Have I turned textbook?

So. It's time for something girly and generally prissy.

I've always been turned off by textbook girlfriends. You know the type. The Textbook Girlfriend is the one who listens to whatever her boyfriend is listening to, then she tells all her friends (and his, more importantly) that it's the best kind of music, like, ever. The Textbook Girlfriend is the one who forbids (not allows is too tame a phrase for these girls. forbids may be more to their liking.) their boys from going out without them. Watching porn is definite taboo. Looking at sexy pictures of girls wearing slinky ourfits is disastrous. Staring at pretty girls walking by is a mistake that you'd better not make or else. The Textbook Girlfriend forbids her boyfriend from smoking when she's around (it's for your own good, dear) and throws a tantrum if he so much as drinks two bottles of beer. The Textbook Girlfriend likes being driven home and spends the weekends watching movies with her light o'love. Oh, and Valentine's is a sacred holiday for her. Possibly, she considers this day far more special than any member of her boy's family.

Anything less than this kind of treatment would cause the Textbook Girlfriend to leave and look for some other hapless victim. She likes the idea of leaving someone in the lurch. Makes her feel loved and hugely important.

These kinds of girls are the worst kind. They have the classic DSD syndrome: Dependent, Simpering, Delusional.

Whenever I was in a relationship, I took extra care never to do anything that would tag my actions as textbook. I girl-watched with an ex. One of my ex's read as many porn magazines as he wanted. I let one go out with his ex until he got tired of it. I watch what they want to watch and I almost never push the girly stuff that I want to see. If they wanted to drink, we'd go out and look for a bar. They seldom saw me home or opened doors for me. If they wanted to go to a basketball game, I went with them. I was a man's girl : low-maintenance and as flexible as a twig. But I did try to maintain some essentials: music preference, literary taste, and my privacy.

My main goal in even engaging in a relationship when I was younger was to hear my boyfriend say You're the coolest girlfriend I've ever had. And I got what I wanted all the time; never struck out. That's a record I'm actually proud of. I am.

I don't have anything against those other girls. I'm even friends with some of them. When they have love problems, they ask for my advice. What I tell them perplexes them. They think I'm strange to let the guy "get away with it". They think it's stupid, even, to let him "have all the freedom he wants."

I disagree with them, of course. But there are times when I need to check whether I'm doing a certain thing because I want to be "the coolest girlfriend, ever" or if this is what I really feel is the right decision to make as a woman and as a partner.

Yes, I do have a point and my point is this: when you're so used to acting a certain way, you tend to forget about lines that are supposed to separate what's right from what you want yourself to believe is right. You get so caught up in both that they blur and cancel each other out until you realize you've forgotten something along the way, but it turns out, you were too late to notice what it is.

C

When I was in first grade, I had a best friend. All proper little girls had one and I was no exception. I don't remember how we met or how we really became friends. I don't even know if she remembers me with the same affection that I feel whenever I am reminded of her. I just know that I considered her the best because the girls in our class hated me for some reason and she alone stuck by me. For a kid, that's something.

One thing I remember almost clearly is that day when we held a class election and the boys all voted that I be class president and only C gave me a vote from the girls' group. I didn't win that election of course, because the girls outnumbered the boys. I believe that she even held a shouting match with the girls outside the classroom after school hours, saying that I should have been a shoo-in for the position, if they weren't so idiotic and stubborn. Okay, so she didn't say idiotic and stubborn, exactly. I just like tweaking facts a bit sometimes.

I went to a different school in 2nd grade and we lost contact since then. It was strange but I still remembered her from time to time and told my other friends about her.

After my elementary graduation, my father told me that he ran into her mother and her mother said that C was enrolled in one of the premier art schools in the country. I was happy for her, sure, but I did not know then what an art school was or how different it was from a regular school or if going there would have any marked effect on her.

Years later, I became friends with someone who just so happened to be her schoolmate in highschool. So I asked about her, of course. I learned that instead of a crappy thesis, she wrote a book of recipes instead. The recipes were poems. What a novel idea, I remember thinking. What a creative person she turned out to be.

One of my favorite bloggers has a Facebook account and I included him in my friends list. In facebook, you can put in your relationship status and the name of the person who you're in a relationship with. I was really surprised when I saw that my favorite blogger's girlfriend was C. So I sent her an invite and a message, introducing myself. It's funny but she remembered me and I felt glad that she did. Inspite of the fact that we've lost contact for almost 20 years, I still figured in her mind, like snippets from an old childhood book do.

Memory is amazing, isn't it? It's the only thing that connects us from one time to another, bridging gaps and preserving what's left of the things we shed. And sometimes, when you feel as if you've forgotten or lost the important things, someone remembers and you revel in the fact that you fit somehow in that person's life. That at one point you counted, and most probably, were loved.

seeing a picture of you

makes me want to scream. really.

the family that ties and gags

My cousin is considering running away from home. We've been texting since November of last year and I know that she has been plotting to do that even during that time.

