Things are changing

Come November, Patrick and I will become one of the 3.6 million married couples in America who live together--apart. Commuter couples, as we are more popularly known, are husbands and wives who choose to live in different states or distant cities, often to further our careers. Patrick, for example, has taken a hefty promotion in another company who required him to relocate near Dallas, Texas temporarily. I chose to stay in Chicago. Lucky me, my company allowed me to work from home in Dallas one week a month, while Patrick's company agreed to fly him back and forth their headquarters in Chicago.

It is obviously not the ideal, or dare I say traditional scenario, for a married couple. But without sounding defensive, Patrick and I are quite comfortable and confident with our forthcoming situation. When he was making his decision on which career step to take next, we sat down face-to-face and weighed the pros and cons. Are we going to own or rent in another city? How often should we fly out to see each other and how much will that cost us? How long are we going to do this? We laid down our choices and we listed our priorities. We both looked at the big picture and I was thankful that we were on the same page.

I am very thrilled for my husband and I am immensely proud of his achievements. I am thankful that I married a gentleman and an achiever

I am also equally excited about the opportunities we both have on our plate. And most of all, I am beyond grateful that we took time to understand what our choices mean to each other and that we took time to look in the same direction.

Ten good things that happened in the past 10 days

Let me give you a rundown while I can still count them with my fingers! Here they are in no particular order:

1) Patrick and I went on a vacation for the first time in more than a year. Ah, our schedules finally met where we can be in one state in one weekend! It was a much needed time alone.

2) Patrick has been receiving recognition for his hardwork and professionalism. Well-deserved, my dear.

3) Our baby kitty Shadow survived four days without Mommy nor Daddy. Aunt Leslie took very good care of her while we were gone. Too good that she gained almost one pound. It's probable time to give Dr. McLaren a call.

4) A good, old friend of mine called from Viriginia. The last time we talked was about two years ago. I'm so thankful he's having a ball in his new home.

5) I met Uncle Bob's big, happy family.

6) Everything was in its right place when I went back to work.

7) My friend Misyeli will find out this weekend if her baby will be a boy or a girl. And she promised she'll let me know!

8) Liz brought me a Polar Bear toy from her trip to San Diego. I named her Sandy.

9) Justine Henin has advanced to the semifinals. Novak Djokovic keeps on advancing. This year has one of the most heartstopping U.S. Open in years ... eventhough we all know Roger Federer is going to win!

10) Our plans are slowly--and ever so elegantly--becoming a reality.

A letter to my Manila

In all my life, I've never known anyone or anything meaner, colder and more bitter than Chicago's weather. Alright, I may be exaggerating, but you must understand where I am coming from.

Last weekend, I feasted on a few spring clothes and indulgences. Long, flirty skirts that swirled just below my knees when the wind blew gently; a walk downtown at close to midnight while actually holding Patrick's hand and not his gloves. See, the simple pleasures of spring unanimously belittle the pristine color of winter ... so why did it go away? More importantly, where did my springtime go?

Since yesterday, winter has been teasing us with its deviousness. A temperature drop of at least 40 degrees in 24 hours will tell you Chicago weather is not the friendliest among its brood of 50 states.

But, like Lizzie always says, c'est la vie. I still think of you, Manila, my Manila (to quote the late Nick Joaquin, one of your beloved sons). You will never leave my heart, because despite your heat and noise, I loved you like a sister. A child. A parent. A friend. Remember last Easter when all of the city left you for the beach? I stayed with you; we drove around together at 100 mph, and we reveled in the quietude of your usually rambled life. I knew it was our last Easter together, and since then, you had been the one that got away.

And I guess I must love Chicago now. It is the air I breathe, the language I speak, and the home I build. I must love Chicago now, because when I roll down my window, I start to feel a warm sensation rising from my bones despite its bitter chill. Chicago is my adult self, and I admire what it is becoming.

Still, inside me, there remains a hope that you and I will meet again, and you will embrace me as though I still belong to you and you had missed me. Because I miss you terribly Manila, my Manila.

Photo notes:

Above: Manila Bay Sunset

Taken from the window of the hotel where I spent my last New Year's Eve in Manila:

University of Santo Tomas, the Royal and Pontifical. Also where Patrick and I first met. This walk was where we knew:

And finally, Eastwood City. A place that means something to all of us. Tell me about our Eastwood memories, please. Remind me, eventhough I don't forget.

