Saturday, August 17, 2013
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Love Story 2
When You Think Your Love Story Is Boring
Posted: 07/30/2013 6:56 pm
"My love life will never be satisfactory until someone runs through an airport to stop me from getting on a flight." -- Teenager Post #14029 featured here.He drove us all home 18 hours over two days.
Three kids and hundreds of miles and potty breaks and princess pull-ups, the car covered in the markers I'd bought for window art. Turns out the soft beige ceiling of a mini van makes a perfect canvas. Rainbow swirls color the door panels and there are goldfish crackers crushed so deep into the seats that they will likely be there come next summer and this same road trip all the way to Northern Michigan and the lake that his family have been coming to for decades.
He's never run through an airport for me.
Three times he's held my hands, my shaking legs, my head, my heart as I've bared down and groaned a baby into being. He has run for ice chips and doctors and night shifts and laid himself low to help me hold on through the hard rock and roll and push and pull of labor and I've never drowned holding onto his hand.
There is a rumor, an urban myth, a fiction, a fantasy, a black-and-white screen cliché that love looks like the mad, romantic dash through airports for a last chance at a flailing kiss.
And then the credits roll.
And the lights come on.
And we must go back to our real lives where we forget that love really lives.
I threw up so hard and fast and often one night in a farmhouse in Pennsylvania that I couldn't stand come morning. He moved over and out and gave me the bed. He went out for crackers and soda and mind numbing games to keep the three kids occupied and away from mom.
I looked in the mirror and there was nothing romantic looking back at me, but around the wrinkles in my eyes, the parched, white cheeks, there was the deep romance of being loved beyond how I looked.
He's never run through an airport for me.
He's gone out for milk at 10 p.m., he's held our children through bouts of stomach viruses and told me there is nothing about his kids that disgusts him. He's carried us on his shoulders when we were too tired or too sad or too done to keep doing the every day ins and outs that make up a life.
He's unloaded a hundred loads of laundry and put the dishes away.
He lays down his life and it looks like so many ordinary moments stitched together into the testimony of a good man who comes home to his family in the old minivan, the one with the broken air conditioning.
It undoes me every time to look around and find him there, having my back in the day to day and the late night into late night and then next year again.
He's run a thousand times around the sun with me and we hold hands and touch feet at night between the covers even when we're wretched and fighting we're always fighting our way back to each other.
He's never run through an airport for me.
He runs on snatched sleep and kids tucked into his shoulder on both sides of the bed.
He is patient and kind.
He always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
And we come running to him. When the battered white minivan pulls into the driveway his children trip over themselves, their abandoned Crocs and the pool bag to be the first to open the door and spill out their day into the hands of the man who can catch them.
He's never run through an airport for me.
This ordinary unremarkable love walks slowly every day alongside. One step, one day, one T-ball practice at a time.
One permission slip signed, one Lunchable, one school play, one art project, one Lego box, one more night time cup of water delivered at a time.
This ordinary love that wakes up with bad breath and crease marks on its cheeks and is the daily bread that sustains across time zones and countries and cultures and the exhaustion of trying to figure out how to be a parent and a grown up and somebody's forever.
And this is a love life -- to live life each small, sometimes unbearably tedious moment -- together.
To trip over old jokes and misunderstandings. To catch our runaway tongues and tempers and gift them into the hands of the person who was gifted to us.
He lets me warm my ice cold feet between his legs and the covers at night.
He has never run through an airport for me.
This is love with the lights on and eyes wide open. This is the brave love, the scared love, the sacred boring, the holy ordinary over sinks of dirty dishes and that one cupboard in the kitchen with the broken hinge.
This post originally appeared on LisaJoBaker.com
Cross Stitch Galore
Look what I unearthed today? A collection of my cross stitch works. I remember selling some of my stuff before at my sister's store but when it closed, I had to put all my works in a box and I totally forgot all about it until recently when I was cleaning the attic. Oh boy, I still have a handful of frames. All of these were made 6 years ago except for one, the first ever cross-stitch I made which is like 17 years old. Anyway, I am unsure of what to do with all these, maybe I'd add more and try selling again or..Well, it doesn't matter, I like keeping "them" for now, they make such pretty display anyway.;-)
Photos are below.
