t h e b e e b o x

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Newsflash: thebeebox is closing.

Yup, I’m packing up this site--hive, bees, and all.

But I’m not abandoning blogging, oh no. The reason why thebeebox hasn’t been humming with activity lately is that the Queen Bee was busy setting up another hive. I’ve moved to a better site! Now I can post pictures, doodles, or what-have-ya.

Follow the honey trail to the new hive. See you there!

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Dig this: in the February 9 issue of TIME Magazine, the “Numbers” section contained this entry:
$1,250. Reserve price for a single hair of Beatle John Lennon to be auctioned in Spain.

Ay caramba!

That’s almost sacrilegious. Give grave robbers extra encouragement, why don’t you? Then how would you establish provenance? DNA tests? And what would you do with Lennon’s hair after you dish out the dollars for it? Frame it and hang the danged thing in the living room to serve as conversation piece? Mwahaha.

This got me thinking, the only person who could possibly have good use for a hair strand is my 17-month-old son, J. I’m not sure where he got this strange habit, but when he wants some chill-out time he gets down on hands and knees and searches for a stray strand of hair on his crib. I have shoulder-length hair. My yaya (nanny) does too. I bet we shed them like crazy. Hair falls out, it happens. Anyway, once my son gets hold of a hair strand, he lies down, pincher grabs the strand and rubs it against his cheek, drawing a curved line from temple to nose. Not very hygienic, I know but if you take that hair away from him shrieks and tears will ensue. Not good. Hair strokes seem to soothe him, so we’ve taken to letting him get away with it. Sometimes he lets go of the hair and latches on to his gauze blanket, ala Linus. Then he falls asleep. When he can’t find a single hair on his playpen he’s been known to grab his own mop and pull out a fistful of strands. Needless to say, this causes me anxiety. I’d rather he pull out my hair.

I used to have long, almost waist-length hair. Five months into my pregnancy, don’t know if it was the surge of hormones or some twist in my psychology, but I suddenly decided to chop off my hair. I sat myself down in front of the salon mirrors and had the stylist braid my hair into one long, thick plait. Then I told her to chop it off. She hesitated only briefly, meeting my gaze in the mirror. Then she took a pair of scissors and went snip snip snip. The braid came away from my head and she placed it gently on the counter.

That done, I stood up and went to the men’s section of the salon, where chatting yuppies and sleepy old men were getting their tops trimmed, chins shaved, sideburns clipped. The barber, male and balding (why are there so many bald barbers? This puzzles me no end.), refused to shave my head at first. His reason--he’s never done a woman’s head before. Duh! My instructions were clear: I wanted a clean, even, lawnmower cut, with less than a half-inch stubble left on my skull. The male patrons were listening in on our argument, and not even bothering to hide their interest. I told Mr. Barber I was pregnant and that for convenience's sake I wanted a super short cut, pointing out that there’s basically no physical difference between a male and female head. Finally, I convinced Mr. Barber that my head is gender neutral. He sat me down, and then plugged in the electric shaver. I know now how it feels to enlist in the army, haha. That close to your skull, the shaver gives you a tingly buzz. It’s a strangely cleansing experience.

After the last few snips and side anglings with small scissors to make sure I had an even shave, he finished my session off with a particularly vigorous massage. With a grin, I took off the black cape that salons cover you with, flicking off a few errant strands. I checked out my head from several angles in the mirror. I looked like a smiling dandelion.

But having short hair was great fun. Taking a bath was cut down to mere minutes. I was in and out the shower so fast, I felt like a new woman. My hair (what was left of it) was dry even before the rest of me was! My head felt light and I could hear the wind whistle around my ears. I rediscovered my cheekbones and appreciated the clean line of my jaw.

The upkeep was costly though--a visit to the barber every two weeks for maintenance. And you had to wear earrings on both ears to clue people in that you’re female. Salesclerks call me "sir," and then blush when they spy my bulging tummy. My OB-GYN did a double take when she first saw me, but wisely kept quiet.

And months after my son J was born, I discovered that having a shaved head had lots of plus points. Low maintenance mama could focus all her energies on taking care of a newborn without bothering to brush her hair and linger on all other vanities attendant to keeping long hair. No more expensive shampoos, no more fussing in the mirror. No more tiresome blow dryers.

Validation came around 3 months later, when J began learning the concept of humor. I would take his tiny hand, place it on my dandelion head and let him pat it repeatedly while I would intone, "1, 2, 3, mike test, mike test..." over and over again. He would gurgle and drool with laughter.

