Happy Holidays! But first, let me tell you about...

I have now turned on my Out-Of-Office message once again (I did so too earlier this month) and couldn’t believe that it’s already Christmas in three days!

I have finished my remaining tasks before the weekend so I thought I should blog as I haven’t written anything here since September. Not that I miss it, I really don’t. But I thought I should just write something for the very few of you who still occasionally checks this site.

So, whatever happened to me since?

Nothing much happened in October. At least not anything worth mentioning.

I had my second tattoo last November. It’s smaller than my previous tattoo and I had it behind my right ear. It’s a single rose wreath and it’s done by the same artist who made my orange cat tattoo.

It’s strange that this teeny tattoo, which is just in black and white ink, was more painful than my first one. I now believe that tattoo placement matters when one is considering what is most and least painful. Nevertheless, I was such a trouper. My pain threshold can embarrass an average man’s.

The thing though is that the artist was an hour late for my appointment, and I was forced to wait outside their condominium unit. Now, this is nothing like the posh condominiums in Makati where there are nice lobbies and waiting areas (Don’t believe me? Check the reviews) so I instead waited helplessly along the dark corridor of the floor sweating and all. I think I caught something because only a day after that I had one of the worst, lingering cough ever. 

I never had the common cold, I just started feeling tired and weak all of a sudden then followed by debilitating body pains. The kind that would make you question your entire existence. I had low-grade fever next, but nothing that a regular paracetamol couldn’t relieve. After that was the worse cough ever that it’s almost like the cough I had when I had COVID, only that this is much more progressive and much more a pain in the you-know-where.

By the next weekend, I forced my body so we could watch E.A.T. live at the TV5 Media Center (I booked it, so I had to be present). This was our second time because we were there on kuya’s birthday last October. It was more fun this time because so much has happened and my younger brother Chito even won 5,000 pesos on the studio audience raffle.  

The next week was my birthday week, but I’m still feeling under the weather. I was hacking like crazy, almost struggling for breath, that by the eve of my birthday on December 5, I decided to get myself checked.

I wasn't really in a hurry, so I took a jeepney ride instead of my usual taxi (or Grab) ride to Makati. The jeepney was quite crowded and I sat beside two men. I was carrying my tiny backpack, which I usually wear on my front for easy access and so that it'll be safe from pickpockets.

I got off the jeepney later on and passed by the drugstore to buy a bottled water. When I opened my bag, that’s when I discovered that my wallet and iPhone were BOTH GONE! 

I realized too late that the man beside me was in cahoots with three others. No wonder they all got off almost at the same time (two got off first, then when the jeepney turned towards the highway, the other two followed).

I feel like keeling over upon realizing that. I don’t have money left in my bag as everything—even my loose change, are inside my wallet. All my credit cards, ATM cards and IDs are gone, including all my money which I plan to spend the next day to treat my family and friends on my birthday.

While so distressed, I snapped out of it and hailed another taxi to go back home because I had to call my bank to block my credit cards and ATM cards. I was crying inside the taxi because this is the first time something like this has ever happened to me and the fact that it happened on the day before my birthday was an even bigger blow.

When I got home, I asked my younger brother to pay for the taxi outside while I called my bank’s hotline. It’s a good thing that emergencies like this are being prioritized and routed to a line with almost no queue, that I was able to block everything in a matter of 5-10 minutes. I also called my service provider’s hotline to deactivate my SIM card and bank apps on my phone.

I feel bad for all the pictures and videos that were saved on my iPhone. I don’t have an iCloud account, so all of those are lost forever. I feel so bad about losing the phone itself because it was a high-ticket purchase and I have no plans of buying something as expensive again. 

That night, I got a notification that my iPhone was at an address in Baclaran, Parañaque.

F*ck that.

Since all my cash were gone and my other funds frozen, my kuya felt really bad for me that he offered to lend me money so at least I could still celebrate my birthday as planned. I declined. Honestly, I’m not in the mood to celebrate all things considered. I’m just down and out. I mean, who wouldn’t?

I tried to think back on what went wrong and what I did differently. I usually don’t take out my wallet and iPhone while inside the jeepney, but this time I did both. I opened my bag and afterwards placed both on top, instead of at the bottom of my bag which is what I’d normally do. I thought that since I’m wearing the backpack on my front, and hugging it even, my things are safe inside. Now that I think of it, there was really that opportunity for the men to single me out because of it. 

I kid you not, I didn’t feel anything apart from the guy squeezing himself on the seat beside me. I can tell that they are seasoned hustlers because the pickpocket even managed to close the zipper of my bag that is why I didn't suspect anything.

My birthday was spent queueing at Globe to have my SIM card replaced. I even had to submit an affidavit for this and it’s good that my younger brother took care of it as he has friends in City Hall. Kuya insisted on giving me cash and I didn’t turn it down anymore because I realized I needed it to run errands that day. 

