GIGI GOES GAGA

THE BOY NEXT DOOR

There's nothing quite like your first grown-up kind of love. I don't mean the love you experience as a true adult; I mean the kind you have that makes you feel you've grown up, even if you're really just a kid and have so much more to learn and experience.

I was 15 when I had that kind of love.

He was my sister's ex-boyfriend's brother, and he was literally the boy next door. His cousin, who also lived with them, got a new dog and Suzy wanted to check him out. She asked me if I wanted to come along, and I eagerly said yes. Minutes later, while the dog and I were bonding, Andrew came out of his room, all dressed up to go out.

I still remember quite clearly he wore a nice button-down dress shirt tucked into his trousers. His sleeves were folded up a bit. I remember him breezing into the living room, leaving a faint trail of Paco Rabanne cologne in his path. He put one leg up on the coffee table and adjusted his boots. Boots. No one ever wore boots then, at least not any boy I knew. Then Suzy introduced us and I heard a slight American twang when he spoke. Later on I discovered he had just gotten back from a year in (was it Connecticut?) as a Rotary Exchange student.

Cocky, cocky, cocky. That word kept echoing in my brain as he spoke to me. The guy was arrogant, no doubt, but I had no real reason to dislike him so I remained pleasant and friendly. While we were chatting, I found out he was going out with his friends, one of whom was throwing a huge party at her home the following weekend. I had been invited to the same party but still hadn't decided whether I was going or not.

By Wednesday or Thursday I decided I wanted to go; it was THE party and "everyone" was going to be there. My problem was I didn't have any way of getting there (I still didn't know how to drive then). Over dinner, Suzy suggested I call Andrew and ask him if I could hitch a ride. "Ha? I've never called a guy before!" I protested. "I don't even know him!"

"Ay sus," Suzy said, "It's just Andrew." Even mom agreed I should call him and ask. Both thought I was being silly. He was three years older than me and in college. I was in high school, with braces and frizzy hair. My usual get-up consisted of Adidas running pants, a short-sleeved knit polo, and sneakers. It would be like the kid sister tagging along with the older brother; even I thought so.

So Saturday came and Suzy helped me get dressed for the party. She even lent me her dress, something drapey with a sash that wrapped around the waist, I think (she was being quite generous that night -- this was one of her "good" dresses). I wore heels to match, my hair was sleek and smooth, and I applied makeup extra carefully. I learned how to put makeup on by copying what I saw in Vogue magazine for years (Way Bandy was my hero), so I was actually pretty skilled at this point. I remember looking into the mirror, and both Suzy and I were pleased. I cleaned up well. A little spritz of cologne (might have been hers too) and I was ready to go.

The doorbell rang and I ran down and opened the door. There was no reason to play coy and wait upstairs while someone else let him in; it was "just" Andrew after all. I still remember the look on his face when I opened the door -- it was the same look he had as he turned around quickly to glance at me as we walked out through the gate.

We got into his car. He opened the door for me and I slid into the chair. The leather seat was smooth and slightly cool to the touch. And we were off. To this day, I remember vividly the feeling of sitting in that chair, feeling the chill from the air conditioner turned on full blast and inhaling a blend of the cold and his cologne. He popped in a cassette of dance club music. I felt so oddly grown up sitting there. We were mostly quiet on the drive from Makati to Greenhills, although he made good effort trying to make conversation. By the time we got to the house we were laughing and relaxed.

We walked in together; I could see my friends from the corner of my eye staring at him. But when Andrew spotted his friends, he took a sharp detour to the right and walked straight to join them without looking back at me. I couldn't understand why I felt disappointed, but I headed left and joined my friends, who predictably asked me about the guy I just came in with.

By the time the party was winding down late at night, most of us found ourselves at the gazebo by the pool. He was in one corner chatting with a few college classmates; I was in another catching up with an acquaintance I hadn't seen in years. Once in a while I'd look at him and see that look on his face as he glanced back. It wasn't long before Andrew and I were seated beside each other just taking in the scene and talking to each other. I remember feeling like I was no longer the little sister cramping her kuya's style; I soon realized that even this high school geek could hold the attention of this college playboy.

He took me home and we said goodnight. Within a couple of days he dropped by the house to say hello. That entire week he'd accompany me on my daily walk around the village after school and before dinner. I remember the first time he held my hand as we walked back from the park and, soon after, the first time he kissed me as we played cards at my house (I was such a kid, all I knew how to play was "Old Maid" and "Go Fish").

This was my first true love, the love that taught me about selflessness, sharing, and compromise. The one that taught me about heartache and heartbreak. And pure, pure joy. I was in college by the time we broke up; I was the same age he was when we first met. We really thought it would be forever, and we gave it a good try -- in fact we gave it everything we had. And although it ended, with us eventually going along our own separate ways and not ever thinking about each other for years and years, I'm forever grateful for the experience.