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| The one on the top is my first cross stitch. Below is my sis Honey's work. |
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| It depicts the crush I had on a PBA player, Victor Pablo. ;-) |
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Bedazzled Mirror
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| Project of the Day |
Not too bad I think.
Here are some photos.
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| The Subject |
Saturday, July 6, 2013
The Reason I Don't Blog Anymore
Okay so it's been awhile since I updated this online journal of mine. It seems like I have been spending a lot of time in my garden but then again, who can blame me. It always put a smile on my face every time I am out and about with my little shovel and gardening gloves. I am actually the happiest when accomplishing tangibly productive work like gardening. As everyone knows, when you do meaningful work with your hands, a kind of happy brain chemicals flood your mind. So yes, it's my natural form of anti-depressant. Something I really need nowadays since I am currently not working.
So first, since our place is still new and lacking of a sitting area outside, I put some plants together, bought some new seat covers, collected some pebbles and transformed the car port into a semi-sitting/reading area. I dream of something like a tropical-inspired area in the future but this make shift one might just do for now.
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| I really need more plants to cover the sheer ugliness of the concrete wall. |
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| Yes, I did that mahogany garden fence with my hands hence the outcome. ;-) |
Then I started collecting some plants and seeds. I am in the initial stage of my so-called beautification project of this once-been-neglected plot of land. So bear with me. Hopefully, after a few months there will be another set of "after" pictures. And there will be more flowers and more colors and beauty to show off.
Lastly, my first attempt of a vegetable garden. Okay so there are no beds as you can see. My brother-in-law, Joseph and I helped dig the soil and I did the pathway myself. I just threw a couple of seeds a few days ago but obviously the garden needs more work and more plants. I can't wait to see the aftermath of this project. I am giddy with excitement!
Okay looks horrible from this view but let me assure you, months from now this will become the most sought-after vegetable haven in town!
(Ha, a girl can dream ya' know)
Gg
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Love Story 1
Mystery Letter Reunites Couple After 63 Years Apart
When Cynthia Riggs, 81, married Howard Attebery, 90, in a church ceremony on Martha's Vineyard last week, it was the final chapter in a romance more than six decades in the making.
Riggs, a former geologist who’s now a prolific mystery novelist and the owner of a bed and breakfast on the Vineyard, hadn’t often thought about Attebery since the two last worked together, 63 years ago. Together, they counted plankton at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography in San Diego, and they beat back boredom by writing innocent notes to each other on paper towels, penned in a simple code they’d created.
So when she received a short but revealing note written in that code last year, she was pretty sure she knew who had sent it, even though it wasn’t signed. But the message was powerful: “I have never stopped loving you.” And so she set out to find him.
“It wasn’t easy because his return address was a latitude and longitude. He wanted it to be that, if I really wanted to get in touch with him I would,” she told Yahoo! Shine in a phone interview from her home on Monday. “The only problem was, when he wrote the latitude and longitude, he gave the wrong one.”
(“I misread it,” Attebery admitted to Shine about the GPS he looked at in his backyard.)
The coded letter. Photo: CBS News
Riggs, a former geologist who’s now a prolific mystery novelist and the owner of a bed and breakfast on the Vineyard, hadn’t often thought about Attebery since the two last worked together, 63 years ago. Together, they counted plankton at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography in San Diego, and they beat back boredom by writing innocent notes to each other on paper towels, penned in a simple code they’d created.
So when she received a short but revealing note written in that code last year, she was pretty sure she knew who had sent it, even though it wasn’t signed. But the message was powerful: “I have never stopped loving you.” And so she set out to find him.
“It wasn’t easy because his return address was a latitude and longitude. He wanted it to be that, if I really wanted to get in touch with him I would,” she told Yahoo! Shine in a phone interview from her home on Monday. “The only problem was, when he wrote the latitude and longitude, he gave the wrong one.”
