The Virgin Suicides

Christmas Eve, I read The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides. The wry plot somehow made the syrupy taste of the noche buena more palatable even as the sound of off-key caroling outside the gates continued to heap on calories on the holiday cheer way past midnight. When books like that fall on my lap for no apparent reason, I usually go ahead and read it for I know then, fate always has an interesting reason up its sleeve.

Probably to distract me from being too nosy about his love life, my older brother -- who’s managed to take a couple of days off from kite boarding in Boracay and visit us home -- showed me the book earlier while our north-bound van crawled through the heavy traffic along Mandaue highway. It didn’t look familiar but the picture of four lovely girls making do like well-bred sardines on a small bed below a crucifix draped by a cream-colored brassiere tickled my interest for the bizarre.

So like a voyeur across the street with no name, I joined the boys who adored the entrancing Lisbon sisters in monitoring their lives from a neighboring house.

The first one to go was weird Cecilia, 13, who slit her wrists and, when it didn’t work, later on threw herself off the window (or was it the roof?) and fell upon the fence to die.

After some time, the rest of them followed -- daring Lux (14), conservative Bonnie (15), vain Mary (16), and science nerd Therese (17). Suicide methods include using a rope, sticking one’s head in a microwave, and drowning in sleeping pills. Mary was the last one to die. She survived her attempt at the microwave, so she went on to using the more reliable sleeping pills. It was noted she had make up on when she finally died.

The story’s quite interesting but I didn’t like the way it was told. The constant reference to the general teen suicide trend, with accompanying stats and psycho babble just made it so, so… preachy.

And goodness, could the narrator be any more long-winded? He seemed too enthralled describing every useless detail, skirting around the house and the girls’ lives, without ever really letting us in. What a tease! From time to time, I longed to shout, “Puhleez, shut up and get on with the story!”

Perhaps it was meant to be that way for the teller was a spectator himself. But when you have suicide and five girls on your hands, you’d be itching to know why and what goes on in the victims’ minds. Suppositions aren’t enough. I wanted to hear them talk more. I longed to go inside the book myself and discover the real story.

Was it because they were guarded too much by their parents? But I know of people with ultra-strict parents and yet they survived. What’s more, why ALL of them? They were beautiful, vibrant girls. Their parents loved them. They had each other. Their cramped, messy rooms testified they lived like normal girls. Was it genetic then? Or was it just too much of a pressure being isolated in their old house after Cecilia died? What was it like then?

My many questions followed me to the toilet. And as I sat there farting, contemplating, and speculating, I finally figured a few theories of my own:

-- Having had to share cramped rooms drove the sisters mad and triggered the suicides.

My sister and I shared a room until I graduated from high school. Yes, it was fun but I also remember the shouting matches, the “I’m-gonna-kill-you-for-using-my-shirt/dress/sandals/brush/etc.-without-permission” moments, the screams over “this-is-my-side-of-the-room” violations, the frustration of knowing each other’s secrets and being able to use them as blackmail items when one of us was pissed off, and the countless arguments over the littlest thing.

Good thing though there were just two of us and we have an older brother who sometimes forces us to momentarily cease fire, unite, and gang up on him when he’s being his naturally annoying self (which is quite often). And then there were the parents, constantly refereeing us and lecturing about love.

But maybe for the five Lisbon sisters it was different. Maybe, if left unchecked, too much familiarity does breed contempt (against others and most probably against self). At least, from experience I know that lack of space is enough to drive you mad.

-- Being isolated and stuck in one place for too long bored them so much they wanted to kill themselves. Ayayay! What a thought! Let’s go pack those bags and fly now, pay later!

-- Suiciditis is contagious.

Cecilia probably got the virus from the boy who killed himself over another girl. And living in such close proximity, the rest of the sisters also got infected.

So the lesson here I guess is, when counseling a suicidal person, we sympathize but we also make sure we put the walls up. If we’re not careful, that person will start making sense to us and before we know it, we’ll be thinking of suicide too.

