GIGI GOES GAGA

IS BOOK LUST A MORTAL SIN?

I brought home three books from Barnes & Noble the other day. As I set them down in my office I eyed them with a heady brew of lust and disgust. The lust part any bibliophile would understand; the feelings of disgust were directed only at myself (The words "disgust" and "books" should never ever be in the same sentence. Like they are now.). See, I have a current backlog of 36 books just waiting to be fondled and caressed, gently spread open and laid bare, dug into, and devoured (it must feel great to be a book!) -- so bringing home any more, I'm sure, violates at least a couple of mortal sins. It's just so wrong, so wrong.

Then after reading Jessica Zafra's post, Biblioholics Support Group, I don't feel quite so immoral and -- well -- twisted anymore. There are so many of you out there, just the thought of all of us in a group hug is comforting (albeit disturbingly so).

Besides, I haven't slacked off on my nightly reading; I'm still plugging away, trying to make a dent in the teetering stack beside my bed. I just finished Shopgirl by Steve Martin (I loved the movie, but think I should have read the book first) and have now started Love Monkey by Kyle Smith.

Some critics have referred to the book as a "male Bridget Jones," and although I can see why, I think it leans more towards Nick Hornby's High Fidelity. Either way you see it, it's made of very funny stuff indeed.

For instance, here's a paragraph on page five that describes a bit of the protagonist. Frankly, it could describe at least seven of my male friends:

I don't have a girlfriend now: I played the field, and the field won. This makes me slightly suspect. What's wrong with me? Am I gay? (I wish: nonstop guiltless action, plus you get to be good looking and tasteful, and all you have to do is wear a condom, which I seem to end up doing most of the time anyway. A lot of vaguely intellectual feministy New York girls seem to think the Pill is a male plot to give them cancer or something, a conspiracy they discuss over cigarettes.) Am I unable to share my deep feelings? Do I lack any deep feelings in the first place? Am I just picky? Possibly. But at thirty-two it starts to hit you: there is a fine line between picky and loser.

I'm nearly halfway done and enjoying it so far (woke up the husband with a couple of obnoxious guffaws late last night), and am already filled with feelings of anticipation as to which book I'm reading next. I think I'm going to put it up for a vote in my next post. In the meantime I promise, I pledge, I VOW to stay away from any bookstores until I get my backlog down to a less indecent level. Like 25 books. Or until the stack quits collapsing on my poor cat.

BREAKING NEWS: BEAUTY JONES IS UP!

I decided I needed a LOT more space to let my obsessions with beauty, fragrance, and fashion run wild and free (and also figured I'd might as well take full advantage of the benefits of my paid Typepad subscription). Beauty Jones is now up and running, although I must warn that this is a work-in-progress (and a most rough one at that).

I was going to keep it under wraps for a few more weeks until I got to tweak it quite a bit, but the only reason I've opened my doors is because my first post is about a wonderful promotion going on at all Purebeauty stores -- which ends this Sunday. Hurry!

In the meantime, please pardon my dust.

ONCE FRIENDS

There's a show I watch every Sunday called Grey's Anatomy (the only other show I MUST see, in addition to Gilmore Girls). It's been receiving loud raves and high acclaim recently -- and rightfully so -- just like my other favorite show, the writing and acting are top-notch, truly superb.

A few episodes ago, the main character Meredith (whom head writer Shonda Rhimes describes as one of the few truly flawed female characters in television today) is devastated and shattered by a series of events and thus makes the hideous mistake of sleeping with George, a "brotherly" friend and one of her roommates, who is also completely smitten and in love with her.

And as much as I cringed and screamed and wanted to barrage the writers with sacks of hate mail, I had to admit -- grudgingly -- that I completely understood why they went ahead with that story line. I absolutely know what it feels like to feel so broken and vulnerable, that all you want to do is find shelter and safe haven wherever you can, even against your better judgment. When you finally convince yourself that what you really want isn't what you need, so you decide to try what you think is good for you even if it's not what you truly desire.

In my life, unfortunately, I've learned over and over again that this is never a good idea. Or at least it just doesn't work for me.

I once had a friend who fell in love with me (against his better judgment, I'm convinced) and whom I didn't love back, at least not nearly in the same way. When I realized it (how could I have not? He flat out told me.) I was utterly dismayed, even a bit devastated. I enjoyed his company, loved talking and laughing with him; he and I hunted for the best Chinese food in West Los Angeles together, he was the guy who forced me to watch The Godfather (and made me enjoy it, too), he was the guy I could even do absolutely nothing with and yet feel blissfully happy and content. He was my friend, my bud, my bro.

