GIGI GOES GAGA

SEEING PINOY

For the longest time it seemed the only Filipinos I saw on American TV were either freaky, attention-starved Pinays on reality shows such as MTV's The Real World, Blind Date, and ElimiDate -- or crazy (literally speaking), attention-starved Pinoys on American Idol or, worse, Dog, the Bounty Hunter.

I mean, it just got to the point that when I'd see Filipino-looking persons on any TV show, I'd close my eyes and fervently wish they wouldn't make fools of themselves. Or if they did, that they'd claim to be Hawaiians or Pacific Islanders instead (like real Filipino fools often do).

But then lately it seems that I've been seeing Filipinos who make me want to root for them. For instance, every Tuesday night -- without fail -- I vote for Mig Ayesa, who's competing on Rock Star: INXS. Not only is he genuinely talented but he's also clearly a decent chap; he cheers for his competition up on stage and comforts them when they get back home. Whether or not Ayesa does end up fronting INXS during its next world tour or not, I sincerely hope to see more of him for years to come. By the way, I don't vote for him simply because he's Filipino -- I never voted for Jasmine Trias and Camille Velasco, after all. I'd even buy his cd, and I haven't said that about anyone who's ever won a talent competition -- not even Kelly Clarkson, whose albums both went platinum.

I've never watched So You Think You Can Dance?, but I've read it's a sleeper hit. Many of my friends even like it. But because Petite recently raved about a terrific (Filipino-American) dancer named Ryan Conferido, I've decided to check out the show this coming Wednesday.

Now I'll be the first to admit the idea of Hugh Hefner simultaneously dating three very, VERY young blondes grosses me out (although the skeptic in me thinks this is all PR). I mean, there are impossibly beautiful women in their 40s, after all (which is about half of Hef's age, and thus still affords him bachelor bragging rights) and -- really -- what's wrong with just ONE girlfriend? So I'd never seen The Girls Next Door for that very reason.

But last Sunday, there was a marathon screening of this relatively new reality show on the E Channel and I confess I got hooked enough to watch four out of five episodes. On the second episode, two aspiring Playmates stayed the night at the Playboy Mansion to shoot test pictorials the day after. One of them, Raquel Gibson, was a cross between Jessica Alba and Angelina Jolie -- although she had the personality and spunk of neither. When they showed Hef and his harem on a night out, the exotic-looking lovely (she's half-Filipina, half-Italian) could have passed out in the restroom and no one would have noticed she was missing. I've got to admit she was very beautiful despite her dull demeanor, and once the camera started clicking and flashing during the shoot, she was miraculously transformed into Jezebel incarnate -- a sultry, wild-eyed, irresistible temptress.

Anyway, I read somewhere she may be Playboy Miss December 2005, but I suppose we won't know until the issue's about to hit the newsstands. And even if Hef and his editors don't include her in the relatively small sorority (622 as of this month) of Playboy Playmates, I hope Gibson gets other opportunities for significant - er - exposure. Just as long as it's not another dating reality show. If it were, then she'd have to hold a decent conversation -- and we, too, don't know anything about that so far.

It wouldn't be surprising if former Miss Teen USA, Vanessa Minnillo (also of MTV fame) gets to interview any (or all) of them for an Entertainment Tonight segment. Pampanga-born Minnillo knows a bit of what it's like to be Filipino in the entertainment world -- but definitely a lot about what it's like to have rightfully earned her place under the spotlight. Hopefully, these other three newcomers will too soon.

WELCOMING THE NEW NEIGHBORS

The other day, hubby went to the supermarket to pick up a few ingredients he needed to prepare dinner with. When he got back half an hour later, I heard him calling out for me in a somewhat urgent tone. He wanted to know if I had any photographs of Batjay, one of the first Pinoy bloggers I'd ever come across, and still one of my all-time favorites.

For weeks I'd been looking forward to meeting Jay and his wife, Jet. They recently moved to the US from Singapore, where they had been based for the last four years or so, and were now -- serendipitously -- living within a mile from our home. Our timing's been a bit off, unfortunately; almost as soon as they got here, I was then off to Manila for my annual family visit. But now that I'm back and they've pretty much settled down in the area, we've been planning to meet up fairly soon.

So my heart skipped a beat when hubby asked to see Jay's face. It was a strange question asked at a most odd time. What had my loving husband done this time?

And just as I feared: "I was driving home and there was this car in front of me going soooo slowly," he said, rolling his eyeballs. "So I honked at him and flipped him the bird." Is it any wonder one of the few topics of frequent contention between us is his unabated road rage?

"Then when I passed him and stared at his face," hubby continued, "I realized he was a Filipino I'd never seen around here before."

I ran to my computer and brought up Batjay's blog site; I held my breath the entire time and suspected I was about to hyperventilate. No, no, please no, I thought. Whenever my husband's behind the wheel, I'm always watching for signs of his escalating temper so I can defuse it before we get in trouble. In the past when I've failed to do so, he nearly pissed off our next door neighbor (who was my sometime workout partner) and caused our SUV to be attacked by a car full of high school punks and their freakishly huge college-football-player driver.

