Diba Girl Shoes

signs of life - It's a Date

Last Saturday, Joi, who has played the role of a mentor-tactician (for my academic and romantic pursuits) comrade, and shrink to my so-called life, came home all the way from Boston to celebrate her birthday. Ever gracious host, Roland once again opened his industrialesque mansion (that is by my i-live-in-a-rat-hole standards) to Joi's guests and well-wishers. It was, as most CONTEND parties go, a night of radical chit-chat, moderate mudslinging, cultural performances, quick check-ups on org matters, and most of all, eating with all our national democratic might.

I got particularly busy playing with the children. Gabby, the prettiest one year old I've ever made friends with, chuckled when I told her “I'm your yaya tonight.” Her lovely mom, who is currently the executive director of the Amado V. Hernandez Resource Center, once intimated that breastfeeding Gabby makes her feel like a machine. One morning, as retold by Poti herself, when she and husband Paul (of EILER) were leaving for their respective offices, Gabby joyfully bade her parents goodbye: “Babay Papa, Babay Dede.” She loves her daughter, nonetheless, and delights in the consensus that her first-born has surpassed her in the facial symmetry department.

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