Sometimes I find myself driving alone late on a summer night. I turn the air conditioner on full blast and feel the music wrap its arms around me. I lean back on my leather seat and smell the cold air. It never fails: I always end up wishing the night never ends.

TALKING AMERICAN

Ted's head was moving from side to side, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He could have been closely following a long, furious rally to decide a tiebreaker at a tennis match. Or he could have been trying to break the world's speed record in performing neck exercises. But instead, he was watching me.

Ted was watching me chat up the table during dinner. To my left were John, Yey, and Arnel -- who grew up and were educated in Manila. To my right were Winston, Cisa, Ed, and Ted -- all American-born and raised. I was telling a story in my usual animated fashion, and Ted was transfixed by my multiple personalities revealing themselves in full glory.

Whenever I turned to my left, I was your typical Manila colegiala, speaking as if I were singing, punctuating my sentences with "naku" and "talaga" and with flourishes of my wrists and fingers. When my neck swiveled to the right, my vowels suddenly elongated, and I no longer enunciated each syllable as distinctly as if each were an entire word. My transformations occurred as rapidly as my head moved, sometimes even in mid-sentence. Of course I was not aware of my alters vying for dominance, but I can imagine it was quite spooky to watch.

For the first year after I moved to the States, it seemed I had completely forgotten how to speak. I've always been an English speaker -- I even think in English (although when I'm angry or flustered, my brain only remembers Tagalog). And although my Lolo (Grandfather), a Tagalog poet and writer, always admonished us strongly against speaking in Taglish, I'd sometimes slip, as I still do today, especially if in the presence of like-minded language violators. But now I found myself unable to speak comfortably in any way.

During that strange time I often found myself tongue-tied and grasping for words the way beached fish struggle for oxygen. I'd always considered myself pathetic because I was at best only borderline fluent in conversational Tagalog (c'mon now -- there's no reason to be proud of not being able to speak one's native language well!). My remedial Filipino class professor in Ateneo often reminded me how my lolo thrashed about in his grave each time I attempted to speak or write in more literary Tagalog. And now I'd forgotten how to converse in the only language I knew well.

It took me a while to figure out what had happened. I realized when I spoke English to Americans, I wasn't always understood. My accent got in the way.

Not just the accent, but also the way I spoke. I still talk fast -- if you were listening to me read this out loud, I'd be at the end of my post just about now. And sometimes even my choice of words proved confusing: terms and phrases like "rubber shoes," "overtake," "for a moment, please," "go down (from a vehicle to the ground)," -- none of these make any sense to anyone who has not spent any significant length of time in the Philippines. So I became a bit self-conscious, understandably so I suppose. Mind you, I was never ashamed of "sounding" like I was Filipino -- that's what I am, after all. But when people are always correcting the way you pronounce your words, you start thinking how you're going to say each word before you've even decided what to say.

In hindsight, my self-consciousness stemmed from my fear of failure; in this case, of failing to communicate effectively. It's just that I've always identified myself as a communicator: I speak and write only to be understood, period, and never to impress or intimidate or inveigle. So when I realize my message isn't getting through, I'll tweak whatever I need to in order for myself to be clear. In short, I was doing a lot of tweaking in those days, and my brain had blown a fuse or two and thereby scrambling the messages I wanted to get across.

There was a time I even resorted to communicating via sound effects and hand motions because I found it easier to do so. My Television Production professor at LMU liked to call on me, he said, because he found me absolutely fascinating to watch. One time he had me explain to the class how to properly roll up long cables of television studio equipment. He later confessed to the delight of my classmates he was amazed I was able to do so without uttering a single word. I imagined rolling the thick cords around his neck as I pretended to laugh along with them.

I'm not sure when I began sounding more like a native. There was a time people I just met would try to figure out where I was from because I didn't sound like I was from here: I've heard strangers guess I was from Europe, Hawaii, and even from the South (!) -- obviously none of them were Filipino. I suppose a while later I realized I could pass for a local because most people simply assumed I was born and raised here in California. But really, if you listen quite carefully, you'll hear my distinct Filipino accent -- it's there in my vowels and in my enunciation, and the lilt at the end of my sentences. And I'm mighty proud of it. Because when I speak nowadays, not only do people understand what I'm saying, but there's still a hint of where I'm from. It's like I haven't lost myself even if I sound a bit different from when I first got here.

I guess you can say that even when I'm talking American, a Pinay's still doing all the talking. And that goes for all my multiple personalities.

MY FRIEND TED

I'm still trying to gather all my loose photographs together. One day I'll have thick leather-bound books filled with photographs meticulously organized and arranged chronologically, but for now I'll be happy if I can get everything in one place.

