GIGI GOES GAGA

DAYS OF WHINE AND RAISINS

I was killing time at Target the other day, perusing the publications aisle while waiting for my sister to wrap up her post-Thanksgiving shopping. I spotted a magazine I'd never seen before; the cover caught my eye. There were four beautiful women styled in casual Fall fashions, posed beneath a canopy of trees dressed in their autumnal best. Not one of the women was smaller than a size 14W.

There's a new magazine in town, and it's called Figure. It describes itself as "a new fashion and lifestyle magazine, created for real, smart, stylish women of all ages and sizes" but it really caters to those who wear a size 14W to 34W. To those of you unfamiliar with what the industry calls women's (or plus size) sizing, a 14W is not the same as a 14 Missy size. In fact, there's a gap between where "regular" sizing stops and where "plus" sizing begins. As all women know, there really is no one industry standard in sizing -- a size 8 in Banana Republic is just not the same as an 8 in Ann Taylor. And when you consider the tricky industry practice of "vanity sizing" -- you realize the best thing to do is to disregard the size tag (if you dare) and just buy what fits you best.

But I digress here.

I don't wear plus-sized clothing, but I'm completely fascinated by it. When I worked as a Liz Claiborne vendor rep, my favorite department was Elisabeth, the brand's women's line. There's something wonderful about knowing a group of designers are thinking daily of how to come up with not just something stylish or fashion-forward or trendy, but with clothing that actually fits and looks good on the body. I loved my Elisabeth customers because they were empowered and refused to be patronized or belittled; they told me exactly what was right or wrong about a design or fit, and what they were seeking. I'm crazy for clothes and fashion, but I have to admit I've never been that passionate about shopping. If a pair of trousers fits me, great -- but if it doesn't, it stays behind in the fitting room. I just don't feel the need to express myself and ask for what I want (not a good thing, trust me).

In the late '90s there was a high-fashion monthly magazine that catered to full-figured American women, Mode. Sadly, it ceased publication in 2001. The first time I read it, I actually cried. I felt it spoke directly to me even if I couldn't fit into the clothes featured or advertised. The idea was any woman could be -- or was -- sexy and beautiful, despite what dress size she wore. I'd even buy the magazine regularly; I figured since I read all the usual fashion magazines where the models were half my size, what was the difference if the models were twice my size?

I'm not skinny and never was. I'm 5'4", curvy, and big-boned. In the US my size and build is not an issue, but it always was back home in Manila. It was frustrating to try on clothes and discover the top shirt buttons wouldn't close or if a skirt pulled up smoothly over my hips it would be too large at the waist. I could only shop for bras at Marks & Spencer because the other stores normally stocked only A or B cups (and by the way, why is it considered attractive to have big boobs only on the kind of body that normally wouldn't have the necessary fat reserves to be able to house them naturally?).  I even have relatively large feet  -- the salesperson at the Lila Almario store in Rockwell told me I'd have to pay extra for shoes because my feet were too big (no thanks). In other words, no one would ever describe me as being slim, lithe, or even graceful. All I'm certain of is if we've ever had lumberjacks or farmers way at the top of our family tree, I must have their genes.

So it isn't surprising to know I've been on a diet since I was a pre-teen. I've tried them all -- Scarsdale, Weight Watchers, NutriSystem, Jenny Craig, Slimfast, no fat, no carbs -- everything. My weight ballooned and plummeted over the years; my classmate Mia once accurately described me as a sponge. Then when I turned 18 I simply stopped eating. I was so tired of measuring and counting, and decided if I didn't eat at all, I wouldn't have to figure it out.

My calories came from a few random sources -- raisins and nuts mostly -- and if I was on the verge of passing out, crackers. I'd eat one hard-boiled egg if I wanted to binge. Oh, and I subsisted on pills too. I don't know how many calories a pill contains (they don't list that in calorie charts or even on the bottle -- believe me, I checked), but I took a LOT of them, lots and lots. I took appetite suppressants (the best was this brand from Germany, specially formulated for obese people), diuretics, metabolism boosters, and fat burners. And because I worked out everyday and all night, either aerobicizing (strangely enough to Richard Simmons, because that was the only workout tape I had) or doing calisthenics and sit-ups in my room until I couldn't move anymore, I lacked sleep. So in the morning I'd take caffeine pills to help keep me awake.

But I still thought I was horribly fat. I'd inspect myself and feel like a failure each time I could pinch (barely) an inch and I'd weigh myself at least twice a day to torture myself even more. If I gained even half a pound, only water passed my lips until I lost it. Finally, my weight went under 100 lbs. -- but I still looked huge. So I covered myself up with really loose clothing so no one could see what a cow I was, even if grass-grazing cows ate more than I did during those days. Yet I constantly whined about my weight as I counted the number of raisins I could put in my mouth without the rest of my body noticing.

Then one night, I thought I was going to die. I was getting ready for bed, and my body began to shake uncontrollably. I was so cold, my heart was racing furiously, and I lost control of my hands, legs, of everything. I couldn't scream to call my sister upstairs, or reach out for the phone to call a friend or 911. I don't remember details of that horrible evening; I just remember trying to roll myself out of bed and onto the floor so I could get out of the room. I don't know what I did or how I did it, but I obviously survived.

I threw the pills away, and eventually I started eating again. My friend Joie can pinpoint to this day the first time she saw me fill my plate with food; the entire time we were friends she had only seen me pick from other people's plates. Today I need to lose weight again, but I'm no longer obsessed with a number or a size -- I would just like to be fit, strong, healthy, and flexible. OK, and let's be honest here: it would be nice if I could look HOT in a tight tank top and jeans.

The difference between then and now is I don't need to be a size 2 or 4 to look good, even great. I buy clothes that flatter my figure, wear shoes that are comfortable but cute, pay careful attention to grooming, and walk out of the house feeling pretty good about myself. I'm still no friend of the mirror or camera (they lie to me, I'm convinced) but I'm no longer dependent on my outward reflection; instead I focus on what's inside.

