GIGI GOES GAGA

FAMILY TIES

Every year for the last 10 years, I've scheduled my trip to visit the family in Manila during the -ber months, just as I had been planning to do this September as well. But I just got word my father's side of the family is organizing a grand reunion for January 2006 and they are currently looking for a venue that can accommodate at least a thousand people.

I was perplexed when I heard the news; after all, during our last reunion in the late '90s (which really was the first reunion of its kind for the family), we were "only" about 400 or so. I know birth control is against Catholic Church laws but really, there was no way we could have multiplied that fast since then (or could we?). But now I know why we're expecting a much, much bigger crowd this time around.

During the last reunion, the clan genealogist had traced my father's family tree to his great-great grandfather (or maybe there's another "great" in there -- I wasn't counting). Lolo Paez apparently had four wives -- not simultaneously, I should hope -- and so we had organized ourselves according to the descendants of his children with each wife (or branch, as we call it). But now some of our more studious relatives, I hear, have traced our lineage even further back. I don't have details yet, but I think we're now talking about a Lolo Pascual -- and just how many wives (official and non-official) he had I still have no idea. But we're now expecting about more than a thousand descendants to attend this time.

During the Paez reunion (or the mini-reunion, as I now think of it), I was floored by how many cousins I already knew. Of course, I wasn't aware we were related before that day -- until then I had known them as folks I'd met from school, work, or any of the social circles I moved around in. But now it appears we were connected by blood too. Funny thing is I found out M, my second cousin on mom's side, had married S, a cousin from dad's side; so I suppose I'm somehow distantly related to their children twice over.

I walked around the massive gym floor, making sure I hadn't dated any of my cousins -- inadvertently, of course. I am aware hooking up with family has its precedent in the Old Testament, but the idea of exchanging bodily fluids with someone I also share my DNA with gives me the creeps. A short while later I saw my younger sister and a few of my other single female cousins whispering, pointing (not too discreetly, apparently), and giggling among themselves. It turns out there was a dearth of young, single (desirable) males in their own hunting grounds, and so they were checking out new blood, as it were.

"Hoy! I can't believe you guys -- that's just sick!" I scolded. "We're related to all these people and you're looking to hook up here?"

"Ay sus!, J retorted. "We're looking at the guys from the other branches of the family 'no? -- we're practically not related to them anymore." She had a point, albeit developed from active hormones and functioning biological clocks. But a good point, nonetheless.

Although many Americans seem to think all Filipinos are related or at least know each other ("Hey, my neighbor is Filipino -- maybe you know her?"), I really do seem to have cousins all over the place. When Rod and I were still thick in the middle of smittendom -- a mythical though temporary place where neither lover can do no wrong and every action is considered endearing -- he and I discovered we had many friends in common. And then one day he talked about his cousins R, O, and C. I gasped, all aghast, completely freaked out -- I had cousins with exactly the same names. Then we stared at each other and mouthed their surname at the same time.

In a flash we flew to opposite sides of the couch; just a fraction of a second before I had my head on his shoulder, leaning closely against him, his left arm wrapped around from behind me and his right hand caressing my skin. But now we were far apart and I was ready to hurl.

"Quick," I demanded, "How are you related to the P's?"
"Tita M is my mom's first cousin," he replied, face suddenly solemn and white.

Phew, I was related to the father. We had not committed any sin against the laws of the Church or genetics. But it was a close call, I must admit.

So I'm thinking about this upcoming reunion, and am wondering who else I know now will soon emerge as a long-lost cousin. You can bet I'm crossing my fingers, hoping I discover I never played tongue hockey with a blood relative. But the good thing is my resourceful cousins (if they are still single) will have a bigger pool of single, hunky, handsome -- and so very distant -- male relatives to flirt with. Mom says we are now counting at least three international-caliber beauty queens on dad's side of the family since the "expansion," whereas before we used to have only one (what is it with the old folk counting beauty queens as indication of family status? Or is it just our kooky clan?). So I suppose this means good looks and pulchritude passed down a few lucky branches -- and as long as you hunt from among the folks wearing different colored tees (we're all color coded, I think we're green), you might indeed get lucky.

But as for me, I'm fervently hoping I never once got lucky with anyone I shall see in January. Regardless of what color shirt he (or -- gasp -- they) might be wearing. After all, I believe in family sticking together. But just not that closely.

100...AND STILL GOING

This is my 100th post.

I never thought I'd get to this point; I didn't think I had that many stories to tell. I do remember reading early on that blogging was addictive. Although this concept was completely strange, even bizarre, to me, I quickly learned why it is so. It's not just the writing process I now crave, but it's the feedback, encouragement, and inspiration I get from so many others here in blogsphere.

For instance, I'm always amazed how Torn seems to ponder (and read) about every topic under the sun. You would think he does nothing all day but stay in his room to read newspapers from all over the world, explore unfamiliar albeit excellent authors, and listen to all music genres -- but he's actually a very busy guy who travels all over the world.

My favorite lawyers Sassy and Paul AKA The UnLawyer are from the same mold. Although they write expertly about various legal topics, they blog about music and movies, current events and politics, food, business, and anything else they feel like -- always with integrity and excellence.

Mell (who never fails to give me the warm fuzzies) and the talented ladies at Bughaw frequently write about Filipino-American issues, and always remind me of why it is important to care about where we came from and where we're headed, and to always be proud of who we are.

I just love the spunk of young, fearless females such as Sarah and Rei, for instance. They keep me wondering why I wasn't as smart when I was their age, and I can't wait to see what they're like when they're finally my age. Sparks just dazzles -- no, floors -- me with her intelligence and sensitivity. I've also found brave souls such as Mec and Fionski, who have no qualms discussing their sexuality (and really, why should they have any?), thus empowering themselves and hopefully inspiring other young women to do the same.

And I've found that couples who blog together do stay together. There's Dean and Nikki, who challenge me daily to play catch up to their excellence (stop raising the bar so high, dammit! I'm fast becoming acrophobic.). Batjay and Jet are celebrating their 14th year together, and remind me never to underestimate the importance of fun and laughter in a marriage. Then my favorite couple down under, Geejay and Raquel, have already convinced me I must visit Australia soon.

