S2vNuzriFzOZphWEAFo0Bu8Ybkyd2es00OVtXoNpAaBZaSopIPR/s1600/10444512_10152944314706457_6782832918415966914_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4WAC1eNNr19oq94R8Uk7X5MsAX8mvXcAcB-4FEj2Y6a8TjNLj3xKZd87dGY_0KwoaA2a4UX1PVcBKJD9IqQK0bi81S2vNuzriFzOZphWEAFo0Bu8Ybkyd2es00OVtXoNpAaBZaSopIPR/s1600/10444512_10152944314706457_6782832918415966914_n.jpg" height="242" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Even with all these things, I still had a hard time
determining why the city seemed to have such a strong pull. After some
reflection, I realized it was because it offered the less frenetic pace that
I’ve been looking for. Even while in Ho Chi Minh, I was perpetually
answering text messages and email from work, and sitting in front of a laptop every
chance I got. I’ve been working so much—leaving early, going home just to have
dinner with my son and give him a bath, then going back to the office to work
til 11 or 1 or 2; working on weekends—that my psychosomatic stress symptoms
(hives, for one) have again begun to manifest. My life was (is) just all kinds
of crazy, and Manila reflected that—the never-ending to-do list, the demands,
the traffic. Being in Saigon reminded me of the kind of life that I crave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I want a life where I get to eat at cute little restaurants tucked away in old buildings...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApbaMI5aVVQJa2HogtnEHcZiF_aUpYEXInZR4Ytnukc5cEOjVfr8DThev31QPt4WiY93liav-xHt1D6vQBiWjcKE0G2O3DTS1f4ICj7qSzxWTIR_A-23Zh2X68BdesAs0X7NBaL9_ZRSr/s1600/10410646_10152940243476457_193279570754664667_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApbaMI5aVVQJa2HogtnEHcZiF_aUpYEXInZR4Ytnukc5cEOjVfr8DThev31QPt4WiY93liav-xHt1D6vQBiWjcKE0G2O3DTS1f4ICj7qSzxWTIR_A-23Zh2X68BdesAs0X7NBaL9_ZRSr/s1600/10410646_10152940243476457_193279570754664667_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">...where I get to have an amaretto sour and oysters at sunset, while laughing with
family...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWXaixTzTQdznx30fDKYLr8UW8C7EU5osP77DgJz68T75PuRy_OtAhKLMLcuVR0DiEHdECxYmMJKV63bWq_BgEBP4zWCkpiXVbghf8pynD5GEHkS7V3sfSxp_wFE1HeP6S350TczZEEoi/s1600/1505627_10152940244956457_5068138318237668853_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWXaixTzTQdznx30fDKYLr8UW8C7EU5osP77DgJz68T75PuRy_OtAhKLMLcuVR0DiEHdECxYmMJKV63bWq_BgEBP4zWCkpiXVbghf8pynD5GEHkS7V3sfSxp_wFE1HeP6S350TczZEEoi/s1600/1505627_10152940244956457_5068138318237668853_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">...where I get to meet interesting new people, and hang out at a bar and just have
good conversations...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9l3vPN2GgBi3gQ3hZqpEeqmXYb0r3KUfpi-ScZchkuJM1qgsJlpRumQlb18kq3iPpsXdrLEeOOBO1k_8TUL-CliRTc4hD45UqB5k7ETQLwRKY8_ARiBt9nMoesvm99IeKH_8OWzclAJhn/s1600/1551540_10152944316326457_608442222960521411_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9l3vPN2GgBi3gQ3hZqpEeqmXYb0r3KUfpi-ScZchkuJM1qgsJlpRumQlb18kq3iPpsXdrLEeOOBO1k_8TUL-CliRTc4hD45UqB5k7ETQLwRKY8_ARiBt9nMoesvm99IeKH_8OWzclAJhn/s1600/1551540_10152944316326457_608442222960521411_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">And I have to stop myself from getting carried away and
plotting a move to Saigon, and just appreciate the lesson it’s taught me: I can
find these things back home. I just need to make time to do so and bring some balance back into my life. It’s not the city
that needs to change—it’s me.</span></div>
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</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-80934219263893232182014-10-20T20:42:00.001+08:002014-10-20T20:50:07.655+08:00Time and Space<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I'm alive!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">One of my favorite features in our October issue is "The Road to Wellness," wherein the members of Team GH tried different ways to help us hit the reset button. We all had such interesting experiences—so much so that we wrote well over our word count. As a result, our text had to be cut (A LOT). Below is mine in its entirety. I was lucky enough to be able to go on a wellness holiday at <a href="http://www.thefarmatsanbenito.com/" target="_blank">The Farm at San Benito</a>. The others tried acupunture, pranic healing, even a high-tech oxygen machine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Time and Space</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>
</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Perpetually on hyper-drive and severely lacking in me-time, editor in chief
Tisha Alvarez Angluben goes on a wellness holiday and rediscovers the joys of
doing something just for herself</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>
