GIGI GOES GAGA

SURVIVING SISTERS

It might be sheer coincidence, but most of my friends have all-girl broods. Every time our families get together, the testosterone level in the room is so low, it's almost non-existent. The girls range from pre-school to almost-college age, and they flock together according to interests (toys, video games, and boys mainly). The high estrogen factor can be overwhelming and heady, even for us women but more so for the men. And when the girls fight among themselves, it's loud, hostile, relentless, even bordering on violent. This happens quite frequently and, always, the men are helpless; they have no idea how to referee a girlfight. They look at me, the third of four sisters with no brothers, with worried, beseeching looks: will we -- can we -- survive years of this?

I can't speak for my father, but if his nightly silence at the dining room table (picture him and my mom surrounded by four strong-willed girls who speak loud and lightning-fast) is any indication, he either endured or surrendered. But he was wise enough never to compete.

I often wonder how and why us four girls are as opposite as points of a compass -- and yet we were all born and raised in the same household, guided by the same set of parents, and educated in the same schools. People who know any one of us are often surprised when they meet the rest and find out we're not just related, but sisters.

For instance.

Joni is the late-bloomer who gets younger as she ages. When she hangs out with her two daughters (and yes, she "hangs out"), she looks like their oldest sister. The family geek, she may have the highest IQ among us, and is probably even right and left-brained. Mom used to have to push her to get out of the house but now she runs marathons all over the world, is an avid skier, sails and scuba dives, and basically jumps at every opportunity for experience and adventure. Twenty years ago, the best part of her days consisted of watching her favorite soap operas, going to the mall, and renting the latest film at the local Blockbuster. But everything I knew about her is no longer true (and she becomes less familiar each year) -- and all she can do is merely shrug me off when I confront her, "Who are you and what have you done to my sister?"

Suzy has never completed a sit-up or push-up in her life, eats junk (when she eats, that is), hates vegetables, and wears a size 2 during her fat days. She's the tallest among us, inherited my mother's beautiful legs, and could be a hand model if she so desired. She's been smoking like a chimney since she was 14, can outdrink a redneck -- but she's in perfect health. On the surface she floats like a social butterfly -- but she stings like a bee (no, make that a wasp) when crossed or wronged. Strangest thing about her is that although for years her reading material consisted mainly of fashion magazines and beach reads such as "Mills & Boon" and "Barbara Cartland," she manages to stun me with Buddha-wise advice whenever I least expect it.

Tina was born a year after me, but looks a generation younger. She's always been the smallest and frailest of the bunch, therefore bringing out all our protective instincts towards her. But she really needs no protection -- she can fend for herself quite well, thank you. She's the only one with a Master's degree (which she paid for on her own by working full-time, despite my father's insistence to finance her education) and manages to live by herself within the tight limits of her modest salary. She's also a model Catholic, and nothing upsets her more than someone causing her to be even a few minutes late to Mass. Her only requirements for a future husband is that he works hard and goes to Church. "Non-smoker" used to be on her list, until she sadly realized she'd have to leave the Philippines to find the right guy unless she moved it to her wish list instead. She doesn't like to wear makeup and she won't wear anything uncomfortable (thus no stilettos and tight clothes in her closet). And oh -- she doesn't like to shop (freak!).

As you can imagine, we fought like cats and dogs when we were growing up. OK, no one ever really fought with Joni because it wasn't fun: the most you'd get out of her was silence and her usual (at least in the past) stoic glance. But I've punched Suzy, and Tina has kicked me off her so hard I flew across the room and nearly broke my back on my parent's TV (this was back in the day when television sets were so big they dominated nearly an entire wall). And yes, there were lots and lots of shouting and yelling. And banging doors. And angry stampedes up and down the stairs. Name-calling. Cold shoulders. Stink eye and tattle-telling.

I used to think we'd end up killing each other, but now I simply cannot live without my sisters. We may be separated by distance, busy schedules, and insufficient vacation time -- but a quick phone call is always enough to bridge the gap. When we're all together (which sadly has occurred only twice in the last decade), there's that familiar and assuring comfort of being able to communicate with a look, and of laughing at the same things (usually at my poor mother). We can't wear each other's clothes and shoes -- because we all have different physiques and sizes -- but we clearly share the same skin. And if Joni's the smartest, Suzy the sexiest, and Tina the most educated -- there's no envy or competition; it is what it is, and we're happy for each other. We can still rub each other the wrong way, no doubt, but annoyance quickly gives way to acceptance, and then all is forgiven. We always watch out for each other, even if it appears we're not looking, and we don't ever have to watch our own backs when we're together.

I used to pray God would give me a brother. But as always, he knew better and instead gave me something more than I could ever hope for. He gave me my sisters.

OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES

G arrived about an hour late to our get-together. She rushed in, a tad bit flushed and perhaps a little flustered even.

"I'm so sorry I'm late you guys!" she yelled above the din of girl-bonding chitchat. It's OK, we all assured her; whenever we have these small high school reunion-type parties anyway, part of the excitement is figuring out who's going to walk through the door next -- and when.

I stood with her by the dining table as we grazed on california rolls and mini-empanadas. She started explaining why she was late; apparently, she got lost. It wasn't because she lacks a sense of direction, she was merely distracted.

"I was listening to a tape about how to talk to your kids about sex," G explained. My jaw hit the floor and I nearly choked on sticky vinegared rice. Of course, I do think parents should have this conversation with their children -- I was just quite surprised about who among the mothers in the group was taking first strike. After all, G only had two boyfriends her entire life: the first one she had a completely pure and chaste relationship with (no kissing even, if I remember correctly) and the second man she married. I'd be willing to bet everything I have that her young teens know much more about sex than she did at their age. I'm sure all of you would agree with me, given the times we live in.

