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Somewhere in between preparing for college and writing articles for the school paper, I discovered this song by accident. I couldn’t make out the lyrics, except for the chorus, but at that age when you’re sick and tired of logic and words, music defined by good guitar riffs and an awesome bass is heaven. I was instantly hooked and I didn’t want to get off the school bus. Thus began my love affair with Sugar Ray. It was early 1998, and the song was Fly.

If you do take time to hunt up the lyrics, Sugar Ray songs actually make sense. Okay, who am I kidding, I was charmed by its vocalist Mark McGrath, who can make even a grocery list sound so seductive. But I’ll go back to the band. I started listening to Sugar Ray when they went pop, though I dutifully looked up their earlier videos (when they used to call themselves Shrinky Dinx) and I‘m glad they got rid of some of their angst – they sound and look much better in their recent albums.

It’s amazing how a then-teenager could relate to a bunch of guys singing about one night stands, heartache and relationships, but Sugar Ray contributed to the soundtrack of my college life, much like the Eraserheads did in my high school days. I hummed Every Morning on my way to school. I played Even Though (continuously!) in my room when I learned that a former human dilemma got himself a girlfriend – until the reel of my cassette tape gave way. Videoke parties found me belting out Someday and until now, I sing it with law school friends. During practicum days, I was unconsciously singing When It’s Over and I realized how much I was going to miss student life, the paper where we were doing servitude, and even my reporter/trainer. Up to now, when I think of yet another human dilemma, I play Ours – on loop – to drown out any wayward thoughts.

I guess I like the band because it doesn’t take itself too seriously, and the members even cast their dogs in their MTVs. In Fly, they even paid tribute to their mothers. Awwww. And they do know how to harmonize, something rare in funk metal bands turned pop.

Though the guys aren’t that visible nowadays, they manage to keep visible through movie soundtracks and occasional songs I come across on TV or on the net. They appeared on Scooby Doo 2 singing Words to Me and provided a song for Surf’s Up, Into Yesterday. I also can’t get over their take on Joe Jackson’s LSS-inducing Is She Really Going Out with Him. In the meantime Mark McGrath has done a fantastic cover of the Psychedelic Furs’ classic Ghost in You for 50 First Dates, and contributed a song for Raising Helen, Love Like This. Just recently I saw a duet he did with Shania Twain, Party for Two, the video of which looked like a commercial for heaven knows what product, but I don’t care, it’s Mark McGrath. Sigh.

I miss the guys and I hope they churn out new songs, because I have a lot of new memories I don’t have soundtracks for. Yet.

Postscript: I was listening to When It’s Over when I realized that a completely new MTV had formed in my mind. Funny, but my subconscious knows how to update videos better than its conscious self. Haha.

I am not kidding. Quite a number of people texted me over the weekend, asking me if it were true that I am taking cooking lessons. To my loyal fans, the answer is yes, and this adventure will last for four months, in an obscure school somewhere in my beloved Quezon City.

My own mother is still reeling from the shock of discovering that her only daughter will face her fear of the kitchen. My friend in Dubai is excited at the prospect that she will finally get to eat something I cooked which is not burned – she has never let me forget when I scorched a pan full of scrambled eggs at our choir outing three years ago. This prompted my choirmates to delegate me perpetually to chopping and cleaning duties.

My domestic handicap aside, I love cooking, or at least the thought of it. I grew up watching Wok with Yan, and marveled at all those boat-shaped melons and carved veggies. I enjoy watching Iron Chef (the Japanese version mostly) just to see Chef Matsushiba concoct all sorts of dishes from weird ingredients. To date, I am happy with minor miracles in the kitchen, though they range from boiling water for instant noodles, making egg sandwiches, and frying my favorite Spam. Then I suddenly found myself enrolling with my officemate in the said obscure school for Basic Culinary Arts.

On the first day, our teacher explained to the class of forty or so that the course is named as such because we will not only learn how to cook, but to develop our taste for food as well. This means that we will familiarize ourselves with different herbs and ingredients to discover what works for our own taste buds. We are expected to cook sauces and make stocks.  I’m particularly excited about the plating segment, which explains why the course has “Arts” in its title.

With such encouraging words, my officemate and I began to assemble our arsenal: uniform, knives, pot holders, towels and all else our teacher requires. Oops, I think we forgot the tongs. I gradually realized how complicated shopping for chef’s uniforms and equipment could be, but it’s actually fun. Only I wish there would be enough stoves for us.

