Month: January 2009

In Defense of the Little Girl Who Had No One


This is Faith.

She is now almost five. Continue reading


T’ Boat is Ready

Ahoy! T’ Cap’n speaks:

Whack that nail thar so it sets flush to the floorboards. Splash that paint thar that the parts eaten away by barnacles be hid.

Backstitch! Backstitch, mates! Ye can’t sew canvas with those fancy bullion stitches! What’s the matter with ye? Didn’t yer Aunt Gertrude teach ye how to patch yer own bloomers,  ye brickheaded scullery maid?! Ye be a disgrace to yer seafarin’ ancestors!

Now, all yer hairy ears to me. Listen well. ‘Tis the maiden voyage for this here ship we call t’ MV Oompaloompah Go Baby, Yeah! She be ready in a couple of fortnights.

Fill the barrels and kiss t’ maids goodbye and soap t’ deck, you landlubber sod!

Moving On… Again

It was night. All was peaceful and quite… not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

But rats gnaw at bamboo slats, owls hoot from their treetop roosts, hens stir in their nests, and dogs howl at the moon.

Ahh. It’s good to be home.

Six months after an impulsive decision brought about by skyrocketing prices of commodities and fuel, enduring insane living conditions, loneliness, attacks from a homicidal chicken, I’ve decided to come home to my beloved tropical jungle.

Get a move on, Tarzan, the Deranged Palmist rules the roost again.

Call in the beasts of hoof, of feet, of wing, and of fin. The forest is now in council.


Gnnnn. I couldn’t stand living in the boarding house any longer. Yesterday, amid howling winds and pouring rain and with the help of my friends, we hauled my stuff from the lowland cave and hied back to the mountains. Ta was amazed at the volume of the things I’ve accumulated in my six-month stay in the boarding house, which filled the back of a mini pick-up.

The best part was when Faith, after helping with the unloading, looked at me with a big smile. “You’re going to live with us again,” she said and gave me a big hug.

I love being a mountain woman.


It’s a new year once again and I’ve lost my funny bone. It was gone around the time I let Li’l Nagger in late one night in the second week of November.

I discovered my loss just yesterday when people around me exchanged remarks and waited for my reaction. Somebody had to clue me in that what were being said were supposed to be jokes.

But I wasn’t tickled pink or green or blueish green. I said “Oh” and left it at that.

Yes, I lost my funny bone. Because when others around me are bursting their carotid arteries from laughing too hard, I hover in the background and tell them to clear up the mess.

These days, I’ve discovered I have a signature facial expression. Very akin to a ramp model’s pout but I call mine I-ate-a-pickled-pineapple-slice pucker.

Heh. I am shriveled and wrinkled. My mentality is that of an eighty-year-old virgin (not that I know a lot of eighty-year-old virgins).

Still, my heart is pure but my intentions are muddy. I do not recognize the woman I see in the mirror.

But I am hoping that this is temporary. That I shall still find my dear old funny bone among the rubbish in my garden’s compost pit and that I could somehow reattach it without any major surgery required.

We shall see.

We shall see.