GIGI GOES GAGA

WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

I love writing -- when I know what I want to write about. And that's the problem -- I'm finding myself staring at my computer screen, feeling like I'm running on empty.

So I thought I'd do something different this time. Tell me if there's anything you want to know, or for me to write about. Ask me a question -- it can be about anything, even about beauty products or kikay stuff. It could even be a "Dear Gigi" kind of question (if you think I'm competent or capable enough to answer it, I suppose). I guess what I'm saying is -- please help me stir up my mind a bit. I suppose I need to mention I've been on heavy-duty codeine medication these past few days (prescribed by the doctor, peeples!), which explains my low brain activity.

But no memes -- I'm not clever or witty enough to answer those types of questions I always see circulating around. And please don't ask me to translate Black Eyed Peas' Bebot into English (tip for those of you who want a gazillion blog hits: translate the song -- correctly -- already). Lastly, don't ask me for my opinion or analysis of current events and the like (hello -- need I mention "codeine" again?); but I'll be happy to refer you to someone else who knows more and makes more sense than I do.

OK -- I'm ready if you are. And thanks in advance! I think this is going to be fun (Oh I surely hope so).

Gigi

PS: Since we're talking about helping friends out here, I wanted to post a shameless plug for my friend's online store. It's still a work-in-progress and she's open to suggestions, especially since most of you reading this like to write or keep a journal. Check this out: http://www.cafepress.com/createbooks

SCENT FROM LOVE

Most people think about the past. I smell my memories.

The first fragrance I ever chose to wear was my father's Jovan Musk Oil; I must have been seven then. Dad kept it up on a shelf in his bedroom, and I used to watch him dab the oil on his neck every morning. He never wore a lot of fragrance; you'd have to get really near him to get a whiff of his scent. That's still how I think fragrance should be worn: a whisper rather than a shout, an invitation rather than an announcement.

Although the plain little bottle was being marketed in an explicitly sexual manner ("Sex Appeal. Now you don't have to be born with it"), I was blissfully unaware of the connotations adults had of the then-popular scent. To me, it smelled fresh and clean, and nothing at all like flowers -- I thought floral scents were just too frou-frou. I remember the first time I dabbed it on myself, I ran over to Kenny's house and tried to hop on the gate so I could finally climb the tree that mocked me each time I tried. I somehow felt stronger and more invincible wearing my dad's fragrance; alas, it was only a scented illusion -- I remained as wimpy and uncoordinated as ever. Still, it was the first scent I fell in love with, and I sometimes wonder if dad ever noticed someone else was sharing his small bottle because I wore it almost everyday.

My first boyfriend wore Paco Rabanne; oh, how I loved his cologne! The cedar, rosemary, and lavender notes were cool and clean, and bergamot gave it a crisp freshness. Of course, I didn't think of fragrance in terms of top, middle, and bottom notes as I do today. At that time it just smelled to me like a man should.

I've actually followed a man around during a party -- as surreptitiously as I could, of course -- simply because I was entranced with the way he smelled. He didn't know me, I didn't know him (and still don't). I don't even remember what he looked like; all I can say is his body chemistry meshed perfectly with Christian Dior's Eau Savage, a cool citrus scent. And then there was this older guy who used to follow me around my neighborhood; I was about 16 and he was in his early '20s. If he saw me walking from Mass, for instance, he'd drive slowly, roll down his window, and ask if I needed a ride. He had a notorious reputation for being a playboy and for dating fast women, so I always said, "No, thank you." But one hot, sticky summer day I decided to get in his sleek, speedy -- and blissfully air-conditioned -- car. That was the first time I experienced what it was like to be so boldly seduced, and the last time I ever got into his car again. He wore Geoffrey Beene's Grey Flannel, a more aggressive oriental woody fragrance with top citrusy notes of orange and lemon, and I couldn't stand the scent of it for a long time because it reminded me of him. And then I fell in love with it.

The first boy that ever truly broke my heart, J, wore Grey Flannel too. We used to make out often and endlessly inside the university's darkroom (yes, where things apparently do develop) -- among many other places -- and I used to take frequent long deep whiffs of my skin and clothes (that slightly smelled of him) afterwards when I'd get home so that memories could linger on until it was time to sleep and dream of him some more. And just as I'll never forget him and the wonderful scent of his skin, I know for sure he'll never forget me because I was his "first." I suppose you can say while the cologne once reminded me of being helplessly seduced, it now evoked the awakening of the seducer inside me. The second -- and last -- guy to break my heart wore only Drakkar Noir by Guy Laroche. It took almost a year for me to get over him and every time I'd catch a whiff of that spicy lavender/amber fragrance at, say, a party or coffee shop, I'd feel the sharp pang of a stab simultaneously at my chest and stomach.