I plan to flip through Figure magazine sometime soon, even while I take action to move my size even further away from its primary demographic. I hope it reinforces the truth that looking and feeling great is an attitude measured by qualitative and not quantitative factors, and that there are no good sizes or bad sizes. I'm aware magazines are consumerism's bibles, but if somehow this doesn't try to convince me that I need to buy something or be something in order to be the best I can be, then I hope it sticks around for a long time. I certainly plan to, and I won't do it by eating only nuts and raisins or anything else resembling bird feed. Those days are over.

THE TROUBLE WITH HAIRY

It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less by baldness. 
- Cicero

I have a confession to make: I go to the neighborhood salon at least once a week to get a blow-out. I'm afraid to sum up my annual expenditures for this one extravagance because I know the total amount will blow my mind. The one thing that assuages my guilt is that Leah gives me a 20% discount because she can count on my business year-round.

Worse, I also blow a bulk of my disposable income on hair products. I've tried practically everything, and my bathroom resembles an aisle at Sephora. I have potions to get my hair stick-straight, smooth, glossy -- as well as wavy, curly, disheveled, beachy, and texturized. Every morning, I'm like a mad professor, measuring and mixing chemicals, working feverishly to replicate the same successful experiment.

And for all this I have one person to blame: Brando. I have hair neurosis, and he's responsible for it.

Actually, I didn't really know the guy -- I only remember something he did when I was about 12 or 13. He was my neighbor, slightly older than me, and we were hanging out at the park with a bunch of other kids. I remember thinking while we were chatting one day that he was nice and kind of cute. Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, he asked, "Why is your hair like that? You look like a bruha (witch)!" And then he laughed. At me. The name stuck like Krazy Glue®. I may have been a witch but I was the one who had just been cursed.

I have always been blessed -- or blighted -- with a full mane of thick, wavy hair. Unlike my sisters who have "Asian" hair (straight and shiny), my hair is coarse, dry, and frizzy. Until I was 15 or 16, you could best describe the hair on my head as being trapezoidal in shape (or perhaps more accurately, an isosceles trapezoid). Growing up in the Philippines -- where long, thick, straight, shiny hair is prized by all women and admired by all men -- I didn't have a fighting chance. Unfortunately, I wasn't armed with a powerful blowdryer and a round boar's-hair brush like I am today. After washing my hair, I'd sit in front of the fan for about half an hour or so until it was dry. Picture, if you will, the results of being styled by a wind machine. The war was lost before the battle had even begun.

I fought the good fight during those days. When dad would return from any of his frequent business trips abroad, he'd bring me back a huge jar of Estee Lauder's hair conditioning mask. After washing my hair, I'd scoop globs of the stuff and apply to my head from scalp to ends and sit in the shower for the recommended 15 minutes before rinsing it off. And after numerous fruitless searches for a stylist who could alleviate my suffering, I was directed to my friend Mayette's sister, Marissa, who was the first person to slice long layers into my hair to remove a bit of its weight and heft.

Marissa was a skilled genius, but sadly, she was no Merlin. Because only an all-powerful sorcerer could have turned my hair into something I even slightly coveted. Still, she managed to tame the monster, which I then shackled for good measure with clips, headbands, ponytail holders, and every restraint manufactured by Goody.

I was reading the December issue of Allure magazine the other day, and the beauty editors heralded the return of "natural" hair for Spring 2005. This passage filled me with equal amounts of both amusement and fear:

Rumpled, wavy hair was the most natural-looking style at the spring shows -- and certainly the sexiest. "You know how great your hair looks after the wind and salt has been at it?" Eugene Souleiman asked at Stella McCartney. "This is it."

I don't think Mr. Souleiman was thinking of me when he declared this; after the wind and salt has its way with me, my hair is more beached than beachy . I'm afraid the latter effect I can only achieve in a definitely unnatural manner -- via Bumble & Bumble's Surf Spray and the mighty T3 Tourmaline 3/4" Domed Iron.

While mulling over my hair woes, I can't help but think of this quote: A smooth sea never made a skillful mariner.  After all the unruly waves I've had to overcome and conquer all these years, I'm not just captain of my shaggy ship, I'm the freakin' admiral. Yet it's only appropriate to count my blessings this Thanksgiving Day; I have a wonderful crew, steady and steadfast. Of course there's Leah, and Paul (my stylist and colorist) -- as well as Frederic Fekkai, Oscar Blandi, Rene Furterer, Stephen Knoll, and Philip B., among many, many others. As long as I stay the course, and not act like Captain Ahab relentlessly trying to slay my hair troubles of Moby-Dick-like proportions, I'll stay afloat.

And who knows, maybe I've even gotten the last word with Brando yet. After all, I now have long, smooth, bouncy, shiny thick hair. None of it is natural of course, but I've learned to fake it well. But I'm willing to bet Brando, if I correctly remember what his hairline looked like while he was a teenager, has a shiny hole somewhere on top of his head that's larger than the hole in the heart he once gave me. And unless he gets a hair transplant or a toupee, it's a hole he can't possibly fill.

HEAVEN CAN WAIT

I just saw a repeat episode of Inside the Actor's Studio; Natalie Portman was the guest actor on the show.  In case you've never seen the series, host James Lipton interviews actors about their lives, career, acting techniques, motivations, and so on, in front of an audience of MFA students. Towards the end of the session, he asks a series of off-the-cuff questions, such as "what is your favorite cuss word?" or "what is a word you hate?", before he turns the actor over to his students.

Lipton asked Portman what she thought she would have done in her life to get to heaven. She answered she didn't live her life with the sole purpose of getting there in the end -- and further explained it was because that sort of thinking only messes up your brain (she was more articulate when answering, obviously, but I wasn't taking notes). I think part of what she might have meant is to live like that, to spend all your time trying to get somewhere else, is to merely exist.

Her answer resonated deep within me because it's exactly how I choose to live my life. My faith is a work-in-progress; I'm constantly struggling with it, questioning and evaluating my beliefs -- so I don't operate on traditional Catholic/Christian concepts (at least not consciously). What I do operate on is something the Dalai Lama once said; I'm paraphrasing this, but it was "if you can't help people, then at least don't hurt them." It's one of those things that sound so obvious after your hear it, yet it's so deceptively simple that you don't really think about it until after you've been told. Well, since then I think about it all the time.

