IngliseraKuno

‘Govergence’ in Bacolod Each year, we grow in number. And each year, we all grow as people, working for this nation which seem to  be divided not only by the waters of its  islands but by vision. Yet I see this diversity among us, as something worthy. More than the opportunity to practice stretching patience to the limits, diversity provides us a platform to meld all colors into a giant rainbow. The gathering of all career service officers in Bacolod City has once again reinforced my belief that no matter how our brains are all clogged with the demands of our work, we can step back and breathe. We are given the privilege to hold hands, hug, talk with our mouths full, with and to our colleagues without judgement. We take in shared knowledge and rich experiences, all eager to listen and much more, to speak. To talk about the million things a development manager in government has in mind, with people who will understand. Some may appear to refuse to open their eyes and ears t...

Having hit the ‘like’ button on the page ‘Goalcast’, every now and then I stumble upon the most powerful and meaningful talks and speeches ever given from all parts of the world. Messages on women’s rights, failure, loss, defeat, dreams, aspirations, experiences, from different perspectives and viewpoints of race and culture; all are a delight to watch. I learn new things, and my beliefs on some issues of humanity are either reinforced or challenged. Each night, I watch videos of adorable pet dogs, to compensate for the absence of our Winky, and ocassionaly after, a video of the page ‘Goalcast’ would appear in my newsfeed. It is a breath of fresh air to listen once in a while rather than do the talking. I often do the talking in my line of work, plenty of talking. Last night, I stumbled upon a talk on the power of words spoken. The speaker (his name escapes me) said something so true: that the choice of words is equally important with how these are said. One may use the proper word...

The phrase, “..Give unto Caeser what is due Caesar..” is written in the bible as : ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are due Caesar’s’ “, in Matthew 22:21. The phrase was quoted to describe what Jesus Christ felt about the Jews paying taxes to the Romans. Interpretations through the years of this phrase are varied but the common ground I found in all the readings is this: give what is “just and equitable, and he ought to have his right” (Commentary by John Gill). The word “just” is defined by the dictionary as “based on or behaving according to what is morally-right and fair”; and the word “equitable”, according to Merriam-Webster, is “dealing fairly and equally with all concerned”. These come to mind today because I seem to view things from a different perspective, upon learning that this phrase “...Give unto Ceasar what is due..” came from the mouths of those whom are speaking of that “root of all evil”, money. First of all, I find it disdainful to speak of money in the same ...

Beach Bum L. U. Foodpark (My daughter Ana’s treat😘) San Juan, La Union started to be on the map a few years back as the ‘surfing capital of the north’. The thing I like about that is the idea of ‘surfing’ in a small province like La Union may seemed to be absurd for some, but the steady increase in influx of local tourists proves it is not.  And so aside from cozy, little resorts built one after the other to accomodate tourists, small food businesses grew in number. Competition was not so fierce initially, these days, it has become that. For a while, only a few coffee shops and the like opened their doors to tourists, and were able to offer their services for prices steeper than the normal. After all, what choice did the tourists have? So even the locals who wanted to experience something ‘new’ could not afford to eat in any of the shops. Family bonding to us means eating out. Not splurging, but we have the most interesting and funny conversations over food. Naturally, we hav...

October 29, 2017 in Caba, La Union I put the palms of my hand on the marble wall, like pushing it, at the sides where Papa’s name was etched in black. It was cold, that wall, on a hot and humid day, which gave a sense of relief to me. I whispered, ‘I miss you, Papa’, in between deep breaths as I climbed up the hilly slope of our public cemetery. Papa and his family rested on a place where a full view of our town can be seen, and that Caba sunset. Even from their resting place, they sit atop a hill, witness to God’s everyday miracles. I have not been ‘up’ in a while, it was difficult to reach the area for someone overweight and who  abhors exercise. Aside from the fact that a snake or some other creature may suddenly decide to find out how a foot tastes like. This year, I decided to climb because I had dreams of me and my palms on that marble wall but the paint which was used to carve out ‘Edgar P. Castillejos’ was fading. Perhaps Papa was telling me I had to go ‘up’ and fix it....

