Clean-up

MY ROOM is a fire hazard. It would not be a surprise if everything in my room would just spontaneously combust one summer’s day and everything will go up in flames.

I sound like a pyromaniac.

On top of my clothes cabinet, a stack of boxes and newspapers can be found (and gathering dust). Underneath my rickety study table, I have yet another pile of newspapers steadily growing. In another corner, I have a steadily growing pile of handouts and photocopies (mostly journalism, literature and advertising photocopies.) And I own a cramped bookshelf.

Now, throw in a match and everything will go up in flames.

As chaotic as my room may seem, I promise you that it isn’t that bad. It’s more of an “organized chaos” than chaotic in general.

I’m sure a lot of teenagers will agree with me here.

I’ve been trying to clean up my room for some time now. But with school keeping me busy, the only time I come home is for sleep, a bath and to change my clothes (in that order).

Before things got extremely busy with school, my room was fairly organized. Everything was where it was supposed to be. But once school started keeping me on my feet 20 hours a day, there was hardly time to organize and keep the room clean.

Now I live in a fire hazard zone and I have dust bunnies under my bed.

I’ve been trying to find time to clean my room. It’s astonishing that I simply cannot find time to pick up a broom and start cleaning. But then again, I don’t own a broom, so, perhaps that was just it. Just to let you know, the broom in our boarding house mysteriously disappears once in a while.

It’s rather funny. I used to think I’m well equipped with cleaning materials. I got cockroach repellant for roach invasions, fly paper, rags, detergent and the whatnots. Yet I do not own a broom. How embarrassing.

One night, I was contemplating over my room’s doomed future while waiting for my interviewee to arrive. I sat by a roadside café and all of the sudden a peddler walked by carrying a bundle of brooms on his back.

Ladies and gentlemen, I knew that that was a sign. God has spoken, I just knew it.

But God sure knew how to keep His conversations short.

My source arrived and as we exchanged greetings, my room’s salvation walked down the street, brooms still on his back.

It’s ok, I consoled myself. I had to think of it this way, had I bought the broom, I would have looked like a total idiot carrying a broom around while conducting the interview.

Bottom line boys and girls, clean your room. Don’t wait for dust bunnies to grow and your room to catch fire. And don’t wait for the roadside broom man to sell you his brooms–he walks fast.

Shopping Bug

I never really understand why a large chunk of the female population loves shoes and shoe shopping (and well, shopping in general). Don’t get me wrong, I love a good pair of shoes and shopping can be fun sometimes but when I hear somebody talk about their extensive shoe collection (and by that I mean, owning 40 pairs of shoes which are organized alphabetically), I can only gape.

Why so many pairs?

“You need one for every occasion, for every bag, for every shirt, blah, blah,” my friend goes on and on. As she lectures me on fashion 101 (I’d like to think, however, that I am not a fashion disaster), my ears become numb.

I have never been much of a “shoe girl”. I’m more of an accessories, bags and funky tops type of girl–if that’s how you define them anyway. Shoe shopping for me is perhaps the most tiring. I don’t have the “perfect” feet that would fit in practically every type of shoes. But then again, I might just be really unlucky and the pair that I’m looking for is always unavailable.

Mind you, I do love a good pair of heels, or as others call them: stilettos (if they fit!). But they are an obvious health risk, since I’m no expert in walking in these death contraptions (expect me to trip all over the place in them), not to mention the back pains they cause. Ah, the pains of being a woman.

I go crazy over accessories. My friends say that I might as well stop eating, and just spend my savings on necklaces and bracelets I find in the streets of Colon. I admit that I’m a rather compulsive buyer when it comes to accessories. But of course, they have to be reasonably priced. If I were not just a little bit rational when shopping, I might as well start getting used to the idea of eating air.

The way I spend on books has not been much of a secret. I spend way too much on them. My bookshelf is already piled with books to the point that it is already difficult to pull one out without triggering a book avalanche (a classmate pulled a book out, she got hit square in the face by Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart).

I believe it is naturally a part of any woman’s genetics to have the itching need to shop, whether for beauty purposes, fun and entertainment or perhaps for nerdy reasons.

Ah yes, women are programmed to shop.

Speaking of celebrations and womanhood, the month of March is officially Women’s Month. So ladies, this is our month and let’s be proud of being a woman! See you at the malls!

Radio

I've learned to love the old AM/FM radio again.

In the age where technology has taken over practically everything, we have teens sporting IPods, MP3 players and MP4 players of all sorts, shapes, colors and sizes. And our good, old (and extremely bulky) radio is left in the corner.

What a sad ending for something we grew up with.

The player that I have with me still comes from my elementary days. Grade five specifically. I remember when cassette tapes were still the hottest thing, and everyone had to own a cassette player or a walkman.

Back in grade school, we did a lot of dancing, doing intermission numbers and joining contests (losing in most of them). Since we were all young and obviously had no idea how badly we danced, the demand for owning a cassette player was high. After all, we had to practice.

So, a few dancing comrades and I bought players (at the expense of our parents of course). The players, by the way, all looked the same.

