I Am The Ice-Breaker!

If I were to spruce up my resumé today, I’d put “A good conversation starter” as one of my top skills. Once entering an elevator, people were chanting, “23rd,”15th,” “11th,” and so on. I stepped in and said, “59.” The elevator lady looked at me with disgust and said, “No 59th floor here, sir!” I apologized and said, “Oh I’m sorry, I thought people were saying how old they are.”

Yesterday, it was my first time to play at the Royal Ace Golf Driving Range in the eastern part of sunny Quezon City. For some grand design miscalculations, the players have to drive the ball towards the steaming summer sun. I had to apply sunscreen to keep me from dying of skin cancer. Each ball I hit was swallowed by the sun’s glare. So I had to ask my tee girl, “Is there an option to adjust the sun’s intensity?” She only smiled. I could only read her face telling me, “No dumbo, we can’t dim that light.”

But the good conversational starter skill in me persisted, “Is the sun in the same location during the morning?” I asked, gesturing toward where the sun was setting. This time, she answered back, “No sir, it’s on the other side,” pointing innocently towards the east. Gotcha, girl!

You can count on me to break the ice with strangers or with those I’ve not seen since the Great Flood. As long as I’ve had my cup of coffee, I’m good for a corny anecdote.

Cheers!

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My New Lent Perspective

Lent season had just begun, so I thought I should shift into a more inspiring reflection.

I have a heart condition –not the usual stuff that bitter songwriters put in their sad songs. My thing is a coronary stent inserted into my artery to keep blood flowing to the heart where there used to be a partial blockage. “Partial” here means substantially partial -80% blockage. Almost seven years have passed since then. Yet occasionally, I still experience episodes of missing heartbeats and thumping palpitations. Like a broken percussion instrument or a bass guitar gone haywire.

As I live with this illness, I refuse to surrender to despair. I run, I play, I exercise. I work, too. And every time my ticker misses a beat, I proclaim boldly that my God is bigger than any illness, more powerful than any challenge life may bring, and greater than the greatest. Instead of dwelling on the problem, like worrying about who would inherit my golf clubs if I died, I fix my gaze on His boundless power and promise of healing. As an old song goes, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

Each skipped heartbeat, each palpitation becomes a poignant reminder of God’s grace and love. In faith through prayer, I affirm His power to bring complete healing. This shift in mindset transforms fear into hope, infusing me with courage and resilience. I cling to the comforting truth that God’s grace is more than sufficient for me. In my weakness, His strength shines way brighter than my forehead.

Now, I journey on with renewed faith, trusting that with every beat of my heart, I am being restored. Hey, that sounds like good material for a love song, don’t you think?

I am using this Lenten season as a time of reflection and renewal to deepen my connection with God and reaffirm my trust in His healing power. May you, too, have a blessed season of Lent.

Cheers!

PS. I’m apprenticing to be the assistant barista in our household. Today is my 4th day. Pls be patient with the latte art.

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The Pimple Years

Puberty is defined by many as that equally delightful and unpleasant time when hormones, emotions, and pimples rage like there’s no adulthood. For me, the rage percentage was 10% hormones, 10% emotions, and 80% pimples. At its peak, it was -5%, -5%, and +110%, respectively. The core part of my adolescent identity spun around pimples. While my high school classmates were busy deciphering the intricacies of Algebra and Physics, I was busy conducting my own anatomic exploration -Pimples 101. Every morning, I’d wake up to a face that resembled the map of Andromeda with millions of glowing stars represented by zit breakouts. They overstayed their welcome on my face; I named them all, like astronomers naming stars and planets.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I was willing to try anything to banish those pesky pimples. Clearasil? Check! Calamansi? You bet! Lyna cream? Of course! Johnson’s baby powder? Sure! Nothing worked. Instead, they multiplied faster than I could name them.

By college time, amidst the backdrop of martial law in the Philippines (because apparently, even the abusive government couldn’t handle my acne uprising), the pimples finally retreated like a defeated dictator after a long and arduous battle. But those pimples weren’t going down without a fight. Sure, they left behind their battle scars, but I wear those marks with dignity. As I gaze into the mirror, I see not just the remnants of acne wars past, but a reminder of the resilience that got me through it all. Because let’s face it, all battles can be won face-to-face, especially if the problem is your face.

So here’s to surviving puberty’s epic battle of the blackheads vs. the whiteheads; to clear skin and the wisdom that comes from facing adversity face-on. And remember, no matter how bad it gets, just keep smiling -it’s harder for pimples to find a home on a happy face.

Cheers!

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The 2024 Psalm

So there goes January. Doing a bit like February, gone fast and furious. That’s 8⅓ percent gone in the blink of an eye. Normally, this is when I’d be doing my self-assessment look-back -you know, checking which New Year’s resolutions survived the onslaught of the initial ups and downs of 2024. But I’ve learned my lesson -I decided to skip the resolution musical this time. No resolutions, no disappointments, right?

So what does that leave me with? Now is a perfect opportunity to take stock of the opening chunk of the year. It’s like a SONA (State of the Nation Address) without the lies. And false promises. And pork barrels. And fancy gowns.

Whether it’s personal improvement, business matters, family relations, or golf, I am well aware that repeating last year’s actions will likely result in identical outcomes. As a witty t-shirt might boldly proclaim, it’s a case of “Same Sh*t, Different Year.” So profound.

