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.

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.

I wondered if he was asking me out or was just being polite since he was technically working for me, which made me his boss. So I replied, “If you can come over to my workplace, yes we can have lunch.”

I knew he would not be able to make it. That’s an hour worth of commuting time and he wouldn’t like that kind of sacrifice for some girl he stood out in a date two years ago. He was the mighty Thor, remember? And women were supposed to fall from the skies and land on his lap.

Ok. Som ader time den, the SMS said.

That sounded disappointed. Excellent. Because there won’t be “som ader time” and I would see to it that this bespectacled wannabe badass would have to EARN that privilege of seeing me. That would also include receiving a text message or a call from me and getting accepted into my IM and Facebook‘s list of friends. Someone has to teach that old guy a lesson for the time being, and that would have to be me.

OMG. Did I just sound like his mother?

So I turned to Facebook for help. And I unearthed an unexpected gem lurking in my chat box – Indianero. (For those who do not know Indianero, that was the guy who stood me up on our first date almost two years ago. FYI.)

We had decided to meet over lunch. This time I was in the company of male friends to make sure I wouldn’t look like an abandoned puppy should Indianero think of my invitation as an attempt to score a date with him. And who knows when he’d get pre-date jitters and decide again not to show up. Because THAT guy might just start thinking I was so darn into him and I wasn’t even tall or sexy enough for his collection.

That old piece of horseshit…who does he think he is? The mighty Thor?

So much for the hate. I think I am about to pop a nerve in my head. (Ha ha ha.)

Now, Indianero showed up LATE and was very apologetic. I missed those usual cocky remarks from this guy who was wired to think he was special. It was so unnatural.

We discussed the project, showed him the powerpoint, rattled him about my boss who wore Prada, and gave him the kit and a two-day deadline. Then we shook hands. He gave me one last look (I know I grew bulges in wrong places, like that would matter since I am NOT marrying him) and turned to the door.

Good. I will be able to sleep sound in the next two days.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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?