Needless to say, our dancing still did not improve.

My black cassette player will soon turn 10 years old. And within the span of 10 years, it has been used and abused (and maltreated), although I share a lot of happy memories with it.

I remember my Backstreet Boys days. Like every fan girl, I danced to the beat of "Get down" and squealed at the sight of Nick and AJ. I still own boy band tapes, as embarrassing as it sounds. And sometimes, I still find myself humming a boy band tune.

I have never been one to follow trends. So when people started buying CDs instead of cassette tapes and began using the CD player, I stuck with my trusty old cassette player. To this day, I still don't own a CD player.

My cassette player no longer plays tapes. I only use it for its radio functions, listening to AM news stations and radio dramas (yes, I've started to like them-thanks to my college major) and FM music stations, even if my music is limited to oldies songs. I love music from the '60s and '70s.

I have never been tech crazy. MP3 players don't amaze me and Discmans are not of my interest. I listen to music on my laptop, or on the radio. Besides, I can't afford an MP3 player. It's too impractical anyway.

It's a good thing I still own my cassette player. The music I get may not be crisp and clear, and I get talky DJs and annoying advertisements (and not to mention, nauseating campaign jingles) but nothing really beats listening to the radio and remembering the yesteryears.

Now, how about you start tuning your own radio and start appreciating something from the "past?"

Voiceless

I USED to think that being hoarse is totally cool. There’s nothing better than having a really gruff voice especially when your normal voice is similar to a mouse’s squeak. Imagine how much you’ll surprise others with your husky, not-you voice.

“What’s with the voice?” people would ask.

“Had a concert,” you’d respond–the most common (and overused) answer. Of course when I answer that, people just laugh at me. They know I can’t keep a tune, let alone actually sing anything without butchering the lyrics.

After intramurals, you’d meet a lot of people whose voices have turned into faint and husky whispers. These are the people who are usually filled with team spirit, scream their hearts out and drink a lot of cold water.

I never got hoarse after intramurals. Maybe because I’m not usually the one who’s into screaming at the sidelines, jumping up and down with my pom-poms. But then again, my sport of choice for the past three years has been Scrabble, and screaming is not allowed in the Scrabble area (I hate to imagine screaming scrabble players, throwing around scrabble tiles in rage and screaming angrily at the referees).

The idea of having close to no voice at all seemed appealing to me (having no voice would be a plus). With my usual voice strangely high, yet sometimes soft (and still raging) pitch, I’d love to have something lower and huskier, even just for one day. Call me strange, but a day of "huskiness" is all I ever asked.

I got what I wanted a week ago. I sounded like a squished rat, or somewhat like a teenage boy undergoing puberty. Some said that I sounded like a cow being flattened by a bulldozer (I have no idea where that analogy came from). Perhaps, at one point, I had no voice at all.

The whole hoarseness ordeal all came naturally. No screaming and singing were involved–just the flu and asthma (again, I’m an extremely sickly person, I might as well live in a bubble).

And let me tell you, there was nothing cool about sounding like a teenage boy.

They snicker. I admit, I sounded funny. I’d laugh at myself for sounding strange. But after getting made fun of for the nth time of the day, it just gets old.

They don’t understand you. It gets frustrating when people don’t understand you. In the end, you act like a total idiot and pantomime everything.

Nobody can hear you. This sucks. I spoke in a pitch that only dogs could hear. Nothing becomes more frustrating than not being heard or getting your point across. There’s always so much to talk about, yet there you are, with no voice.

Like I said, I used to like the idea of being hoarse.

Well, screw that.

I want to be heard. And so should you.

The Calling

PEOPLE have been asking me why I have this huge purple bruise on my right leg. They take their time staring, trying to figure out what I did the past week in Manila.

Just to clear things, I did not get beaten up nor did I undergo any hazing ritual. Paddles and bats were not used to “swear me in.”

I got sworn in differently, that’s for sure.

I’m fresh from the Ayala Young Leaders Congress, held at the San Miguel Corporation-Management Training Center in Alfonso, Cavite (or as everybody else likes to call the area-Tagaytay), and I had the best time of my life.

Days have passed since the congress, but I still feel euphoric over the entire experience. This is one happy bubble that nobody can burst.

Being with 73 other student leaders, wonderful facilitators and the friendliest secretariat around, everybody just rubs off on you and everything you learn, see and hear you absorb like a sponge (the same goes for the overflowing food and beverages, you absorb those too, although they go to an entirely different part of your body).

I must confess, I dreamt of attending the congress since I was a tiny freshman in college. For me, it was a congress I would never qualify for but it was still worth a try to apply.

In the end, it pays to hold on to your dream.

Call me a crybaby and emotional basket case, but I still get teary-eyed when I remember the congress.

Imagine yourself, being with other student leaders with one vision. A vision to serve their fellowmen, the country and those in need. A vision of leading others even through challenging times by leading through example, by being an agent of change.

Just imagine, putting your life literally into the hands of others. Being lifted and carried around, falling into their open arms and balancing yourself on a wire with nothing to hold on to but your partner.