I've found lots of kindred spirits such as Melissa, a true survivor who writes with such uplifting and inspiring grace. There are also straight-shooters like AnP, who makes no apologies for what she says -- and Mona, who got so much flak for telling nothing but the truth about everything all these years that she switched gears and now writes some of the most creative (fictional) vignettes around. Bambit is one whipsmart, tough, and feisty gal who knows what she wants, so don't even try to mess around with her (you've now been warned). I'd also love to swap cds one day with KnOizKi, who seems to like the same kind of music I do (as well as others I'm curious about).

And then there are the men who also tell it like it is, unflinchingly but with much humor and originality: Micketymoc, Jove, X-P, and Mark. Where were they when I was in high school? There never seemed to be any guys interesting enough to talk to during the many parties I attended then (and still I kept going, but now don't know why).

There are so many wonderful voices out there, I'd like to name them all but can't possibly, even if some of them are listed on my blog links to the left. Ajay writes about what it's like to be a single mother eking out a living and a life in Manila; she has also led me to other fantastic bloggers through her newspaper column. Jojo is my daily dose of history, and exposes many frauds and untruths perpetuated through the ages. Luchie and Bugsybee are like blogging fairies who spread a bit of sunshine wherever they go.

This is why I've become a full-fledged insomniac: there are just so many folks to visit every night.

But lately I've been bothered by disturbances in my previously peaceful blogging world. I'm still (thankfully) oblivious to it all, but apparently there are spammers pretending to be others and creating mischief, negativity, and chaos while under their assumed (stolen) identities. There are also "blogwars" and even nasty competition (about what? I still don't understand the fuss about how many hits a site receives in a day!). This nonsense has been recently documented by folks like Bing and Sol, among many others -- and it sometimes makes me wonder what I've gotten myself into.

Still, I'll keep at this only because I believe the pluses outweigh the minuses. In the meantime, however, I'd like to make a couple of things clear before I keep blogging:

1. I will never flame another blogger, especially on their own site. I've repeatedly stated I don't expect everyone to agree with me, just as I don't agree with everyone else. But I do respect our right to write what we feel and think. So if anyone reads an offensive or negative comment from someone claiming to be me, please confirm with me first. If I did, I'll admit to it anyway.

2. I refuse to engage in any "blogwar," especially over trivial matters such as popularity or dominance. I honestly have no idea how many hits I get daily (I'm certain my stats are incorrect; for instance, when I post something new, it counts as a hit) and I hope I never obsess over this. But I do LOVE comments -- instant feedback is one of the best things about maintaining a blog. If you're hesitant to say hello because I don't know you, just remember I do want to meet you and discover your blog. I may never sleep again, but at least I'll be constantly entertained.

OK, that's it for me. Hope you're still here when I've written my 200th post.

CHEAP CHIC CHICK

My mom just showed up last Friday. Well, not quite. But she phoned me about two hours prior to arriving at my doorstep to let me know she had flown in from Manila the night before. Apparently, she had written my phone number incorrectly so she found herself sleeping at some budget motel in the middle of nowhere, having needed somewhere to stay until she could figure out how to reach me. Mom, by the way, is in her mid-70s; she also suffers from diabetes, hypertension, hypoglycemia, gout, essential tremors, and has an enlarged heart. Still, she forges on like a woman half her age, traveling on the fly with no real plans. Like she told me on Monday before she ran off with my aunt, "OK I'll see you when I see you." I suspect I'm seeing her again this weekend, though; she left her large suitcase at my place and needs it before she gets back on the plane in order to be back at work (yes, she doesn't believe in retirement) by next week.

So anyway, I took mom shopping last weekend. Because she doesn't like to spend money on anything frivolous (except for an occasional Ferragamo bag or pair of shoes when she feels she deserves it), we went bargain shopping. I really admire my mother: she's completely practical and non-materialistic. And like the fabulous Nikki, mom can survive in style with only six pairs of shoes (or fewer). She also owns only one belt, and wears every single piece in her wardrobe capsule until everything has fallen apart.

Now when you take someone shopping, you are in constant danger of browsing and finding something you must take home with you. This is a real problem only when hitting the stores with someone like my older sister Suzy, who has designer tastes, or even with my dad who is wont to say, "if you like it, buy it." But not so much a problem when with mom.

So although I had self control and delayed gratification issues this past weekend, the damage was only minimal. For instance, I found this wonderful and ultra-chic fitted, cropped linen jacket with 3/4 sleeves from Mossimo at Target for only $19.99. You'd find a similar style featured in Lucky magazine priced at least five times more. I also grabbed a stack of well-cut, soft, and comfortable  basic tee shirts for only $4.00 each (on sale). And a pair of cute sandals for about $16.99 that goes perfectly with a long, brown crinkled cotton skirt (so boho!) I got at Forever 21.

For those of you who have never heard of this store, it's a fantastic -- and cheap -- resource for trendy apparel fresh off the runways. It used to be a place devoured only by fashion-hungry teenagers without the budget to satisfy their cravings; now even fashion editors rush to grab new finds here. By the time the item you purchased falls apart, the trend is over -- and there's no room for crying because you didn't  pay much for it to begin with, and you've already moved on to the next hot trend.

So yesterday I went to work wearing my new stuff -- and was thrilled to get lots of positive comments from my female co-workers (the guys don't say anything unless they see skin, curves, and especially cleavage or thigh action). It felt much better to know that I spent less than $50.00 on my entire outfit (including shoes); heck, my undies cost more than that. When Arnel saw me wearing my new jacket, he eyed it suspiciously -- it was evident he wasn't going to fall for the "Honey, I've worn this before, you just don't ever notice!" trick this time.

"Honey, it's from Target and I spent less than $20 on it," I said instead, before he could open his mouth. Although he didn't seem pleased (he complains my side of the closet keeps encroaching on his space, and his clothes have nowhere else to go), he did seem relieved I'm now buying my clothes where I shop for detergent and toothpaste.

The truth is retailers have finally, finally figured out that what consumers want is great style at a great price. And designers are scrambling to get their names inside stores where once their regular customers would be horrified to be seen in. Isaac Mizrahi, Liz Lange, and Mossimo are top sellers at Target; former designer floor staples Nicole Miller and Bisou Bisou fly out of JC Penney's doors.