I’m looking forward to next Saturday, which is chopping day…something I’m familiar with but hardly an expert at. I’ll stash band-aids just in case. Should I produce something edible in two months, I hope my choirmates will promote me on our next outing.

The symptoms came faster than I could recognize them. Humming one mushy song for two weeks. Eating everything I could lay my hands on. Staring at my phone. Shopping aimlessly. Yes, I am depressed, but I will die before I admit just why I am like this.

However pathetic the reasons are, I take my feelings in stride, going through the motions of being human. I go to work as usual, attend rehearsals as usual, and pretend I don’t feel so helpless inside. It’s the kind of problem I’ve been through before, but as with movies, there is a twist. And I’m dealing with that twist. My Type A personality refuses to believe that twist, hence, I shift from sometimes deliriously happy to incredibly down in the dumps.

This is the third blog entry I’ve made since my last. I self-censored the other two because one was too “emo” for words, and the other sounded like a blind item that my friends could name in five seconds. At present, I don’t want attention. I don’t even want sympathy. I just want my feelings to die – which is hard when lately I still have too much time on my hands. Therefore I’ll just keep myself insanely busy and hope that this madness goes away…or resolves itself in time.

On a particularly lazy day, I gave in. I have long been tired of not finding my name on Robee stickers and ready-made identification plates. I usually give a different name when I go to Starbucks or Yellow Cab for fear of getting it misspelled. So I wondered if my name means anything at all. I tried my favorite problem solver: the online search engine Google. I typed “Anissa” and “meaning” and this is what it came up with:

1. Grace of God, Favor.

Wow, really? A perfect pick-me-upper, and if I had a bigger ego, I wouldn’t have just written this on my blog, but on full-sized tarpaulins around our village. Then again, aren’t all of us gifts of God?

I think my parents would be the one to relate to this, as I was born three years after they got married. Both of them were in their early thirties and my mother had difficulty giving birth to me – the doctor told her that the chances of giving me a sibling were slim. This explains why in our house, even if I am way beyond legal age, all spotlights remain on me. But to ask them now if I am still God’s gift to them…hmmm…

2. Friendly

I forgot which site gave this meaning. I just wish they don’t see my report cards from grade school (yes, a Catholic school gives grades for conduct) wherein my teachers helpfully suggested that I be “more sociable” and “interact more”. The culprit would be the Nancy Drew Mystery Books I discovered in the library, which I couldn’t put down, even in class.  I mean, why would I play in the hot sun with my classmates when I could sit in the shade and daydream of far-off places? I did get to play patintero and Monkey-Annabel – after I finished my book. Such antisocial behavior of mine ended in high school, where my teachers kept changing my seat because almost all of my classmates became talkative when they sat beside me.

At present, though, I have Friendster, Multiply, Facebook and Tagged accounts – now do I get to live up to my name?

3. Pure

This is perhaps another version of ‘grace of God’. I’ll take it to mean that I am sincere…well, most of the time I am. I just find it difficult to say offensive things because I easily get guilty. So I usually keep quiet. Now if I tackle the other definition of ‘pure’, I’ll just say hmmm…

4. Great companion

Now this, I must advertise if ever I seriously date again. Ha ha. This was the one description which truly boggled me. If ‘companion’ means friend, well, I take this as a compliment, but if it means ‘wife’, ‘better half’, ‘sweetheart’ or what-have-you for a beloved, I don’t know. I have zero domestic skills and I’m not typically malambing. Oops, should my soulmate read this, I am so willing to change.

With a name as unique as mine, I’m a little shortchanged by the results I got. Don’t worry, I still love Google though. Maybe I just hate being stereotyped, and I maintain what I wrote for a school assignment ten years ago, that my name is defined by me. So someday, typing “Anissa” on the net would yield entries like “camera-crazy”, “incredibly self-centered” or “artistahin”. And people would immediately recognize who they refer to. J

For parish choir members, the “ber” months mean only one thing: Simbang Gabi. In layman’s terms, from December 16 up to 24, in Lagro, all twelve choirs of the Ascension Parish are going to sing Christmas songs at early dawn masses, and everybody expects nothing short of a concert performance.

Or at least, our neighbors trust that we will not mess up the songs they’ve been used to hearing in our community. And it is inevitable that they will compare one choir’s singing with that of another, so the pressure is on. But despite the air of competition, we’re great friends with those from other choirs and we like to keep it that way.

