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At a lunch last week, all gussied up to look pretty, we got a bit philosophical. One sighed, “Oh, if only one could look into the future—the blunders we would avoid!”
‘Demolition job” is a phrase that has gained currency in our politics—a fairly recent usage, maybe a mere couple of generations.
In the early ’80s, I had the exciting task to lead the fight for Jollibee against McDonald’s in the early stages of fast-food advertising war.
When things go right, they can be just too marvelous for words. Bumping into old friends Celia and Rene Barrientos (with their widower neighbor Dr. Clipper Lorenzo, another old friend) at the same Italian restaurant for Sunday breakfast was getting too regular to mean nothing. My husband Vergel has such a thing about “patterns revealed in nature”—about “everything being eventual,” as he had in fact mused about in this section only last Sunday—that I knew he would not let it go without finding some meaning to it.
BLURB I looked up at the hundred-year-old ‘santol’ tree near the gate that had puzzlingly been raining hundreds of ‘santol’ fruit lately. ‘Nabubuntis ka pa?’ Suddenly the centenarian was fertile! Over-the-top fertile!
COLORS have lost their innocence. Some are even getting their reputation smirched.
A week without Lani! I can’t remember the last time I was in such a panic. The closest comparison is perhaps when I still had a toddler and the yaya went on her dayoff—not so bad itself, since she went after bathing her charge and feeding the child breakfast, and returned in time for supper.
How was the first week of 2017? Mine was quiet. I abstained from the news. My first car ride for the year was going home from my son’s condo after a night of merrymaking, eating and gawking at the fireworks, and I happily discovered there was no toll on the Skyway. Cheers!
I am in my mid-30s, married, no children. My problem started when my boyfriend told me that a friend, who was the closest to me in our group of six friends, flirted with him and made an indecent proposal. I felt so hurt that I cut her off from the rest of the group, ostracizing her before she could poison the rest of us. I made sure we were all cold to her and never hesitated to ridicule her when she joined our get-togethers.
My first genuine hero was not a folk warrior, it was a great river. I was in the process of completing a lengthy narrative, a sort of folk ode, about that river when I received a text message from my mentor and idol, Gilda Cordero-Fernando, inviting me to send something—a few words from a certified senior citizen—for a new section (for the old) here in the Inquirer.