The funny thing is after I survived my last heartbreak, I went through a series of relationships that I just wasn't as emotionally invested in as I was before, even if they were sincere and genuine. And maybe that's why I don't remember what fragrance these men later in my life wore -- except for R, who wore his secret personal blend of coconut and vanilla oils. We were so completely wrong for each other, but each time we'd get close and I'd smell and touch his silky smooth skin, I'd forget that important detail just for those few hours when everything felt so right.

When I met my husband, I think he wore Herrera for Men by Carolina Herrera, something that a woman he dated briefly gave him. It was just so wrong for him, it didn't blend well with his chemistry at all and thus didn't make any kind of statement. As we got more comfortable and familiar with each other, he asked me to help him choose a fragrance. I didn't want my scent memories of past romances to determine or dictate what he'd wear, so I let him pick. He chose well: BVLGARI BLV For Men, a spicy but mellow blend of ginger and tobacco flower (very manly indeed!). Still, he rarely wore it.

One day I smelled something familiar on him; I loved it so much I couldn't keep my face off his neck. Then it hit me -- he was wearing a unisex fragrance I had recently purchased for myself: Acqua di Parma's Arancia scent from its Blu Mediterraneo line, a citrusy blend of Sicilian orange, lemon, bergamot, grapefruit, and mandarin on a musk base. Now, I don't know if he started wearing it because it reminded him of me, or because he simply liked it and it happened to smell terrific on him. What I do know is what was mine was now his -- and when he's away on one of his many business trips, I spray a bit of it to my pulse points to remind me of just that fact, and especially of the man who's now all mine.

BETRAYED

I knew this guy who claimed he had never cheated on any of his girlfriends. I thought that was pretty impressive, considering he was a musician in a band with its own fairly large coterie of fans and groupies. Until. I had a long heart-to-heart chat with his girlfriend -- who told me they broke up and got back together quite often. It turns out he'd break up with her to mess around with someone else; when he was done with that little adventure, he'd return to the girlfriend -- who always took him back.

So I suppose he got to avoid being labeled a cheating ass liar thanks to an extremely narrow technicality. As for why the girlfriend always had the welcome doormat out waiting for him, I never figured that part out. But by the time they finally broke up for good, the doormat was worn out and ragged, having seen much better days.

I once met a woman who blinded me with the dazzling light reflecting off a humongous rock balancing precariously on her slender, well-manicured finger. She also drove a luxury vehicle -- a shiny new Range Rover, if memory still serves me right. As she drove off that day we met, her friend quickly confided that the woman's husband gave her the ring the first time she caught him cheating on her; the vehicle was for the second time. It didn't sound like the expensive gifts had stopped arriving or were going to soon; apparently he continued to remain an extremely generous husband.

I prefer not to judge other people's relationships -- especially marriages -- if I can help myself. So I truly hope the woman thought she was getting a fair deal in all this; I mean, not many people take so kindly to betrayal, after all.

There was a foolish man who once told me to my face that it was perfectly all right for men to cheat on their wives -- as long as they came home and continued to support the family. I suddenly had a vision of him as a beady-eyed bird with a worm caught in his beak, arriving at the nest to feed the kids only to fly off again until the next feeding time. He said all the men in his family -- his father and uncles -- thought the same way and did just that, and the women accepted it simply as the way things were. I have no doubt he was telling the truth about the men; I'm more skeptical about his interpretation of the women's silence. But I also think we insult a man's role in the family when we see him merely as a provider; when a man sees himself only as such, he degrades his worth as well.

I've heard (and read) it often enough that men -- and women -- just can't help it. That by nature we are polygamous creatures, a fact supported by extensive scientific research. And I've heard guilty parties, caught and now paying the consequences of their cheating hearts, moan: "But I'm only human!"

Exactly, I always reply. And as humans -- rational animals that we are -- we have the ability to make conscious decisions and not merely give in to our impulses. It doesn't mean we always make the right one; it does mean, however, we can choose how to act.