Many years ago, Sharon Stone shocked the fashion world by pairing a $22 Gap black turtleneck with her designer skirt at the Oscars. Today celebrities and even hardcore (I hate this word) fashionistas can't wait to announce their latest budget finds to anyone who will read or listen.

I just love it when I find something fabulous for the price of lunch. Not too long ago I picked up a beautiful beaded evening bag at Penney's to go with an outfit I wore to a wedding reception. During dinner, all the women at the table wanted to know where I got it; I felt so utterly brilliant telling everyone it cost me only $10.00 (half-off, baby!). I mean, why would anyone care to brag about buying anything overpriced or paying more than they should? It only makes people think they're stupid in the first place. Rich, perhaps -- but foolish nonetheless.

So my mother -- who has been a thrifty shopper as long as I have known her -- is a trendsetter herself, after all. Not only is she a cheap chick, but she's chic as well. I'd like to say I take after her, but only because I still refuse to buy hosiery that once was packaged inside a plastic egg, I don't think I'm that lucky. Or, alas, perhaps that smart either.

DONE FOR

I'm willing to bet we all know someone who's had something "done."

It wasn't too long ago that no one admitted to undergoing any kind of enhancement procedure, even under oath. I used to think this was silly; unless you burned all old photographs of your "before" self or killed off anyone who knew you back then, it would be hard to prove your boobs suddenly grew in when you were 23, or that your nose acquired a pointy tip overnight.

But thanks to ubiquitous cosmetic surgery ads and articles, celebrities publicly thanking their surgeons and dermatologists, and increasingly easier access to all these procedures, almost anyone can now transform their physical selves into virtually any shape or form they desire. Even the so-called beautiful people manage to find some body part to fix or perfect.

I'm not against this in theory. Not at all. If you think a tummy tuck or an eyebrow lift will make you feel better about yourself and put a spring in your step, and you have the legitimate means to have the procedure done, I say go for it. Of course, there is a "but" to this: think of Michael Jackson, Melanie Griffith, and even Meg Ryan, and you realize there is a limit to how much beauty your money can buy. I mean, just check out the Awful Plastic Surgery website, and you'll know what I mean. I no longer need to watch a horror flick if I'm jonesing a Halloween scare: all I have to do is check out the society pages of any newspaper or lifestyle magazine and look at the rich matrons who have been pulled and stretched beyond the realm of possibility, and then I'm truly, truly frightened.

But there are a few things I'm concerned about -- and I don't just mean contemplating the thought of two perfectly round silicon impants sitting atop human ashes inside a coffin. I wonder if somehow this craze or mad desire for physical perfection might contribute to a form of beauty homogenization in society -- that only certain physical characteristics are attractive or beautiful, and anything else is deviant or undesirable.

For instance, I have Korean-American friends whose own mothers pressured them into having double eyelid surgery while they were still in high school. Without going into further detail, I think this kind of pressure sends a troubling message to highly impressionable girls and young women -- not only in terms of defining general ideas of beauty and ethnic/racial identity, but also as far as its effect on self-esteem and confidence.

I'm up-to-date with Filipino television shows, thanks to TFC. Every Sunday as I tune in to ASAP, I'm struck by the female beauty standards presented regularly and consistently: fair (even white) skin, slim build, big boobs (which in real life don't normally accompany bodies with such impossibly low body fat), large eyes, and an aquiline nose. These young women are beautiful, to be sure, whether or not they acquired these features due to "lucky" genes or a skilled doctor. But I do sometimes wonder: if I were 18 all over again, would these widespread, homogenous images affect the way I see myself, or even how my peers see me? It really is an old topic, debated over and over for decades. The difference is, however, that in the past only a few were paragons of physical perfection; today, so many dominate our television sets, movie screens, and magazine pages. I wonder if this only increases pressure on us to look a certain way. Because "everyone else" looks like that.

I have to emphasize here I am not against anyone having any form of enhancement procedure or surgery done. Sometimes I even wonder if I should undergo the knife in order to get the sharply defined jawline I've always coveted, or to reduce the chubbiness of my cheeks and the fullness of my face. It would be nice to do both, but right now it's still not important enough for me to shell out the money or risk disfigurement or even my life for.

And then when I survey the issue from even further back, I realize -- heck -- we all get old (if we live that long, that is). And there really is no hiding from looking old; at a certain point, the more one tries to look young, the more freaky she or he appears. It's the same reason I've never been interested in dating handsome but bland men (but handsome and smart -- that's another thing altogether!). I figured I can only look at a guy and admire his countenance for so long; inevitably, he gets balder, his lines become even more creased, and his once-tight butt sags. Even a former Mr. Universe can't maintain his figure forever.

There's nothing wrong about getting something "done." But it would be foolish -- tragic even -- to stop right there. There are other things that define us in far more important ways than just the way we look. And these things you can't get with a quick shot or a mere slice of the knife. The best thing, however, is that unlike a smooth, unfurrowed brow or a pretty nose, these things will stay with us until we're six feet under the ground. With our silicon pouches beside us, of course.

Photo of Jessica Simpson courtesy of www.awfulplasticsurgery.com
Photo of Arnold Schwarzenegger from www.hero.com
Photo of Qpids cast from www.abs-cbn.com

HELL ON EARTH PART TWO

I have good reasons for choosing not to discuss politics and religion.

First: Most of my closest and dearest friends, as well as family members, are conservatives (ultra-conservative even). For instance, a few have chosen to homeschool their children for fear of the little ones being "infected" by "liberal" and "un-Christian teachings" in public schools. I'm definitely not conservative and I no longer go to Church -- but that's as much as I will say (and I've already said too much).

Second: I believe both are personal choices and topics, and are no one else's business.

Third: With all the wars, killings, and genocide in the world due to divisions in (usually) religion and politics, I'm not about to create further discord in my own personal sphere (i.e. family, school, work) by discussing my beliefs or asking about anyone else's.

As far as I'm concerned, people can believe what they choose to believe; I don't find it my mission in life to convert anybody to "my" side. If someone wants to believe God was an astronaut from another galaxy who came to Earth and created us in his image, fine. It's not a problem to me if someone believes Jesus and Mary Magdalene were married and had children. And for that matter, if someone doesn't believe in God at all, so be it. It's just none of my business. I'll listen to what others have to say about what they believe and why -- as a curious person I simply like to know different ways of seeing things and I always try to keep an open mind.

