GIGI GOES GAGA

DARWIN AND ME

I graduated with two degrees: fashion merchandise marketing and journalism (newspaper emphasis). Looking at the US economy as it stands today, I realize that it appears, on the surface at least, I might have doomed myself to failure. Retailers are shuttering left and right, apparel designers are now sticking to safe basics, and newspapers are fighting tooth-and-nail to survive.

The truth is that when I was at that age when I was supposed to figure out what I wanted to do with my life I assumed that people would always buy clothes and read newspapers. For as long as I can remember, I've loved fashion and was intoxicated by the written word. So when it was time to decide, I couldn't pick just one, and I chose to do both. Today, I'm in neither field -- in fact, I'm so, so far away from any career I once thought I'd have. If it weren't for this blog, I wouldn't even be writing at all (which is the only reason I still maintain it after all these years).

Still I'm grateful because I have a job to go to every day, one that I enjoy, one that I get paid for. And when I think about why I'm good at what I do, it's precisely because of everything I learned while working on those degrees and the experience I had in the newspaper and retail industries. For instance, I know how to manage my time well, think on my feet, focus on customer service, communicate clearly, move fast, type faster, and work with all kinds of people. Nothing was ever wasted.

I don't know if I'll be doing what I now do forever. One day, I hope to get paid (perhaps even well) for writing and editing again, and maybe find some use for my lifelong passion for fashion and beauty. At the rate the world is changing, I wouldn't be surprised if I get to do both in a way I can't even imagine at this moment. The trick, I suspect, is to pay keen attention to details and shifts, latch on to opportunities, but know when to let go and keep moving.

Charles Darwin's evolutionary theory might still be controversial to some, but his words ring true in the life I've had thus far:

“It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is the most adaptable to change.”

If Darwin is right, despite these challenging times, I think I'm going to be just fine.

GIGI GOES GAGA VISITS DOVE PHILIPPINES

As a kid I endured horrible eczema (skin asthma, my doctor called it, because I suffered from asthma, too). The red, itchy, dry patches were all over my body, especially on my legs and arms, and I'd scratch at them incessantly until my skin opened up, bled, and scarred. This happened all the time because I preferred the pain to the itch; at least the former never drove me bonkers. Mom took me to a dermatologist, who told me to use an Aveeno bath treatment during flare-ups and shower only with Dove White (with cool -- never hot -- water).

Relief turned into a lifetime of brand loyalty, so when the folks at Dove Philippines asked if I could be included, with other Filipina bloggers, on the Real Thoughts page of their online site, the answer was easy. By the way, I wasn't paid for my participation, nor did I receive any freebies in exchange. It was just something I was happy to do -- let's just say I scratched their back in return for their getting me to stop scratching mine.

MY HOLE-Y LIFE

Today I met up with friends whom I haven't seen in about 12 years. Actually, I'd thought it had been much longer than that -- which should have already served as fair warning that my brain now has holes where memories should be comfortably nestled instead.

Like how one Halloween I actually got into costume -- dressed up as a mustachioed man while my girlfriend J came as a sailor and three guy friends expressed their feminine sides in women's clothing and garish makeup. I don't remember any of this. Nor do I remember applying makeup to all aforementioned dudes at my downtown Los Angeles apartment earlier in the evening. "You even lent me your sweater," R says. "And you were pissed because I stretched it out." Everyone else seems to remember this and A's certain there's a photo stashed away somewhere that might jog my memory.

Before this afternoon, I swore that the last time I wore a costume was during a 1st grade Christmas parade when I was dressed as an angel with humongous wings crafted of scraps of white toilet tissue posing as feathers. I reckon I'd recall something that happened more recently -- but I just don't.

Nor do I remember one late evening when T bumped into me at the Sav-On on Santa Monica Boulevard, where I supposedly greeted her with a face full of dread instead of pleasant surprise because I was wearing my...pajamas. Now see, I'm the kind of girl who wouldn't be caught dead in a tracksuit, not even one by Juicy Couture, much less something I toss around my bed in. I'm wondering if at the time I took a bit too seriously all that teasing I used to get about how my sleepwear was always nice enough to go out in (thanks to my 40 percent manager's discount at Victoria's Secret). And now I'm killing myself trying to figure out what I needed so urgently at the drugstore that I couldn't even cover up with a sweater coat before stepping out of my house. I have no answers. Nor memories apparently.

The other night I spoke to an old friend whom I haven't seen since way before I got married (the first time) and when he decided to become a priest. I always assumed we met through mutual friends because we have a boatload of them. "We met at a Philippine Consulate event, " he said with conviction. "Really -- that was IT?" I replied with disbelief. It just didn't seem possible I'd meet a stranger at a function I was covering and then hang out with him afterwards; I was always too private back then.

"Yep," he confirmed the facts."Somehow I saw you and we struck up a conversation and that was it."

"Well I suppose it was because you sensed that perhaps we had something in common," I relented. "Like maybe because we were both from Manila and moved around pretty much the same circles and..."

"Aw c'mon, give yourself a break," he interrupted me with a hearty laugh. "You were cute, OK? That was it -- I thought you were cute and so I talked to you."

Now memories like that, I really don't mind remembering at all. Even if they only remind me of how long ago those days were, when we had absolutely no idea how differently -- and unexpectedly -- our lives would turn out one day. I wonder if when they start returning to me, thanks to old friends and photographs from yellowed sticky photo album pages now pouring into Facebook daily, if I might finally remember how I ever got here.

