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A Little Kiwi's Dream

Because she too, wants to make the impossible possible...

My Walking Checklist

Off the top of my head, my Perfect Guy would have the following traits:

*cue cheesy Classical music*

1. He loves dogs.

Shit... Literally.

2. He does not mind me studying for my classes on date night.

So... um... this place is nice... right? *cricket! cricket!*

3. He puts the toilet seat up.


4. He sees past my acne and gaining weight before PMS days.


5. He is an awesome dancer. 

'Cause you know what they say about dancers. *smirk*

6. He takes care of me when I get drunk.

Baby, ever think about cutting back on rice?

7. He automatically orders Coke Original for me when we eat out.

*Buuuurp!* Your turn!

8. He holds my hand in front of his friends and proudly calls me his.
So... who was the other chick yesterday, man?

9. He lets my girl friends interrogate him just for shits and giggles.

Cheat on her and we'll castrate you. Understood?

10. He would hug me if I fail in school and tell me it’s the school’s loss.


11. He has his own life-slash-job.

Now off to fry patties!

12. He doesn't get unreasonably jealous.

He said "I love you" 'cause he's my DAD!

13. He doesn't mind seeing me in jeans every time we go out.


14. He sings at the top of his lungs with me to songs on the radio.

"She wears short skirts! I wear T-shirts!
She's cheer-captain and I'm on the bleachers!"

15. He is incredibly smart and funny. In a witty, sexy kind of way.

"Get it? The chicken crossed the road
‘cause she wanted to LAY IT ON THE LINE! Too funny!”

16. He texts me at least once, even if it was Boys Night Out.

Just having coffee with the boys, baby. XOXO

17. He doesn't mind listening to my weird spiels and randomness attacks.

"So I was thinking... Why don't we come up with cotton candy-flavored potato chips?"

18. He is presentable… … *cough!* good-looking! *cough*

"Yes, I'm Marc Nelson... and where have you been all my life, Elly?
Besides staring at my half-naked poster in your bedroom for the past six years?"

19. He is loyal to only me.

"Baby, I'm so loyal to you I no longer look at other girls' moms."

20. He is my best-est friend in the entire world and knows me from the tip of my hair strand to the deepest part of my soul.

"Honey... you sooo farted, didn't you?"


*Stop cheesy music*

This is reality, and I can never have that one perfect guy. Four words: He does not exist. Actively dating has shown me that with every average male person I meet; only 6-10 of all traits can be checked on my list. (Not that I keep track... *guilty laugh*)

Seriously, who would want a girlfriend studying on date-and-hopefully-mind-bl
owing-sex-later night? What guy would sit through a grilling session with his girlfriend’s posse? What guy wouldn’t want to see his girlfriend sport a mini-skirt? And what guy would want to text his girlfriend while Candy Candice shook her surgically-altered D-cupped boobs in his face?

(And by the way, that’s bullshit if you don’t have a checklist!) It may not be as concrete and specific as the one provided above but somehow, all of us have drawn our own standards for considering potential partners. Like my friend Jom who just needs a girl with two tits and soft lips… *wink*

And no wonder why many people have been single for too long.

Checklists should only be a guide for choosing partners. It’s unrealistic to have to base our choices on qualifications, especially if they’re too specific. Sometimes, all you have to settle for is someone who makes you happy – regardless of where he came from, what he does for a living, or what his plans are in the future. There will be so much more meaning and depth to come across someone so imperfect, yet all of a sudden so faultless because of how awesome he makes you feel.

He’s atheist, but he makes you laugh like no one else can. He hates pets, but he fireman carries you and takes you home when you get pissed-drunk. He doesn’t know what to do with his life, but he makes an effort to get along with your parents. He’s 20 pounds too heavy, but he makes the meanest smoked barbeque ribs. He’s an ex-convict who got arrested for burglary, but he showers you with the most expensive jewelry. (Who would've thought, right? LOL. C’mon.)

So before the opportunity of finding Mr. Right slips away, take Mr. Perfect out of the damn way and give your number to the next ridiculously imperfect guy that passes by…

** (Jejemons are the exceptions to the rule, by the way. It’s perfectly okay to stay away from those.)

Miracles Shmiracles

While in the middle of laughing to one of my favorite sitcoms, I receive a text message from my Broda; otherwise known as a brother figure who's taught me a thing or two about men like the Grand Master… *insert Star Wars theme song* … YODA!