In fact, when we're in gang-controlled territory or notoriously dangerous areas, I have to caution him before there's a chance of his getting testy or impatient: "You even honk your horn here once and we're dead, " I'll say. "Don't even think about it." I may be an OC-living shopaholic with a phobia of public restrooms -- but I've still got my street smarts, you know.

A minute later, I had Jay's site up and found his most recent photograph. Silence. Loud, rapid heartbeats.

"Nah, that's not him," said the hubby after studying Jay's countenance."It was probably just another new Filipino in the neighborhood." I glared at him as I released a massive sigh of relief. There would be no need for crisis intervention today.

I think until we finally meet our new neighbors (and learn what car they drive), I'll be the one running out for tomatoes instead. At least this way we won't be finding any splattered on our faces.

Welcome to the neighborhood, Jay and Jet!

MIDNIGHT CONFESSIONS

TIME: Sometime in the midnight hour, August 27, 2005
MOOD: Somewhere between sleepy and wide-awake due to lingering jet lag and plenty of unexpected naps.
MUSIC: Craig David's The Story Goes
READ: Just finished Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl by Tracy Quan. On page six of Snobs by Julian Fellowes. My favorite line so far: "To the English, skin is, as a rule, the compliment of last resort, to be employed when there is nothing else to praise."
EATS: White Chocolate Maltesers

Sometimes I surprise myself with what I choose to blog about; I've even been tempted a few times to quickly delete the post and hope no one notices. What surprises others is that there still are a LOT of stories I'm not brave or honest enough to write down (I probably would only if I ever decided to start writing reality-based fiction or -- OK -- maybe even erotica). But the best part of putting it all out there is that it's encouraged folks to reveal to me their own secrets -- things I'm sure they never thought they'd have enough courage to tell me (or even anyone else at all).

I was up late last night as usual, just blog-surfing. I always have my AOL and Yahoo instant messenger thingies on when I'm online, but often it tends to be pretty quiet once the midnight hour hits. So I was pleasantly surprised to get a couple of pings, almost simultaneously in fact -- one from D (ex-boyfriend/forever friend) and C (my soul sistah).

My conversation with D ventured off to memories of hickeys, oddly enough. He confessed he liked giving them and that he seemed to remember I liked receiving them. Well -- not exactly, I clarified. I think when they're placed in a conspicuous location they're just obnoxious; that way they're basically the physical equivalent of crass juvenile bragging. And embarrassing as hell to boot.

I remember my first boyfriend gave me one on the back of my neck when we first started dating and didn't let me know about it. The next day in school my classmate Rica, who sat behind me, saw the purple bruise as my long hair swept forward when I leaned over to read -- and then pointed it out to me with glee. You've got to realize I was considered a "good girl" then; I did summer missionary work and was one of a small group in high school bestowed by the school nuns with a wooden cross to wear around my neck. A mark of sexual passion, needless to say, didn't particularly blend with such a solemn mark of Catholic piety. Rica's never forgotten the incident, and still ribs me about it from time to time when I see her.

So going back to last night: I said I occasionally prefer a small one imprinted in a discreet, well-placed spot. Just something to peek at from time to time, to feel that warm, glowing flush that accompanies a rush of such vivid replay of recent memories. It's something private, one that only two people (who had something to do with it) know about. Now how sexy is that? Very sexy indeed, D replied, who then proceeded to disclose some other very salacious stories (that had nothing to do with me, by the way).

At that point C ping'd to say hello. Not too long ago, we revealed to each other a list of men we'd dated, together with how long we'd been with each one. From that information we came up with statistics clearly illustrating how many relationships we had that were fairly long-term Vs short-term; mine didn't look too good, especially when compared to hers. Well, recently during Mass (!) she realized there were several men she had completely forgotten about, thus skewing percentages to her advantage.

C: Aw c'mon, I'm sure you forgot some guys too, and left them off your list.
Me: Nope, my list was complete. And pretty much in order of appearance too.
C: No really -- how can you NOT forget?
Me: Hey, it's not like my numbers are deeper into the double-digits or something.
C: Well, mine too -- but I still forgot some names anyway.
Me: Look. I remember all my shoes, and they only go ON my feet.
C: LOL
Me: And I have to say I have way more shoes than boys!

So there: last night I realized my ex-boyfriend, who's almost pushing 50 (he was an older-man type of boyfriend, OK?), is still proud of the handiwork he started to master as a teenager. Nothing wrong with that at all, although it is a bit strange to visualize a man of his...um...maturity level focused on making the perfect little love bite. And I also discovered my friend was sluttier than I'd suspected (just KIDDING!) -- and I bet it won't be too long before we realize her stats are more pathetic than mine.