For a year I even worked in a company owned and run by Scientologists (although this was never explicitly mentioned or confirmed). My boss, whom I respected and loved, had us go through the company management training program for our betterment. But here's the thing -- all the literature we read were Scientologist texts; I never knew they had manuals for everything until then. Because I was never forced or pressured to convert, however, I simply viewed the entire exercise as a glimpse into their world, a world outsiders never get to see. My curiousity was piqued and satisfied. And let me tell you, nowadays when folks like John Travolta and Tom Cruise speak, I can spot the jargon and especially the deeper implications of what they say.

But there are issues that push my buttons and I find it almost impossible to remain silent. Mostly they involve situations, environments, or societies where people are not only pushed to a life of misery, but forced to remain there as well. And that's why I'm writing today.

Yesterday I was reading Philippine Star Online and came across an article by Mary Ann Quioc Tayag entitled When Your Husband is Bad. She starts off by mentioning how her friend plans to leave her husband and has even consulted with a lawyer. Then Tayag describes an "a-ha" moment she has later at Mass, which she points out to her friend as being a sign from God:

During the homily, the priest preached, "Marriage is martyrdom. It is your way to heaven. When faced with problems with your spouse, divorce or legal separation is not the answer, but more love and prayers."

A number of my hot buttons were pushed, as you can probably imagine. I certainly don't view my marriage as martyrdom, and if I thought so I wouldn't have gotten married (both times, I might add). Also, I've always thought the Christian way to heaven had more to do with living a good, honest, and loving life, and not through merely enduring an existence fraught with misery and suffering. The first option has to do with action, the other through quiescence. Life itself is difficult, filled with inequity and pain; if one wanted to suffer, all that is needed is to do absolutely nothing. And I think that if God (and for my atheist friends I'll add "IF there is a God) wanted us to do absolutely nothing we wouldn't have a mind or a will.

This, too, I have to add: I know too many women who continue to love and pray for their straying (even abusive) husbands and still nothing has changed, even as they approach the twilight of their lives. Is this all they have to look forward to -- death?

I'm not saying we should merely give up when the going gets tough. I do believe that marriage requires constant commitment to love one another -- especially during times when all you want to do is hit your spouse over the head or push him out the door and leave you alone. And I'm certainly not against prayer; for many people, it brings comfort, fortitude, and strength. I just don't know if that's enough to help ourselves -- despite what Church teachings state.

So when your spouse, according to Tayag's examples, is gay, sleeps with all your friends, or continues to spend all your hard-earned money until nothing is left for the family, do you simply pray and wait for things to change? Along with her friends, Tayag says yes because our reason for marrying in the first place is because "...we love the person and to procreate." Another friend adds women must have "(e)nough love to follow him to hell."

If she and her friends don't mind following their men to hell, that's completely their choice and I certainly won't begrudge them that. As for me, I really don't know if hell in the afterlife exists, but I'm not willing to endure an earthly one either. For the record, I define hell as existing in a life of utter and abject hopelessness and misery, and not having any options or choices to remove oneself from it. I don't believe in being a victim or martyr only for its sake and certainly not by choice, even if I admit there are many times we need to compromise or even sacrifice. Still, when I choose to do either, it's for a greater good, a higher goal.

Tayag kept pushing me to my limits to the very end. She concludes her essay:

So, to you, my good friend, and to the others out there, better stay married and be content, unless there is violence and he’s a danger to your life. Remember, you are a step closer to heaven. Your dear, mean spouse is just helping you and paving the way. I haven’t been to heaven, but I imagine it must be crowded with women.

It's precisely this kind of thinking -- of enduring suffering on earth because it is a sure path to heaven -- that perpetuates a cycle of misery: It's OK if I'm poor, am unemployed, and have nothing to eat. It's OK if I have more children than I can feed, clothe, or afford to educate (besides, marriage is for procreation and birth control is wrong). It's OK if the politicians are robbing our country blind instead of leading it to progress and thus my choices for advancement and success are becoming fewer and fewer. It's OK if I don't have access to nutritious food, potable water, or unpolluted air. And it's OK I can't afford decent healthcare -- because I'll just wait to get sick and die and be rewarded for all my suffering in heaven.

So no, you're wrong Ms. Tayag. If we had to listen to, follow, and obey that kind of teaching then it would be hell, more likely, that is teeming with women. Or perhaps, with us all.

HELL ON EARTH

After months of what seemed to be nonstop rain in Southern California, the heat is on and I'm staying home.

My friend Joie, however, loves summer: she says the combination of heat, sun, and humidity makes her feel downright sexy. There's a good reason for it, too -- when the temperature hits 80 and upwards, she strips down to a tiny tank top and short shorts. That is, when she's not in her itsy bitsy bikini and flip flops, slathered in coconut-scented oil. So, so very hot, and I'm not talking about the weather.

I don't do hot very well. Summer to me means long-sleeved shirts and SPF so high it's probably cancerous. My skin sizzles from the heat -- just like steak on the grill. Not only does it turn a frightening shade of red purple but it also breaks out in rashes and welts. The worst part is when this happens I feel equal parts of pain and itchiness that burrows its way down to the bone, and I have to rub ice all over myself for relief. Am I turning you on now, folks? I swear, I don't mean to.

This weekend was the first hot spell we've had here all year. I turned on the a/c and kept it on until the sun went down (and I'd crank it back up too if it weren't for the specter of an electric bill the size of a mortgage payment), while I hibernated indoors. Yet it wasn't so miserable here in Orange County as it was in the valleys so I tried not to complain to my friend Stacy, who lives in Encino. I asked her how hot it was in her neck of the woods (i.e. hell on earth), even if I already know it's always at least 15 degrees hotter over there than it is here. It's my way of needling her under the guise of sympathy; I'm a good friend like that.

"I've decided to opt out of summer this year," she said. Good idea. I suddenly felt comforted by the presence of a kindred soul in my midst. Until.

"I'm coming over there every weekend to use the pool," she warned. Fantastic. I love having her around -- she's a hoot and a half, with the best stories about famous people I will never get to meet (she's a music publicist). And then somewhere in the middle of making plans, there was talk of swimsuits. On me.

"I saw this suit with a skirt thingy in Land's End, I said."I was thinking of getting it when Arnel asked me to come along with him to Hawaii when he goes there for work later this month."