Quite happy now that she has found her balance. All of us siblings have struggled through many issues in our lives, but the first three of us among ‘Edgar’s children’ wade and deal with them, always her, our youngest, thought of. She has always been the baby, having been born twelve years after our youngest then, Maevic. The birth of Kriska was looked at by all of us as joyous, save for Maevic, who was used to being the youngest. Maevic tells us of this story of her not caring about Kriska when she was brought home from the hospital. In fact, I think now that the time when Maevic brushed Kriska’s hair with her new baby hairbrush and pulled out all of the hair from her tiny head, she probably was fighting the urge to put a pillow on her mouth. But anyway. Kriska is Kriska. She swings from extreme happiness to desperate sadness within a minute. Her cackles would be overtaken by her sharp tongue in seconds, one would think ‘..what the?..’ She has the flair for the theatrics, (pinaganda ...

They were seated near us in church, Rey, Jasmin, Rem and his wife. I honestly do not know how to address them properly, Ninong?, Ninang?. They are our godparents on our wedding, as they are the closest non-politicians my parents had as friends when Papa was no longer Mayor in Caba. They are both young, Rey and Jasmin, and to my mind, they are also our friends more than our godparents. Perhaps because All Souls’ Day is approaching, or Papa’s death anniversary is on the 19th of November, but I felt so sentimental when I saw them. I have not seen Ninang Jasmin in ages although Ninong Rey, I meet once in a while, only exchanging pleasantries. They are the couple from whom I learned much, about kindness and friendships. I remember Mama and Ninang Jasmin started to be friends only by chance, through BHF (Balingit Home Furnishings) the business that this young couple established way back here in La Union. Then they became close; Mama found a confidante and a friend not in any way connecte...

THAT DREADFUL EO366 I am quite upset now. With myself, more than the others who allowed this to happen to our colleagues. More than four years of waiting to be appointed to their permanent position-items, they have yet to wait longer. To me, this is most unfair. Especially in my province, when the people who have worked their butt off for so many years to better the lives of our farmers, are the ones affected. I look back at the past four years, and  try to put some sense into what we have done. I say, ‘we’, because I am part of the management which saw through the processes which we were directed to by the bosses, to implement this dreadful EO366, or the government’s rationalization plan. Simply put, the executive order speaks of downsizing of government personnel; that it  is imperative to ‘let go’ of some of its people as there are positions in all departments which are redundant, or no longer serve the purpose for which these were created in present times. Our governme...

My colleagues, my friends in Ilocos Sur, Today, I will ask, once again. Not for myself but for Jethro, my son’s friend, who passed away last night, from complications of cancer after years of a courageous battle. I wrote about him on the day I met him, and was overwhelmed by this young man’s strength. After many read my blog about Jethro, I learned plenty about him: that he continued to go to school despite his chemo sessions, and was absent only when the chemo was actually administered; that he took the mini-bus from Aringay to San Fernando everyday (about 45 minutes travel) to get to school, in crutches, but was always on time; that he carried CPUs on his own (he was taking IT); and more. He did not know me personally. The only conversation I had with him was when I told him I was proud of him, and had our picture taken together. But I know that you all will understand, after four years of having known me, how I always try to be of help to others through the generosity of my frie...

I will give this guy attention as he needs it. Not like it matters to him now, but here goes: 1. People who are born ‘ugly’ should be more accepting of who they are. Personally, I do not like plastic surgery or any invasive procedure to change how I look, mainly because I cannot afford it, and  I am not as healthy as to endure whatever the post-procedure will entail. 2. I look  at the mirror nowadays and the wrinkles are starting to be more pronounced; my freckles are threatening to merge in one large spot which will make me look I was punched in the face; my cheeks are sagging; there are lines at the sides of my nose; my eyebags have not become three layers instead of the formerly two. A friend not so tactfully told me once that my posts on facebook at times are so ‘close-up’ with all the weariness on my face showing. She said that like it was a bad thing to show people how you really look like. That made me squirm a bit. Ok, turned-off with her actually. I assumed there ...

‘Choose to be the better person, Mom.’, she told me over the weekend. We have one of those lovely conversations every so often, in bed, whiling away the afternoon. I live in my bedroom nowaways. Nothing seem to soothe me more than the smell of my sweat on the bedsheets, a whiff of cigarette smoke in my hair, the scent of my daughter’s breath while sleeping soundly beside me, the feel of my son’s long legs which barely fit in the bedframe. It is worse now after I got sick, my bed became my refuge for recovery. I was again talking to Ana about people at work, and about people in my life, in general. I was telling her about how others in my life seem to be ‘winning’ at everything even if most of them do not have a bone of good faith in their bodies. In so many words, I told her it was unfair; that those who are indiscriminate, indecent and thrive on the miseries of others are those who live good lives. While the rest of us, who are most conscious of the ‘right-and-wrong’ as we value our f...