A season of changes

Nothing says "Time is gold" more than time itself. In less than four months, since my last blog entry, so many changes had taken place. Back then, I was just talking about the forthcoming fall, but now as I write, winter is already at its shrewdest.

And very soon, a new chapter in my life will begin. I just accepted an employment offer from a fast-growing independent book publisher here in Chicago. Ah how fast time flies! Months ago, I was a mere spectator of this company's bailiwick; next week, I will be an official employee.

As I ponder on these coming changes, let me go back a step and briefly revisit some events that took place during my hiatus from blogging:

1. Patrick and I adopted a five-year-old Maine Coon from ADOPT Pet Shelter where I work as a volunteer. Her name is Shadow (photo inset), and her charm unleashed a nurturing side Patrick and I never thought we had. She currently holds the position of the Queen of our household and the center of our universe.

2. I started working part-time at our neighborhood Barnes and Noble, where, to this day, I enjoy the daily perks of discounted books, coffee, CDs and DVDs. (Beat that!)

3. I worked full-time in a book manufacturing company forty minutes away from home. Books everywhere, it's like utopia! But in early January, I realized how different book manufacturing is from book publishing. I left the company sans any regret because if not for this company, I would never have taken a chance at my new employer.

4. The National Football League (NFL) season once again boasted an entertainment extravaganza. This year, we witnessed our very own Chicago Bears rally to the Super Bowl after more than two decades of absence from The Big Game. I finally understood why this game is watched by two out of three households in America every year: It represents a culture of fierce competition, and a culture where every member in a team has a well-defined function and a fair chance to succeed.

5. I now wear skinny pants. Not much to say about that, except I love how they hug all the right places.

6. I celebrated my first holiday season here in Chicago. Patrick, Shadow and I spent a quiet Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year with Patrick's family.

Fast forward to next week, and you will find me clueless and wide eyed behind my new desk. Some changes just rattle you with as much FEAR as excitement, and this new job belongs to that category. Oh, but what is life without a little living on the edge, right?

Looking past the hurdles

Some things are simply not meant to happen or to be owned. It could be a pair of shoes or a dress that has no more of your size. Or a trip to the beach that is way too indulgent. A job or a slot in a university that could clinch your way to a good, happy future. The love of your life, the person who plagued your high school years, or the one who got away. Whatever form it comes and whatever its name, there’s something we pine for every now and then, something or someone so valuable but is so elusive it breaks our hearts just thinking about it. These are the things that claim birthright to our disappointments in life. If we had a dime for every disappointment we encounter, then we would all be millionaires.

Lately, I have been contemplating about my own bout with disappointments. Last Thursday, after stepping out of a meeting, I decided to walk off the anxiety I had been feeling for days. This anxiety was born from anticipating something I had long been waiting, working, praying, asking for. I figured it was a perfect time to ruminate and calm my senses on my own because PJ was in Toronto for business. I knew that the answer for my questions would come that day, if not Friday, and I just had to prepare myself for it.

So the answer came, and it was in the form of a “no.” For a word so short, it hurt so much. Very quickly, it turned my anxiety into disappointment and then to pain. My wish was simple, my intentions were clear and generous, so why did I not get a “yes?"

After quelling the initial unrest, I asked myself more sensible questions. Why did it hurt so much when I had been through many other disappointments far worse than this? Why did I accept such bad news with the shock of a novice, as if I had learned nothing from life at all? In the greater scheme of things, my intentions were, in fact, self-righteous, impatient and almost intolerable.

I reckoned that disappointments are all the same. As grown ups, our wishes are no different from the Christmas gifts we couldn’t wait to open when we were children. One Barbie for someone is the same coloring book for another. They elicit the same experience, the same anticipation, the same need and hunger for satisfaction and fulfillment. Disappointments could be measured through different means like monetary value or recognition, but the most accurate measure is experience, because experience is the most palpable lesson we will remember.

It is fair that our disappointments should garner the same reflection as the blessings we receive. No matter the worth, we owe it to ourselves to just surrender and say “It hurts.” We also sometimes owe it to ourselves to tell someone—a spouse, a friend, or parent—that you need a hand to hold or someone who will listen, just as we would share a good piece of news.