I've always believed that good begets good, mostly because it's been my experience in life. I don't mean this in the sense of being repaid or rewarded; rather, I believe if you release positive vibrations out into the universe, so to speak, the effect is like ripples in a pond. When you make someone happy, that energy is contagious and (hopefully) radiates and touches even more people, further creating more positive forces in the world.

For instance, when I first got here, I didn't have a car during my first semester of school. I had to take three bus rides to get from Santa Monica to Westchester, where my university was located, and do the same for the return trip. I had a couple of night classes that ended pretty late, which was always a concern for me.

Not long after classes began I met a fellow foreign student named Joel, also from Manila -- we hit it off immediately and became good friends. He came from a wealthy but humble family who lived in Marina del Rey, about five minutes away from school, and drove a nice car. When he discovered I took public transportation to school, he offered (insisted really) to pick me up from home in the morning and drop me off at night. I was definitely not on his way to or from school; I added another half an hour to his route in fact. This was a huge act of kindness, friendship, and charity on his part.

When he first started doing this for me, I asked how I could possibly repay him. Without even pausing to think, he replied, "When you finally get a car, do the same thing for someone else. That's how you can pay me back."

Joel doesn't know this (we eventually lost touch a few years after he went back home) but I kept my promise to him. I drove classmates and co-workers when they couldn't do so for themselves, even to areas and neighborhoods I was afraid to be in. Each time they asked if they could repay me somehow, I told them exactly the same thing Joel told me. I'd like to think this kept going, although I will never really know. But this experience and insight provided purpose to my life, knowing small gestures can add up and inspire the same.

It's always nice to receive a thank you or some small token of appreciation, of course, yet somehow I'm uncomfortable when receiving either. I think I'm like this because I don't want to do something nice just so I'm assured of someone's gratitude or so I can later collect on a debt. Portman's right -- I think that would mess me up somehow. Still, I try to be gracious, acknowledge the thanks, and move on without thinking any more about it. There have been times, for sure, when I've been unappreciated or even betrayed; during those instances, too, I choose not to dwell on it, and just keep moving forward.

Arnel likes to tell me that "no good deed remains unpunished" when I help someone who clearly doesn't deserve it. But really, I think it would completely defeat my life's purpose if I spent time evaluating whether someone deserves help or not before I choose to give it -- and when I do, I don't like to waste time on regrets either.

I don't know if I'll ever get to heaven, or what kind of heaven really exists. The only thing I can worry about is creating some kind of haven here on earth for myself and the people around me, especially in light of all the madness around us, the hell on earth we've somehow created. Divine paradise might be out there, but for now it remains in the distance while I find meaning and purpose in every day that I live. Heaven can wait; I'm not in any rush to get there.

WILL WORK FOR MONEY

There's a moment in my life I've never forgotten: I'm lying on my black twin-sized futon in my tiny studio apartment, completely still and silent, incapable of movement or even speech. I remember staring at the ceiling, crying, thinking I was like the proverbial candle whose flame had finally been extinguished, wick all burnt, and with no more wax left for fuel. I had been a full-time student and committed student leader with a full-time job and two part-time jobs. I don't remember sleeping much during those days; I subsisted on 20-minute catnaps anywhere I could catch them -- inside my car, on top of a lab table, in the student lounge or library, or in my office. My rent was $550 a month, excluding utilities, groceries, and pocket money, and I did what I had to do to pay my bills. Still, I considered myself lucky because all the money I earned from my minimum-wage jobs was all mine.

Lucky, indeed, if you compare my tough ol' days with the more recent struggles of my friend, whom I will call May. She had been in the country for a little over a year, and was already in over her head. She had a full-time job and three part-time jobs; she worked literally all day every day. When I met her, she was homeless because the cousin she had been living with upped and moved to another state practically overnight -- and May didn't have time to look for a room to rent. After finishing up her part-time retail job at about 11:00 pm or even later, she would drive to wherever she could crash for the night. Sometimes she drove about 50 miles in her rotten lemon of a car just to be able to sleep for a few hours, so she could do the same thing over again the next day. You would think with all the hours she was working, it would have been easy for her to find a decent apartment and trade in her car for something at least reliable and functional. But May had no money to take care of her needs, because she was sending a huge bulk of her income to her relatives in the Philippines. As a devout Catholic, she believed that being charitable was more important than her being able to eat or sleep well. And she did this also because she considered herself more fortunate.

She was more fortunate, she believed, because she was single and had no children to care for. And surprisingly she may have been right, if you compare her to other Filipino immigrants I've met who came here in search of a better life and found themselves not having much of a life at all. I've heard different versions of essentially the same story so many times : parents working multiple jobs in order to make ends meet, leaving latchkey kids to raise themselves with no supervision and who then often choose to join gangs for protection and survival or get into all kinds of trouble.

May and I have at least one thing in common, that we are proud alumnae of the same school where the current President of the Philippines graduated from. The same President who is asking us to part with more of our hard-earned money in order to fix the country's economic problems which she and her cohorts are apparently incapable of fixing.

I was horrified and outraged to read the following news item in today's Inquirer.

BURLINGAME, California (via PLDT)--President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo appealed to more than seven million Filipinos abroad to increase their remittances to their relatives in the Philippines by $20 a month to keep the economy afloat and shore up gross international reserves.
Speaking during a cocktail reception hosted by the Bay Area Filipino community at the Hyatt Hotel here Wednesday night, Arroyo said their regular remittances played a major role in keeping the domestic economy from sliding down.
"This is a big contribution not only to your families but also for every Filipino. Can you just imagine what an additional $20 a month remittance can do to further uplift our nation?" the President asked. She said the additional small amount from the seven million Filipinos abroad would result in $140 million in additional remittance to the Philippines each year.

Twenty dollars may seem trifle to the Philippine President, but to my friend May, the same amount can make a big difference in whether or not she can make this month's rent. Currently, she sends almost half of her earnings to relatives who call or write her with their sob stories, not realizing her misfortunes are actually worse than their own.

