I went to an all-out beauty binge last week as I got treated to an amazing spa, got a fabulous hair treatment, a thorough facial cleansing and got myself a bunch of the latest cosmetics from L’Oreal, Shu Uemura and Maybeline – the best part of course, is that I got all these for FREE. Just some of the many perks I enjoy from being a lifestyle journalist (aside from the free trips, of course. gloat ).

I had to cover the newly-opened spa in my fave bohemian haven, Malate. Sanctuario Spa is not your usual modern spas often located in malls or corporate buildings. This one is situated inside a century-old house, and the interior is just beautiful. Aside from the silent awe I felt for breathing the air packed with history, I actually felt very excited since the place is just simply amazing. The rustic charms of the bathhouses somehow complemented the modern pool and jacuzzi, plus the way the light played with the windows of the room, it was like getting a massage inside a church!

The downside however, is that mostly males can only make use of the wet area since they have a very limited space to accommodate the girls as well. The good side though, is that since majority of their clientele is mostly males, the staff and the therapists are also mostly guys. Cute guys.

As a special guest, I was allowed to try the wet area and indulge in a treatment that’s provided only for the guys. I felt like Venus being adored by hordes of gorgeous men who are there to answer to my every whim. It took almost every ounce of my restraint when I entered the steam room alone and one adorable staff with the dimples asked if I wanted company. Sure it was tempting, but still, I’m very much taken, thank you. It did put a smile on my face though, and it felt flattering just to be asked.

I was treated to a Royal Turkish Massage in Vichy shower, and it can be described in one word – wet. It’s a kind of treatment where you lie naked on your back with only a disposable undies on while the attendant/ therapist gives you a bath, a coffee scrub, a honey facial and Swedish massage. When I met my attendant, Angie, I jokingly replied, "What, no guy attendant for me?" Really, it was a joke.

It felt a bit uncomfortable lying there obviously exposed, aside from the disposable underwear which didn’t really conceal anything, and the 6 vichy showers showering me from the top splashed down strong enough for me that if I tilt my head the wrong way, I might as well drown. It got a bit cold, but the aromatic coffee scrub was so relaxing, I actually fell asleep – rain shower and all. Plus the honey facial was very yummy, although I didn’t think it changed anything with my skin. The massage was also relaxing although I asked that she cut it short, I was, afterall, soaked for almost two hours already. After the session, I felt like a prune! Wrinkled in all the right places, but I’ve never felt so clean either! I swear, this might be how one would feel coming out your mother’s womb.

Anyway, here are some of my pictures of the spa and know why i think it's a mini haven...

No, that's not me there...

Thai massage in a breezy cabana...

After the spa, treat yourself to guilt-free snack

(to be continued...)

"Ma’am, please, I hope you could add at least P20 to the fare", the driver, obviously perplexed, asked me the moment he flagged down his cab meter.

"Why?" I ask incredulously. P20 afterall, is still a big deal in this time of seemingly perpetual economic crisis.

"Tumaas ho ng sobra ang presyo ng langis, halos hindi na talaga namin kayanin" (The price of oil increased drastically, we almost can’t afford it anymore)

Then it was silence between us – for him, since he didn’t wish to embarrass himself anymore after literally begging that I give him more money, and silence for me since I’ve gone into a kind of stupor pondering whether it’s still my duty to worry about the gas he’d probably use with the next passenger.

And just like that, the grim reality of our more than sorry economic state has become more real than ever. We used to have beggars only in streets, but now they come in uniforms, and driving a cab at that.

This is how it is in our country. The years of government corruption has finally caught-up with our nation, and sadly, the first to suffer are the people, the same persons corrupt politicians get their money from. We’ve tried almost everything – putting our trust in the hands of economists, hoping that the answer to all our problems lies in the ‘poor people charm’ of a former actor for a president, then taking it to streets to oust him the moment we realize our mistakes and discharging him as the nation’s leader.

But we never learn. After a euphoric month of elated idealism from our world-renowned People Power, we plunge into the same cancer our society has been suffering for years, and we come out more sick than ever.

It’s almost election time and my people are vying, with the lowest of hopes and eagerness, for the next person to be declared as president. And the candidates? A movie actor who has no experience whatsoever about running even the local government (who, by the way, has a very good chance of winning), a sly current leader who’s probably our best bet just so we could avoid the former actor from winning, a former police chief who’s pretty heinous as a trigger-happy murderer, a fair religious leader (but has also no political experience), and a former education secretary who, at least for me, is the obvious choice if we ever want to get out of the dumps.

The sad thing though is that in our country, elections are not just elections, but popularity contests. People would most likely vote for you not by your qualifications, but on how good you are in dancing the ocho-ocho or the spaghetti song. Members of the same political parties bicker like kids, and they instantly defect to the other group the moment they see that their chances of winning in their current party is bleak – disregarding principles, self-pride and delicadeza along the way. And the most depressing part? Knowing that the most important requirement of winning – is that the people know you’re capable of coming-up with large sums of money so you could buy their vote.