I quickly understood why she was flushed and flustered. "I was listening to some of the stuff..." G didn't finish her sentence as she fanned her reddening face with her hands. She didn't have to -- I knew exactly what she was trying to say. She continued, "Anyway, so I got distracted and next thing I knew I didn't know where I was and I had to find my way back."

I guess that pretty much sums up what parents feel when they confront the day they realize it's time to discuss sex with their kids: confused and hopelessly lost. I don't envy my friends; being a teenager is much more complicated today than it was even 20 years ago. Our lives were innocent (idyllic even) in comparison, even if we didn't think so then. Nowadays, teens have to ever-so-carefully maneuver a path littered with hidden land mines on their way to adulthood: violence in schools, child molesters and sexual predators, drugs and alcohol (OK, that's an old one), and sex. But not just "should I do it or should I not" kind of sex. We're talking about young girls who engage in fellatio because they don't want to have sexual intercourse and risk pregnancy or disease. We're talking about barely-teens who think oral sex is "not a big deal," although they admit it's not as casual as kissing. We're talking about "friends with benefits" and one-time casual hook-ups.

These are issues my girlfriends didn't have to deal with when they were 13 or 14 -- so discussing these topics now with their own teens entails more than empathy and wisdom gained from life experience. What is needed now is foresight, careful preparation, and information.

For many years I've heard about high school parties where girls compete with each other: who can give the most blowjobs (to as many boys) that night? I never knew if these were just urban legends meant to instill cold, hard fear into the hearts of parents everywhere. Apparently, they do happen -- but not everywhere, and not all the time. Still, they happen.

I just finished watching The 411: Teens and Sex, a one-hour TV news special. There was nothing to me that was new, but one thing did completely surprise me: how smart today's teens can be about such "grown-up" issues. I suppose because they are confronted -- bombarded even -- with these questions and dilemmas, they need to quickly form their answers and decisions. There were roughly two dozen teens ranging from 13 to 16 featured on the show -- their thoughts and feelings about sex varied as widely as their backgrounds. But there were a few things they pretty much agreed upon.

Over and over, they repeated that parents have much more influence over their teen's actions and decisions than they think they do, even more than the media (this is good news, yes?). Most of them said all children/teens need to be taught respect and self-respect. One particularly articulate boy said girls should be taught self-respect -- not so much manifested in what they choose to wear, but with the choices they make with their bodies.They all agreed that should their parents discuss sex with them, they should be willing to listen, be honest, and not punish them or even their friends for what they may say.

Towards the end of the show, a couple of experts were invited to speak to a group of parents. Amid all the questions and answers, a few messages were repeated constantly: that parents should begin the process of honest and open conversation with their children from early on -- so that when it's time to discuss relationships and sex, there's a greater comfort level overall. Ask a lot of questions but listen (in fact, do more listening than talking). And lastly, parents should practice what they preach; they should lead by action and show their children what loving, respectful relationships are about.

After the show was over, I reflected on the decisions I had made when I was the same age as the teen participants. My parents had never discussed sex with me and my sisters -- most likely because they never had similar conversations with my grandparents and surely because they didn't know how to do so. They simply assumed our school would take care of that ("Don't have sex before you get married; otherwise, you'd be committing a sin."). But I was never one to take things at face value and always questioned everything. Plus I was more curious than cautious. So when I was confronted with the decision, I wasn't ready -- I was completely naive, I didn't even know what a penis looked like. I was hopelessly in love with my boyfriend, I didn't want to lose him, and I thought we would be together forever. I made the wrong decision -- and I say wrong only because I wasn't emotionally ready to act on my choice. Fortunately for me, having done so, I took every precaution so I wouldn't get sick and possibly die or get pregnant when I wasn't the least bit strong enough to be a mom. I may have been wrong about my future, but at least I made sure I still had one.

Because of my own experience, I applaud my friend G (even if I cringe at imagining the discomfort she will feel when she has "the talk" with her kids). She may have been confused, distracted, flustered, and lost -- but she found her way back, got on track and on the right path. And with her teens on the same road with her. Whatever direction her kids eventually choose to take, at least they won't be without a roadmap.

BEAUTY HURTS

I got injured today. Ouch. I must have pulled a muscle on the upper right side of my body; it hurts a lot from my rib across to my back when I twist. Bummer.

I was trying to put on my brave-soldier face all day, and not let Arnel know I was feeling sore. He suffers from chronic neck pain as a result of repeated sports injuries, but had to see a doctor to help him manage it this week. I didn’t want him to worry, so I didn’t say a thing. OK, so there's a little bit more to it than that, and not as noble of a reason too.

Over dinner tonight, he saw me grimace quite a few times and just had to ask the question.

Arnel: What’s wrong with you? You look like you’re in pain.
Me: Yeah, on my right side. Just hurts a little when I twist or move or breathe deeply.
Arnel: How’d do you get hurt?
Me: I don’t know.

Pause. Long stare. He knows I’m lying; I’m a hopelessly lousy liar.

Me: Well, I think I have an idea. (Pregnant pause as Arnel gives me that “please continue” look). I was getting a manicure and pedicure today... (I pause and sigh in exasperation as I see a deliciously evil smile curling on the sides of his mouth)...and I was sitting in the massage chair like this (I then demonstrate my mani/pedi pose -- feet soaking in jacuzzi bath and both arms stretched out to each side) while I slept. They asked me to pay before they painted my nails. And I was groggy...

I really did not want to continue my story, but I knew I wasn’t getting out of it. This was just too good for Arnel to drop.

Me: So I twisted my body towards my left and back to grab my purse behind me. And I forgot how heavy it was, so I must have pulled a muscle while I struggled to keep my balance.