To learn our repertoire, however, means that we are going to camp out in the church for as long as we have the strength and energy to do so. We are kind of like athletes, only there are no actual contests or attires involved, and the exertion comes from the diaphragm. Our choir in particular made an effort to start by the summer, as soon as Holy Week was through. By May we started with A Christmas Carol and Diwa ng Pasko. Now we’ve moved on to lung-busting pieces such as Jingle Bells Calypso and Carol of the Bells, and I swear I’m looking forward to New Year already.

The difficulty actually comes from trying to coordinate the schedules of fifteen to twenty individuals, some of whom are part of the labor force, most of whom are students. And this is why our practices this year, starting January, have been set for Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays – this way, he or she has no excuse to miss at least one of the practices. Because of this I have virtually no social life, except when I beg off now and then for dinners and movie dates. It’s hard to explain to people just why I do this, and I feel I don’t have to, but I’ll get to that later.

And when everyone is finally assembled and ready to vocalize, I have great compassion for our current musical director. He has the patience of a saint even if the members are keyed up and constantly chatting with one another. I still can’t get over the fact that he reorganized his work schedule just for the group to sound decent enough.  There is one improvement, though – we now make use of technology to learn our pieces. Before, we had to play on the organ, for each voice, the notes to sing. This gets tedious if you have to teach fifteen to twenty people their different voice parts. Now all our director has to do is play on his laptop a pre-programmed song, and we dutifully save it on our phones, mp3s or USBs.

When we have learned our parts and can hit the notes to the satisfaction of our director, we face the hard part – blending. This is where the good-natured ribbing comes in. When the sopranos sing, the boys make mock gestures of their neck veins bursting. In turn, we smile when the basses try to get their notes right. All this time, our director gives instructions (“altos, refresh tayo” or “bass, ulitin ko ang tono nyo”) and we follow. When we somehow get it right (after a week or two months, depending on the piece), the joy is indescribable.

Of course, staying in a choir and committing to one is voluntary and purely for altruistic spirit, so you can imagine the drama we get from time to time. Attendance is always an issue. My mother has endured this for ten years, and she knows that during the Christmas season I cannot go to family outings or gatherings without at least a week’s warning because I practically live in the church. I mentioned earlier that it’s hard to explain just why we do this, year after year after year, and one incident comes to mind.

Just last month, we were working on the very long and head-tone-riddled Simbanggabi at the fourth floor of the church. It was already 8:30 Sunday night, and we’ve been rehearsing since afternoon, after our assigned mass. I was tired and complaining to my seatmate that I would fall asleep later before I even got to change clothes. We didn’t notice that a group of little kids had stopped to watch. When we finished singing, they burst into applause. The choir broke into giggles. More than the adulation, it was the feeling that we could reach out to people through our efforts. That we could make people forget their problems for an hour or so, even if Christmas isn’t always happy for everyone.

About ten weekends to go before showtime. Did I mention being tired and whiny? I don’t think so.

When my choirmate invited us to go jogging last month, I didn’t take him seriously. There are very few instances in my life when I am actually human by five-thirty A.M. (and I am a morning person) – Simbang Gabi, visits to my lola, and occasional stuff as mandated by the Parish Music Ministry. Even going to the office is a lesser evil, as I get up at six a.m. for the forty-five minute journey, and that is only for weekdays. So it was with dismay that I saw the eager faces of my choirmates who wanted to join this excruciating activity. Only my pride prevented me from chickening out. I cheered myself up by hunting for my sweats and sneakers.

Fast forward a month later. I’ve been jogging in the village park for two Sundays now, and I have to admit, it’s not as bad as I thought. On that first Sunday I was excited to meet the health-conscious side of my neighbors, and they did not fail me by showing up. Some of them looked as though they were training for the ASEAN games, while others ran around the track in a counter-clockwise direction (as in babanggain ka na). But most of my fellow joggers are senior citizens. It kind of inspires me to keep going – again, that’s my ego talking.

Two of my jogging companions are high school seniors, and I find it funny that for the two Sundays I’ve dragged my butt to the track, people keep mistaking me for a high school student. That first week, I accidentally matched my red jogging pants with a stripe on the side with that of my choirmate’s red Lagro High School jogging pants, also with a white stripe on the side.

Barangay Tanod: (to me) Miss, magpa-praktis ba kayo ng sayaw?

Me: (shocked) Ako po?

