Saccharine Irony

This site is a compilation of fluid thoughts, a collection of poetry, random glimpses of humor and tragedy, spontaneous notions of an extremely sensitive mind.

Christmas 2008 December 26, 2008

Filed under: Events,Food,Love — Aimee @ 2:44 am
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home on Christmas morning


right after Midnight Mass




the feast, well some of it, hehe


cozying up to the bedecked tree 🙂


Shopaholic Santa December 14, 2008

u13431350My feet are killing me. I have just spent an entire Sunday scouring the malls for Christmas gifts. And the tragic thing is, I’m not even done yet! I have found stuffs for the picky brother, three friends, and five god-children, but I still have to pick something for Mom and for sister dear, for the boyfriend, and for most of my hilarious friends.

Plus, I’m still debating whether to bake cupcakes or cookies to fill my Christmas take-home pouches with. Perhaps I should try Nigella’s Chocolate Pistachio Fudge. Hhmmmm. Now, where is that recipe?

Then there is the pasta and dessert I need to prepare for the dinner on Christmas Eve, which is actually Plan A. Plan B is opting for catered food, arranging them on a Christmas-y plate, and snoring the entire time before dinner. Haha, fat chance.

I’m giving myself a shopping deadline by next weekend, which is only three days away from Christmas Eve. Oh, well. Remind me to chug down a few bottles of energy drink, so I’ll breeze by the actual holidays looking all calm, poised, and unruffled.


Trapped. Squeezed. Swallowed. December 10, 2008

Filed under: Career Chronicles,Sarcasm — Aimee @ 9:58 am
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The workplace, no doubt, is an interesting place for people watching. People are trapped more than eight hours everyday inside freezing, dull-colored buildings: facing computers, flipping papers, mollifying clients, chewing at ball pen caps, sipping instant coffee, and spending the rest of the time wishing they were somewhere else.

You see them in stiff blazers and glossy neckties, scurrying around, trying to look as if they are actually busy with something. The fact that they are pretending to be busy somehow gives them the assurance that they are doing something worthwhile with their routine lives.

And maybe they really do have hectic days, no argument with that, but at the end of each day, they would begin to wonder if the careers they had chosen had put them where they have always wanted to be, if perchance the endless tapping on keyboards or the ingestion of brainless policies define who they are.

Then you see the arthritic supervisors, those fifty-something superiors who stay rooted to their posts merely because of that beautiful thing called “security of tenure”, which most government-funded agencies take to heart quite liberally, and so that they are able to retain their plush swivel chairs, those soft back cushions, the huge tables that hold nothing but family picture frames, plastic flowers, and useless what-nots.

The females paint their faces in an effort to obscure wrinkle lines, perm and color their hair in a vain effort to regain its fading luster, and embellish themselves with heavy glittering accessories – gold, shiny jades and rubies, oversized pearls in hundreds of colors- perhaps to remind everyone that these jewels are their trophies, trophies for toiling inside freezing, dull-colored buildings in a span of long decades. The males have protruding bellies, brassy voices, sly gazes, and huge groping hands; and if you’re careless, they could read way too much between your quick glances and contrived laughter.

These middle-aged folks have earned their respective positions no doubt, but some of them no longer make any contribution to the organization at all. Most hours they just absentmindedly sift through papers, verify checks and tinker with their high-end cell phones, wondering whether the husband is not with some mistress, or the if the wife is not flirting with the boss. And the worst of their kind never grow up at all. At their age, they still gossip like thoughtless adolescents, feign friendships even as they kiss each other’s cheeks, and nurture their little prejudices like confused toddlers. The workplace compels them to fake smiles and get crafty with small talk, to fashion handy compliments and throw them to the air whenever the need arises.

These bosses give out orders like automatons, get panic attacks at the slightest blunders, seek perfection where there is none, and all the while not fully understand the gamut of their jobs. The madames come to the office because they need to, because they have huge credit card debts to pay off, new car accessories to purchase and not necessarily because their perfume-laden presences are still needed.

The workplace is their, home, a stretch of land subdivided into their own little countries where they rule as royalties. And beneath them, their minions toil over their mindless employments – tap away at computers, flip over papers, mollify clients, chew at ball pen caps, sip instant coffee and wish they were somewhere else.

Well, the simple-minded ones are happy where they are, content with everyday work because there are mouths to feed, and because unfortunately, they know nothing better. They have spouses to come home to, and children to tell stories to, so what is the point of yearning for a better profession? Their thoughts are flying in all directions as they work at their tables, wishing they were home because if truth be told, there is nothing like home in a pretentious, dull-colored building.

Millions of hearts are trapped in places they cannot love, but only be immune to. They have grown gnarly and old, and they cannot fuel their souls to dream of something else. They just sit and watch, at the budding ones in stiff blazers and glossy neckties, lip gloss and stilettos, wanting to tell them to go and follow their heart songs. Wanting to tell them that yes, the workplace is interesting.

But the wide open skies are breathtaking.


From a Papa’s Girl December 8, 2008

Filed under: Poetry — Aimee @ 8:17 am
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You closed your eyes one April
and left me balancing
on tightropes of fear,
solitude and blindness.

I fought the blindness, but
the fear and solitude I could not.

You closed your eyes one April
in a room of bare ashen walls.
My eyes blurred the moving sketches
of people garbed in white,
as they pulled out tubes and needles
from your tired, yellow-gray flesh.

I walked towards your bed only when
I could no longer bear the stillness
brought by the soft sounds
of retreating footsteps
and the pungent smell of disinfectants.

I walked towards you only when
there were mere spaces between us.
I swallowed my pain and silently called you a cheat.
You were a liar.

You never told me you were leaving.


published, Home Life Magazine, April 2005


Interesting December 2, 2008

Filed under: Movies — Aimee @ 5:18 pm

I came across a blog site of serious writers recently, and I just couldn’t resist linking to this article on the entire Twilight hullabaloo. If the high school girl in me had not developed a huge crush on Edward Cullen, I will perhaps be more inclined to think in the same way. On the other hand, I still think Meyer deserves a bit of credit to her work, primarily for targeting her audience effectively.

Anyway, click here to read the article.