The people here are so desperate to get their hands on money that they’re willing to sell anything – their property, their vote, their soul. We choose our leaders here by vying for the ‘lesser evil’ who’s most likely to win. It doesn’t matter that you’re principled and that it’s obvious that people should vote for you. If you got weak machinery (i.e. you have no money), then you will never have the chance in hell to be that leader.

To my fellow Pinoy blogmates, I’m openly campaigning for Raul Roco, although his state of health is questionable (which might actually lead to Noli de Castro actually replacing him – God forbid) and despite the harsh onslaught to his character (being pikon, and letting the government pay for the salary of his wife’s driver), I still believe he’s the only chance we have if we want to make it. Our country has very technical problems, and we need technical solutions to solve it – Roco knows these solutions, he has more than proven himself during his DepEd stint. We just can’t win by heart alone, we’ve proven in the past that’s not enough. We need Roco, and this might be the only chance we have to have him as our leader.

My beautiful country is sick. And I don’t know just how much of its suffering I could stand. And the way things are running, our only hope lies in the leader who’s selfless, born with obvious goodness, and is willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of everyone.

Problem is, he died in Calvary a long time ago.

After almost five months since I was first introduced to Friendster, I finally decided to use my account, which an officemate activated for me. Friendster, by the way, is an on-line community service, which keeps you in touch with current friends, old friends, and other personalities such as models, actors and actresses by inviting them to be your ‘friends’. Your account would include your pictures, hobbies, interests and other such information that I last pondered on back in grade school – when I answered autograph books for my classmates.

For some reason, it’s always with a half heart whenever I try to update my account. As narrow-minded as it may sound, I find the site too trivial. The goal of hoarding all the people you know so you could reach the maximum 500 friends just sounds too superficial – please note that this opinion is mine alone, and I do not wish to offend anyone who’s fascinated and makes full use of Friendster.

For one, I find it too tedious trying to fill-up all the spaces that would describe who I am. Although I have a lot of safe interests which I could put to let ‘friends’ know more of me, I admit I’m more of a freelancer when it come to the things that catch my fancy – I might like the color sunny yellow today, and tomorrow it’s blue green or I might be listening to Maroon 5 in the afternoon, and at night, I’d totally dig Southborder.

So you see, I change my mind a lot, and I don’t think it would do justice to who I am if I just put whatever on my account, and I don’t think putting in ‘too many to mention’ would actually serve useful in my bid to further heighten my image in the cyber social world.

Then there’s the issue of getting in touch with old friends I might have last seen five or eight years ago. Sure it would be nice to catch-up with them and know what the universe has been throwing at their feet, but then again, deep inside of me, I know there’s a reason why we haven’t kept in touch – or in some sense, why I’ve kept my distance. In those years we haven’t been together, we’ve grown in ways that each of us can truly appreciate and accept, only if we’ve grown together. But we haven’t. And whatever changes I’ve undergone, be it good or bad, I know that those I knew before might never truly understand or accept with the same open heart as my few real friends I have now do.

The changes might just prove too big. I’m no longer just Mae, the tomboy who used to spend most of her time watching WWF reruns and climbing trees with mostly guy buddies. I’m more comfortable with being Rainne (a nickname I got after my college bestfriend, May, has had enough of asking who of the two Mays of the class is being called), the girl once described by Haze as ‘the cheerleader type’.

I know that Mae still lives in some part of me. But she and Rainne can no longer be referred to as the same person. And only people like Haze, Bitter Paulie and Ex_groupie can truly know why (if the three of you are clueless for the timebeing, set another kitten’s session and I’ll remind you). Change is inevitable, and to truly know who I am now, then my old friends would have to live another lifetime with me, which is probably not impossible, although it would be truly tiring telling them my story all over again.

So Friendster really hasn’t that much appeal to me. Besides, I’m a certified blog lover (although it takes me days before I update). It’s more comforting to know that people know me not just by the seemingly initial requirement of meeting face to face, but by looking beyond the physical, and getting the epitome of who I am through my thoughts -- yes Harriene, you’re right, I am pretty girly.

And the mystery and fascination that you’re actually in touch with real strangers who doesn’t really care of your past and whom I deeply know have become special friends, sounds more engaging than old chums who’s first concern is whether I’ve actually graduated college or not.

What can I say, blogging rules.

Ummmmmm. Sigh. Bliss. Sigh.

I just got back from a 3-day trip in Boracay – the ultimate paradisiacal get-away. It’s a place for people who wants to step on baby powder white sand, cool clear waters which makes you feel like you’re swimming in a man-made pool, and bask under the glory of the radiant day star. Anyway, I’m still in a dream-like state for the time being, so here’s a rundown of my thoughts from the happiest place on earth. Well, at least for me…

1. NEVER wear pants when going to Boracay. Believe me, the sea will baptize them wet the moment you step on its realm.

2. Do try to get a room with a view. This was my view in my room from Nami Private Villas, and it ain’t just any view.

3. The beach from a sunbather’s point of view.

4. If you’re planning on spending long hours under the sun, bring a book. I brought three with me – Like Water for Chocolate, Lolita, and Harry Potter 2. Just for variation.

