Metrowear Gala this year featured 23 (!) designers at The Tent in Rockwell and was fab fab fab.

I brought fashion fiends, and beautiful arm candy for either arm, the gorgeous Nicky and AJ, for drinkies at the Glass House before the show. They were serving up a bunch of rum cocktails, goodness knows what was really in them. Those crunchy things with salsa were yum though! I ate like, a million.

Everyone was a winner that night and my absolute favorites HAD TO BE:  

Vittorio. Love that classic Vittorio silhouette, tailored but not stiff, fantastic detailing. Function and fun in stark black and white - EXCELLENT.

Renee Salud, Mom's old staple. He made her the most gorgeous ternos that I'm itching to wear! I love his theme: Classics that are wearable and never boring. Amen to that!

Cary Santiago. He had all these handmade strips and cut-outs covering the models in long, body-skimming creamy beige. Lace-like but with more substance. To. Die. For.

Also loved the collections from Mike dela Rosa, Jun Escario, Ito Curata and JC Buendia. Wonderful wonderful pieces.

After show had Nick, Age and me downing coffee and going picture crazy at the parking lot of Nick's condo. Love our combination of black, shimmery jewel blue and sharp pink. 

Special thanks to aj for the aj for the photos, nick for the parking slot, claire who lent me an anna sui faerie dress, and my last-minute halungkat spree in the closet to put it all together.

Walked to Starbucks with Sanch, in yesterday's early grey drizzle. I still have a cold, but I figured that coffee (and stickers, so I can get that blasted journal already) were more important. Plus, a walk with a friend is always always welcome.

That's about a 6-block walk (to and from) and in my skinny jeans and round-toe suede wedges I knew I could enjoy it without worrying about hurting myself.

The ENTIRE time, I found that people were staring, OPENLY, at me, at the area in between my crotch and hip.

What the??? TALK ABOUT RUDE, DAMMIT, I said briskly to myself, as I trotted off, pretending to be oblivious.

Back at work I realized what all the fuss was about: I had stuffed tissue (four sheets in a big fat wad) into the left pocket of my jeans. Now in my baggy jeans, no worries, but skinny ones? 

I walked 6 blocks with a GD bulge in my pants. I was being the rude one!

Next time, Adrienne, check your pockets and bring a damn purse.

Communion - the act of receiving the Eucharistic elements; interchange or sharing of thoughts or emotions; intimate communication.

Juancho had his First Holy Communion this Sunday afternoon, at the Church of the Gesu.

I revisited, not just my Catholic upbringing in that church (white, airy and high as Heaven, as if we were settled on the clouds of the Kingdom itself), but (forgive me for being common) the very essentials of being a parent.

The boys were seated by section in the front, row upon row of pristine white gala uniforms with straight backs and proud shoulders. When the music rose in the opening bars of "Who Calls You By Name," hearing them sing with high-pitched, lilting voices made my very hairs stand. There's just something beautiful and endearing about hearing children sing in church.

Juancho, high for months at his upcoming Communion, was beaming from ear to ear. Even from the back of his head I could see it: a wide smile and sparkly eyes that makes his naturally cheery face even more cheerful. What a beautiful little cherub.

I found myself singing to all the mass songs that I remembered from my convent school days at the Assumption (and my entire Catholic uniformed past for that matter, pre-dating my "proud pagan" UP days). For all my high school girl angst that defined teen life in the '90s, that love of school (something kept secret lest it be found out!) never really leaves you, and I felt blessed, and proud, almost to tear-breaking point, that my own son would feel that same surge of school love, too. In an institution like this school? It's not even brought to question.

The boys stood, knelt and sang on perfect cue, and my favorite part, absolutely, had to be during the "grant each other a sign of peace" part: the boys all turned to face the rest of us and said in angel voices: "and peace be with YOU, Mom and Dad!" Juancho had his signature big smile as he belted it out.

I swear I melted into my pew right then. The pride J and I felt, swelling from inside us both, seeped out and brimmed to overflowing, becoming a palpable something between us that, despite our being apart, brought us together briefly and so happily that we smiled at each other to acknowledge its presence.

At Communion time, we accompanied him to the altar, Moms on the left, Dads on the right, holy children in white in between. With J, taller and more dashing than ever in his piña barong, me in my graphic print shift dress (vintage) and tan peep-toe pumps, we could've been a snapshot straight out of 1962: my own Mom and Dad reincarnate. 

We shuffled along in line. I bent to kiss Juancho's cheek; rubbed it with my thumb to take the lipstick off. As he raised his hands, peering up with large eyes at the comely grandfather face of Fr. Ampil, he replied with a resounding AMEN! before attempting to place the host in his mouth. It was too big, he had to use his fingers to stuff it all in.