</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXHhWRGjyv-cZwSHXro5Kw9cMPEJQ5BaU5X7n2TAMRYcK9zOv38pUyln7cp7oA3gdE1csnB0eTe4PYMaVV7__nh79UJvz9YUb1gichIm8MHI2atUX6ZctKNk9PRDd4twe4ctgeN3yU3av/s1600/the+farm1.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXHhWRGjyv-cZwSHXro5Kw9cMPEJQ5BaU5X7n2TAMRYcK9zOv38pUyln7cp7oA3gdE1csnB0eTe4PYMaVV7__nh79UJvz9YUb1gichIm8MHI2atUX6ZctKNk9PRDd4twe4ctgeN3yU3av/s1600/the+farm1.JPG" height="320" width="296" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Chilling by my private pool </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“Do you get
enough sleep? Do you have a lot on your mind? Do you worry a lot?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Do you have ESP?</i> I thought.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I was sitting in Dr. Ferdinand Browner’s office at The Farm at San
Benito, and he was giving me a live blood analysis—he had taken a drop of my
blood, and we were now staring at my red blood cells, magnified on the screen
in front of us. I expected mine to look very similar to the perfectly round,
evenly spaced normal cells on the chart. Instead, I saw flower-shaped blobs
(some stuck together) and little crystal particles floating about. The good
doctor rattled off everything else that was wrong with me: I always have my
phone and sit in front of a computer for extended periods, and am thus exposed
to electromagnetic radiation (true), I love sugar (true, though in the last
month, I had cut back. But it takes four months for RBCs to regenerate, so…),
and I eat a lot of meat and junk (busted—I actually had a double cheeseburger
on my way there). It felt like I was at confession, where all my deep, dark
health sins were being revealed. He did say he thought I was in my 20s, so I
must still be doing something right!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">This was my first stop after checking into my luxurious Narra Villa at
The Farm. On my four-day/three-night wellness holiday, I was to start things
off with a consultation with one of The Farm’s licensed M.D.s, who would gauge
where I was, health-wise, and suggest the treatments I needed to help me get
back on track. During my consultation, Dr. Browner talked about how the body
has been scientifically proven to regenerate—but, I suppose, with all the
stress of everyday life, it’s harder to do these days. “Here at The Farm,” he
said, “we give the time and space
for the body to heal itself.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Time and space—these were things that seemed to be sorely lacking in my
life. Even this trip, designed to help me relax, had gotten me anxious. I was
worried about the work I had left behind. I
was stressing over the work I had to do while I was there (the friendly front desk staff
playfully tsk-tsked as I lugged my laptop, stack of magazines, and files). And most of all, I
felt intensely guilty about leaving my son. As dusk set in, I got a wake-up
call from GH art director, Kara: “<i>Kung ako yan, i-e</i>-enjoy <i>ko ang</i> me-time.
<i>Kailan pa ako makakahanap ng </i>opportunity <i>na mag-isa lang talaga ako?</i>” she
texted. She was right. I resolved to make the most of the experience. After
all, the guilt was useless—I was already there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Instead of focusing on my worries, I decided to be thankful for the
experience instead. I had a fantastic villa with my own private pool, a tub, a
huge bed, a forest for a backyard, and—much to my surprise—cable TV! (I hardly
ever get to watch TV in Manila since my son is generally not allowed to.) I
wanted to get my schedule to see what treatments Doc had prescribed, and what
the healing sanctuary (aka their spa) thought I needed; I could then pencil in
all the other activities I wanted to do (PX90! Yoga! Aqua aerobics!).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I had gotten really excited—until I found out that Doc had scheduled me
for two colon irrigation treatments. “It’s all fun and games til they clean
your colon,” I Vibered Team GH. This was what I was most nervous about—having someone
stick a tube up my rear. (Assistant art director Theo’s Viber message: “Just
no.”) Dr. Browner encouraged me to try it, saying that a lot of people get
immense relief, sometimes finding that the physical process opened up emotional
floodgates. “They end up talking to the therapist about what’s going on in
their lives,” he said. We talked about how physical ailments are often rooted
in something deeper. I decided to just be upfront about all the emotional
turmoil I had been through in the past year (silently hoping he would give me a
get-out-of-colon-cleanse-free card), to which he replied, “I think you should
do it, because you have a lot of shit to let out.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">So, in the name of journalism, I underwent a colema <i>and </i>colonics on two consecutive days.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The first requires you to lie on a bed over a toilet. A pencil-thin
tube is then inserted into your bum; through this tube, 20 liters of a coffee
solution are quickly pumped into you, and you just push when you feel discomfort.