In light of all the recent news about the gross corruption in the Philippine government and military, I may have a better idea of how the President can come up with the additional $140 million she says  is needed to "uplift" the Philippines.

Why don't you ask just 70 of the many current and past government officials and military leaders who have been found to have helped themselves to the people's money, to return just $2 million each to the Philippine treasury? That's just a couple mil -- the cost of perhaps one high-rise condo in Manhattan that they own, out of the many properties they possess -- just pittance for these folks. In return for their generosity, they can be pardoned for their crimes. Nothing's being done about them anyway since all the other thieves in the administration are covering up for their ilk. So everyone's happy, and you can leave us alone.

Do your job, President Arroyo -- and stop relying on ours. It's time for you and all the country's leaders to do a little uplifting of your own, instead of lifting what you don't own. You may find the solution is in your hands -- if only you'd stop using them to beg. After all, we all work for money, and all you so-called leaders should too.

UPDATES

This is my 25th post. I can't believe I've kept this up for one month now (since October 15th, to be exact). My free 30-day trial period with Typepad is officially over, and I'm now a paying customer. Since I don't make any money doing this, I've signed up for the basic account (i.e. the least expensive option) -- which explains why my blog design and layout is so simple, compared to all the beautiful web logs out there. I think in order to be able to do a lot of the fancy schmancy stuff, I'll need to upgrade to the plus/pro subscriptions. It won't be worth it, however, because as far as HTML coding and all that tech stuff is concerned, I am hopelessly lost in the Dark Ages.

I'm still learning as I go along, and thanks to all of you who have taken the time to send me comments and suggestions, the process hasn't been as unnerving as I'd originally feared.

I just added another list to my sidebar: Scribes (I have Soundtrack and Stuff, so I selected another sibilant word, just for the hell of it). It's a woefully short list of other blogs I visit regularly. I'm so new in this world, so I consider these bloggers my guides, even if I've met only one of them, Al of Torn and Frayed. One of the main reasons I don't write about politics, economics, religion, and all the hard stuff is because these folks do that so well. These are intelligent, informative, interesting, and well-written blogs; I hope you get to visit them.

Right now my list includes only Filipino or Filipino-American sites*, but as I explore the vast blogger universe and find others I highly recommend, I'll add them.  As a longtime Trekker (note: the term Trekkie is generally considered by us to be a pejorative term), I feel like Captain Picard instructing his crew to "to boldly go where no one has gone before" via a simple command: Engage. OK, I think I just lost three-quarters of you right now.

I can't believe my earliest entries can no longer be found at the bottom when you scroll down, and are now hidden and housed in Archives. When I started this, I never thought I'd have any use for that link. But all my fellow bloggers are absolutely right: this is addicting stuff, and I'm an addict. I have all you enablers to thank for that.

I'm so glad you decided to stick around my party -- because I'm still having fun.

*Scribes is no longer an all-Pinoy listing. Thanks to The Wily Filipino, I ran across Margaret Cho's blog. Hers is not for the faint of heart and is quite entertaining.

WANTING THINGS

The heart wants what the heart wants.
- Woody Allen

As a 30-ish divorcée living alone with a cat and spending most of my waking hours with predominantly gay co-workers, my dating possibilities were slim at best.

I had spent half of my life as a highly social creature, meeting all kinds of people in all types of places. I was like Kevin Bacon, connected to almost anybody within six degrees of separation. I had a bounty of dating experiences and relationships which, thankfully, had mostly evolved into healthy friendships. For instance, when I moved from North Hollywood to West LA one year, my moving crew consisted of my boyfriend Allen and three exes. When I look back, the situation was truly comical even if I didn't think so then -- while the three in my past were bonding over their memories of my belongings, I would repeatedly hush them up with my deadly stink-eye, hoping that Allen wouldn't discover their single common denominator.

My friends assured me I wasn't washed up, that my future was not going to resemble any episode of The Golden Girls. But then something funny happened; I realized I was quite happy being alone and doing my own thing. During my first Thanksgiving as a renewed bachelorette, I sat in front of the TV watching a teen flick while eating beef liver with onions and a cup of chicken matzo ball soup. There was no one to question my selection of entertainment or meal choice, and my life was peaceful.

One normal ordinary day, my former high school classmate Tina called me up from all the way in Seattle. She had a friend named Arnel who was done dating young 20-somethings he couldn't relate to, and wanted to meet someone his own age. Tina didn't think he and I would form a love connection, but she knew we would get along. "Both of you like going to school," she said. "And you can talk about anything so you'll get along fine." I told her sure, give him my number; it would be great to know someone I could go to the movies with at a moment's notice.

From way back when, I've always enjoyed meeting people just for the sheer fun of it. I like hearing their stories, watching their reactions, and discovering their quirks and eccentricities. It's the same when it comes to men and dating -- I don't try to categorize the guy I'm having dinner with into boyfriend, husband, or other. What's more important to me is getting to know him and figuring out if I like him as a person first. The rest, I figure, will follow.

Arnel called me one night, and we were on the phone for about four hours. I found myself laughing until dawn, heartier and longer than I remembered doing so in years. We talked about everything and nothing. The subject inevitably turned to music; we talked about albums we had been searching for in vain. "I've always liked the song Wanting Things by Astrud Gilberto since I was really young," I explained to him,"because it captures perfectly how I've always felt about my life."

He swore he'd find it and get me a copy of the missing piece in my collection. "Oh really, if you do that I'll love you forever," I joked breezily. And then he asked when we could meet.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I choked. I realized I wasn't ready to meet this guy -- or perhaps any guy, for that matter. I suddenly felt vulnerable, even insecure. I imagined opening the door and seeing his face fall at the sight of me. And I discovered just how vulnerable my spirit was at that point, because the mere thought of such a moment made me feel like shredding and falling like confetti into the ground. No, I definitely wasn't ready

Oh sure, I've had my heart broken before. There were times I'd even felt like it had crumbled into little bits with no way of being put back together. But I always bounced back and pulled myself whole, never wanting to let failure get the best of me. I wanted to be able to look back at my past during my sunset years and know that I was loved and that I loved well all my life. But this time it was different somehow; my heart wasn't as flexible and resilient anymore. This is not what it wanted, I decided.