-- The sisters probably made one of those stupid Musketeer pacts when they were little. You know, the “one for all, all for one” or the “together forever” kind of pact. I guess in their case, it was “One dies for all, all dies for one.”

Sigh. Only the innocence of youth could prompt such a pact. As you grow older though, you realize that every one lives and leaves to find one’s own destiny. There is no such thing as being together forever – even for soul mates.

-- The Lisbon sisters chanced upon the seeming worldwide conspiracy to annihilate and torture all virgins of this time. Probably got it from watching too much TV—which they did since they weren’t allowed to go out that often. Maybe they’re afraid that when they reach their 20s with their hymen still intact, people will start to pressure them or brand them as freaks.

Lux tried to solve this problem by sneaking to the roof with the boys and her varied contraceptive collection. But I guess the rest of the sisters weren’t as bold. So rather than fall into the vindictive hands of the enemy, they decided to end their lives themselves. Lux, not wanting to be left out – and probably finding out that being a non-virgin isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be – joined them.

Uh-huh, maybe it does sound farfetched. But this theory is more believable than the one that goes -- the Lisbon sisters killed themselves for loving the same man. Now that is just plain stupid.

I’m curious about The Virgin Suicides’ film version, though. I heard it’s already out in the market. Kirsten Dunst plays one of the girls -- I’m thinking Lux. Sounds promising. Still, I wonder if or just how Hollywood would make me wanna flush it down the toilet.

WANTED: A Man in 2005

I give up. I surrender. You win.

Today, I give you -- my nosy comrades, family, ex/future work pals and even those I do not personally know who are unfortunate enough to stumble upon this blog – the great commission for 2005 to go out into the world and find me a man. Yes, I said it – a man.

After what must have been a gazillion get-togethers I’ve attended lately (and the merry season’s not even over yet), I find that I’ve reached my breaking point. If I hear one more ayin-how’s-your-love-life-or-why-on-earth-are-you-still-single kind of question, I’m bound to go ballistic and slice off somebody’s head.

That’s why, my dear friends, before I disgrace myself, I now announce my formal resignation as presiding queen of the Blessedly Single Forever Federation - Cebu Chapter on December 31, 2004. (Do I hear clapping? Hissing? Snarling?) It breaks my heart, you know. It’s been such a blissful reign. To my single fellows, I am deeply sorry.

Okay, okay, call me a traitor, a political butterfly, or even ahas -- but guys, can I really help it if I’m weak?

I’m tired – and not just about that seemingly perpetual question smug couples just looove to ram down the singles’ throats.

I’m tired of being the third wheel you call on to give your dating life a twist. Come on guys, if the relationship's really that boring, drop it. Hello?? Hallerr? Balleeeww?

I’m tired of being the backup plan and the substitute when your men or women are off to never, never land.

It frustrates me that every time you do PDA and then turn to me as if to say “Aren’t we the cutest couple ever?”, I can’t do anything else but fake a smile and gag secretly because I don’t have anyone to smooch with and distract me. Okay, fine, it makes me jealous. You’re so hot together you make my eyes sweat.

But what really drives me to the edge is you using me as a sounding board every time you’re in the mood to whine about your partners and then, when I actually voice out my solicited advice, you reply with, “No, you don’t understaaaand, you’re single pa man guuud….” What the – waaaaahhhh!!

Enough. I give in. Go, find me my own man. You’re right. I should be attached. What on earth was I thinking to have allowed myself to be single this long?

For the entire year 2005, I give you unlimited freedom (gasp!) to be my glorified pimps – ahem – I mean, marketers/promoters/publicists/agents. Why you? Because you – my dear comrades, family, ex/future work pals and even those I do not personally know who are unfortunate enough to stumble upon this blog -- are the nosy and enlightened ones. If I do it myself, I’ll just scare the guys off away again.