This was, by far, the unsexiest thing I have ever had to do in my life—and I’ve
given birth, so that’s <i>really</i> saying something. The second treatment requires a
fatter tube and about 35 liters of water slowly pumped into you. This was much
less icky, and I was also much less apprehensive, since I’d had my baptism by
fire (or, more accurately, coffee) the previous day. I was obsessively weighing
myself while I was there, and after two and a half days and two colon
hydrotherapy sessions, I had amazingly lost two kilos.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">And it wasn’t even because I was starving. Though friends joked that I
would have to pick my own food, I thoroughly enjoyed what The Farm’s award-winning
restaurant, Alive!, had to offer. Since I wasn’t on a detox cleanse, I had free
rein over my meals, and could select anything from their menu. (I went nuts the
first night and ordered their five-course special.) I thought I would be
subsisting on salads and carrot sticks throughout my stay, but I was happy to
be introduced to vegan cuisine done right: Paper-thin beets masqueraded as
cannelloni, coconut meat had the texture of squid, and fresh, wholesome flavors
exploded in my mouth. After my first two days, I thought, <i>If this is what it’s like to be vegan, I could totally do this for life</i>.
And then I woke up on my third day with a raging craving for tocino. Still, the
food far exceeded my expectations, and introduced me to a whole new way of
eating.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">After four days, I felt like I was cleansed, kneaded, and scrubbed into
a rejuvenated Zen state. I had two massages (both of which lulled me into a
nap), a skin kayud treatment (scraping using mother-of-pearl shells, followed
by a coffee scrub, wrap, and soak in a tub of more java), and another scrub
using coconut oil. I felt so polished and supple after all my spa treatments; a
few people remarked that I looked so fresh, and even that my aura was
different. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqcK3GLDSnpxwKkts5W3rGDLvQaqdAcuXQ8J-HWZbmB3Hf7E7rR4XNfOTxzItxg26mLSKHhz1IXIrZxF24sWGkaY0P0tp-f20X5ilF_fUufvYAVhKU8ixylTtbTyAKXk0uvRZvnHjiI8ty/s1600/the+farm3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqcK3GLDSnpxwKkts5W3rGDLvQaqdAcuXQ8J-HWZbmB3Hf7E7rR4XNfOTxzItxg26mLSKHhz1IXIrZxF24sWGkaY0P0tp-f20X5ilF_fUufvYAVhKU8ixylTtbTyAKXk0uvRZvnHjiI8ty/s1600/the+farm3.jpeg" height="320" width="240" /></a><i> </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Morning yoga </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Thinking back, this glow had less to do with all the treatments and
more to do with actually just being at The Farm. Though there were other guests
during my stay, it often felt like I had the sprawling, 10-hectare place to
myself (well, shared with some peacocks freely roaming about). In between treatments,
I was able to attend an intense fitness class at their gym and a morning yoga session
outdoors. For the most part, I decided to just take it easy: lounge in a bed I
didn’t have to share with anyone, read, watch TV, or take a dip in my own pool.
I would float on my back and look up at the clouds (or stars), or swim to the
edge and just stare off into the trees, my head going completely blank. For
once, my mind was surprisingly, blissfully quiet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Four days seemed like a long time to be away, but by the end of it, I
didn’t want to go home. On day one, I dreaded being alone, but I soon learned to
relish the solitude. It reminded me that no matter how hectic my life got, I
also needed to pay attention to me—it’s not selfish; it’s only sane. Dr. Browner
was right: The Farm really did give me the time and space I didn’t even know I
needed. I thought about the changes I wanted to make in my diet, my schedule,
my life. I thought—or <i>didn’t</i> think,
if I didn’t want to—about all the things I had been through in the past year,
and where I would go from there. I thought about how getting back on track
didn’t happen overnight, how it was a process that required patience, a virtue
that life tries to teach me again and again. My body—and my spirit—had begun to
heal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The Farm at San Benito is located at 119
Barangay Tipakan, 4217 Lipa City, Batangas; seasonal offers available. Call
(632) 884-8074, (63918) 884-8080, email </i><a href="mailto:info@thefarm.com.ph"><i>info@thefarm.com.ph</i></a><i>, or visit thefarmatsanbenito.com for more
details.</i></span> </div>
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-42518235026196828832014-05-04T18:43:00.002+08:002014-05-04T18:43:35.486+08:00<div style="text-align: justify;">
I know it's taboo to discuss sex, politics, and religion, but today I'm writing about religion.</div>