There we were, sharing our dreams and vision, mulling over community and school problems and trying to figure out solutions.

I can never put to words how I feel about the congress. I missed my classes and thesis sessions, my tear glands are rendered temporarily dried up and useless, and my body is bruised and sore all over. But it was all worth it.

This may sound so cliché, but I feel inspired-by the people, the insights and by the activities. If this were a movie, the sky would have conveniently opened up and a divine light would have shone upon me.

I have found my calling. It’s time you find yours.

Cupid

Cupid should be ashamed of himself. After years of shooting people with his arrows of love, he has yet to get a decent set of clothes. And that goes also for his posse of scantily clad cherubs.

You’d think that after years of being in the love business, he’d get something better to wear than that piece of cloth loosely hung around his chubby waist.

But then again we are talking about Cupid, he’s practically an institution; he has established for himself a name in the whole ‘love’ business. So whatever he wears is acceptable.

However, I hate to imagine that there are actually Cupid costumes floating around in the market. After all, there’s a Santa costume and a Easter bunny costume, so perhaps there might be a Cupid costume too. But that would be frightening, seeing a man in a diaper with bow and arrows strapped to his back.

This therefore calls a need to have Cupid change his image. It would be great to see something else on the toddler than a piece of white cloth around his behind.

We need a more modern, more hip Cupid. He has to keep up with style and what’s in. The loin cloth was so last century.

He and his army of flying babies need to think beyond the white cloth. Think of jeans, shirts or suits even!

Imagine a Cupid wearing a power suit! And inside the briefcase he carries around would be his bow and arrow. The more professional Cupid keeps a secretary at his side, who’ll keep track of the people he will ‘shot’ and his appointments for the day. Let’s not forget the PDA and his mobile phone; no professional matchmaker should leave the ‘office’ (or is it called ‘Love Central’?) without these gadgets.

Though not the most perfect imagine of Cupid, he might also opt going hip-hop. This might be hilarious with the oversized jeans and shirt and ‘bling-bling’. However, it would be fun to see the pimped bow and arrows. Instead of the usual pink/red heart tipped arrows, Cupid goes around showing off his diamond encrusted arrows of love.

A hippy Cupid (though out-of-date) might actually be interesting. With extremely long hair, oversized colorful clothes and humongous colored shades, he’d not only be spreading love but peace as well. You know what they say, “Love and peace, dude!”

Cupid as a Goth or as an ‘Emo’ kid would not be the brightest idea. Though rather fascinating and a bit odd, I highly doubt that our young little Cupid would go with the whole wearing black and being depressed thing. And I don’t think that he’s keen about wearing black eyeliner.

Business, Hip-hop, Hippy or Emo, whatever the image Cupid will always remain Cupid. Change him as we want, he’ll always be the ageless, scantly clad baby on Hallmark cards.

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone, may you be struck by Cupid’s arrows (diamond encrusted or not).

Flushed

My biggest fear, besides clowns, is a dirty bathroom. When I encounter a bathroom that smells and is filthy beyond belief, I am on the verge of tears. Not because of the horrid state of the bathroom, because of the fact I have to ‘go’ and there is no where else to ‘go’ to.

I remember a parent who complained to me about the comfort rooms of a school down north. The comfort rooms did not only reek but they were dirty with grime, mud and, well, the unmentionables – if you get my drift.

It’s enough to make anybody hold it in for another hour or so.

He complained that his son and the other students would not go to the bathroom because of the stench and the dirt. He blames the school for not keeping the bathroom clean.

As I think about it, both are to be blamed – the students and the school.

Sure, it’s the school that is obliged to provide clean facilities, especially an immaculately clean bathroom. After all, it’s all about hygiene. If I were a parent, the last thing I would do was to enroll my child in a school which had a bathroom that equals to a sewer.

But then again, aren’t kids these days taught of hygiene? If so, kids should know how to flush after, well, doing it. How physically demanding is it to push the silver button or pick up the pail and flush whatever is floating around in the toilet?

This reminds me of an instance when I was still in grade school. I refused to go to the bathroom because I did not like the bathrooms at school. Not to say that they were dirty, but because they were new to me. I grew up with toilets that would flush – you push the button and everything goes down the toilet. The concept of dumping water into the toilet bowl was new to me.

In the end, I nearly got kidney stones because of my stubbornness.

I’m the most picky when it comes to bathrooms. If the bathroom is dirty, the last thing I want to do is use it – no matter how badly I need to go. Most of the bathrooms I have encountered smell to high heavens and are dirty beyond belief. This does not only go for schools, but also for malls, restaurants, and doctors’ clinics and hospitals.

Why most of us don’t bother taking better care of our bathrooms is beyond me. For crying out loud, you take a bath there, brush your teeth, do your ‘business’ there and freshen up there.

Why on earth people tolerate bathrooms that are smelly and dirty does not seem logical to me. Perhaps their sense of smell must have burned out. The toxic smell of the toilets must have busted their senses.

If people these days are really that lazy of flushing and cleaning the bathroom, there is only one simple solution. Get a toilet that flushes on its own – and for sure, your problems will go down the drain, so to speak.