So I need your help. Build me up. Research, experiment, screen, filter, match and match. Promote me. Advertise. Spread the news. Email friends, foes, everyone you know and even those you don’t. Launch a phone brigade. Whip up those cell phones, go over those lists of contacts and start talking and texting. Buy a whole page from any national or local daily (preferably SunStar though) and put out the blazing headline: WANTED: A MAN FOR SMART, AMAZING WOMAN. (Hey, I said, woman, not celfone, so wipe that image of Martin Nievera off your wandering minds)

I’m serious. In fact, finding a man is going to be number one on my list of 2005 resolutions. I’ll even wait and watch the clock strike midnight, upon which I’ll jump with the list just so the heavens will hear right and be prone to guide and help me in this quest.

The corollaries to my number 1 New Year’s resolution are:

- I promise not to use anymore excuses like, “My batt went dead; wala load; I didn’t get your text; I was in a noisy bar so I didn’t hear my phone ring” to avoid a man.

- I will quit laughing out loud every time I see/hear a man make a dumb comment or do anything moronic.

- I will be kind and continue to smile even when I find a guy long-winded and a certified show-off.

(Gasp! This is not me, stop meee!!)

- I promise to give every man with an idiotic habit a second chance.

- I will keep my appointment book open for the guys, even when there’s a truckload of writing assignments. I will not throw them dagger looks nor bite their heads off when they interrupt me while I’m writing or rehearsing for a play.

(Forgive me Lord, for my future sins and possible broken promises up ahead…)

- I will willingly leave my circle of friends whenever a cute guy asks for my company. (You perfectly understand, don’t you?)

- I will no longer skip buying Cosmo’s monthly issue so I can study, research, learn and master the many ways and secrets to being beeeyuutiful and charming all the time even if it kills me.

Really, I’ll do my best to be good. All I ask is you find me the right man.

My comrades, family, ex/future work pals and even those I do not personally know who are unfortunate enough to stumble upon this blog -- I leave the fate of my love life in your hands. I will personally hold you responsible in this quest.

So if by the end of 2005 I’m still single, I WILL BLAME YOU. That’s right, I will. And you will forever lose your right to throw the ‘ayin-how’s-your-love-life-or-why-on-earth-are-you-still-single’ question at my face again. Because if you do, I will be mean and scream without a qualm, “Shutttt upppp, just shut up, shut up…” – complete with dance steps! I will dance and sing until you have no choice but beg me to stop -- which I won’t. As such, you will then find yourselves scarred for life…nah, not just for life but forever. See how serious this is? I almost pity you, guys.

But hey, I’m excited. I have great expectations for you (finding me the right man) and for me (having the right man). I have great faith in your matchmaking abilities (don’t disappoint me!) so yes, I will expect and assume and assume. In fact, I will project to be the most assuming woman in 2005 in search of a man. Yohooo!

Meantime, let me just get out of Cebu City for a while to enjoy what’s left of the year celebrating my single blessed life in peace.

God knows, if we all have our way, I’ll sorely miss it.

My Menu

At one point in our lives, we must leave home to be independent. My brother did. But in my and my sister’s case, it was our parents who left us home – forcing us to be independent and to fend for ourselves.

By the time I graduated from college, my parents’ move to their new house by the beach was already complete. In a move that’s aptly described as sneaky, they did it so gradually over my last couple of years in school that I hardly noticed it.

The way some of the furniture and appliances disappeared bit by bit should have sent the bells ringing. But when you have a thesis to think of, most things just fade away.

“Girls, we’ll be transferring the big TV to the new house. We’ll just trade in a new, smaller one, okay?” I now remember mami asking us.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go, go,go,” I mumbled as my eyes remained glued to the PC screen, trying to reconstruct bar graphs and make sense of statistical boink-ilations. “Who has time to watch TV anyway?”

Yeah, up to now I still can’t believe I said that. But my mami swears by it so I can’t argue my way to repossessing the big TV back now that the thesis-tical fog has long cleared. Sneaky is what they are (I love you mom, pops).

And then, bit by bit, some of the kitchen utensils, clocks, linens, and what-else too said bye-bye.

But it never really hit us until one day, my sister and I stood before our ref (thank God it’s too big to move miles away) and discovered all the food was gone!