And he tried so very hard to make me feel for him what he felt for me, to the point where I'd get so very cross and annoyed with him because I just wanted him to stop and realize he was making a huge mistake. Deep inside I felt I didn't deserve what he was offering, not just because I was so damaged and defective but mostly because I couldn't return his love and affection the way I felt the right girl would and should have. I just wasn't the right one for him and damn it, why he couldn't he see that?

I'll never forget one moment inside his car, one night after he dropped me off beside mine. He was crying as he asked what he could possibly do to make me feel the same way about him. Why didn't I love him, was there something wrong? I remember telling him cooly (I still think about this with shame, I must confess) that perhaps it was better he didn't call me anymore, that maybe it was best I call him instead.

But because I was so fragmented then -- my spirit tired, my heart crushed and weary -- I started believing that maybe his love could make me whole again. In theory it was brilliant: we were great friends and real friendship was an excellent foundation for true love, after all. I told myself that perhaps I refused to love him because I was afraid to get hurt and because I didn't want to ruin our friendship that meant so much to me.

So one night as I stood over him while he corrected papers, he swiveled his chair around to face me, his eyes open and honest and loving. He pulled my face towards him, and we kissed as I sat on his lap, my arms clinging to him completely for support. He was so happy, I could feel it; I was so tentative, I hoped he couldn't tell. But his joy was enough for both of us at that moment, it held enough promise that everything would work out fine.

I don't know exactly how soon after it was when we slept together. When it happened I knew it was so, so completely wrong; I sometimes suspect he felt it, too.The rest of the story is merely details, but what happened is that our friendship ended right then and there. Nothing could truly revive it, not even years later when he phoned to apologize for hurting me (yes, I never saw it coming but I was the one who ended up crying), even after we had Chinese food for lunch and talked and laughed again. Because in the end we committed the same mistake, and although neither one of us cried this time, neither one of us could also remember what it was like when we were merely good friends.

If I could turn back time, I'm not sure which moment I would stop and do over. Through the years there were times I missed his friendship, and I had to content myself with the idea that things happened simply as they were supposed to. My mistake then -- as I had to learn over and over and over again -- was that I was looking for someone else to provide the missing piece of my puzzle. No one could ever possibly complete me, no matter how often romantic movies claim otherwise.

Perhaps he only wanted to complete me -- maybe he simply wanted to save me from myself -- or possibly he needed me to do the same for him. In the end, however, we might have just ripped each other apart. I used to wish we'd be able to turn everything around and become even better friends, but that never happened; we simply moved on with our lives. In my worst case scenario I think of him as a friend I once had and he remembers me as a girl he once slept with.

Not all stories have a happy ending, even if all the characters end up happily -- as we both did. And oftentimes life doesn't wrap up neatly, with everyone finding the closure they seek. Sometimes things just end for no real reason except that they simply do.

But once in a while I miss my old friend, and when regret starts seeping in, I tell myself I would not be me if he and I were still we. In a sense I began where we ended, and sometimes that's just reason enough.

SHOPPING (SERIOUSLY)

My good friend Son described me as a "professional-level shopper" just the other day. While she meant that in a complimentary way (I think), I disagreed, especially since she has much better skills (and patience) at finding things she's looking for at the best price available. What I am, actually, is a very serious shopper.

This doesn't mean that I need to shop, as a shopaholic does. Shopping is not a fix I need in order to get through my day or week. What I mean by this odd statement is that I take this activity of shopping quite seriously: it's not a mere adrenalin rush, it's a wholly rational thing with me from start to finish. Let me explain further.

It all begins before I enter the store (women's clothing, for example). When I do decide to enter I immediately ask myself what made me do so. Was it the window display that drew me inside, or was there something appealing about the lighting, the decor, or the outfits presented on the first row of fixtures and back walls?

As soon as I pass the threshold I try to figure out what story or stories are being told (if at all)? Where's all the latest stuff, and where are the sales racks? When I start browsing I think of the merchandising. Do I feel like thumbing through the racks to see everything or do I get bored pretty easily and want to leave right away? How easy is it to put together an outfit? If I see a really interesting skirt, for instance, I check to see if coordinating pieces are nearby so I can try those on, too (retail is about multiple sales, after all). I look at the displays and ask myself if I would want to wear the outfits being suggested.