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I am a Catholic, and I will be until I die. But to be honest, I've been struggling a lot lately--going to mass has become more of an obligation (which is probably true for many others), mostly because I still haven't found a church where I feel at home, that gives me the feeling that I truly am spending time with God, and that gives me serenity, the way the best masses do. I used to go to mass every weekday at Tektite, mostly because I really like the priest there--it's like I really feel like God is talking to me. But he says Sunday mass at some far-flung place. I decided to stop going to the church near our house because of the parish woman who rudely and loudly told me in front of other churchgoers that my son was distracting (to her I say: 1) you could have said it nicely--we ended up slinking away in shame, not even finishing the mass; 2) I only took my son to church because my favorite priest suggested that I do; 3) we were actually outside the church because I am aware how distracting a toddler could be; 4) "Jesus said, 'Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these'"; 5) sigh, maybe you were having a bad day so I really should just let it go). I'm not comfortable going to mass at malls, particularly one mall where the priest once said, "If you're sick, it means that you're sinful." (I kid you not.) I like going to mass at Gesu (I tend to like Jesuit homilies) but I never know when there's a mass there.</div>
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Today, I went to mass at a cathedral, which I thought was The One. But in the middle of talking about the Gospel, the priest started yelling--YELLING INTO THE MICROPHONE--at the congregation. For being late, for being so easily distracted, for coming only because we felt like we had to, for not taking advantage of the opportunity "to feel the presence of God." To be honest, I wasn't really feeling the presence of God as he lambasted us all. I felt like I was in the principal's office, getting berated for doing something bad. I felt like I was seated before vengeful Old-Testament God, who was about to unleash a plague because we were all so disobedient. I felt like leaving.</div>
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I understand he must have been frustrated, but is shaming churchgoers really the best way to encourage them to find meaning? I struggle to understand the words spoken, the rituals we sit/stand/kneel through every week. And as a good Catholic, I suppose it's up to me to really find answers to my questions. I guess today all I'm asking is: Is there a Catholic church out there that makes going to mass something I would joyfully do, rather than something that makes me tell myself, "It's just one hour for God, suck it up"? </div>
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-66870066384950652202014-02-10T23:08:00.000+08:002014-02-10T23:08:00.064+08:00Why I Love Downton Even More<div style="text-align: center;">
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Click <a href="http://www.omaze.com/experiences/downtonabbey" target="_blank">here</a> to find out more about the promo. Even if you don't win, you still get a little something, ranging from a digital thank you card from select cast (1 entry+) to Mrs. Patmore coming to cook for you and 10 of your friends (5,000 entries+)! My favorite is "You'll receive a personalized video of Mrs. Patmore yelling at whomever you choose as if they are Daisy" (100 entries+)! I'm so tempted to pool together all my Downton fan-friends so we could get one of the bigger "prizes," then we'll just raffle it off amongst ourselves. Hmmm.</div>
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Thank you, Downton--and to all the others who've helped/are helping/will help! </div>
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Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-32547417908616154912014-02-10T09:25:00.000+08:002014-02-10T10:57:57.474+08:00Random Outfits<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
I keep forgetting to take photos of my clothes. In two weeks, I was only able to manage to get photos of three outfits. I missed an LBD, a kaftan, a cocktail dress...Oh well!</div>
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Outfit 1: White romper with embellished neckline from Topshop. White is my color. It's not the most forgiving of colors, but I love how it looks so fresh, clean, and elegant. At work, I wore this with nude pumps and had a tan bag. For family dinner at Circles, I switched to silver heels from Primadonna, and a purple and silver bag from Aranaz.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGajiHoBOWnYLWd_wdNoA1cAVYfJUC0LQk7Chmq1pq7LVmnC8Ve7lO3K9ikHEBmGlAQZdMVdPdb8Dabn_nucGz6osgp16aQhrZGJyVdNu8mRwQKrz8S40QwLcGywMmk42668fJ3gPe9yX/s1600/image-15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGajiHoBOWnYLWd_wdNoA1cAVYfJUC0LQk7Chmq1pq7LVmnC8Ve7lO3K9ikHEBmGlAQZdMVdPdb8Dabn_nucGz6osgp16aQhrZGJyVdNu8mRwQKrz8S40QwLcGywMmk42668fJ3gPe9yX/s1600/image-15.jpg" height="320" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Just when I think my chest is back to normal, I see photos like this.:p Biceps c/o my son.</span></i></div>