(Not that Yoda teaches about men, but you get my point.)

And "Taught me, He has!" (But that's not the point.)

So in beeped his clean-cut question: “Do you believe in miracles?”

*Star Wars theme song CD scratches to a halt*

I kept pressing the down button to see if it was a forwarded joke, but scrolling up the SMS galaxy were just those words. Nothing else followed. As if reading my mind, he texted shortly after to acknowledge how weird and random the question was, and to inform me that he also really needed my opinion.

Not meaning to harsh his mellow, I casually answered with a “Not really, why?”

Our conversation ended there. At least for blog’s sake, it did.

In the face of cynicism, it was hard to believe miracles happened on a day-to-day basis. ‘Cause if it did, Heath Ledger would still be alive and asking me to marry him right now! Miracles are violations to the law of nature. Sometimes, they are God-willed contraventions through experiences like transubstantiation and all that jazz. (And yes… I kinda’ had to google that.)

I thanked Webster for informing me that a miracle is “2. an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment.” Throwing the possibility of Heath Ledger's resurrection out the window, I began to mentally list down all the so-called "miracles" in my life:

1. December 2006 - A cab driver returned my wallet, with the help of my address printed on the back of my I.D. Since I was holding public funds for a college group project, I almost fainted when I thought I had lost it. (Try living in Manila and you’ll know how impossible this should have been!)

2. March 2009 - My father survived a cerebral stroke. I was told only 15% of stroke patients made it to see another sun rise. I almost fainted after crying buckets of tears.

3. September 2009 - Jeff "Phi" Nguyen from the Jabbawockeez blew me a kiss during their first Live concert in Manila. This IS a miracle, Gaddammit! (Your honor, to testify on such incident, I invite Ms. Billie Princesa to the witness stand!)

Yes, this was me before I almost fainted.

Simultaneously, I started thinking of all the wonderful things that began to unfold and narrate themselves to me: Surviving the most painful and tormenting break-up with a man I loved for four years… Getting into law school… Saying the words “I love you” to my father for the very first time… Traveling to Chile to see my very first llama… (Shut up!)… Nailing Beyoncé’s “Listen” without my voice cracking during another drunken karaoke night… Forgiving a friend who had gravely wronged me…

With this in mind, the great things started becoming simpler things. I appreciated the fact that I had God, family, and friends... when others didn’t. I appreciated the fact that I still had my ability to think, to feel, and to love. (Sorry, getting preachy here.)

Then it hit me. I still had a heartbeat!


The heart pulse monitor beeps, and my electrocardiogram readings have glowing green mountains! A car could’ve slammed into me today, and I could’ve been the freak accident on tomorrow's headlines. But noooo! I was still thinking, feeling and breathing. I am given the chance every single day to accomplish my dreams, atone for my slip-ups, and eat a weed brownie! BOO-YAH! (Okay, kidding about the last one… … Or not.)

Sure, it may sound like something we’ve all heard before, but truly understanding the overlooked gravity of still living, I understood that once my green beeping line goes flat, my greatest miracle will cease to exist… Now I don't know about them emos, but I don't mind prancing about seven feet above the ground. I'd rather struggle through my everyday problems, than be asleep for good.

Think about it.

Miracles happen everyday, and it does not need to be as grand as winning a million dollars overnight or seeing someone levitate. (Though either would still be like… super awesome.)

“To me, every hour of the day and night
is an unspeakable perfect miracle.”
- Walt Whitman

(And who knows, Broda—you just might be able to telekinetically move objects or deflect force lightning one of these days; but for now, just blend in with the rest of the world, psychoanalyze the shit out of people like you normally would and help them out—one heart at a time. Weeeeee!)

Can't You Just Slut Up?

It’s that one thing every single girl must have tucked somewhere in her closet. That very private thing — the slight contact of which to the skin would send tingling sensations of sensual and erotic ecstasy...


Not a vibrator, idiot! Those come in second!

I remember the first time I bought myself real lingerie.

It was a Friday afternoon, and I had just finished working on my coverage as a medical representative. I agreed to meet up with a college friend at the Shangrila Edsa mall, which was just on the way home from Makati City. From meeting up over coffee to strolling around aimlessly, my friend and I spoke about 'men and relationships'. (Like single women have anything else to talk about, really.) Oh! And Channing Tatum’s killer-abs. (Wait, that still falls under 'men'.)