The purpose of disappointments is not to weaken or destroy us. Quite the contrary, they are there to build experience, wisdom and relationships. They exist so we will appreciate more what we have, and recognize the intrinsic bliss of the things we just ignore.

That night, my husband came back from his business trip. As I welcomed him home, I felt a sense of ease taking over my dissatisfaction. Because he and I are together day in and day out, I sometimes forget how priceless it is to have someone by my side. Life really does get lonely no matter how hard you try to be happy, but I am thankful that there are disappointments to teach me, strengthen me, and remind me that no victories or failures are tantamount to family and friendship.

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Photo credits:

www.isopixel.net at http://www.isopixel.net/images/disappointment.jpg
www.inimagine.com at http://us.inmagine.com/168nwm/photodisc/pdil160/pdil160008.jpg

Cooking for couples

Whether you are newlyweds or just reinventing your relationship, you may find cooking together an enriching experience. If you play your roles right, this can be a therapeutic exercise for your marriage because it opens an avenue for teamwork. By cooking as a couple, one learns how to give way while his or her partner leads, and the result is a harmonious interplay between two loving individuals.

This harmony, of course, takes quite some time to master. When my husband and I cooked together for the first time, I went close to hitting him in the head with the skillet he asked me to wipe. I thought to myself, WE are supposed to be cooking, not cleaning kitchenware! Why was I the one left to do menial things while he had all his creative juices running?

I wiped the skillet, beat the mixtures, and measured the ingredients albeit against my will. All afternoon that we were cooking, I was grumbling like the devil.

But one appetizer, two entrées and one dessert later, we were a couple again. He, the food scientist, created a sumptuous meal. Had I let my pride get the best of me, we would not have finished in the kitchen, and our guests would have starved to death.

I realized that it was not easy for him to see me struggling the way I did either. I was then an amateur in the kitchen, while he had been practically making a living working in it. In all fairness, he warned me before we cooked that the kitchen has room for only one chef, and one of us had to give way and be the sous-chef. When it was my turn to be the chef, he so politely did what I asked him to do—without any devilish grumblings in the background, mind you.

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How to cook as a couple:

Start with simple meals. If it’s the first time for both of you to cook, start even simpler, like breakfast during weekends or a stir-fry meal for lunch. A pasta entrée makes for a good division of labor; one of you can take care of the pasta while the other cooks up the sauce.

About three cookbooks that have different menus for different occasions and seasons should be enough. (We have Italian, Asian, Simple Pasta, and Old-fashioned Holiday cookbooks at home). The Web is rife with recipes of sorts, but I suggest finding Web sites that would best suit your needs and lifestyle. They also have to be sites that were recommended by those who have tried and "tasted" them. Most of my recipes were lifted from Unilever Food Solutions and Unilever. These two sites have a multitude of recipes that range from special holiday meals to everyday dinners, and were contributed by an army of seasoned culinary experts. Plus, I never have a hard time looking for the ingredients in their recipes. That is a definite bonus especially if you and your partner have little time to run to the supermarket.

Here’s a simple entrée you and your partner can try together.

Shrimp Creole

2 tbsp. I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter
2 tsbp. all-purpose flour
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbsp. green pepper, chopped
1 tbsp. red pepper, chopped
1 tbsp. celery, chopped
1 jar (16 oz.) Tostitos salsa (mild or medium, depending on your palate)
1 can (8-oz.) tomato sauce
1 tsp. soy sauce
1 ½ shrimp, cleaned, deveined

1. Heat butter and flour in a non-stick saucepan until brown, stirring constantly.
2. Add garlic, green pepper, red pepper and celery. Sauté for 2 minutes or until tender.
3. Stir in salsa and tomato sauce. Mix evenly. Simmer for 5-7 minutes, stirring occasionally.
4. Stir in shrimp. Cook for 7-10 minutes or until shrimp are pink and cooked through. Stir in soy sauce and simmer for one more minute. Serve warm over rice.

Note: The adjective "creole" refers to a type of food prepared with rice, tomatoes, peppers and sometimes, okra.

