ZEN Bitchin'

As I am writing this, I can feel a distinct throbbing on the inside of my right arm. It is not painful, but it is a physical reminder of what I did last Sunday, Valentine’s day. I have written in my previous post my feelings on (with a delicious experience related to) Valentine’s day. This year, like years past, I wasn’t paying much attention to it much, even though it is difficult to ignore it here in Phnom Penh (again, please refer to said previous post). On Friday night, I was supposed to have dinner with V, my closest-thing-to-a-date, but he begged off because of a pressing family matter. When he suggested that we had dinner on Sunday itself, I almost bristled, and said, “Let’s see”, and left it at that. I didn’t tell him that I have an extreme aversion to going out on a date on V-day itself.

In any case, I wouldn’t have been able to go with him since I had already signed up to join a group of friends to volunteer at Habitat for Humanity as construction workers for a day (which, as it turned out, half a day in our case). This particular activity is somehow connected to  PiNOYs for Change, a group that was formed with the specific purpose of providing support to Noynoy Aquino, but at that time it was not clear to me.

I woke up at 5.30AM on Sunday to make the 7Am trip to Oudong, which is about 35 kilometers from Phnom Penh. I traveled with D because he brought his 2 year-old daughter with him, commando-style (meaning: no nanny). A third of the contingent were already at the site when we arrived. About half an hour later, the last group arrived. After a quick breakfast and a short safety orientation by the construction manager, we donned the required gear (gloves & hard hat for the brick-layers, plus goggles and face masks for the brick-makers) over the suggested outfits (rubber shoes, trousers, long-sleeved shirts) and we were off to work.

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By some twist of fate, the start of the project I recently acquired was postponed, leaving me with a 2-week gap I had no way of filling with other bits of work, having refused a short assignment in the end of January. Another source of mild irritation in this turn of events is the fact that I missed going to Bangkok to meet a dear individual because I expected to be working on Monday. I could only clench my jaws and shake my fist against the sky crying, ‘Why, God?’ Of course, I exaggerate. That instant, two words flashed in my mind: ‘movie marathon’. During this time, I also learned that the American version of ‘Ugly Betty’ has been canceled, and will consequently end its 4-year run in a few weeks. This provided me the impetus to finally get the DVD of ‘Ugly Betty’. I always tried my best to catch it at Star World but I think I managed to watch most of season 1 only. So off I went to my friendly-neighborhood (pirated) DVD-store and promptly got me the first 3 seasons of ‘Ugly Betty’.

America Ferrera as Betty, circa season 4

Towards the end of season 1 a scene tugged at the remaining strings of my heart. In this scene, Betty (America Ferrera) was being prevailed upon by her father, sister, and nephew to forgive her colleague/friend who betrayed Betty’s trust. Frustrated, her elder sister Hilda exclaimed that Betty was too hard on her friends. Betty denied this with alacrity but when her father and nephew agreed with Hilda, she was forced to examine herself if she was indeed being too hard on her friends.

The state of my friendships has been relatively peaceful since the turmoil of the last 2 years. However, lately, I have found myself becoming irritated at some of my friends over the most mundane things. I have increasingly felt that most of the people around me seem to be able to do nothing but fail me in some way or another. This feeling did not help me at all. It, in fact, added to my distress, fueling my desire to avoid company as much as possible, for fear of being hurt or worst, frustrated.

Like Betty I had been told that I’m too hard on my friends. Unlike Betty I did not deny this. On some fundamental level, I know that this is at least partly true. I think, because it takes me a long time to be friends with somebody, I tend to completely give my trust to the few that become my friends. In addition, probably because of my insecurities, I like–no, I need to be reassured that this particular friend deserves my friendship. Because of this, I always tend to subject my friendships (and my friends) to tests and experiments.

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I do not wish to write about the holidays again and yet here I am doing so. The past holiday season did not leave me with feelings of joy that I usually felt before. In fact, if anything, I felt absolutely mirthless over-all. Sure, I had bursts of exhilaration and cheer (which can be mistaken for real happiness) but these were ‘facilitated’ by external agents like drugs and alcohol. In fact, I was so glad, no–thankful that the holidays are over. That’s one less reason for my innards to continually knot themselves into tight balls inside my belly.

Still, there are other things that I’m also thankful for during the past holiday season: the gifts. Yes, you read it right. In spite of the general malaise that my prose has exhibited of late, when it comes to gifts (giving & receiving–but more on the receiving), I am still a big soft, fluffy monkey. Of all the gifts I received, these are the ones I like most.

