That one there's an activity that can only be done safely under the strict supervision of bald men in pince-nez.

This was how ye olde blog looked before the overhaul. I guess I will miss some bits and pieces of it — the header (a shot of my rusty old typewriter’s innards), the date format (I have a thing for commas), and all that lovely, lovely Georgia.

As for the picture of me screaming behind a book with a towel draped over my head, that happens far too often IRL for me to actually miss.

Still, the change leaves me happier than a hippopotamus splashing around in whatever a hippopotamus is happy to splash around in. You want llamas? I’ll give you llamas. You want penguins? I’ll give you penguins! You want bugs? I’ll give you so many bugs, it’ll make Joe’s Apartment look like exterminator paradise!

Or, you know, some other bug-free place.

For the uninitiated, “Llamas and Penguins and Bugs, Oh My!” was a spin on one of the most memorable scenes from The Wizard of Oz. Only Everything’s Better With Llamas. I’d love to bore you with the story of how the whole thing came together, but I’m kind of saving that for the next family reunion.

Also, the new header allows my face to appear on the blog, minus the insufferable vanity. I am, strictly speaking, little more than a brown blob with glasses (and a nose on which those glasses perch, but that does go without saying). After all, this thing here’s my blog, not my personal collection of gratuitous SFW ego-porn.

That’s another thing I’m saving for the next family reunion.

More when I feel like it.

I've got a towel.

Them brain penguins have been acting up again.

Top (L-R): Arthur Dent, Ford Prefect, Tricia McMillian a.k.a. Trillian, Zaphod Beeblebrox, Marvin, and <str>my sixth-grade math teacher</str> the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.
Bottom: Patty Ramos’ Insides.

Credits to Tom Fowler for the teeny-tiny scribblies and to the lovely MRI technicians at Medical City for my brain scan.

There’s even a song about it for you lovely, lovely cheesy folks.

MAMIHLAPINATAPAI [MAH-mee-lah-pin-AH-tah-pay]: - noun. The wordless yet meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something, but are both reluctant to start. Alternative spelling mamihlapinatapei.

It’s that creeping feeling you get when you’re both itching to pounce on that last slice of pizza, but would rather have the other person offer it freely to you.

Sa Tagalog, yung tipong iisang piraso na nga lang ang natira sa plato, nagkahiyaan pa kayong kunin.

Chura mo. Akin 'to.*

* Image stripped of all tree-hugging allusions.

There I was, sitting on the cushion-free butt-torturing device the denizens of this household call a sofa, hammering like a maniac on the keys of my much abused laptop, glasses askew and slipping off the tip of my sweaty nose, chugging tepid water from my “Jesus” tumbler, ears burning, burning, burning like mad, because for once I actually wanted to write target-specific cheese.

For oh, say, twenty-seven people. Plus a few who asked for it.

Oh, the humanity.

After the first handful, I started feeling squeamish. By the time I reached the double-digit mark it felt like my head had been sucker-punched.

Then came waterworks. Which I promptly dammed up.

Then silence. A good half-hour’s worth.

What came of the silence was a boot to the head. Steel toed, by the looks of it. It was impossible to continue trying to pour my heart out. It wasn’t that I had nothing to say; I had volumes upon volumes of words (target-specific, yes) cluttered in my head. Douglas Adams would’ve given me a hell of a talking-to for crowding my penguins’ natural habitat.

The problem was that the more cheese I ladled out, the more scrunched up I got. And when I scrunch up, quills come out.

Fear me.

Because in the end, Agatha Christie metaphors will out.

Here’s a rather hard-won victory for me, anal-retentive soul that I am: I’ve finally wrestled my schedule to the ground and made it my bitch for life. There are few things more lethal than a schedule that’s run amok. My frenzied attempts to herd The Flat’s dear old residents into some semblance of order are finally starting to pay off, after six months of me tugging at my hair at the sight of filthy pillowcases and unwashed plates.

I’ll be bald by the time I reach thirty, but at least The Flat would smell habitable.

I miss having my twin nieces barge in impetuously at all hours as if there were nothing more important than forcing a blush from me by asking, for the (n!)th time that day, what The (Other) Geek’s name was. I miss hearing them, through the paper-thin walls, arguing about which of them was their Daddy’s bestest, most favoritest daughter in the world.

I miss having Father Peng patiently drive me to my weekly checkup at Manila East without embarrassing me with froufrou talk about news and the weather. I miss Mama Nora stuffing me senseless with extra helpings of rice and impromptu afternoon halo-halo and melon juice, apparently fearing my sudden and inevitable demise were I to miss a single meal. I miss having them ask me if bologna slices toasted to within an inch of their lives was still my favorite breakfast treat.

It’s danggit and tomatoes now, but old favorites die hard.

Still, there are quite a few things I won’t miss.

Hospital floors smelling so strongly of antiseptic, I would’ve preferred germs. Prescription drugs that emptied my wallet while making food taste like a Camazotz buffet. Sweaty, smelly jeepney rides from Taytay to Shaw Boulevard in rickety contraptions that screamed like a mother when braking. The (Other) Geek, leaving for work while I peeped through the second-story window (and a ridiculously leafy coconut tree), vanishing in the wake of a Makati-bound van. Apologies, endless apologies for missing deadlines when the drugs my doctor gave me made me too sick to work.

He’d promised they wouldn’t, but I really should’ve known better.

And so the universe conspired to bring me here, with brains in my head and feet in my shoes (except I’m barefoot at the moment, but Dr. Seuss would see where I’m going with this). The Hakken-Kraks howled, but I shut them up and baked them in a pie.

Holy Howling Hakken-Kraks, Batman! I sure could go for some Hakken-Krak pie!

After the powder, the jam. And oh, how it makes everything sweet.