Believe me -- I know what it's like to be tempted. I'm also the kind of person who doesn't equate sex with love; to me, sex is sex and love is love, period. So chances are if these three factors are present -- temptation, desire, and opportunity -- I'm in just as much trouble as the next guy. So no one can tell me I don't understand because I'm not a man.

And when temptation does rear its treacherous face -- and boy, I may be married but not dead -- I'd think of how I would feel if I betrayed my husband, who is also my best friend. To me it wouldn't matter if he found out or not (and he would, because I'm such a terrible liar), I just wouldn't be able to bear such a burdened conscience. It's quite easy to make excuses for our actions, still it doesn't mean we really believe them. I truly believe that -- with the exception of sociopaths -- people do know deep down inside what's right or wrong. Unfortunately, though, we often choose to do what we want anyway, and then find a way to make it right.

But I suspect we all know there just isn't anything right about betrayal, especially for the betrayed. A cheating ass liar is still one -- even if he (OK, or she) comes home at the end of the day -- as long as he sleeps in one bed and fucks in the other. Science may provide a reason, but as far as I can tell, it supplies no justification. That may have to come from one's conscience, although one might have to dig quite deep to find it -- and still, despite reaching the bottom, risk the chance of coming up empty.

MY FATHER'S DAUGHTER

One morning, when I was about 17, dad wanted to talk to me right after breakfast. At the time my boyfriend was a wonderful, absolutely loving and decent guy -- who also happened to be the oldest grandson of one of the richest and most prominent taipan clans in the Philippines.

Dad told me to be careful; he said many tsinoy families preferred their sons to marry women of Chinese ancestry and heritage. Of Chinese blood. My first reaction was of indignation and anger: dad knew my boyfriend pretty well, after all. My mom and sisters loved him (still do). And he never wore his wealth and name like a badge; in fact, until his father bought him a car, we took public transportation to get anywhere (although I suspect his parents were blissfully unaware of this, since the family was a frequent kidnapping target). My dad was always protective of me, so it was B who taught me how to ride a jeep and even a tricycle, and we went to places I never knew existed. There was no way -- no way -- B was going to hurt me. Everyone around me knew he was sincere and honest about his intentions and that he truly loved me. So why was dad saying this?

My father then said something I've never forgotten. He told me, "Gigi, among all my children you're the one who's most like me." I was suddenly quiet and started to calm down, so he continued, "You're very sensitive and you easily get hurt, and I just don't want anything bad to happen to you." He explained that he really liked B and he wasn't trying to judge his family, but he just wanted me to know there were certain realities in the world that were cruel and unfair. In hindsight I wonder just how heartbreaking it is for fathers to realize they can't protect their daughters from all the evils lurking unseen behind every corner.

I really am my father's daughter. For instance, one evening, we were both alone at home. The household help had been given the day off and my mother and sisters were off on their own. Dad was watching TV in his room downstairs and I was upstairs reading in mine. And then I heard him yelling out for me. As my normal and usual reaction, I froze -- wondering what I had just gotten busted for this time. And when he shouted for me again, I heard the not-so-normal tone of worried urgency in his voice, and so I quickly ran down the stairs.

Dad was staring at a tiny, white mouse rendered helpless, caught on a sheet of sticky paper under the stairs. We had placed a square of cheese on each sheet and spread them throughout different corners of the house, a simple trap dad devised to help end our pesky rodent problem. So now I stood beside my father, both of us looking at the poor mouse and thinking the same thing.

"Dad," I whispered, "do we kill it (Oh God, please say no)?"
"Do you want to?" He asked me softly. We continued to stare at the mouse struggling to break free. I could swear I heard it crying.
"No," I said, "Can we just let it go?"
"OK," dad replied. We went outside and dad pried the mouse from the paper and set it free. We looked at each other, and I knew we both wished it wouldn't return to wreak havoc in our home. We both silently hoped our decision for mercy was for the best.

There was no way dad was going to kill the mouse; after all, for years he's adopted every village stray cat that found its way to our home. He even once lambasted a veterinarian for questioning why he bothered to bring in a miserable, scrawny, half-blind, half-dead stray for surgery -- and pay for it. It's the same reason I took in a stray cat that just wouldn't leave my house, even if I'm highly allergic to felines and now have to take medication daily just so I can continue to hug her to sleep every night.