I found this photograph of my friend Ted and me during a Search To Involve Pilipino Americans (SIPA) banquet more than a decade ago (gasp -- has it been that long?). I just had dinner with Ted and a few friends last night at Asian Noodles Cafe in Chinatown (yummy, can't wait to go back!), and we briefly reminisced about this particular gala; it was one of the first shows he put together. He's since produced shows that have merited the (positive) attention of critics at the Los Angeles Times and other such prestigious publications. Yep, my old friend Ted has hit big time. But he's still the same guy I met 20 years ago at another dinner fundraiser we both didn't want to be at (his mom dragged him, 'nuff said).

To me, Ted will always be one of the few friends who changed my life completely. Simply stated, I wouldn't be the person I am today if I had never met him. I saw my first XXX-rated film with him (John Holmes in 3-D!!!) and attended my first national Asian Pacific student conference with the guy. If I remember correctly, he brought me to both. We've slept on gym floors and conference room tables, spent many late nights planning, organizing, and executing one thing or another, sung karaoke at 2:00 am at a Little Tokyo bar surrounded by members of the Yakuza (ah, and this was a regular thing), suffered loudly while packed like sardines on endless road trips...the memories are endless.

He got on my case last night for mentioning him in an October 2004 post about an unusual medical-related shopping spree I dragged him on years ago. I wonder what he'll do to me now that I've posted his photograph online. But can't you tell I just adore this man?

STUFFED

There's a townhome community Arnel and I have been wanting to live in for a few years now. The bad news is it's in Irvine -- ridiculously overpriced and depressingly sterile. The good news is it's in Irvine -- well planned and situated, conveniently located near stores, restaurants and movie theaters, and safe (consistently low crime rates).

We love this particular gated tract because it was designed quite beautifully in the Italian Renaissance style (which at first was a bit too opulent for my taste but hey, this place has won design awards), and is different from anything else we've seen in this area. The units are tri-level, with cathedral ceilings and (my favorite detail) rows of windows that seem to soar upwards endlessly. The space may be intimate (i.e. small), but feels connected to the outside, where fountains gurgle happily. It reminds me of city living, but without the noise, dirt, and paranoia. Like I said, sterile.

We decided a while back that we wouldn't purchase a detached home because we didn't want to deal with all the maintenance and expense involved, and we really don't need all that space anyway. We don't have children who need room to run around and play in, and the cat sleeps all day and rarely ventures outside. So now we've found a place where we would like to live and we finally can afford to do so, but there's still a vexing issue. My stuff.

Arnel likes to call everything in our current home my stuff, and he is right (although for the record I am not a packrat, just a frustrated interior designer). When I first met him, all he had was a hodgepodge of hand-me-downs: a full-sized futon on a wood slatted platform, two metal folding chairs, and a "desk" consisting of two squat file cabinets and a distressed plank of wood balanced on top. He didn't even have plates and owned mismatched cutlery enough for two persons (maybe). And his towels were "borrowed" from a few hotels he stayed in during his business trips (two-star establishments, unfortunately). Everything he owned could fit in his car -- and did, as I learned when he finally moved out to move in with me.

Me, on the other hand. Well first let me back up and say that I've always believed in living as well as I could afford to. Even when I moved into my first studio apartment, I made it as comfortable as I could. I had a few pieces of real furniture, a few sets of matching sheets, ultra-soft and plush towels, and a full set of china. OK, granted I didn't have a kitchen then so I had to wash my delicate plates and stainless steel cutlery in the bathroom while I showered -- but I absolutely refused to dine on paper plates and plastic forks. Call me a snob, but I prefer to think of myself as an environmentalist (just visualize all the felled trees and crowded landfills!).

You can imagine all I possessed by the time he met me. For instance, as I've written before, it took 20 hours for me to move from my roomy LA 9th-floor flat to my slightly-smaller South Orange County ground-floor box five years ago. I couldn't even fit my dining table, which seats eight, in my new apartment -- so off it went into the garage. It still won't fit in our two-bedroom townhome, so it continues to keep our cars company. Arnel keeps asking me to sell it, but I hang on to it the way I cling to my skinny jeans: the day it finally fits would mean our house was now the right size and shape.

Just a few hours ago, he walked into the office/guest room where I blog and listen to music. He was silent for a while, and I saw his eyes survey every nook and cranny of the space. His eyes stopped at all the pause points: each of the scrolled iron bookshelves, my huge solid mahogany-stained desk with sawhorse legs, swiveling schoolhouse chair with arms, the mahogany-and-bamboo console (which now functions as office furniture because it couldn't fit behind the sofa in the living room downstairs). He scanned the lamps, books, cds, plants, artwork, office and sound equipment, etc. ad nauseum. "We can't move," he groaned, "How can we move with all this shit? We can't!"

"Now look here," I answered gently but firmly, "I've moved 14 times, each time with twice more stuff than I had the move before, and it always got done. We can do it." I expected him to argue with me because I know he remembers the last two times we moved (he says he still suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder as a result). Surprisingly he didn't say a word; he seemed to be content with my response and quietly left the room (no doubt to take inventory of all "my" stuff in the bedroom). I swiveled my chair around to face the computer and type on the keyboard.