I got over my insecure self eventually. I was just meeting a friend and that's all, I repeatedly convinced myself. A few weeks later, Arnel knocked on the door, I opened it, and his face didn't fall. Neither did mine. He brought me a bouquet of wildflowers and he said some nice things about my apartment. We took the elevator down, and walked to his car. When I got in, he asked if I liked the rapper Snoop Dogg. "Uh sure," I answered politely, with the fakest of smiles . Great, he replied, and popped in a cassette.

"Tell me how long must I keep wanting things," Astrud Gilberto began to sing. He had found my song. Arnel kept his promise, and so did I -- I will love him forever indeed. My heart knew what it wanted after all, and he was sitting beside me.

MORE FOR LESS

According to today's health news as reported by Associated Press (AP) and Reuters, if you want to lose weight you need to do three things:

1. Eat More.
2. Sleep More.
3. Get a dog.

That explains it. I've been doing all the wrong things these past few years. I barely sleep, I rarely eat, and I have a cat.

Apparently, in a study of 18,000 adults who participated in the National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey (NHANES) in the 1980s, researchers found a strong link between the amount of sleep people get and their risk of becoming obese. Those who got less than four hours of sleep a night were 73 percent more likely to be obese than those who got the recommended seven to nine hours. People who averaged about five hours had a 50 percent increased risk, and those who got six hours had 23 percent more.

What scientists have discovered is that sleep deprivation lowers leptin, a blood protein that senses when the body has had enough food, and which also suppresses appetite. At the same time, lack of sleep also raises grehlin, which makes people want to eat.

A Pennsylvania State University study of 7,500 typical Americans interviewed by the US Department of Agriculture Continuing Survey of Food Intakes by Individuals, found that dieters who were told to eat foods heavy in water and fiber (such as vegetables and fruits) lost weight without counting calories and resorting to gimmicks.

And in a related study, 101 obese women were counseled to fill up on foods rich in water and fiber, as well as to select reduced-fat foods over full-fat ones. A second group, however, was put on a stricter diet which emphasized cutting portion size and fat. After six months, the first group lost an average of 21 pounds, while the second group lost only 15. What researchers found was a healthy diet is essential to successful weight loss, more than counting calories or fat grams. In addition, other recent studies have concluded that although high-protein diet regimens (such as Atkins) can help weight loss, the effects are only short-term.

My personal theory about how this works -- forget the scientific explanations about "low energy dense" Vs. calorie-dense foods -- is that most people really don't like to eat their veggies. So even if they're told to have as much of it as they want, they can only eat so much before they push their plate away. Either that, or it's just reverse psychology in action.

The canine connection is really a version of how "buddy systems" can help dieters lose weight. During a one-year study, Chicago doctors made test subjects attend weekly counseling sessions at Northwestern Medical School, and were also encouraged to walk at least 20 minutes and limit daily calories to 1,400. Dogs were put on a prescription diet and walked with their owners. Although dogs did better than their owners, the dog owners did slightly better than the dieters who walked and dieted alone.

I don't know if Boo will let me put a leash on her and take her out for a walk, especially since she likes to sleep so much. But the last time I put her on a diet, she lost weight -- and so did I. I guess I felt guilty about making her eat prescription diet food and depriving her of her favorite nightly treats, because she looked so sad. So I suffered the same way -- Lean Cuisine and no dessert for me. Our results mimicked the study results; Boo was declared to be of normal weight by her doctor, while I have yet to hear the same thing from mine.

Here's my disclaimer, effective immediately. If you discover these next few months that I'm asleep whenever you phone or send me an IM or text message, don't think I'm avoiding you -- I'm just trying to lose weight. Hopefully, the next time you see me, I'll be thinner and sleeker, the dark circles and bags under my eyes will be gone, and my skin will be clear and rosy. Then you'll just have to call me Sleeping Beauty.

PSYCHO

I work with this beautiful Blonde; she's sunny, warm, and young. She's just like Britney Spears -- "not a girl, (but) not yet a woman." She's also slim with fake boobs (nicely done, I must admit) and has no trouble getting a date. But because she is also as wise as the new Mrs. Federline, she hooked up with a co-worker who always manages to remain unhooked -- and after one heavily entangled night, he decided he needed to disentangle himself from her. For good.

But like many men, he didn't want to hurt her feelings and certainly didn't want her to hate him (OK, the truth is he's a coward), so he chose not to be honest and direct with her. Instead, he dodged her phone calls and tried to avoid her whenever he could. And one night, after work, she wanted to talk but he had no plans of listening -- so he told her he was going home to rest.

She went home -- and went nuts. She knew instinctively he wasn't telling her the truth. She headed back to work, about an hour away through rush hour traffic, and drove to the employee parking lot to check if his car was still there. She found way more than she had bargained for. For there, leaning against his car, was her man with another woman from the office, working terribly hard to extricate their tongues from each other's throats. She was afraid they'd see her drive by, so she ducked -- while driving -- until she was clear out of sight.

She's not sure what surprised her more: not crashing into a row of cars as she sped through the lot with her face on the gas pedal -- or acting like, as she described it, a "psycho chick." And yes, she did take the words out of my mouth, because at that moment I was thinking she was exactly that. As I surveyed her folly from up in my lofty pedestal, feeling all smug about my sane, perspicacious self, I suddenly found myself face-to-face with my inner psycho. I've been that chick, I realized. The adage is true: It does take one to know one.

For instance, Roy and I went out for eight months. Every time we fought, he would give me the silent treatment (the excruciatingly long, extended kind). One day, I couldn't stand it anymore so I drove to his house, jumped the gate, dodged his pit bull, broke into his garage and shook his Jeep so hard that the alarm went off -- just to get his attention. I have to mention that Roy lived in the 'hood, where when alarms go off, citizens come running out of their homes armed. Roy rushed out with his kali stick, ready to kill. I must have realized how crazy I was, because I got back into my car and went straight home. I broke up with him soon after. I've always had a phobia of mimes and clowns, and he was both. After all, there were other ways to face and conquer my fears -- certainly didn't need that kind of extreme cognitive behavioral therapy.