I can't wait for another busy late night IM session with friends -- especially if my girlfriend R, whose list of men is not too far from the triple-digit range, ever logs on. Just imagine the stories she can tell. If she can remember the names involved, that is.

MANILA BITES 4 - MAKING OUT IN CARS WITH BOYS

Warning: Adult content for mature readers only. For those of you wary of too much information (this means YOU, Francis AKA Mahal), skip this.

Driving around the village I grew up in is an adventure in itself these days. Our house was built in the mid-60s and is probably one of the few remaining original structures in the neighborhood. Most of the other homes have been torn down and rebuilt -- stronger, larger, and higher (no doubt to prevent flood water from entering during the rainy season).

The streets seem so much narrower though, no doubt because I've been living in California -- think wide open spaces -- for more than half my life now. But the trees back home have gotten so much bigger and wider through the years, providing even more shade and cover -- the better for secrecy and possibly subterfuge. Even after all these years, I still know where the darkest corners are in my old stomping grounds, no doubt because I and my co-conspirators spent so much time trying to find them.

I was talking to a friend a few days ago, and we were discussing our recurring sexual fantasies. It seems like public spaces is a common denominator, appealing to an exhibitionist streak lurking within each of us perhaps: beaches, inside crowded areas such as clubs, restaurants, and concert venues, on top of rooftops, by large city windows high up in buildings, on semi-deserted street corners, and even in parking lots (hello there S -- have the Santa Monica parking folks distributed copies of your recent escapade captured on their security cameras yet?).

My favorite one is simple: to me there's nothing hotter than making out in cars with boys. I suppose I can't really classify it as a fantasy since it's been a reality so many times in my life -- but the idea never fails to turn me on, so there it is. My husband, however, has never experienced the joys of contorting into unimaginable positions inside an automobile, but I'm determined to turn him into a convert before arthritis makes it an impossibility for either of us.

When I was much younger, my most memorable kisses were furtive ones inside a boy's car. I had my first orgasm while lying on a reclining front leather seat in the driveway of my boyfriend's house, before I even knew the word existed. I've made out inside cars on some corner of almost every street in my village and -- in various states in the US -- in campus hotspots (for instance, the beloved LMU bluff), mall parking lots, drive-in movie theaters (are there any left around here nowadays?), national parks, and even cruising along parkways, highways, and freeways. And it didn't matter if the car was a tiny Beetle or a large Explorer (which I fondly call Explore-Her), there's always a way if you really want to find one. And score extra points for sunroofs (high five to those of you who know why).

One boyfriend was so experienced, he had a procedure down pat, it was almost scary: First, find a dead end because there are fewer cars and people walking around the area. Then park under a shaded spot (i.e. under a large tree preferably) and away from any front gate. If the girl isn't wearing a skirt, she should slip off only one leg of both her pants and undies in case speed dressing is necessary. And always, always bring a full box of tissues. He was so assured I swear he could get a bra to pop open before he even touched it.

All right, I'll admit not all my car-related experiences have been positive. I've already written about falling asleep -- deep into REM state -- during a makeout session inside a Baby Benz. And parked right outside the Cultural Center of the Philippines, I found out a new boyfriend was one of the world's worst kissers (yuck). Luckily, the good has outweighed the bad, so much so that making out in cars is still one of life's most delicious pleasures. With music softly playing in the background, rolling around leather seats on a cold night while steam slowly masks already-darkly-tinted windows -- there's just nothing like it. Trust me on this.

MANILA BITES 3 - PARTY TIME

I attended a fundraising party a few days after arriving in Manila. It was probably not the best night for me to be crammed inside a small club lacking in ventilation yet overflowing in headcount, and exploding from the highest high of decibels. My two-month-old sinus infection had worsened from the 16-hour assault by airline cabin pressure and an instantaneous allergic reaction from mold (caused by the recent rains) and dust (there's always dust in the city). My head was throbbing in time to the pounding beat of the music (which was excellent, by the way -- go Overdrive!) and I was doing my best to stay completely still to keep from sweating any more than I already was. I wasn't exactly the poster child for revelry, you might say, although I wouldn't have missed the night for anything..

I had also forgotten what it was like to be completely sober amid masses of folks in various drunken states ranging from tipsy to inebriated to I'm-claiming-amnesia-tomorrow. I was having fun despite my body's best efforts to keep me from doing so, but I know I would have enjoyed myself much more if I had a little buzz going on. Actually, I don't know that for certain -- I don't drink, after all -- but everyone else sure looked like they didn't have a care in the world (well, except for our fundraising raison d'être of course).

We were there because a beloved friend is fighting an insidious and devastating disease, and sometimes the toughest battles are not won by determination alone. I'm not sure, but I've heard initial treatments alone will cost a million pesos and upwards. With "upwards" being the only sure thing in all this.