When I got home, my family were all waiting for me. Kuya bought me a cake and my cousin gave me pancit. I even have a church friend who sent me some cash through kuya (to my surprise) upon seeing my IG story mentioning it. I mean, she didn’t have to, but she did. And I am thankful for her kind gesture.  

Kuya had no problem lending me his spare phone (my Huawei phone was already given to my mom when I had my iPhone), but of course, I preferred having my own phone for personal reasons. Accompanied by my brother, nephews and cousin Chi, I bought a midrange Samsung phone on installment. 

I’m back to my Android era. 

While this incident sent me to a financial ruin that I would feel for months, somehow I handled this bad luck better than anyone would. It didn’t take me so long to realize that even with such tremendous loss, I still have a lot of things to be thankful for. For one thing, I wasn’t hurt—as it’s not uncommon that foiled pickpockets resort to stabbing or hurting the victim out of panic. I was able to get over it rather quickly for I am reminded that things happen for a reason. This might be a costly mistake for me, but lessons are learned.

***

We had our office holiday party on the 10th which was held at the SMX Convention Center. The last time we had it in this venue was in 2019, pre-pandemic.

I still have a bad cough, so I didn’t bother dressing up to the nines. I just wore an all-black cotton dress and my favorite pair of sneakers. When you’re my age, it’s already comfort over style. Besides, I’m not about to pit myself against younger, prettier colleagues. I’m just there to see familiar faces (most I have not seen since the lockdown), for the food and the raffle.

Three days before Christmas, I’m still nursing my chronic cough. That is, even if I was prescribed a strong antibiotic two weeks ago. While it eased a little, I’m still suffering from this nagging cough.  Another doctor suggested I just hydrate, and didn’t prescribe me anything else.

COVID cases are once again on the rise, that we have another family casualty because of it. I don’t think what I have is COVID though, but more probably bronchitis considering I have no other symptoms.

It would be a lot better Christmas if I feel better. I hope to have that as my Christmas miracle for this year. 

Going loca over Luka

At my age, I’m not very comfortable using the word “crush” anymore to describe someone I really like because I feel it’s the kind of feeling only teenagers get. Even for me, it’s kinda cringy already. 

But I will always have that giddy fangirl heart. These days, my fangirl heart beats only for the point guard of the Dallas Mavericks: Luka Dončić.

Now before you all go “Que Horror!” and remind me of the 23-year age difference, hear me out: I’m not a potential cougar at 46. I may have a crush on him, but I’m under no romantic, sexual delusions whatsoever—as what I unabashedly have before with my other celebrity crushes such as the likes of the Colins Farrell and Firth, Michael Fassbender and Chris Evans. (Yes, I fantasized about meeting and eventually marrying them). 

To simply put, I just really, really like Luka because he gives me the tingly, giggly, butterfly-ish feeling that I don’t get to feel often since I became a midlifer.

Besides, I don’t think I’ll ever be in a degree of devotion that will lead to some sort of a worship syndrome and obsession towards a Gen Z celebrity like Luka. I think I’m old enough to keep myself grounded and be a mature fan who just highly admires him. With his stature, I’m pretty sure he had millions of die-hard fans from the first day he set foot on court and I am no match compared to them. Frankly, I don’t think Luka himself would give me the time of day being that I’m not as ardent and fervent as the others that would watch him live on stadiums and follow his every move.

See, if you claim to be a fan of an athlete, others gauge it by regular game attendance, stalwart dedication and loyalty. I fall short on these since I’m relatively a new Luka fan, and I don’t think I can keep up with the diehards.

I loved basketball growing up but I wasn’t exactly an NBA fan. The last time I was invested was during the championship games of Miami Heat and Dallas Mavericks in the 2011 NBA Finals because I was then a fan of Dirk Nowitzki. After that, my interest in basketball just died down slowly with their absence in the succeeding playoffs and when teams like the Golden State Warriors dominated the Western Conference. 

Luka came to NBA at a time when I didn’t care much about basketball anymore. The first time I saw him was in a fan-made video of him seemingly flirting with a female referee: “[I'm] fouling in love with you” sometime during the 2020-2021 NBA season. He’s cute and all that, but I thought he was just a pretty face because I never saw him play (this was the pandemic, and I don’t watch NBA unless it’s the playoffs or the finals). I was too out of touch that I didn’t even know that Luka was the Rookie of the Year for the 2018-2019 season and a franchise leader for the Mavs. 

Even so, when my brothers would watch the NBA games, I’d always look for Luka, which of course won’t be there since his team never reached the finals. 

Then the FIBA Basketball World Cup 2023 was held recently here in Manila. My first question as the main opening ceremony drew near was, “Is Luka gonna be here?”. I was told that he won’t because his team, Slovenia, belongs to another group that will be playing in Okinawa Arena, Okinawa City. 