And then there was Wretched. That was a prolonged psycho moment all on its own. I've always said that despite the failed relationships I've had, at least I learned something from every boyfriend. Not this one. Believe me, I struggled to think of something -- anything -- to justify this psychotic period in my life. None, nada, nothing. Those are two months of my life I'll never get back. If I really had nothing to do with my time, I should have been incarcerated instead; at least I might have learned something useful, like how to turn trash into alcohol.

But Allan, now there was a cad. I knew it, everyone knew it, and I'm sure he knew it too. While he pursued me with his sweet talk and undying affection, I fell for his "I'm so misunderstood and don't know why" sob story, and decided to give him a chance against my better judgment. It really was no surprise when suddenly, he was always busy at work. And really, no one could possibly work that hard (I'd slept overnight at my workplace quite a few times and still worked less than he supposedly did). One late afternoon, after he had promised to call but didn't, I decided to drop by his house on my way home from an event. I saw a strange car in the driveway; it looked like a girl's car (Girls know other girls' cars, trust me). I put my hand on the hood, it was cold; she had been there for most of the day.

I rang the doorbell and after a long delay, he came out and closed the door behind him. He said his ex was inside and he didn't want us both in the same house."Fine," I said. "Ask her to go home then. She's the past, I'm the present." He refused, and asked me to be reasonable. "Besides, she just got here," he lied. The bastard lied to my face!

"Just got here? What the hell are you talking about? Her hood's so cold it's dead! (just like you should be)," I argued. I promptly broke up with him; if I had wanted to become an investigator, I would have joined the FBI. And believe me, he wasn't worth a second look, much less investigating.

Fortunately, I haven't had a psycho moment in a long, long time. Perhaps it's only because I've used up my lifetime quota with those fools. Besides, I've since learned that the best way to leave is gracefully, so he's watching you the entire time you're walking out the door, so closely that he flinches when the door slams straight in his face. Just remember: you don't want to be the psycho he's relieved to have escaped from; you want to be the one who got away instead.

I DIG THEREFORE I AM

All gardens are a form of autobiography.
- Robert Dash

I finally found some time today to sink my hands into the earth and work on my pocket gardens both in the patio and balcony. Armed with a pair of newly-sharpened pruners, I cut back my plants to get them ready to bloom next Spring. It's hard to believe the night-blooming jasmine and clematis vines, which bloomed so profusely this past Summer, are now bare and skeletal.

I started gardening in earnest about five years ago. I planted a variety of herbs in window boxes and pots in my tiny apartment patio. There were lots of casualties during those early days. I killed even hardy plants such as rosemary and lavender ("How could you have killed them? You can't possibly kill those plants if you tried!" asked Stacy, increduously. Well I did.). When the bugs came, I had to buy a garden book just to figure out what these pesky pests were and how to kill them. I used the strongest chemicals I could get my hands on, committing the crime of overkill that novices are wont to do.

When I moved into this townhouse, the patio was an eyesore; the previous owner had stuck a few plants in random spots (I suspect wherever the earth wasn't too hard to dig). She also created a strange elevated half-moon nook with large stones, and stuck a rose tree in the middle of it. Ugly, ugly. For a year I'd walk outside  and sigh, walk back into the house and draw the curtains so I wouldn't have to see the pitiful brown-and-grey vista.

I asked my father for help when he visited me one year. I gave him my project limitations: I had no money and no time. My poor dad, dubbed the "Father of Landscape Architecture" back home, was hardly inspired. But he gave me an encouraging pat on the shoulder, as if to say, "don't worry, you'll figure it out."

Soon after, I got laid off when the company I worked for went under. Voila, I finally had time (but alas, even less cashflow). My life at that point was like being at the peak of a rollercoaster ride; I knew I was about to take a steep dive, unable to control the speed and direction of my fall to wherever I was headed. So one day, as I took my usual look at the barren landscape, I decided to finally take charge  and attack my tormentor. Every day, in-between resume writing and interviewing, I spent a few hours outside and dug, planted, and fertilized. I poured bags and bags of cedar woodchips and walk-on bark to cover the grey earth, and built a little path using circular wood pieces. I was a regular at all the local nurseries, spending hours looking at plants and talking to the experts. I read all the books and magazines available on gardening and landscape design, and my TV was tuned to HGTV 24/7.

Not too long ago, I realized this entire experience, which seemed to consist of a series of meaningless and trivial daily tasks, had changed me profoundly. I finally gained the one virtue that had escaped me previously: Patience. As hard as I tried, I could not control nature -- plants bloom and die, pests come and build colonies, Santa Ana winds forced through the foothills whoosh in with unforgiving havoc, and the scorching sun dehydrates and burns tender roots and leaves. I was awed and humbled by nature, and had no choice but to respect it.  Even if I wanted to situate a particular plant in a certain spot because it looked pretty, I had to move it if it didn't like where it was. I also learned to pull back and allow nature to create its own balance; for instance, I no longer exterminate insects with untempered glee. I've learned that beneficial insects arrive to feast on the pests if you leave well enough alone, and I now spray a little bit of insecticidal soap (Vs. harsh toxins) when the latter starts getting the upper hand.

So now when it's nice outside, my cat Boo and I sit on the patio chairs -- she naps while I read. The air is fragrant when soft winds blow and sway the lemon geraniums, apricot-scented fragrant olive, and yes, abundant rosemary and lavender. We watch the hummingbirds quickly come and go (for such little things, they sound  like helicopters!), and listen to the soothing sound of water trickling through a small fountain I put together using glazed pottery and bamboo. These simple moments I treasure for they are my reward. I might have created my garden, but my garden made me.

LOSING TO WIN

My friend Lara has been on the Zone diet for months; she swears it's the best she's ever tried and it's now a "lifestyle" for her. The results show -- she looks terrific -- and she seems to have gained more energy (not that she needs any more than she had, she was born kinetic). She's so enthusiastic about Dr. Barry Sears' program that you would think she makes money promoting it. Almost all her friends have tried it, and now her list of converts include our co-workers. She definitely gives new meaning to the phrase "zoned out."