The event was a resounding success; a good time was had by all and, more importantly, the fundraising goal achieved. It looked like I wasn't having fun -- people kept asking me if I was OK -- but really, I was. Although at first the idea of why we were all there was sobering, I switched gears when my bestfriend Rosanna reminded me it was far more important to be there not to raise money, but to make the night the happiest one for our friend. Thus my spirit was carousing with the best of them, even if it felt like I had a herd of elephants breakdancing on my head. At least the pachyderms were enjoying themselves, too.

There was a surreal moment, for me at least, when I realized most of the people in the room were the same folks I used to see in the old party scene. I've been gone so long that the faces looked somewhat familiar although not completely recognizable -- and I certainly couldn't place their names. But Rosanna helped me out by (discreetly) matching names to faces plus providing a bit of updated history.

It didn't take too long for me to realize there is some form of justice in the world. I remembered the popular kids who once ruled their campuses and social scenes -- the ones I was slightly intimidated by, the ones whose social circles were prohibitively exclusive and touched only other similarly blessed circles. I saw the cute and cocky boys who bothered to speak to only the prettiest girls now humbled by age and time -- blinding-bright hairless spots on their heads, slightly wrinkled and dull skin, and even hints of pot bellies. And although the women seemed to have aged better, their natural freshness had somewhat faded, with their looks now maintained through long, tedious hours at the gym, spa, and doctor's (dermatologist and perhaps even plastic surgeon) office.

A group of men from my old college sat in the corner evaluating how the women looked now compared to before, utilizing a much-practiced and honed rating system. The delicious irony was that they, too, were unaware they were subjects of other like efforts by the women in the room -- only not as obvious and without group effort, but with just as much brutal honesty.

I whispered to Rosanna, "Yikes, it's like one of our high school parties in here -- but the guys are now kalbo (bald)." A pause. "If only I had a glimpse of the future back then, I wouldn't have been so intimidated by some of these people."

And like the teenage parties I used to attend regularly, the music was smoking, the energy was positively electric and buzzing with excitement, people were either dancing on the floor or at least tapping to the beat, and alcohol was flowing. It was like we were all young again -- but this time, the field was decidedly more level (with hard-won achievement now prized more than natural pulchritude) and the partying more purposeful.

Towards the end of the evening it occurred to me that just like before, I wasn't the prettiest, sexiest, smartest, most popular or accomplished person in the pack but -- unlike my angst-wracked and insecurity-filled youthful years -- it didn't matter the slightest bit. I couldn't be bothered with what rating I might have received from the self-appointed judging panel -- or even if I was deemed significant enough to be evaluated. All that seemed to matter is that all of us here had fought through life's countless trials, struggles, and tribulations and survived (or at least were still doing our damn best to) and we had certainly earned the right to forget all about them for just one night.

Especially my friend. I truly hope she had the time of her life -- and many more times like that to come. Party on.

MANILA BITES 2 - MORE EX FILES

I had lunch with an ex last week. He's the ex my family wishes I never broke up with -- although they are always quick to add they love Arnel, at least much much more than they cared for my ex-husband.

The ex's wife, however, has no clue -- unlike my husband, who does. Although we've never met, she's not thrilled about the concept of her husband and I remaining friends (actually, she probably has no idea this has always been the case). He was her first boyfriend, but I was his first -- you get the story. Like the ex says, it's because I got there before she did. My name is synonymous with the Boogeyman in their happy abode: my name comes up and dagger looks are hurled at my ex, not only by his wife but also his daughters. I probably should be flattered, but frankly I'm flabbergasted.

Each time I see him, I ask if she's ready to meet me; so far, the answer has been NO. Perhaps before we turn 50, I ask? Yes, he seems to think. But not quite yet.

So going back to my story. J and I met up for a little over an hour; he was in-between meetings. He looked fantastic (every year he looks better and better, I must say, to the point where he actually is in better shape than when he was half his age -- when I had a much clearer idea of what kind of shape he was really in.). Although he was dressed neatly, I could tell he was still no metrosexual. He never was into the latest men's fashions or designer/brand names, even if he could always afford to be -- but it was just never his thing. The only concession, it seems, he's made to displaying his position and wealth is the "simple" stainless steel Rolex watch he wears on his wrist. Knowing him, it was probably even a gift.

Of course, the first thing I asked was to see his family pictures. Not only because I've never seen his wife or children in person, but also because I figured it's the safest thing to do if someone were to spot us together. I mean, what could the potential snoop report to the wife?

Snoop: Hey, I saw your husband with his ex, Gigi.
Wife: Oh yeah? What were they doing?
Snoop: Looking at your picture.

It's difficult to catch up on another year's worth of stories in a little more than 60 minutes, but we made a valiant effort. Somewhere in the middle of stories, I asked him if women were trying to get their claws into him despite (or perhaps because of) his marital status. The truth is his surname makes him a fabulous catch, but that he's cute, funny, down-to-earth and still quite youthful-looking makes him an exceptional one. And I'm sure that's not merely my opinion.

