by rossanahead | Dec 17, 2011 | career, Education
By Paula Bianca Abiog
Since I was a child, I have always known I wanted to become a writer. I learned how to read by flipping through newspapers and magazines at three; started writing my own stories (patterned after my favorite fairy tales) at six; composed long entries in lock-and-key journals by 11; and seriously considered writing as a career when I was 16.
Five years ago, I got my dream job. I was finally going to write for a magazine. And with getting my dream job came plans to eventually become an editor one day.
I loved my job. I got to interview and write about celebrities and inspiring men and women; I was able to tackle relevant, sometimes controversial, topics, and more. I was able to go to different places around the country and write about what I saw, from Batanes in the north to Bohol in the south.
But as the years went by, while I still loved writing about people, places, and issues, I found myself doing the same thing over and over again. I felt that I was stuck in a rut, and lately, I felt I wasn’t improving as a writer. I also wanted to try other things, to see if I can do more than just writing. And after a few months agonizing over whether to stay or to go, I finally decided to try my luck in doing something new.
Even if I knew I made the decision for career growth, I initially felt I was abandoning my childhood dream, my plans to become an editor, and the friends I made in those five years. But life doesn’t always pan out the way you envision it, plans don’t materialize exactly when you want them, and friendships don’t end when one leaves to pursue something new. More importantly, I realized that I won’t stop being a writer just because I wanted to try a different tack.
Sometimes, getting what you want, when you want it doesn’t always lead to the fabulous ending you’ve always wished for. Perhaps one day you’ll get what you want when you least expect it, when God, or the fates, feel that you’re ready to finally have what you want. And to be able to grow and move forward, you sometimes have to take a different and unfamiliar path to shake you up. You have to step out of your comfort zone, test the waters, flounder a bit, and find your footing once more, so your growth doesn’t get stunted.
Paula now works for the corporate communications office of a large corporation. And yes, she is still very much a writer.
Photo by Estée Janssens on Unsplash
by rossanahead | Dec 11, 2011 | children, Education, family, parenting, woman
By Romelda C. Ascutia
“Your cholesterol is high,” the doctor says, scanning the result of my blood test. My blood cholesterol level is nearly 240mg/dl, above the limit of 200mg/dl.
She prescribes cholesterol-lowering medicine and puts me on a low-fat diet. I’m told to avoid fried, fatty foods and stick to dishes boiled or grilled. She also advises me to cut down on rice and skip the full-cream dairies.
Now I cannot deny my age. I can no longer get away with eating foods that are smothered in grease, fat, butter, cream, and all those ingredients that make eating such a pleasure.
My eating habits will have to change from now on, if not for my sake, then for the sake of my two boys. I don’t want to follow in the footsteps of other parents who died of a heart attack or stroke at a relatively young age, leaving behind young, helpless kids, because they neglected their health.
Contrary to popular belief though, cholesterol per se is not bad for you. It’s actually an essential substance (it looks like wax) that our liver produces to enable certain body functions to continue. It’s required in manufacturing vitamin D, building cell walls and hormones, and producing bile salts for fat digestion.
It’s when there’s too much cholesterol in your blood, usually gained from what you eat, that the problem sets in, because then not all the cholesterol is removed from your bloodstream. The excess is deposited along the walls of the blood vessels as plaque, clogging them to the point where it can block blood flow to the heart or brain, triggering either a heart attack or stroke.
Taking care of one’s health is part and parcel of being a good parent. And that’s why I’m doing research on how to lower blood cholesterol. In addition to taking medication, I found out that dietary and lifestyle changes must be included for any cholesterol-reduction program to work.
I must take note of my cholesterol intake. Cholesterol intake should be less than 300 milligrams a day, total fat intake 30 percent or less of my total calories, saturated fat intake 10 percent or less of the total daily calories, and trans fat intake less than 1 percent of total calorie consumption.
I must maintain a healthy weight. Obesity has been linked to high cholesterol levels.
I must build up a sweat. Thirty minutes of moderate physical activity (biking, walking, swimming) most days of the week can lower cholesterol and help lose extra pounds.
I must choose low-cholesterol foods like fruits, vegetables, whole grains (like oats, whole wheat breads and cereals), legumes (beans), and fish. Experts recommend five daily servings of fruits and vegetables every day.