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Photo credits:

Pot and veggies: www.platinumcookware.com at http://www.platinumcookware.com/product%20images/EnhJumbo.jpg

Shrimp creole: www.mountainhighyoghurt.com at http://www.mountainhighyoghurt.com/images_recipes/ShrimpCreole.jpg

How I keep warm during fall

“Is it your birthday?” the lady at the counter asked while we checked out our purchases. It was already 9 p.m.; the stores lining the streets of downtown Chicago were closing for the day but PJ and I hadn’t noticed the time.

“No, it isn’t,” I answered. “We’re just getting ready for fall.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, then looked at the pile of coats, hats and fall what-nots on the counter. “It just seems like it is.”

PJ and I simply smiled at each other.

That night, as I lulled myself to sleep, I pondered about my misery. Since I moved, I have had this pervasive feeling of loneliness that would visit me at unexpected moments. It comes when we’re watching TV, or when I’m cooking, or when I’m just reading the papers. The quiet nights are a given, as well as the rainy weekend mornings.

Then I remembered that lady’s question. Was it my birthday? And because I would know for sure if it was my birthday, I realized that I just looked too fortunate to be miserable.

All these months, all I could care about is how lonely I’ve been. I have spent so much energy counting the things I don’t have rather than counting the things I already have. On worse days, I torment PJ by giving him the cold shoulder and pointing out things he doesn’t do rather than give him credit for the things he does. I forgot that when we go out with my friends and family, he picks up the tab. That he picks up my clothes from the dry cleaners. That he preorders the DVDs I like without being asked. That he always makes himself available for me, which is more than anyone can ask for.

My every day life has been plagued with gripes and questions. The worst part is I blamed my life, my family, even my husband for ripping me off my roots. But in truth, I did this to myself. Yes, I allowed the whiny monster in me grow, and I have to kill it now before it gets the chance to kill my relationships.

I remember when I was getting ready to leave; I folded my dresses, wrapped my shoes, and tucked them inside my suitcases as though I was only going away for the weekend. I gave away many belongings but in my wild imagination, those things still belonged to me, and when I return, they would be in the same place where I left them. I said my goodbyes but I forgot that even when I'm gone, life would go on and the clock would kept on turning. I was—and still am—afraid that when I come back, I won't recognize the city of my childhood and my mother's childhood, the same city that visits me in my sleep at night. I should have taken more caution because now it seems this expedition is taking longer than I allowed.

I have been holding on to a life I no longer have. I am ashamed to admit that to this day, I still convert currencies before making a purchase, and compare weather, seasons, people, TV shows and, dare I say it, politicians.

I need to let my new life in my door. I belong here now; this will be my home for many good years, if not forever, so I can’t watch it wither away while I indulge myself in helplessness.

It was time for me to be pliant, to accept changes. That is not to say that I am erasing my old city from the plot of my life. After all, life is a story with chapters, characters, settings, plots, conflicts and resolutions. At the risk of sounding cliché, that chapter of my life is finished and the characters have moved on, but some will always remain largely at play. But like any book, I can always turn back the pages whenever I want to remember.

I decided to count the things I can and I have. For starters, I can cook now, do my own laundry, watch football, and call my friends and family as often as I’d like. I have coats, gloves, hats and a reliable heater that will keep me warm throughout fall and winter. On quiet nights or rainy weekend mornings, I have a hot cup of coffee, an abundant library, a great view of a spectacular city outside my window, and a husband who knows when I’m crying even when I don’t shed a tear.

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Photo credits:
Michigan Avenue:
tanmaypics13.tripod.com/michigan_avenue/
Woman in fall leaves: Missouri Baptist Foundation at:
http://www.mbfn.org/Gift%20Catalog/GiftCatalog-MissouriWMU.php

What brings you here?

Last Saturday, this thirsty soul of mine found inspiration in the final chapter of Amy Tan’s “Opposite of Fate," a collection of essays. I had been dying to finish this book so I can start reading Isabel Allende’s memoirs. But every page of Tan’s “book of musings” proved to be a message waiting to be told.

In June 1999, Tan started showing symptoms of Lyme disease, a bacterial infection acquired from the bite of an infected Ixodes or “black-legged” tick. Although Tan had the resources, it took almost four years and tens of thousands of dollars before she received a final diagnosis. By then, the bacteria had already crossed the blood-brain barrier, and had thus turned into chronic or late-stage neuroborreliosis. She described in her book and in her Web site the harrowing details of how she almost lost control of her life to Lyme disease.