He admitted this was the case, and I didn't ask him the logical follow-up question straight up, but in a sort of roundabout way: if he's ever been tempted or even succumbed to seduction. As he told me about a few womanly wiles he's come across, I said, "Ah, but I know you, I know you so well still."

To which he replied, with a mischievous glint in his eye, "You know me, huh? So you know what I'd do?" And it hit me, I suddenly wasn't too sure. So I answered instead, "I know you'd always try to do your best." He repeated my line, he said he liked it. Then I remembered: even back then, he'd always had an eye for the women, even if he was never a rogue. He's a good guy -- one of the true-blue ones left in the world -- but certainly not a saint.

As the minutes ticked away, we became more relaxed with each other and laughed even more. This was the J I've always known, I thought to myself. In a way so simple -- as far as his needs and wants were concerned, at least -- but still so very complex in another, less apparent, way. I wondered if he thought I was the same girl he once knew and loved.But I know I've changed so much since he and I were together, and so I suppose he must have, too. Still, there was much comfort with the familiarity between us -- the longtime friendship, trust, and especially our shared history.

When it came to parting ways, I said I'd walk him towards his car. "It's OK, you don't need to," he said, adding in a low whisper, "My guy's here."

"Guy?" I asked, "What guy?"
"My...bodyguard, " he replied in an even more hushed tone. "I hate it."

He pointed out his "guy", dressed in a short-sleeved barong, standing discreetly quite some distance away. J told me the bodyguard was seated somewhere nearby while we were having lunch. Will he report our meeting to your wife, I asked? He shook his head. If I make a move to strangle you, will he run over and drop me to the floor? No, he replied, but with a word, he'd run over and point a gun to my head.

I glanced over at the bodyguard and studied him from head to toe. "You can take him, you know," I said. To which J heartily agreed. And after a quick kiss on each cheek, he ran off, with his "guy" trailing about 20 feet behind him. And you know, he looked like he was running away from his bodyguard (I bet he was).

Yep, J's still the same guy I always knew -- the same guy who wanted to be a teacher or guidance counselor for years, with a side gig playing the guitar at Shakey's (as they did -- or maybe still do -- in Manila branches). He may run one or two companies now (I don't ever ask him about these things), and maybe even more in the near future. But I know in his mind, what counts is that he truly loves his family as well as his job. Something many of us would be simply content with. As he is.

MANILA BITES 1 - PICTURE IMPERFECT

I still carry a Philippine passport and have had it extended twice in Los Angeles since I moved to the US. It's expiring in February 2006, and I thought it would be easier to get it extended while I'm here in Manila instead of dealing with the Consulate folks when I get back.

So the first thing on my agenda was to get my passport photo taken. I had never thought of it as a big deal, at least as far back as I can remember. All I ever needed to do was apply a bit of makeup and look fairly well-groomed. But I was recently informed that now I need to wear a top with a collar and make sure my ears can be clearly seen in the photograph.

The first requirement wasn't too difficult -- although I packed mostly tees, I had a couple of knit collared polos in my suitcase. I thought the second one would be no problem but I was severely mistaken. Although folks with large ears tend to be self-conscious (a result of nearly a lifetime of being taunted with Dumbo jokes, I presume), no one ever talks about the woes of being born with too-small ears.

I have very small ears that seem to be fastened flat against the sides of my head. I think complaining about this is the nearest thing (for me) to get a sense of what it's like to be naturally skinny and not be able to gain weight no matter what -- NO ONE sympathizes with your problem because they don't think you have any. What's worse is that folks tend to think you're annoying (or downright obnoxious) for even mentioning it. But really, my ears are so small I can't even use headsets that attach by wrapping around my earlobes -- they just don't stay put and fall off with the slightest movement I make.

Compounding my anatomical problem is that I have a round face with wide cheekbones and thick wavy hair: my ears just disappear from view completely. So last week I was at the one-hour photo lab trying to get a picture that fulfilled all passport requirements and soon lost my patience with endless reshoots. I kept trying to tuck my hair around my ears and quickly discovered it was just too thick to stay in place. So I ran over to the nearest hair salon and asked a stylist to do whatever he needed to appease the passport photo gods.

What I got was a fake mullet. My hair was slightly poufed up on top and -- worse -- slanted towards the right. All my hair on the sides was pinned tightly so as to lay completely flat against my head, and the unpinned parts above just sat above it like an extended roof. When I got back to the photo place, I couldn't even smile -- I was aware of how ridiculous I looked. Worse, I still couldn't see my ears. And as expected, after a few shots were taken and I finally steeled myself to look at the chosen photo, nothing could have prepared me for the shock.

"Please don't tell me I really look like this," I said to my sisters. "Because if I do, just kill me right now."

I was a sight even my own mother could not love. She didn't just beg me to take yet another reshoot -- she practically demanded I do so. The only thing that gave me some comfort was that she and my sisters agreed I don't look as quite as hideous in person.

I really didn't want to deal with the hassle of trying to look photogenic; after all, it's just a bloody passport photograph. "Only a couple of airport officials will get to see my horrific picture every year," I argued with my mom. "It's not like I have to please them, you know."