So, as I told this story to my daughter while waiting for about 48 years of billing from the hospital for my discharge, I thought she would promptly call me 'loser'. This was about my very first...drumroll please...'Grab' cab ride ever. I was to show up at two appointments set up for me by a friend, and I could not miss them. The ride I expected to use was sent on an errand, so I had to go with 'Grab'. So I opened my app, pretended I knew how to work it for a few seconds, then gave it to the hotel staff, 'because their system could not locate Seda Vertis?'. They handed me back my phone with their lovely smiles and told me to sit and wait as my cab was arriving in a few. My heart was pounding. I have never, ever, taken a cab ride on my own. So this was new and exciting. A few minutes later my cab arrived: I was to pay 211 pesos for him to take me to my destination. I told him, 'Kuya, I will give you plus 100 pesos if you take me there on time; 3...

Ana became slowly agitated when we were negotiating this narrow street somewhere in Pasay City, supposedly leading to the bus station for Baguio. It was so narrow, and makeshift stalls were put by vendors lining the streets. Our car wheels were literally by the street gutter. A traffic aide led us there which made Ana ask out loud when we were either about to do a hit-and-run of the kids running about/pedestrians walking in different directions or, we were about to crush the toes of the old man having his early morning coffee he apparently enjoys having by the pavement of a chaotic street: 'Akala yata nung traffic aide, Mama, naka-pedicab tayo.....at ano ba ang mga taong ito, hindi ba nila nakikita itong kotse? Invisible eto? Hindi man lang tumabi...ano ba?! Nearing our destination, she quipped, '...parang hindi na ako makahinga....'. The streets of Manila does that to you. It was my turn to hyperventilate when on our way back to province via EDSA, a boy in red tshirt...

'I think that the purpose of mothers is to show her children how things ought to be done in this life...well in my case, not completely by example...but I guess you have seen enough to learn from the mistakes I made...', I told Ana, in yet again, another one of those short but important conversations. She nodded in agreement. She understood what I meant. I am grateful for much in this life, but not more than having children like Ana and Aidan. - thoughts of a 'stage mother' while waiting for her son at a parking lot Ana Isaiah Castillejos Suguitan, Aidan Suguitan

For Nanay, Badeen. Virginia Verora, Virginia Verora My tears are 'pa-gets' in today's lingo. They show themselves rarely in everyday life, except for movies which touch my heart. I call them 'showbiz' tears, those which flow freely prompted by a well-written script or an actor's work genuinely played. I remember not crying when Papa died. I do not recall if it was because I had to keep them from falling so I could think clearly for the arrangements we would have to make, or if it was simply because my pain was so deep, my tears went in seclusion, as if to demand for privacy and respect. I cried during his funeral mass, that wretched day we finally said goodbye to Papa, whose soul lived on with the most admirable of men. Yesterday, I learned of the death of an old, good friend and mentor, Badeen, and I again found my tears buried deep. We were just 'talking' on facebook last month, on her birthday. I told her I learned a great deal from her not onl...

Years ago, I was privileged to have been mentored and coached by consultants of the Food And Agriculture Organization on agri-marketing. Aris, the consultant who helped me largely with what I now know about it, always ended his lectures on the topic by telling the farmer-participants in the sessions we conducted with them using this line: 'So the basic rule that all of you must know in marketing your agri-produce is this: there are no rules out there.' By 'out there', he meant that world which our farmers almost always fail to recognize. There is life beyond farms, Aris would always tell them, but do all things in good faith and all will be fine. I think about that now, and I realize the same is true with life, in general.  The thing about good faith nowadays is that it does not sell any longer. Good faith is what losers in this world arm themselves with, and the winners are the shrewd, cruel, most often those who will compromise everything including their souls, j...

