Little did she know

I’ve known Matthew probably longer than his girlfriend has known him. And every time I say this story while he’s around, he doesn’t remember.

Everyone who ever knows me know that my breasts deserve their own blog post because they are just that awesome. However, it wasn’t always pleasant, especially if you’re in the 5th grade and the one of the first in class to ever wear a bra. It was awkward, it was embarrassing.

Way back then, I didn’t even think of myself as one of the prettiest ones in school so I’ve always thought that my rack was giving me unnecessary self-consciousness that made me ever forget that I was a ham of a performer when I was about 4 pretending to be in “Solid Gold”.

Matthew on the other hand, is just one of those kids that I was drawn to. This draws from the fact that I was a peculiar new kid (I enrolled in the middle of my Junior Prep year) and that he speaks English really really well. We first became classmates in the 3rd grade and I was basically interested in everything he does and at that time, I was the only one who got his jokes…because seriously, we were really smart like that. But I digress.

5th grade Physical Education. Free play. Free play is when the gym is solely at the mercy of the entire class running around and just playing. As one of the off beats,  I hardly did anything. Besides. Running was uncomfortable. All that bouncing…I was just walking along the edge of the gym, talking to other off-beats (who were asthmatic, no doubt and didn’t want to run around as much).

Meanwhile, Matthew was being something else. He was running around tentatively with his handkerchief covering his eyes underneath his eyeglasses. He was tentatively running along our way when I say hi.

“Hey Matthew,” I said.

Matthew stops. Matthew turns and faces me. “Hello,” he says.

Then he raises a hand towards me, places it on my chest, and runs it down one of my breasts, effectively cupping me for about a second. Then he properly greets me back.

“Oh. Hi Pam. I knew I’d recognize you with those curves.” With that, he just runs away.

Some 16 years later, Matthew and I are hanging out with the rest of the Planeteers. He hears this story for about the third or second time and he lets out the most ridiculous cackle.

Pleased with himself, he says, “Well it’s nice to know I’m consistent.”

Actually, Matthew. Actually.

I’ve known Matthew probably longer than his girlfriend has known him. And every time I say this story while he’s around, he doesn’t remember.

Everyone who ever knows me know that my breasts deserve their own blog post because they are just that awesome. However, it wasn’t always pleasant, especially if you’re in the 5th grade and the one of the first in class to ever wear a bra. It was awkward, it was embarrassing.

Way back then, I didn’t even think of myself as one of the prettiest ones in school so I’ve always thought that my rack was giving me unnecessary self-consciousness that made me ever forget that I was a ham of a performer when I was about 4 pretending to be in “Solid Gold”.

Matthew on the other hand, is just one of those kids that I was drawn to. This draws from the fact that I was a peculiar new kid (I enrolled in the middle of my Junior Prep year) and that he speaks English really really well. We first became classmates in the 3rd grade and I was basically interested in everything he does and at that time, I was the only one who got his jokes…because seriously, we were really smart like that. But I digress.

5th grade Physical Education. Free play. Free play is when the gym is solely at the mercy of the entire class running around and just playing. As one of the off beats,  I hardly did anything. Besides. Running was uncomfortable. All that bouncing…I was just walking along the edge of the gym, talking to other off-beats (who were asthmatic, no doubt and didn’t want to run around as much).

Meanwhile, Matthew was being something else. He was running around tentatively with his handkerchief covering his eyes underneath his eyeglasses. He was tentatively running along our way when I say hi.

“Hey Matthew,” I said.

Matthew stops. Matthew turns and faces me. “Hello,” he says.

Then he raises a hand towards me, places it on my chest, and runs it down one of my breasts, effectively cupping me for about a second. Then he properly greets me back.

“Oh. Hi Pam. I knew I’d recognize you with those curves.” With that, he just runs away.

Some 16 years later, Matthew and I are hanging out with the rest of the Planeteers. He hears this story for about the third or second time and he lets out the most ridiculous cackle.

Pleased with himself, he says, “Well it’s nice to know I’m consistent.”

Actually, Matthew. Actually.