The nearest I will get to the Zone is via their wonderful Zone bars. I'm addicted to the strawberry yogurt and chocolate caramel cluster flavors. I've tried the new chocolate vanilla creme flavor, and I think I'm hooked too. See, when I'm working or busy I forget to eat -- although you would never think that if you saw me -- so I carry a couple in my purse and graze on them all day.

The other day I walked over to Lara's cubicle to ask if she wanted to walk across the street with me to the the Starbucks counter at Barnes & Noble, where I pick up my strawberry italian cream sodas (my other addiction). Someone came over and brought her a Zone bar; we started discussing our favorite flavors, then a few heads simultaneously popped up over their cubicle walls.

"Are you on the Zone,too?" asked Tess, a pretty Pinay who works three walls over.

"Oh hell no," I answered. "I can't even balance my checkbook and you expect me to balance my diet?"

"You're silly," Lara said, and once again tried to explain the Zone food "blocks" system to me -- how protein, fat, and carbohydrate blocks need to be counted and balanced with each other throughout the day.

She pointed at all the bobbing heads that were now intently listening to her day's Zone gospel. "See, they're all doing it. It's easy!" she insisted. "But they all work in Payroll! Math is easy for them," I argued. She knew I hit an excellent point, and she smiled beatifically, just the way she always does when she tries to get me to go to Mass with her on Sundays.

Last year I bought the "South Beach Diet" book.  It sat on a pile of reading material  beside my bed until it eventually joined the lowly ranks of the cast-off and ignored that formed the foundation of the tower. I pulled it out and dusted it off a few months ago, and started reading. It seemed easy enough to understand. Bravely, I began the initial two-week phase of the program: I gave up all bread and rice, sugar, and even fruit (fruit? I thought that was supposed to be healthy!).

The first couple of days I thought I was going to have to kill someone; apparently I'm more dependent on sugar than I'd suspected. But fortunately there are a lot of terrific sugar-free products out there on the market, so whenever I'd have a particularly intense craving, I'd take a bite of faux chocolat au lait. I then declared the house a no-simple-carb zone. Meals consisted of grilled fish or chicken, and a salad with fat-free dressing. After the first week, Arnel wanted to kill me because he needed his morning peanut butter sandwiches. I was starting to suspect this South Beach diet fad was responsible for the increased crime rate in South Orange County  -- so much near-violence it had already wreaked on my previously peaceful world.

At the end of phase one, I lost a whopping four pounds. Trying not to be discouraged, I tried reading phases two and three, and decided I couldn't keep track of what was considered bad or good. Off the book went, banished to the the land of forgotten paper products beside my bed, never to be seen again.

Then Stacy, my glamorous blond amazonian goddess friend, came over one Sunday for brunch and shopping. She looked incredible, the best she's ever looked. I must present a visual here: Stacy and I are like the two lead characters in The Truth About Cats and Dogs played by Uma Thurman and Janeane Garofalo -- except that Stacy's not stupid (in fact she's a genius). So when I say she looked the best she has ever, try to imagine the sheer force of destruction she's capable of unleashing, since prior to her impossibly improved state, she's consistently caused men to trip on their own feet and mumble incoherently like inebriated cavemen. What was her new secret?

"I gave up white foods," said my whiter-than-white friend of Anglo descent. I asked her to explain, this seemed so deceptively simple. "No sugar, dairy, flour, rice, and potatoes," she said. "Of course I cheat a little once in a while, if I really have a craving. But usually it's easy and I don't miss it."

I suppose the key to any successful program is being able to understand and follow it. I don't like Math, and the Zone is like Algebra to me; I understand the concepts, but once I actually have to do calculations I can't apply them. The South Beach is lovely -- but just like gazing at a gorgeous wide-open vista, I'm torn whether to start exploring from the north or the south, and can't decide so I just sit still and don't move.

But Stacy's "white" diet -- ah, that sings to my heart. I understand white: white crisp freshly-laundered shirts; Tod's sleek, supple Piccola bag in white; white pristine Frette sheets, white fragrant gardenia flowers. How can anyone not understand WHITE? Still, once in a while I must admit I get confused; for instance, tonight I had a scoop of chocolate-and-vanilla swirl ice cream. I ate the chocolate part and left the remaining vanilla portion in the cup -- and then when I realized the entire thing constituted dairy (i.e. white), I finished the rest since I was doomed to diet hell anyway.

Still, I've lost about eight pounds, and went down a dress size. Maybe next Summer I'll finally be able to wear white jeans and not look like a marshmallow on steroids. Somehow, that sounds so fitting, poetic even. However, I just read an article stating that chocolate has been found to help prevent heart attacks. It was like the heavens opened up, angels were singing, and St. Peter was welcoming me in. If someone comes up with a weight-loss nutritional program that incorporates this, my favorite-of-all-foods, my ambrosia, I will diet happily.

BABY BLUES

A few months before I got married, after numerous tests and procedures, my doctor informed me that my uterus was, in her words, "scarred shut." I was prescribed hormones and advised that if I wanted to get pregnant, it would be difficult but not impossible, although definitely not guaranteed.That was the good news.

The bad news was that if my soon-to-be husband and I wanted a baby of our own, we'd have to be prepared to spend at least a few thousand dollars, and steel ourselves for possible frustration and even heartbreak. I've never been graceful about accepting my own failures in the first place -- so how was I going to deal with the possibility of failure arising from no real fault of my own?

This new development had me spinning like a top, with no end in sight. I was in the middle of figuring out floral arrangements, menus, invitations, and how to diplomatically notify my future mother-in-law that the 350-guest limit we had budgeted for could not consist merely of all her friends and relatives. Now I had to set aside the fantasy of a Grimm fairytale wedding and instead face the grim reality that although first came love, then marriage, there may not be a baby carriage in the progression.

I wasn't ready for my reaction; I suppose no one really is. But I've never had "baby lust," was never the kind of girl who cooed at every baby in sight, or ached to cradle an infant in her arms. When my sister first asked me to change my niece's diaper, I was stumped; I figured I went to college, passed Geometry, and even knew how to cut a dress pattern and sew it together -- so no problem, right? Wrong. And as far as I knew, the fullest extent of my maternal instincts surfaced each time I passed a GAP Kids store window and felt like squeezing the chubby padded mannequins all decked out in their stylish-but-scaled-for-little-people outfits.