God is not the head of a 'wish-granting factory.' Or something like that.  This, from my 23-year-old Ana, during our late morning conversation over my coffee and smokes, and her Milo in-between morsels of popcorn and almonds. As usual, when we had the chance to talk on weekends, we went from trivial to deep, in extremes. At one point we would gossip about other people, then we would go to topics of old souls: life and all there is to it. I listened to her tell me yes, she prays each and every chance she gets, to our God and ask for guidance and strength, not just for her but for those she loves; and to say 'thank you' for all the blessings we have. 'I never ask Him to 'give me this or that', Mom.', she told me, because she believes in earning her keep. God will give you a chance, she says, and it is up to you as to how to spin that. I have seen in her this wisdom even when she was young. She never behaved like she was entitled to anything, and never...

Years ago, I was privileged to have been mentored and coached by consultants of the Food And Agriculture Organization on agri-marketing. Aris, the consultant who helped me largely with what I now know about it, always ended his lectures on the topic by telling the farmer-participants in the sessions we conducted with them using this line: 'So the basic rule that all of you must know in marketing your agri-produce is this: there are no rules out there.' By 'out there', he meant that world which our farmers almost always fail to recognize. There is life beyond farms, Aris would always tell them, but do all things in good faith and all will be fine. I think about that now, and I realize the same is true with life, in general. The thing about good faith nowadays is that it does not sell any longer. Good faith is what losers in this world arm themselves with, and the winners are the shrewd, cruel, most often those who will compromise everything including their souls, just ...

She hid her face under the blankets, trying to muffle the sound of her clogged nose where her tears started to drip. The scene in the movie we were watching involved characters in a love triangle, an extra-marital affair where the couple's children were dragged into the mess. I was in tears, too, but I was not embarrassed to show her. I cry over sad movies, and that's that.  I started to laugh at her, the way she was cowering, and she laughed at herself, too. She told me, she really gets touched with stories which involved children, especially so when these children's emotions are compromised. She has two neices and two nephews, one recently said hello to the world. And I guess that is where she draws these feelings from. She is like these kids' second mother, and reared them together with her other sisters.  She is single at 50. By choice, I would say. She devoted most of her time to taking care of Honey Leoning, their family's martriarch, and her neices and nephew...

Friends, I decided to post this finally not only because I can no longer wait for the newsletter on which this article is supposed to be published; but because when DAR Ilocos Sur was chosen to take the planned 'PARPO's Corner' of the newsletter's maiden issue, I could not write a thing. So I asked my dearest friend, Boboy Yonzon, to write about me. When he sent this to me, and I read it, I was speechless. I hope you all enjoy reading this. Thank you dearest.  And yes, I am bragging.   CRUSADING CHRISTIANNE By Boboy Yonzon She draws from her cigarette with measured intensity. When she looks through the swirl of white smoke, you confirm that Christianne is one serious person, a tad too much sometimes. That seriousness gets reinforced with her work in agrarian reform, a government program that has been pummeled endlessly either by genuine opponents or simply by uninformed, if not ignorant, critics. She comes to the program’s defense with the anima of a hero...

On his deathbed, Papa told him, 'You marry my daughter, your marry all of us.' It was a 'heads-up' by Papa, to the only man whom at that time mustered the courage to woo me. Papa died a few days after he said that. So he went on to keep his word he gave Papa. We got married not long after his death, but in so stressful circumstances.  I met him at a time when things were really rough for me, and was carrying all the weight of the world on my shoulders. A colleague introduced us, Jenny, and until now I have not really asked her how she got to know him. He pursued me, telling me at one point when we were already married, that he was impressed not only by the way I spoke English, but because I carefully wrapped a piece of siopao he gifted me with, and told him I would bring it home for Papa instead. Of course, the person that he is, he was joking his way through telling me. He is a a self-made man, after all, and pride overtook his emotions most often. Only a  few people a...

These are some thoughts I have on mornings when my hormones are at war, more than usual: 1. Pag passive ka, hindi ka sumasagot sa kahit na anong pinagsasabi ng kung sino, at 'ok' ang sagot mo sa lahat nga kahilingan, 'masyadong mabait na parang tanga' ang tawag sa yo. 2. Pag nagrason ka nang konti, at medyo tama ka naman, bastos ka. 3. Pag pinagbuti mo ang trabaho, epal ka. 4. Pag mas pinagbuti mo pa, at meron kang hindi agad nalamang info na dapat alam mo, may comment na 'akala ko ba magaling yang Christianne na yan?!, bakit hindi nya alam?'; so hindi ka magaling. Tanga ka pa rin. 5. Pag nagalit ka na kasi hindi ka nirerespeto, pero English ang pag-galit na ganap, may attitude ka. Minsan, hindi lang 'bitch' ang tawag. 'Witch' pa nga. Kasi ang English ko naman minsan, OA.  Naalala ko tuloy yung dati naming Sec, ang tawag sa amin ni Maan Anna Bernardo Francisco eh 'The Witches of Region 1'.  Actually, pinipigilan ko namang mag-transform sa...