*****

My earliest memories of my father involve spending Sunday mornings with him at his plant nursery, where he took cuttings he brought back from all his travels around the world and transplanted them, to see if they would thrive in hot and humid Philippine weather. Dad would point out different plants to me and refer to them in Latin. The funny thing is, even now, after a series of strokes rendered his memory somewhat stilted and murky, I'll be describing a new hybrid or specimen to him and he'll sometimes only realize what I'm talking about when I refer to its proper Latin name. I can't tell you how those early lovely days of looking at plants with my father still cause me to run to the nearest plant nursery when I need a bit of comfort; I always feel like he's there standing next to me, pointing out the uniqueness of even the most common garden plant.

A few years ago I was both humbled and somewhat distressed to realize I didn't know much about my father when I read a draft of Jeanne Javelosa's coffee table book on his career and works. My father is a landscape architect, and the son of a makata, a Tagalog poet. To be perfectly honest, I realized I didn't know much about the quiet man with an explosive temper that I only knew as my father.

The only time we ever got to talk was during supper time -- and even then he hardly ever spoke, no doubt because he couldn't compete with a bunch of fast-talking, chatty women. So I grew up not knowing much about his projects, accomplishments, or awards; someone else usually had to tell me about them. But there were other things my father taught me, lessons that molded me into the person I am today. Lessons that can't be found in any magazine or newspaper article about him.

For instance, when I was barely knee-high tall dad told me how much he hated "Keep Off the Grass" signs. "What's grass for if you can't walk all over it?" he used to exclaim in frustration. I learned early on that beauty was not to be appreciated only from afar; it had to be relished by all the senses and enjoyed for the primary purpose it was created for.

But one of the most important lessons I learned from my father was the importance of standing by one's professional principles and integrity, even if doing so went against the current tide or resulted in having to make certain sacrifices. I remember one night dad was clearly frustrated; he was disgusted and exasperated by all the bribes and kickbacks customary in government-related projects (especially this particular one he was working on), and how many greedy people were enriching themselves as a result. And although we were always comfortable and I grew up not wanting for anything, my father looked at me and said, "You know, we could have been really rich if I accepted all that was offered to me all these years. But I never did."

I didn't say anything after that, although I think I might have smiled at him to let him know I understood being wealthier was not going to mean being any happier. So let me tell you, all you fathers out there: To be able to tell that particular story about dad is one of the best -- and most precious -- gifts he ever gave me. Because when I say I am my father's daughter, I say so with incomparable pride. And always -- forever -- with the fervent hope and clear intention of measuring up to even half the person he is, warts and all.

Happy Father's Day to all you wonderful (and not-so-wonderful) dads out there!

BECOMING FILIPINO

Brief musings on June 12 -- Philippine Independence Day

I was born, raised, and educated in the Philippines. Although we're told almost from the time we enter school that Filipinos are a mixture of Malay, Spanish, and Chinese blood, I prefer to say I'm 100% Filipino. After all, I didn't attend the Tia Carrere/Jasmine Trias ethnicity school of "I'm Filipino/Spanish/Chinese." Yeah, whatever. I'm Pinay as they come.

But I never really thought of myself as Filipino until I came to the United States. That might sound strange but, really, in the Philippines one doesn't have to remind oneself of it; It's a given. Perhaps we should, though -- but I'll save that opinion for a later discussion.

Instead, we identify ourselves by clan, socio-economic class, geographic factors, and even school(s) attended. For instance, even here in Los Angeles, whenever I meet the parents of my Filipino-American friends they inevitably ask, "What's your last name? Who are your parents? What province are you from? Are you related to so-and-so? Where do you go to school?" It's a line of questioning I've come to expect and am used to answering. People tend to prefer the comfort of sorting the unfamiliar into labeled boxes until all becomes familiar; that just happens to be the allure (and danger) of stereotyping.

When I was in college, most of my friends were second-generation Filipino-Americans. For most of them being Filipino meant eating adobo, pancit, and lumpia (and always, always steamed rice); of relatives and family friends getting together at home for a night of karaoke and/or mahjong; and of being frequently scolded by their elders for not knowing how to speak Filipino.

And as for me -- well, I didn't really think much about who I was and how I defined myself until I was pressed against the ethnic/racial mirror held up flat against my face. For instance, I've been called "chink" and I've also been told I didn't look Filipino because "(I) didn't look like a monkey" (yep, that bitch dared think that would be a compliment). But most of all, I think when you're trying to adjust to a new place and are continuously trying to figure out why you feel so lost and confused, it brings you back to wondering what makes you so different in the first place -- and then leads you all the way to the question, "Well, just who are you anyway?"