(“I misread it,” Attebery admitted to Shine about the GPS he looked at in his backyard.)
The coded letter. Photo: CBS News
Still, Riggs pressed on. After first being led astray to Baja, California, where she hit several dead ends, she contacted the California Dental Association, as she knew he’d gotten a dental degree. That led her to a nonworking number and an address that dated back to 1988, which she figured would be out of date, but she wrote him a letter and sent it anyway. She soon heard back from him with a postcard.
Thus began a correspondence that went on for nearly a year, and which revealed many surprising coincidences and connections, the first of which was a somber one: Riggs’s daughter had died several years earlier, and Attebery had lost a son at the same age, at around the same time. “That brought us together in a hurry,” Riggs said.
Also, Attebery had mentioned to her at one point that he had something special he wanted to send her: a manganese nodule, which is a tiny iron-and-manganese rock formation found at the bottom of deep seas. “No individuals own these things that I know of,” she said. “But the funny thing is, I have a sack full of them.” She had them from her days writing for the Smithsonian, when she spent months on an Antarctic cruise.
Riggs’s fondness for Attebery grew, and she was greatly encouraged by the women in a weekly writers' workshop she runs. They kept remarking on how romantic Attebery was—especially when, upon learning she was a gardener, he sent her various seed packets, the first letters of each flower or vegetable (hollyhocks, leeks) spelled out “H loves C.” They’re now blooming in her garden.
Still, Riggs, who has four remaining grown children, was married for 25 years, and has been divorced for 35, was not sold. “I was never going to get married again,” she said, adding that, though she found herself charmed by Attebery, she hadn’t planned on going to see him. But when she flew out to visit her daughter in Santa Barbara late last year, Attebery sent her the train fare to visit him. And she went, with reservations.
“The last time he saw me I was 18,” she said. “And I’m 81.”
Attebery met her on the train platform with a long-stemmed red rose and took her back to his house, where they sat in a swing in the backyard. “I held her hand, and within the hour, I’d proposed to her,” Attebery told Shine. “I knew. And she knew.”
As Riggs explains it, “He’s a romantic character, and he certainly knew how to win me over.”
Thus began a correspondence that went on for nearly a year, and which revealed many surprising coincidences and connections, the first of which was a somber one: Riggs’s daughter had died several years earlier, and Attebery had lost a son at the same age, at around the same time. “That brought us together in a hurry,” Riggs said.
Also, Attebery had mentioned to her at one point that he had something special he wanted to send her: a manganese nodule, which is a tiny iron-and-manganese rock formation found at the bottom of deep seas. “No individuals own these things that I know of,” she said. “But the funny thing is, I have a sack full of them.” She had them from her days writing for the Smithsonian, when she spent months on an Antarctic cruise.
Riggs’s fondness for Attebery grew, and she was greatly encouraged by the women in a weekly writers' workshop she runs. They kept remarking on how romantic Attebery was—especially when, upon learning she was a gardener, he sent her various seed packets, the first letters of each flower or vegetable (hollyhocks, leeks) spelled out “H loves C.” They’re now blooming in her garden.
Still, Riggs, who has four remaining grown children, was married for 25 years, and has been divorced for 35, was not sold. “I was never going to get married again,” she said, adding that, though she found herself charmed by Attebery, she hadn’t planned on going to see him. But when she flew out to visit her daughter in Santa Barbara late last year, Attebery sent her the train fare to visit him. And she went, with reservations.
“The last time he saw me I was 18,” she said. “And I’m 81.”
Attebery met her on the train platform with a long-stemmed red rose and took her back to his house, where they sat in a swing in the backyard. “I held her hand, and within the hour, I’d proposed to her,” Attebery told Shine. “I knew. And she knew.”
As Riggs explains it, “He’s a romantic character, and he certainly knew how to win me over.”
For Attebery, it was the culmination of a long-held dream. “I really loved that woman from day one,” he said. “But she had no idea."
