I dont like the rainy season.
You can take me to all the fantasy series where I would realize the importance of rain and it wouldn't change how I feel.
I just dont like it.
I accept that we need it. Very much I know. And I dont mean otherwise.
But I still dont like it.
Imagine, you're going to this very-big-your-life-depends-on-it job interview, slept well, woke up early, had a 2-hour bath, wearing the best formal suit you could get your hands with, and that well-shined shoes. Then it rained.
You now need to walk real slow because you might get your feet wet from all the puddles and rain splashes. You also need to take your not-so-fashionable umbrella which really ruins your outfit.
Instead of taking the bus, you now need to take a cab to the office because of the rain-wet people coming in and out of the bus.
You will then have to call the office apologizing because you will arrive later than expected due to the heavy traffic. (Which, by the way, is a very bad impression.. and first impression lasts..)
After the interview, you can choose whether let the rain subside before going home, (which I think is a better idea although if we are talking about storms it would take hours..) or you can fight your way through the rain, may encounter a few flooded areas, survive some traffic jams and arrive home looking all wasted.
Ok. Im talking extremes. But can't anyone understand how frightening the sound of heavy rains on the roof is?
I am afraid of the rain. Honest. My hubby thinks its something funny. Everytime it rains he teases me about it, though it usually comes with a tight embrace and a kiss. (That really helps ease me out.)
I'm serious. The start of the rain triggers me to crawl up in bed and hide under my pillows, or the bedsheets or anything that can cover me from the rain.
My mom told me I was afraid of the rain since I was little. My children are afraid of the rain as well. I dont know if its hereditary. Its quite a moment when you see the three of us trying to get comfort from each other because we are all afraid the rain will cause something bad to happen.
Then reading this now makes me realize I am not really afraid of the rain, the rain cannot hurt me, the rain is as natural as living and I cannot stop it.
I think, what I'm really afraid of is being alone. Being in the midst of the "bad things happening" and I am alone.
Dont get me wrong though. I am a very independent person. I want things done my way.
But I do admit that at the lowliest times of my life I dont want to be by myself.
I've been there and its not it anyway good. or acceptable.
I am afraid that after I've been my best, given everything, risked all that is at stake and end up all wasted. And with everything to lose, I should survive.
And when you grew up overshadowed by the mistakes you've made over time. It isnt easy living with all those expectations of making up for them. You will always be afraid of making the same mistakes all over again. Or thinking that after all that you've done you'll still fail. And you spent half the time convincing yourself that you are not failure before you start redeeming yourself from being one.
If you are that person, you will be afraid everyday. You will be afraid of the rain. As I am.
Today, I hope it wont rain.
I left my umbrella at home.
9/23/08
A Good Share
I really feel good today.
I think its because today is one of my oh-my-god-my-hair-look-good days.
And because of this happy feeling, there is one particular forwarded e-mail I would like to share to everybody.
Its really a good read. And also inspiring. Enjoy.
The Best Kind of Love
by Annette Paxman Bowen
I have a friend who is falling in love. She honestly claims the sky is bluer. Mozart moves her to tears. She has lost 15 pounds and looks like a cover girl. "I am young again!" she shouts exuberantly.
As my friend raves on about her new love, I've taken a good look at my old one. My husband of almost 20 years, Scott, has gained 15 pounds. Once a marathon runner, he now runs only down hospital halls. His hairline is receding and his body shows signs of long working hours and too many candy bars. Yet he can still give me a certain look across a restaurant table and I want to ask for the check and head home.
When my friend asked me "What will make this love last?" I ran through all the obvious reasons: commitment, shared interests, unselfishness, physical attraction, and communication.
Yet there's more. We still have fun. Spontaneous good times. Yesterday, after slipping the rubber band off the rolled newspaper, Scott flipped it playfully at me: this led to an all-out war. Last Saturday at the grocery, we split the list and raced each other to see who could make it to the checkout first. Even washing dishes can be a blast. We enjoy simply being together.