I observe the sales staff. How long before someone greets me or even acknowledges my presence? What do they seem to be really interested in doing or what seems to be most important to them? Are they friendly, pushy, or do they simply wish to be somewhere else? If I start picking up items does someone offer to bring them to the fitting room or, better yet, look at what I've selected and then suggest other things I might want to consider?

When I get to my fitting room I check it for cleanliness. Has somewhat bothered to clear it out or are there clothes and hangers strewn all over the floor? I even check the corners of the floor to see if the staff vacuums or sweeps daily. Does the lighting make me look sallow, or is it too dark? Are the mirrors positioned in a way where I can see how I look from all angles (not that I would necessarily want to see my rear end, even if I should)? Has a salesperson checked to see how I was doing or if I need anything else? I know at this point I sound obsessive, perhaps even insane -- but trust me, no self-respecting vendor should ever underestimate the importance of fitting rooms; this is the place where final decisions are made after all.

When I get to the check-out counter I observe the cashier. Is she or he efficient and organized? Has my presence been acknowledged, has eye contact been made -- or preferably, have I received a warm smile? Am I asked if I found everything okay, or if I still need anything? Does the cashier make an effort to fold and wrap my purchase (which I just spent my hard-earned money on) carefully? And lastly, does someone bother to thank me for coming in?

When I was in Manila last week, I stopped by the new Zara branch at the Power Plant Mall in Makati. First impressions were terrific; eye-catching and enticing displays, clean and brightly-lit store, and all the apparel was neatly and well displayed and merchandised according to color story. I couldn't believe the number of salespersons working -- as a former retail manager I was envious -- and this was on a Wednesday at 10:00 am! I could only imagine the staff on weekends; I bet they could outnumber customers during certain hours.

And although they were ALL busy working -- not one slacker in the entire bunch -- it seemed as if they were more intent on folding and keeping racks and displays neat rather than selling per se. Still, there were a few friendly folks that looked up to smile at me, and someone even approached me to ask if she could bring my items to the fitting room. I asked for assistance about twice or thrice, and I got the help I needed each time.

The fitting rooms were spartan and a bit small for my taste and comfort, but thankfully clean and well lit. Although no one asked me if I was doing okay, once I stuck my head out to ask for a different (and smaller!) size, a helpful staffer was there in an instant.

When I finally walked out towards the cash register, I decided I wanted a smaller size in one item and asked the fitting room attendant to get it for me. She then called out for someone near the stockroom to get it, and that's where a bit of a disconnect came in. He didn't bother to check the rack first before running to the back and when he came out he said they were out of the size; I walked over to the rack where I originally picked up the skirt and found the size I wanted (that was about 4,000 pesos he could have easily lost for the store!). Still, I wasn't irritated or annoyed because he wasn't being lazy, he just didn't understand what he was being asked to do after all.

The cashier was efficient and pleasant, although she seemed more concerned about communicating something to her manager (who was working on numbers at the edge of the counter) than focusing on the transaction at hand -- but my feathers weren't ruffled one bit since she wasn't being rude.

Overall I had a very good experience -- certainly much, much better than the ones I've had the few times I've shopped at the Zara in South Coast Plaza (Costa Mesa, CA). Now that store is a train wreck, and the two times I've been in the fitting room I've overheard salespeople complaining about their manager or their work hours. At the Makati store -- in contrast -- I had fun browsing, found what I was looking for, and ended up spending more than I'd planned.

So because I'm a serious shopper I told Pam, the manager, that I enjoyed myself and complimented her on everything I liked about the store. I think I might have even made her a bit happy -- or at least I hope so, because she deserved it. I definitely plan to come back when I visit next year; hopefully by then the sales staff would have gained a bit more confidence in their product knowledge and selling skills to match their folding expertise.

Or perhaps I shouldn't hope for that at all; that would be most dangerous for my wallet, I suspect. Still, I'd much prefer to wrestle with my sense of self-control than deal with this one fitting room attendant at the Topshop at the same mall -- who merely nodded at me to enter the fitting room without taking her eyes off her cellphone the entire time as she texted someone apparently more important than me or any of the other shoppers at the store. The rest of the staff was not much better either.

See, I was almost certain to buy these two tops -- in fact, I'd practically decided to do so -- but changed my mind out of principle. So I went to the branch at Robinsons Galleria and gave them my money instead. What can I say -- shopping should always be fun or at least pleasant. If it isn't, you should have respect for yourself and go somewhere else.

On further thought, that kind of thinking can always be applied to other experiences in life, 'no?

