Drop ice into a cup of water. Allow tea bags to steep in them For about five minutes. Place a bag over each eye to reduce Puffiness. Kind of reminds me of that saying by Betty Ford or was it Eleanor Roosevelt?
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Drop ice into a cup of water. Allow tea bags to steep in them For about five minutes. Place a bag over each eye to reduce Puffiness. Kind of reminds me of that saying by Betty Ford or was it Eleanor Roosevelt? February 4, a. Heroic struggle to keep myself together. Must take to list-making as therapy. Perhaps sense of achievement will help me salvage my self-esteem? Miss her already! Goal: must see bottom of floor, not carpet of used Kleenex.
First check for bruised ego in can. If still breathing, salvage and place in a box for safekeeping. Except the one where moi was referred to as His Precious Little Swettie. Sure sounded like a busy day. I was suddenly struck by paralyzing case of dyahe. Got a full house today. I have the espresso machine buzzing nonstop! Oh, you want me to call later, Tita? Looked in the mirror this a. A second chin. Smiling back at me. It is physically possible to gain five pounds overnight? Can feel love handles around my waist.
I have officially become a blimp! Damn him for treating me to all that rich food in fancy restaurants with his impressive lawyer paycheck.
For telling me I looked pretty just the way I way, then insisting I watch his weekly basketball games instead of working out at the gym or playing badminton with Teray and company. For saying I was malaman, not matba. Perhaps he was fattening me up so no one else would look at me in manner of wanting to possess. Because the last thing he needed to worry about was some dude making a play for his girl.
His sweet, precious…tabachingching! But seriously dread going to work. Perhaps there will be elevator traffic? I tied on my apron and assumed counter duty. Mom had just left for Los Angeles to find work and I needed to make productive use of my spare time. Dad had passed away ar Christmas, and my mother felt the need to earn more for both of us. She had just set up BC and needed someone to take care of business while she assumed her day job as a senior purser for Cathay Pacific Airlines.
My job description: Work the espresso machine, keep countertop spanking clean, give correct change, maneuver CDs in the manner of a DJ, tally daily sales. I liked the work so much that I never left. You could say it was like a summer fling that morphed into the real thing. After four years of English , Asian History, Statistics, and Communication Theory, my future stretched out before me as nebulous as a cloudy August sky.
But Teray surely was. She was the smart one our group. Thanks to her cum laude, she had employers from procter and Gmable and San Miguel knocking down her door a few days before graduation. And Giselle, despite her AB Economics degree, opted to turn her bead-making hobby into a full- time enterprise.
In some ironic way, she was thankful her mother got an annulment from her father. Her dad readily bought her a silver Lynx as soon as the ink was dry on the annulment papers. Apparently, guilt has the power to do that.
Raj was lucky. As scion to Bernardo Industries, he had a job waiting for him the moment he was born. Tita Annie like to joke that she was lucky enough to employ the only barista in the country who has a degree in Bachelor Art, major on Communication Arts. Just so the degree can flex its muscles a bit, she gave me an extra job: She let me write the menu for the Breakfast Club. Bananarama Split two bananas split with vanilla ice cream St. This booth at The Breakfast Club, with its red cushioned leather seats and shiny formica tabletop, has seen happier times.
Friday night dates that lasted into the wee hours of the morning, cups overflowing with bottomless hazelnut coffee, conversations brimming with wit and innuendo. Couples who kissed between mouthfuls of the Bananarama Split as Tears for Fears crooned from the CD player behind the counter. But there was going to be none of that tonight. Not for as long as I was parked here. I quietly summoned St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes, to slow down my racing heartbeat and hold back a torrent of tears.
I wanted to feel as normal as I could. Or in this case, CDs to be reported to the Piracy police of the Philippines. Tita Annie should seriously stop buying these obscure, strangely- titled, obviously pirated compilation Cds. This particular one, entitled, Duran Duran in Concert, was dead giveaway. Sweet relief was mine, no matter how short-lived — just when I felt I was going to be OK, the Universe sprang me a biggie. Tita Annie rushed to my side.
The leather seat squeaked against her thighs as she slid in the booth next to me. She rubbed my back with a warm hand and offered me a stack of paper napkins to decongest my nose.
I thoughd we were hu,hu,happy! Getting Itos Ongpauco to like me was more than a long shot — suntok sa buwan more like it. Alright, so maybe I fantasized about it until it materialized — like the first time I laid eyes on Itos in freshman year when he campaigned in my class for student body treasurer. And that time when he walked onstage to receive his summa cum laude medal on graduation day.
Not to mention every day in between those big ticket moments. OK,OK, so maybe my obsessive thinking had something to do with getting the Universe to make our paths cross more than a year ago today, but this is exactly how it happened… A trippy January shower tap-tapped on the awning of The Breakfast Club. How odd, I thought to myself as I arranged the coffee cups in neat rows above the espresso machine. The tiny bell attached ti the front door tinkled. More like rang itself into a convulsion as the front door swung open.
He looked soaked to the bone, his hair rumple, his oversized jacket in dire need of dry cleaning. Even in this disheveled state, I knew this stranger was no other than batch brainiac, all-around jock who enjoyed near-celebrity status in campus… Itos Ongpauco.
In the flesh. Of all the coffee joints in all of Katipounan Avenue, he had to walk into mine. And he was drunk as a doorknob. A girl should be so lucky!
He miraculously squezzed all six feet of his athletic mien into a booth, then slumped over. Limp as a rag doll. Under normal circumstances, I would have let out a tired sigh in the manner of Judy Anne Santos in one of her api roles before fetching the mop from the closet to clean up the mess.
But since mu U. Ultimate College Crush had caused this topsy turvy, I pushed the matter aside. There were other things to think about, such as: Do I walk over there right now and introduce myself? Or do I wait for him to come to the counter like all paying customers do? Did my hair look alright? Would he recognize me from school? Do I call him Carlitos or Itos? Or is the latter a kind of in-crowd nickname reserved for just his really close friends? Oh, and there was that tiny, insignificant matter about my heart.
It was thumping like a rabbit on ecstasy. What if he had collapsed from alcohol poisoning? So I tiptoed over to his table armed with the only First Aid I knew. I made like a mouse on a stealthy mission to score some cheese and walked over to hum slowly and quietly. So I tugged at his sleeve.
The Breakup Diaries by Maya O. Calica
I can still remember the first time I read The Breakup Diaries a few years ago. I was still in college then and this title was my favorite out of all the Summit Books that were available at that time. After I finished reading it, I worked on convincing my girlfriends to pick it up as well so we could discuss it. Preferably while hanging out in a cafe because Monica, the main character, is a barista. When I saw that it has been reissued, I decided to grab a new edition and read it on my flight back to Singapore from Manila.
The Breakup Diaries
Doutaur You are commenting using your Twitter account. My second book, Undercover Taitai Marshall Cavendish came out in lateand is about a reluctant book editor-turned-undercover agent with a Chihuahua as a sidekick. Seriously, she became better but not a different person all together. Calica Goodreads Author Editor, Illustrator. Maya has a point, right?
BREAK UP DIARIES MAYA CALICA PDF