5. Of course, when you’re alone in an island, it wouldn’t hurt to do a little boy watching…

6. Sigh. Wish I could walk with N on this shore…

7. … and watch this romantic view with him

8. Island regulars: People who love to play with fire

9. The sun: above and below

10. The best way to take a walk in sizzling Bora: with a large glass of Halo-halo (our version of ice cream – sweet beans, sweet corn, jelly, leche flan, ube, cheese, crushed ice, sugar and milk).

11. You can never have too much summer slippers. I got four pairs – pink, yellow, white and pucci print at P20 each.

12. Reggae is the best island music – tiki torches, sweaty bodies, gyrating hips – it’s the ultimate foreplay.

13. You can never have too much stargazing.

14. When you’re in love, there’s just no room for summer flings. Even if it’s with a trim local bronze demi-god or a sexy and witty American who makes it hard for you to breathe when he’s around.

"So maybe we should cool it off for awhile."

I wanted to take back what I said after seeing the pained look on his face. But the idea has been gnawing its way towards my mind everytime he gives me his usual "let’s see" or "I’m not sure sweetie" when I ask that he drop what he’s doing and have a little time together.

I was a paranoid wreck everytime I think that the reason he can’t give me a definite answer is because he really didn’t want to be with me anymore. We used to have what we called ‘break time rendezvous’ where we’d stop what we’re doing and take a long walk towards the coffee shop, stopping in every street light so he could give me one of those kisses that leave my knees shouting for support.

I was so certain that what I said was what he was waiting to hear, that he was just a gentleman, that’s why I didn’t hear it from him first. But he was just silent. Our backs resting behind the cold walls of the old city. We were a foot apart from each other and it took every ounce of my will to refrain from reaching out and holding his hand, because I know that the minute I feel even a bit of his warmth, I’d take everything I said and claim it was all just a big joke.

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?"

"Why should we cool it off?"

He wasn’t going to make this easy. "To think I guess. To set our priorities straight. To know what matters to us now." God, he was all that mattered.

"Cooling off also means we’re breaking up."

I know. I was expecting he’d say that. He never believed in gray areas, it was either black or white, love or hate, you let go or you hold on.

"I thought you were stronger than this."

How dare he say that! He isn’t the one who wakes up every morning thinking if today is the day we’d finally have the world to ourselves, and then go to sleep with a heavy heart because "something came up" or "I really can’t leave work". I was the patient one! I’m the one who needs consoling! I’m the one on the losing end, and he calls me weak.

"I don’t even see you anymore."

"I thought you understood. You know my work is crazy"

"Yeah, well, your work is the only thing that’s important to you. Or at least that’s what you claim. How do I know what else you’re doing." Jealousy. Doubt. Mistrust. Poison to every relationship.

But can you really blame me? You start neglecting someone and you leave them with an emotional burden that starts out as a small spark which gets out of hand until it becomes a wildfire which consumes not just your heart, but your very sanity. Sometimes, in a sick kind of way, it’s easier if the other one’s cheating. At least then it’s easier to know who’s the dysfunctional one – the one who broke the dream. And you can go on with your life with the smug line, "it’s your loss, not mine."

Then he abruptly straightened-up, held my gaze, and I saw something there that I wasn’t expecting. What was I expecting? Guilt? Denial? More anger? But all I saw was pure, raw pain of disappointment. And they were behind glassy eyes. Which made it even worse.

"Don’t you trust me at all?" Silence.

"I see."

He gave a breathy sigh, then, "I haven’t been fooling around. I don’t know how to prove it but I don’t. I know how much things are hard for you right now, but you’re not the only one who’s suffering. Sometimes I feel so foolish to be staying ridiculously late at the office when all I want to do is see you, and touch you. Hell, I’d be happy if I could smell you’re around. Or if I could just hear you laugh. But if I want to give you the kind of life you deserve, then it’s me who has to work the hardest. And that means I can’t own my time. At least for now. I just need you to understand, and to know that you’re there for me. Because you’re the only reason why I’m doing all these"

"I don’t know…"

"Don’t give up on me now. As sucky as it sounds, I really got to work. For the future of me, and my girl."

"Am I you’re girl?"

"No. You’re everything."

And the most amazing thing happened. He took my hands, turned it palms up, covered his face with it, and cried. If I wasn’t feeling so overwhelmed with the whole scene, I would have laughed at him. Because really, the sight of a towering 6ft man crying on the hands of my five feet nothing frame could have been really funny, pathetic even. But I didn’t feel like laughing at the moment.

"Hey, you’re hair smells like my shampoo"

Sheepishly, he smiled and said, "I wanted to think you we’re in the shower with me when I take a bath"

Then I looked into his eyes and breathed, "we’re not breaking up…" it wasn’t a question.

"Never"

And just like that, he leaned down, and whispered his smile on my mouth.