Resigned to the fact that our mami has defected – yes, I do mean defected -- to another camp, go to the grocery store ourselves, we did.

We tried. My sister and I really tried. But our first attempt at independent domestic survival 101 was a red mark and that, apparently, set a precedent to our other expeditions to grocery land. I dunno, but we always seem to end up with too much junk food and not enough ingredients for a home-cooked meal. Which, let me add, never fails to send yaya luz into one of her looong critical spiels.

Okay, okay. So we’re not too hot on the kitchen department. Good thing for us, there’re still TV, billboards, and friends to clue us in on the Generation X Survival Kit.

Table of Contents: FOOD … turn to page three.

There it was! The subtitles: Instant Cuisine (i.e. pancit canton, canned food, oatmeal, choco/coffee mix, etc.); Take-Out (i.e. KFC, Jollibee!!!! Hehehe); Order-out (i.e. Pizza, pizza, pizza); and Dining Out (i.e Welcome to Ayala Mall… I loooove you more today than yesterdaaaay….).

Along the way, you pick up a few things and then learn to master some. You gain enough confidence to experiment. And that, my dear friends, is how you discover your own tastes and whip up some style – weird, it may be.

Today, I still don’t profess to be some culinary artist. (Well, if you’re prone to think that after tasting my superlicious tuna spaghetti – the only real food I know how to cook for the moment– well, I can’t help that anymore ;)) But for the benefit of those neophytes to independent life, I’d like to share with you a portion of My Menu. Perhaps, it’ll help make your adjustment a little easier.

My Menu is a product of years of research and experimentation. I make no guarantees. But, I tell you, it’s fast and easy (Gen X’s mantra) to put together. Some may be tempted to brand it as weird but I call it simply an exotic mix. As for side effects, all I can say is -- I still don’t have any ulcer and my bowel movement remains relatively fine. Safe enough? So go, be adventurous. Have a taste of My Menu at your own risk.


My Menu

Appetizers

Ripe banana topped with dried bolinao (bulad) (from Fritz)
Black Coffee with flavored French fries (try sour cream, barbecue or cheese)
Milo (powder variety) mixed with cooked white rice (from Maya and Louie)
Ripe banana dipped in yummy peanut butter
Steamed banana with cheez whiz

Entrees

Yakisoba pancit canton with skyflakes
Yakisoba pancit canton with cheese bread
Yakisoba pancit canton with tuna fish
Yakisoba pancit canton with rice and fish stew (inon-onan)
Yakisoba pancit canton with fried/grilled fish

Lucky Me pancit canton with skyflakes
Lucky Me pancit canton with cheese bread
Lucky Me pancit canton with tuna fish
Lucky Me pancit canton with rice and fish stew (inon-onan)
Lucky Me pancit canton with fried/grilled fish

Cold, cold tuna spaghetti with iced mango juice
Century Tuna caldereta (canned) with rice

Dessert

San Mig Strong Ice with semi-frozen Oreo Cheesecake (Cue Café’s the best)
Scotch topped with Hershey’s kisses**
Vodka Ice with DJ Mix (okay, okay, Marlboro will do)
Black coffee with Cadbury chocolates (not to be mixed)

** Pssst, there are some in Berna’s candy containers strategically placed on a couple of sala tables in her apartment. Grab some for you and me, quick! And then, don’t forget the leftover scotch in the ref. She may have already hidden it somewhere else though (her tummy perhaps?). In which case, you have to search for it. Scotch and kisses have to go together!)

Toxic

Right now, for once, I do not know what I’ll be writing about. But after three sticks of DJ Mix and what must have been 10 tall glasses of scotch and wine running down after an unbelievable amount of food variety I do not normally eat, the brain is somehow alive and itching to spill over. Rather than throw up, let me just give writing a try.

Was it Ernest Hemingway who was reputed to have been unable to write when not drunk? I know too of many a writer who use cigarette smoke as a screen for visions of nonsense and recycled inspirations.