“I saw people walking into my room, two girls jumping rope, numbers spinning on an odometer, a fat poodle hanging from the ceiling. I also had strange episodes in which I behaved strangely but had no recollection of what I had done as reported to me by others. I apparently rang people up at midnight and talked in a wispy voice. I had flung laundry around the living room. My husband said I acted at times as if I were in a trance, eyes wide open but unresponsive to his and a friend’s questions. I now had nightly nightmares and acted them out, punching at lamps or my husband, and once landing on my head in a dive toward my dream assailant.”

Thanks to her stubborn streak, she refused to throw in the towel. She exhausted whatever energy and imagination left of her to do her own research and insist that her doctor perform tests that would confirm the diagnosis. When she knew what kind of “terrorist” she had in her body, she fought to capture it.

Tan now joins thousands of Lyme disease patients in promoting awareness and prevention. Her campaign against Lyme is just one of the many ways she uses her talents and influence to reach out to her readers. Through her works as a writer and an advocate, she reminds me that we all serve a purpose for one another; that our existence and our innate skills did not happen by chance.

We may or may not find the things we lost, need or wish for. The answer is in God's time, but whatever it is, it is not as important as who we are now. I, for one, am not Oprah, the Crown Princess of Denmark, a rocket scientist or the person who discovered Lyme disease . But I am a wife, friend, daughter, sister, mentor, writer, and a champion of many beliefs. I take each of my roles with aplomb and appreciation. I am something to somebody, and so are you.

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For more information about Amy Tan, her life, works and campaign against Lyme, visit: www.amytan.net

For information about Lyme Disease, visit: www.LymeDiseaseAssociation.org

Wild, wild sushi

Something my husband and I share passionately is … our love for sushi. (What were you thinking?) Before he introduced me to sushi, the only Japanese I know is that white rectangular sheet with a red dot in the center. (Alright, that may be an exaggeration but you get my point).


Unknown to many, the Japanese term sushi refers to rice—and only rice. But due to Western influence, majority of the world now refers to sushi as rice topped or filled with seafood, meat, vegetables and sometimes, fruits. Even more revolutionary are the many ways the “sushi rice” and its ingredients are put together. Some are rolled in dried sheets of seaweed (“maki”), some are prepared with hand-formed rice topped with a small sheet of your meat of choice (“nigiri”). Whatever form it comes, sushi is a testament to Japan’s mantra of innovation: put as many good things in as little space as possible.

At times, my and my husband’s passion for sushi becomes an obsession. Sometimes it is unhealthy (because of the amount of rice we eat), bothersome (because of the distance we have to drive to try different sushi joints), and expensive (no explanation necessary).

Still, my husband, bless his heart, continues to spoil me. He never tires of satisfying my insatiable craving for everything Japanese. Now, we not only frequent sushi places in the metro, but we order sushi to take home with us. Oh, if I could only prepare sushi on my own …

Last Saturday, in our quest to champion sushi throughout mankind, we went on a 50-mile drive (again) to try out Agami, a contemporary sushi bar along Broadway. Situated along a mile of traditional oriental restaurants (they call this area “Little Thailand”), Agami’s façade could have passed as a Michigan Avenue staple. Tall ceilings, bright, well-coordinated lights and shapes will shock you as soon as you put your foot in the door. So contemporary was Agami that instead of the usual Niponggo music, they play trance music in the background. Add Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson, and you would be lost in translation.

The sushi did not disappoint either. We ordered “Ocean Drive,” which was a concoction of fish meats showered with citrus flavors and a hint of mint; “Agami Maki,” the house special; and “White Dragon.” Yes, you read it right, here at Agami, there are at least four types of dragon maki—and all of them come with a very, very fresh bite of seafood.

All in all, Agami is a place worth driving 50 miles to. We plan to come back, but in the meantime, let me list down some of my favorite sushi variants. (Pardon the incomplete descriptions. I just eat them, that’s all I really do.)

1. Volcano – maki filled with smoked salmon topped with thinly sliced scallops wrapped in “melted” mayonnaise and cheese. In other words, Japanese au gratin.




