Goddess, I Am.

Have you ever bought yourself something that you feel is the ultimate representation of everything you’ve ever worked hard for? Some people would buy homes; others, cars, boats, and airplanes. As for me? I bought myself a Macbook.

Everyone, say hello to Gaius Julius Caesar Dictator – or just, Gaius. (It’s a bit overdue, I know.

As you all know, I’ve been mooning over Macbooks for, well, FOREVER. Something always came up, however, so I never really got the chance to put away enough money to get one. Until a little over a month ago, that is; hence, Gaius.

I must say that Gaius is – hands down – THE best computer I have ever owned, not to mention the most beautiful. EVER. I was originally all set on getting the 13-inch Aluminum unibody, but decided at the last minute that I don’t need to shell out almost another $400 just to get features that I’m never likely to use, as I don’t edit videos or music or even pictures. My mum’s boss, who was in the US at that time, picked it up for me – from Circuit City, I believe – and was kind enough to haul it all the way back to the Philippines, so I got a pretty good deal for it, too. Besides, I still think that white Macbooks have the quintessential Macbook look and are heartbreakingly gorgeous.

I’ve invested on VMWare Fusion so I can run both Mac OS X and Windows XP applications on Gaius. Although I would prefer to turn my back on Windows forever, the software I use for spinning (my meal ticket these days) all run on Windows XP, so until the developers come up with Mac versions, I don’t really have much of a choice. The Windows XP installation runs on a virtual computer, so basically, I have two computers running running on one laptop. I’ve named my Windows virtual machine Lucius Cornelius Sulla . . . because I just can’t help myself.

For a while, Gaius was completely devoid of physical protection (apart from my oh-so cute laptop bag), so I guess it was a bad idea to take him on holiday in Boracay. I discovered a telltale discoloration and a slight scratch on a corner of Gaius’ lid for all and sundry to see, and I was in a right state of panic. I burst into tears and yelled at my poor husband who really was only trying to help. Yes, I do scare myself sometimes. But hey, it was a 2-week old Macbook (back then) AND it didn’t exactly cost me peanuts, so I still think my panic was well-founded.

I decided to pay iStore a visit when I got back to see if they had anything that could possibly help me with Gaius’ little problem. If not, I was getting ready to resign myself to the idea that I might have to get one of those laptop skins, or worse, those tacky crystal cases. Before I did, though, I did a bit of Googling, and I found out that the cleaning products they sold on Apple stores were, well, downright shitty, and that I was better off using anything from toothpaste to Staedler erasers. Our toothpaste, however, was green, and I was afraid I will only succeed in turning Gaius into The Hulk. We eventually tried the erasers – and lo and behold! It worked! Now Gaius is as gorgeous as new, and I’m the proud momma once again.

I’ve learned my lesson, however, and have now invested in all manners of Macbook protection. I now have a screen protector, a silicon keyboard cover, and I will forever and ever probably keep a Staedler eraser handy. I’m also looking for the prettiest laptop sleeve I can find. As much as possible, I do want to keep Gaius the way he is – white and naked the way God and Apple intended him to be.

One thing’s for sure: Gaius has made a die-hard Mac fan out of this girl. And I’m not going to say anything definite right now, but if I really can’t help myself, he’s going to get upgraded into a Pro very, very soon.

Damn, these Macs are addictive!

There are photographers, there are photographers, and there are photographers.

There are those who take photos that are so beautiful and moving that they have the power to both inspire and discourage the people who see them. There are also others who think – even believe – that they have the ever crucial “eye” – and we let them because we’re just too polite to say otherwise.

And then there are those who take pictures simply because there’s a camera on hand and there’s a moment worth capturing. I am one of these novices. I don’t have any aspirations of becoming a photographer, nor do I care if the photos I take are any good, as long as I look good in the photos taken of ME.

But once in a while, I do make myself proud:

I am now toying with the idea of buying a proper DSLR camera, instead of constantly borrowing my mother’s Olympus point-and-shoot. One of those digital camcorders isn’t a bad idea, either.

Lofty, lofty dreams. Do I have what it takes? Let’s hear your thoughts.

My husband, he putters. He never stops doing things around the house, whether it’s fixing bathroom faucets, or picking up my stray hairs on the floor, or digging weeds out of his mini garden. In fact, if not for his constant (anal, almost) obsession with the total annihilation of dust and ants and my wayward locks, I’ll be living in a cobwebby house, wearing moth-eaten underwear.

Recently, he has found a new way to pass the time on weekends: he makes cranberry juice. Not from concentrate, mind you, but from real cranberries.

According to Wikipedia, cranberries only grow in bogs in the Northern Hemisphere. Well, we must be in freakin’ Siberia because my mother has a lovely cranberry bush on her front yard, flourishing like it’s not approximately 3,000 miles from its appropriate environment. (It’s that, or we’re bog-people.)

Now, my acquaintance with cranberries have been pretty limited to the Ocean Spray cranberry-grape mixed variety that supermarkets sell at ridiculous prices. I’m extremely predisposed to UTI (I get it a couple of times a month – once, if I’m lucky), so I have no choice but to occasionally drink the damned thing. And not being a great lover of most juices, I hate it with a vengeance.

Needless to say, none of us could tell a cranberry from a Martian. It was the landlady who told us what it was, and naturally, we were skeptical. After all, we’re a long way from cranberry central, and it could very well be some sort of poisonous berry for all we know. Eventually, some brave soul (my mother) took a mouthful of berry and thankfully didn’t start frothing. Thus, The Husband’s cranberry hobby was born.

Apparently, the moment the berries start to resemble grapes, they’re ready to pick. And unfortunately for me, they turn purple every week. For the past couple of weeks alone, The Husband, bless him, must have harvested about 20 pounds of cranberries. Out of this haul, he has probably made about 15 liters of pure, undiluted cranberry juice. And though we share this yield with my mum and my sister, I end up having to drink most of it because of my condition.

Strangely enough, everyone from The Husband, to my mother, to my sister and her husband, to the landlady absolutely LOVE it – even without sugar, in my weird sister’s case. All of them have been consuming it with such gusto that you’d think it was nectar from the gods, while I have been forced to find ways to somehow bypass my taste buds when I drink it.

I’ve told The Husband maybe he should consider marketing ‘em cranberries. With the price of commercial and predominantly diluted cranberry juice the way it is practically everywhere in the world, it’ll be easy for him to find a niche and prosper. Not only that, there will be less cranberry juice for me to drink. Who says the world can’t be perfect?