The holidays would often bring to memory how it was like more than 20 years ago – no electricity, cooking our version of pasta on a kerosene stove and sharing a simple media noche meal under a candlelight. We almost never ran out of a sick family member. Either mom was battling an allergy or one of us was down with flu. Often we were under the mercy of a kindhearted neighbour who would allow us to share their table or tap into their electricity at night that we may sleep comfortably.

And yes, we had spent the holidays before in different homes and zones – downsizing from apartment units to mere 5m x 5m rooms that had us acquainted to roaches dancing at night, worms crawling out after a heavy rain or bugs creeping from under those old wooden floors. Having our clothes kept in big cigarette boxes or bags instead of a closet was an indication of these frequent transfers, often taking shelter at a relative’s house or a friend’s. The most memorable though was spent inside the hospital after my youngest brother was hit by a car while we were singing Christmas carols to bus drivers and commuters along EDSA. The scene was forever etched in our memories, like a well-orchestrated cinematography of a story with a grotesque ending.

We had far too many questions to which we never received answers right away. That particular twenty-year-old reality was harsh like a never-ending nightmare. The pain could break anyone’s soul and kill every dream. One could say that we literally went through hell with no hope of heaven, and wonder if Jesus did ever really weep at all.

As we celebrate the new year today quietly in a middle class suburban home, surrounded by blessings we didn’t even imagine of having before, we remember the past and give thanks to the One who did not answer our prayers by raising the dead or turning the moon bloody red, but rather taught us how to live under His grace, day by day.

It’s been two months and 16 days of hermitage, away from the delicious call of home-cooked meals, neatly-pressed clothes that smell of Downey Attraction, and the usual dinner table conversations. No one actually believed that I would survive without mom or a platoon of servants during my first month as an independent woman. I did my own cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping and twice-a-week laundry, paid my rent and utilities on time. So far I haven’t set the house on fire – yet – from cooking different flavors of Spam.

Prior to this plan of becoming a responsible adult, I had spent two boyfriend years in postponing the move-out from the family home – calculating the risks of going bust and the perks as well should everything go as planned. I had a 12-month financial plan which included getting a higher income job somewhere, and had envisioned  marrying my (ex) boyfriend and producing wonderful babies.

However, it wasn’t easy keeping up to an ideal life with the meager income I was receiving, and a boyfriend who was time zones away. The only logical solution, after much thought, whining and coffee, was to fire my boss and find another company that would afford me an eat-pray-love retirement when I hit my 40’s, Bolognese and wine in Italy, a vacation in a sunny English countryside, a climb up the Himalayas and shopping in Manila. And let go of a relationship that, so sad to say, was not getting us nowhere. Perhaps the next would-be boyfriend would appear in between, if I get really lucky.

So I’m sticking to my guns, and see where this would lead me.

Never imagined someone from our huge insignificant clan would graduate from University of Oxford, and is now being groomed to join one of the biggest law firms in the world.

Oxford. Whoa. I mean, is that even REAL? I just went blink-blink.

Of course, we’re proud to have someone accomplish such a grand dream we, the most common of all the third world commoners, only get to watch from the movies. That was really magical.

But thinking of a Kate Middleton-fate honestly brings me that twinge knowing that life has not been fair to us all. Some were born to greatness while others were to spend their lives eking out a living on a few pesos a day. It is not because people are inherently lazy. It is the result of decisions made by people before us that are so hard to undo. And we, their royal, err, loyal descendants, suffer.

Which brings me to the question: Should I really really leave this country? Not because I plan to wake up a princess one day. I was thinking of the English countryside, an outdoor market, a road trip to one of those ‘shires, and now, Oxford. I would want to have an offspring who will be schooled at Harvard, study law at Oxford, and later on, become a Prime Minister.

I need an extremely high-paying job. Or, yeah, maybe a prince. I would be a princess after all. *Sighs*

Oops. Breakfast is calling. It’s Monday and I need a crane to lift me out of this bed.

Never thought that today was going to be such a busy day.

I managed to squeeze in the hectic schedule visits to two banks offering home loans. My bro has been bugging me about purchasing a condo unit 10 steps away from my office. It was offered to me 2 years ago when the building was still on its skeletal form, and visited their model units. It was AWESOME, and that was it.