I felt kinda like Mom that day. Somehow I wanted to conjure up an image of her, wear something she might wear, feel as she might have felt during the times she sat in church for me, at my school, at my Communion, at my graduation.

You never ever really know what in God's name your parents are talking about, until you have children of your very own.

And Holy Communion for Juancho, one of the first in a long line of rites of passage for him (and next, Santi), only cements even more firmly my role as a Mom, and one half of a parental union: we can do this, it won't be so hard. We just have to get it together once in a while. 

 

I had 2 months worth of Lamaze class (in my head and in the red-bound manual I brought with me), I had my suitcase packed with all the essentials (ice chips, reading material, a small wooden massage thing and socks), I had the best doctor known to the world of Obstetrics (Dr. Martin dela Rosa, the most patient man on earth, who exchanged funny stories with J over my big belly to keep me laughing. In between contractions at least). I had a big bed and a rocking chair and a bean bag, and paintings on the walls. I had lulls where I would fall asleep, and times I'd be sitting up or standing, breathing my way through a contraction, with J keeping time for me. 

Four years before, I had Juancho (my beautiful, lithe firstborn, now 8) in a procedure they call "Twilight" (you wake up 5 hours after, zooming from Demerol, and the whole birthing experience is lost on you. I knew that next time, I wouldn't allow myself to get jipped like that!). Lamaze was the only way to go.

By 4 am I couldn't laugh anymore. There were about a million doctors in the room, and some random nurses, who were all betting that I wouldn't make it, that I'd cry out for an epidural mid-way. Oh no, not me! I almost said it out loud, but couldn't. Breathe dammit.

By 6:35am, after one grand push that almost had me floating into next week, out popped Santino Hilarion, all 8.3 lbs of him. No drugs, nothing. Beat that!

Happy Birthday my baby bear, raised for a year and a half on my milk, "kuyay's" hand me downs and lots of love. Don't go breaking any hearts now.

AJ treated me to coffee yesterday morning.

I picked at a donut and while he rattled off some silly anecdote as usual, the guard, taking a moment from his post by the door, strolled over to the street and very casually threw up his breakfast, right there in the bushes, in big gusty heaves. Joyce and I darted looks at each other, as if to say, Did you just see that?

Was he ill? Was he drunk? Was he ill from being drunk?

The mom in me, who worries sick about people and animals in general, couldn't take something like this sitting down; I had to run in and tell a barista, who, busy behind the counter and blocked from view by tall espresso machines, probably did not see this whole episode.

"Your guard, he just vomitted outside, I'm afraid he might collapse or something."

Whether he gets the care he needs or gets fired, I don't know. I think that for starters they should at least give their security a chair to sit in. For Pete's effing sake. It's almost Christmas.

My one-week stint at Cybergate Mandaluyong will never tear me away from beloved colleagues at Exportbank.

Hungry, missing company, and dressed in one of my fave outfits (I love my Mom's old wool skirts they are simply to die for) I drove by Makati and picked up similarly hungry and red-dressed Mai and AJ. No, it was not planned, but a happy accident.

Gorgeous minds dress alike.

Thanks to AJ for the lovely photos :)



Mai and I, content after gorging on panini, coddled eggs, fruit, and very tall americanos (the drink, not the dudes at the other table). I ate Mai's apricot; she didn't want it.



The gorgeous AJ, who took these photos. Mwah!



So many cute dogs in this neighborhood. I'm craning my neck to see another shih tzu trot past (poor seating choice, I can't see the street dammit).

Metrowear Series finale last night at The Loft, featuring fashion god Cesar Gaupo (reminders of Shanghai Tang - lovet!).

I missed out on the first three shows (schedule issues with work, sigh) so my original plan of going to each one with a different "date" didn't pan out. I could only go to one, and even though my heart broke a little bit each time on the eves of October 4th, 9th and 23rd, I'm glad I waited to go to the last show.

Who to bring? 

I love everyone to death just about now, but I brought Nicky this time, fashion merch grad from Toulouse and co-fabulous West icon.

Est-ce que tu es libre mercredi, Nick? Mais oui, absolument!


A quick interview with Studio 23 met me head-on and I hoped to God I spewed out something with at least SOME sense as I balanced a wine glass, my mom's clutch, and a penchant for snagging my dress on the floor.

