GIGI GOES GAGA

THE KISSING BANDIT

When I was about three, my mom used to tease me about being a kissing bandit. Apparently I'd go around kissing everybody in sight (am afraid to think of what the singular indefinite pronoun "everybody" comprised in my case, really). Of course, I still love to kiss -- the only difference is that since my toddler years I've become much more judicious. Oh, and of course, what's also changed is precisely how I like to kiss these days.

On the plane ride back here to Los Angeles, I began reading Elizabeth Gilbert's excellent Eat, Pray, Love. It seemed only too fitting: to explore a book about self-discovery and travel just as I was doing the same. I quickly discovered that it was like I was deep in the author's mind, or that she was connected (nay, stuck) to mine. Except for the part about traveling to Italy, India, and Indonesia (which someday I plan to do anyway).

For instance, the perfect description of a large part of my romantic life can be read almost word-for-word on page 65. And on the page prior, the line that sealed my conviction that I was reading the words of a kindred soul.

Of course I do miss being kissed because I love kissing. (I complain about this so much to Sofie that the other day she finally said in exasperation, "For God's sake, Liz -- if it gets bad enough, I'll kiss you.")

So there, I love kissing, and I make no apologies for it.

But I confess, a bit shamefully, that in my head I've categorized the boys I've known into "good" and "not-so-good" kissers. OK, some were even really bad. I admit, though, that what constitutes good and bad is a personal preference: someone whom I think is a terrific kisser might not be perceived the same way by another girl. (Although I highly doubt it; I have few convictions and this happens to be one of them.) Still, I'd never know for sure unless I gathered a fairly large group of girls together who have all kissed the same man and took a poll to see how much or how little we agree (the scary thing is I could probably accomplish this easily -- I've known some indiscriminate kissing bandits myself through the years).

Let me tell you: there are kisses I've replayed in my mind for seemingly forever. After all these years I've forgotten many things, even important or crucial pieces of information unfortunately -- but some kisses I'll never truly forget.* From that moment of anticipation to that of slight hesitation to that first, soft touch of the lips -- I know every nuance of each moment too well. A great kiss, mind you, actually begins before the kiss itself -- a few well-chosen words uttered in the right timber of tone at the perfect moment can melt me to the core before I'm completely lost in exquisite joy.

Such a kiss envelopes me without devouring me, explores but does not intrude. It makes my heart flutter and my toes curl. It's not afraid yet isn't too aggressive; it pauses and proceeds and pushes in turns. And when it's just like this, I feel like I can kiss the boy forever; it's perfect as is, on its own, and isn't merely a precursor of delights to come. (Although if it is, it can be a pretty auspicious one.)

I knew from the beginning that I'd have to kiss a few frogs before I found my Prince. Luckily for me, a few managed to get my feet floating off the lily pad in the meantime. A fair exchange I'd say, considering there were a few toads I had to kiss along the way.

*Although as a married woman, my memories are now strictly for informational purposes only -- to aid me for when I finally write my book or simply another silly blog post like this.

FLY LIKE SHEEP

The only thing I don't like about traveling is the traveling part itself. OK, I know that sounds strange so let me explain. See, I love visiting new places and observing how the locals live, but I just don't like any portion of the trip that involves an airport or an airplane.

I don't like having to put my liquid-based toiletries in little plastic bags or taking off my shoes before I walk through some security doorway only to get frisked by a woman in a uniform. I don't appreciate having to answer what I plan to do in town or what I did while I was away or especially whether or not I didn't just try to sneak in some longganiza in my suitcase. I don't want to worry about how much my bags weigh (and pay the hefty excess baggage charge in case I miscalculated) and especially what to do in case they get lost. And I don't care to deal with smelly feet or crying babies (with profuse apologies to all harassed parents out there) while I'm trying to get some sleep or quietly read my book.

I'm irritated by bad cabin service and for the life of me cannot figure out why the flight attendants on Japan Airlines and Cathay Pacific take much better care of their coach passengers than American (AA) does of their Business Class travelers. I'm especially perplexed as to why I'm sweating in seat 11D on the way to Manila and then am in arctic city while in the exact same seat on the exact same plane while returning home. I want to kill the passenger planted in the window seat in the same row who insists on opening the shade when it's supposed to be snooze time for all and doesn't care if the sharp ray of blinding white light that subsequently shoots through directly hits my pupils while I'm trying to get some shut-eye.

At the Ninoy Aquino International Airport in Manila, the Travel Tax folks really need to automate their payment process already. And at the Los Angeles International Airport, the Immigration folks really need to be more polite to their international visitors instead of assuming each one is a criminal or a terrorist until proven otherwise.

I suppose what truly irritates me about this inevitable part of the travel process is how from the moment one enters the airport one already feels that there's a possibility of being dragged to an interrogation room if any step is performed incorrectly or if any action is judged as suspect. It's like we're all just part of this huge herd of sheep and if one of us isn't good enough then we need to be immediately separated from the rest.