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Outfit 2: I call this my "mommy <i>porma</i>"! Regular day at work. Striped top from Bayo, Levi's Revel jeans, white tennis sneakers from<i> </i>Market! Market!, red bag from Yosi Samra, shades from Forever 21.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uCo73z8u8WeBMg_CD9uDXFqTmWTly8JnV6hF7wilKDMEP_qeqf1AToID_yljUyMMd36qTkHamh1LhxfCPVKnwF0tdEhQmqm81uno7f3hsMi7muUP9OCqNTozVD2t9sAhG9LnFQbC_F7V/s1600/image-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uCo73z8u8WeBMg_CD9uDXFqTmWTly8JnV6hF7wilKDMEP_qeqf1AToID_yljUyMMd36qTkHamh1LhxfCPVKnwF0tdEhQmqm81uno7f3hsMi7muUP9OCqNTozVD2t9sAhG9LnFQbC_F7V/s1600/image-16.jpg" height="320" width="197" /></a></div>
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Outfit 3: Friday! Not that I went out or anything. Har. H got me that black v-neck top from H&M maybe two years ago but this was the first time I wore it. I used to think it was too tight, so it's kind of funny that I decided to wear it when I wasn't even in the shape I was in when I first got it. I guess the older you get, the less self-conscious you are? Leopard-print skirt from Cotton On was a gift from H's sister. Black pumps from Parisian.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BeH_7h-OimNEY7yUNB4ncjMbnSsQs6ZkbgWsL-afO0MMEcszmu4AwRB0KUj5okAId41MtNxWnocT-GJzI0xFyS6hRgxQBIu9MjLTIL7v7gjzp_mKxUVMwfmJQSWUoAfiwmNLZSlyqxB5/s1600/image-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BeH_7h-OimNEY7yUNB4ncjMbnSsQs6ZkbgWsL-afO0MMEcszmu4AwRB0KUj5okAId41MtNxWnocT-GJzI0xFyS6hRgxQBIu9MjLTIL7v7gjzp_mKxUVMwfmJQSWUoAfiwmNLZSlyqxB5/s1600/image-17.jpg" height="320" width="186" /></a></div>
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Here's hoping I remember to take more photos this week!Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-16023947240746311422014-02-09T23:21:00.000+08:002014-02-09T23:33:15.200+08:00Little Man's Mustache Bash<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
I totally understand why parents spend loads of money on a big first birthday party--your kid only reaches this milestone once. But I guess I'm just...<strike>cheap</strike> practical? I figured A's not going to remember the party anyway, so I just wanted a small family-only thing at home. (On a side note, there's a funny piece called <a href="http://deadspin.com/down-with-big-birthday-1502731122" target="_blank">"Down with Big Birthday"</a> about how ridiculous the "Birthday-Industrial Complex" has gotten.) </div>
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I decided on a little man/mustache theme because 1) A really did seem like a little man, and 2) he has three mustache <i>sandos </i>that he regularly wears, so it's kind of his thing. Pretty much everything in this party (if you could call it that) was DIY. Because the holidays weren't hectic enough.@_@ Some photos (some were taken by my SIL): </div>
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My Photoshop/InDesign skills were tested when I made the invitations (our assistant art director Theo made the background). I know everyone does Facebook invites nowadays, but I printed them out anyway. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNktWdSOHCeMnA6tMYoYj3mRubm5INEcWyby6B0rE7RBZYMjb8ILz-q_QJ_uO-QX57jSxWKBoWVUejy2IzK7dTirrFmDdRhZ8hSd6qRfJ-HtHCouN5qTqdC4c_OD-vJHOuDO_Mq90MHQXQ/s1600/1392978_10152188022211457_1705759938_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNktWdSOHCeMnA6tMYoYj3mRubm5INEcWyby6B0rE7RBZYMjb8ILz-q_QJ_uO-QX57jSxWKBoWVUejy2IzK7dTirrFmDdRhZ8hSd6qRfJ-HtHCouN5qTqdC4c_OD-vJHOuDO_Mq90MHQXQ/s1600/1392978_10152188022211457_1705759938_n.jpg" height="400" width="281" /></a></div>
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I made bunting to hang all around...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJoZY_3L2_7I6WQR2PDZkecNnG0Xj28NQ0rfkmbmZdurgCOvE0gW_6ZJZrEmcVXhfJxHCo33kNIifoigdtQTaftBCyWcOjlgRPxjkSXzWR2FcM01SBNErP89BbwMUQnHQVC2vs2pQzrL5/s1600/image-14.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJoZY_3L2_7I6WQR2PDZkecNnG0Xj28NQ0rfkmbmZdurgCOvE0gW_6ZJZrEmcVXhfJxHCo33kNIifoigdtQTaftBCyWcOjlgRPxjkSXzWR2FcM01SBNErP89BbwMUQnHQVC2vs2pQzrL5/s1600/image-14.jpeg" height="400" width="313" /></a></div>