I waited for him to rip into me. He teases me enough about my grooming-related expenses. But now that I’ve actually been injured as a result of my vanity, he’ll never let me hear the end of it. Amazingly, the teasing never came; he started talking about something else! I was so grateful, I was actually extra sweet to him for the rest of the night.

Until. We were watching “Law and Order” while lying in bed, backs propped up high on pillows. I needed to go to the bathroom, and quite awkwardly tried to get up and onto my feet; I was struggling to find a way to do so without feeling any more discomfort. Arnel glanced over to his left and looked at me wriggling my way about with very little success.

Arnel: Honey, next time remember to do your stretching exercises first before getting a manicure, OK? You might hurt yourself. (pah rum pum). Maybe also before you get your hair blowdried; you just never know.

I knew it. There was no way he was going to let me off the hook. I wanted to hit him but it hurt too much. It also hurt when I tried to laugh.

I don’t mean just my right side hurt to do both -- it's my ego that’s been wounded. It hurts way too much right now, I can’t stand it. I can’t even enjoy the quiet dignity of suffering from an injury caused by vigorous exercise or physical labor. And worse, you just know you’re getting old when you can get hurt doing the most inconsequential things (like trying to pay the nail technician).

So tomorrow, if my side’s still sore and someone notices, I know what I need to do. I’ll have to flat out lie: better that my soul be stained than my ego pained, right? Or I can reply with a surreptitious glance at Arnel followed with a naughty knowing smile. At least that’s a lie both of us can live with.

Now excuse me while I pluck a couple of Motrins downstairs. Yes, using my shiny, freshly varnished nails. You know what they say: beauty hurts.

ALL FOR THE BEST

I just watched the second episode of American Idol -- an hour of outtakes from auditions held in St. Louis, MO. It was on opposite Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Model Search -- which meant that Arnel and I kept flipping back and forth between channels (guess which show he wanted to watch?).It's one thing for a sexy, beautiful woman to think she's fabulous enough to grace SI's swimsuit issue -- even if she's only good enough for, say, mass market retail catalog work -- but it's completely another thing for a tone-deaf aspiring cosmetologist possibly afflicted with disassociative identity disorder to believe she's the next American Idol. OK, so maybe only one of her alter states truly believes it -- but even that is one too many.

It requires either an immeasurable amount of chutzpah or pathological levels of delusional thinking to get in front of a camera and announce to millions that one is the most deserving, the best of the best, the top of the heap. You may have what it takes or not, but it really does take a lot more than unbridled confidence to declare yourself peerless or unrivaled. In a way, I envy both kinds of fools; my own folly runs toward the other extreme. I worry constantly about not being good enough, and I don't accept compliments graciously.

So what was I thinking during my senior year of high school when I auditioned for the musical Godspell? At that point my only public performing experience had been about nine years of Glee Club; I'd never sung or danced solo and I was always more comfortable scurrying around in backstage darkness than basking under the harsh glare of the lights. The answer is quite simple: I wanted to spend more time with my bestfriend Rosanna, whom I was slowly losing to the theater.

Rosanna was born to be a star, and I was always content to glow from the reflection of her brilliant light. She got involved with CUE, the drama club of La Salle Green Hills (an all-boy Catholic high school). Because it was nothing like Elizabethan-era Shakespearean theater, the club recruited talented girls from surrounding Catholic schools in Manila to play the female parts. Rosanna always got the lead. I rarely saw her because of almost-nightly rehearsals, but she'd keep me up-to-date with all her exciting experiences whenever she could. My heart was always pumped full of pride when I'd see her onstage; I loved seeing the audience respond to her and watch her further encouraged by their applause. Clearly, this is where she belonged. But I missed my bestfriend.

So when she asked me if I wanted to audition for Godspell with her, I said yes -- not really expecting to make the cut, it was just something we could do together. After all, I can warble in tune -- which would probably be the most enthusiastic review I'd receive about my singing -- and I don't have two left feet. I certainly don't have what it takes to make Rodgers or Fosse sit up and notice. But this was high school theater after all, where cheese rules -- and I'm the dairy farmer. I had nothing to lose but my dignity, but I didn't have much to begin with anyway.

To my absolute surprise and delight, not only did I make it to the cast -- but I also got a solo part ("Bless the Lord"). I was looking forward to working with a bunch of really terrific people for the next few months. Some of the folks I spent endless rehearsal hours with went on to much greener pastures in the entertainment industry; for instance, Randy Santiago, who played -- of course -- Jesus Christ (by the way, he has a legitimate medical-related reason for wearing dark sunglasses always, even at night). I remember my initial fear about learning complex choreography (after all, I was a ballet school dropout), and later, feeling unfathomable joy as I discovered I'd nailed all the steps. I remember practicing my high notes over and over again until they soared out of my mouth without hesitation. I remember focusing on just doing instead of failing. This was a miracle for someone like me, who had always feared failure more than anything else.

I never deluded myself into thinking we were breaking new ground here, or that we'd be "discovered" or heralded in the media. I always knew it was all about the doing -- about working hard and in harmony with other people, trusting the people you worked with as well as yourself, and gaining a bit of confidence along the way. It really was one of my best high school experiences; it taught me a little about being fearless and encouraged me to always try something new. I also did get to spend a lot of wonderful times with Rosanna -- but I learned I didn't need her brilliance for illumination; I also had a little light of my own shining within me.

I never performed on stage for an audience again, but I'm not afraid of getting in front of people and speaking. I'd like to think that my involvement with a silly little play many, many years ago had something to do with that. Fortunately, I've also learned my limitations despite my propensity for pushing against boundaries. If not, perhaps I'd do something crazy like audition for AI (c'mon, if William Hung could do it, so could I!). But I'd never try out for the SI model search -- now that would simply be insane, and there's not one voice in my head that would make me do it anyway.