"Oh you are NOT wearing THAT!" she declared. And then remembering my irrational fear about being seen in a swimsuit in public (even while I'm generally an immodest sort who, say, doesn't care if I'm highbeaming through my tee shirt -- "It's just nipples, peeples!" I always preach), she suggested I wear a boyshort bottom instead.

"Only if I wear a long tank that covers my tummy and goes all the way to my butt," I insisted.

"Great! A tankini! Lots of cute ones in J. Crew," she cheered. "Yaaay!" I shouted, as I jumped a few times into the air and landed in a graceful split while shaking my pompoms in perfect sync.

I'm just about to order the swimsuit with the skirt thingy online at Land's End.

Who am I kidding? Stacy's no real kindred spirit of mine -- she's 5'9" with a 21-inch waist, big boobs, and a Beyonce butt. If she truly were, she'd spend the summer accompanying me to the mall instead to check out the latest fall deliveries hitting the stores.

My idea of a perfect summer? Discovering someone will be selling the perfect pair of knee-high, buttery-soft leather boots I can wear in the fall when the weather finally cools down. Until then, I'll just have to endure being seen in that bloody skirted swimsuit while standing next to my beautiful blonde bombshell friend in the cute tankini -- whose impossibly long legs were just made for the boots I found.

Good thing she already lives in hell, so I don't have to wish for it to be so.

WEEKENDS IN SAN DIEGO

I met D when I was not even 16. I was at a really popular mexican bar/restaurant in Makati at the time, hanging out with my college-age boyfriend and his bestfriend G. D was 23, a foreign student studying at the state university. He and his friend descended upon our table to say hello to the guys; they were inebriated and stoned, and they scared the hell out of me.

He looked nothing like anyone I'd ever seen. Although today he would fit right in a typical Boracay party scene, there was nowhere or no way he could have blended in during those days. My memory is fuzzy now, but he was tall and skinny and wore something resembling a loose tunic top and pants; around his neck was a shell necklace no Manila boy dared to wear. I remember staring directly into his wild-eyed countenance, frightened by his dilated pupils, assaulted by his loud bravado and cocky American twang, and wishing he would just go away. I was relieved when he finally left, no doubt to continue the rest of the night in drunkenness and depravity. I did not like him at all but couldn't say so because he was G's older brother.

The next time I saw D I had just arrived in California to finish my studies; D and G had also returned a year or so before . The brothers had relocated to San Diego, about a two-hour drive south of Santa Monica, where I now lived. One weekend, G took me home to celebrate his younger brother's birthday. The siblings pitched in to surprise him with a new bike, and so we met up with D at the store, where he worked, so we could buy and assemble the gift. If D had shocked me before, he threw me off even more now. He was no longer brash and loud; he was quiet and introspective, like his entire spirit had been sucked out of him. He looked quite sad and melancholy, and I found myself wondering what caused the shift. It turned out he was missing his girlfriend who moved to the opposite side of the continent. I realized he was loving and sensitive; I had completely misjudged him. By the time I was headed for home, D was no longer my tormentor -- but an older, wiser brother.

The next time I saw D he became my savior as well. I was dating someone so completely wrong for me and found myself in San Diego for the weekend with the guy. The first night at his house I wanted nothing but to flee, I felt like crawling out of my skin. I hadn't spoken to D in years but I had kept his phone number. I knew I was going to leave the house somehow so I told Mr. Wrong I was meeting up with old friends -- which was fine with him because all he wanted to do was sleep. Then I phoned D, not knowing if he were home or if he would care to meet up with me. But I had to try nonetheless.

D picked me up and took me to the city's Gaslamp District. We walked around for a bit, and then settled in at a cafe for coffee and close conversation. It was a magical night; his voice and presence wrapped around me like a tight, warm embrace. I was no longer a teenager now and it was evident we were relating to each other as peers. I wanted so badly to stay with him and talk longer, but I had to go back. By the end of the weekend, D was no longer an older brother but a friend, and I broke it off with my sleeping non-prince.

A few years later, I was seeing F. I didn't know he and D were good friends -- they were both foreign students in Manila and bonded as brothers. F was leaving for Texas by the end of summer, and I decided the only way to avoid getting hurt was to bolt early from a relationship with a clearly defined time limit. It was D who convinced me to stay and enjoy every moment so I'd have no regrets later. The three of us spent a weekend in San Diego together; when it ended D had become my trusted confidante and adviser as well.

I don't know exactly how and when it happened, but D and I fell in love with each other a few years later. By then I was just a little bit older than he was when we first met. He confessed he was already drawn to me when he first saw me here, but I was 18 and he didn't want to take advantage of my youth. But now we were both older, we were dear friends, and we also loved each other. He was perfect. And we could have been perfect, too, if it hadn't been for me. Because now I was burned out -- from pursuing too many passions and not having enough time (not even for sleep) to do it all. Also I had made too many wrong choices, and was now facing my consequences head on. There was no room in me for anything else -- not for him, not even for me.

So one hot summer afternoon in my apartment as I sat in front of D, his endless legs and arms wrapped around me, I picked a fight with him. It was a stupid, trivial fight that meant nothing but I kept at it, unrelenting and unforgiving. It dawned upon D that I wasn't trying to end our fight; I was trying to fight my way to an end. And so he let me go.

I knew I was making a mistake I'd regret, but I also knew if we had continued our relationship he would have only ended up hating me. I couldn't live with that thought. So I never asked him back, even when that was all I wanted to do, and then spent the next few years in limbo -- frayed and fractured, unhappy and discontent, incomplete and completely lost. And then D found someone else and asked her to marry him.

He invited me to their wedding but I couldn't find the strength or will to go. How could I? When we were together he used to say he wanted us to marry; I wanted the same but knew I wasn't ready and didn't know when I'd be. I wanted to phone him again, just like I did many, many years ago, for him to come and get me. To save me like he did once before. But I knew only I could save myself this time, and now it was my turn to let him go. And so I phoned him, but only to say I couldn't make it and I wished him all the best. When we hung up, I cried so very hard for what I had lost; I was still crying on his wedding day.

I stopped crying a long time ago. D is happily married and has a beautiful daughter who adores her father; in the meantime I've found the man I intend to spend the rest of my life with. D and I are still friends, perhaps even better friends than we were before. But losing him taught me to fight for everything I love; because of him I know what it's like to let someone slip away because I can't hold myself together.