"Http://www.ebay.com" I typed. Maybe I'll find some nice people out there willing to give some (all right -- a lot) of my stuff a new home. Just so we can finally move ourselves into a nice, new slightly-larger home -- where the dining room no longer has to hide in the garage and where there's (hopefully) room enough for a daybed I've had my eye on for quite some time now.

It will be just the perfect thing for Arnel to plop and chill out on the next time we contemplate moving again.

BACK TO BASICS

One of my younger friends just had her first pap smear. She's 22. She lived with her boyfriend for almost three years, starting when she was just 18, and never knew how important it was for her to get tested annually. Across the ocean, back in the Philippines, another of my friends was advised by her elderly family doctor that she didn't need a pap smear until she was married; she was already well into her 20s at this time*.

Another of my girlfriends turned 25 this week; four years ago I had to practically drag her to see a gynecologist. I told her she was way past due for an exam, especially since she was already sexually active, and I explained all the bad things that could happen if she kept delaying. You can say I scared her straight (which I don't regret doing at all). Just yesterday her doctor left a voicemail message saying she wanted to discuss results of her pap smear. Uh-oh. Never a good sign -- they usually call when there's an issue. My friend asked me what could possibly be wrong, and I told her it would be no use speculating before she spoke with her doctor first. But she persisted, so I gave her a number of options -- all which freaked her out. "Well, do you think maybe (the doctor) spotted a fibroid or something?" she asked. No, I explained, pap smears don't detect fibroids, cysts, or polyps -- they check for changes in the cells of the cervix, as well as for infections and inflammations. She didn't know that.

And during one highly animated get-together with some old high school friends, I discovered that only two out of six of us knew how to use a tampon. We were all in our early 30s when this particular soiree took place. The issue that concerned me most was not the choice itself (pad Vs. tampon) but the reason for the choice. The tampon novices admitted they were just uncomfortable touching that part of their bodies "down there." The startling fact was these women were married with children.

All these women -- all dear, dear friends of mine -- have something else in common: they are highly educated, intelligent, strong and capable individuals. But just so woefully uninformed about their own bodies. Some of them even learned sex education in school: they were taught how women become pregnant or infected with sexually-transmitted diseases, and how to avoid either scenario. Others (like me and my classmates) were simply taught to say No until we got married or else we'd be seeing each other in Hell.

It amazes me how so many adult women are clueless about their own bodies, except when it comes to having sex or pleasing their partners. I know women who can't explain what gives them exquisite pleasure during lovemaking (or how to ask for it if they do know). But perhaps worse, I've met so many women who have never heard of terms such as Human papillomavirus (HPV) or genital warts. This is frightening, since HPV is the most common STD, with some studies estimating that about half of all sexually active adults carry at least one type of this virus (there are more than 60 viruses in the HPV family). I've also heard some of my girlfriends say the most inane things; one, for example, insists that lesbian sex is not sex because it does not involve a penis and a vagina. OK, whatever -- I don't really know how to respond to that.

What really concerns me is this type of thinking goes further beyond issues of sexual health or personal fulfillment. If we women are uncomfortable learning about our bodies, then will we take the time to do a monthly breast exam, for instance? Or learn how to ask questions when discussing health issues and treatment options with our doctors? Or know not to rely on medical advice from well-meaning friends and family who received their "training" from tabloids and TV shows?

I'll admit the reason I've put in the time and effort to arm myself with information all these years is because of my long, long history of problems with my -- plumbing. I still leave all repairs to the plumber for sure, but I've studied all the parts and how they work to ensure everything's in proper working order now and for many years to come. Plus calling the plumber -- as we all know -- can be quite costly. Of course, things still go wrong despite such vigilance, and unfortunately always at the most unexpected or unwanted times.

Still, this is what I believe. I control what I can and I try not to worry about what I have no control over. I can control my sexual health through education and action, although not completely. However, if I'm too uncomfortable thinking of or touching any of my body parts, then I've already lost all control to begin with and am now at the mercy of outside forces -- disease and selfish partners, for starters.

I'm glad the younger generation is more aware of their options than we were. It seems, however, that education has stopped at topics such as abstinence or birth control; AIDS, HIV, and Herpes; pro-life Vs. pro-choice, and other such headline issues. But there's a gamut of vital information in-between and beyond, and everything starts with the basics. We need to get back to the basics, and start with learning everything there is to know about ourselves: inside and out.

And to my friend most in need of basic sex education: yes, lesbian sex is sex.

*Note: it is recommended women over 18 get regular pap smears and pelvic exams (or under 18 if currently or have been sexually active), with no age limit afterwards.

I'VE BEEN TAGGED

I've been tagged!