SECOND TERM

The Spiridellis Brothers of Jib Jab Media have done it again. The Web digital animation company, already famous for its parody of the Bush and Kerry presidential campaigns in "This Land," just released "Second Term." This latest cartoon  (which the animators describe as not mean spirited, but instead pokes fun at all sides of the political spectrum -- Republican and Democrat, liberal and conservative) is just in time for the 55th presidential inauguration on Thursday, January 20.

Click to watch here. If you have some time, check out "Capital Ill" and "Good To Be in D.C." Very funny stuff indeed.

TEN THINGS I'D LIKE TO DO TODAY

I've been fighting writer's block all week, and losing miserably.

The good news is, as a result of prolonged mental inertia, I've finally been able to do other things -- things I've been meaning to do. I finished 20 episodes of season one of The Gilmore Girls; only four more to go before I begin season two. I pruned and cleaned up the garden -- also picked ripe honey tangerines and calamansi from my container citrus grove. I got caught up with my reading (can you believe I had November magazine issues still in their protective plastic seals?) and bonded with my cat.

The bad news is my mind is still a blank. Even a fun day spent with Stacy failed to stimulate my brain activity. Not even when she told me about a newspaper article she read that declared Mac (as in Apple) stores the new hot place to meet prospective dates, even partners -- and not only for techies and geeks either. Normally I'd start thinking: has the guy manning the Genius Bar now replaced the bartender as king of pickup central? What cheesy pickup lines would one have to endure here ("I'd love to download something into your pod, baby.")? Will there now be a dress code enforced at the store?

I hate losing, even if only to a state of mind. So to cheer myself up, I'm going to think of 10 things guaranteed to make me happy today. Nothing like world peace, relief for the tsunami victims, or an end to starvation -- those are already givens, and won't be accomplished within 24 hours anyway. I'm only listing things that can occur sometime today, even if in theory only.

1. Comfort food -- to me this means chicken and pork adobo, liver and onions, scrambled eggs and french toast, garlicky paella with tutong (crispy bits of rice scraped from the bottom of the pan), matzo ball soup and kishka at Canter's, Il Fornaio's Pizza Cristina (fresh mozzarella, mushrooms, baby arugula, prosciutto, shaved parmesan, and truffle oil), creamy mushroom soup, chocolate-and-banana crepes. OK, must stop now (it's lunchtime and there's absolutely nothing in the fridge for me to eat).
2. Boo napping on top of my chest as I nap. I love listening to her soft snore and smelling her kitty breath as she nuzzles her wet nose on my neck. When she wakes up, she taps my cheek with her paw nonstop until I open my eyes. If that fails, she hops off and sits on my head (all 13 lbs. of her!).
3. An 80-minute Nourishing Facial at Burke Williams Day Spa.
4. Take the AMTRAK with Arnel to Santa Barbara and have a romantic seafood dinner by the pier.
5. Karaoke reunion in Koreatown with Ted, Ed, August and Anna, Dennis, Mina, Kennedy, and all the usual suspects. Followed by a late-night dinner at Full House in Chinatown (sigh, the good ol' days).
6. Arnel doing his goofy dance in front of the TV to wake me up from my Piolo-gazing reverie.
7. Lounging on the chaise outside in the balcony while wrapped in a soft chenille throw and sipping cold cucumber-and-lime-flavored water, enjoying the cool wind and gentle sunlight kissing my face as I read.
8. Three hours of leisurely shopping, with stops at Anthropologie, Book Soup, Sephora, and Smith & Hawken. Better yet if I head for LA and walk along Third Street, Robertson, Beverly Boulevard, and La Brea (great shopping -- and eats!)
9. Watch the the last four episodes of season one of The Gilmore Girls with Boo curled up on my lap -- without having to worry about doing the laundry and dishes or finishing up organizing the garage.
10. Winning the war against writer's block.

There. Just thinking about my options makes me happy. What's on your list?

PRUDE AND PRURIENT

I don't remember when I was ever a prude. Naive -- yes, but never a prude.

In my day (yikes, I'm actually old enough to discuss differences between my generation and the current one!), the norm was for girls -- even women -- to feign ignorance about all matters sexual. In fact, it was almost mandatory that we appeared shocked or horrified whenever the topic was discussed publicly. We're talking about a nearly apoplectic -- brightly flushed cheeks, bulging eyes, hand covering the mouth to barely suppress a gasp, and mild seizures -- kind of reaction here. But I would have none of that; I always believed doing so gave all sexual power and control to men (or boys for that matter). I may have been too young to fully understand the politics of sex in those days, but I was convinced the more I knew, the better off I was.

I didn't even flinch from marching into the drugstore to buy condoms, even while wearing my school uniform, as my boyfriend sat in the car (I remember how I wished a transporter beam would grab me and take me away, however, when at Mercury Drug the sadistic clerk lifted the box of Trojans in the air and shouted for a price check). Many years later, when my father's friend asked him to bring back an XXX-rated video from one of his trips here to visit me, I dutifully accompanied dad to the store and gave him my (albeit unprofessional) review of his selections ("No dad, that one sucks. Here, get this one from Vivid instead; much better production, and the girls are prettier."). And when Sandra and her then-boyfriend resorted to phone sex to help their long-distance relationship survive, I selected a suitable vibrator for her to use upon his request (small and discreet so easily concealed during surprise visits to her apartment by her mother), and queued up until it was time for her to scurry over from her hiding place and pay for it. I was not amused, however, when the transvestite clerk mistook us for lovers ("She's not my girlfriend! She's not even my type -- please.").