2. Godzilla – soft shell crab, shrimp with spicy mayonnaise and tempura; usually has asparagus.

3. Dragon –freshwater and sea eel, cucumber, and seaweed all wrapped in thin avocado slices. The rolls are arranged like dragon on your plate, hence the name dragon.







4. Dynamite – tuna and yellowtail with hot spicy sauce and masago (caviar or roe). Top it with shreds of lobster meat ("Lobster Dynamite") and your life will change forever.

5. Spider roll – yummy soft shell crab, that's all you need to know.

6. Rainbow roll (shown in the first photo above) - seaweed salad, cucumber, avocado covered in different-colored meats of tuna, salmon, crab and shrimp, then covered with masago or sesame seeds. In other words, colorful (shown in the first photo above).

7. Tiger roll - fresh crabmeat, avocado, cucumber sprinkled with teriyaki sauce in a zigzag manner

8. Nigiri sushi - rice and meat, usually seafood. For the purist at heart.

9. Alaska roll - smoked salmon, cucumber, avocado and masago

10. Philadelphia roll – salmon with cream cheese, a perfect ending to a round of spicy sushi

11. Mai Tai – Oh wait, that’s not sushi. I’m totally busted.

Freedom in Your Marriage

Marriage is bittersweet. Sometimes, you feel as though you are going to implode because of too much love, sometimes you just want to explode because of anguish, guilt, annoyance, confusion … name it. There are just many things that come with marriage that make you want to pack your bags and run crying to mommy.

Many of you know that my husband and I are practically newly married. The fact that I am writing this makes it obvious that we have a lot to learn. As we enter the first years of cohabiting as a married couple, we discover a whole slew of things that we would have otherwise ignored.

I notice that I fret over small matters that merit no attention from other people. For example, I consider dinnertime as sacred, almost equal to going to church on Sunday mornings. The dinner table and the kitchen are a temple to me, and when they are violated, I hear voices in my head telling me to knock over bottles, pots and pans. My eleventh commandment is plain and simple: "Thou shall only bring food to the dinner table. No remote controls, newspapers, magazines, books or laptops."

As I quell my unrest, I realize that’s just the way it is in marriage. Trivial things become a matter of sanity and derailment. To be fair, I am sure that my husband has his own “things,” too. And I wouldn’t be surprise if I found out he also hears voices telling him to run his car over the garage. He is a good man, husband and friend.

As individuals, we are all allowed to have autonomy over things that we consider sacred. For some, it is going to church, or watching Sunday night football, or visiting the bookstore on a Saturday afternoon. But as a “better” half of a whole, we are expected to give up a certain amount of the autonomy we knew when we were single.

So I ask you, women, this question: How much of this autonomy are you willing to give? And when you do give up something, do you always have to sell yourself short? In marriage, when is it right to be bitter over small things rather than sweet?

An answer

In my long, long hiatus from blogging, I had been reading the epistolary works of Rainer Maria Rilke, "Letters to a young poet." I had also been stepping in and out of Amy Tan's realm, "Opposite of Fate," and Yasunari Kawabata's dark and tangible, "Beauty and Sadness." On some days, when I know I need a jab of cynicism, I read one of J.D. Salinger's "Nine Stories."

All the time, I was writing notes, short and long, between pages, wherever my thoughts belonged. Sometimes, it felt I was creating a story or a mini-world in small pieces of post-it notes, which I deliberately positioned to protrude from the edges of the books. All I have to do is pull up that small portion of the paper and I am back in a world of memories and imagination. There, I hide for portions of time until the present becomes a past.

I hope one day I can grow the courage to write about the present.

Blog will lead me back

Let me take a bold leap to write again. Like many of you out there, I am afraid to reveal my thoughts. But last week, I spoke with my friend M, who asked me what happened to this blog page. I told her I had been writing but I hadn’t posted anything in fear that I will be judged, measured, dissected until I am nothing but a paragraph in numerous quotes.

But we all judge each other, don’t we? Who am I to except myself from that way of life?

So, here’s to you M, for asking the same question I ask every day: Whatever happened to my blog site?

I'll tell you tomorrow.

The truth about brothers and sisters

Contrary to popular belief, we didn't learn everything we needed to know in kindergarten. In fact, kindergarten was simply a testing ground for the lessons we learned in the real, real-life classroom: the home we shared (or did not share) with our siblings.