I was bloghopping tonight and clicked on neverneverland. Sweet Sarah (Oh, I bet she'll HATE me for sticking that adjective to her name!) was tagged by a fellow blogger to answer a few musical questions. Now she's tagged me. I'm not sure of the rules of this blogger game, but I hope I don't embarrass myself -- or Sarah. Here we go:

Random 10: *I set my entire iTunes Library on shuffle mode and let 'er rip.
1. Help Me - Big Yellow Taxi
2. Forever Yours - Rahsaan Patterson
3. Exposed to Love - Expose (Oh Lord, I'm so busted here.)
4. Golden - Jill Scott
5. Lover, You Should've Come Over - Jeff Buckley
6. Taken - Seek
7. Lover - Sweetback
8. So Into You - Tamia
9. You Are - Wynonna Judd
10. I Do Love You - GQ

What is the total amount of music files on your computer?
Not much yet. Just 343.3 MB in iTunes library. I usually buy cds and only started downloading iTunes and a few songs from existing cds into my Mac last month.

The last CD you bought is:
"Stone Love" by Angie Stone

What is the last song you listened to before this message:
Sleeps with Butterflies - Tori Amos

Write down five songs you listen to a lot or mean a lot to you*:
I Can't Tell You Why - The Eagles
Love's Holiday - Earth Wind & Fire
Lotta Love - Nicolette Larson
Knocks Me Off My Feet - Stevie Wonder
Make It With You - Bread
*These are songs I've never EVER gotten sick of, even after 20+ years of listening to.

Who are you gonna pass this stick to? (3 persons and why)
Al
Mark
Melissa

Same reason for all: Because these folks DO love their music!

INTERMEZZO

"You are one of the greatest loves of my life," he said.

Oh please.

Federico was exhausted from the long plane ride and hellish drive, and was now resting on my bed to catch his breath and find his second wind. We were catching up on years of each other's lives, years we hadn't seen or spoken to each other. There were so many things amazingly familiar, yet so much had also changed.

For instance, he still spoke with that low, smooth, velvet voice -- the one with just the right touch of roughness at the edges developed from years of chainsmoking and alcohol. Picture a man slowly pulling your face towards him as he gently caresses your face then lingers his touch on your chin, while he runs his fingers sensuously through the hair on the back of your head. To your surprise he crumples your hair tightly in his fist and suddenly jerks your head backwards, and presses his lips onto yours and kisses you firmly, with absolutely no hesitation. That's what his voice sounds like. Like a soft, teasing growl that delights.

Add to that a charming (OK -- and ooh-la-la sexy) French accent molded from a boyhood in Switzerland, a youth spent in France, and adult years both in the Philippines and the US. I spent enough time with the man to know that when he spoke, all female heads within earshot quickly swung towards the direction of his voice. And the view wasn't bad either.

Now he was leaner and more tanned; he had spent the last few years training as an amateur triathlete. And while he was never innocent or naive (I suspect even as a toddler), he had become even more hard-edged and cynical. I sensed the years hadn't been completely kind to him, but knew him well enough to be certain he had created most of his own misfortune. The man had never learned impulse control and delayed gratification. He was a bohemian with unabated wanderlust; his home was wherever he happened to be at the moment.

The first time I met him I was on a blind date, a double date. Federico happened to drop by unexpectedly while we were all enjoying a home-cooked meal at Steven's home. He even joined us as we headed off to a popular club on Sunset Boulevard much later in the evening. And although I was the only one in the group who did not know him, much less had ever seen him, he stuck to me despite the jostling, pushing, and shoving of the masses inside the steamy, smoky room. And when we all returned to the house to wind down, he was still constantly at my side. I had to remind him I was on a date that evening but he absolutely did not care -- my unfortunate date soon knew he had been elbowed out of the scene and spent the rest of the night getting high by himself in a corner.

Federico phoned repeatedly until I finally agreed to meet him after work one day. I knew he was trouble and the last thing I wanted was that. I figured meeting him at his workplace on a weekday night was innocent enough; I could drive off as soon as dinner was over. But the problem was I found myself wishing dinner would never end.

He brought the world to me as if he had playfully presented it inside a shiny snowglobe. I marveled at the wonders of his adventures and was intrigued by the yet untold. I was excited by his keen intellect, floored by his sense of humor, and now wobbly as I dealt with his certainty and confidence. And not long after, I fell.

I fell in love with him despite myself, and all that I had learned about self-preservation. I knew off the bat he would break my heart, there was never any doubt on my part about it. And to drive the final nail even deeper, he was only going to remain in Los Angeles for a few months and head for Texas in the summer to finish university. This truly was doomed from the start.

But something strange happened. I decided to jump in and discover adventure despite all the signs of danger. It was a wonderful time -- even if too short, often intense, and not always happy. But because what we had was meant to end, we skipped over the part where we were supposed to fight over trivial matters and petty things and decided to enjoy the ride. And when the weather started warming up, I released my foot on the gas pedal, slowed down, and pulled over. It was time for him to go, and I was shocked to find my heart still intact even if a bit scratched.