Now, the condo guys offered me a flexible payment terms. So I went to the bank, inquired, asked for a sample computation of the would-be mortgage and afterwards had dinner with my best friend, Gravy Lady, to discuss it.

Then we agreed to pray about it.

Had the divine answer 3 hours later – P23,000 monthly payment in 3 years, and P10,000 in 20 years. Praise the chicken.

So I made a frantic phone call to the Gravy Lady upon reaching the village gate.

“God has just answered my prayer.”

“Ooh. That soon?” I could hear the noise from her TV. “What did God say?”

“Since I want that unit very bad, He gave me 3 options.”

“Okay. What options?” I could hear Gravy Lady clipping her nails.

“Either I leave my job and go to Canada to work and earn more, leave my boyfriend and marry Willie Revillame, or win the lottery.” My mind was reeling.

“Canada? Seriously? You can’t even cook.”

10 a.m. Today’s (office) headline: Madwoman on the loose; stay indoors. Subhead reads, “What caused her breakdown is unknown. But there’s an obvious suspect – yesterday’s meeting.”

11 a.m. I haven’t heard about the “news”. So I went about the usual routine of going to work and attending to my chores – reading emails, checking layouts, getting mildly pissed. But today’s disposition has been sunny, with that rainbow-color dream of going to Ateneo in August, thereby raising my net worth from zilch to ten. And probably Canada next year. Hmm…

Until the Madwoman came garbed in her sparkling ballroom outfit matched with a bling-bling and approached me with that old familiar mean ice queen demeanor. Wait. Weren’t we the best of friends yesterday?

“We have to talk.” Ooh. Didn’t like that glazed look in her fluffy red eyes. And she started tapping the table nervously in controlled rage. Good, looks like she took her self-control medication this morning.

“Yesterday, you said this blah blah…I don’t like the sound of me getting the blame all the time yar yar yar…so, guys, guys, from now on, you two should be working together blar blar blar. Let’s change the way we do things here.”

Oh God, her eyes almost turned white. Or was it mine? Ahahaha.

I could actually see my reflection from her shiny beads while she ranted on disturbing my inner peace. The balance of life within her 3-kilometer zone had been tipped over to the dark side. This immature, lazy and unprofessional spoiled hag has always been the cause of everyone’s misery. I will write a petition to the president of the republic to send her off to Azkaban for persistent ill behavior. Not fit to mingle with any living creature.

5:30am. Mooning about what to wear today. My killer heels have been known for ultimate source of discomfort. One reason why I rarely wear one save for occasions that require women to look fab and tall. And if I do, I make sure the ever reliable Nike cross-trainers are with me. Or one of those P800 Brazilian flip-flops.

7am. I decided to dig from my old treasure chest a pair of black Naturalizer completely powdered with dust. This, my friend, is probably one of the best fashion investments I have ever made. I bought this pair six years ago during a sale event in Megamall for only P2500, and have been using it ever since. The soles are still intact, no cracks on the leather except for small punctured holes my orange kitty gave it thinking it was an enemy in disguise.

But I no longer have those black trouser socks to match the entire outfit with. Except for the one with silver stars I remember buying from a bargain store in London. I looked like a screaming jejelogs wearing a pair of odd socks to work. Shit.

10am. I was already knocking on the doors of a mega department store to address a wardrobe crisis. Bought 3 pairs of black socks for only P219. Yay!

11am. I arrived in the office and found my 3-week-old designer working so hard. I felt guilty for contemplating his termination last week. He produced good results today (finally), after too much coaching. Oh God. I have never done this too much supervision before. How do I make this guy work like a pro, someone who has an absolute authority over what he does?

Maybe I wasn’t that supportive. Because I tend to see those anomalies in his designs and have him revise it a number of times. I was born with a sixth sense.

Hmmm…

Bugger. Never mind.

I went straight to my desk and checked my emails. 2,948 remain unread in my Outlook’s inbox. Half of it was pure junk, I mean those unnecessary trail of replies like “Copy, boss” and “Thank you” that I’ve been postponing to trash. Oooh. Loads of seminar email invites with unknown speakers no one would probably like to attend.