What’s not to like about this gift? It’s orange, it has a cute chicken in front, and it’s a giant egg-shell! It’s adorable, and with no real purpose in life other than being beautiful (and yes, adorable). Scrump was given by another friend, who knows I sorta collect Lilo’s (Lilo from Lilo and Stitch, not LiLo the Lindsay Lohan) doll. I just put in there because of the great contrast in color.

I love books. Books as presents I love more. This book was given to me by the author himself. This self-published memoir chronicles his struggle at reconciling his sexuality with his faith. Some people might find the thickness of the book daunting, but I read it in one sitting, one cool evening. Ray writes such fluid prose, making the reading process easier. But this is not to say that it’s an unremarkable book. Some of the contents are bordering on the ’scandalous’–depending on the degree of one’s modesty (read: prudishness). As for me, there were some moments that made me blush. But all in all it is a compelling read. I promised Ray a review of his book in this blog. I will do a ‘proper review’ in the coming days.

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I didn’t expect that I’d be able to write this post, because I felt that the past holiday season went by in a blur, almost a drug-induced haze that it didn’t seem worth writing about. And yet here I am, doing exactly the opposite of what my glum heart has told me to: ignore the holidays, let it pass like water flowing around river stones. I don’t remember much, actually. My memories these days are more confined to what I was feeling rather than on what was happening.

I went through the motions of fixing the Christmas tree, which turned out better than I expected (though I wouldn’t admit it). I went through my friends’ plans of hosting a Christmas eve party at home, instead of a Christmas day lunch that I usually did in the past. This experience taught me that a potluck party is way better than people contributing money then having the cooking done by just a few people only.

Why? Because when the expenses exceeded the pooled money, nobody volunteered to make a second contribution to the one who handled the cooking. Moi. I however, hope that everyone had a good time. Based on the level of intoxication of people, it’s safe to say that they did have a good time. I was, in fact, so drunk that night that I only managed to help V, my room-mate, a little in tidying up after the party before sleep claimed me.

The rooftop of our flat was decorated for the party. In the end there were too much food (which we ate for the next 2 days, it seemed) but not too much whiskey, vodka & beer. There were new friends (at least to me), resurrected friends, and friends of friends who attended the party.

The Beautiful Ones

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In past dinners at the house, V and I had been including pesto in the menu. Sometimes we serve it with pasta, sometimes we spread it on sliced baguette as a base for bruschetta, or sometimes as dressing in salads. Said pesto has always been received warmly by my friends. Some even ask for some to-go pesto after the dinner. I’m happy to comply with these requests. One friend pointed out that people would be willing to pay for this pesto.

Really, I wondered, and put the thought in the back of my mind. One day a couple of weeks ago, feeling bogged down by my ennui, I called V and told him let’s make some pesto and try to sell it.

V, W, and I went to the market and bought local basil, garlic, and glass jars. We then went to the grocery to get olive oil, parmesan cheese, pine nuts and another type of basil (more purplish in color than the local) that we use in combination with the local basil. I also inspected the bottle sizes and prices of the bottled pesto in the supermarket. The bulk of the work was picking the leaves from the stems; I had stained on my fingers and nails afterwards. The next steps were fairly simple.

The first production yielded 8 bottles of pesto, with some to spare. I portioned the excess into small packets and distributed these among people we know for tasting. We sold the lot in 4 days. Motivated by the ’success’ of the first venture, we made a second batch last week. V and I bought a food weighing scale to standardize the recipe (for consistency). The second batch yielded 8 300 gram-bottles of pesto. We sell these for $6.50 a bottle. This is cheaper than the bottled Barilla Pesto in the supermarket, which is being sold at $4.60 per 180 gram-bottle.

pesto-ng-ina-mo!

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When I take a break from work, I find myself staring at the screen of my computer still. Farming in Facebook has occupied a lot of my idle time lately. The fulfillment of a thriving farm, albeit virtual, seems an effective anesthetic to whatever strife that seems to permeate my demanding and angry little heart. The company of friends does not exert its usual effect on my ennui. While grocery shopping last Friday, V and I chanced upon a notice of a garage sale close to where I live.

The next day, V and I went to the designated address to investigate and possibly make some cheap purchases. The place turned out to be a ’boutique guest house’ that was closing, hence the garage sale. Unfortunately, however, most of the interesting pieces of furniture seems to have been pre-sold already. What remained was either too plain or too expensive.

Still, one lamp caught my eye. It was metallic: with 10+ branches ending in tulip-shaped bulb shades. It looked like a retro piece from the 50s. It has seen its heyday, though: 2 of the bulb shades were broken and 2 of the bulbs did not work. But V and I still thought it was a steal at $5, so I bought it. In one of the bathrooms I saw a small wooden Khmer boat, with nice carvings. It was perfect at $1.50 so I got it again.

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