During his long drive to Texas, he phoned me at every stop -- especially in the evenings, when he felt most lonely. And, to my absolute surprise, he wrote me a tender love letter on some notepaper conveniently stocked in his motel room, which I've kept. But just as I expected, the time between his phone calls got longer and longer -- and there were so many more adventures and many, many more women in store for him the next decade or so.

I saw him again just a couple of times those years, and we never went beyond friendship, laughter, and discovery. His stories still enthralled me, and his familiar scent always gave me some comfort. But I knew trying to recapture the past was only going to destroy it, and so I kept my focus firmly on the future, with us merely as friends. And so now it was the beginning of a new century, and he flew cross-country, he said, to revisit all who meant so much to him.

"Mm-mm no, you know I'm hardly that," I responded to his grand declaration of love. "But I'll always be one of your greatest friends." He smiled at me, as if he were proud of how wise I'd become. We both knew there were too many women in his past, present, and future for there to be just a handful of his greatest loves (a tiny percentage would still result in a crowded room). But as a true friend, I would always be distinctive and very special indeed. Just as I believe I am.

TEN PERCENT

I just had dinner with a former grade school classmate; it's been decades since we last saw each other. It turns out we have a lot of friends and acquaintances in common -- most of them fixtures in the Filipino-American community in Los Angeles (i.e. activists, public servants, politicos, educators, and the like). I mentioned the name of a percussionist I used to see for almost a year. I wasn't surprised she knew him, but I reeled from what she said next. "He has only 10 percent of his vision left," she said. "He's blind."

It was like I had been punched in the stomach, even if I had expected this to happen. After all, when we were dating he constantly spoke about his degenerative eye disease, which had no cure. He was an angry young man in those days, and his failing eyesight was source (I suspect) of most of his angst and frustration. He could be very sweet and funny, but often he was cruel and smouldering with rage. Most of his anger was directed at me and his mother. In the end I couldn't take the heat and left the kitchen; his mother didn't have a choice. She phoned me shortly after she realized I was gone forever. She was crying and apologized for the way her son had treated me despite my best efforts to support him and his dreams.

The last time I saw him, which was a few years ago at the Filipino American National Historical Society conference at Loyola Marymount University, I could tell his eyesight had gotten worse yet I felt a certain kind of peace emanating from him. I stood back for a bit and watched him, then decided to slowly approach and say hello. He smiled broadly, as if he were both surprised and happy to hear my voice. In an instant, all the bitterness and resentment I harbored against this man for years disappeared. He smelled exactly the same as I remembered -- and when I mentioned this I could swear he blushed -- and he looked pretty much the same. But I felt -- no, I was sure -- he wasn't quite the same man I knew, although we didn't talk long enough for me to pinpoint the difference. Perhaps he had reached a positive level of acceptance about his disability, but I think he was happy mostly because he was finally doing what he loved most: playing music, his lifelong passion.

There was one thing I learned from him during our time together: of my dependence and complete trust in visual messages. He pointed out I often said things like "I see" or "Do you see my point?" On the other hand, he was suspicious of what he could see and relied on his auditory, olfactory, and tactile senses for the truth instead. In hindsight I believe this resulted in our frequent miscommunication: often, what I saw and what he heard just didn't jibe. Yet today, because of him, I don't put all my faith in what my eyes tell me and I don't always believe that seeing is believing.

Don't get me wrong: I trust my honed eye to tell me what I like or don't like, or if something looks right or not-quite-right. But after being with R. I've learned to realize, for instance, that I love contrasting textures put together, that I can never fall in love with a man who doesn't smell "right" to me, and that music can make my spirit soar or break my heart. And when I write, I don't just check if the grammar and spelling is in place, but that my words harmonize and have rhythm, don't stink, and (hopefully) touch the soul.

I suppose you can say I used to rely on only 10 percent of my senses before R. He and I were never destined to be together forever, but I know he was meant to come into my life even for a short while. I can see clearly now my life is richer for the experience: all my senses tell me that.

ABOUT A BOY

I fought over a boy once.

Well, maybe not exactly. But I wouldn't give up a boy, and almost destroyed a friendship.

My girlfriends and I used to occasionally hang out with this group of guys. We'd go to parties and clubs together, chill out at Denny's for a couple more hours, and then head home no earlier than 4 am. I had a jealous and possessive boyfriend back in Manila who would call often and unexpectedly to check in on me, so you can imagine this caused quite a bit of friction between us. Eventually, we broke up; I was just never meant to be shackled.

So when my college had its annual ball, I jumped at the chance to get decked out and let loose. My problem was I didn't know whom to bring along as my date: I hadn't checked out the local male scenery for months. The only guy I could think of who could clean up well, talk to anybody and dance well to boot was Rod, one of the guys we'd party with.