Perhaps you find yourself wondering why you and your spouse, or you and your closest friend or cousin are so different yet are so linked together. He watches the news on politics and team sports, you watch primetime in the daytime. He likes joining guilds in online war games, you like playing online scrabble or chess. He speaks in public well, you can't drive a point home without stuttering. These despite the fact that you often enjoy dinners, picnics or road trips together.

Where did we learn to cope with our personal differences? At which point in our childhood did we become adult enough to handle disagreements? More importantly, who trained us to become these agreeable individuals?

The answer, scientists now say, are our siblings. Read on:

1) Siblings impose a certain permanency in our lives. As this week’s TIME magazine cover story had put it, “our spouses arrive late in our lives, parents eventually leave us.” In a less-than-perfect-world, friends come and go. But, oh, our siblings have a resiliency no one can fathom. From the time we were fighting over who gets the better toy or who receives the worse punishment, to the time when we argue over who gets which heirloom, we had been practicing our social skills with our brothers and sisters. Diplomacy—or the lack of it—is rooted from the household playroom.

2) Seventy-five percent of fathers and 65 percent of mothers exhibited a preference for one child. This is especially true in multichild households.

“Parents, despite themselves, are programmed to notice the child who seems most worthy of the investment … our primal programming still draws us to the pretty, gifted ones.” (Though I believe that some children really get the better share of attention and affection, this statement still disturbs me as much as it validates my belief.)

Whether or not you’re one of those who get the bigger slice of the cake, there is reason to celebrate. Favorite children often have higher self-esteem, studies say. The less favored child, though he tends to be “sadder and have more self-esteem questions,” adapt well by spinning the situation to his advantage. I know someone who used to nudge his youngest sister to ask their mom for extra TV time because he knew the mom won’t say no to the youngest sister. And why won’t their mom say no? The young girl had a wall full of certificates and trophies. Who, then, is more clever: the sister who had a string of accolades or the brother who knew what advantage he had?

3) We all have a desire to set ourselves apart from other people—more prominently so when we try to “de-identify” ourselves from our siblings. Even in a family where brothers and sisters follow the footsteps of one another, the phenomenon of “de-identification” still exists.

Two brothers, for instance, were born three years apart. They went to the same elementary school, played their GI Joes together, shared a room for the first twelve years of their lives. When it was time for the younger brother to pick which high school to attend, he picked his brother’s. However, their similarities ended there. While the older brother joins tae kwon do and basketball tournaments, the younger brother joined the computer and electronics club. While the older one rallied with his supporters in the student council, the younger brother was sent abroad for math competitions.

Different behaviors, same objective: to prove he's no ordinary guy.

4) Having a sibling of the opposite gender is not a curse but a blessing. If you’re a guy, those little bouts you had with your older sister about how much time she spent inside the bathroom or on the phone may pay its rewards when you’re looking for a date. In general, men who have older sisters are more likely to snag a date than do men who don’t. The same goes for women who have older brothers.

It’s a matter of communication. Men and women who have older siblings of the opposite sex are able to converse more smoothly.


One minute you’re like cats and dogs, the next minute you’re inseparable. At the end of a long school day, there is no place warmer than our homes. Later in our lives, as we face the loss of our parents, friends and partners, we find no place more reassuring than the open arms of our brothers and sisters. And even though it’s mostly thick, we are still there for each other through thick and thin. Such is the nature of siblinghood that we—inevitably—nurture all throughout our lives.

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What's the fondest memory you have with your sibling/s?

The power of memories

This week I attended a remembrance service for my husband’s grandfather, Santiago. He gracefully passed away last April, leaving 90 years of a colorful life with his children and grandchildren. I went to the service with two of his daughters, Aunts Lily and Ruth, and his youngest son, Uncle Paul. What I thought would be an exclusive remembrance service with a Catholic priest presiding was far from what I witnessed: a compendium of old souls, living or otherwise.

The service was held inside a hospice presided by a Christian reverend and attended by at least 50 people. It was held in memory of the hospice’s residents who passed away within the past three months. There were the four of us, a group of three middle-aged women who all looked alike, a small group of the hospice’s staff members and the rest who are residents of the hospice.

One by one, the reverend called the name of those whom we were remembering that day; there were about 20. He placed candles in front so a family member could proceed to the front and light the candle and say a short prayer or share a memory while a gentle song plays in the background.