Now ain't that a kick in the head!

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A friend at the office asked me for a list of baby things that he would need to buy, since his wife is due to give birth to what would be their first baby, in June. So, kind soul that I am, over the weekend I got out my handbook, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Pregnancy and Childbirth and sat down to draw up the list.

My initial intention was to make a very basic list that would fit in a Post-It. But looking back and remembering how baby stuff have a way of replicating, three hours later, I ended up with this list:

Here's the List

It’s not a list, it’s a legal document! I hope I don’t scare M. off with it. Having a baby is one major production number indeed. And to think that I haven’t even gotten to toys, strollers, baby baskets, carriers, sippy cups, or potty trainers yet. Like the book says, deep pockets, folks, deep pockets.

And then it hits me--hey I’m pregnant too! I’ll be needing these things a few months down the line myself! Wahah!

I let out a sigh and I twiddle my thumbs.

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Yep, about to depart the 1st trimester. Albeit with no typical (or atypical) pregnancy symptoms whatsoever. No nausea, no dizzyness, no food cravings, no hankering for sleep, no sudden fatigue attacks--heck, not even those silly emotional fluctuations. Nada. My hormones are extremely well-behaved. Thus, can't even use being preggers as an excuse to be lazy, gotta go on with business as usual.

But I warn you, if I suddenly turn rabid, take note I have a valid excuse. Mwahahaha.

~

“Leave me alone, I’m a pregnant woman!”


EAT FOR TWO

o, baby blankets and baby shoes
baby slippers, baby spoons, walls of baby blue
dream child in my head
is a nightmare born in a borrowed bed
now I know lightning strikes again
it struck me once, then struck me dead
my folly grows inside of me

I eat for two
walk for two
breathe for two now

well, the egg man fell down off his shelf
all the good king's men with all their help
struggled 'til the end
for a shell they couldn't mend
you know where this will lead
to hush and rock in the nursery
for the kicking one inside of me

I eat for two
walk for two
breathe for two now

when the boy was a boy, the girl was a girl
they found each other in a wicked world
strong in some respects
but she couldn't stand for the way he begged and gave in
pride is for men
young girls should run and hide instead
risk the game by taking dares with, "yes"

I eat for two
walk for two
breathe for two now

walk for two?
I'm stumbling

breathe for two?
I can't breathe

five months, how it grows
five months now, I begin to show.

(Natalie Merchant / Christian Burial Music © 1989)

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Yes, “The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King" made my back (and bottom) ache with the hours-long epic voyage to destroy that glittering band of gold. But copious amounts of iced tea and two boxes of popcorn later, I emerged from the theater almost cross-eyed, but deeming the experience well worth it.

I’ve been having somewhat of a movie drought lately, I missed so many new releases. Which is very unlike me, considering I used to brave hell and high water (literally, emerging from a last full show into a freak storm that featured thigh-high flooding). I’ve yet to see Kill Bill, The Last Samurai, heck, even Mano Po 2, haha.

But I tell you, I have seen the parody of LOTR. Go to "Bored of the Rings". If you are a serious Ring-fan, or a true Tolkeinite don’t be offended, after all this site is better and way funnier than those pseudo-imaginative Legolas rantings that used to make the rounds of emails everywhere.

Precious, precious...

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There’s been a recent flurry of postings at my high school batch e-group. Mails have flown back and forth riddled with teasing, silly sentiments, and--aha!--ancient histories and little known secrets! High school, if my shameful math skills add up right, is what, 15–16 years ago? I'll bet that in the passage of years, some memories have gotten more than just a little bit warped. It’s fun guessing which ones are true, though.

But it has certainly been interesting, the strange patterns, permutations, and imagined (or maybe real—who knows now?) pairings that we are starting to uncover. Unrequited love? Lost (more likely confused) love? Which teacher had a crush on which student? What food was banned from the classroom in third year? Who blew up the toilet bowl in the men’s room when we were in freshmen year? Or exactly what color was that old bike, Franz? The photos hardly dislodge a clue.

I opened a few boxes over the weekend in search of high school photos to post, and I found two rather interesting ones. The first was a snapshot taken at a beach of the boys from my batch, how young they looked, and how cocky, and carefree. The other photograph was a rare one, showing my old group—all smiles and huddled together as only high school girls can well, huddle. The photos documented the friendships, groupings and ungroupings, some migratory, some lasting until now.

Years later, distance, a few deaths, and lives that have gone a thousand different ways finds us scouring our collective memory for good times, purer spirits, kinder hearts, happier days.