Dear Lovely One Who’s Always Looking for a Place to Breathe Quietly In

I am truly sorry. What I did was careless and thoughtless. You've every right to stay mad at me. I'm mad at myself, too, and I cringed when I found out you've packed up and left your cozy little home because I thoughtlessly blogrolled you.

I don't know how to make up for my mistake. but know that in penance, I shall give up chocolates starting today, and stop writing for the time being, too. These two make me happy and by depriving myself of them, I can at least make myself as sad as I've made you.

Sorrier than, uh, Britney must have felt after she shaved her peroxide-rich locks,

me 

Dear Intarnets

I think I'll keep my blog here for three reasons: first, most of my lovely girlfriends are here; second, i.ph has really lovely design templates; and third, i.ph has very decent administrators who not only listen to whiners but act fast and accordingly.

That said, I thank Adam-no-demi-god-Mordo for the very quick and reasonable response. Oh, and dear male person (yes, that's you Adam Mordo), you asked where I think the links should be placed. My most humble and honest opinion is that there shouldn't be any links placed on our blogs altogether. However, I recognize that this income-generating activity helps you shoulder the cost of web hosting a site like i.ph. Because these links have to be present come hell or high water, then I suggest they come after the chatbox or above or below the page numbers. That way, they're visible enough to capture the eyes but unobtrusive enough not to disturb bloggers.

May I also suggest that we be given the option of which ads to welcome into our page? I'd rather not have religion-related links on my page, you see. I'm Catholic; I've enough reminder of original sin and the birth-inherited guilt at home. I'd be immensely happy if I don't have "Jesus" sitting side by side with my complaints about officemates, for example. 

In other news…

I feel terrible, physically and mentally. I phoned in sick today and, before going back to being glued to my bed, I took the time to check on my little pretties - this site, multiply, and wordpress. I am appalled. I did something very bad, and I don't know what to do to atone. I'm hoping a fever-induced dream later on would show me a solution. After all, Moses had his burning bush and GMA has voices from the Almighty. Why can't I have my own sleep oracles, too?

Ye gods, please love me sometimes.  

My Little Name-shifter

2-year-old cartoon character (hahaha!)

Meet Alex, before she became Jerry. She's my catnip, my turnip, my best friend, the cross I have to bear, my alarm clock, my pillow, my toy, my pet, my machine gun. She's the one person who could make me want to stomach work I'd rather not do, plod on even when I'm tired, go home right after work, and look forward to facing middle age, wrinkles, sagging twins, reduced sex drive, and all that. 

Tomorrow…

I'll get my passport. Whooptedoo!

Forgive me for crowing. I'm glowing with happiness and excitement. A passport makes me feel like an adult, in a way paying taxes never could.

With a passport, anything, everything seems possible. Yes, yes, even my swivel chair now smells of possibilities. I think I'll spraypaint hearts, shoes, and smileys all over its back.

Oh, and I did say I feel so adult, didn't I?  

Becoming Jerry

My bones tell me this is going to be another stressful week. I've no doubt the powers-that-be will try to stuff as much work as they can into what's left of our working week before we leave our cubicles, in memory of Jesus' death and suffering. Then, there's the office-wide rearrangement. We're sectioning off portions of the office, and all the noise and the haggling over the price and the construction schedule are making me dizzy. It made me so dizzy, in fact, that my daughter's request had me laughing for only five minutes, instead of at least thirty. My daughter, A, has decided she wants to be called Jerry. Starting today.

So now I am under tremendous pressure. First, I have to cram work good for two weeks into 8.5 working days, and second, I have to remember that I now have a daughter named Jerry.
 
Me:    Alex, you didn't turn the TV and the fan off. Go back to our room and turn them off!
Alex: (Silence)
Me:    Alex, did you hear me?
Alex: (glaring at me) Ma, di ko Alex. Jerry lagi ko! (Ma, I'm not Alex. I'm Jerry.)
Me:    (Silence - Dear God, I asked you for a child, not a feisty little person.) Okay, Jerry. Turn the  TV and the fan off.
Alex:  Ohkay. (laughing happily) Si Jerry ko ma? Si Jerry ko. (I'm Jerry, aren't I, ma? I'm Jerry.)

Oh, and in case you're wondering who this Jerry Alex has named herself after is, it's that little mouse that a cat named Tom likes to clobber and pulverize. God help me. What have kids these days become? When I was three, I was a sweetheart. I didn't glare at my parents, or ask them to call me Vicenta or Ramon. I settled for crayola-ing our walls.