However, Slovenia got in the Quarterfinals and the games will be at the MOA Arena. By this time everybody who knew of my crush on him was telling me about it, but when I saw that the ticket price for the game, (to be anywhere within a fair distance from him) is between 11k-14k pesos, I knew I won’t be able to afford it. 

So like most people, I settled on watching Luka play on TV. And from then on, that’s all I’ve been doing. Now I understand the “Luka Magic” everybody was talking about. More than his looks, I was drawn to his skills. He does have a phenomenal talent, something that he had since he’s young and playing for Real Madrid. I’d find myself watching videos of him until the wee hours and just love seeing his on-court reactions, spectacular passes and jaw-dropping shots. Watching him is like escapism to me because it’s fun and exciting. These days I’m lacking so much of that.

Luka may be known as a big complainer and many had already expressed concerns about his on-court temper, but even his outbursts are strangely appealing to me. He’s so damn fine he’s almost faultless, my goodness. When others see it as temper, I see it as passion.

Now before some of you rain on my parade and remind me that I shouldn’t have this bazodee feeling for someone as young at him (He’s only 24, for Pete’s sake!), know that I am well aware of that. I even joked that his father, Sasa Dončić, is almost the same age as I am, that maybe I should go for the dad instead (LOL). And if you tell me that he has since been engaged to his long-time girlfriend, Anamaria, let me tell you that I’m rooting for them and I actually find them gorgeous as a couple.

I have the ain’t-no-way-I-have-a-chance-celebrity-crush but if it makes my day so much better, what could be so wrong with it? 

I mean, how could I not with that smile?

Oldie but Goody

Photo by Daphné Richard on Unsplash

Thank God for my gene pool because even if I’ll be turning 47 this December, I still don’t look like someone my age. That is not to say that I only look like I’m in my 20s either because I don’t. 

The forties are creeping in, more conspicuous than ever before. I just had my hair bleached today because grey hairs are peeking faster these days (my first time to ever bleach my hair and I botched it, BTW). 

While I can’t be considered “chubby”, I’m slightly paunchy. It became easier to keep the weight rather than lose it. Meanwhile, my double chin occupies about 30% of my face and no amount of contouring can hide it anymore.  It looked like Bibendum is on my face, which is what keeps me from taking close-up selfies lately because it shows no matter the angle. Barbie arms and collar bones are a thing of the past and I am only reminded that I had those once-upon-a-time looking at my old pictures.

Filling out online forms can be quite a slap in the face because I had to scroll all the way down when looking for my birth year which is 1976. It kinda reminds me of that Big Wheel on “The Price is Right”.

I was part of the last batch of Gen Xers so I well remember the analog world. When I tell younglings that I submitted typewritten term papers in high school and had taken typing and stenography subjects back in the day, they incredulously look at me as if I’m a Martian. Everything I know about Microsoft Word and Excel is all self-taught because my computer subjects then were MS-DOS and WordPerfect. Then again, it’s no surprise that we are tech-savvy in spite of, as Gen Xers are known to be resourceful and self-sufficient.

Mention “Post Malone” and I’d go, “Who?!”—which is very much like that old tita you know before who said the same thing in the very same tone when you talk about Chumbawamba. I no longer appreciate the songs that the younger people are into now, even if it’s a Taylor Swift song (Oh boy, I’ll get a lot of flak for this), for I simply just can’t relate to it anymore. I can be inside an elevator with a famous Korean or KPop celebrity, and I wouldn’t even know. The only reason why I know of things these days is from watching Tiktok and from my Gen Z nephews who school me when it comes to what’s cool and current.

Picture this: If the movie “Back to the Future” was made today and Marty McFly goes back 30 years, that will be the year 1993. Marty will be seeing me there as a high school senior. If my late boyfriend Alex slip by the pearly gates and was born again on the same year he died, he is now a 21-year-old young man (“Chances Are” reference there). I may not realize the passing of time as it happens, but when I think about it, it’s just mind-blowing. The years from 2010 onward went by so quickly like a flipping Rolodex.

I’m way past getting drunk and meeting people in bars because I prefer dining alone or with my closest friends. 9 PM is rather late for me and you can’t drag me anywhere since it became my official curfew. Regular Friday nights are spent in bed snacking on Coke and chips while watching shows on the Crime Investigation Network.

Dating has become much more difficult, for I’m no longer as interested in meeting men (except if you look like Luka Dončić then let’s talk). With my life experience, I have acquired a superpower: I can now see through men’s bullshit. Meanwhile, the very few who expressed interest and were persistent enough must really like me, because why would they even put up with a forty-year-old when there are much younger, prettier women around? So yes, I may be seeing somebody now who likes me, but we’re just chill ♡. These days it’s all about enjoying each other’s company because relationships are already hard as they come.

I no longer have the energy—and I don’t mean energy for doing chores, going out etc.,—but the energy to deal with other people’s negativity. I try to avoid them like the plague. But yes, I can be physically tired doing nothing, which can be very strange. 