So the next day I marched to the Department of Foreign Affairs to submit my forms. I was told to present everything to the "guy at the table" so he could attach my photographs to the forms and have me take imprints of my thumbs. I swear to God, he snickered when he saw my picture.

I was then told to go back to the guard standing by the line of folks waiting to get their passports extended. And then back to another table, and then to another guard. As I was sitting in line, mulling over the prospect of having to go to yet another table, and then queue up in front of another building, I decided to take my chances with the Philippine Consulate in Los Angeles instead (which I'm not looking forward to, I can assure you). With only nine days in Manila, I didn't want to waste one of them in bureaucratic hell.

I'm still not sure why the DFA really needs to see both my ears (would they refuse me a passport if I had sliced one off in a moment of insanity a la Van Gogh?), but I'll go with the flow since I have no choice. If I absolutely have to, I'll even wear a headband; if that doesn't work, I'll push my ears forward using surgical tape. But this I know for sure: if the LA consul snickers at my photograph, I'm walking out again and will apply for US citizenship immediately. I've already checked: the folks at the US passport office don't care whether or not I have one or both ears, and they certainly don't care to see either.

Now that's music to my (apparently freakish) ears.

GOING HOME

I've been trying to explain to my husband all day why I need to bring our two largest suitcases with me on my upcoming trip to Manila. "What do you plan on bringing with you anyway?" he demanded to know. "I thought you weren't telling people you were going home so you wouldn't have to bring so much stuff."

I remained silent, eyes peeking upwards and mouth tightly pursed and twisted to the left, as I am wont to do when I'm cluching for the right thing to say (or rather, when I'm praying NOT to say the wrong thing). How was I possibly going to explain to him that the issue is not what I'm bringing over there, but what I'm lugging back here with me? During my last visit I managed to hide from him the one dozen pairs of shoes I crammed into my cases (I had only one large and a small suitcase so I couldn't bring much of anything else -- stupid, stupid -- hence the current luggage war.); I pretended to be too exhausted from the trip to unpack, and only did so the next morning while he was already at work.

But my husband knows me only too well, and that's exactly why he's challenging me about my luggage selection; he normally doesn't care about such insignificant things. He understands only too well that if I have space to fill, I will fill it somehow. Of course, every time I return I bring him back lots and lots of goodies -- not only because I'm a good wife but so I can distract him from seeing the stuff I got for myself. By the way, he doesn't mind if I buy accessories, bags, or more stuff for the house -- but whenever he suspects another shoe has infiltrated our home he suddenly has serious issues.

These past few days I've been quite the shopping dervish. The truth is my family and friends are very considerate; they don't ask for me to bring back a lot of things -- just an item or two. But although I've always considered myself a shopping heavyweight I've just been humbled, defeated even. As my friends and I get older and move along this place called life, they continue to have more children -- who grow older and have new needs. But I have no kids and am clueless about things pertaining to newborns and toddlers (for instance, I only found out what a diaper genie was a year or so ago). Hence, behold my shopping achilles heel.

For instance you can drop me off at any Barnes & Noble or Borders bookstore and I'll find my way through the stacks easily -- blindfolded even. But I realized this weekend I'd never been in the children's department. So my quest to find one board book (I had no idea what that was, as you've probably guessed) took me at least a good hour. And tonight I was at Wal-Mart harrassing every motherly-looking employee or shopper to tell me what the hell an Aquadoodle pen was. I kept muttering as I walked zombie-like along the aisles: "Fuckin' aquadoodles, freakin' aquadoodles." I think I scared small children even. And just when I figured out what they were, they were out of it (and I thought Wal-Mart ruled the industry with their state-of-the-art replenishment system!).

So now I'm half-packed. I've got all the give-aways in one large suitcase and I've even put together my small makeup trunkcase (which took a good 90 minutes to select and edit from start to finish since I have to commit to all the colors and shades I bring with me for the next week and a half -- NOT so easy to do). Tomorrow I pack the other large (ha! I won) suitcase with my clothes, accessories, and shoes. Normally I'm a light packer (I swear it's true!) but I haven't been home in the month of August since I used to live there, so I haven't the slightest clue how to pack for the weather. Folks tell me it's rainy, warm, and humid. Like I said, I have no friggin' idea what to pack.

In the meantime, I'm open to suggestions. What do I bring? Where do I go? What's fun? What's new? My schedule is still far from full (I always just go with the flow), and I'd like to make sure I'm not home watching ASAP on a Sunday when I could be doing the same thing here. Hopefully, I'll even meet (or bump into) a few of you there too!

GIGI THE GROUCH

I usually am in one of three moods: pensive, happy, or overjoyed. This week make it four: grouchy.