THE GOOD FIGHT

"Yikes, why does her face look like that?" My husband tried not to stare at the woman who sat down at the table next to us in the Japanese restaurant we had dinner at last night. "Wait -- I think she might be one of the Real Housewives!"

I glanced over surreptitiously in her direction. I couldn't see as much of her face as he could, but I saw her cheeks. There was no escaping them: they protruded menacingly like torpedo heads on either side of her nose. Her forehead was shiny, but not sweaty; it looked stretched out and immobile. Her face appeared to be made of wax, but lacked softness. Still, she was beautiful in a way I'm used to seeing on the screen or pages in a magazine. Just this side of freakish in the real world, though.

"Cheek implants and lots of Botox," I determined. Then I looked again. "And she's not one of the Housewives." Honestly, I wasn't too sure because I can't tell any of them apart. Except for the brunette, of course -- and only because she's the only one who's not blonde among them.

I see a lot of faces like this every day. I mean, after all, I do live in Orange County, CA -- where our lifestyle publications have more pages of advertising paid by plastic surgeons, tanning salons, med spas, syringe-wielding dermatologists, cosmetic dentists, etc.  I wasn't surprised when a friend told me that frequent topics of interest in her Mommy & Me get-togethers are about tummy tucks and breast lifts, or when I overheard a woman who had been recently laid off from work wonder how she was going to pay for her Botox treatments from now on.

I'm not judging, by the way. I can't because I'm also concerned about wrinkles etching my life on my face like tree age lines. I sometimes wonder how I'd feel the day I discover my breasts sagging and I confess I don't like how my hair is starting to become greyer and thinner. I mean, I'm determined to accept the aging process gracefully -- but I'm not planning to merely surrender to it either. I want to look good for my age, but I still want to look like me.

When I was younger I used to wish my face weren't as round or my nose as wide. I wished for a sharp jawline and a long neck. I used to tuck in my lower lip because I didn't like how it protruded out because of its fullness and I wore clothes to conceal my chest. I wondered why I didn't have my mother's slim thighs and cursed the gene that gave me a thick head of coarse hair. A couple of things just got better with time; for instance, I now love my lips and boobs. I also learned how to accentuate the positive and downplay the negative with makeup, hair and body products.

I can correct the other things I once bemoaned about my face and body with surgery or injections today. I think it's amazing that technology has given me this choice. But as I've gotten older I realized that what I look like doesn't make me who I am, and that what I am on the outside is certain to deteriorate with age, no matter how science tries to keep up. So I choose, instead, to focus on the things about myself that constantly get better and stronger -- and none of them can be seen with the human eye.

Look, the truth is that I do care about what I see staring back at me in the mirror. I just don't care too much that I'm blinded by the image and can't appreciate how age has also made me smarter, stronger, and wiser. In the meantime, I'll do what I can to prevent the signs of aging but when it's time to quit, I plan to put the gloves down, pat myself on the back for fighting the good fight, and enjoy everything else I can be thankful for. Like, for one thing, that I'm me -- and that I still look like it.

A PIZZA "RECIPE" FOR THE NEW YEAR

I no longer make New Year's resolutions (or at least I resolved not to do so this year), but the one thing I know we'll be doing for the next 12 months is keeping a tight grip on the pocketbook. This means we'll be eating out less and preparing our meals at home more and more. Not so easy to do when we come home tired from work; harder still since we try to have dinner at 6 PM. But definitely quite more challenging with two people who can't seem to figure out what they feel like eating until their stomachs start rumbling in protest. My husband and I -- we may have long-term plans but we live daily on the fly.

For instance we had a late start this morning. OK -- I did, since I woke up at past noon. And when I opened my eyes, my husband wanted to know what we were doing for lunch. Still groggy, I thought about picking up something simple and cheap from somewhere nearby. (Truth is I thought about HIM picking up something since I could barely open my eyes at the time.) And just when we decided where he was going, I remembered the plan and said we were going to make something out of whatever we had in the kitchen instead.

Among the very few things we had in the fridge were: a box of four-cheese pizza from Trader Joe's, a bag of arugula (I always have this nutty green in stock because whenever I see it in the grocery, I think of all the wonderful salads I can make  -- until I get home, store the package in the fridge and forget all about it), and some prosciutto di parma. I then remembered a recipe I saw in this month's issue of Real Simple for a pizza with -- well, arugula and prosciutto -- and promptly went to work. OK -- not really. I was still too sleepy that my getting anywhere near a hot oven was deemed too dangerous, and so I supervised and put my husband to work instead.

While the pizza was baking in the oven for about seven minutes, he mixed in a bowl the following ingredients: a generous handful of the arugula leaves, a few slices of the prosciutto (torn into small pieces), a tablespoon or so of peppery olive oil (that I'd bought sometime ago to make my imaginary salad), fresh lemon juice from the Pomona lemon tree I'd planted in the garden this past Spring, and some sea salt and freshly ground pepper. When the pizza was done, he pulled it out and arranged the mixture on top of it. Voila -- a delicious light lunch in less than 10 minutes.

I thought about making a salad using the remainder of the arugula with fresh tomatoes and bits of mozzarella cheese as an accompaniment to our main dish but, alas, my fingers refused to pay any heed to my brain. Baby steps, people...

Happy New Year everybody!