It was perhaps the generation of young Filipino-Americans before my time who began to organize in colleges into clubs and explore what it meant to be Filipino. They began staging cultural nights showcasing Filipino music and dance, learning about Filipino-American history in the U.S., reading Carlos Bulosan's America is in the Heart and then visiting the surviving manongs, who came here early in the 20th century to work the fields in search of a better life.

The impetus for self-discovery -- for ethnic identity and pride -- was still quite strong when I was in college. Because I was a foreign student from the Philippines, I was often consulted to verify or authenticate. All of a sudden I was seen as the expert in all things genuinely Filipino. The irony was that although I was proficient in Philippine history and music, none of my friends in the Philippines would even think of asking me to, say, translate a poem or demonstrate a dance step. For instance, when I was a freshman in Ateneo de Manila, I was (in)famous in class for having said truk (pronounced trook) instead of trak to mean "truck." In other words, I was no expert -- just a poseur with the right credentials.

So I learned all the things I should have probably already known, along with my Filipino-American peers. For instance, I met the brilliant Eleanor Academia and joined the World Kulintang Institute (I was the only non-musician in a group of musical geniuses). Academia's husband, Cas Magda introduced me to kali, eskrima, and arnis, and showed me video footage he took of elderly, frail-looking eskrimadors demonstrating their martial arts moves with amazing strength and speed. I knew none of this before I came here.

I suppose you can say I became Filipino in America. I did learn what made me Pinay was not so much that I could speak Filipino (which I'm way more proficient at today, by the way), or that I know and appreciate Filipino arts and culture, or that I watch TFC and read Philippine online news sites daily, or even that I visit the country every year. It's much, much more than that.

Many folks say it's so hard being Filipino today -- or at least, being proud of it -- when the Philippines seems to be in shambles and so many are fleeing to other shores to make a living and, more importantly, a life. This is what I believe: Who I am is an unchanging truth -- separate from all the tumultuous changes in Philippine social, political, and economic realities. I think being Filipino begins simply with identifying yourself as one -- it doesn't matter how you look or how you talk or where you choose to live. And that's why I don't believe there's such a thing as being a good Filipino or a bad Filipino -- because who, after all, has the right to define the standards to which we all should be compared to?

I was born Filipino and I will die as one. Everything that happens in the middle -- learning about what it means to be one and how that figures into my place in the world -- is, very simply, a gift.

SHRIMP TALES

A few strange but true stories about shrimp love and dating.

ONE

My friend S is tall and drop-dead gorgeous. She admits she would never date a man shorter than she is; he has to be at least her height (5'10") or, better yet, taller. One day one of her best friends, N, decided to set her up with a co-worker. N kept going on and on about how funny and fabulous the guy was, so S agreed to meet him. They met at Killer Shrimp, a popular restaurant chain specializing in... yeah that, in Marina del Rey.

"He was, like, 4'0" tall!" she shouted in disbelief. "I asked N, 'Do you even know me?' because I couldn't believe she'd think I'd fall for a short guy."
"Not even Tom Cruise?" I asked her.
"Oh God, no."

So sometime after they met, he asked S if she'd like to join him and a few friends to go out and do something that sounded interesting to her at the time. She said yes -- besides, she didn't want to diss her friend's buddy. I'm not sure of details now, but I think they were supposed to meet at his place and then head out together. When she got there, she realized she was IT -- the entire guest list, the guest of honor, in fact. To her extreme distress, no one else was coming. And he even cooked (shrimp scampi) that night -- so she couldn't just leave, even if she wanted to. And later that night, they were sitting on the couch talking.

"Then all of a sudden, he lunged at me!" she said, in undeniable disgust. She re-enacted the dreadful scene -- she stuck her tongue far out and reached towards me in a flash. "Like that!" she said. "And I don't know what it was about him and shrimp -- N later told me that's all he eats."
"No wonder he's small, red, and curly," she added, "You are what you eat, after all."

TWO

One night D went on a romantic date with her boyfriend; he ordered something with shrimp, and she didn't. You see, D is highly allergic to it -- even the aroma of shrimp can cause her throat to start closing up and send her scrambling for medication. The night was wonderful -- the romance kept escalating with every minute, and a few hours later they were at her place. A lot of kissing and fondling ensued, more groping and labored breathing -- then clothes and shoes started flying. She then unzipped his pants and focused her concentration completely on the part of his body standing at full attention, begging for her scrutiny and contemplation.