I had never asked a guy out before, so it took me days to gather the nerve to call and ask him to come with me. I was so nervous and could barely stammer the words out; when I finally did he said, "You're nervous -- that's adorable!" Great, that was really smooth. "Of course I'll be happy to go with you; I'm really flattered you asked."

So Rod rang the doorbell, and he looked...really cute. Off we went to the Beaux Arts Ball and -- as expected -- I had the best time of my life. He was everything I thought he'd be: fun, attentive, considerate, and charming. And he danced better than anyone else in the ballroom. Oh -- and did I mention he was a voice major (opera) and sang like an angel?

Long story short: we fell for each other but my friend had already fallen for him before we even went out. I didn't know this at the time because she wasn't the type to admit it when she liked any guy (it was a pride thing with her). When she realized what was happening, however, she asked me not to get together with Rod until she got over him. I could have been a better friend, I suppose, but hormones were raging and I couldn't wait to hear his voice and see his face whenever I could. Gigi had gone truly gaga.

And so when Rod and I drove to the beach one late night and he crooned "Can't Help Falling in Love" while the stars twinkled above us and the waves softly crashed to the shore, that was it. I was a hopeless goner. My girlfriend and I didn't speak for six months until she phoned me unexpectedly. We never even talked about why we fought; it was like nothing happened. When Rod eventually broke my heart, she was there to help me pick up the pieces.

I never fought over a boy again. Not even a couple of years later when my next boyfriend dumped me to woo my other girlfriend -- and she chose to hang out with him instead. I never stopped speaking to her, and we're still good friends. That boy, however, is out of our lives forever.

ROAD TRIP

I zone out during road trips. Unless I've been designated driver or navigator, I just stare out the window and am quickly mesmerized by fast-changing shapes and colors zooming past. It's the closest thing to meditation for me -- especially when we're driving through country roads in the Fall, and the landscape is washed in fiery hues of scarlet, gold, and pumpkin. When there's nothing much to see outside, I fall asleep (much to Arnel's consternation). Pop on my favorite music and I'm in heaven.

There are two road trips I'll never forget. The first one was with Erwin; we drove his new car from Los Angeles to Indiana. We reached the Grand Canyon in AZ on Thanksgiving Day -- it was late in the day but still early enough to catch the sunset. It was truly glorious: we watched while an invisible artist painted the skies with wide swaths of iridescent, richly-pigmented colors shot through with heavenly light as we stood there shivering in the cold. We soon realized because it was a holiday, there were no restaurants open -- not even a McDonald's. Fortunately his mother had packed us a few tupperware containers of chicken and pork adobo and rice. It was so cold, we had to scrape aside the congealed fat (usually the best part when the dish is served piping hot) resting atop the meat. But the famished can't afford to be picky, so we ate happily.

The next day we were on our way to Denver, CO. Erwin didn't bring music because he had decided he was going to sing to me during the entire trip. Now this boy can sing -- but after a few days, even James Ingram and Martin Nievera can grate on the eardrums. So in-between his singing and our soul-baring conversations, he missed a small road we were supposed to get on en route to a highway. I noticed the sun wasn't where it was supposed to be, and mentioned it to him. Minutes later we realized we were in New Mexico. We headed back and by the time we were making the slow ascent up the winding, twisting road to Denver, it was dark and slippery from the melting ice. But we made it. We finally got to Indiana late the following evening and spent the whole weekend holed up inside the comforting warmth of his apartment because it was bone-chilling freezing outside.

Shortly after we were a couple; I suppose the trip bonded us in a way regular phone calls and dinners simply can't. It turns out the purpose of my coming along was not really for co-driver duties but more for mutual discovery. But, alas, we broke up on Valentine's Day the following year: apparently he was doing lots more of holing-up inside his apartment with an amorous redhead while we were apart.

The second memorable road trip was with my girlfriends Rae and Jo. We all met each other one night in 1985 and clicked so well that we ended up abandoning our dates while we chatted the evening away. Many, many years later, Jo had moved to Boulder, CO and she had yet to meet new friends. So Rae and I flew out to keep her company and take a girl-bonding trip to Aspen.

We planned our route over dinner, and afterwards spent all night catching up. The sun was peeking through when we finally decided to get some shut-eye. We were up a couple of hours later and headed off for our weekend adventure. Jo drove while Rae sat next to her; I was in the back staring out the window. I didn't even notice there were no breathtaking mountain views, no resplendent autumnal hues -- the drive actually reminded me of when Erwin and I were struggling to keep awake as we drove through Kansas dodging tumbleweed.

We stopped at a gas station to refuel. Jo and Rae got out, while I sneaked a nap. I woke up to heart-clenching screams: Rae reviewed the roadmap and realized we had been driving for three hours towards the opposite direction and were now knock-knock-knocking on Kansas' door! So back on the road we got -- and after almost five hours we were embraced by Fall's glory outside our windows, and finally reached our destination.

Funny thing is none of us regretted the unplanned detour: nine hours of girltalk and bonding was exactly what we needed. The journey was indeed the destination.