Salome

It must have been Holy Week in Adak when my parents were watching Zefirelli’s Jesus of Nazareth. I didn’t know that the dancer swaying her hips was named Salome and neither did I know who she was in the Bible.

At this point of my childhood, I had become a loyal viewer of Solid Gold. I’d be up on the chair or dancing corners across the carpet, thinking I could do all that. I must thought that I was a dancer myself because I was always wearing leg warmers the same way the people in Solid Gold were. I must have been 3 or 4. I don’t remember seeing Roderik.

“I want to be like her,” I said out loud. Zefirelli’s Salome was beautiful and sensual and dressed in gold. The way she was moving her body was the most amazing thing I saw next to Disney’s Alice in Wonderland.

“You want to be like her?” My dad said, not knowing that I needed at least some form of catechism before understanding his context. “But she’s a bad girl.”

Do I want to be a bad girl? was the question posed to me. It didn’t dawn on me until now that I didn’t even know what the word “dancer” was, or what it meant.

About 24 years later, I’m taking Ballet classes.

“Sa laki mong yan, nagba-ballet ka?” My mother, like her husband, obviously didn’t know any better than to verbally react. With porcupine projectiles.

Tinkerbell

I wanted to be Tinkerbell but only because I had a crush on Peter Pan and the only way to be near him (or that Psyche) was to be Tinkerbell. Watching her in the Disney’s version, I noticed that she had that attitude about her that tries to protect him and at the same time was that cranky crush on him.

But there was Tigerlily. Tinkerbell didn’t really like her and Peter Pan only liked her because of her braids (or so I thought).

One day, I decided to be Peter Pan. Not a few years within being 9 years old, I found out that Peter Pan the musical was played by a girl. I thought that it’s always been so, like common sense.

I was 10 when I watched Hook. I saw the school play with Peter’s daughter play Wendy and I think that I thought “hey, it’s cool to be Wendy after all.”

~~~

In one way or another, these things have still managed to creep back into my life. I have become a loud and foul mouthed but flirtatious Bible geek who happens to be an occasional theater performer, her last performance having been one that seems to have been laced by crack. Or so Micko says.

Gloat-worthy, I feel. But this is besides this post.

It was a great weekend. Tiring, taxing, but all worth it. Had John brought his car Saturday night, I would have us both drive around Filinvest while the Baklessa and the Chink sleep on the couch. I was crazy enough to have them all light left over Roman Candles and they agreed that that would be fun.

So I look for my keys. Yabut was in the shower and I felt like singling out his bag as I had already searched the whole flat (and it’s a small flat). I emptied my bag and my pouches three times but they weren’t there. I panicked myself into thinking that I might have tossed them in to the trash bin.

We had cleared every surface of stuff as we were having extra company over for dinner, which makes my CSI sensibilities gravitate towards the hypothesis of my keys being in bags that don’t belong to me.

John was taking his turn in the shower when Yabut repacked his stuff and there it was…A keychain of a pink P that had all my keys. He had, in a rush to “keep appearances”, taken what he thought were generic keys to be mine and unknowingly stashed them in his bag. He was very very sorry.

As a result, the sound of jangling keys somewhat disturb me. But don’t rub it in! It ain’t my fault!

Salome

It must have been Holy Week in Adak when my parents were watching Zefirelli’s Jesus of Nazareth. I didn’t know that the dancer swaying her hips was named Salome and neither did I know who she was in the Bible.

At this point of my childhood, I had become a loyal viewer of Solid Gold. I’d be up on the chair or dancing corners across the carpet, thinking I could do all that. I must thought that I was a dancer myself because I was always wearing leg warmers the same way the people in Solid Gold were. I must have been 3 or 4. I don’t remember seeing Roderik.

“I want to be like her,” I said out loud. Zefirelli’s Salome was beautiful and sensual and dressed in gold. The way she was moving her body was the most amazing thing I saw next to Disney’s Alice in Wonderland.

“You want to be like her?” My dad said, not knowing that I needed at least some form of catechism before understanding his context. “But she’s a bad girl.”

Do I want to be a bad girl? was the question posed to me. It didn’t dawn on me until now that I didn’t even know what the word “dancer” was, or what it meant.

About 24 years later, I’m taking Ballet classes.

“Sa laki mong yan, nagba-ballet ka?” My mother, like her husband, obviously didn’t know any better than to verbally react. With porcupine projectiles.

Tinkerbell

I wanted to be Tinkerbell but only because I had a crush on Peter Pan and the only way to be near him (or that Psyche) was to be Tinkerbell. Watching her in the Disney’s version, I noticed that she had that attitude about her that tries to protect him and at the same time was that cranky crush on him.

But there was Tigerlily. Tinkerbell didn’t really like her and Peter Pan only liked her because of her braids (or so I thought).

One day, I decided to be Peter Pan. Not a few years within being 9 years old, I found out that Peter Pan the musical was played by a girl. I thought that it’s always been so, like common sense.

I was 10 when I watched Hook. I saw the school play with Peter’s daughter play Wendy and I think that I thought “hey, it’s cool to be Wendy after all.”