I became very dependent on my reading glasses as I can’t see anything close to my nose without it. I started noticing my failing eyesight when I hit forty and it got worse in just a couple of years. Even looking at computer screen now, which is already about two feet away, is already blurrier too.

Don't get me started about the body pains. I can go on and on talking about it on a separate post. Just the past week, I woke up with a very painful groin pain on the left side. The good news is that I don’t think it’s anything serious, but more like muscle strain. For days I can’t do the sukhasana (Indian sit) or squat on the toilet bowl. Back pains are a common occurrence too that I got used to it. Every night I reek of Tiger Balm and I have Poy-Sian within reach. When I get up from bed in the morning, my bone creaks like an old floorboard.

My freaking body is telling me I’m not young anymore. Doctor visits are getting to be more frequent, whether it’s for my pre-existing illnesses or something new like plantar fasciitis.

In the blink of an eye, my nephews are no longer babies anymore. I will not be surprised if I wake up tomorrow and both are taller than me. What’s more sad to think is that in a few year’s time, I won’t be as cool to them as I am now.

I see some of my former classmates are already sending their kids off to college. While I’ve stopped comparing my life to those of my contemporaries knowing we lead different lives, it seems automatic to me already to compute for the year when their kid was born and think what I was doing that very same year. 

I can’t even say I’m “getting old” for I’m at that point already. I never dread celebrating my birthdays until I reached 45. That’s when everything sinks in. The pandemic may have contributed to my mixed feelings about aging, but it’s also the fact that I can no longer deny my actual age. It was when I stopped feeling young. Humbled by this realization, there was that acceptance that I’m already past my prime. Very sobering. 

Getting underhanded comments about my age didn’t help, but I’ve learned to just ignore it. Sometimes I would tell them that it’s a relief to reach this age, because I know for a fact that I won’t be around when this world has gone to the dogs with all the craziness we see in the society now. 

Then again, I will never be less grateful for the gift of years. Just recently, a female grade school classmate suddenly died of stroke. I mean, they say no one dies before their time, but at 46? When that happens you tend to think of your own mortality when people your age (or younger) dies. When you are faced with that reality you learn to be more thankful despite of. 

I’m old, I know, but it’s okay. The good things about aging still outweigh the bad. Besides, all of us are heading there anyway so I might as well enjoy the roller-coaster ride.

I Just Want To Eat in Peace

This happened many months ago. I’ve just been to the nearby drugstore and had some spare change enough to buy me a chicken meal at Mang Inasal.

It was around the off-peak hours of the day, so the place wasn’t as packed and there were many vacant seats. After ordering, I sat on a table at the back with wide windows facing a not-so-busy street. I thought that since I’m far from the entrance and the counter, no one will bother me there.

While waiting for my order, I was approached by a well-dressed man carrying eco bags and offered me pastillas and other sweets.

I usually don’t buy from vendors who approach you inside fast-food restaurants and food courts. Not only that I find this rather annoying (usually they even join you at your table), but also because I know for a fact that most of these vendors are handled by syndicates. They sell everything from candies to ballpens and are usually priced higher. I was once duped by a teenage boy selling three generic pens with pull-out calendars for 100 pesos. He said he’s doing this because he’s supporting himself in school. When I got home, two of the pens are no good. 

Since then when approached by these peddlers I usually shake my head and politely decline, hoping that would be enough for them to go away.

So, this is exactly what I did to the man. I think I even said, “Hindi po.”

“Kahit isa lang, wala pa kasi akong benta.” (Just buy one. I haven’t sold any yet.) He said.

“Pasensiya na, wala po akong extrang money na dala.” (I’m sorry but I didn’t bring extra money.) I answered.

I wasn’t lying. I remember I only brought my coin purse that day because I was only running a quick errand. So even if I wanted to, I know I won’t have enough to buy whatever it was he’s peddling.

“Kahit magkano lang.” (Any amount will do.) The man insisted, his persistence ticked me slightly.

My order came and he was still standing by my table. “Hindi po. Sorry pero wala po.” I gestured.

I think these vendors deliberately approach people who are eating because for most of us, it’s when we are at our most vulnerable. It adds to the “guilt trip”, as if telling us we’re there eating food while they are here making a living.

“Kahit bente pesos?” (Not even twenty pesos?) The vendor asked.

I shook my head.

“Kahit sampung piso?” (Not even ten pesos?) He says again.

Obviously, the man is no longer there to make a sale or ask for any donation, but more to rile me up. He was enjoying my discomfiture. I called the crew who was standing a few feet away cleaning the trays (who I think knows what’s happening and yet wasn’t doing anything). 

“Sir..." I called out to the crew, '“Please naman po. Kakain po ako eh.” I appealed to him. Still, the employee didn’t even say anything. Aren’t establishments like this have a “No Solicitation” policy?

“Kahit piso?” (Not even a peso?) The vendor continued.

Defeated, I took out a five-peso coin from my purse and tried handing it to him.

