The Great Beautification Project
I am one of those girls who loves dressing up, but only once in a while, about less than a typical fashionista but more than the average jobless woman in her late 20s. So, during those days of girly-girl insanity, I might end up either wearing a short skirt, gussying up my face with full make-up, showing some cleavage or walking in 3-inch stilettos.
So, one time, I decided to go to school in sans full female painted warrior mode and proceeded to attack my make-up drawer. Yes, I do not have a kit, like most girls do, but instead I have a drawer for all my cosmetics. Over the years, I have accumulated a vast amount of cheap and not-so-cheap make-up in various kinds, brands and colors, and they are all sitting at the top drawer of my vanity. My beautification skills are still not as brilliant as I would have wanted to but I’ve learned to improvise by using a couple tricks here and there. What has frustrated me when putting on make-up, since time immemorial though, is the fact that I can’t make my eyes pop to save my life.
You see, I probably have the world’s shortest female eyelashes.
I can only dream about having long flirty eyelashes because apparently mascara and I don’t mix. Whatever I do, I always end up blotting them. An hour after leaving the house, I already looked like the girl who had just spent hours crying after she got dumped, with my raccoon eyes and clumps of mascara sticking to my upper and lower eyelids. I have tried the black mascara, the blue one, the cheap ones, the more expensive ones. In case anybody is about to give me unsolicited advice on how to use a mascara wand properly, trust me, of course, I curled the lashes first using the handy eyelash curler (Hello. Give me some credit. I am not dumb enough to actually not use one before applying the mascara) but still nothing worked. The curl in my eyelashes would only last for a couple minutes before my lacrimal glands would start acting up and proceed to blot out my previously well-applied mascara, making it run all over my eyelids, raccoon style.
It was sooo not the look I was going for.
When I finally resolved to accepting that indeed I do have the world’s shortest eyelashes and have already finished trying to cope up with this by slashing all the pictures of every long eye-lashed Maybelline model in every women’s magazine around the 100 m vicinity from my bedroom, I decided to try using eyeliner instead. Watching Gossip Girls and The Hills somehow inspired me in this new endeavour as I wondered how they looked so chic and casual with eyelinered-eyes and lip-glossed mouths even while apparently just lounging around at the comforts of their own homes.
Now, black eyeliner is making a comeback due to the so-called Emo. In my desire to avoid being stared at by salesladies at cosmetics counters or being mistaken as if I’m vouching for Emo-ness at the age of 27, I avoided the pencil and wanted to try my hand in using black liquid eyeliner. I remembered one particular young lady dentist I met from the community who used liquid eyeliner who looked incredibly fantastic that I sooo wanted to BE her. After poking my eyes repeatedly with the sharp pointed thingie, making weird crooked black lines in my upper and lower eyelids and having it blot all over my face less than 5 minutes after, I finally decided to give that up and stick to pencil instead.
I’ll take the Emo look over the girl-who-just-got-dumped look any day.
This cosmetics-related post looks obviously lost among the dating stories in this blog but I decided to write this because I remembered that Philip once commented that my eyes looked really nice after I had used some black eyeliner (with a pencil) on them. Must be why I’m doubly trying to master the skills for making my eyes pop using make-up, even if I’m repeatedly failing in them. Apparently I can stitch a 10-inch laceration using silk 3.0 in cutting needle in my sleep but I cannot make my eyes pop using mascara and eyeliner.
Sigh… the stupid things we do for love.
— inspired by Charming, but Single’s So… (November 7, 2007)
I love u [my fullname including surname]
There are guys that are so dim-headed that even if you always come to their side with just one text message or even spend almost 95% of your waking hour with them, they will still have no idea that you are interested in them.
There are guys who have incredibly low self-esteem that they cannot fathom the idea that any girl will be interested in them, so they back-out from the courting process even when the girl is practically begging for their attention.
And then there are guys who are just so incredibly dense that they cannot sense that a girl is not interested in them at all, unless she actually starts physically running away from them.
I have this neighbor – we’ll call him GuyNextDoor – who can sometimes be so creepy, he is practically bordering on stalker-ish. GuyNextDoor was about a few years older than me, a professional bum (aka jobless and almost in his 30’s) who spent 95% of his time posting various rants about the local government and the entertainment industry by posting multiple bulletins in his Friendster. He and I have known each other almost all our lives. Since I do not hang out with the other kids nor am I active in the youth organizations around our village unlike most of my siblings, I do not really have a lot of close friends of the opposite sex within our neighborhood. But eversince my brother started playing basketball with the other boys in our neighborhood, GuyNextDoor and my brother became quite close.
One day, I found an add request from him through my Friendster. Despite the fact that we never actually had any face-to-face conversation (except for the occasional nods of recognition whenever he would politely open our gate for me whenever I come home from school while he and my brother were playing basketball at the half-court infront of our house) I figured, What the heck, I know him anyway, so, I added him up. And then he started sending me messages.
GuyNextDoor: Why “It’s Complicated”? (referring to my Friendster status)
Mistress: I have a boyfriend but like I said, it’s complicated (like I really was going to start narrating my lovelife to a complete stranger. Ano siya, feeling close?)
GuyNextDoor: Okay. I think you and I are alike. I would love to get to know you.
Mistress: Uhhh… What do you mean?
GuyNextDoor: I read your profile and saw your pics. I think you’re a very interesting person. Me, what you see is what you get. I really don’t care what other people think of me.
Mistress: Uhhh… okay.
GuyNextDoor: I love you [my full name including surname]
Mistress: You don’t even know me that well and you’re telling me you love me?