Barangay Tanod: Oo, ikaw. Anong year ba kayo? (muffled laughter of my friend in the background)

Me: (with dignity) Hindi po ako high school.

So this morning I wore the neutral leggings I found during a trip to COA. Again, some smart aleck chanced upon me as I was limbering up with my sixteen-year-old companions.

Tambay: (to me) Miss, magpa-praktis ba kayo ng sayaw?

I’ll just consider it as a compliment, at least for now.

What I really like about running – or fast walking, most of the time – is that it gives me a chance to clear my mind without unduly burdening the gray cells, because I’m too preoccupied in trying not to fall down and look stupid. So while I am doing laps around the (muddy and slippery) track, I ponder my human dilemmas (I question if they are indeed human dilemmas). I plot my career path (very symbolic). I think of new layouts for my scrapbooks. I devise new tactics to make my choirmates attend practices (some of whom, incidentally, are behind me as I run). Such thoughts are punctuated by the smell of damp leaves and hot lugaw, as well as the infectious VST songs played by the park caretakers. Then at the end of fifteen laps, I feel like I’ve done enough thinking for a lifetime.

An hour and a half later, the highlight of this sacrifice is the trip to the nearby Burger Machine. By this time, my joints and legs start to ache. My choirmates make a pact to do this thing regularly. While I haven’t seen cute guys at the track yet, there is always hope. J

Some nights ago I came across a ten-year-old notebook I then called my journal. After laughing at long-forgotten issues, getting cross-eyed over codenames I assigned my human dilemmas, and cringing at the occasional lapse of grammar, I realized how little I have changed since then. Well scratch that, I’ve been through different kinds of heaven and hell, but after each episode I seem to revert to my old boring self.

Here’s how my seventeen-year-old and twenty-seven-year-old selves measure up:

By now, my family and friends must be so sick of hearing this from me, but I have to say it again, it is so marvelous to see everything in detail, in full color, in focus, even from a distance. And all because of LASIK (laser-assisted in situ keratomileusis, or simply, eye laser) which I finally underwent last Friday. Had I known the effects would be life-changing, I would’ve bugged my parents sooner. Then of course, there is the teensy matter of finances…I’m lucky my mother is so generous.

My right eye had been bugging me last month, and a visit to my eye doctor confirmed that my cave bat eyesight had risen to an alarming level: 875/925. She banned contact lenses, made me wear (heavy) glasses, and recommended laser. My mother and I agreed to schedule LASIK for December, but she changed her mind after seeing her only offspring trip and stumble on steps, legs of chairs, escalators, and our dogs at home. We set it for July.

After weeks of wearing glasses and various eye screenings, I entered the operating room of Medical Plaza. LASIK did live up to its reputation as a pain-free operation, and it took all of twelve minutes (six per eye). I was asked to stare up at a tiny blinking red light. They then cut a flap into my cornea (pardon me if you happen to be eating) and then aimed the laser into my eyeball for almost a minute. I could smell something burning, but since I was warned about that, I simply ignored it. It was just intimidating to see, while being operated on, the instruments they used - the clamps that widened my eyes, the suction thing that kept my eyeball in place, and the tongs with tissue to wipe my eyes.

The only sensation I had while lying down was a weakening of my knees. At one point I felt like curling into a ball or getting up from the table, but I reminded myself it would soon be over.

The pain did manifest itself after I was lasered. A nurse was pouring drops into my eyes, which kept tearing up. I could feel my eyeballs searing. They then gave me eye shades and I was free to go. I slept on the way home. The pain lasted for three to four hours.

When I opened my eyes at 9 in the evening, though, I was so amazed at how clear everything around me looked. Six years of wearing glasses and twelve years of contact lenses have reduced me to guessing how people and things three feet away look like up close. Now I don’t have to. I have seen my neighbor open a can of tuna across the street. This morning I could discern the facial expressions of our priest while delivering his homily. The only problem I have now is how to restrain myself from becoming a pervert. Hehe.

I’ll still wear glasses by the time I’m forty or so, my doctor said, but right now I’m too happy to worry about that.

Thanks to the staff of Medical Plaza and FEU, my doctors (Dr. Capuchino, Dr. Alejo, Dr. Te, Dr. Uy, Dr. Lagman) and the nurses who assisted in the operation. Had I not been so groggy last Friday, I would have insisted on a group hug and a pictorial.