The past months, I decided to watch and review this masterpiece of a series, 'The West Wing', which ran for six seasons a decade ago. I had a set of DVDs of the series at the height of its run, but the 'pirated' version. Sshhhh. Each night, while stationed in Ilocos Norte, I would watch it and fall asleep mid-episode. Then I would attempt to finish the night after, and would not; one night after another, stuck to one episode. I would finish one episode in more or less, a week. That cycle went on for the longest time, so I fell in love with Martin Sheen, or President Josiah Bartlett, nicknamed, Jed'. His wife, Abby played by Stockard Channing, became near-real in my world that at times, I wanted to slap Abby in my imagination because she was the perfect 'First Lady'; headstrong, classy, intelligent, a doctor by profession. I was jealous. Not only of her 'perfection', but because, well, she was Jed's wife. I can only guess how life would be if I li...

This kid is gay. He introduced himself as gay before the blinds. He taught the coaches gay lingo after three judges turned for him. Sarah got on her knees to beg that he choose her as coach, so did the mega. Bamboo sat, with one hand holding his pinoy scarf, the other hand gesturing for this kid to be smart. The kid said he wanted to learn this coach's vocal technique and to be a total performer: he chose Bamboo. When he got to the battles where Bamboo paired him with a more experienced Andrea, he unabashedly shed tears during the rehearsals because he felt Coach Bamboo was only focusing on Andrea and not him. After the battles performance, Bamboo had to let him know it was because Andrea needed more help than he did. He sang, 'Sorry', that Beiber song, a most unlikely choice for a competition, but it was the contestant's choice of song for the knockouts (three team members now against each other) so he sang what he wanted. And did very well that I understood the song f...

Since we were kids, he tread past everything with his nonchalance, seeing the world through those chinky eyes, the ones you could not read even up to now. He rarely smiled in our photos as kids, perhaps he thought, 'ok, there's a camera, so stand still and let the shot pass'. All of us got the wit of Papa in our genes, but it is most pronounced in him. His humor is that which is, often times so right on point that it plainly insults. I often call his attention to that, but I, too, talk of my sentiments in a wry, sarcastic manner. So who am I to make him stop? He started his family in a unique way, and continue to build a home the same way:  non-conformist, a step beyond society's norms. Brick upon brick, without the luxury of some concoction to hold the wall firmly together, much like the manner churches were built in the olden times in this country, he and his angel of a wife raised three of the strongest-willed and God-fearing women I have known.  And two of the pures...

The table and the chairs made of bamboo matched, there in the airy dining area of the house which was made of sliding doors in all corners. It was a politician's house, where people go in and out freely. Back then, trust was all that was needed to peacefully co-exist. The world was simpler. The dining table was where many of family conversations took place; from the normal day-to-day chitchat, to loud cackles usually from us making fun of someone in the family who had the worst luck for that day, to serious discussions of political concerns, and to the dreadful days when one in the family passed on. That table was witness to our joys, sadness, grief. I recall at one time when it was on that table where I put my elbows on as I covered my face with both my hands to muffle my sobs at Lola Corazon's passing.  Among the many memories we weaved together in that house, the moments in that dining room, with the bamboo tables and chairs, are my favorite. It was where Lola Corazon cooked...

I don't know if my melancholy the past days is because of my hormones once again. I have not written a blog for quite a while, too. I have found myself loving each minute of being alone: at home where I find comfort in the sheets smelling of my sweat tinged with the vanilla mist I wear in this weather; in my home in Vigan where I shuttle from the bed I sleep in my 'home away from home',  to the coffee table by the veranda for a smoke. I go about waking up each morning to the same stuff. At home in La Union, Winky hovers about waiting for me to get off the bed and expects a cuddle like she has not seen me in ages, even when we slept in the same room the night before. In Vigan, I set out to start each day checking my mail, work on them, feed my virtual fish, then Facebook. Alone. I imagine myself growing old in this fashion, which is not entirely sad. A friend of mine always say, each morning she wakes up is a blessing. I understand now what she means.  I find myself no longe...