The collection was awesome. Ponytailed models with eerily identical, almost robotic faces (pale skin, eyes smudged dark), filed out and around us in lots of muted browns, golds and creams with a smattering of black and even orange. My favorite piece has to be that lovely coatdress that was part peacoat part poet blouse. Love love love the fat puffed sleeves, the chunky necklaces, the surprise cut-out backs and the furry ankle-boots that gave it all a kind of, how do I say it..? What someone from the future would imagine an 80's prom to look like. 

It was wonderful to see the Metro lovelies again, Ms. Thelma, Romina (walking together in contrasting red and green), Trish in a commanding stark white blouse ala Joan Collins and Jo's all-grown-up kid sis, mega stylish babe Maureen, in a fun flapper-esque white top and matching baby shorts.

I miss my old life, but I was able to dive in like no time had passed at all. We should've taken more pictures. 


(Special thanks to Nicky for the overall chic-ness of his company, use of his parking slot so that we could go in his car and dinner :) Next time, I'm buying!)

Thanks to Claire and R for spending Sunday afternoon with my kiddies and me!

We gorged on pizza and shopped the day away (try getting your kids a shark model, it works like a bloody charm).

Back to work for me, and the construction-ridden 28th floor, where I was met with a battalion of metal sheets coming out of the elevator. Yikes. Outside the glass pane that once used to look out to comfy confines of office life (carpet, file cabinets and a painting) I see instead one of those fat silver insulated pipe things, hanging awkwardly from the ceiling. It looks like a foot; eerie reminders of a Halloween spent in the make-shift cemetery we made.

Thank God for respites like Sunday Club last night, spent with various (whoever-is-available) FabPots, on the banks of the Euphrates and Tigris (seriously! That's what the sign said!)

Ziggurat is lovely, tucked-away, and refreshingly authentic. I have a voracious appetite for food, especially if it's spicy and unusual. Ambience counts for a lot too, but company counts for even more. It was Sanch's  brilliant suggestion, and thanks to him, I now have another special hideaway tucked under my sleeve, for future use :)

Oh and the hookah? Lemon-flavored air sucked in through a tube? Man, we gotta get ourselves one of those for the trainer's pool.

My friendly neighborhood grocery, Rustan's Supermarket, the one in Magallanes, is a fucking wasteland. 

There's nothing in it! 

Everything is 50 off and the fridges are empty. This Sunday after a trip to Loyola Memorial and Tita Rosie's house, I managed to grab some juice, a 2003 bottle of Cab Sauv for Dad and me, ingredients for Smores, and three blood red Gerbera daisies. But, that's it. 

"They're turning it into a Shopwise," Dad told me in response to my gaping jaw.

And now, even my office has failed me. It's Twilight Zone here on the 28F of my building, my home for the past year and a half. The walls are peeling, wires are hanging from the ceiling, construction workers (STRANGERS! Everyone panic!) have taken over what used to be the reception area. It's gone! All of it! I wanted to retrace my steps, take the elevator down, then back up and hope that, it was all a dream.

As if my personal shit wasn't enough, it somehow found a way to crawl into my everyday physical surroundings, too. 

Tita Lulu, God bless you! you were right all along: "Gear up for change, it's coming and you can't help it."

As I use the men's room (now the ladies room, what's up with that!!!) I take a moment to suck it all in. Hit me. I can take it!

Driving home at 5 am the other day, I saw the weirdest, most disturbing thing that very nearly had me floor the breaks.

People always drive too fast at an hour like that, putting everyone at fast-motion road risk. I was following a poultry truck, a huge steel-caged contraption with layer upon layer of sleeping white fowl.

It all happened so fast I don't know what came first:

the dull thud of an object hitting the road, the confetti-like spray of white feathers, the Doppler effect of tires screeching to avoid it.

Horrified, I watched as the lone, poor chicken tumbled and tumbled and tumbled to it's grim end. Was the hatch left open? Didn't they check before they left? I hoped silently that, maybe he was asleep when it happened?

At the stoplight I found myself window to window with the errant truck. One of the chickens, one of the few who were awake, met my eye with a beady-eyed blink, it's red head nestled into a mass of white feathers, cozy as a muffler.

I blinked back sadly as if to say: I saw your friend. I'm so so sorry.

I remember that time at my grandparents' farm in Bulacan, when my brother Albert washed his hands in the dirty kitchen and accidently stepped on a poor wee chick. He was struck with a broken heart. I cried. Maybe he should have washed his hands after the incident. We looked at the mother hen and felt a pang of sadness for her and her brood.

It was a hard lesson to learn, harder, I think, than having a pet die.

I let the truck drive ahead of me as the light turned green. I couldn't bear to drive alongside it. I just hoped for a nice quiet sleep for myself. Both when I get home, and when it's time to go.