“Huwag na po. Salamat na lang.” (Never mind. Thank you.) He said, smugly.

“Kunin mo na!”  (Take it!) I said, with a hint of exasperation as I placed the coin on the table.

He dramatically pushes back the coin towards me using his index finger and snickered, “Huwag po. Salamat na lang po.” 

The peddler went to the next table where other customers were seated, and I was left there trying to make sense of what happened. After all that asking for any amount, I only gave him a chance to show me up in order to make me look like a schmuck.

And if that wasn’t enough, when the vendor was about to leave, he looked right back at me and said: “Ma’m salamat na lang ha? Salamat. Salamat.” 

Was he trying to make me feel guilty from what has transpired? Maybe. Was I pissed? Very.

People are strange. I just want to eat my chicken in peace. 

IDGAF era

Photo by rachel on Unsplash

When my brother expressed his disappointment towards a problematic relative recently (over something she said), I reminded him that we’re already at that age where we should just ignore such people and not be bothered by them. I told him it’s useless to feel bad or hurt because, almost always, feelings like resentment and rage can only lead to chronic stress.

Besides, most people are just awful.

I know this because I was once a person who believed, for the longest time, that people will treat me how I treat them. It doesn’t matter if it will take them years to realize it, I just have to wait for it.

Yup. I cared too much about what other people said or do to me. I sought their approval.

***

If there’s one regret that will always eat me when I think about it, is how I gave so much of my precious time and energy to people who don’t deserve it. I feel that I have wasted so many years of my life for them. 

I guess we’ll never realize this when we’re young thinking that we have all the years ahead to squander. What’s five years when you’re 20? What’s another ten years?

Not until age creeps up on you and you go, sh*t, I’m not young anymore. Only then do you want to kick yourself for being so damn naïve for allowing people to push you around.

***

It also didn’t help that I have the “Queen Amidala syndrome”—of seeing the good even in a rather terrible person. I was a believer in giving people who wronged me the benefit of the doubt. Allowing them to do the right thing. I was too accepting of people’s flaws. Oftentimes to a fault. 

I don't want to die believing this on some people.

Until I came to my senses and realized that five, ten, fifteen years later, the dissonance remain. I finally accepted that we can’t expect people to be what we want them to be and that most of the time, it’s our expectations that disappoint us.

That relative will always look down on us—no matter how far we’ve become from how we were. Kahit anong mabuti pa ang ipakita ko sa kanila, hindi na magbabago ang trato nila sa akin.

That man will never treat me right even if  I cry tears of blood. He will continue to gaslight me and will inundate me with fake love and affection to make up for it.

So why bother? I’m so over and done caring; now that I’m in my IDGAF era. 

You didn’t invite or include me? That’s okay.

You think I’m beneath you? That’s alright.

You are gaslighting me? Let me step away.

Frankly, I’m not hurt anymore.

***

I remember telling my mom many years ago, while she was haranguing us over something, that I will never be a nag like her.

Maybe she knew that the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, she scoffs: “Akala mo lang `yun! Tignan natin!” (“That’s what you think. We’ll see.”)

True enough, I turned out to be a nag. It’s my toxic love language because I only nag people I genuinely care for. I make sure I let my feelings known. I texted long paragraphs when I’m upset because I had to get it off my chest. I had to explain to be understood (which was funny because I just saw this Tiktok video on how long DMs from a woman are a sign of love). Of course, for the other person, they only see it as me being difficult and a nag. 

But sometimes talking and explaining too much (especially through long DMs) only made me look needy and pathetic, if nothing I said penetrates the person. I only sound like a broken record having to point out the same issues on different days. 

Not anymore. I’m in my IDGAF era. 

All I do is wrong to you? Enjoy the silence.

Keeping private things private

Photo by Luca Bravo on Unsplash

I don’t think you can be a blogger in the early noughties if you aren’t prepared to post intimate details about your relationships, friendships, family matters, and personal drama. I know I did—I overshared many times. Back then blogs became online personal diaries because none of us anticipated that internet would grow to be this far-reaching and we don’t even know how “digital footprint” would turn out to be.

Thinking of all the things I’ve posted over the years in my old blog gives me that sense of embarrassment that I now wonder what people who’ve read it must’ve been thinking at that time. I post pictures, I don’t hide names, I don’t redact information. I post when I’m upset and angry in the heat of the moment. I just write it all out. No filter. In its truest raw form. 

After realizing this faux pas, I immediately archived my old blog because it’s a buffet of TMI in there. And even when I try to be careful on this newer blog, there are times that I am still guilty of telling people too much information about my life more than I should.

I guess this is the very reason why I don’t update much on this site anymore. I don’t want to blog about every single thing that’s going on with me. Aside from the fact that my life is kinda boring compared to most people, many just don’t care anymore if I had a staycation, or if I’m seeing somebody now, or if I celebrated a family member’s birthday recently.