Let me clarify that I'm never the first to bring up the topic: I just don't hesitate to offer my opinion or knowledge when asked for it.
I also know when to exit the conversation; for instance, when someone is hoping all that sex talk results in similar action and is just waiting for someone to bite (sorry, I'm not a fish and I don't respond to bait). My secret (well not anymore) wish is to be like Sue Johanson of Oxygen Channel's "Talk Sex" when I'm in my 60s. Dr. Ruth is OK but she always seems to toe the line between being a genuine sex educator and a novelty act; Johanson, in the meantime, reminds me of an unflappable college professor.

Yesterday I was going through all my books stored in the garage (yes, still working on that project). I opened a box, turned it over (to get rid of insects), and sifted through its contents to figure out what to keep and what to donate.
There were two boxes packed with erotica and sex-related non-fiction. The one that caught Arnel's eye was "302 Advanced Techniques for Driving a Man Wild in Bed : The New Book by the Bestselling Author of 203 Ways to Drive a Man Wild in Bed" by Olivia St. Claire. It might have been the bright red cover or the provocative title, but Arnel spotted it from three meters away despite his nearsightedness. "Hon, the books you read!" he exclaimed in mock exasperation (or was it real?). "Maybe this is something you can lend to (his little sister), what do you think?"

I just rolled my eyes; what did I expect, after all? This is the same guy who hid my books on the Kama Sutra and fellatio when Charmaine and Mike housesat for us one week while we vacationed in Manila. He was busy scouring the room for hiding places as I protested, "Why are you hiding them? As proper hosts we have an obligation to provide our guests with interesting reading matter." This is the same man who refused to allow me to buy a basket of condoms for our friend Joe, who nursed a broken heart one summer by having unprotected sex with almost anything in a skirt that moved. I have good intentions no doubt, but Arnel often wishes I just don't act on them.

However, there is one thing that thoroughly freaks me out and makes me wish I were a cloistered nun: when close family relatives (I can't say who or what they are to me because even the thought makes me squeamish) talk about anything even remotely related to sex. I may act cool, composed, and objective -- but deep inside me I have my fingers plugged into my ears as I loudly sing "lalalalala" to drown out the noise of their voice. Thank heavens my prudish mother is nothing like me; she has a "don't ask, don't tell, don't ever want to know" policy when it comes to her daughters -- or perhaps anyone else for that matter. I know it's considered healthy for parents and their children to have "the talk" before teenage hormones go amok, but in my case it probably would have resulted in post-traumatic stress disorder.

One day, if I get my way, I'll have my own call-in show like Johanson. But I'm issuing a warning to all my relatives right now: please don't call me, I'll just send you the book. You're even welcome to drop by and look through the boxes in the garage. Just don't forget to ask Arnel where he hid the rest.

COMING TO AMERICA PART 2

I never meant to stay here.

My plan was to finish college -- just as my older sisters had done before me -- and go home armed with a diploma and maybe even a year or two of work experience. I had broken up with my boyfriend before coming over because I didn't see the point of maintaining a long-distance relationship, but we had remained good friends and communicated regularly and often. I thought maybe we'd get back together, get married and start a family, and I'd find a job in the media as I'd always planned. I had a nice life waiting for me; I really believed that.

So when Atty. Michael Eng , whom I met with in order to fix my student visa papers, explained the steps I needed to take once I had received my degree and decided to stay -- I cut him short and said I had no intentions of remaining in the US after I was done. He looked at me and paused; very softly he said, "I've heard that so many times before, but they all later decided to stay and wanted to know how to do it." The audacity of this guy, I thought: not everyone wanted to leave the Philippines and live here instead. But I didn't argue, content with knowing I'd be the exception and prove him wrong.

Fifteen years later I was finally ready to go back home. My marriage was over and my job prospects were frightening. I didn't want to go back to the retail grind; my heart had always been in journalism after all. Just a year before, my professor -- a Los Angeles Times veteran who was highly-respected in the industry -- told me she'd be more than happy to give me a reference. She thought I had the talent and the drive to succeed; this was all the encouragement I needed. The problem was I'd have to start over, from the bottom along with thousands of other new grads -- and I no longer knew how to survive on that kind of a salary. I had decided -- against my lawyer's persistent objections -- I was not going to ask for half the money and property I was entitled to according to CA law ("At least get him to replace your crappy car!" she yelled). I was going to start over on my own even if it killed me.

I struck a deal with mom: if I didn't receive a job offer by September 1st, I was going home that month. All my bags were packed and the only thing left to do was arrange to bring my cat with me. So it was the first day of September, and I was sitting at my desk staring at the computer monitor and the phone, mulling over options and prospects. I was going to call mom and tell her I was coming home; it was time to reclaim my old room (which was now storage space). And then the phone rang.

DKNY was opening its second store, at the Beverly Center, and they wanted me. They were also willing to pay me what I had asked for. If I accepted, I would fly to Las Vegas in two days and train at the store inside Caesar's Palace. Everything would be arranged and paid for. I had interviewed for the position despite my (apparently weak) resolve to stay far away from retail. But this was DKNY; Donna Karan had been my fashion hero since before my fashion school days. It was the only retail position I had applied and interviewed for.

I called my mom. I wasn't going home; not yet.

There were several times in the past when I was barely a breath away from going home. Just before I got married, I had my heart set on doing so after Bingo -- who had just returned to Manila to join the family business -- told me about all the exciting opportunities he found back home and convinced me it was time for me to finally go back. But somehow there was always a reason I couldn't -- not yet, not then.

Lara commented not too long ago that I was the only Filipino immigrant she knew here who still had one foot solidly planted in the Philippines. My friends are always amazed how I keep up with Philippine news and current affairs (including juicy showbiz gossip). Obviously a large chunk of why half my heart still beats strongly there is because of my family and best friends, who call the Philippines home -- by choice. The other reason is simply because I was born and raised there.