He’d kept every paper towel note she’d written over all these years, and would look at them and think of her with a fondness from time to time. And after two marriages—one ended in divorce, and his second wife died in 1989—he felt ready to get in touch with her. “It seemed to me the time was right to send it,” he said of his note.
The two were married at the end of May before 150 people in West Tisbury, Massachusetts, on Martha’s Vineyard, where they are now living and where Riggs has family roots going back 250 years. Attebery’s best man at the ceremony was his son, a music teacher who lives in New York.
“There’s that word grand that you don’t hear so much anymore,” he said about the whole experience. “Well, this is grand for me.”
For Riggs, who was first married at age 20, this love story has been quite different. “We both know what’s important now. We have a limited amount of time and we’re not going to waste it,” she explained. “It’s wonderful.”
He’d kept every paper towel note she’d written over all these years, and would look at them and think of her with a fondness from time to time. And after two marriages—one ended in divorce, and his second wife died in 1989—he felt ready to get in touch with her. “It seemed to me the time was right to send it,” he said of his note.
The two were married at the end of May before 150 people in West Tisbury, Massachusetts, on Martha’s Vineyard, where they are now living and where Riggs has family roots going back 250 years. Attebery’s best man at the ceremony was his son, a music teacher who lives in New York.
“There’s that word grand that you don’t hear so much anymore,” he said about the whole experience. “Well, this is grand for me.”
For Riggs, who was first married at age 20, this love story has been quite different. “We both know what’s important now. We have a limited amount of time and we’re not going to waste it,” she explained. “It’s wonderful.”
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Missing my Lola
I turned 30, two days ago. And sadly, I didn't get to visit my grandmother's tomb just like what I did for the last couple of years. I go there not because she is there but because it is one tangible place that I can divulge my most intimate feelings and desires. She, after all, has always been my sounding board.
I was only 3 years old when she and my grandpa took me to live in Bukidnon. I basically grew up with them on a farm.
I remember her with the sweetness that every grandmother seems to project. She didn’t have a perfect life but she made sure I would grow up to be grateful to God and to what life had to offer.
She was the best grandma and God, I just miss her.
She passed away 7 years ago. I wish I had more time with her. But I keep telling myself that one day, we will be together again. But for now I am sure she is just up there, looking down, wishing I will make the most out of my life and be grateful that once, I had her, my Lola, my sweet nana.
I miss you..
Love,
Gg
Saturday, May 25, 2013
She is 7 now!
Love as always,
Mama
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Yes girl I agree!
“The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature. As longs as this exists, and it certainly always will, I know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be. And I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles.”
- Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl
- Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl
Sunday, February 24, 2013
My Current Obsession, DDL
No doubt. He is the greatest. He is the master of his craft and I confess to having a severe crush on him, so severe that well, never mind. He is like a chameleon. Ever changeable, and unpredictable type of an artist. The "Butcher" in the movie Gangs of New York ,was my favorite character of him. My daughter on the other hand, loved him in "My Left Foot". We had to watch it with a French voice over (pain in the ass), but she still believed that Christy Brown was him, his acting was superb. And I swear that before my life
ends I have to watch him as Hawkeye, apparently, he is at his sexiest there.
Yes, aside from being a brilliant actor, I mean look at the man. The tattoo, the pirate earring, oh the accent. And yes he is so handsome! The sex appeal is oozing.
I love the mystery that surrounds DDL. His eyes speaks volume. He has a reserved smile and isn't over exposed. He loves his privacy and he steer clears from spotlight. But nevertheless, he is the ultimate actor's actor. Here are some of my fave photos of the man.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Karaoke
We just moved to our not yet finished family house and it's closer to my Lolo, closer to my roots. It's in a less than stellar neighborhood but it has given my family a sense of security and familiarity. Everybody knows everybody here. And everybody seems to look after everybody. For example, during special events like Christmas, birthdays and such, expect something from the next neighbor, maybe an invitation to salo-salo or be given a platter of lechon, pancit and lumpia. Who would refused that?