Here's a photograph of the three of us -- bleary-eyed and exhausted. But can you tell we were just so excited and happy to be together? I so love road trips such as these: you're never really lost even when you are.

DOING AND HAVING BUT NOT BEING

It just hit me that most of my old friends and acquaintances (especially those I haven't seen in a while) have no idea what I do nowadays. Depending on when they last saw me, they usually think I'm still a retail manager or news editor/writer. For the record, I'm in-charge of all travel and relocation for my company, a national chain of fitness clubs. But when I update folks on my latest job description, I usually get a blank look and silence in response. It's almost like they're thinking: that's not what I ever saw you as.

And truth be told, it's not something I thought I'd be doing (much less studied or prepared for, or ever aspired to be). It just sort of happened. I'm the kind of person who usually has a plan -- but doesn't hesitate to chuck it when opportunities come along. I desperately need to keep learning and stay challenged. I also hate doing nothing; I'd rather be sent home from work with no pay than sit at a desk pretending to look busy. Even back in college, I'd pick all the tough professors -- and I never regretted it because I'd finish out the semester actually having learned something. I don't believe in easy A's. Really.

My friend Bobby once commented about my freedom to change careers and jobs as I wished (I suspect there was an insinuation about my being mercurial or uncommitted -- which is hardly true, by the way). He's been with the family business (one of the largest conglomerates in the Philippines) since graduating from college, so that's what he knows: you stick with a good company and work your way to the top. I think everybody should do what works for them -- as long as they're not hurting anybody else, of course. In my case, I've acquired a mean arsenal of knowledge, information, and skills doing everything I've done through the years. So much so that my boss throws anything at me (I mean anything) and is confident it's going to stick. And so far I haven't let her down (knock on wood).

Here's the thing: I know I'm not what I do. My job is my job, whether or not it gives me fulfillment or enviable compensation or perks. But my job is not who I am. And because I don't define myself through my job title or salary, I can still hold my head up high no matter how many people there are above or below me in the corporate ladder or pay scale. And if by chance I lose my job due to lay-offs or company reorganization (I'm proud to say I've never been fired), then I don't lose myself in the process as well. I believe that if you define yourself through the external -- how much money you make, where you live, what car you drive -- then you're on a hopelessly slippery slope. There's always someone who has more.

If you define your worth in terms of the external or material, then it follows logically that if someone else makes more money than you do or has more power or even just a bigger office, then that person is better or more important than you are. And really, we know that's hardly true (we do know that, right?). The sad truth is that even corrupt politicians and generals get better service and preferential treatment compared to what we normal folks receive -- and it annoys and irks us no end of course -- but do you really think these people are better than you? The manager of the hottest restaurant/bar/club in town who kowtows to someone who's stealing his hard-earned money (via the steep taxes he pays)? Or the crooked politician who really thinks he deserves everything he has?

Of course, there are many people who have worked hard and tirelessly to get where they are and what they have. I'm happy for them because it means that the system still works somehow, at least for some. Sure, sometimes I wish I could have the Newport Beach house with a lush garden and unimpeded view of the Pacific Ocean or the ability to take vacations in the best resorts in the world. I don't begrudge those who have earned either luxury, but I certainly don't think I'm worth less because I have neither.

I constantly think of what means everything to me: my family and friends; my intellect and sense of humor; having full use of all my senses; being ethical, principled, and honest; loving and being loved; continuously learning and growing; giving and receiving random acts of kindness; being able to write fairly well and trust my "eye"; seeing beauty in all things and being happy. I may never have aspired to the job I have (which is interesting and fun, by the way), but I wanted to have what I thought was important in my life. And I do.

And if you have what you believe is important to you, then no one else can ever say you have less or nothing.

SWEET SIXTEEN

I finally got a photo printer all-in-one. Well, it might be somewhat of a misnomer because it prints, scans, and copies -- but doesn't fax. So I still have a fax machine beside my bed -- which sometimes jolts me from blissful sleep at cruel hours such as 3:00 am because some nincompoop had the wrong fax number.

But I digress here.

Anyway, I was looking for a photo to test scan, when I found beside me an envelope I brought back with me during my last trip to Manila. I found it with some of my old belongings in a moldy box, and it contained random photographs -- all from my last three years there before I moved to Los Angeles.

This one was particularly poignant. I had just turned 16 years old (note the braces on my bottom teeth), and was madly in love with my first boyfriend. This was taken at my birthday party, which was held at the Makati Sports Club in Salcedo Village. I invited about a dozen of my closest friends and classmates for dinner, and I wore a new silk satin dress. I remember how happy I was that night -- I felt so grown up (ha!) and grateful to be surrounded by such lovely people and delicious food.

I can't believe that was so long ago. But I still get butterflies in my stomach when I see how wide my smile was, and how my eyes twinkled that night. To be young and in love - ah, there's nothing quite like it.