When she was done, she immediately began choking. She was having a full-on allergic reaction to what she had just ingested. Her boyfriend rushed her to the emergency room that night. I'm still trying to figure out how she explained to her doctor why and how she consumed the one thing that could kill her. If she hadn't learned her lesson then, she has now: No contact with shrimp. Ever.

THREE

A long time ago, Arnel was attracted to a girl whom he met in college and asked her out. He then asked around for restaurant recommendations and many of his friends recommended Killer Shrimp, also the one in Marina del Rey. The consensus was that the food was great, ambiance was fun and casual -- definitely a good date place. He was set and ready.

When he picked her up, she asked where they were going and he told her, expecting her to be thrilled. "Oh no!" she was obviously alarmed, "I'm allergic to shrimp." Arnel thought quickly, but he didn't have a back-up plan. Then he reasoned with himself: could there possibly be any restaurant that serves nothing but one item? After all, even steakhouses serve fish or pasta, for instance.

Well, Killer Shrimp, apparently. The popular restaurant offers its patrons three options only: shrimp with bread, shrimp with angel hair pasta and shrimp with steamed rice. And by the way, all the shrimp is bathed in a spicy garlic butter sauce. But he didn't know this: his research was obviously not extensive enough.

His date must have been thinking along the same lines as he was, because she agreed to go anyway. I'm not sure why my darling husband didn't leave the moment they perused the menu; he must have liked what he saw. She didn't, however -- and she never saw him again.

So when Arnel asked me out on our first date, he let me pick the place. He must have liked what he saw then -- because he never left. And we both, most definitely, love our shrimp.

WHEN IT CAME

If you're male you might want to skip this post. But if you don't and read on anyway, just remember you've been warned.

I developed really early in life. Although I was always the youngest in my class, I was usually somewhere towards the back of the line when we had to queue up by height. When I was eight years old, the nuns at school asked to speak to my mother; after their conversation, mom called me over and said, "We're going to have to buy you a training bra."

Then on the day after All Saints Day, just a few months after my ninth birthday, I got "It."

But I didn't know what "It" was, or that it even existed. I didn't know why my older sisters got strangely grouchy about the same time every month, or why there were these fat, puffy squares carefully wrapped up in toilet paper and discarded in the bathroom trash bin every so often. I'm also thankful I wasn't more curious than I already was, and opened up one of these packages (as I was tempted to do many, many times).

Of course I suspect if men got periods and I were a man, I wouldn't have been using the vague word "It" -- or any kind of euphemism -- thus far to describe this life-altering experience I had when I was only in the fourth grade. I would have used its proper term -- menstruation -- proudly, like a badge of honor or, perhaps more accurately, like the Purple Heart instead. And most likely there would have been a grand party thrown in my honor, much like I would have had a Bat Mitzvah at 12 or 13 if I were Jewish, to announce my coming of age.

So on the day after the religious holiday, I ended up staying home. It's because I woke up with what felt like stomach cramps, and of what I later saw in my underpants when I went to the bathroom. I felt really ashamed and embarrassed to see the dark brown stains. I was a big girl, after all, I wasn't supposed to be having accidents like this anymore. But I told mom and she agreed I should stay home (hurray!) lest it also happen to me in school. So before she left for work, she gave me diarrhea medicine and told me to rest.

Mom phoned me at noon to check on me; I told her the same thing kept happening and I couldn't control it, no matter how vigilant or careful I was. And worse, there was now a bit of blood I could see. I was deathly ill, I was sure of it (even if I felt otherwise OK). Mom paused; she was unusually quiet over the phone. And then she said she was coming home early.

When she did she took me to the bathroom, closed the door, and asked me to show her my underwear. It felt really strange having to do that -- like I had done something wrong and was forced to produce the incriminating evidence to hang myself with. But I did, of course, and then mom's face suddenly turned inscrutable. She opened the door slightly, and through the crack I saw both my older sisters standing just outside, waiting in anticipation for some kind of announcement or revelation.

"Yup, she has It," mom said quietly, yet with an edge to her voice. My sisters started laughing and went into their room. But I still had no idea what "It" was. Mom simply explained, "You know those packages your sisters make and throw here? Well, you're going to learn how to make one of those today." She opened the cabinet underneath the sink, and reached inside a plastic bag. Mom pulled out a long, fat rectangular cotton pad with what appeared to be a ribbon-like string attached to each end. Then she scrounged around the top drawer and found what I soon learned was a garter belt.