And going back to that woman who frisks me while I'm standing in my bare feet -- why do I always feel like I have to suck in my gut for fear of being judged (and mocked) for having one bump too many on my body? And the worst part is that I ALWAYS do, I always suck it up and suck it in.

Baaahh.

BARELY BREATHING

I don't know where I should begin this story but I think at 3:15 am this past Tuesday (Manila time) would be as good a point as any, when my phone rang and without warning threw my heart into the grip of a tight chokehold. Nothing good is ever afoot when one is awakened by a call at such an ungodly hour after all.

"Your area is being evacuated right now because of the fire," my co-worker announced -- and then she promptly apologized for calling at such a bad time. I was tempted to laugh: is there ever a good time to be told that your house might soon be burned to the ground, especially when you're not around to try to save anything you deem important or valuable that's still in it?

The next half hour is still a blur in my memory. I phoned my sister-in-law at work and asked her to get my cat Boo out of the house. Then I spoke to my husband (who was also out of town and not home to take care of things); we agreed he would ask his two siblings to meet at our home to rescue Boo and take her to the local animal hospital for boarding. My phone rang nonstop after that: my brother-in-law had to beg the cops to let him through and the hospital was being evacuated as well and could not take my cat.

To make this long, torturous tale short -- my in-laws came through for us.

But there was still our house with everything we own and love inside of it, and a fire headed straight for us. This was when I took my first long intake of breath and decided there was nothing I could do; this situation was truly beyond my control. I told myself that perhaps it was better that I was safe, secure, and comfortable thousands of miles away instead of wildly searching for a temporary roof over my head as a fire raged on and smoke, soot, and ash burned my eyes and lungs. If I couldn't stay home and try to save it, then was there a difference where I was? And because I was traveling (and had slightly overpacked) I had two suitcases of clothes, shoes, and toiletries -- enough to last for at least a few weeks in case I lost everything.

This morning I returned home and I immediately saw how close the fire got; it's just right beyond the fence. The moment I saw it I choked up and could barely breathe (although that could also have been because of all the ash and soot that still covers everything about me). The fire isn't over yet, and I was told by the sheriff's office that my area is still recommended for voluntary evacuation. But at least it looks like I have time to take another breath and decide what to do next.

But, man, it hurts to breathe right now.

COMING HOME 2007

All my bags are packed and I'll be out the door in six hours. Hopefully sometime between now and then is a bit of shut-eye. It's been a crazy two weeks trying to get everything in order so that I can try to enjoy these next two weeks, and I think I've done all I can.

I'm going home. It always sounds so sweet when I say it (or even think it). And it is, truly.

Hopefully I'll have lots of stories when I return, although I'll sneak in a post or two in the meantime for sure. Right now, though, I'm going to sleep. And when I'm fully awake, I'll be home.

PS:
Cathy - Yes to Monday! Thank you!!!
John - See you and the guys. Twice even! Lucky me.
Gejo - Got the cd. Rush job, I hope you understand, but I hope you like it anyway.
Chiqs - Any chance we can visit Arroceros while I'm there?
Rosanna - I think you and I could use a huge, tight hug right about now, 'no?

WHAT DOESN'T KILL YOU...

A major part of my survival strategy has been that practically all my life, I've considered setbacks, negative experiences, and even failure as essential to my learning process. "There is a reason for this," I assure myself each time I feel that my world is crumbling apart.

Despite all outward appearances I am slightly melancholic in nature and have been prone to mild depression all my life. I used to think this made me a bad person or at least severely flawed; I've since discovered that battling its impulses has made me stronger, even on days when I cannot see myself as anything but weak. When the panic attacks started hitting me unexpectedly and in full force during my mid-20s, I became angry at myself for being so irrational. I still have them, they're part of something neatly labeled as my panic disorder: sometimes they grab me and don't let go for weeks and other times I think they're gone for good. But the difference is now when they come and throw me, I try to be kinder to myself.

Tonight I was talking to my husband about one of his relatives who survived an aneuryism and is now battling deep, deep depression. Nothing seems to bring her any joy and she can't explain why this is the case, especially since she was always the jolly and jovial one. Her family and relatives have taken turns trying to encourage her, cheer her up, snap her out of her malaise. But nothing's working. I was listening to him describe each failed attempt and I heard myself telling him: "I understand a bit of what she's going through but I can't explain it to you either."

"It's like you know it's not making sense, that you shouldn't be feeling this way," I said. "But it's as if there's an "off" switch you can't get to and you just get so angry at yourself because this is happening even while you're trying to convince itself that it shouldn't be." And then I told him about the panic attack I had this afternoon while walking across the street to meet him at the bookstore.

I know this is my reason. All of -- this -- helps me understand and empathize with human weaknesses and fears and instills in me extraordinary patience. But it also makes me know for certain that there is always fight left in us, even if victory is often not that finish line at the end but merely each mile passed. My next marker is that next time I take that very same route and not feel like I'm going to die traversing it.