A week ago at this very time (on an extremely hot Saturday, I should add) I was doing a victory dance on our front lawn while fielding calls and texts on my cellphones. And I loved every minute of it.

Thank you Lord (and Buddha and Ganesh) for including me in the roster of successful examinees for the 2007 Bar. I can now die and have “ATTY.” inscribed on my tombstone.

I purposely delayed making this entry to ensure that I would be cool, calm and composed while making what I consider to be the most memorable entry in my blog. Yet to this very day, I find myself kinikilig while sitting alone in the jeep. Friends who have gone through this were right. The euphoria of passing the Bar takes a long time to get used to, and even longer to wear off. I swear, it’s also a good cure for cough and colds – I had the world’s worst virus since the Holy Week and it disappeared when the results came out.

Taking the Bar has got to be the most pressure-inducing business of all time. Maybe it’s because everything about it is so publicized. From the day I graduated from Beda to the morning I hit Taft Avenue, I felt as though someone was secretly running a commentary on my movements. Relatives would call to say good luck while people I didn’t know embraced me as I entered La Salle. When the exams were over, I would receive felicitations even when I went to the office bathroom. On the day the results were due to come out, I wanted to strangle the TV reporters who gleefully announced, “2007 Bar Results, lalabas na…anumang sandali…maya-maya na…” every ten minutes.

It didn’t help that the 2007 Bar has been rendered controversial due to the raising of the passers from 5% to 22.91%. To sourgrapers from past batches (whether you are lawyers or not), I do not believe we are a weak batch. If you doubt our abilities, try taking the 2007 Bar if you want to confront Political Law in the subjective, Labor Law in the objective (“What is co-determination?” “What is the Globe Doctrine?” “What is the retirement age for miners?”), and Taxation Law (the questions of which even my Mom felt was already for practitioners). And I refuse to discuss the trauma which Criminal Law and Civil Law inflicted on me.

But on the whole, I’m too happy for now to argue with those who want to steal my sunshine. I’ll just concentrate my energies on the trip to the Supreme Court, Manaoag, and the mall (for my attire for the oathtaking…yihee!).

For four and a half years I stayed in a cave that was my dorm to devour books and legal gobbledygook. I turned down so many gimmicks and took a leave of absence from my choir. Now I can take KC Concepcion’s words to heart…it’s my time to shine!

I thank my family, friends, schoolmates, officemates, choirmates, the nuns of St. Clare, and everyone else who prayed for me, bore with my hysteria (especially in the last month), and called or texted their congratulations. You have been, and will always be part of my success. And to my comrades who have not been blessed this time, my prayers are still with you. I hope you’ll make it next time.

Forum shopping occurs when a party attempts to have his action tried in a particular court or jurisdiction where he feels he will receive the most favorable judgment or verdict. (Black’s Law DIctionary, 5th ed.) Translation: when you have filed with the Regional Trial Court of QC, you can’t file the same case with the RTC of Makati.

Pardon me, but this was one concept in law school I wasn’t too crazy about. I agree that all disputes must be settled at one instance, in one court, and all that…but I don’t think this applies in real life (in non-legal matters). If you want something so badly, you have to get the whole universe to conspire with you.

It was probably this mindset that directed my past Ash Wednesday. The day began as I have spent it since I was of school age - going to Mass and getting my forehead anointed with ashes from palm leaves. But this year, right after the Mass, I found myself haggling for gold-cast statuettes of animals and good luck charms. To date, I have two rat figures on my office desk (one for prosperity, the other for career), two dzi bracelets (to calm the nerves), a magic mirror (for good luck again), gold-cast coins in my wallet (for a steady flow of wealth), a mystic knot and dragon charm for my phone (for good luck, yet again), and a complete set of gold-cast charms in a bowl for our house. My co-conspirators (a.k.a. officemates) and I have also kept the newspapers with our predictions for the lunar months ahead.

Yes, I’m turning Chinese. And before the nuns and teachers from my alma mater douse me with holy water, let me explain that I haven’t violated the First Commandment. Though I believe that there may be something in Feng Shui, I don’t worship my menage of animals. I still go to Mass and practice my faith. The only difference now is that I am surrounded by gold-cast figurines. I like to think that I have simply opened my mind to another culture.

I can leave everything up to God, but that doesn’t mean I should remain idle until the Bar results come out.

I have a pending petition with God. I have also filed a manifestation through my mystic charms. If someone can tell me where the temple of Ganesh is, you know where to reach me.