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...and mixed some with Japanese lanterns that I bought from Divisoria a couple of months before. They're still hanging in our garage (thanks for helping, Ninong Rene!)--A seemed to like them so I decided to keep them.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywqA_TmNh544HLdsanP_h9d_i7cI56K35KmHI4BCoXeIGYEre8hwSsfBCCbucXBCcpSKwMTi6PU4cop8AZ4jApneeER2xqoV_PnBxhgnBoNkU1oeWVw2otzAEZ5e1Ba4Qo8HaJaF9mcCB/s1600/1525545_10152188022921457_1244280697_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywqA_TmNh544HLdsanP_h9d_i7cI56K35KmHI4BCoXeIGYEre8hwSsfBCCbucXBCcpSKwMTi6PU4cop8AZ4jApneeER2xqoV_PnBxhgnBoNkU1oeWVw2otzAEZ5e1Ba4Qo8HaJaF9mcCB/s1600/1525545_10152188022921457_1244280697_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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I hung a big sign at the gate so guests would know where the party was at.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoiJMSdSQz5xb1w9X9fe-1TfslfAUTUXueNKsBSjjnHKaDigF3s3jQc35kCks8JP6nu5rulH60spMUqDMdkOonBtzcElSs9jVyMtJnhJFbaj2AcFblBPSRlJnoKl94Fe5Tx9r8YlnULvkc/s1600/1512572_10152188022531457_1878428970_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoiJMSdSQz5xb1w9X9fe-1TfslfAUTUXueNKsBSjjnHKaDigF3s3jQc35kCks8JP6nu5rulH60spMUqDMdkOonBtzcElSs9jVyMtJnhJFbaj2AcFblBPSRlJnoKl94Fe5Tx9r8YlnULvkc/s1600/1512572_10152188022531457_1878428970_n.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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As much as I wanted to cook, I just didn't have room for that kind of stress in my life. On the menu: chicken lollipop and spaghetti made by my mom's helper, and hickory smoked barbecue ribs (my favorite) as well as baked fish with potato gratinee (H's favorite) from Banapple. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3OIzqW3Ds0NVIGhDk7Rb45bXGKhVo6rHq12fh02c6dzCV8UKnpfaVpu-PQmvG0oFUbkI-RMFl3yBt2ZSJaNAcbQSqCZAVVAzNnb-vn4xXIrah2j4h7pyLqJl9gg8MK8dxXeogNM4fkJFU/s1600/dsc_0174.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3OIzqW3Ds0NVIGhDk7Rb45bXGKhVo6rHq12fh02c6dzCV8UKnpfaVpu-PQmvG0oFUbkI-RMFl3yBt2ZSJaNAcbQSqCZAVVAzNnb-vn4xXIrah2j4h7pyLqJl9gg8MK8dxXeogNM4fkJFU/s1600/dsc_0174.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
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And it might seem silly considering it was such a small event, but I printed out signs for those too...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBohVCHf_M-Vs_tIAKdVbrBIpxkBNkONPFmYVdmMH9l60XKou9wnDhj36lIDheyCqXHasIa-H10qm5bNUE-RQzWlNg33YZxfcc2ogkPA3LkANMrGJI0IAcSabZZfWY8T02XiMo_hoi22or/s1600/1535549_10152188029406457_103947283_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBohVCHf_M-Vs_tIAKdVbrBIpxkBNkONPFmYVdmMH9l60XKou9wnDhj36lIDheyCqXHasIa-H10qm5bNUE-RQzWlNg33YZxfcc2ogkPA3LkANMrGJI0IAcSabZZfWY8T02XiMo_hoi22or/s1600/1535549_10152188029406457_103947283_n.jpg" height="281" width="400" /></a></div>
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We had some really yummy red velvet cupcakes baked by GH food editor Roselle. (She baked A's baptismal cupcakes too!)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpELbCXegvdQqx4wa_8ey_yS29dnmfpommRvyDpDh_zwkrCLH56hdVPpqFYNmJlntrRqxO98IxeA2ILh741pT0RtkUGZGoMaNYLSqrBd8vL0oQnCK4yA3WrlYyENOLcgSMnPGbp2vGTlee/s1600/1525255_10152188029211457_522128786_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpELbCXegvdQqx4wa_8ey_yS29dnmfpommRvyDpDh_zwkrCLH56hdVPpqFYNmJlntrRqxO98IxeA2ILh741pT0RtkUGZGoMaNYLSqrBd8vL0oQnCK4yA3WrlYyENOLcgSMnPGbp2vGTlee/s1600/1525255_10152188029211457_522128786_n.jpg" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
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Some extras: I made A a birthday board with some fun facts. By hand. And considering I have terrible handwriting and have no calligraphy skills, this was a true labor of love! I used chalk on illustration board--I think I'm going to go over it a second time with chalk marker. It's a little souvenir that I'd like to keep in A's room. </div>
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With the board, I put some disposable cameras (courtesy of H's sis) and a bunch of different mustaches, so people could snap away. Our nephews and nieces had a lot of fun with those--but they had to ask us how to work the cameras!</div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">With my BFF (A's ninang)--because she's family</span></i></div>
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We didn't really have anything planned in terms of entertainment, except for an old-school game with a twist: Pin the 'stache on A!</div>
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For the cake, I didn't wanna spend a bundle on something fancy, so I just got a big version of the mini devil's food cake (from Chocolate Kiss) we had for his <a href="http://heretishietishie.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-first-month.html" target="_blank">first-month birthday</a> and decorated it with mini-bunting. (I LOVE this cake. I think I had three slices that day. We ordered two so guess where most of my holiday weight came from?)</div>
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For A's outfit, I wanted something that would go with the color scheme and theme. His red button-down shirt had a tiny mustache detail, and he wore it with comfy blue pants. I wore a stache necklace.</div>
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In the realm of first birthdays, little man's was small and simple and super casual. But hey, he seemed to enjoy it!</div>