The way I look at it, each time I try I actually succeed in some way. Because I'm still trying, still fighting. Not helpless, weak, or even crazy. But stronger.

MY JOB AD

When I know what I want, I manage to find a way to get it (not via Machiavellian scheming but often through a lot of hard work, a bit of smarts, and some good luck). My problem, however, is that sometimes I don't know what I really want -- I only have a vague idea or, at most, a fuzzy outline. And sometimes I just want to try everything because I've always been seduced by the idea of possibilities.

Like my career, for instance. It could be better, but it's nothing to slit my wrists over. On some days I even feel a bit lucky. Still I can't help but think and feel that there's got to more than this, my daily grind.

Here's the thing: I want to write, I want to teach (or mentor or motivate), and I want to feel like I'm doing the world some good. I'm not doing any of the above. I haven't figured out how I can do all these things, how to put them together into a single job description and then go find it.

At work I'm happiest when I feel that I'm actually contributing, when I'm solving problems or generating ideas that make things grow or improve. Money's nice but for some reason it's not what truly motivates me (although it is insulting to be underpaid when I know it doesn't have to be that way). I'm idealistic but I don't like to complain (I truly believe that whiners simply feel powerless about their own lives). I'm not confrontational and I don't pick fights -- but I won't back off from one if I think I'm right (unless I know that walking away will result in something better or do less damage).

So if you have any suggestions or ideas as to how I can use all that I do know -- to find a job that I love so much that I'd be willing to pay to do it (theoretically speaking, of course, since I do need to survive), then I want to hear all about it. Because really, the only thing stopping me from doing it is that I just don't know what it is I ought to be doing. But when I do, nothing's going to stop me -- I'm going to fly.

JUST WHEN I THOUGHT I'D SEEN EVERYTHING...

I'm often curious what keywords used in a Google or Yahoo search bring people to my site. This one -- a first -- makes me wonder: is the seeker looking for verification, or what?

Ummm...hope you found what you were looking for?

THANKS, STRANGER

I'm not the sort who loses her things easily, yet I tend to not buy anything I'd only be too afraid to misplace. I also don't like things that scream "DESIGNER!" and I shy away from all things logo'd (although my friend Mia has a pair of Prada sunglasses that I found myself coveting for an entire evening. I didn't have to ask her who made them, though).

I was at Kohl's this past Sunday to check out their new shipment of Simply Vera and decided to try on a few things in the fitting room. I had my sunglasses hooked on the front of my shirt and took them off so I could do the same with my top. When I was done, I slung three pieces over my left arm, hung my purse over my right shoulder and stepped out. I walked around the store for a bit and then paid for my purchase.

When I got back to my car I opened my purse to get my sunglasses out of the case -- and they were gone, nowhere to be found. I ran back to the fitting room I was at, asked the attendant if anyone had seen my glasses or turned them in. No luck. I then bolted to the Customer Service desk and inquired if the folks there had received anything within the last half-hour. Nope, they replied. I ran to every fitting room on the floor, just in case I had forgotten which one I was at. The store was nearly closing and there was no sign of them anywhere.

My shoulders slumped and barely able to breathe, I headed back towards the store exit in a daze. I thought about my glasses and how much I'd paid for them, thinking about how I couldn't possibly replace them because of my now-depleted budget (and for heavens sake, they were still new!). I thought about how no one would turn them in and how it would be too tempting to keep them instead, even if there was nothing obviously marked to indicate how much they were worth. They were extremely lightweight due to the titanium frame; they were cute and they were the perfect pair I swore to wear daily for at least the next five years when I paid for them. Still I told myself: this ought to teach you not to buy anything so expensive and then be so careless. I was still berating myself inside my head as I passed the check-out counter and saw the girl who had rung me up. I looked at her and waited until she was done with a customer. Why not, I told myself, it can't hurt to ask.

"Hi there," I greeted her with a half-smile, "By any chance did someone turn in a pair of sunglasses about half an hour ago?"

She walked over to the register, picked up a familiar-looking object, and handed it to me. "An Indian lady turned this in not too long ago," she said. "She said someone had left this in the fitting room she was in." I thanked her profusely and asked her to also thank the kind stranger for me if she saw her again. "You have no idea how absolutely relieved and happy I am," I told her, and she looked pleased, as if she had done something good for the day (which she had).

I took a quick look around the store to find an Indian lady to thank and even nearly stopped a car that was leaving the parking lot because I thought the driver might be my Good Samaritan. I laughed at myself because finding an Indian lady in Irvine is almost just as easy and often as finding a Filipina in West Covina: one look in any direction and there you go, another one. I decided to cancel my pursuit because I might just scare or offend the wrong person, put my glasses on and said a fervent "thank you" again to no one in particular, hoping my hero would somehow feel the warmth of my gratitude.

I realized two things -- again. One, that there are still people who manage to do the right thing even if it's not easy or convenient. And, two, I should never buy anything that I'm too afraid to lose. Unless, of course, I'm willing to pay complete attention to where it is at all times. And how many things are worth the hassle, really?