D might have been the one who got away -- maybe that was the best thing for both of us, perhaps that was the only way we both could have been happy. I've since put back my broken pieces together and continue to keep myself glued with unrelenting optimism and positivity. This time I have the wisdom to know what truly matters and the experience to hold on to it. There's no more room for regrets now, or ever. But plenty enough room for me and the one who won't be getting away this time.

WILL TO CHANGE

I was talking to my friend today; she and her husband have just split up. We talked about the wrongs and the reasons, the many things that had gotten them to this point of no return. Of course, fault and blame are to be shared equally, and there is no truly innocent party in their scenario. I was struck, however, at what ultimately were her non-negotiables. Without going into specifics, I heard her keep repeating statements like: "I wanted the change to come from him" or "I wanted him to do X because he wanted to and not because I wanted him to."

I know what she meant; she didn't want him to change his ways only because she had asked him to. She wanted him to want to do it, all on his own. But then it hit me: does change have to come solely from within in order for its reasons, for its motivations, to be completely valid?

Of course, one's initial response would be, well sure! If, say for instance, I wanted to lose weight -- wouldn't I have more success if the impetus to do so came from within, instead of me being pressured by my friends and family? That's a no-brainer question, right?

But what if, for instance, I knew I was overweight but didn't see a good reason to lose weight? What if my doctor told me I had to or else I'd be seriously compromising my health and putting myself at risk for diabetes, hypertension, etc.? And what if it was only at that point I realized what was at stake -- and so only then did I begin my weight reduction program? In other words, I may not have thought I needed to do anything differently until I was convinced I had to. And because I had to be persuaded, does it mean my decision to make a change was not a completely sincere or honest one?

You might be thinking: well, that's like comparing apples and oranges. Both are fruits, but still not the same thing. So I'll have to use a personal example (as I always do), to further illustrate my point here.

When I first started dating Arnel, I soon learned the man did not celebrate birthdays and holidays. He didn't expect to be feted and celebrated on the date he was born; neither did he think others would expect the same on theirs. So on my birthday, five months later, he didn't even give me a card --although he did think of gifting me with a shoe rack (because I had mentioned I needed one for my apartment) but didn't buy one after all (because I also mentioned I planned to move and didn't know if I'd need one then). But I told myself it was the thought that counted -- it had to matter, because there was nothing else to count on.

I was frankly appalled. I even thought of leaving him, seeing he was such a thoughtless bastard. But the problem was I knew he really wasn't taking me for granted; everything else he did for me showed he truly cared. And I really wanted something -- even a bloody Hallmark card -- but I didn't want him to buy me one just because I had asked him to. I firmly believed he should have known I was worth the thought and gesture, and so I was too proud to tell him what I wanted. And when Christmas came around...

By then I was furious: what the heck was wrong with the guy? We'd been together for almost 10 months by the holidays and I didn't even have a shoe rack to show for it. To make a long, infuriating story short, I eventually had to let him know that I grew up in a home where Christmas and birthdays were a HUGE thing and, at the very least, I expected a card that had something handwritten inside it. And I'm not talking about just a signature either (which is all I found inside the very first card he gave me).

He was a slow learner all right, but now on special occasions he gives me cards with sincere but so-very-brief handwritten messages, as well as Anthropologie gift certificates (he still won't dare pick out a "real" gift because he thinks everyone would be happy receiving a new golf club or a barbeque grill -- which was, by the way, the first gift I eventually got from him).

He's made other concessions for the sake of our relationship. He now says "I love you," even on the phone when a co-worker is beside him, and definitely every night before we go to sleep. He calls to let me know when he's on his way home, even if he's out really late with the boys, because he knows I don't mind if he comes home when the sun's already up as long as I know he's safe. And he patiently vacuums loose soil out of the trunk of our SUV after I've come home with a flat of plants or even a tree -- because he has faith in my landscaping decisions (and because he knows gardening makes me happy). Of course, I've done my share of compromising too.

But the thing is this: ultimately what's important is not that he thought of doing all these things on his own, and especially because I was just too wonderful for him not to think otherwise. I had to learn to let go of my ego and expectations, or at least not impose them on him. I had to learn that just because something was a given to me, that it was not as obvious for him as well. In the last analysis, what truly matters is not that Arnel didn't say "I love you" first, but that he does now because he's learned the importance of saying it. What means most to me is not that I had to ask him to celebrate my birthday, but that he does it because he knows it makes me feel loved.

It would be a dream come true to be with a man who said all the right things and did all the right things. But that's exactly what it would be: a dream. In my reality I have a man who doesn't -- but keeps trying nonetheless. I wouldn't trade my reality for anything, not even for that damn shoe rack.

PICTURE PERFECT

I'm a bit of a Luddite, methinks.

For no apparent reason, I've always resisted learning and adopting newer technologies until I have absolutely no choice but to do so. For instance, I was perfectly happy clack-clack-clacking on a manual typewriter and looked upon the electric version with distrust. Besides, with all the power failures occurring almost daily in Manila during those days, these electric-powered machines were often useless to me.

Then came word processors, which my mom practically worshipped but which I grudgingly learned how to use. And just when I couldn't think of a civilized world without them, personal computers became the way to go. I still type on the keyboard with determined ferocity, as if less pressure would not be enough to force the typebar to strike and print. Arnel flinches away in horror when he hears me pounding at the keys; he says I'm torturing the keyboard. Serves it right; it and its predecessors gave my trusty Smith-Corona the pink slip.

This explains why I haven't yet purchased a digital camera. For years I lugged around my trusty Nikon F3, I was never without it. I liked the heft and feel of it, and felt secure knowing if I ever found myself confronted by a predator or maniac, I could finish him off with a strong boink to the noggin.

But today Arnel asked me why I continue to use my cellcam (yes, this explains all my grainy blog pictures) to take photographs and post them on my blog, when I can just borrow his digital camera and take better, much clearer pictures. So I was toying around with it right before I sat down to type on my much-abused keyboard; the funny thing is I'm so adept at fiddling around with aperture and shutter speed on an SLR manual camera but I can't seem to figure out on a digital one which doohickey allows me to take a picture and which will let me view the shot I just took.