These were the days before Stayfree, and mom was about to dress me up like a junior Sumo wrestler.

Let me tell you none of my peers know what it was like before some genius decided to use adhesive strips to secure sanitary pads to panties. And none of them have any idea what it was like for a 9-year-old girl to strap one of these monstrosities on and try not to move, especially during PE class. Because if any of you ladies have ever worn even just a regular garter belt that fastens to stockings, you'd know they move around your waist and up and down your hips. So essentially, what I'm trying to say is that I used my upper thighs to keep the pad from sliding around most of the time. Otherwise, it would have gotten pretty messy.

It wasn't for another year or so that one day in class, the teacher wrote "M-E-N-S-T-R-U-A-T-I-O-N" on the chalkboard and asked if anyone knew what the word meant. Only two girls raised their hands -- me and Eva, the tallest girl in class. I don't know about Eva -- but I only knew I got it every month and nothing more. So it was on that day I learned why I had to bleed. The good news, however, was by then I no longer had to use the damn belt: adhesive strips now made it possible for me to walk without having to squeeze my thighs together and waddle.

I've got to admit my body matured way ahead of my mind. I had gone directly from a training bra to an A-cup (and then quickly crawled up -- but not too far up -- the alphabet), and was borrowing my sister's clothes (who was 15) because I could no longer fit into anything in the children's department. When I was nine boys almost twice my age were hitting on me (my guy pal Junie, who was 12, made it his responsibility to pull me away from boys who wanted to play with me but not in the same way I was thinking), and then soon enough I annoyed all my girlfriends with stories about my many crushes. I didn't know what my hormones were doing to me; I just thought I was strange.

Time zooms by, more so the older we get. In a little more than a decade I'll probably wake up and realize I won't be bleeding anymore. I wonder what that would be like -- not having to take inventory at the end of the month to ensure I have ample supply of feminine hygiene products at home for when I need them a week later. Or to remember not to wear white bottoms when I have my period, and to always have a pad or tampon in my purse at all times "just in case."

I can't think of anything else I've lived with almost my entire life. And every month, without fail, I curse its arrival, and all the inconveniences its presence burdens me with . That's a lot of cursing if you think of it -- especially for something I may very well miss when it's finally gone.

ABOUT THE BOYS AND THE B'S

I've always been "one of the boys." I suspect it's because I don't intimidate and I always tell it like it is; in other words, I can't play sports and I don't play games.

So I think I'm allowed into their circles because I'm viewed as an ally. Most of the time they just want to know all about women: why we do the things we do and how our minds work. The best part of it all (for them) is they don't need to wine and dine me to get any of this information. In a way I'm like a double agent: I make my male friends feel like I'm conspiring with them by revealing our top secrets, but I also divulge their tricks to my fellow women, who are often just as confused about the opposite sex as they are about us.

I've got to admit I've learned so much from men -- from friends and lovers both. For instance, Rod taught me how to appreciate opera, Kiko taught me how to make my scrambled eggs really creamy but fluffy, Andrew taught me how to drive while Jayvee showed me how to negotiate tricky Los Angeles intersections, Roy demonstrated how to disable an attacker with an umbrella or rolled-up newspaper just as Wally had earlier taught me how to blind one with a set of keys, and Gary taught me just enough of the basics of air conditioning so I could capably argue with mall engineers that it was their problem it was bloody hot in my store -- which they had to fix pronto (and they did, thanks to my impressive display of a/c jargon).

But I've also taught men a lot of things as well (no, I'm not referring to that you licentious, libidinous rubbernecks), which I think has stood them in good stead.