I am hopeful, though. This 2024 song hasn’t even hit the chorus yet. I haven’t gone off-key, either. I mean, I am good but I need to be better. 

One thing’s for sure -January may be swift, but it’s given me some sort of a tune material to keep this song playing to my beat. 

Here’s to progress, no matter how andante they come by, and to the 91⅔ percent of the year waiting to pull an ensemble on us! 

Cheers!

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Vacation Mischief

Back in the days when we were in elementary school, the word “vacation” had a different meaning for us. It wasn’t about flying off to some faraway land, staying in fancy hotels, and doing a marathon of sightseeing and shopping. No, sir. Our version of a vacation was a trip to our aunts’ place in Olongapo City, a mere 25 kilometers and a swirling 40-minute bus ride away from our humble barrio in Dinalupihan, Bataan. This epic vacation usually happened during the summer months of March to April when school was out.

Our aunts -bless their heavenly hearts, owned a grocery store, and we, the little vacationers, were expected to be their delightful honorary helpers. Sure, they had a saleslady, and a designated go-fer, but a couple of extra pairs of little hands were always warmly welcomed.

The store itself was a mere 10-minute walk from our aunt’s house, nestled in the local city market. But the core of this story, the warehouse, was right there in the house. Most of the deliveries happened here, and this was where the real fun-in-a-vacation kicked in.

Back in the good old days when little dinosaurs were still domesticated, biscuit cans like Skyflakes, Fita, and La Pacita were not sealed like they are now. Also, those glass jars of pickles? Not tamper-proofed. I’m betting my bangs you can sense where this story is headed. Sanitize your dirty minds because, yes, you’re absolutely right.

Before these goodies were shipped off to the store for selling, we engaged in a little pre-shipping quality control. In simple English: we opened, plucked out some samples for ourselves, closed them back up, and gave the can or bottle a good shake to even out the space. Crafty, right? Use your imagination: cute 9-year-old twin boys, one holding a flashlight, the other skillfully opening a can, both sharing muffled giggles, as one keeps a watchful eye on the door. Yep, we were the inspirations for the Hardy Boys. We learned this fine art from our older brothers and a cousin, the true masters of mischief.

Now, in our golden years, we still fondly recall these little mischievous acts and share hearty laughs about them. After all, what’s a vacation without a sprinkle of adventure and a dash of mischief, right? We were so full of them.

Cheers to the good old days!

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Drive-Thru Show

Early on a Saturday morning, as my family and I embarked on a visit to relatives, the idea of grabbing breakfast on the go led us to choose the drive-thru at a Jollibee store. The queue was quite long, and as we inched closer to the ordering window, the smell of Jolly Longganisaand Pancake meals transformed us from hunger to hungerest.

Finally reaching the first of two windows, we placed our order, paid, and eagerly awaited our Jolly feast in silent starvation. Little did we know, a visual feast was about to unfold before us.

Approaching the second window to claim our order, the drama began to roll. With a friendly wave, the Jollibee crew welcomed the car in front of us. But, to our collective surprise, the driver ignored the friendly gesture. Instead of pulling up to claim their Jollibee meals, the driver steered towards the golden arches of a McDonald’s store, conveniently located just in front of the Jollibee store. It was a moment of sheer confusion for the crew, and we couldn’t help but scratch our belly in disbelief.

The dumbfounded looks on the faces of the crew told me they had forgotten their lines for this one-act play. I leaned forward and casually assured them, “Don’t worry, they’ll be back after their fast-food tour of the area.”

As we savored our Jollibee breakfast treats in the car, we engaged in some serious discussions, pondering over what might have possibly gone awry. Was it a sudden change in taste preferences, an unexpected kick of Alzheimer’s, or perhaps the passengers were undercover drive-thru detectives on a hurried mission?

Regardless, it was a hilarious twist to our otherwise ordinary drive-thru experience, turning a routine breakfast run into an unexpected comedy sideshow – all for free!

Here’s to fast-food drive-thru lanes that offer accidental entertainment for appetizers. Juicilicious!

Cheers!

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A Wake Awakening

Strange and stranger things happen during eulogies. Words you hear can stir your emotions unexpectedly so, because, for me, I don’t claim to have been close to the person being eulogized. I couldn’t even recall an instance where we shared a common dining table to have a little chit-chat. But I nearly cried. Eyes welling up isn’t considered crying, is it? Tears must fall -that’s my definition.

In the silent atmosphere of the chapel. -although not without scattered suppressed giggles, the daughter’s narrative of witnessing her mother’s last breath shortly after whispering words of forgiveness and gratitude, echoed beyond the room into my undeparted soul.

Strange, ain’t it? In the absence of shared dinner, my being found a link to that human experience of grieving that cuts across the familiar and the typical.

Oh wait, there is something. Even if I’ve not spent any time with the departed worthy of a eulogy that makes people cry, I found her as someone who was of a kind spirit. Warm and gentle. Not much with words but just with her presence. I admire people like that. There you go. There’s the connection. Also, she was my nephew’s mother-in-law.

In the end, what began as a somewhat usual moment of almost crying during a eulogy turned into realizing the unseen threads that link us together. Like flowers in a wreath.

Well, coffee, too. Cheers!

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