I think though writing while intoxicated has merit. For then, you do not have to hide behind the curtain of propriety. Your conscience is asleep and the juices of truth and creativity flow, though without sense, with spunk and purpose.

Last night, I saw fireworks along the highway of oh-puhleezz-not-again Mandaue City. While beautiful in its complicated glory, it brings back the stench of days gone by. My mind floats for a while to a harbor unvisited in sobriety.

It is rare for one to acknowledge disgust for another being. Or to entertain the green-eyed monster with chips and a bottle of wine. But with the crutches we use to dilute the embarrassing habits we never quite learn to curtail after decades of etiquette lessons, anything becomes possible.

I have low tolerance for people who profess to be something they’re not. I am tired too of the games we use to hide our true intentions. I am frustrated about lost opportunities and constant changes. But I find I am open to new beginnings, surprises, and gradual connections.

There is something to be said about the continuity of old relationships. Though not nurtured the way we want to, some things grow to a respectable degree we never quite expect. There is something to be said about the way one overcomes petty differences to forge something real and substantial. Not everyone finds a friend in the clinks of shared glasses of mixed spirits.

It’s 4:00 AM, so I’ll let the rambling stop. My world still spins and flies as I try to make this piece stand still in time.

I have a feeling this more than 2,000-character document doesn’t make much sense. Sigh, so what’s new? Sober or not, few people get me anyway.

Hello, December!

The absentminded waiter deftly placed on our table three bottles of San Mig Strong Ice and a plate of tasty, hot calamares sticks—the last order we were allowed for the night as the restaurant anticipated closing before the witching hour.

Sting’s music filled the air. I gently run my fingertips down the sides of the ice-cold beer bottle, disrupting the innocent droplets’ merry flow to the table top. Satisfied, I took a sip then reached for the calamares. Just as I tilted my head to catch the dripping sauce in my mouth, I saw it.

Stars! Probably a hundred of them twinkling in changing hues -- blue, green, red and silver -- against the wide, purplish blanket. Too engrossed with Henryl’s latest story, I almost forgot they were there. Mesmerized, I munched on the squid and stared for a few moments. I grinned at the fat tree playing hide and seek with them. Where’s the moon? Where’s the moon?

A movement caught my eye. “Hey look, a shooting star!”

“Quick, wish me a new job,” my news-editor-soon-to-be-bum buddy said.

“Hey, that’s supposed to be my line. I resigned way before you, remember?” I retorted.

Then for the first time – after two consecutive midnights discussing Henryl’s stressful resignation from Cebu Daily News, we burst out laughing. Who would have thought, after all those focus, training and education, we’d find ourselves in the middle of December both clueless about the future?

“Are you sure? Did you really want to do it? Are you happy?” I asked him.

“What I know is that the work no longer makes me happy. I’m not sure about the future but I know I don’t want to go back. I know I have a good shot at bigger things in this field but this is not the life I want. Basta, it really felt good resigning. I’m ready to give my other dreams a shot.”

That stopped my questions. How could I not understand when I echoed exactly the same words a few months ago?

I looked up at the sky and felt the cool breeze run through my hair. Amazing isn’t it, how peaceful it can be even in the midst of uncertainty?

I remember how during my tumultuous teenage years, I learned to talk to God. Whenever things start to overwhelm me, I’d simply look up and seek out the moon, the stars, the skies, or the sunset. More than anything, they remind me my God is bigger than I am and whatever else I may be facing for that matter. They tell me that life’s beauty goes on and that chaos is only in the mind. It’s humbling and it helps put things in perspective.

This cool December night, I looked at the stars and felt their magic once more. I winked at the three stars I personally call the Tres Marias. No matter where I go, I always find them up there. So how can you feel lost when you see something that constant?

“You’ll be okay, ryl,” I told him.

Taking a detour or facing a crossroad, I guess, is just like a rollercoaster ride – exciting and a cause for indigestion. It’s a freedom few people can afford. Without courage, you’ll never find it. Without faith, you’ll get lost. Without purpose, it becomes useless.