Not too long ago I wholeheartedly accepted my home was now here; it was the first time I'd made this decision without feeling guilty. Since I came here I felt that choosing to stay would be betraying my country. But I've now been here for longer than I lived there and -- although I fought the feeling for years -- this is now where I belong. I was a child in the Philippines; I became an adult here. It was here I learned to find my way on, around, and through the tricky paths of adulthood, find the will to survive, and thrive. It was here I got knocked down repeatedly and learned to stand up again and again. I've also realized I now know my way around here much better, and here is where it's comfortable and familiar.

I've finally accepted I could be Filipino in America. I've learned about the struggles and contributions of generations of Filipinos before me (starting from centuries back when seafaring men jumped off the galleons and ended up in Louisiana), who endured gut-wrenching humiliation and discrimination. Their experiences and accomplishments are tightly woven into the tapestry of American life and history; you can't possibly try to remove them without causing irreperable damage. I respect and honor all those who came before and learned to call this place home; without them my journey would have been more treacherous, perhaps even fatal.

It's my turn now to weave in my own experiences and accomplishments into this multicolored fabric; without people like me there would be no tapestry; just bleached linen. I came here, found myself and my future. There's a Filipino heart that thumps inside me -- wherever I find myself in the world, that won't change. But while it beats, this new home of mine will be much better for it.

COMING TO AMERICA PART 1

"The worst thing you could do is stick to your own kind and not meet and be friends with all kinds of people. Don't try to live here like you live there."

I still remember Gabe telling me this one lazy afternoon as we sat on the floor of his sister's Beverly Hills apartment. I had arrived in the US just weeks ago, and he wanted to make sure I started out my life here with my head on straight. This was the same guy who had just taught me how to pump my own gas, so I paid careful attention to anything else he wanted to teach me.

I didn't know what he meant; I thought I was a pretty sociable, gregarious, and open-minded person. I'd never been accused of being a snob my whole life, so why start now? I wasn't thinking that for 18 years I'd lived a relatively sheltered existence -- my home all these years was inside a private, guarded Makati-city enclave, I had attended private Catholic schools, and I'd never earned a single cent by working. For crissakes my brother-in-law had to teach me how to clean the toilet only a few nights ago, and I was still learning how to iron my own clothes and use a vacuum cleaner. None of this entered my head as I looked at Gabe with a quizzical stare.

"Look," he continued, "all you Filipino foreign students come here and hang out only with one another and look down on Filipino-Americans because you think we're different and have no class. Then you go home and you're still the same as when you got here. What a waste."

So when Noemi, my student peer counselor at Loyola Marymount University suggested I attend a party for incoming students hosted by the Asian Pacific Student Union on campus, I went. Noemi had introduced me to a few other Asian-American students, and they were nice enough to make sure I didn't feel too awkward, even if in reality I felt lost and alone in the middle of the crowd.

"Do you know how to cha cha?" Bernardo appeared in front of me with his hand out, and motioned towards the dance floor. Cha cha? What the hell was he talking about? Wasn't the cha cha something my mom used to dance when she was my age? I looked at the rows of dark-haired students moving back and forth in unison on the floor, some even making fancy turns before moving forward towards their partners again. It looked like the cha cha all right, but with a slower tempo and not as Latin-inflected. Plus they were dancing to Madonna. Very strange indeed. "No, I don't," I replied. That's OK, he said, so I followed him and disappeared among the waves.

He moved really well; he was very smooth and moved in time to the beat. But something was wrong: he was too -- enthusiastic -- for a man. Back home, guys just did the basic two-step -- unless they were gay or were dancing on "Penthouse Live". And here was this perfectly normal guy (OK, his pants seemed to be too baggy; I was used to seeing Filipino guys back home dressed either in slim-cut jeans and tees, or in preppy attire) dancing like he was center-stage on Soul Train. I remembered Gabe's words so I went with the flow, tentatively two-stepping my way back and forth with the cha-cha-ing masses.

I never thought these little things would throw me for a loop. But it was the little, everyday sort of things that got me most confused during my first few years in the US.

For instance, I didn't know how to respond to "How are you?" or "How ya doin'?" Does the greeter really want to know how I'm doing or how my day is going? And why would they want to know when I barely know them (and sometimes not at all)? I knew there was some way to respond to them without feeling awkward, so I visited my Intercultural Communication professor in her office to find out. "Just say 'great! how are you?' then smile and go your own merry way," she said. "They don't really want to know how I'm doing?" I pressed her for more clarification.

"No," she answered. It was easier than I thought. Later I found myself surprised when someone actually replied to me with a description of their physical, emotional, or mental state when I asked the same question. So usually I now just say hello, unless I really want to know.

Another problem I had was everyone looked the same to me. Everyone -- including Caucasians (many of whom think all Asians and African-Americans look the same). I wasn't used to paying attention to coloring, because back home almost everyone had black or brown hair and eyes. Of course there were expatriates and foreigners in Manila -- but they were relatively few, so it was easy to recognize and differentiate among them without having to pay close attention to their eye or hair color. I absolutely dreaded it when classmates asked if I had seen someone in particular; I never knew whom they were talking about, even if the person sat right in front of me in class.

But -- as Gabe had warned me -- the issue that gave me most grief was being Filipino among Filipinos. My fellow foreign students were perplexed why I would hang out with the Filipino-Americans since they were strange and different. The latter thought the same of the former. I felt like I was in the middle -- stranger and even more different, perhaps, because I tried to fit in with both.