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<i>P.S. Need help styling an event? Email me at heretishietishie@gmail.com. :)</i></div>
Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-5148583871335100472014-02-01T21:57:00.000+08:002014-02-07T17:08:39.856+08:00A Workweek's Worth of Outfits (or, OOTW)<div style="text-align: justify;">
Because I promised myself that I wouldn't turn <i>losyang </i>after having a kid. I'm not a fashionista, but lately people have been telling me that I'm their mommy peg (aww thanks, guys!), so um I guess I'm doing something right. My outfits for one week of work:</div>
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<b>Monday:</b> Just a regular day at work. H&M silk blouse, 50th Avenue origami shorts, Forever 21 ankle booties, and Topshop necklace.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4kjdhEHSb7fkzWon5Xi3y2woJ18VH0B40sU4qL5JZwrvw-7XlGH9KnyKIa_YXzHRPfeTBFF5L2r_kYi2BtJizkFwDkf82VBul3Wn1sI2L5TmOdjPLhr6tRjkMotdlGgcvwEyqC3r5iQU/s1600/outfit1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4kjdhEHSb7fkzWon5Xi3y2woJ18VH0B40sU4qL5JZwrvw-7XlGH9KnyKIa_YXzHRPfeTBFF5L2r_kYi2BtJizkFwDkf82VBul3Wn1sI2L5TmOdjPLhr6tRjkMotdlGgcvwEyqC3r5iQU/s1600/outfit1.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<b>Tuesday:</b> Fancy dinner with New York bosses at our big boss's (super-Instagrammable-but-I-restrained-myself) house. Chloe dress (there's a shimmery animal-print-ish layer peeking out from underneath the sheer violet layer), white and gold Australian ankle-strap heels, and Tory Burch bag. </div>
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<b>Wednesday:</b> Regular day at the office. Forever 21 nude lace top and tank, Jag straight-cut indigo jeans, The Ramp blazer, Parisian nude pumps, Aranaz bag.</div>
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<b>Thursday:</b> Ocular inspection of possible cover shoot locations. Black People Are People top, department store jeans, army green Bayo vest, Payless heels, Mango Touch bag, Forever 21 sunnies, bangles were a gift.</div>
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<b>Friday:</b> Family dinner. The Ramp dress, CMG sandals (because I needed a break after wearing heels for four straight days), SM necklace.</div>
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I know a lot of mommies have a tough time getting dressed after having kids, not just because your body after childbirth feels completely alien (I've always thought that it's much harder to dress a post-pregnancy body than it is to dress a pregnant one) but also because of the lack of time (I am thankful for the help that I have, which at least gives me time to shower! I have friends who aren't as lucky). A few tips to help my fellow mommies who may be struggling--and judging by my magazine's Mommy Makeover letters, there are a few out there:</div>
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<li style="text-align: justify;"><b>Know your body.</b> This helps you figure out which cuts to go for and which ones you shouldn't even have in your wardrobe. For example: The black top in my Thursday outfit used to be a crew-neck top. I had the neckline widened because crew-neck tops aren't flattering on me--they end up making me look bigger, maybe because I have a large-ish rib cage. I also have a high waist, so I tend to avoid fit-and-flare dresses; they make me look even more squat and rotund.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><b>Know your style.</b> I'm more of a classic dresser. I throw in the occasional trend (see Monday: origami shorts), but generally I stick to basic pieces. I'm also minimalist when it comes to accessories. I hardly ever wear earrings! When I do wear bling, I normally have either just a necklace OR bangles. But if you're a maximalist, by all means, pile it on! I think a lot of this minimalism stems from the fact that I have a toddler who likes grabbing things.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><b>You don't have to spend a bundle.</b> I don't buy designer stuff--that gorgeous Chloe dress is actually from <a href="http://heretishietishie.blogspot.com/2013/04/shopping-from-stylists-closet-or-best.html" target="_blank">Pam Q's sale</a> and the Tory Burch bag was a gift. A lot of my clothes and accessories are department store finds.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><b>Layer.</b> Blazers (see Wednesday), vests (see Thursday), cardigans--these are things you can toss over more form-fitting or sheer tops or dresses that you might otherwise feel self-conscious in. </li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><b>Plan.</b> I was inspired by our assistant fashion editor Nina, who plans her outfits for the week. She says it keeps her from being late. I find that I begin my workdays with less stress when I already know what I'll be wearing. It's just one less thing to think about, making mornings less frantic.</li>
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Any tips you'd like to share?:)</div>