I'm still feeling a bit crotchety but haven't let go of my usual optimism, for instance: I know, for sure, I'm not going to kill anyone today. Trust me, with the kind of week I've been having, I consider that statement of positivity proof of my deep-down inner perkiness. Still, I find that these days, things that normally bug me REALLY annoy me -- and until I shake off this funk I'm in, it would be best for folks who generally fit any of the following descriptions to keep away from me (or announce yourselves so I can stay away from you).

1. FLAB BLAB - Didn't all our mothers tell us that if we have nothing good to say about others, then just don't say it? Five days before I get on a plane to Manila and I'm already dreading the idea of chancing upon a (rude) relative or former classmate/acquaintance, have him or her take a good look at me and ask loudly, "Anong nangyari sa iyo -- ang taba mo na (Hey what happened to you? You've gotten fat!)!"

   I feel insulted on so many different levels that it's all I can do to contain myself from launching into verbal attack mode. First: Do you think I'm so stupid (and blind) that I can't see for myself I've gained weight? Thanks for noticing but maybe you should buy a mirror that actually works and then take a good look at yourself first -- if you can stand it. Two: Oh yeah, I know -- in fact I've been losing weight slowly but surely. But I'm worried about you; I don't think they've found a cure for ugliness yet, or have they? Three: Yes, I guess I am -- but you should know all about that since you're so fat yourself! Four: Oh you know what they say, fat but happy! Too bad you're not, apparently. Five: Well, I wasn't going to suggest you need a complete beauty and fashion makeover really, really badly, but since you brought the topic up..."

   People tell me that folks back home do that only because it's their way of either saying hello or making conversation. Next time they should just try saying, "Ang tagal mo nang nawala -- kamusta ka na (You've been gone for so long -- what's up with you?)? Is that really so hard to do?

2. TONGUE TWISTER - It's one thing to assume an American/English/Australian accent because you live in any one of those English-speaking countries and need to be understood by the locals. Or even if you've lived there for so long that your accent's been unavoidably altered. But I know this woman who lived in Australia for less than a year (she had to leave because she didn't have the necessary immigration documents in order to stay). And she likes to tell folks that when she speaks to any Australian person, her accent "comes back" to her (she's obviously not referring to her Filipino accent.). She now refers to her mother as "mum" (even if for almost two decades she called her "mom" or "mommy") and breaks into a cringe-inducing pseudo-Australian accent that even Nicole Kidman wouldn't recognize.

   I know this for a fact: Someone who has lived in another country for a year or so will not acquire a new accent permanently. I've lived in the States for more than twice the period I resided in the Philippines, and when I go back you wouldn't really know I've been gone this long; for crissakes even the call center folks in Makati speak with a stronger twang than I do over there. Look -- even Madonna sounds ridiculous conversing like a member of English royalty (even if she owns almost as much acreage as they do). The only reason people affect accents is to show how much "better" they've become or how superior they now are. In fact, my English friends say that when they want to intimidate Americans, they try to sound like BBC presenters and milk the Queen's English for all its worth.

3. AIR HEAD - My friend Joe met a woman through Friendster a while back; she's a model/partygirl in Hong Kong. When he showed me her profile, I had a near-conniption when I read her state unequivocally that NO ugly persons are to contact her. She warns: "If you're ugly and try to contact me I will send you a mirror." Ouch. I mean, she's not lacking in the pulchritude department (at least as far as I could tell with all that makeup she had on), but Zhang Ziyi she's certainly not.

   Whenever I come across folks who have an inflated sense of their superiority (be it because of their beauty, money, class, title, and so on), I can almost hear the the slow hissing sound of their balloon deflating. Because no one has what they have forever, and someone else is always bound to be on top.

4. PEA BRAIN - I'll make this one short because I believe it should be so obvious. I don't enjoy comments that are racist, sexist, homophobic -- anything that involves hating and harming people due to fear and ignorance. And jokes of this kind are the worst; they're powerful tools of all cowardly bigots. Because how do you fight a joke? You really can't -- because the lily-livered idiot hides underneath the cloak of jest, inevitably claims to have only been joking, and then accuses you of having no sense of humor. I have absolutely no patience for anything mean-spirited or close-minded -- even when it comes from the mouths of those near and dear to me. There's just nothing funny about hate.

DATING IN LA

Although my ex-boyfriends tease me about -- well -- my ex-boyfriends, I really haven't done much dating in my life.

The first man I dated became my first boyfriend, the second became my next boyfriend, and the third was No. 3. Now I don't know if this means that if I dated a boy, he'd automatically become the next boyfriend -- but I do know this means I didn't have a lot of casual dating experience. I suppose I was never really good at window shopping; I'm more of a committed buyer type -- if I like what I see, I don't mess around. I also mess around when I really like what I see -- but that's not what I'm talking about here.

When I first came to Los Angeles from Manila, it was like someone had dropped me off in the middle of the freakin' Mall of America without tossing me a directory. I was completely fascinated, thoroughly excited -- and hopelessly lost.