Yet there was something Gabe forgot to warn me about: there were many times I was teased by my new Filipino-American friends about being a FOB (Fresh Off the Boat), and that I needed to change if I were going to be considered cool. For instance, my "Manila collegiala" accent had to go. "My name is not 'Pah-tee," said Patty, who proceeded to make me practice the correct way of pronouncing her name ("stretch out your vowels and don't enunciate the 't' so much!"). And my loose clothing -- a result of both my love for Comme de Garcons and other Japanese fashion designers, as well as my attempt to disguise how fat I was (all size 2/3 of me) -- was often criticized. I worked on the accent, but refused to budge on my fashion choices since I didn't like the alternatives presented to me.

There were many times I wanted to say "f**k this" and tell myself I didn't have to do anything different because I'd be back home in a few years. I was beginning to feel like an outsider in either group; how did it happen that I felt different when I was surrounded by own kind? I felt like my identity was being defined by others instead of myself.

I'm glad I stuck to my resolve. My fellow foreign students provided me with a constant sense of comfort and familiarity, and kept me grounded with a strong awareness and reminder of who I was. However, my Filipino-American friends helped me adjust and evolve until I gained a foothold on living here without feeling like a stranger. In a way they helped me navigate the trickiest journey of all: how to cope with gaining a Filipino identity for the first time in my life (since I had defined myself in non-racial terms while growing up in the Philippines) and learning to live in my adopted country without being restrained or confined by it. I'm always proud to say I'm Filipino -- yet although my personal and professional achievements are not because or in spite of it, I am more enriched and fortified by my identity.

I eventually learned how to cha cha, I can do housework like any fabulous domestic goddess, and can switch between accents with ease. I have wonderful friends of all backgrounds, and am superbly self-sufficient (though I still dread having to pump my own gas). Gabe wanted me to make the most of my sojourn here in the US and return home much better for it. He didn't realize that by opening my mind, he had helped me achieve so much more. I forged a new and powerful sense of identity and -- empowered by an open mind for all things new, strange, and different, and enabled by a can-do attitude -- I was able to build a solid and fulfilled life here. I still miss Manila often -- but at least now there are two places I can call home. They may be far apart on a map, but together inside my heart.

I came to America and found me.

WHEN HE MET ME

I recently watched "When Harry Met Sally" for the umpteenth time; obviously it's one of the many films I enjoy and love.  I've also had countless discussions about the movie regarding its central theme: Can men and women really be (and remain only) friends? Psst, I belong to the small group in the corner with hands waving up in the air, jumping up and down in order to be noticed and counted, shouting "yes! yes!" with naked, unabated enthusiasm.

I'm not sure why I belong to that group; my experience has been mostly the opposite. I think it's because while my female friends have always been my lifeboat, my male friends have been my anchor -- they are essential to me, no more or less important. Thus to say I belong to the other group, the naysayers, would be tantamount to yanking my anchored lifeboat and casting it into the middle of a perfect storm. Not a good idea.

I don't think the movie questions casual friendships shared by men and women (by the way I suppose we can transpose this discussion into whether two gays or two lesbians can sustain a deep friendship without it turning into something else -- but I belong to neither group and wouldn't be able to provide any significant insight on the matter). We all have friends of the other sex whom we hang out or party with, or even interact with daily but to no real powerful degree -- I'm not talking about them. And I'm also not referring to those we consider our pseudo-siblings -- although we all know that "he's just like a brother to me" could well be the result of someone taking proactive strike by drawing a red line in the ground indicating where the other may never ever cross, instead of merely being an innocent yet factual comment.

So for the sake of discourse, I'm talking about deep, profound friendships shared by a man and a woman. The kind where this friend is the first person you need to talk to when you're in despair or triumphant. Where both of you know everything there is to know about each other -- so much so that you can finish each other's sentences, and that silent moments and pauses between conversations are not uncomfortable. Where he can't get completely serious about another woman unless he introduces her to you first and you approve of her. Yeah -- that friend is who I'm talking about.

I think of all the men I've shared that kind of friendship with, and whether or not we ventured past that line: B (whom I spent endless phone hours with discussing his unrequited love for our mutual friend) - crossed. J (whom I always referred to as my cousin) - crossed. D (whom I always thought of as G's big brother until he and I became friends) - crossed. T (my alter-ego, the male Gigi) - crossed. S (we dueled against each other in our own celibacy showdown/survival contest; I lost) - crossed, because he tried to tiptoe across the line when I wasn't looking. G (we bonded so instantaneously that it freaked both of us out, and then we were simply inseparable) - never crossed, though both of us thought about it and mutually decided against it.

I'd better stop counting now -- not only because I'm making the opponent's case but primarily because I'm coming across as a ho. Anyway, 5 out of 6. (Pause.) Does it count in my favor if I'm still excellent friends with all of them?

So here's my final word about my male friends before I get felled with foot-in-mouth disease. I love my guy friends (and you all know who you are). They tell me the absolute truth about what men really want (from me) but never tell me the real truth about whether or not jeans make me look fat. They're usually the first to run to my aid -- whether to help fix my broken heart ("I'll kick the bastard's ass!") or my broken car. They help me move my 20 wardrobe boxes of clothes, 40 boxes of books, and 80 boxes of shoes -- even if they just did the same exact thing for me only 160 days ago. They talk to me honestly about their dating adventures and relationships so I can apply them to my own; they show me what signs to watch out for, how not to be the psycho chick, and how to leave and have the men longing in the end. They remain steadfastly protective of me and ensure I'm never vulnerable or exposed. They're the brothers I never had (because I literally have no brothers). They are proof that not all men are pigs; they only are if you let them (but c'mon, let's admit the same is true of us women, yes? OK, I will).

So can men and women just be friends?

My answer is still a resounding yes. Perhaps more often than not in my case, one or both of us may have dipped into or gently waded in relationship's waters (since people always say, after all, that the best couples are also the best of friends). And just like with any true friendship between two persons (regardless of sex or gender) -- we kept afloat when buoyed down by choppy waves, weathered all storms, survived, and lasted. So in the end, still great friends, and just friends. I'm definitely a believer.