MID-DAY CONFESSIONS

I had lunch with a few of my co-workers today and we discovered we were all Catholic in some shape or form -- either lapsed or renewed, to be more precise. Over a hearty meal of steak and broiled salmon, we discussed what the practicing faithful among us had given up for Lent. Chocolate was the unanimous choice; I suppose another thing we all had in common was that we were all rabid chocoholics.

Because we all knew the Lenten season had already begun and that Easter was just around the corner, (who doesn't like Easter? For Christians it signifies Christ's resurrection and for the rest of us it means Cadbury chocolate mini-eggs, which appear only once a year.) we talked about how some would be fasting for the next few weeks. Mark mentioned having only bread and water on Fridays while Andrea said she eats only McDonald's Filet-O-Fish® sandwiches. I said I also eat fish on Fridays -- but that's because I eat fish practically everyday anyway and it had nothing to do with observing Lent.

We recalled our experiences with other Catholic rite of passages such as Confirmation (Rouen walked out of his because he didn't like being stuck with all the older kids during the ceremony and thus was never confirmed.). Inevitably we got to the sacrament of Confession, which triggered a stream of voluntary and unabashedly honest revelations.

Cheryl said one of her earliest confessions shamed her own mother. "I said I told a few lies and fought with my siblings," she said. "And then I confessed I had just stolen some candy."

"You want some?" Without missing a beat she then innocently offered the priest a handful of her loot.

When my turn came I could only remember my last ever confession. I was a senior in high school and my class was holed up and isolated in some mountain retreat house, no doubt to be straightened out before being released to the warped, twisted real world. I don't think we had a choice whether or not to see Fr. R for absolution; we didn't have a lot of choices that week. But I did exercise one of the few I did have: I told him if I were going to reveal my sins I wanted to do it face-to-face and not hide from him or God.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been (long pause) YEARS (another long pause) since my last confession. In fact I think my last confession was when I was still in the second grade, Father."

I think he may have arched an eyebrow, or perhaps I only imagined it. I continued with my litany of mostly venial sins: disobeying my parents and fighting with my sisters. I might have even mentioned being envious of the good fortune of others from time to time. And then I hesitated -- and there was palpable silence in the room, but one meant to be broken.

"Well Father, you'd probably think I should confess this one, but the thing is... I really don't think it's a sin," I said. "I've really searched in my heart and believe there's nothing wrong with it."

He asked to hear it anyway. So I told him I had regular sex with my boyfriend.

"And you really believe this is not a sin?" his kind yet solemn eyes looked deep into mine, as if searching for a hint of doubt. I don't think he saw any sign of it.

I explained to him that I truly loved my boyfriend, and that my decision and subsequent actions were out of pure love. I said that nothing felt wrong about what we were doing, that my soul wasn't torn apart with confusion or guilt. Not one bit.

And although he had only finished a lecture a few hours ago of how premarital sex was a mortal sin, I still didn't see things the same way, the way I was supposed to. I couldn't be swayed, even by visions of my soul being consumed by fire and brimstone. I wasn't being rebellious or defiant but I knew I didn't want to be a hypocrite either -- I simply didn't want to pretend to believe one thing and do another. And I certainly wasn't being disrespectful; in fact I figured I was being anything but by telling him the truth, of how I really thought and felt. In my mind -- on that day -- I knew that if I lied to him, I'd be lying to God as well.

I expected Fr. R to scold me; perhaps it just wasn't his style to do so or maybe he knew it would do no good but he didn't. He said something about the three conditions of mortal sin, that one of them was that the one acting must clearly know it's a sin. And clearly I didn't think it was.

I think it was after that day, during my last confession, I decided I wasn't cut out to be a good Catholic. I believed in being a good person, surely -- and I certainly believed that a religion that asks nothing is probably worth nothing as well. But because I do take matters such as religion quite seriously I decided if I couldn't be a good Catholic (because I also believed -- as I still do -- in divorce and contraception, for instance) then I wouldn't be one at all.

And perhaps because I was once Catholic, I am moved by the Lenten season. When it comes I invariably think of repentance and forgiveness, and ultimately of peace that comes from both. When Ash Wednesday arrives to mark the beginning of Lent, I am reminded of how as humans we all end up as dust -- and just why it's so important to make the most of our short lives, to live true to our convictions, and then leave it with some kind of mark that we were once here.

I'm certain there are many who believe I am damned to Hell because of what I do and do not believe in. But I'll say this: I am also sure that those who prefer to do the damning are even closer to it than I am or than they are to Heaven, at least within their hearts.