As for the truck and it's driver, I wished him a stress-free day. What will the farm say when they're one chicken short?

(For all the lovely friends I've ever "ignored"...it means i love you dearly!)

Sunday nights, I've recently discovered, are the ideal time to go out.

My schedule is... unusual, simply put, and finding an alternative way to relax on the weekends was something of a challenge before. My non-industry friends find it difficult to pin me down; I can NEVER go out on Friday nights and many have probably given up on asking me at all, so when the weekend comes I crave for an out that I can call my own.

Saturdays I can get so fucking tired I can't always go dancing until 5 am like I used to (unless nicky and age take me to Bed!); I spend the day catching up on precious sleep. Monday mornings and afternoons are free for me to do errands, so it only follows that Sunday nights would be the best time to unwind: with no traffic and no work the following day, Sunday nights are my new favorite hobby.

Mayumi and I, both prone to bouts of unwanted, off and on sadness and a penchant for stiff vodka sevens, gravitate towards each other when Sunday rolls around. She lives alone, knows nothing of curfews and is therefore the best option as bum-around partner. We make plans for merienda, but that just means, merienda/dinner/after dinner coffee and drinks until 1 am.

We settled on Bollywood this Sunday, after late dinner at Cafe Breton and coffee at SBC. I had never been to Bollywood, funnily enough, Indian food-lover that I am, and was suddenly struck dumb with a big smile when I entered. The smell of spice, the kitschy murals, the gaudy lanterns was just as brilliant as going on a mini-holiday. Hindi chatter and merry-making from Bollywood films veiled everything in a wavering, other-worldly feel.

The place was pretty much empty, save for a few Indian customers. We asked the waiter to give us a nice quiet table and he led us to the balcony at the back, with a few cozy tables and small cozy view of Makati. We settled in like it was our own living room, sitting as unlady-like as we pleased since no one would see us.

We picked at naan bread and dal, chatted between bites. Mayumi had her feet up on the empty chair beside me and sucked avidly on a cigarette. Ice tinkled in my glass; I took a sip, winced, put it down. Trusty server James hovered politely in the corner, ready with a kind word, a menu suggestion, and typical waiter small talk that he seemed to have ready in his pocket: Yes, ma'am, maganda dito, walang tao pag Sunday, tahimik. Yes, po, pede kayo mag-stay after twelve kahit closed na kami.

Mayumi must've finished about ten cigarettes on that balcony; I found myself staring over the edge a lot, or swirling my finger in the watery ring left by my glass. On the street below, cars (few at this hour) trickled past, a street cleaner came out to scrub the curb, a lonely guard yawned at his lonely post.

At times like these it's refreshing to be with people like Mai, one of those friends who don't mind sitting in waves of silence for stretches at a time. We can ignore each other and not mind. Put our brains on pause when we're all talked-out. Comfy in our solitude but together to share it.

Sundays are meant for rest, rejuvenation. It seems it's only these past few Sundays that I've seen the value of that.

Abrasive as the world may seem, it has it moments. Much-needed sounding boards like Mai are welcome company on these days that I'd spend wasting away, otherwise.

The view from the office breakroom is the Pasig River: dark, still and pretty.

Lights from Edsa play off it's surface and make it all twinkly, and for a second, I might even feel like I'm not in Manila. Thanks to the cover of night it looks this way. In the mornings, it's nothing but a murky, stagnant, jello-like blob.

In the semi-dark, things look... nicer. You can fall back gently on your imagination and let it show you want you want the most: Something beautiful. Something safe and pure. I just crave beauty at all times, you know? In whatever form I can manage it.

When I was four (I'm not rosebad, I'm rosegood) I would drive my Mom and Dad crazy during their afternoon naps in the big old house in Blueridge: the room (dark, cozy and air-conditioned) with my Mom and Dad's drowsing forms on the big bed (where I once got stung by a bee), would be suddenly disturbed by me, barefoot and tippy-toed, turning the lights on and off: Sunlight! Moonlight! Sunlight! Moonlight! (Aaaddiiee. Patayin mo yung ilaw. Please.)

Jolting bright lightness just stumps everything, shakes you up and makes you squint at the world and say, who the hell turned the damn lights on? As a four-year old, of course I did not know this. Now, I do.

I'll be in this office for the next few months, the new site just 15 minutes away from my usual Makati office. The timing is impeccable. The trip to Batangas with FabPot last weekend, then the move to Mandaluyong this Monday, was just what I needed:

A change of scene, a change of pace, to help me keep it all together... with the night putting a gentle cover on everything else that I just can't deal with right now.