Surely, in recent years I have been very careful about what I put online for everyone to see. I no longer want to invite unwanted attention from people who hardly know me and who just happen to land on my site for whatever reason. It leaves people the chance to judge and criticize me just by what they see on the surface.

Not everyone who reads what you post will hope for the best. Over time you’ll realize that some people aren’t exactly there to cheer for you. Some will secretly hope for your failure to prove whatever point they have. Some will just hate their fictional versions of me—and I’m not saying this because of some perceived “main character complex”—but because this is so true. 

There were times when my posts caused misunderstandings. A lot of what I posted in the past turned out to be quite controversial for some and it had become detrimental to both my personal and professional life at times. There were even rumors that I didn’t get the promotion I was eyeing many years back just because of my online presence “noise”. 

Imagine your writings becoming some sort of ammunition against you. 

I know I might have overshared before because I wanted attention, validation and sympathy. I wanted to be relatable to people. But if there’s something I regret from the two decades of blogging is my loss of privacy. Time has taught me that pouring my feelings only made me more vulnerable. That while this is my void, I’m not totally safe out here.  

So for people who come here to check for my life update, I don’t think you can see much of it here. Let me do the updates on Twitter and IG—which I now placed on private yet again because it is only privy to the very few people who bothered to follow me there. I’m not saying every single one of them followed me with good intentions, but at least what goes on with my life now is limited to a few. 

Got Inked?

A few weeks ago, while lying in my bed randomly scrolling my phone and kuya was sitting on his couch minding his own business, I asked him out of the blue: “Magpa-tattoo kaya ako?”. 

I wasn’t really asking for his permission; more like hoping for support and encouragement. He answered, “Why not?” and went on saying I should do the things I wanna do and stop giving a flying f*ck about what people might say. 

I went to my mom next trying to weigh in knowing her fascist tendencies. I was surprised that she was up for it. Mom even said that if she were younger, she’d like one on her neck. (It might be senility, who knows?)

I don’t know what has gotten into me. I’ve always been sort of a purist. But then I thought I have never done anything remotely risky and exciting. And I’m pushing fifty in a few more years, when will I start?

As I got the approval of the two people who mattered to me, I started browsing what to get for my very first tattoo. I already know where to put it though; I want it at my back right below the nape. Too gutsy, you might say, but I always wanted a tattoo in that area of my body. I also don’t like the dainty ones; I want it at least 3x3 in size and in color. My mom wanted me to have it where it could be seen, preferably in my sleeves, but I told her I don’t want it on my arms or legs or anywhere I could see it. It’s a personal preference; a tattoo rule that I have imposed on myself.

At first, I showed kuya a design of a crescent moon with stars below it. He didn’t like it. It’s not you, he said. It had to be something that’s you, he added.

Oo nga naman. If I must get a tattoo, it had to be something that when people see they’d go: “Oh, that is SO you!” and what else can be “so me” than a tattoo of a cat?

Google “cat tattoos” and you’ll be surprised how many of them you could see online. I tried choosing about six cat designs then narrowed it to four and even did a poll on my IG story. I finally decided on this peeking orange cat I saw on Pinterest.

The next step is to find a reputable tattoo artist/studio. I first looked for tattoo studios within Makati and was able to check on two that are just nearby. Tattoo Studio #1 quoted me a rate of PhP1,500 for the design, which I thought was great being that I’m kuripot. Tattoo Studio #2 priced it at PhP5,000++ pesos for the same design which was way beyond my budget. The difference in the price somewhat bothered me but the cheapskate inside prevailed and went on with the first tattoo studio that quoted me the lower price.

I sent a message via Facebook and asked for an appointment. Tattoo Studio #1 confirmed an appointment for the following Friday of that week. After that, I checked the FB page (I know I should have done this first and foremost) and found that there aren’t that many updates and only a few reviews albeit good ones. The silver lining was the tattoo artist bragged a lot of awards and citations so I kinda thought that’s enough for me.

A day before my supposed appointment, after not getting any word from the tattoo studio #1 about my upcoming session, I messaged them again. They got back after a few hours asking me if we could cancel the appointment as the artist caught the flu. I was so disappointed because it was less than 24 hours and I already filed a leave for that Friday. But then that flu might be COVID for all we know so I didn’t insist anymore.

Sensing my dismay, they offered me an additional PhP500 off for the inconvenience. I initially said it wasn’t necessary; I just asked them to let me know when they will be available. 

That weekend I made another follow-up on their Facebook page but they still couldn’t give me an appointment as the artist is still sick. I was turned off by the lack of effort on their part to notify me so I did not bother them anymore. 

Besides, I’ve been having this nagging feeling about how low their quote was. I fear that if I bite it and paid too low for a tattoo, then I got no say if it turns really bad for I got what I paid for. Maybe it’s done by an apprentice and not by the tattoo artist himself which is why they have no problem giving me additional discount for an already cheap quote. As they say, “Good tattoos aren’t cheap and cheap tattoos aren’t good”.