So we found ourselves in a decent clothing store, and it was after placing a shimmery black top back on the rack when I saw it inviting me towards the corner: Sexy intimate apparel.


Carefully clipped to a plastic hanger was a dark, uber-flirtatious brassiere with pink lace trimmings. This was complimented by a matching, lacy thong that hung just behind it. I picked it up and gazed at it; admiring the details, then thinking all of a sudden—

“MY GOD! What’s that gunna’ cover down there?!” my friend’s voice from behind me read my mind.

I was immensely amused with her telepathic skills. “Might as well just go bare, right?”

She took the underwear set from my hands and held the scanty garments in front of my body, as if to picture how I’d look in them. “This’ll look good on you. You should get this!”

I feigned pleasant surprise, “Hey mom! Look at me! I’m slutting it up!” And like every normal girl making a big fuzz about her weight, I added "Plus, I gained a few pounds! What size is that anyway? Size 5'3"-and-anorexic?"

“Come on. Just ‘cause you’re single doesn’t mean you can’t own one!” She fished the rack for a slightly bigger size then started waving it around my face, half-laughing. “Buy it! I dare you!”

A good dose of immature giggling and elbowing later, my 5'6"-and-normal-eating-self finally agreed to buy it. But only because it was on sale.

I seriously felt my cheeks flush the moment I took three solid steps towards the counter with the undergarments in my hand. Then my hyper mind started talking: Act cool... Oh no. That lady at the corner holding the yellow shirt is looking at you. And she’s secretly laughing at you. She knows you're not used to buying shit like this. Oh God, this is so embarrassing!

Okay, there's a lady clerk at the counter! Good! A fellow female. Handing this over to her won’t be so bad. She's probably tried buying her own pair before.

Shit! Someone’s still paying. Must wait till the coast is clear!

I followed my friend around first with the lingerie tucked under my arm, stealing glances of the counter from time to time. I noticed people were buying REAL clothing: jeans, shirts and... ...jeans.

Five minutes later, the coast was finally clear. I half-ran to the counter, my eyes fixed on the cashier lady who was now stapling several receipts together. Still clutching the undergarments tightly by my side, I faked a smile.

And then the craziest shit happened.

(Picture this in slow motion). Smiling back at me, the lady moved to the side and motioned for a male attendant to join her at the counter. A cute male attendant! (Approximately 5’10”, athletic, with perfectly coiffed hair, and a ridiculously cute smile.)


I shot my friend a panicked look. She just laughed at me from the distance like a really good friend. Jesus, I felt like a 14-year-old virginal boy trying to buy a condom at some convenience store.

Slowly meeting the gaze of the cute male attendant, I bashfully placed the lingerie in front of him.

It was awkward.

I heard him clear his throat before unclipping the bra and thong from their respective hangers. He didn’t know whether to fold them or not. Shit. He’s thinking I’m buying this for myself. And I’m in my business attire now! He knows my two ass cheeks will be sandwiching a string behind my slacks starting today!

He was now looking for a paper bag. He switched from small to an extra small. Jaysus! Hurry up!

I paid him, not making eye contact. Then I saw him smiling. Wait – No! He was smirking! He thinks it's funny! 'Cause maybe I’m the first customer this year to buy from their slutfits. Oh my God! NO WONDER IT'S ON SALE! NO ONE BUYS THIS SHIT!

He held the paper bag out to me. I snatched it, snatched my really good friend, and ran off to the nearest escalator.

Juvenile, I know.

But even 20-year olds grow up; and of course, I got used to wearing it. (TMI, I know. Sorry.) My mom got used to seeing it when I explained white-lied it was a birthday gift. (Asian moms.) Then I started liking it – really liking it. I enjoyed thinking: "Oh he's going to love this!" ...and... "God forbid if anything bad happens to me tonight, paramedics will at least have something nice to look at when they cut my shirt open!" among... well, other... thoughts...

Lingeries are nice. They give you a great sense of empowerment. You can be wearing bleach-stained house clothes with mud under your fingernails, yet still feel sexy when you have these babies strapped on you. It does not take a Victoria's Secret model to enjoy the experience of slutting it up with some lace and garter. Every single woman out there should have the opportunity to feel confident and sexy about their bodies; and these just might help.

So the lesson in this story? Try not to approach a cashier lady when you see she’s busy stapling something.

And too bad this isn't really my face. Haha!

Optimistically Disenchanted | TNB