I must go for lean meat and remove noticeable fat before cooking and use skinless poultry. Rather than frying, I will try boiling, broiling, baking, roasting, poaching, steaming, or sautéing. I can also get protein from non-meat sources, such as fish, beans, peas, nuts, and soy products.
I must learn to substitute like choosing low-fat or nonfat milk over the full-cream variety. They have all the nutrients of whole milk, but none of the fat. Rather than cream cheese or sour cream, I’ll opt for low-fat or nonfat dairy substitutes like low-fat buttermilk or yogurt.
I must be picky with eggs. One of the things I miss the most is eggs. Because the yolk is high in cholesterol, I content myself with just the egg white.
I must snack wisely. Fast foods and junk foods are high in fat, sodium, and cholesterol that burden the heart. It’s better to eat fresh fruits, raw veggies, low-fat dips, low-fat whole-grain crackers, unsalted popcorn or pretzels, gelatin, or low-fat yogurt.
Photo by Hush Naidoo on Unsplash
by rossanahead | Dec 8, 2011 | children, family, home, parenting
By Maridol Ranoa-Bismark
“Mom, my classmates want to hold a Christmas party at our house,” my son told me in a voice that was half-pleading, half-threatening.
Uh-oh, I told myself. Time to make a list in between deadlines. The good news is I won’t be doing any of the entertaining and my son’s friends wisely thought of going potluck. The bad news is I will have to coordinate a couple of things that my son is too busy with school to do. I scrounged around for the telephone number of the chair and table rental company and called the nice lady who owned the home-based business.
December is party season, she told me, so she might not be able to deliver the goods at my doorstep. I tried to calm my nerves and begged her to please send her delivery truck since I lived only five minutes away. Besides I’m a faithful customer, entitled to certain privileges; problem solved.
Next, I checked for paper plates, napkins, and drinking cups. Finding our supply running low, I sent someone to get these party musts for me. I then asked the help to resurrect our neglected water jug and wash it clean. The plastic tablemats also had to be washed clean and wiped dry the day before the party, so that it won’t smell “ugh.”
Then I checked the powder room. Is there a bar of soap in the sink? Is the toilet free from cobwebs and other signs of non-use? Is the roll of toilet paper enough? Is the bathroom mirror smudge-free?
Oh, and the dogs! Since we have three, I asked the house help to keep them in the cage and curtail their master-given rights to roam the house in the meantime. It’s the height of bad manners to set them loose and scare the wits out of our young guests.
D-day. The tables and chairs arrived as expected but what’s unexpected was their condition. The delivery guys already left when I discovered that the white monoblock chairs had smudges from a previous party! I turned to the tablecloths. I was shocked all over again when I saw food stains and wrinkles. Obviously, the tablecloths haven’t been tossed inside a washing machine! Thank heavens I had enough time to call the chair rental company and ask for a clean set of chairs and tablecloths before the guests arrived.
One last word: Going potluck means guests have the license to take over your kitchen. So make sure your supply of cooking gas is enough to last until your guests’ kitchen adventures are over. Mine did. And I heaved a sigh of relief.
You think your job is done when the guests are bidding you goodbye? Not quite! Your guests being kids, you have to make sure that they can get to their respective homes safe and sound. When they’re gone, you can pat yourself on the back for a job well done.
Now, where is that mop to clean the floors full of smudged footprints?
Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash
by rossanahead | Dec 3, 2011 | career, woman
By Leslie Lee
A few years ago, I made the monumental decision to leave Manila and carve out a new life in another country, thinking—just like millions of other OFWs—that I would earn more than what I was getting in my previous job. And I did: My salary rivaled that of a regional manager’s in a multinational corporation back home. “I’m rich,” I thought, while staring at the numbers printed on my pay slip.
There were plenty of reasons behind that decision, and one of them was that I was sick of living in third-world Philippines. I wanted to experience life in a more progressive country. I longed for first-world conveniences. I wanted to live in a country one would be proud to call home.
Then the universe hit me in the face with a huge serving of humble pie to make me realize just how superficial and simply wrong I was.
I was at the Philippine Embassy to register as an Overseas Filipino Worker. As I was filling up some forms, I noticed that the guy next to me kept glancing at my papers, probably checking to see if he had filled up his own forms right, too. He seemed so anxious and unsure that I took pity on him and started chatting him up.