I understand her need to push through with it. I myself have disassociated myself from my mother's sisters since last year. They're a difficult bunch to decipher, a set of hard hearts. When I try to recall the things that transpired during the months when my mother was sick, I find that I can only come up with a handful of vague scenes, all involving one of my aunts telling stories about my mother. Unsavory tales of self-love and laziness and a propensity for telling lies. That was who my mother was for them in a nutshell... so different from the woman I have known and grown to love with every inch of my life.

I secretly hated them for telling me those stories and for the blatant disrespect they showed my family. How they belittled my mother's love for us and the way we were raised. But I couldn't really do anything at that time because I was lost in the haze of my own confusion and feelings of loss. Plus, I did not have a job then, or a place to stay in. I let them help us and used the time to plan on how I would get away from them once I got a good paying job.

The person whom I despised the most was my godmother, who also happens to be one of the worst apples in that ugly basket. She told me just one story, but she told it with such detachment, as if she were talking about peas or how harsh the sunlight felt on her skin. She told me the story of the time when my mother, in a sudden fit of rage, commanded all of them to get out of the house that she bought for them to live in then sold it to the first person who got interested in it. My godmother told it with a face as blank as a slate and I was stunned by how truly she disliked my mother. I remember keeping silent, storing the memory for future use. I never forgot that day, and how it planted in me a seed of quiet hate.

A year passed and I got tired of them all. I could no longer stand the identical looks of disapproval I got from them when an expectation was not met. I could no longer grasp the relevance of certain pointless traditions that they stubbornly fought to keep. I could no longer make room in my life for their funny little arrangements.

So I just quit them. I quit the people I've grown up with and my surrogate mothers. And I'm fine, really. My brother and I live better with this arrangement. There was once a time when I thought it'd be impossible to survive without them. Now I'm happier, more at ease.

I would like to wish my cousin the same relaxed existence that I am now enjoying. But from her rather desperate messages, I'm getting the idea that she's not prepared to leave. Emotionally, financially, even mentally. What she wants is for her and her lover to come meet me at the place where I work. Maybe, she's also hoping that I offer her a place to stay and a considerable amount of moolah. A place to stay is impossible, as I'm also just living with a family that was good enough to take me in. Money is a no no as well. And she wants to meet up on a holiday and I've already made plans.

I feel selfish but I know that I have earned the right to be. I've worked hard to be where I am and have tried not to accept favors from anyone along the way. I am not willing to rearrange my life for anyone, especially not for someone who seems so shockingly unprepared to face the consequences of this giant step she's making.

I want her to get out of that place, to help her seek a niche of her own. But how can I do that if she's being so ridiculously naive? I want to tell her that this is not a movie where the heroine runs away and gets through unbelievable obstacles and even gets the guy. I want to tell her that the heroine who runs away will not have an easy life, that she would face hardships that she may not be able to overcome but she should have the balls to be okay at the end of each episode inspite of the world, inspite of herself. Life is not a romantic rerun. I want to tell her all these things and I will tell her tomorrow. Tomorrow, she'll be able to understand what I want her to know.

smile at a big girl: make the world a better place

I have read many a blog post which always championed the, erm, cause of small-breasted women. It was always Oh I'm so happy with the way I am or I'm so glad I don't have hooters that big!!! I've always been slightly amused by these posts because they sound forced and fake. Like they always have to convince themselves that it's fine, nothing's wrong, I can fit anywhere anytime blah blah blah.

It's funny but I've never been envious of women with small breasts. I've never really given the differences in breast sizes much thought. But someone needs to talk about the people from the other side of the fence, if you know what I mean.

I had my period when I was 9 and was wearing an A size by the 6th grade. It's not too much information, you doofus! It's science, an A=C equation; nothing to be squirmy about. Anyway, I don't really remember what it's like having a small "future" (as Filipinos funnily call it). Before I finished highschool, I was already wearing the same bra size that working women were wearing.

There are a lot of times when I've cursed my genes. Unlike women with 'comfortable' lumps, it's not all rainbows and roses for big-breasted women because:

1) It's hard to find stuff that fits. You have to invest on expensive underwear, otherwise, you'll have a terrible time fending off unwelcome stares from construction workers who just know that something about you ain't right.

2) You'd be the subject of ridicule. Fantastically, not of men but of women. Truth is, some women hate it when there are others who are better endowed than they are. I've always felt more harrassed by women then by men. Seriously. When you walk into the girl's room, you feel as if the others have X-rays for eyes and they're carefully scrutinizing whether your babies are real and are not just generous amounts of tissue. What's worse is, they're hoping it's tissue.

Segue: This is probably why I've always been more comfortable in the company of men. Understandably, they're a more welcoming bunch. They always try to act as properly as they can even if a couple of beers later, some of them turn into real toads. But at least, there's no animosity, no untoward remarks. Some women have easily counted me off just because I'm not the same brassiere size. (You know who you are, twat.)

3) You'd feel harrassed in a million little ways. You get quality service in buses because the conductor is a jerk who wants to sit beside you when he's finished giving out tickets. When it's your turn to present an important topic in meetings, you can actually see a big-wig looking at your blouse. People think that your brain has slid all the way down there and you're not really capable of forming one serious thought. I know people who actually look surprised (I'm not overexaggerating) whenever I say something witty.

