Hipster, anyone?

It is said that women become invisible after they reach a certain age. I usually feel invisible when shopping for regular jeans and all I could find in stores are those low-rise jeans and hip-huggers that should be banned to be worn in public. These low-slung jeans have certainly redefined our collective understanding of cleavage. I’m sorry but I don’t have the courage to walk around with multiple folds of skin, G-string and crevice on display.

While the little feminist in me applauds some women’s cool indifference in flaunting their body imperfections, the admirer in me finds the style objectionable. I’m not a fashion guru but hipster jeans suits only 13-year old girls, anorexics, and supermodels that have the luxury of devoting time and money to having a perfect physique.

Sipping mojitos at Café Havana one Friday night, I couldn’t keep a smirk off my face seeing a girl wearing a pair of low-riding jeans try to sit with dignity. Her fraternal twin at the next table had the common sense to tie a jacket around her waist. Don’t let her drop anything, I prayed, or she would be forced to perfect the art of squatting to keep her poise. Low-rise jeans also tend to slide down that the girl kept on hitching it up. How can you feel sexy in that?

I don’t consider low-rise jeans to be appropriate to a woman of certain age, unless you're a Belo patient or Zsa Zsa Padilla. And yes, being invisible is preferable than call attention to myself by putting my hips, derriere, and love handles in some humiliating reality show.

Twilight at Harbor Square - Weekend Snapshot

I had plans of a "cultural" tour of Manila for the Independence Day weekend---I even prepared an itinerary. Revisit Paco Park on Friday afternoon, then drive to Rizal Park to visit the Museum of the Philippines and the National Museum of the Filipino People, and have dinner in Intramuros. But when I saw the crowd at the Rizal Park on TV, and thought of Influenza A (H1N1), I opted to stay home and spend time with Fritz.

But my itchy feet couldn't stay home for long, so on late Saturday afternoon, I decided to meet a friend for coffee at Harbor Square in CCP Complex. We ended up having dinner there, too. I took these "twilight" photos while walking by the bay, while we were deciding where to eat. Grappa's was no longer there, it was replaced by a Chinese restaurant. We finally settled at Singkit, a Chinese resto.

Harbor Square is a nice place---and its proximity to Manila Bay is definitely a plus. I saw a couple of photographers, complete with tripods and DSLR's by the sea wall. I'm sure they have captured the beautiful Manila Bay sunset that afternoon, that I missed entirely (sob)!

From Harbor Square, we drove to Greenbelt and watched "The Taking of Pelham 123". This movie sent my pulse rate to overdrive---it was frenetic and tense, and I loved it! John Travolta's savvy sociopath character was very entertaining. And his dark humor and clever exchanges with Denzel Washington's cool and quick-witted character were engaging. The scenes where a police car with the ransom money and police escorts on motorcycle were speeding in the streets of NYC to beat the time the hijackers set were satisfyingly destructive and exciting. And the great audio at Greenbelt cinema heightened the experience.

The film's credits showed "The Taking of Pelham 123" is based on a John Godey novel, and when I googled it yesterday, I read that it has been adapted into a movie twice, the first one in 1974. If you enjoy action/thriller films, you shouldn't miss "The Taking of Pelham 123."

It's back-to-work Monday...here's wishing you a great week!

Posted for Weekend Snapshot

Excuses

Yeah, I know I’m late again. It’s not as if I can’t wake up on time. I have three alarm clocks, you know. My mother knocks at my door each morning. I have no trouble getting up, which I think is the primary source of my problem. Let me explain.

My alarm clock is the siren of a fire truck. I wake up, drag myself out of bed. As I open my bedroom door, there’s the burgundy sofa, with new silk covers and

My alarm clock is the siren of a fire truck. I wake up, drag myself out of bed. The sand feels warm under my feet, pebbles wet from the ebbing tide. The sky is deep blue with purple and orange hues at the horizon. The sun kisses my face, I’m late for work. I cover my sequined two-piece swim suit with white fur coat, put black fish net stockings on and slip into a Happy Feet bakya. As I leave Batanes

I wake up. I’m on a wet cement floor that smells like fish. I get up and run, trying to evade the man with a butcher’s knife. The wet market is crowded with TV cameras and rallyists; Mar Roxas is inspecting fresh meat and refuses to help me. I scream but the voices of market vendors drown me out. I fly like Jackie Chan from stall to stall, ceiling to walls, and seize a police motorcycle in the hope of escaping the butcher’s knife.

“Mag bra ka!” screams the butcher with a knife. I look down and I’m wearing an oversized white t-shirt with a Red Cross logo, braless.

Scared, I squeeze the throttle and the motorbike zooms towards MoA, but soon the butcher is riding a horse like a jockey. I am driving at maximum speed but the butcher’s horse seems to be bobbing up and down beside me, almost catching up. I switch the sirens on and close my eyes hoping I can scare the horse. Then

I wake up to a soft-lighted room, it’s warm and cozy, New Age music at the background. “Swedish massage?” Cesar Montano with hairy chest and a British accent asks, looking lean and tanned in his Egyptian loin cloth. I blink my eyes and go back to sleep. This is too weird, even for me, and besides, I have to get to

I wake up in a bowl of oatmeal with sago. It feels rather nice, warm but a little slimy. I try to swim out of the bowl, but as anyone who has wakened up in a bowl of oatmeal with sago knows, this is easier said than done. After a while, I decide to eat my way out instead. Wishing that the milk is non-fat, I nibble at the sago and

I wake up and drag myself out of bed. As I open my bedroom door, there’s the burgundy sofa and I think, here we go again…

And that’s why it takes me so long to get up. It happens almost every morning so it must be chronic, and you wouldn’t blame someone who’s suffering from something chronic, would you? That’s discrimination.

Silence. Legs shifting.

So does this mean I don’t get the deduction?

Lasang Pinoy: blame it on the a-a-a-alcohol!

I'm taking it literally---blame it on the alcohol! I swore to stay away from this artery clogger pork Sisig but San Mig Light definitely tastes better with this sizzling concoction of boiled/grilled and chopped pig ears and cheeks seasoned with vinegar, calamansi juice, chopped onions and chicken liver. I could feel the rising cholesterol level while chewing on the crunchy pork bits...a perfect match with an ice-cold beer.

To complete our rainy night-out pulutan (or finger food), I ordered grilled squid to assuage our fatty and alcohol-filled conscience (lol).

Sorry for the dark and grainy photos, took these using my cel phone camera

Posted for spiCes

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

U2 - I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For