~~~

In one way or another, these things have still managed to creep back into my life. I have become a loud and foul mouthed but flirtatious Bible geek who happens to be an occasional theater performer, her last performance having been one that seems to have been laced by crack. Or so Micko says.

Gloat-worthy, I feel. But this is besides this post.

It was a great weekend. Tiring, taxing, but all worth it. Had John brought his car Saturday night, I would have us both drive around Filinvest while the Baklessa and the Chink sleep on the couch. I was crazy enough to have them all light left over Roman Candles and they agreed that that would be fun.

So I look for my keys. Yabut was in the shower and I felt like singling out his bag as I had already searched the whole flat (and it’s a small flat). I emptied my bag and my pouches three times but they weren’t there. I panicked myself into thinking that I might have tossed them in to the trash bin.

We had cleared every surface of stuff as we were having extra company over for dinner, which makes my CSI sensibilities gravitate towards the hypothesis of my keys being in bags that don’t belong to me.

John was taking his turn in the shower when Yabut repacked his stuff and there it was…A keychain of a pink P that had all my keys. He had, in a rush to “keep appearances”, taken what he thought were generic keys to be mine and unknowingly stashed them in his bag. He was very very sorry.

As a result, the sound of jangling keys somewhat disturb me. But don’t rub it in! It ain’t my fault!

Weird dreams are imperative to fevers.

I cannot type very well. My fingers are trembling. Editing myself is a b*tch.

I am smelling very terribly this evening. Must be the garlic from the soup I made for lunch.

Little did I know that the seasonal email would become a recurring theme, or a foreshadowing of things to come.

My sister is quite the kid. Quite the child, more likely. Can’t wait to see her again in some 20 something days.

My mouth tastes weird. Must be the ventolin?

I slept for a total of 12 hours today. Naps included.

Disturbia is an ill and overstaying visitor. I hope they leave my idyll pastures soon.

I am living in the condo for the weekend. Neat.

I went to the kitchen to drink water and broke out sweating. What’s up with that.

Speaking of “what’s up with that?” I must have said that a million times tonight.

~~~~~

Admittedly, I like it when God is angry. Not the fire-and-brimstone or hurricane-like anger. I like it when God is angry because there is an awareness of a certain injustice, because there is an awareness that something is wrong, because something was supposed to happen but didn’t.

This is a protective kind of anger. An anger that protects that which is right. The kind that seeks the deserving to reap what they sow. This is the anger that hates injustice and ignorance; the anger that desires good to happen, the kind of anger that desires a certain kind of perfection. I like it when God is angry because He gets angry at the right time. It’s not always because someone is screwed. It’s more often that not because a correction can be done and a character improved.

Keep up with certain sentiments, I feel like blogging thus:

Ah, what's more dangerous than this fond affiance?
Seems he a dove? His feathers are but borrow'd,
For he's disposed as the hateful raven.
Is he a lamb? His skin is surely lent him,
For he's inclin'd as is the ravenous wolf.
Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit?
Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all
Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.

- King Henry VI Part II; Act 3, Scene 1

(Sometimes, being a lit major makes me want to borrow what the Masters have said.)