It was like being 15 again, buckling under the pressure of my first boyfriend's constant hinting of sex. I had no idea what a penis even looked like (I had no brothers and heretofore had only been exposed to sex-education-enrobed-in-religion classes). So I did the only thing any resourceful teenager could do: I pored through every encyclopedia in my high school library in hopes of finding a picture (not just an illustration) of the male reproductive anatomy. Alas, reference materials were not as informative as they are today. And this was the pre-internet period, before the days of online porn and Google. I realized class would consist of all lab and no lecture (and certainly no textbook).

I had no idea of how to date in a foreign country.

I didn't have any friends here to guide me or at least give me some kind of a clue. And when my university freshman peer advisor asked me if I had any questions, I figured she was referring to truly useful things like library hours or where to get the best grub on campus. Besides, since her boyfriend was shamelessly flirting with practically every other helpless, vulnerable female freshman his girlfriend was entrusted to assist and guide, I didn't think she'd be the best person to get dating and relationship advice from.

My first real date here started out promising. I had met him at a party full of drunken junior college students. I didn't know anyone except the friend I was with (who was off somewhere trying to get laid), so I stood where I could look like I was having a good time without actually experiencing it: by the bar. I met this guy who was half-Filipino and half-Jewish; I thought he was extremely charming, funny, and cute and was thrilled he chose to spend most of the night talking to me. So when my friend (who turned out to be his classmate!) told me half-and-half wanted my phone number, I was tempted to tell him to hang up with me immediately, call the guy, and give it to him, like, NOW.

Long story short: cute boy called, he asked me out, I said yes. And when I opened the door the following weekend, I realized that either I was flirting with the wrong boy by the bar all along, or it was just really, really dark where we stood (It really was dark). He wasn't bad looking at all; my ocular equipment had merely been defective the night we met. Worse, I realized that charm was something he must have only temporarily acquired from a beer bottle. When he was sober, he was boring and even a little too eager to laugh at his own jokes.

I must admit I was also panicked and stressed out: I had no idea how to act on a date so I was really stiff and probably didn't bring out the best of him either. He was really nice so although I was a little bit -- OK, a lot -- distant, I was nice to him all night as well. But not too nice. When he dropped me off at home and leaned in for a goodnight kiss, I think I shook his hand.

I knew I wasn't going to kiss him on the first date. Because I never ever have. Not because of some dating rule I once learned or some female game I have to play. As Cher (played by Alicia Silverstone) in the movie Clueless said (I'm paraphrasing here): "I'm picky about my shoes -- and they only go on my feet." I just can't swap saliva with someone I barely know. In all American movies I ever saw, it seemed people always kissed at the end of the date -- so I didn't have alternative options in mind. I didn't know what to do, and a handshake seemed friendly enough.

Eventually I got a lot better with this dating business. Still, I don't know if I'd do very well if I were released back into the jungle, especially given today's new hunting grounds. For instance, I've never tried speed dating or online dating. The first one, to me, would feel like walking into a store five minutes before closing time when I desperately need the perfect dress to wear that night. The second one not only reminds me too much of window shopping (which we've already established I'm not very good at), but involves relying on information prone to exaggeration or hyperbole, sometimes even way beyond the realm of actual fact (or even possibility). Kind of like catalog shopping -- photograph looks really good and the description is gripping, but when the package arrives, you realize you'd been duped. Still, I'm not knocking what I don't know.

I may not be a dating expert, but this is what I do know. I suppose most of these are universal laws, but according to Cathy a couple of them may be culture-specific. She just posted a hilarious account of what happened when she dated a German expat in the Philippines and neither knew whose country's dating norms to follow, so they made up their own.

1. Whoever asks, pays.


2. But it would be nice if the one asked offers to split the bill anyway.


3. I have girlfriends who always insist on paying their half because they don't want their date to "expect" anything. Question: What's so difficult about saying, "No"?


4. Turn off your cellphone. Unless you're president of your country and are needed by your people 24/7.


5. Ladies: always have an eye on your drink so no one can slip anything into it.


6. Don't get so smashed that you permanently become part of your date's repertoire of "nightmare date" stories.


7. Don't talk about your ex. Don't refer to your ex. Don't cry over your ex.


8. If you're expecting to kiss (or be kissed by) your date, carry a small pack of breath mints and don't order anything on the menu that has the word garlic in it.


9. If a goodnight kiss seems right, do it. If not tonight but sometime in the near future, a close, tight hug and maybe an "mmmm, thanks" is good. If never, a quick hug (without chests touching) and a friendly (but dreaded) double pat on the back speaks volumes. If "don't even think about it," maybe a handshake might suffice.


10. Men: I don't know where that three-day rule (i.e. wait for three days after date before calling) came from. If you had fun and want to see her again, just call. If you don't know what to say, then at least thank her for a great night. My husband called me the day after our first date, we got together the next night -- and have been together ever since.

If you have any dating tips, pass them on here to those who may need them. Lord knows I could have used the help -- at least, when I was in-between boyfriends.