So here's my first photograph on a digital camera. I was sitting in front of my Mac, turned right, finally figured out I have to turn the dial to the drawing of a camera in order to shoot (duh!), and took a picture of my view from here. I hope my neighbor doesn't mind my posting a shot of her townhome's exterior. Perhaps I'll start carrying this miniature picture machine with me and capture images of my world as I see it. But you know what would be just great? If someone could invent a gadget that would allow me to grab photos taken with my ol' faithful F3 and upload it into my Mac. Now that would be more than enough to get me to turn my back on neo-luddism and become a full-fledged gadget whore.

Photograph of Nikon F3 courtesy of Photography in Malaysia website

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

Before every Mother's Day I plan to write mom a long letter, to simply let her know what she means to me. I've yet to do it because I've never been confident of my ability to capture in words the complexity of how I feel. I'm still not sure I can.

During an especially vulnerable moment, mom once intimated to me she would have been much happier and fulfilled if she had stayed single and just spent her life working and traveling. Oddly enough, I wasn't hurt or insulted. I knew she wasn't trying to say she regretted having us and making the necessary compromises as a result. Although she's always been a working (workaholic actually) mother, I know she did the best she could, the best she knew how.

Mom wasn't with me during my first day of school; she dropped me off en route to her school, where she worked. She didn't cook or bake, attend PTA meetings, or even take us on family vacations -- she was too busy for any of that. My most vivid childhood memories were of tagging along with her to her workplace and being watched by various members of her staff. I used to love student registration days; my favorite thing was to stamp paperwork and pretend to be doing something important. And when she'd organize huge conventions, she'd take me with her because I liked sleeping in hotels (and especially eating in restaurants!). Through example, mom taught me the value of not just hard work, but excellent work.

She didn't check daily to see if I had done my homework; she expected I would take care of what I needed to. She wasn't around every year when I competed in the Spelling Bee finals, or when I performed with the Glee Club. But she's always asked me to spell a word before she thought of consulting a dictionary and paid a visit to a voice teacher when I expressed keen interest in taking voice lessons (she was told I was too young at the time, much to my -- and her -- disappointment).

When I was 15 and had my first boyfriend, mom was worried I was too young (especially since the boy was three years older and in college). I told her: "Mom, if I'm making a mistake I can handle it and you can trust that I'll learn from it." She was dumbstruck but didn't ground me or punish me in any way. In hindsight I realize mom knew me well enough to know if she had I would have kept my relationship a secret from her. She preferred to know where I was and who I was with instead of knowing I was sneaking off somewhere. My boyfriend eventually became so close to her that when I broke up with him, he went to her office and cried. Years later mom told me she didn't want to meet and get to know the boys I went out with because she'd form some kind of bond with them and it would hurt when it didn't work out. Considering only 18 percent of my relationships lasted a year or more (yes, I did the math), she had a valid point.

Although mom's methods and tactics caused other mothers to shake their heads and criticize her, I'm grateful she stuck to her guns. She allowed me to explore my interests, to travel Japan for a summer when I was only 12, to drive by myself at 16 even if dad was against the idea, to move out on my own when I was still trying to finish college, to switch majors and colleges while I was trying to figure out what the hell I wanted to do (I kept my grades up so it's not like I was a bum); she prayed for me when I stopped praying and told me I didn't have to stay in a miserable marriage that was fast chipping away at my identity and confidence.

Tito Larry, my bestfriend's father, once said a parent's responsibility is to sacrifice everything necessary for the children, so that when they grow up they will know how to do the same for their own kids. It's just the way the world is supposed to work, he said. Mom doesn't realize I know more about her sacrifices than she thinks I do. I'm not just talking about when times were hard for my father and she came over to work here, support my education, and petition for my greencard. Or all the times she walked for miles and took the bus just so I could drive the car to school and work. Or pinched her pennies so we could live in a decent apartment instead of the dump we first lived in, where I'd get mugged or harrassed on my way to or from school.

There is so much more mom gave up and of herself to ensure I'd have a fair shot of happiness and success in this world.
She may never win a "Mother of the Year" award in light of society's expectations of what a mom should be like -- but I certainly would never want her to be someone she was not in order to fulfill an image all women are pressured to live up to.

My favorite story about mom is when she and my father first returned to the Philippines after years of studying and working in the States. Dad said the day after they arrived, mom got all dressed up and took the bus to find a job (which she snagged almost immediately). Mom took the bus to work everyday in her dress and stiletto heels. One day the bus driver was too lazy to drop her off at her usual stop because she was the only passenger getting off; he insisted she disembark at the stop before, which would have required mom to walk a long distance in her not-made-for-walking shoes. They exchanged words, he insulted my mother -- and she then threw a punch which solidly connected. He tried to retaliate, but she ducked. Later on, he explained to the judge that he wasn't able to hit her because mom was just too fast for him.

I think mom's too fast for most of us, or at least for me. I'll always be trying to catch up to her for the rest of my life and I never will. But at least she taught me how to try.

NO GOOD DEED

I'm a little ticked off right now. OK, a lot.

I don't show anger easily; you can count on one hand how many times in a year I'm visibly pissed off. During a bad year, two hands maybe. In a strange way it's worked to my advantage because I've learned how to get things done without having to intimidate anyone into doing what I want (or at least their job). And so when my face turns to stone, my voice drops three octaves lower, and my cadence slows down considerably, people know it's serious. I just don't like getting angry, mostly because I'm afraid of what I might do or say when I am. Both my parents have explosive tempers and I've got the gene in my blood; I've just had to learn how to keep mine shackled.

Well, right now I've decided to unlock the chains and blow off some steam.

A few years ago I met Jennifer. Beautiful girl, and sweet too. After getting to know her a bit, I realized she was a lost soul who needed just a little bit of navigation to get her life going in the direction she wanted it to. She was dating a hodgepodge of -- well -- losers. In other words, she wasn't going to get anywhere hanging around any of them (mostly men who only wanted to get into her pants). She also needed some extra cash and needed part-time work to supplement earnings from her day job.

Now let me back up a bit here. I'm somewhat of a "do-gooder." I may not (yet) be the kind of person who ladles soup at a homeless shelter every Thanksgiving, but I'm always happy to help someone whenever I can. I don't expect reciprocity, even if a "thank you" is always appreciated.