Too many red flags waving for that tattoo shop. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.

So I’m back to square one. My brothers said we could check out the tattoo shops along Cartimar. Kuya went the next day and realized that the tattoo shops that used to be there are no longer in the area. It got so frustrating because I already told friends I’m getting a tattoo and I don’t want them to think I was “all talk”. 

The next morning while Gavin was browsing Tiktok, he came across this tattoo artist on his FYP and told me about it. It was within Pasay so I decided to check their Facebook page, which compared to tattoo studio #1, is updated at least twice a week. I messaged them the details and got a reply almost immediately. For the same peeking orange cat design, they quoted me PhP2,500—slightly higher than the first studio, but still within my budget. I went ahead and booked an appointment. I was asked for a downpayment via GCash and was given a schedule for last Saturday.

Thinking about it, tattoo studio #1 didn’t even ask me for a downpayment before confirming, which I realized now is another red flag as it is the common practice for tattoo bookings (unless walk-ins are allowed).

Naturally, I started stalking the FB, Instagram and Tiktok pages of my tattoo artist, Steve. From there I saw all his recent works and noticed his keen attention to detail. My orange cat had intricate features like hair and whiskers that would be challenging for an inexperienced and unskilled artist. 

***

Most people were incredibly supportive of my getting inked. My friends Tetay and Jen, who both have tattoos, were very encouraging and were pretty excited. A lot of inked friends were assuring me that it is not painful or if it was it’s tolerable. Meanwhile, there are a few who try to scare me out of it and even said it hurts so much that I might faint. 

What these people probably don’t know is that I have a high threshold for pain.  

I digress. In 2009, I had a sebaceous cyst the size of a marble just below my right breast surgically removed. It was a minor surgery, with no need for me to be confined after. I remember that I was given an injected anesthetic and was awake during the procedure (even taking pictures for my older blog). The female doctor was very chatty so I guess the short procedure took longer and the anesthesia was starting to wear off. I am already feeling the suturing needle on my flesh as she finishes the stitching. Even so, I was lying there not saying anything. 

Now if that doesn’t vouch for my pain tolerance I don’t know what else will.

Besides, I’ve had my impacted ingrown toenail murdered by neophyte pedicuristas many times and I didn’t even flinch. The highest on the pain scale for me—my monthly bouts with dysmenorrhea—has tested my limits every single time. Blood tests and IV drips are a walk in the park. Scaring me of tattoo cartridges pricking my skin won’t cut it.

***

On the day of the appointment, I was accompanied by kuya and my nephews to the tattoo studio at the Park Avenue Mansions. Kuya wanted to check it out because he’s also thinking of getting one. 

Steve, who I deduced is just in his late twenties, is an exceptional tattoo artist. I have seen his online portfolio thoroughly and saw plaques and trophies displayed in his small but cozy studio. It made me feel more at ease that I was in safe hands for my first tattoo. 

He started sketching my design and made two different sizes and asked me which one I prefer. I trust he knew better so I said it’s up to him. Steve chose the slightly bigger one maybe because my cat had many details and the smaller one might not come out good. He said that over time, ink bleeds and expand.

After printing the design on a stencil, Steve asked me to stand straight with my shoulders relaxed as he hovers over the area to determine the actual placement of the tattoo. When he finally positioned it to the right spot, he sticks the stencil carefully and said we give it a few minutes to dry.

Once dry, Steve carefully peeled the stencil off to reveal the outline of the design.

I was then asked to position myself in this tattoo chair with my back facing him. After preparing the tattoo machine and adjusting the lights, Steve started tracing. Make no mistake, there was pain and I felt it—and the best way I could describe it is that it feels like being sliced by a blade (which was weird because I imagined it to be a pricking pain). Then again, it doesn’t hurt much at all. Definitely tolerable.  

Kuya and the kids had already left to go to the mall so for the rest of my session I was only with Steve and his younger sister assisting him. After several minutes of him struggling, he politely asked if I could transfer to a monobloc chair as he said I’m tall and long and it is making it hard for him to tattoo while he’s slouching. No problem, really. The tattoo chair was wide, and I was saddling it (legs almost on a 180° angle as seen on the picture) while my pelvis is tilted to the front with the rest of my upper body flat on the backrest. It wasn’t comfortable for me too and I’m sure if it continued for the entire session, it’ll be a torture to my groin.

Steve was good at small talk which I think is his way of making me feel comfortable while going through the process. My body might already be releasing my natural adrenaline because the pain I was feeling initially is already tapering off. I even found myself drifting to sleep with the purring of the tattoo machine. 

After more than an hour, he stood up and said ¼ of it is already done and he had to go on a bathroom break. He took a picture of the tattoo and showed it to me:

 

Steve came back after several minutes and I was asked to go back to my position so he could finish the tattoo. By this time, I could see that he is trying to concentrate as the small chats were kept to a minimum. The tattoo machine whirred more loudly this time as he’s filling the cat’s colors. An hour more passed, and Steve said he is already doing the finishing touches.