4) Salesgirls who have an excess of sass. One of these little critters in a mall in my hometown made a snide remark when I gave back the bra that would not fit me. And I wasn't even out of earshot! I remember her saying, "Eh paano, ang laki kasi e." Jesus. If she wasn't so stupid, she would've known that it's never anyone's fault if they're too big for anything they want to put on.

All I'm saying is, cut big girls some slack, please. I know that the image that some bombshells have presented are not that, well, respectable but it's hard on us, too (no pun intended). We're just regular people; it's just that nature has been a little more generous with us than the others. I'm happy for the girls who are more than satisfied with what they have but I hope you'd be just as accepting of our not-so-regular sizes, too. So next time you see a big girl, don't mark her down just yet. Get to know her. You might have more in common than you'd like to think.

feeling something/nothing

I was reading a book my boy gave me the other day. It's actually a compilation of women's testimonials about their experiences after/during wartime. While I was reading these women's stories, I felt sad because I know that I should've been feeling something -- anger, overwhelming emotions, a sense of urgency -- but I wasn't.

One of the women told a story about the time when the women in their village were put to work and they had to work because if they were seen just standing around doing nothing, they'd be raped. I felt a frown coming on, but I knew I wasn't feeling what I was supposed to.

It's strange, how removed one can be from the atrocities that are happening in the world. It's a self-centeredness that I know is wrong. What if it was my family, our country's women? But I find myself answering that it isn't. Here, nothing like that is happening. Here, it's just corruption and daily traffic, prostitution of different levels, differing types of hunger -- all of which are terrible, yes, but there's nothing here that's as horrible as what's happening to other places.

Is it really such a sin, to feel nothing about other people's lives?

Last night, I told him about this. I told him while we were lying down on our mattress, my head resting on the crook of his shoulder. I was ashamed to tell him about these things because he is so unlike me. I know that he bought me the book not only for me to be able to look at the pictures but to let me know other things about the world. The book says that outside, it is not so safe -- that lying on the crook of someone else's shoulder on a humid night is a luxury that some people don't have. And I almost cried because of my shame and wiped the tears with my hand. He says that these things take time, that I should not be too hard on myself. And then we kissed and cooed like the proper lovebirds that we are and it no longer stood between us.

So this how my morning went:

8:45 - 9:45 am : "shopped" for a new blog

9:46 - 10:02am : considered going back to Vox but couldn't

10:03- 10:25am : tried out LJ but discovered that it was too much like Vox

10:26- 10:50am : decided to try out Blogger

10:51- 11:20am : finished with links and other stuff for the page (even put up a Flicker account, yehey!)

11:23 -11:40am: started posting.

I might be posting some of my old poems from my Vox blog. But then again, I might not. I wanted to have a kind of theme for this blog, just to keep things going. But I guess keeping things simple is the way to go.

I hope this time, I won't forget myself as much as I have.

so much remains

On the last day, you may find it hard to remember
most things. You consider the laughter but
laughter, sadly, is common, too random,
anyone else's. You try to think of their
hands, however, hands
are not as sacred as they once were; even,
admittedly, hers, resting on his bare shoulder.
Faces would be another popular theme, but faces change with
time, no matter how hard we who are left behind try to tell ourselves
that they have not. What I think I remember
are some moments --- her sitting beside me while
riding to town, or a morning when the sunlight formed an
almost-circle around his head, a likely halo. And what about that day when everyone was laughing about
a dastardly private joke and they were both looking
at me, as if I were responsible for that moment, among
many other laughable things. It's sadness in a box,
the birthday boys chant. Our primary skill is
saying goodbye. No one leaves but everyone seldom returns.
They know this because they are older now -- men with
ghosts for companions, their bare backs toughened by all their
lost afternoons. But on this last day, they brace
themselves for new goodbyes. Au Revoir. Sayonara.
Paalam. However you say it, it remains the same. However you
remember it, so much remains.

mike test

late birthday poem '08

my mother used to
tell me when i was younger that
my face was not hers, not her husband's, as well.
it belonged to the sea, she said, and my small poems
were fish that kept
moving with the waves. they move because you are, she used
to say, in that conversational manner
of hers that irritated me. now that
i am 26, i hardly believe that anymore. i mean,
what i really want is to hold on to that smirk
she had while she said it. the
years confused me, made me bored
with memory and atonement. but i have forgiven this woman ---
my mother --- and her hard eyes, so dark,
they were almost golden. if it is at all possible
to end this poem the way she had,
nakedly losing and having everything all
at once, this is how i would have done it.

back to basics

I am probably one of the most disorganized people in the world. It's stupid, really, but I crave the innocuousness of mistakes, of forgotten things. They give the world a sense of honesty, somehow.

And that is why I've decided to return to Blogger. Vox became too clean too soon. I hope I could get to transfer some of my favorite posts to this site, though, but I'm really not sure how.

Oh well, time to get settled.:D