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Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7298921340054881100.post-10764685586528712272014-01-16T22:06:00.000+08:002014-01-16T22:06:32.953+08:00Home Makeover: Dining Area<div style="text-align: justify;">
Because A was quickly moving into toddlerhood, I decided to re-do the house. But I still wanted it to look like a grownups' home, not a nursery school. I guess the key was to provide as much space as possible (no mean feat in our small home), and have fewer breakables (bye-bye, vases) and sharp edges to run into (bye-bye, coffee table).</div>
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Since the first time I did the house, my style has evolved. I'm still into a mix of stuff, but I've started to let go of the beach-y elements (probably because everyone's just doing tropical modern now, the way everyone did Mediterranean in the 90s). I still like the idea of elegance mixed with comfort, but now I'm more attracted to classic shapes and subdued colors with a vibrant pop here and there. I like things more soft and feminine, but not over-the-top girly. </div>
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I started with a peg, but it turned out to be more my old style, and eventually I moved away from it, retaining only the color scheme and the airiness. I finally decided on a look (because it just makes furniture and decor decisions easier): modern romantic.<br />
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I'm nearly done with the first floor (yeah, all two major areas of it), and I think the part that best showcases this look is the dining area.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixsnhB5MbGHGEi3_jw1TOdoWgn2XgHAt_SYVrJkEIUdgIdbvpJgCAoj0_j-d_ErnEuERDRPZdjczEeXt2YeLLONJcvVva-8H_QB9K6vFWzCxP0rG6JuvM43n-PhdQr7fFsLoE4nxUB8Cv9/s1600/IMG_4362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixsnhB5MbGHGEi3_jw1TOdoWgn2XgHAt_SYVrJkEIUdgIdbvpJgCAoj0_j-d_ErnEuERDRPZdjczEeXt2YeLLONJcvVva-8H_QB9K6vFWzCxP0rG6JuvM43n-PhdQr7fFsLoE4nxUB8Cv9/s400/IMG_4362.JPG" height="400" width="287" /></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">This was taken in December (obviously), but haven't taken a new photo as it just looks much cozier and dreamier with the tree in the background! I've always thought that the house looks best at Christmas. </span></i></div>
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I absolutely adore our new dining area! Sigh. (I wish I could put a before photo, but I just realized I don't have any old photos on hand--was never able to get the ones shot by <i>Real Living</i> when they featured our house.) The changes:</div>
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<li>The <b>accent wall</b> was repainted from green to gray, custom-mixed by our house painter (leave a comment if you need his number!) because my budget didn't allow for store-customized paint. This worked out though, because it took us about four tries to get the shade just right. The rest of the white walls were retouched, and I had those horrid brown fake baseboards painted over.</li>
<li>The <b>wood dining table</b> was custom-made by one of the stalls in Sta. Rosa, Laguna. I like it, but a couple of weeks after delivery, it started splitting down the middle. Still waiting for the furniture maker to send someone over to fix it.</li>
<li>As much as I would like to say that those babies are real, they're actually <b>repro Louis Ghost chairs. </b>Got 'em on sale, 50% off at Victoria Mondiale! I went over my budget for dining chairs, but how could I possibly resist?</li>
<li>I kept going through online stores (Pottery Barn, West Elm, Urban Outfitters) for lighting options, then came across a gorgeous <b>capiz chandelier</b> in the World Market website. Guess where it was made? I figured I could find the same thing for a fraction of the price at Ils de Tuls (ilalim ng tulay, Quiapo). So under the bridge I went and found that beaut. I'm sure they overcharged me, as I'm normally too embarrassed to haggle, but it was still a good price. I'm planning to get smaller ones for the first-floor bathroom and the master bedroom--or I could just <a href="http://jaxdoesdesign.blogspot.com/2013/01/diy-capiz-chandelier.html" target="_blank">make them</a>.</li>
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Still so much to do (and spend on)! But I'm loving where this is going. I can't help but smile every time I go downstairs in the morning and see the first floor all airy and bathed in sunshine. And after a long day at work, I am just excited to walk through our front door. Sure, redecorating seems like a completely unnecessary expense, but I can't put a price on the happiness and relaxation I get from feeling like I've really <i>come home</i>.</div>
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Tishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443119535011851603noreply@blogger.com1