And there are surprises.
One time I came home to find a note on the front door that led me to another note, then another, until I reached the walk-in closet. I opened the door to find Scott holding a "pot of gold" (my cooking kettle) and the "treasure" of a gift package. Sometimes I leave him notes on the mirror and little presents under his pillow.
There is understanding.
I understand why he must play basketball with the guys. And he understands why, once a year, I must get away from the house, the kids - and even him - to meet my sisters for a few days of nonstop talking and laughing.
There is sharing.
Not only do we share household worries and parental burdens - we also share ideas. Scott came home from a convention last month and presented me with a thick historical novel. Though he prefers thrillers and science fiction, he had read the novel on the plane. He touched my heart when he explained it was because he wanted to be able to exchange ideas about the book after I'd read it.
There is forgiveness.
When I'm embarrassingly loud and crazy at parties, Scott forgives me. When he confessed losing some of our savings in the stock market, I gave him a hug and said, "It's okay. It's only money."
There is sensitivity.
Last week he walked through the door with that look that tells me it's been a tough day. After he spent some time with the kids, I asked him what happened. He told me about a 60-year old woman that had a stroke. He wept as he recalled the woman's husband standing beside her bed, caressing her hand. How was he going to tell this husband of 40 years that his wife would probably never recover? I shed a few tears myself.
Because of the medical crisis. Because there were still people who have been married 40 years. Because my husband is still moved and concerned after years of hospital rooms and dying patients.
There is faith.
Last Tuesday a friend came over and confessed her fear that her husband is losing his courageous battle with cancer. On Wednesday I went to lunch with a friend who is struggling to reshape her life after divorce. On Thursday a neighbor called to talk about the frightening effects of Alzheimer's disease on her father-in-law's personality. On Friday a childhood friend called long-distance to tell me her father had died. I hung up the phone and thought, This is too much heartache for one week.
Through my tears, as I went out to run some errands, I noticed the boisterous orange blossoms of the gladiolus outside my window. I heard the delighted laughter of my son and his friend as they played. I caught sight of a wedding party emerging from a neighbor's house. The bride, dressed in satin and lace, tossed her bouquet to her cheering friends. That night, I told my husband about these events. We helped each other acknowledge the cycles of life and that the joys counter the sorrows. It was enough to keep us going.
Finally, there is knowing.
I know Scott will throw his laundry just shy of the hamper every night; he'll be late to most appointments and eat the last chocolate in the box. He knows that I sleep with a pillow over my head.
I guess our love lasts because it is comfortable. No, the sky is not bluer:
it's just a familiar hue. We don't feel particularly young: we've experienced too much that has contributed to our growth and wisdom, taking its toll on our bodies, and created our memories. I hope we've got what it takes to make our love last. As a bride, I had Scott's wedding band engraved with Robert Browning's line "Grow old along with me!"
We're following those instructions. "If anything is real, the heart will make it plain." There are some people who meet that somebody that they can never stop loving, no matter how hard they try. I wouldn't expect you to understand that, or even believe it, but trust me, there are some love that don't go away. And maybe that makes them crazy, but we should all be blessed to end up with that somebody who has a little of that insanity. Somebody who never lets go. Somebody who cherishes you forever.
Hope you find this kind of love in your life.
I think its because today is one of my oh-my-god-my-hair-look-good days.
And because of this happy feeling, there is one particular forwarded e-mail I would like to share to everybody.
Its really a good read. And also inspiring. Enjoy.
The Best Kind of Love
by Annette Paxman Bowen
I have a friend who is falling in love. She honestly claims the sky is bluer. Mozart moves her to tears. She has lost 15 pounds and looks like a cover girl. "I am young again!" she shouts exuberantly.
As my friend raves on about her new love, I've taken a good look at my old one. My husband of almost 20 years, Scott, has gained 15 pounds. Once a marathon runner, he now runs only down hospital halls. His hairline is receding and his body shows signs of long working hours and too many candy bars. Yet he can still give me a certain look across a restaurant table and I want to ask for the check and head home.