So back to Jen. I asked her if she would be interested in a part-time sales job at Ann Taylor; I'd worked there when I was in college so when I decided I no longer wanted to work as a retail manager many years later, I'd come back every holiday season as a part-timer (when retail's in your blood, it always is). I was trusted completely by management so I knew I could at least get her an interview if I referred her. Jen said she had submitted her application but never got a call from the store. So I made the call and told the store manager she'd be right for the job. I even coached her on what questions to expect during the mandatory phone interview, and what they wanted to hear. Jen got the job.

Then I introduced her to a friend because I knew they'd click; I even dragged my husband along during their first date (just in case I was wrong -- but I wasn't). I invited both to our home frequently, to give them more "together time." Well, it worked: they are married now. I might add he's a successful entrepreneur and she now lives in a pretty hillside home, wears a Rolex, and drives a Mercedes Benz SUV. Jen no longer has to work part time anywhere.

I don't like to enumerate the little things I do to help others; it defeats the purpose and the spirit of giving, I believe. So although there were many other times I freely gave her my time, support, and assistance, I'll stop right here. And I'll tell you why I'm pretty outraged right now.

To make a long story short, I started distancing myself from her when I realized she badmouthed our mutual friends and acquaintances constantly, even if she was unfailingly affectionate and sweet to them. I'm extremely patient with people, but I absolutely cannot stomach others being mean and cruel in word or deed. A lightbulb in my head went off: what was she possibly saying about me behind my back? But there were many other things that bothered me, too. Arnel kept asking me why I continued to help her out when she always took full credit for my ideas. I always shrugged my shoulders and said it didn't matter; it was too little of a thing to get upset about. But the little things eventually added up, and I realized her presence was toxic at the very least. Still, I was never mean or hurtful to her; I was always decent, a bit warmer than civil in fact.

Today her ex-bestfriend spilled the beans. Jen had told her I had nothing to do with she and her husband getting together; in fact, she said I'd exclude her and only invite him out with us or to our home. She said she accepted the Ann Taylor position only because they kept begging her to take the job. And so on, and so forth. Everything so far from the truth -- not just lies, but spiteful lies. I'm so disappointed in the girl, even if I didn't expect much from her to begin with.

Arnel keeps telling me: no good deed remains unpunished. I know what he means, and I am fully aware of the potential dangers associated with meddling. But I was so happy to see Jen happy, and even when I discovered she was no real friend I was still happy for her. But not anymore. I don't wish her ill or harm -- she's not worth the negative energy -- but I've decided to kick her out of the little spot in my heart where she once resided, and let her go completely.

Someone once told me that miserable people only try to drag everyone else into the mud with them; I've found that to be true. So I'm sorry Jen -- but I'm not a pig and am not about to play in filth with you. Please have a happy life. Please. You owe it not to yourself but to all the people around you, especially anyone who ever truly cared about you.

I'm done here. Thanks for letting me vent peeples. Now back to my smiley face.

D-I-V-O-R-C-E

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it.                                            -Rabindranath Tagore

It seems to be divorce season, at least on this side of paradise: too many of my loved ones are breaking up for good. It seems to be a strange time for endings -- what with the weather warming up, signifying the beginning or renewal of life and a resplendent hope for the future. In a way, somehow, I think divorce signals an obvious end but also a beginning -- a fresh start, a chance for a new life, the possibility of finding happiness or at least peace within.

I don't know where you stand regarding the issue (and, I might add, I do respect whatever it is you believe), but let me say this first: Don't let anyone tell you divorce is an easy way out. It's certainly not for the faint of heart.

Of course, what comes to mind are the Britneys of the world and their day-long marriages, as well as other people who seem to divorce as often as they remarry. But the question for these folks, I feel, is not if divorce should be an option available to the likes of them -- but rather if they should ever marry at all.

I've heard and read many critics argue that when divorce is a legal option, then too many couples are bound to take their marriage vows less seriously, knowing there is a convenient way out. First of all, with the exception of those who marry for reasons other than love and commitment, people simply do not marry expecting to break up. And again, let me state there is nothing convenient about divorce.

When divorce becomes the final -- and only remaining -- option, both parties bear something similar to a near-death experience. It's as if your whole life flashes in front of you: everything that led you here, happy memories, traumatic moments, words of hurt and comfort, tears and laughter, the children (everything about the children). Then you're blinded by this glorious light of release way beyond the reach of your fingertips, and you don't know whether to head for it or go the opposite direction.

At this point you're forced to decide what means most to you. You have no choice but to take a cold, uncompromising look at every repercussion of your (inevitable) decision. You will need to confront the perhaps not-so-distant reality of battling highly-paid attorneys, of parceling out years of joined lives, of friends forced to pick sides, of living daily with the elephantine guilt of wondering if and how the children will survive intact. Or maybe you'll find yourself looking ahead to many more years of enduring and plodding on, of compromise and lowered expectations. Not an easy choice to make.

And if -- and if -- you do decide to file for divorce after considering all these issues, the nightmare is still far from over. You will experience pangs of heartache, regret, and fear sharper and more caustic than you may have known your entire life. There are many reasons people decide to postpone or put off filing the legal paperwork. Hopefully it's because there's a chance of reconciliation and forgiveness, but for those beyond that possibility, it's because it's just too damn hard.

But when it gets to the point where you have a choice between your sanity --the survival of your mind and soul -- and maintaining the status quo, you might decide to brave the hard and fight to get yourself back in one piece, even if you know you'll never be the same way again.

I grieve along with my friends and their families. No longer will we have large barbeque get-togethers on sunny July 4th afternoons; I may now have to schedule two to attend during the day . Where the faces are the same, but not in one place. I imagine our new photographs will be like taking old pictures of all of us together, and then tearing them in two (or more) pieces.

J phoned me the other night and said she received an email message from her mother in Manila, who asked if there was any hope of their mending the marriage (perhaps for the sake of the children, if not for the institution itself). She told her mother she and her husband had been miserable for many, many years; now that the children were grown up, she felt it was her time for a second chance at happiness, maybe even with someone else.

Her mother wrote back: "I wish I were brave enough a long time ago as you are now." For both women, neither choice was easy. For one of them, the beginning never had a (legal) end; for the other, the end is also a beginning.