Delete, delete.

1,215 more left. I’ll decide tomorrow.

2pm. Spent 2 hours completing a press article, and rummaging through my folders for high-resolution photos. Zipped and sent to a partner only to find an hour later everything bounced back. Maximum inbox quota exceeded. The culprit, aside from the owner of this email who obviously rarely reads his mails, was the 57mb TIFF image file. Took it out and used YouSendIt instead. It worked.

3pm. Late lunch. I didn’t like my bopis though. Tasted raw. Had Cornetto to quell the craving.

4pm. Replied back to over a dozen of emails asking for enlightenment.

5:30pm. I called up Ateneo Graduate School and inquired about a diploma course in Digital Marketing. They are no longer with IMMAP (a mobile marketing association something) and have recently partnered with Regent University in Colorado, US. Which I think was awesome (!).

Should I ask the company for sponsorship? If I do, that would mean 5 years with them. If not, I am in no obligation or whatsoever. I can fly out anytime.

Decision tomorrow.

6pm. Gone to Animal House. I need to buy my cat his medicine. He’s got renal problems already. Probably acquired from years of eating too much sardines.

6:20pm. I caught a glimpse of the Bloody van! Full heightened alert. Oh God, not today. I’m awesomely fat.

Scanned the entire hall for any sign of a tall, dark and handsome creature. Registered zero. It’s been seven months and counting. Bloody could be a wrinkled man by now.

Proceeded to the next shop and bought a plant.

Woot! A contest from a blog company!

I’ve written 4 paragraphs so far today, but I have to delete the last one. Am not happy with my proposition. It sounds lousy, given the fact that I am a marketer and have a natural eye and ear for a really sound campaign. I wanted something controversial, an out-of-the-box idea that would create a stir, and scandalous enough that would make everyone die of curiosity…

Okay. All that pain for just a free IPad? Do you know that your big idea’s worth is more than the price of any expensive Apple gadget in the market? I’m not telling. Ahahaha.

Awts. I’ve wasted half of my day figuring out what to write about in that piece when I should have been cashing on some assignments, and sleeping by now.

Ooh. Look what I’ve found online:

I used to live in one of those houses at the back of St. Catherine of Siena Church in Leatherhead Road, Chessington. Instantly, I had this longing to go back and be in this place once more, but under a different circumstance that would rule out any form of babysitting, and pointless debates with a male relative over train rides to Central London. I don’t exactly need to be watched over like a promdi teenager, because I could read and write in English alphabet. If that wouldn’t be enough, I could even draw just to get my point across.

Most likely, given that bad blood formed 3 years ago, my male relative would certainly deny me a visa sponsorship. Of course that could change anytime when I already have an empire to show. But until now, I am still figuring out a way to earn in seven digits. Any sound idea aside from getting employed as a drug mule?

Personally, I like guys who are “torpe”. I find their inability to express their feelings and awkward gestures cute, sweet and sincere. They are far different from a more experienced guy who knows his way around women like a snake and poisons your hearing with a rehash of sweet nothings.

Believe me, I’ve met and seen both. If you would have me choose, I would side with the classic torpe.

Now the term torpe belongs to the many words compiled by the Urban Dictionary. This is how they explained torpe when relating to courtship: “Being too shy to pursue amorous desires.” Torpe is a Spanish word which could also mean “stupid”.

Now a lot of you women asked this: Why is a guy torpe? He likes you but he won’t make the damn move. You know it’s not athritis. Sure he bids his time but hey, you do not have all the time in the world and you’re aching to move on to the next guy knocking at your door.

Understanding the classic torpe guy could probably help him loosen his tongue. Here are the top four reasons why a guy is torpe. The answers were based on the replies of a hundred guys, torpes included, in a Filipino public forum.

Fear of rejection (41%)

Guys could stand the harsh conditions in Iraq but not the pain of rejection from the woman he likes. His personal pride is at stake when he opens up to you. It’s a do or die thing for him. If you say no, the pain can be equated to a thousand daggers stabbing him. Or maybe even worse than that.