“Madam matutuwa ka.” Steve said, obviously proud of the outcome. The people staying inside the room of the studio all came out to check the tattoo and I heard one said: “Ang ganda, Teban! Parang sticker!” 

One of Steve’s younger brothers pointed out that it was bleeding but I wasn’t at all scared. I was expecting some bleeding because of my design. I was more concerned about seeing the final result. 

Now the good thing about getting a tattoo done by Steve is that he makes sure that everything is being videoed and photographed with the help of his younger sister. I don’t need to worry about not getting any documentation that I could later post on my own social media accounts. 

After taking pictures and videos, he sent everything to me via AirDrop. Steve sprayed something foamy and covered the tattoo with a medical plastic wrap. He also gave me aftercare pointers and Fougera™ cream that I need to apply for quick healing.

While I may never get to see the tattoo with my own eyes to admire it, but through the pictures and videos, I am truly happy with the outcome. My peeking orange cat is so cute it looks like a sticker indeed! I’m glad that Steve was able to mix the right colors because that was his worry at the beginning when I handed him my design.

Pain check: When all is done it felt more like a scrape. There was a sting but manageable. It didn’t bother me at all.

It got so many likes both on my Instagram (I mean 50+ likes is many for me) and Facebook when I posted it. Some complimented my guts for having my first tattoo below the nape and of that size. There are those who said that the cat tattoo is so me. All in all, the reactions and comments are positive. (If some people aren’t too pleased, they kept it to themselves).

I am planning to get another one just behind my right ear before the year ends. It will be the last one. 

Let me weep

Ugly Crying: The inner me right now

I’m getting tired of slaving to hold up to that independence and self-reliance expectations from a single woman like me. I want to go back to the time when I wasn’t earning my own money and just be at the mercy of my parents for allowance. Or maybe just to that time when some people would not rely on me too much when it comes to money.

Because fluff it—no one warned me that it’s going to be this hard.

I know people won’t be interested in my moaning about my money troubles, but I just have to let this all out.

See we all experience financial stress at some point or another, except of course if you were lucky enough to be born moneyed then you can skip this and carry on enjoying your charmed life. Only someone who experienced (and is currently experiencing) this would understand what I’m about to say now.

I am forever thankful I have a job that pays me good. I will be on my 14^th year in my current company, and I owe a lot to them when it comes to being able to provide for myself and my family all these years. But sometimes a well-paying job isn’t enough when you have expenses that come in like clockwork.

No one can really say that I’m having these troubles because I have questionable spending habits (anyone who says this deserves a hard smack on the face from me). The thing is, whoever is given the same responsibility to pay so many things would find themselves financially inept with the overwhelming money woes. 

The past few months had been particularly challenging. A large chunk of my salary goes to paying bills. Our electric bills, for instance, is on an all-time high. The very few times I’d remind people at home to take it easy on our electricity use (I mean, I don’t tell them to stop using the AC or the electric fans in this infernal weather, just the other appliances that consumes electricity), somehow, they find my “gentle” reminder hurtful. When the bill comes in and I show it to them—they ignore me. It’s just like them saying I should just shut up and pay it. It’s a good thing my older brother helps me out, as he’s the only one who does, perhaps because he goes through the same thing as we are the only ones working in the household.

But it’s not just the electric bill, there’s still my other obligations like other utilities, groceries, medical (for my maintenance meds), mom’s allowance, house repairs, credit card/cellphone/subscription bills, etc. Thankfully, I don’t get penalized for the loans I took precisely because I manage to pay it all on time (my credit score is divine). It’s just that, my take-home pay— or the money that is left for me after everything’s deducted—frustrates me. It would often leave me scratching my head and ask, “Where did it all go? How was it that I have work but this is the only money left for myself?”. It’s like walking in a tightrope penny-pinching until the next payday, which I feel is somewhat of an injustice for me because after all I am the one earning the money. I don’t even have enough set aside for my savings. God forbid, if something happens to me, I’ll be in deep trouble.  

Lately, I’m not having any of that giddy payday feeling because of the seemingly never-ending cycle of paying everything and being left with so little for myself. Nothing’s funny about looking for ways to stretch all that remains until the next payday. It’s getting to be an ongoing crisis and I don’t know how long this will go on. 

I’m not being selfish, but sometimes I wish I don’t have this many responsibilities in my shoulders; not when I’m alone in life and no one to depend on. Women that are of the same age as me may have bigger worries, but at least most of them has a significant other to help them. I don’t have that. I wish some people will realize this before they demand so much from me. When I think about it now, the same people don’t even thank me. It would make so much difference if they appreciate me at least.

Sometimes I think, had I known that it will be like this for me, I could have had gotten married or had chosen to lived independently. If I were a lot younger, probably that’s something I would do. 

Too bad I’m in too deep. And it’s too late.