“So, ey, what do you say we start looking for new jobs already?” he asked.

“Hmm…why don’t we leave that for next year? It’s December after all. Let’s celebrate and enjoy it while we still can.”

December…. aahh, divine, delicious December. There’s nothing like December to remind me what a blessed life we live.

Years ago, a single star in Bethlehem signaled something great was coming. Now, another night, with the heavens still aglow, I smell endless possibilities around the corner.

Get Out of My Life and Stay There

Just so you'll know
You've ignored me for the last time
Did you really think I wouldn't mind
Being played for a fool?
There are limits to friendship
You've hurt me too much
You're not worth it
All my love is spent
I'm tired of you and people like you
You suck everything then leave me dry
You're better off using someone else
I'm letting you go
This time for good
A pity
For I would've rocked your world.
Layas!

Body Jam

I've been dancing for days now -- at home with baby allen, at the videoke-han with a date, and yes, at the grand new barely-opened gym in ayala with cousin fritz.

After a very stressful week, i finally gave in to fritz's urgings to check out the gym and attend his fabulous dance classes (he's here in Cebu from Manila for about three weeks to launch the body jam program among other things). Another freebie. Another adventure. Why not?

So there I was finding my way through what used to be Ayala Cinema 6. I was amazed at the transformation-- they really spruced it up. As you tour the place, you see white walls that still smell of fresh paint, winding steel bars, classy wooden floors, a cozy lounge with coffee unlimited, a psychedelic cycling room, a lockers section with muted lights, lots and lots of vitamins for the eyes (hehe) and mirrors, mirrors everywhere whistling to one's vanity.

Not immune to the mirrors, I entered the dance hall. Then jam, I did.

First dance: hip-hop. Groan. Of all dances, why did it have to be hip-hop? I hate it -- song, dance, or artist. I really do. But there I was groovin' and movin' to a track by Justin Timberlake (or was that someone else?)

Jump, twist, lift right leg, kick right, step back, front, close, then sway, sway, shoulder sway...

I was barely catching up, what with my thighs and ass still smarting from the torturous 45-minute cycling session my coz made me attend the day before. But did he give me any relief? Noooo.

Like a dancing general, he barks from the stage, "Move it, move it. Feel the music. C'mon, show it to me, coz!" I glanced up just in time to see him hide a grin. Aba-aba! Pinagtawanan ba naman ako?? Aba, challenge!

I could never perfect the steps but i faked it with attitude. I tried imagining myself jammin' with all those overdressed hip-hop kids in ayala on weekends. Soon enough, I was laughing at myself. Enjoy man pod diay. Well, I have to admit, once you get the hang of it, hip-hop can be a bit cool. Just a little bit, mind you.

Next: the Latin groove. Oooh lala! What a sexy dance! I just love dancing with my butt and following the snake moves. By the time I was doing the figure 8, all stress simply melted away.

Then there was the 80s mix. The jumps, the twirls, the mini cha-cha slides, kicks, and what-else.

One dance followed another and before I knew it, the hour was up. Still, I was high.

Dancing is really something else. Especially when you dance, as they say, like nobody's watching.

At first, it was kinda awkward. There were a lot of people -- guests and members -- milling around and looking in as they checked out the gym. Thoughts were running in my head like-- what if someone I know passes by? What if I'm the worst dancer here? My God, what if I couldn't dance at all? I just knew Fritz would tease me mercilessly after this. Why on earth did I ever listen to him?

But then, there comes a point when all that just cease to matter. For honestly? Nobody really cares. Klutz or not, nobody minds you because everyone is too engrossed in their own world.

And realizing that, I began to feel free.

Feel the music, Fritz says.

When it's cool, you think cool, and you begin to dance cool. When it's sexy, you think sexy, and you begin to dance sexy. When the energy is up, give in to it. Jump, kick, bend. Just move. Never mind the missteps. And when in doubt, just look at the mirror. It will tell you you're at your most beautiful when you dance.

So, hala bira!


P.S. To the dancerous mi amigas, enroll na ta na!