As the service went on, I noticed that only two candles were lit by a family member, my grandfather’s and the candle for the mother of those three middle-aged women. All the other candles were lit by the hospice’s staff members, which only means that no other families came for the service of their loved ones despite being sent invitations.

While some of those who passed away may not have family members who are still alive, surely they couldn't be that many. Twenty families and only two showed up. My mother-in-law, who works in a hospice, said I shouldn't be surprised. Many families forget their elders when they are still living, let alone when they pass away.

Memories wield an inimitable power over us. Sometimes, they hold us captive, sometimes they let us loose, frolicking in the carnival of our joy. You see, my husband was the eldest of all the grandchildren in a close-knit family (thank God), and he was the only grandchild for a number of of years until his younger brother came. Thus, as my Aunt Lily told me, during Grandpa’s last weeks when his memory was starting to deteriorate, the only name he remembered often was my husband’s pet name when he was a toddler.

Funny how he remembered that thirty years ago, a little boy lit up his life. Funny how our parents, despite their memory blunders, remember our birth, our first words, our little achievements we have already forgotten. Yet, we forget to call or visit every other weekend, sharp memory and all. We forget to pick up a gift for them once or twice a year, we forget what things they like so we end up giving them gift cards, but we do remember to pick up the mail every day, pay our bills every month and call our salons to schedule a haircut every month. We have so much to accomplish and so many losses to make up for, we say. And when we do make it up to our elders with what little time we have, we feel as though they owe us something.

Who are these people we've become? Aren't we those little kids' who used to run around the house and call mom when we get bruised? When did we become so forgetful?

Inside the room where we held the services were lives full of pain and love, stories yet to be told, youth yet to be reminisced. We pay too much attention to our losses that we no longer know what growing old and dying are about. Behind the freckles and wrinkles of those men and women in wheelchairs are our milestones. By remembering them, we are assured that we are loved unconditionally.

A coming of age

I moved, of course, and of all the warm goodbyes I received, it was my mother's I couldn't forget. For the first time in years, I saw her cry as she embraced me and kissed my cheek. It tore my heart apart. I wanted to run after the car and yell, "Don't leave me, mom!" And then I remembered she wasn't the one leaving.

Halfway through the Pacific, I had a vivid recollection of my childhood. I was curled in my seat, the lights were off, and there, I couldn't stop crying. I remembered the red dress I wore on my seventh birthday, playing "piko" with my cousins every Sunday after piano lessons, my favorite Hello Kitty plastic glass, which my sister always filled with chocolate milk. It all came back to me; each load of memories weighed me down, yet they all seemed soft like the clouds whisking the window panes.

My tears fell down so quietly that I could still hear the faint buzz of the plane's engine on the background. I realized that my childhood is no different from its memory: painful and very quiet.It was my choice to leave everything behind, save for the memories. Wherever I go, I will carry it all with me--the pain, the questions, the lessons.

I understand now why, as we get older, we become more careful with our decisions. Most of the time, it's not entirely because we have become smarter that we pick the safer or better choice. Sometimes, it's just because we don't have much to pick from.It's hard being an adult when there's not enough choices yet there are bigger prizes at stake. I guess that's how life really goes; the most we could do is pray that we keep on making the right picks.

So far, my compass says I'm headed to the right direction.

Welcome the new wind

I recently moved to a new city, thus, a new life. Whenever someone asks how this new life goes, I am dumbfounded because, simply, I myself do not know how. I always said that this is simply a continuation of a life I had back home but I was wrong. It is indeed a new life--and it is one I am having difficulty starting.

Maybe it's homesickness, maybe it's self-pity. Every now and then, I find myself on the brink of tears for the life I left behind. I want to believe that time, really, is just a bunch of particles moving faster than the speed of light. I want to believe that there is someone living the life I had 16,000 miles ago because--I realized--it's not as bad as I thought it was.

My friend, Cathy, keeps on telling me that anyone would die to be in my position. Well, I'm sure anyone would be better in handling my life right now. But is he/she ready to have nothing and no one to his name?

You can't say I didn't have a choice—I did. To move to this new city was to light the wick to a brighter future. To stay was to break a promise to a man I truly love. Either way, I would end up with a broken heart.