1. Barbie Dolls - My first playmate was my neighbor Kenny, who promised at age three he was going to marry me (which he obviously reneged on much later). Maybe I took advantage of his friendship and devotion by making him bring his GI Joe and play with me and my Barbie dolls (because I wouldn't go for that climbing trees and fences nonsense). Kenny eventually moved out of my neighborhood, but I saw him again in high school at a party. By then he was gorgeous and popular, he was even a Close-Up toothpaste commercial model. So I was standing in some corner, trying to look interesting, when I saw a familiar handsome face smiling at me toothily: it was dear ol' Kenny. "Gigi!" he yelled above the din of the disco music, "I haven't seen you since we used to play barbie dolls together when we were kids." I quickly hushed him up, "Kenny, I wouldn't say that too loudly right now if I were you." And then it dawned on me that if I had been able to compel this babe magnet -- this doll -- to play GI Joe to my Barbie, then I had similar powers I could wield, if only I learned how to harness them correctly. As for Kenny, I'd like to think our playtimes together taught him a thing or two about playing fair with women.
2. Bras - Yes, many of my male friends benefited from my five-year stint at Victoria's Secret. During store inventory, before the company hired an outside party to do the dirty work, I'd hire my guy pals to help count undies at the store. It was there they learned all about the different kinds of bras and panties, as well as terms like merrywidow, teddy, and even pegnoir. Later on I taught an advanced course in bra fitting; at my apartment, I showed them with the aid of a tape measure how to correctly ascertain a woman's bra size. I am quite proud that today, my former students only need to surreptitiously glance at a woman to correctly state "34C" or "32A." None of them would be foolish enough to ask one of the questions that sends Nikki's snarky side seething. Which leads me to...
3. Boobs - I've repeatedly emphasized that with this divining power comes the responsibility to use it wisely. In short: Never, under any circumstances, stare at a woman's chest. I put the weakest of the bunch, Dennis, to the test one evening. Some men say they first look at a woman's eyes (ha!), others outright admit they are butt or leg men; well, Dennis is a self-professed boob man. So at one of my dinner parties, I sat Victoria (34D) to his right and Sandra (36DDD) to his left, with Stacy (36C) straight ahead. I also need to mention the beautiful ladies all proudly displayed ample cleavage that night. Dennis later confessed to me that he was profusely sweating by the time dessert arrived; it took him all his powers of concentration and focus to look only above eye level during conversation. Which, as my three bosomy friends agreed, he did so successfully.
4. Breaking Up - Most men have no idea how to break up with women. I've also learned they don't like doing it, period. I certainly don't mean they don't like leaving; they just don't like to announce their departure. If they could they'd just act like jerks until the other party gets fed up and leaves. But usually this doesn't work: this simply causes the girl to ask many, many questions and to plead for them to mutually discuss their feelings -- both of which men don't like to do. Hence the invention of "it's not you, it's me." So every time a guy pal tells me his relationship is not working and wants out but doesn't know what to do, I always say: tell the truth kindly and gently but never ever insult them by using the obnoxious INYIM phrase, even when desperate and especially not as a last resort. Unfortunately, no one has gotten this right. What can I say -- some men may be boob men, but others are simply boobs.

   
   

I LOVE PARIS

I'm down with the flu and can't seem to write one clear, cohesive sentence. I couldn't sleep tonight because of chills and congestion, so I finally gave up trying and got out of bed, and have been surfing the net instead.

Anyway, EVERYONE'S been talking about the new Carl's Jr. TV commercial with Paris Hilton in all her soft-porn glory (by the way, you've heard she's just gotten engaged to her namesake, a Greek shipping heir, right? How perfectly apt! In a way, she's proven everyone right and shown just how much Paris loves Paris.).

Check out this wonderful video at AdRants, an altered version of the commercial. Here, as Paris struts, crawls, bends, flexes, squats, and stretches as she makes love to a Bentley, you hear a voiceover of Richard Dreyfus reading Apple's Here's to the Crazy Ones.

As AdRants states: Originally, the intent of the Apple message was meant to be complimentary to those who think different and change the world in a positive manner. Yet, when voiced to Paris frolicking with a Bently (sic) and a Burger, it leaves one overcome with sadness and disgust with respect to the state of our culture.

I really don't hate Paris; in fact, I think she's absolutely brilliant for successfully doing what so many wannabees have been unable to achieve. She's transformed herself into a bankable celebrity -- a marketing phenomenon in fact -- virtually overnight, out of almost nothing. I mean, get this -- she's not the loveliest, sexiest, or even wealthiest heiress out there, but as far as millions of folks are concerned, she's It. The hot (watch her copyright this word) trustfund baby.

Although she has no real talent (word is she's just very hardworking and focused), I bet she could give Britney, Jessica, Lindsay -- and all the other blonde babes -- a run for their money. And despite all her shenanigans, she's not about to be grounded by her parents anytime soon -- after all, it's precisely because of all her highly-publicized stunts that she's put the brand Hilton back in the forefront of American consumer consciousness.

Hmmm. Who knows, she might even give new meaning to the classic line in Casablanca: We'll always have Paris. At least, I'm sure the bigwigs at Carl's Jr. hope so.

Perish the thought.