GuyNextDoor: I just know. I love you so much.
Mistress: (logs out from Friendster)
He started making comments on my photos (stuff like, you are so beautiful, etcetera). I simply ignored it. The next time, he e-mails me again asking for my number. I think I was completely inebriated that time so I actually gave it to him. He then started texting me more creepy messages.
GuyNextDoor: Hi.
Mistress: Hello.
GuyNextDoor: I mis seeing u arnd.
Mistress: Iv bin bz w skul.
GuyNextDoor: I thnk ur vry beutful.
Mistress: Uh… tnx.
GuyNextDoor: I love u [my full name including surname]
Mistress: U dont evn kno me.
GuyNextDoor: I stil love u.
Mistress: (turns off her cellphone)
He then starts texting me more and more I-love-you messages and even miscalling me. I continued ignoring it. He kept sending me more I-love-you messages through my Friendster and still I ignore it. He even posts the complete lyrics of some love song to my Friendster profile, which of course, got all my friends clicking on his profile to see who is the mysterious guy professing his love for me in complete view of the general public. Still, I ignored him. Whenever we would cross paths around the neighborhood, with me, usually hurrying up to catch a ride for school and him, in his motorcycle, he would always stop his motorcycle and talk to me.
“Hi,” GuyNextDoor smiles.
“Hello,” I said, still walking hurriedly.
“You don’t reply back to my messages.”
“I have no load.” I was lying. I’m always subscribing to Globe UnliTxt everyday.
“I see….”
“I’m kind of in a hurry. I’ll be late for class.”
“Okay. See you around. Take care.”
“Thanks.”
And then he texts me again while I’m already on my way to school, and I am obliged to text back because he just saw me buy load at the nearby sari-sari store. The same thing happens, of course, when he starts telling me he loves me. I would not care to reply back anymore, despite his 3-5 miss calls.
I don’t know. Maybe he just doesn’t have a clue. Maybe my being polite misleaded him to thinking it was a sign of interest. Maybe he’s just incredibly dense that he doesn’t realize I do not want to have anything to do with him. Or maybe he’s deluded himself into thinking that he is a perfectly great catch.
Yeah, maybe, that’s it.
Mommy-Calling
Truthfully speaking, in terms of attraction factor, I have learned to categorize men into three particular categories:
Hooters Man – one who prefers big breasts
Junk Man – one who prefers big buttocks
Tits & Ass Man – one who prefers a combination of both
As such , I have noted that most guys who end up liking me fall into the first category, the Hooters Man, because of, obviously, my unfortunately inappropriately-sized rack.
It is not, as most people would think, a blessing but rather, a curse.
I am not quite comfortable with these twin mountains infront of me. Having been brought up as a semi-tomboy during my childhood years, I wasn’t quite as happy that I got these so-called blessed gifts to all women. And at first, these weren’t really as annoying to me as they used to be. It wasn’t until I started medical school when I realized that I was actually more well-endowed than the rest of the girls I was hanging out with. For one, none of my ex-boyfriends mentioned it and even my boyfriend that time didn’t say it to my face. I noted this particular development after one of my younger classmates in medical school started calling me “Mommy [Mistress].”
I was scratching my head in obvious confusion one particular time and decided to ask FunnyBoy. “Why does Naruto keep calling me Mommy?”
He laughed. “You don’t know why?”
“No. Is that like some form of endearment to him?”
“I’m not even sure if I should tell you.”
“Oh, come on! I keep hearing him say it all the time. I feel like it’s some kind of joke that only the inner circle knows about and I’m not even in on.”
FunnyBoy laughed. “It’s the Mommy thing, [mistress]. It’s like Naruto wants you to take care of him, like a mother. And to do all the things that mommies do to their babies.”
“To babies?” Now I was more confused than ever. “Like what?”
“You really have no idea?”
“Oh, come on. Now I’m curious. I have a feeling I probably won’t like what I’m going to hear but tell me anyway.”
“You know, breastfeeding… Since you have, you know…” and he pouted his lips and pointed them to the direction of my chest.
Needless to say, I was mortified.
I couldn’t look at my Mommy-calling Naruto for some time. I asked Rockstar, who was my boyfriend that time, about the incident and he just grinned at me sheepishly.
“But [mistress], you do have big breasts. That’s why I feel so darn lucky having you,” he remarked patriotizingly.
I, of course, refused to accept that I had big breasts and proceeded to do the Meryl Streep thing in “Bridges of Madison Country” that night as I stripped off all my clothes and looked at my naked self infront of the mirror.
Shoot.
I did not want big breasts but it looks like I’m stuck with them, indefinitely.
I sighed. I can’t really understand why men are endlessly fascinated with breasts. It’s really just all ducts, lobules and fats. Lots and lots of fats. I find it strange how men do not grow out of their inborn fascination for breasts even after they have gotten over the breastfeeding phase during their infancy. I would have thought it would be incredibly a sexual turn–off if a man:
a) remembers that their own mothers and grandmothers have them
b) remembers that his father once provided sexual gratification to their mother by using them for foreplay
c) ergo, remembers that his father and mother had sex at one time or another
d) remembers that he used to be breastfeed through one of his mother’s own breasts
e) thinks that one day their woman’s breast will droop and sag
If you look at it that way, I would think that a man should be disgusted with breasts since it would be a reminder of a particular time in their life when they were still fragile, more vulnerable and less masculine.
So, guys, what do you think?
Marriage Is Not An Option. Yet. 