LEGEND IN MY OWN MIND

I used to get in my car at odd hours of the night and drive when I wanted to clear my head. Sometimes I'd be sitting in my room, completely restless or perhaps bored, and decide I'd rather be in San Francisco instead -- so I'd jump in the car at midnight and get there before the sun came up. And so when Erwin asked me to drive cross-country with him to Indiana on Thanksgiving weekend, I said yes immediately, excited to see what lay between California and the Midwest (a lot of tumbleweeds, it turns out).

I no longer drive as freely or as far. I haven't, in fact, for a long while. And it's turned my life around completely.

I was driving home late at night when I should have been in bed instead. Just the day before, I was admitted to the ER, white as a sheet and barely breathing. As usual, I hadn't allowed a trivial thing like acute bronchitis stop me from working, so my body decided to go on strike. I was supposed to take my meds and take it easy, but I didn't listen to the doctors (see, I used to think I was invincible). I was on the fast lane of the I-10, driving way past the speed limit, when it happened.

I had my first panic attack.

It felt like a heart attack, although I've never had one. I imagine, however, that's what it would be like if I ever did. The first thing I remember feeling was complete and utter disorientation; I remember seeing the lights from the opposing cars filtering through the freeway divider. They were blinding-bright and pulsating, hypnotic even. Then it felt like my head was being squeezed into a box and separated from the rest of my body. I couldn't feel my fingers or feet; I didn't know if I was pressing down on the gas pedal or if I was still steering. My heart was racing and I had lost control of all my senses and faculties. I thought, Holy Shit -- I'm going to crash and die!

I remember slowing down to a crawl until the cars behind me moved out of my lane (if they were honking their horns at me, I didn't hear it at all), and then I merged to the I-5 like I'd done a thousand times before. The next thing I remember was getting off my exit, just a few miles away from the house. I was shaking all over, but I was afraid to stop -- I was afraid I'd never make it home.

I'd been in car accidents before; during the worst one, my tiny Honda looked like a silver accordion after getting slammed both in front and in the rear. But I always got back behind the wheel as soon as I could; my grandma once taught me to do that. So that night I went to sleep and resolved to beat my moment of madness into oblivion the following morning.

But that morning never came. I got into the car, headed for the Trader Joe's less than three miles away from home, and had panic attack no. 2. And soon enough, I stopped counting. When I was 14, I had learned how to drive against my father's wishes because I wanted to be free, independent, and self-sufficient; now I saw all that slipping away from me.

I thought I was going crazy. I had never heard of panic attacks before, at least not in the true sense of the term. I was so angry at myself: why was I so stupid and irrational, so weak and helpless? So I kept trying; after all, you can't survive in LA without being able to drive. Eventually I was able to drive on surface streets, but I couldn't survive long enough on the freeway without enduring another episode. I coped by driving on the rightmost lane, to make escape easy once an attack came on. Because I never knew when one would come, I became an expert on LA streets. In fact, if you ever find yourself stuck because the freeway you're on resembles a Disneyland parking lot, you would definitely wish I were on the passenger seat. I'd take charge as soon as you got off on the first exit. I can get anyone from, say, Pasadena or Northridge all the way down to Dana Point via surface streets; yep, I'm that good.

One day, my worst fear happened. I had a panic attack and hit a car. That was the last time I ever got on the freeway.

I've turned down dream jobs because they involved a lot of long-distance driving. I've had to pay higher rent just so I could live closer to work. I've had to take positions that didn't involve any driving at all. I've missed countless birthday celebrations and holiday parties, and let friends and family down because I couldn't get to them. I've inconvenienced my loved ones again and again. For instance, when I relocated to Orange County to open the DKNY store, I was in such a high state of stress (I was given only a few weeks notice to do so, was working nonstop and didn't have time to even find a new home). I was driving from Costa Mesa, where I had spent an entire day interviewing sales candidates, to Mission Viejo where I was going to train my new hires, and had one of my worst attacks halfway in-between. I got out of my car and seriously thought of killing myself; I hated my life, I hated being so useless. I called Arnel, and he left work just so he could rescue me. Until then, I don't think I'd ever been rescued by a man before.

I never wanted anyone to know what I was going through. In fact, the only reason I eventually told people about my panic disorder was so no one would hate me for being such a flake. Although I didn't want folks to think I was crazy or weak, it was better they thought I was flawed (i.e. not my fault) rather than that I was inconsiderate (i.e. my fault). And yet, even people who love me think I've gone bonkers (only those who suffer from a panic disorder know what it's truly like).

Because I never accepted the idea of getting help, my panic disorder generalized: soon enough, I was getting them while descending on escalators or traveling on bridges. So I'd had enough; if I let my ego get the best of me, I was going to turn into a recluse soon enough. Besides, I'd been relying too long on other people -- either for them to drive me or to drive to me -- and I really, really missed being free, independent, and self-sufficient.

So I'm seeing a professional now. She has me on Zoloft to help with the anxiety (although I insist I stay on the lowest dosage possible because I don't like the idea of being drugged), and says I'm now ready to get back on the freeway, but slowly. "Just hop on, and get off the next exit," she said during my last visit, "And then the next time, get off the second exit." When I've built up enough confidence to drive freeways again, she'll wean me off the medication slowly.

I'm no longer petrified by her instructions; I'm ready now. I know this is not going to be a quick fix and that it will take a lot of tough mental work and perseverance for me to get back to the days when driving was an escape rather than something to escape from. If -- and when -- I beat this, it will be my greatest accomplishment because it's no easy thing conquering your brain. When that day comes, I'll be a legend in my own mind. I can't wait; it will be the toughest -- but best -- road trip of my life.