But there's something about realizing that you can no longer control your options, that you can't tailor your actions in order to shape your destiny. For years I took responsibility for my body and fertility: If I took the pill and used a condom, I had a 99% probability of not getting pregnant. And that worked in my favor. But strangely enough if I wished for the opposite, I could not simply do the same -- take a pill or use a contraption that would guarantee me the same kind of odds. And worst of all, after conditioning my brain that irresponsibility would surely result in my taking on serious responsibilities nine months later, I had to rewire my mind to accept that doing absolutely nothing was going to result only in nothing. In other words, if I didn't try I would fail, but if I tried -- and tried hard -- I could fail too.

I coped by constantly reminding myself of the Buddhist teaching that desire eventually results in pain -- so it followed logically that removing desire would anaesthesize my heart and soul. I blocked all urges and did not dare to even wish. I enumerated all the reasons why NOT having a baby was better for myself, and even for the world. I grew a carapace that protected my soft insides from hard, unyielding reality. And just when I had myself convinced, Buddha fell on me and cracked my shell: I got pregnant and miscarried. And I grieved deeply for a baby I never got a chance to meet or dare to wish for.

At that point, when you realize you can't control everything -- either by doing something or even nothing -- you might just decide to leave it up to God, or at least some higher power. That's what I did, at least. I'm certainly not a fatalist, but I have to wonder why it worked out that not having a baby was a blessing in disguise because my marriage eventually failed. It was difficult enough to decide to leave my husband, but much, much simpler than if I had to decide for both me and my child.

On days when I'm feeling particularly courageous, I admit to myself that I would like to raise a child. Science says it's a natural impulse because of the part of our genetic code that determines our need for survival of the species, and also perhaps due to our human wish for immortality. I'm not going to argue with science, but I know that I feel blissfully peaceful when I watch Sabrina doodle, and absolute joy each time I carry Uno and he plays with my hair, and that I tear up watching Christina try on her prom dress.

My experiences with the children of my friends and relatives make me want to be the best person I can be, not just for me, but because I have to be ready for them. I want to be there when they need support, or maybe just a little bit of wisdom, or one day perhaps assurance they will remain resilient and stay sane in this crazy, crazy world. Just as I have.

I still get a lump in my throat when well-meaning folks ask me when I plan to get pregnant, or advise me to "get started before it's too late." It might have already been too late for me to start a family when I realized I was ready. Nonetheless, now that I am, it's not too late for ME. I'm ready for almost anything that may come -- or even for what may not. My uterus might have been scarred shut at one point, but my heart will never be.

RETAIL SECRETS

While cleaning out the garage, I found an article I wrote while I was simultaneously working retail and trying to graduate from college (or more accurately, the department chair was forcing me out because I was negatively skewing university attrition statistics). It was published in the CSUN Daily Sundial almost 10 years ago, and I'm printing it here in full. I almost got teary-eyed reading it; it brought me back to the old days.Anyway, consider this the companion piece to my previous post.

I've worked in almost every mall from downtown LA to Santa Monica to Woodland Hills to Pasadena. I know the secret parking spots, the best and worst times to shop, which food stalls offer employee discounts, and when sales are most likely to occur.

I am also unfazed by department store one-day sales that really happen once a week, and by wool coats displayed for sale in the middle of a summer heatwave. This is probably why I hate to shop. After too many years of working retail, going to a mall is like having to go to the office on my day off.

Being a sales associate is like being in a secret club. Just like a secret handshake, there are clues to help identify people who have worked retail. They have a way of unconsciously smiling at strangers and obsessively straightening racks as they browse.

There are many secrets that salespeople are privy to, that make their profession different from any other. When you're making close to minimum wage and have to work evenings, weekends, and holidays, there has to be life at work when you have no life of your own.

Salespeople survive the drudgery of their jobs by hoping that, at any time, someone famous interrupts them to ask for help.  My fondest memories occurred during the '93 Oscars, when I worked at Victoria's Secret.  I was personally responsible for what clung underneath the skintight gowns of nearly all female nominees, including the Best Actress winner that year. When the "Best Dressed" were announced in People magazine, I felt I should have been awarded "Special Mention (for the unmentionables)."

I've had many celebrity clients, and I'd know who was seeing whom, and who had what done, before it would see print in the National Enquirer. More significantly, to this day I know who wears what, and who wears not.

Unfortunately, I also have seen humanity's dark side. I've been tackled by a six-foot shoplifter whose 3-year-old daughter had been trained to divert salespeople's attention, and know of men who dress like women and stash stolen bras in their tight Lycra girdles.

Because mall security is never around when you need them, employees have devised their own systems to thwart bad check writers and professional shoplifters. They even call other stores to alert them to potential trouble.

Sometimes, inter-store security extends far beyond work-related matters. "Where's your boyfriend tonight?" a phone call to me began.

"At the office, finishing up paperwork," I foolishly replied.

"Wrong, he just passed me on his way to the escalators. He's with another girl," my friend at Bullocks (note: now Macys) men's furnishings department said. "Wait, let me call over accessories; I think he's there now."

Salespeople also have to deal with situations not listed in their job descriptions. For example, Victoria's Secret employees dread Cosmopolitan magazine's February/Valentine's issue. The store's fitting rooms are constantly listed among America's most romantic places, and embarrassing moments inevitably occur. This is one reason the company strictly abides by a "one person per room" policy.

Sometimes, customer indiscretions get salespeople in trouble. One year, I was hounded by lawyers when one of my regular clients, who would shop with her boss during lunch hours, later sued him for sexual harassment.

Despite all this excitement, salespeople would rather be home, trying to get a life. If you've ever noticed how they eye you apprehensively at two minutes to closing, this is why. They can't leave until not only everything has been put away and straightened, but also until collars are lined up, hangers are equally spaced, and sleeves are fanned. The two racks you looked through just cost them 10 minutes of additional work. So here's a tip: When the music is shut off, it's time to go home.

This is definitely one secret that's meant to be shared.