When my friend asked me "What will make this love last?" I ran through all the obvious reasons: commitment, shared interests, unselfishness, physical attraction, and communication.
Yet there's more. We still have fun. Spontaneous good times. Yesterday, after slipping the rubber band off the rolled newspaper, Scott flipped it playfully at me: this led to an all-out war. Last Saturday at the grocery, we split the list and raced each other to see who could make it to the checkout first. Even washing dishes can be a blast. We enjoy simply being together.
And there are surprises.
One time I came home to find a note on the front door that led me to another note, then another, until I reached the walk-in closet. I opened the door to find Scott holding a "pot of gold" (my cooking kettle) and the "treasure" of a gift package. Sometimes I leave him notes on the mirror and little presents under his pillow.
There is understanding.
I understand why he must play basketball with the guys. And he understands why, once a year, I must get away from the house, the kids - and even him - to meet my sisters for a few days of nonstop talking and laughing.
There is sharing.
Not only do we share household worries and parental burdens - we also share ideas. Scott came home from a convention last month and presented me with a thick historical novel. Though he prefers thrillers and science fiction, he had read the novel on the plane. He touched my heart when he explained it was because he wanted to be able to exchange ideas about the book after I'd read it.
There is forgiveness.
When I'm embarrassingly loud and crazy at parties, Scott forgives me. When he confessed losing some of our savings in the stock market, I gave him a hug and said, "It's okay. It's only money."
There is sensitivity.
Last week he walked through the door with that look that tells me it's been a tough day. After he spent some time with the kids, I asked him what happened. He told me about a 60-year old woman that had a stroke. He wept as he recalled the woman's husband standing beside her bed, caressing her hand. How was he going to tell this husband of 40 years that his wife would probably never recover? I shed a few tears myself.
Because of the medical crisis. Because there were still people who have been married 40 years. Because my husband is still moved and concerned after years of hospital rooms and dying patients.
There is faith.
Last Tuesday a friend came over and confessed her fear that her husband is losing his courageous battle with cancer. On Wednesday I went to lunch with a friend who is struggling to reshape her life after divorce. On Thursday a neighbor called to talk about the frightening effects of Alzheimer's disease on her father-in-law's personality. On Friday a childhood friend called long-distance to tell me her father had died. I hung up the phone and thought, This is too much heartache for one week.
Through my tears, as I went out to run some errands, I noticed the boisterous orange blossoms of the gladiolus outside my window. I heard the delighted laughter of my son and his friend as they played. I caught sight of a wedding party emerging from a neighbor's house. The bride, dressed in satin and lace, tossed her bouquet to her cheering friends. That night, I told my husband about these events. We helped each other acknowledge the cycles of life and that the joys counter the sorrows. It was enough to keep us going.
Finally, there is knowing.
I know Scott will throw his laundry just shy of the hamper every night; he'll be late to most appointments and eat the last chocolate in the box. He knows that I sleep with a pillow over my head.
I guess our love lasts because it is comfortable. No, the sky is not bluer:
it's just a familiar hue. We don't feel particularly young: we've experienced too much that has contributed to our growth and wisdom, taking its toll on our bodies, and created our memories. I hope we've got what it takes to make our love last. As a bride, I had Scott's wedding band engraved with Robert Browning's line "Grow old along with me!"
We're following those instructions. "If anything is real, the heart will make it plain." There are some people who meet that somebody that they can never stop loving, no matter how hard they try. I wouldn't expect you to understand that, or even believe it, but trust me, there are some love that don't go away. And maybe that makes them crazy, but we should all be blessed to end up with that somebody who has a little of that insanity. Somebody who never lets go. Somebody who cherishes you forever.
Hope you find this kind of love in your life.