The Filipino I spoke to used to be a government employee from Cavite. Like me, he wanted to seek greener pastures; unlike me, he got a job that was worlds apart from his previous one. He was part of a posh hotel restaurant’s service crew and, even if he was already five months into the job, was still struggling with the locals’ language. Like me, he would be reprimanded whenever he misinterpreted the locals’ English (chicken drumstick is known as “dark part” but “dark” is pronounced as “duck”—thus the confusion); unlike me, he would always swallow his pride and humbly accept the scolding.
To this day, I feel ashamed whenever I remember how I had tried to hide my Filipino identity. When I first stepped into that foreign land, I disguised myself with the other half of my heritage and masqueraded as being from Taiwan, Hong Kong, or mainland China. I spoke with a Valley girl’s accent to belie the fact that I am a Filipino.
Hearing tale after tale of Pinoys being discriminated—from the domestic helper to the fast food service crew to the vice-president of a bank—broke my heart. Regardless of rank, as soon as we are introduced as Filipino or from the Philippines, the tenor of their voices and the look on their faces change. Because of the color of our skin, the way we speak English, and our inherent docility, we get bullied and belittled. For most of them, being Filipino was something to be sneered at.
That encounter in the embassy was truly an eye-opener. Why bother to keep up this pretense? What was so shameful about being a humble, modest, cheerful, hard-working, and multi-tasking Filipino? Without our community, who will take care of their children, clean their house, wash the dishes, and help ensure that their household is running smoothly? Who will process their payment in the grocery store, assist them in finding the right shoe or shirt size, and serve them dinner?
As I bid farewell to my fellow countryman at the subway station, a thought popped into my head: I was not meant to seek greener pastures, but to realize that the greenest pasture is the one you were born and bred in. I understand now that to conquer this colonial mentality, and consequently change the way others view us, I have to remain true to my roots, and be proud of my heritage.
Photo by Helen Stegney on Unsplash
by rossanahead | Nov 27, 2011 | children, Education, woman
By Julie Javellana-Santos
I just attended the alumni homecoming of my high school. It’s been almost 31 years since I left that school. And my classmates and I were nostalgic about how the school looked different, but was somehow still the same.
The chairs in the school auditorium were still the same steel folding chairs we sat on during our graduation, albeit repainted several times over. The drinking fountain where we would satisfy our thirst with lukewarm water on hot days was still there, down to the yellowing tiles and antiquated taps. No mineral water or filtered water for us then—just plain old ‘Nawasa (National Waterworks and Sewerage Authority) juice’ as we called it.
The girls I grew up with were different, though. Many had put on a pound here and there. On the contrary, others had lost weight and were positively scrawny. Still others proudly sported brand new nose jobs.
Through the years, there would be times when I’d bump into someone who said, “I know your face, I just can’t remember your name. But it’s here somewhere.” I guess the popularity of caesarian births and general anesthesia was as much to blame for this forgetfulness as simple old age.
Listening to my classmates criticize the program, though, I guess not much had changed. Many times before, we would gather for a program in that very same auditorium, on those very same chairs, and nitpick over the order of the day. Closing my eyes, I could imagine those same girls in blue and white uniforms, wearing standard black shoes and bored expressions. The voices around me were the same voices back in high school. The criticisms were the same: the program was boring, her skirt was too short, the food not good …
And yet, everything was different.
The classrooms across the yard are now of a different color. Where once a single row of classrooms stood, there’s now a four-storey building. Fences were all around—not just wooden, decorative ones but bars, preventing the wayward child from leaving the premises and strangers from entering the grounds.
Most of all, the girls were no longer young students, but familiar faces sporting monumental eyebags, a couple of pounds, and prominent noses.
Everything had changed, but it seemed to be for the better. The classrooms now had LCD projectors, the school grotto was more orderly and freshly landscaped, the school piano had been refurbished, the auditorium’s comfort rooms had been renovated… all courtesy of the school’s generous alumni. Hopefully, the improvements would not end this year. Hopefully, there would be more next year.
The school may have changed a lot since I was there, but what hasn’t changed was how studying in those rooms helped me become the person that I am. And that is a gift that I would always treasure.
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