However, be prepared or be really prepared because celebrations and holidays, heck even normal days, only mean one thing, i.e., Karaoke party,
Now, as everyone knows, karaoke or videoke is part of a typical Filipino household. We just love to sing, even when without the talent. It is pure fun however irritating if done to the extreme.
The blasting of karaoke machines as well as the singer's voice will not only blow your earwax away but also hurt your sleep routine.
Our front neighbor has a small sari-sari store/karaoke business. And my neighbor to the right has a karaoke too, and the next as well. So just imagine, if the three decided to do it all at once! Oh it's a helluva fun! Not.
I don't expect them to burn their karaoke machines, hell no. It seems like aside from the house, children and the pigs and chicken in the yard, K machine is the next most valuable property.
The only thing I wish for them to consider is to do it preferably at daytime.They are doing it to the extent that my 4 year old niece, Arianne would cover her tiny little ears just to have a good night sleep, I should have taken a photo of her doing that. She was already asleep, still hands on her ears. Poor lil thing. My sister Janice, the mom, was not amused at all.
I know this is a free country but most do it so daringly unconscious of their surroundings. I don't mind if someone sings like Pusong Bato :-) or any mellow songs . But I hope those people who are Regine V or Celine D wannabes and try to "birit without the beat and the voice" , would just sing without maybe ya' know a microphone or just sing in the sidelines. Now, again this is a free country but some songs just sound too awful when performed by amateurs.
Mind you, I can't sing myself, but I am not Anne Curtis who can get away with singing just because of a pretty face. :-).
So in conclusion, I guess just like everything else, moderation is still the key, even with the popular Karaoke.
However, be prepared or be really prepared because celebrations and holidays, heck even normal days, only mean one thing, i.e., Karaoke party,
Now, as everyone knows, karaoke or videoke is part of a typical Filipino household. We just love to sing, even when without the talent. It is pure fun however irritating if done to the extreme.
The blasting of karaoke machines as well as the singer's voice will not only blow your earwax away but also hurt your sleep routine.
Our front neighbor has a small sari-sari store/karaoke business. And my neighbor to the right has a karaoke too, and the next as well. So just imagine, if the three decided to do it all at once! Oh it's a helluva fun! Not.
I don't expect them to burn their karaoke machines, hell no. It seems like aside from the house, children and the pigs and chicken in the yard, K machine is the next most valuable property.
The only thing I wish for them to consider is to do it preferably at daytime.They are doing it to the extent that my 4 year old niece, Arianne would cover her tiny little ears just to have a good night sleep, I should have taken a photo of her doing that. She was already asleep, still hands on her ears. Poor lil thing. My sister Janice, the mom, was not amused at all.
I know this is a free country but most do it so daringly unconscious of their surroundings. I don't mind if someone sings like Pusong Bato :-) or any mellow songs . But I hope those people who are Regine V or Celine D wannabes and try to "birit without the beat and the voice" , would just sing without maybe ya' know a microphone or just sing in the sidelines. Now, again this is a free country but some songs just sound too awful when performed by amateurs.
Mind you, I can't sing myself, but I am not Anne Curtis who can get away with singing just because of a pretty face. :-).
So in conclusion, I guess just like everything else, moderation is still the key, even with the popular Karaoke.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Craving for some Jim Morrison tonight.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PECk9A-07Pw
and some Ben Harper..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9I9M4H9n_I
and why are these links not showing the videos here? Hmmmpp.
and some Ben Harper..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9I9M4H9n_I
and why are these links not showing the videos here? Hmmmpp.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
A Poem
I was reading, the Bridget Jones Diary, Edge of Reason and I stumbled on this poem by Rudyard Kipling, an English poet and writer. The poem was called "If" . I wasn't in the best mood for the past few days and the poem literally just lit me up as it hit me by full force. I have to remind myself again, that life doesn't have to be perfect to have moments of perfect happiness. It has its ups and downs. And its all up to me if I take life seriously or lightly. And I think it's wiser to choose the latter.
Here is "If".
Here is "If".
If
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!
Rudyard Kipling
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