Lack of confidence (40%)

There are many reasons that can result to a guy’s diminished confidence when facing the girl he likes. The popular excuses for lack of game plan are not enough experience in courting a girl, simply shy, lack of money and typical loser mindset. All because he perceived himself as an all-time big fat wuss. Logically, why risk losing face when the torpe guy can slink away and root for her quietly without attracting trouble to his self-esteem?

She’s is one pretty bitch (9%)

Her cosmo looks, oozing sex appeal and steel-like demeanor make the torpe guy quake on his knees. She is successful, assertive and independent. She has a car, a rich dad and a platoon of servants at her bidding. What chances does the torpe guy have when their differences are so high and pronounced? He couldn’t even maintain his basic needs, what more of her unreachable standards? The torpe guy should be realistically grounded and find a more amiable mate.

He loves her (8%)

Can a torpe guy really love someone for real when he couldn’t even say “Hi. How’s the weather?” Guys claim that when they have spotted The One, things with them are not quite the same. When she smiles, his mind shuts down, he stutters out his greeting, his pulse beats fast he could actually collapse, and he loses control of his other senses.

To sum it up, the typical torpe guy is not really a bad kind of specie. He actually needs more time to prepare himself and get to know you more in a normal setting – as friends. He actually studies the girl he likes and checks if their lifestyles fit and their differences can be compromised. The torpe guy simply wants to be sure that you’re indeed the person for him and that you have actually convinced yourself to fall for him. It may sound lame, but it is an intelligent, deliberate and well-calculated move of sealing the victory in the end.

And by the time he’s ready, you’re over 35. Ha ha ha. Kidding.

Girls, I know this one sounds like the mother of all cliches. In fact, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to answer this one particular question that has baffled women for generations – how can you tell that a guy likes you? Of course, a guy would tell you that he likes you. But what if this particular guy happens to be a classic “torpe”? How can you tell that the guy five floors under you, who quakes on his knees every time you bump with him in the elevator, is not having a diarrhea but simply exuding signs of being smitten by you? Same answer. Torpe or not, he would tell you. It’s pretty much a matter of time.

Of course, if that brave declaration is not supported with concrete actions, you have all the reasons to push him off the elevator. Just like what they say in the churches every Sunday: “Faith without works is dead.” A guy who does nothing to prove his intense liking for you is just out to flatter you. In other words, bolero.

I have just gathered the top 5 answers of both men and women online to give you a fairly accurate way of reading a guy’s mind. You might be interested to find that there are many tell-tale signs you may want to pay closer attention to next time you see the elevator guy. Sure he likes you. But mere liking is not just enough. Keep that in mind.

1. He spends time with you. (25%)

He likes to be around you all the time like a fly. If he is not physically present, like an OFW you met online, he spends dollars on telephone bills to make those long distance calls. He chats with you no matter what his timezone is. He simply cares.

2. He would tell you that he likes you. (24%)
Women were actually screaming this exact phrase in unison: “Do not assume (that a guy likes you).” In Bayani Fernando‘s language, “Bawal tumawid. May namatay na dito.”. A guy who treats you well is different from a guy who is totally nuts about you. If he does not say anything about his intentions, forget it. Those flowers he sent you meant nothing. In fact, it could be a move to spite the girl he likes who happens to be your best friend. Who knows?

3. He goes the extra mile to show that he cares. (22%)

To really have this count in your list, there should be some level of consistency on the guy’s part no matter how menial the task is. Does he walk you home most of the time? Does he drive you home from Makati all the way to Tanay? Does he make an effort to see you every once in awhile come hell or high water? Babysits your dog?

4. Sweet and thoughtful. (18%)

There are subtle ways that men do to show they care for someone. From lavish to simple gifts, everyday calls and text messages checking if you’ve taken your lunch and your anti-rabies shot, to his amazing display of patience every time he hears you vent tirelessly over a mascara meltdown.

5. He tries to get your attention. (11%)

I think this part is reserved for guys who have the balls to introduce himself to the girl he likes and asks her out without batting an eyelid. Not really for the faint in heart. But if he does it, chances are he really is into you and is out there to prove his worth. Just see how far he’d go.