Not an NBA fan, in fact I only hear stories about the Cavs and the Warriors. I know Lebron James as my daughter's boyfriend Derrick Wilquin Orros Atijera's 'idol'. Stephen Curry, I got to know only because his little daughters barged in on an interview with him way back. I hear only Kevin Durant's name as one of the best players there is in his generation. So when I watched the game today, as I was in the right place at the right time (which means home where I can stand in front of the tv in my housedress, no bath, and stinking), I was exhilirated. Rosette, Shia Mace Lubiano Boado, the adopted one was frying fish for our lunch during the 3rd quarter, in-between explaining to me why the game today was important, who the players were, what they mean to their teams, etc. I was amused she knew a lot about the NBA. Then Durant did that thing. I think it was during the 4th quarter, am not sure. But the team put into place this play where he was to shoot the ball like a du...

For most of my adult life, which started way too early, I had worked on being the best version of me for one thing: my father's pride. Sure, we siblings did not lack in encouragement, in affection, and in the deep belief in who we are, from Papa. He was a generous man. Which is probably why we all wanted to push ourselves to be better than the last, 'ang galing ah!', or 'dagita ket!'.  So when he passed, and our already chaotic life took the worst turn, each step, each milestone, each crisis, I found myself pausing at nights in prayer asking for his reassurance. Or his forgiveness. My Auntie Mae put it so aptly when she wrote in tribute to him on one Father's Day: 'We often wonder how life would be if you were still with us...we miss you.'  I miss him terribly, each day. I allow myself to be tortured with the question, 'would it have been easier, my life, if you were still alive?' Oh yes, life without him was difficult. Still is. I tread on with ...

Funny. There was always something funny about each moment with him. He was that way when things were going great, and the same when the situation was miserable. He took every second of life with pride and gratitude, even if I knew his heart was broken when he passed. About many things: he would not see me get married, he would not be able to hold his grandchildren, he wanted to see Kring grow up even only up to when she reached twelve, God, please?  His head lay on the meal table at the hospital the night before he was called home. We were talking, and I don't recall me telling him profound stuff. Like I love him from the deepest recesses of my soul. He was the one speaking mostly, I remember. About his regrets. Then he stroked my head, slid his fingers through my hair and said: 'Kaasi ka met nu matayak'. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. I just sat there with him, my heart broken, too, in pieces so tiny I knew then it would take a lifetime to put it back together, who...

She brought into this world the only two people who could make Bong Suguitan smile as brightly, at times he seemed surprised at himself, even. She is headstrong, independent and takes what life has to offer and spins it to an adventure, a challenge, and sources of lessons learned. She holds her head high, whatever the cruel world out there imposes on her, safe in the thought that she has two angels at home, waiting. And loving her.

I know for certain now that there really isn't any formula for striking a balance between family and work. None. We simply need to keep in check priorities. But then again, no matter how best we both try, we miss milestones in our kids' lives. We miss out on the most important stuff as they see it, really. In the end, however, we both must know this: we are enough. We created 'miracles' called 'children' for nine months, by the grace of God. This Mother's Day, I can only pray that we both be seen as that: we are enough, my friend.

I believe in my heart that my brother is perhaps the most fortunate man in the world to have Beth as a wife, and the mother of his kids. She is made of an unbelievable mix of iron will and gentle spirit, she is only a thin line away from perfect. She raised my nieces and my 'apo's' to be God-fearing and responsible individuals. She held my brother's hand in the toughest of times. She never once showed us any hint of disrespect, even in times when she was caught in the crossfire. She is constant, her light shines from within and shows us that there is always, always, something to be thankful for.

She is the only one with fair skin among us siblings that the joke has always been she was adopted. Except that she looks a lot like me, and she now has a birth certificate to prove that she is not adopted. She does not look at all like a mom, but she is great one. She is protective of her kids, treats them as her friends, at times way too much that she forgets she is their mother. She will do anything for them, really, as long as she has full make-up on while at it. Nothing takes precedence over their needs, save for lipstick.  (I want her to hate me for posting this photo, and I am sure she will ask me to delete it. But I won't. If she insists, then no more lipstics will be bought for her. Not by me.)