9/17/08
Genetically Read
I love reading. Definitely. I could spend an entire day doing nothing but read. (Well, if you count the times I tried reading the review material for the board exam, I lasted about 3 minutes. And that's actually an achievement.) My collection consists of love stories, FBI thrillers, Bob Ong's books, Harry Potter series, inspirationals, documentaries, vampire chronicles, comic books, and the reviewers (yes, even those).
The thing is, I read a lot. It relaxes me. It takes me to places Ive never been, tells me things Ive never known. It helps me with my emotions. I laugh, I cry, I get angry, I fear. This is my outlet. My window to the world.
*Commercial*
I rather read the book than watch the movie. Those writers, producers, directors or whoever it is responsible for the script tends to alter the chronology. They almost always do not follow the book. I dont like that. The first (and as of today, only) movie I've seen which is entirely adapted to the book is "The Green Mile". Loved the book. Loved the movie.
*End of Commercial*
I think its genetics. My mom is the main carrier. She's a reading freak. She reads entirely everything. As in everything. There are the common stuff like books, newspapers and magazines, but there are also the odd things like old newspapers that were already used to pack dried fish in the market (maybe she'll read my reviewer if I give it to her). It was more than a habit I think, more like an obsession. My sisters and I always go gaga over the lectures she gives us over what she read even if it sounds like a real nonsense. LOL. Love you ma. Cardboard siopaos are nonsense ma. Accept it.
Then there's my younger brother. He's so like me. We actually grew up together, having only 2 years of age difference. If he's not playing some wonderful (eyes rolling) computer game, or trying to do his program (he's an IT student), he's most probably reading. He borrowed every book in my collection. But he never bothered asking for the reviewer.
My younger sister loves reading too. But in a very weird way. She starts the book in the middle. Reads about 10 to 15 pages. Moves to the end of the book. Reads about the same number of pages. Then she starts flipping pages, reads a few. Loop. I don't know how she was able to finish any book she started using her method. She knows all the details though. I just dont know if she could retell the story in the exact order. Maybe she wants to be in the movie industry.
And the youngest. She doesnt read. She doesnt want to. End of story. (She's taking BS Education Major in English ?!shrugs?!).
See? Its genetics.
The thing is, I read a lot. It relaxes me. It takes me to places Ive never been, tells me things Ive never known. It helps me with my emotions. I laugh, I cry, I get angry, I fear. This is my outlet. My window to the world.
*Commercial*
I rather read the book than watch the movie. Those writers, producers, directors or whoever it is responsible for the script tends to alter the chronology. They almost always do not follow the book. I dont like that. The first (and as of today, only) movie I've seen which is entirely adapted to the book is "The Green Mile". Loved the book. Loved the movie.
*End of Commercial*
I think its genetics. My mom is the main carrier. She's a reading freak. She reads entirely everything. As in everything. There are the common stuff like books, newspapers and magazines, but there are also the odd things like old newspapers that were already used to pack dried fish in the market (maybe she'll read my reviewer if I give it to her). It was more than a habit I think, more like an obsession. My sisters and I always go gaga over the lectures she gives us over what she read even if it sounds like a real nonsense. LOL. Love you ma. Cardboard siopaos are nonsense ma. Accept it.
Then there's my younger brother. He's so like me. We actually grew up together, having only 2 years of age difference. If he's not playing some wonderful (eyes rolling) computer game, or trying to do his program (he's an IT student), he's most probably reading. He borrowed every book in my collection. But he never bothered asking for the reviewer.
My younger sister loves reading too. But in a very weird way. She starts the book in the middle. Reads about 10 to 15 pages. Moves to the end of the book. Reads about the same number of pages. Then she starts flipping pages, reads a few. Loop. I don't know how she was able to finish any book she started using her method. She knows all the details though. I just dont know if she could retell the story in the exact order. Maybe she wants to be in the movie industry.
And the youngest. She doesnt read. She doesnt want to. End of story. (She's taking BS Education Major in English ?!shrugs?!).
See? Its genetics.
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