This is my confession.

DYSFUNCTION UNCTION

One day last week as I was chatting with my bestfriend I blurted out suddenly, just out of nowhere and unexpectedly: My family is truly dysfunctional; we're all part of the tribe of the walking wounded.

And although I won't go into details here lest I be disowned or ostracized, I laid out my case to her. But because she's been my bestfriend since we were 13, nothing I had to say she considered news -- except possibly the conclusion I drew, or at least the finality of it all.

She asked: Aren't all families dysfunctional anyway?

I suppose, I said. But mine's an especially sorry example.

I can beat that, she replied, and proceeded to make her own case.

Okay, maybe you win, I admitted. Which I then reiterated after we went to visit and say hello to her father, who quickly yelled at us to get out of his room and leave him alone (his bestfriend had just passed away and he was writing the eulogy for the Mass that very evening; I probably would have done the same thing in my grief.).

And then I started thinking. Why is it that all these many, many years, I'd look forward to spending all my days with her family -- precisely because I found them infinitely more interesting than my own? What she considered dysfunctional I found highly entertaining. Then I realized: what outsiders may consider shocking, appalling, or even loathsome behavior coming from her father or siblings I found funny, even endearing. And I wondered if that's how she saw things on my end as well.

All week I heard stories of dysfunctional families from various friends. I heard stories of attempted kidnapping and brawling, infidelity and betrayal, of family members incommunicado with each other (for years, even), of children who knew they were adopted even if their adoptive parents kept the truth from them, of layers and layers of half- and step-siblings (both acknowledged and not), and of those who decided not to start their own families out of fear of continuing their family history of destructive dysfunction.

And then I started questioning my own beliefs as well, especially when confronted with gray areas. For instance, an ex told me during lunch that his biggest joy in life were his children and that everything else was "just gravy." Including his wife, I suppose; how did she feel about being mere drippings to the meat in his life's feast, I wondered? And because I believe that the primary relationship in any family is between husband and wife, I suddenly felt relieved I didn't end up with him after all. But then I debated with myself: have I gotten it all wrong, and I'm just being selfish ? Was my view of familial love and relationships the dysfunctional one?

Later during the week, the fabulous Nikki theorized that truly functional families -- although few and far between -- seem to produce boring individuals anyway. I squeezed my brain to think of families I considered ideal and came up empty, so decided to take her word for it.

A few hours later I thought of my bestfriend's own family -- the way things worked between she and her husband and their children -- and decided they were as close to perfect as families get. And then while on the same topic (it was an ongoing theme all week for us; my bestfriend and I competed to determine whose family was most out of whack) I asked her: what if our children -- or at least her actual kids and my theoretical ones -- later decided they came from dysfunctional families as well, despite all the thought and care that went into raising them?

I suppose, in the end, we all just do the best we can. And because there's no real formula, no set recipe to follow, no procedure set in stone -- and because as individuals we're all different and wonderfully flawed -- we make mistakes and missteps we can't take back. One of the true tests of character is being able to face the challenges and imperfection within and without ourselves, overcome them, and learn to function as productive (and hopefully happy) beings.

Nikki was right: perhaps unchallenged people are quite boring, after all.

BACK HOME FROM HOME

I just got back today. Jetlagged, sporting static-y hair and undereye circles resembling suede half-moon coin purses, and staring at a mile-high pile of stuff that needs to be sorted ASAP (to be laundered, given away, or stored). I can't believe this week-long trip just flew by.

But what a week it was! I'll post a more detailed account later (after I finally sync with the time zone) but it started off with lunch with John and G, and ended with après-dinner tea and cakes with my blogfather Torn (and Frayed, too). I also finally got to meet and chat with the fabulous Nikki, the hot-hot-hot chick who smokes like a chimney and can set a room on fire with her smouldering good looks and scorching personality .

In between there was a lot of the usual but some of the different, the latter which mattered more to me. An hour or two of shopping daily (Topshop!) and too many restaurants to choose from, but the highlight of my trip was reconnecting with friends long lost and sharing stories with those new and old.

I used to feel unmoored -- for years I felt like I was merely drifting from one port to another -- but now I find comfort knowing I can cast anchor in either place. It's like realizing you can have a few great loves, that you may find more than one soulmate in your lifetime. Having more than one doesn't diminish the worth of either; the important thing is knowing that you do belong, to someone or somewhere. Or if you're truly blessed, as I believe I am, to both.