GIGI GOES GAGA

THANK YOU

If you're looking to deliver maximum value for the least effort and time possible, I have an idea for you. Just say "Thank You."

Granted, I'm pretty compulsive about thanking everyone who has anything to do with my peace of mind, convenience, comfort, security, enjoyment, happiness...you get the idea. For instance, if I take a trip to the mall, I'll thank the salesperson who helps me, the cashier ringing up my purchase, the greeter who said hello to me when I entered the store, the maintenance people who mop the floors and clean the bathroom, the parking lot attendant, and anyone else who did something kind or considerate for me while I was meandering through.

I don't care if it's their job to do what they do for me, or if they do it for everyone else anyway. I mean, all you need to do is think of a time when you had a job that involved any kind of customer service and how it felt when someone showed a bit of appreciation for your effort. Or imagine how it feels when your boss thanks you for the work you do (and how much it sucks when he or she never does). All I'm saying is that a bit of kindness goes a long way: that person you just thanked might have been feeling down or anxious, and those two words might have made a difference in his day. Which isn't a bad thing at all, if you think about it.

We probably all know about the Jet Blue flight attendant who had enough of his job and exited the plane via the emergency slide to the tarmac -- but not before saying a few choice words publicly to a passenger he'd just had an altercation with. In light of this story, I've been seeing several pieces about how many Americans hate their jobs these days. One may think this is surprising, given that almost ten percent are unemployed and about double that number are underemployed. In other words, shouldn't we all just be grateful to have a job?

But that's not my point here. Just because someone is being paid to be nice to you doesn't mean you can't be nice back because you're not being similarly compensated. What kind of world would this be if we didn't do anything for others if we couldn't expect a reward in return?

The thing is, what goes around really does come around. If we adopt a mindset of gratitude, we become happier people and are more inclined to express our thanks to those around us. That's infectious, really. Besides, how much time and effort does it really take for us to thank someone else? (Less time than it took for you to read this sentence, that's what.) And if someone is too miserable to acknowledge your simple act of kindness, it wouldn't be your problem. You'd have the satisfaction of having done something nice for someone (and it wouldn't hurt your karma, too).

Many years ago, my father told me a story about how the first guy who gave him a job asked for his salary expectations. After my dad replied, the man said, "Oh I think we could do better than that!" Now remember, this was during a time when my dad couldn't get anyone to help him when his car broke down in the middle of the street because he was "colored." So my father worked at the architectural firm for a few years and learned so much on the job, returned to the Philippines to set up his own firm, and went on to have a successful career. He was able to send all four of his children to excellent schools and give us a good life.

So I thought about that man, I thought about how his decision to hire my father and teach him well made such a difference in our lives. I then sat down and wrote him a letter, and thanked him. He replied back not long afterward, and in his shaky, almost illegible handwriting, told me how talented dad was and how much he appreciated knowing that he was an important part of his life, and ours.

I hope I brought my dad's mentor a bit of happiness the day he read my letter. Regardless, it gave me so much joy to finally acknowledge him, especially when he least expected it. That truly is the power of a simple "thank you" -- it gives, but it gives back so much more. Now try it.

REASONS

Perhaps because I'm constantly in search of meaning, I'd like to think there's a reason for everything that happens in my life -- whether bad or good, happy or sad. Which annoys my good friend R to no end, because he believes that things happen just because they do, and that they can often be pretty random, without rhyme or reason or as a matter of consequence.

I know where he's coming from, of course. How do you begin to make sense of life when, say, someone close to you perishes in a horrific accident or dies unexpectedly, for instance? If one were religious then one would immediately find comfort in faith and believe it was all part of God's plan, one which may not yet be apparent -- but will be in His time.

But neither my friend nor I am religious, and so our search for meaning resides outside of the divine realm. He bristles every time I insist on a reason for everything because he probably thinks I sound fatalistic or superstitious. I'm neither, actually: when I insist on the existence of reason I'm not seeking cause or justification but rather for meaning. I look for the lessons, the teaching moment if you will.

Sometimes, however, I struggle to find even that. Earlier this year, one of my dearest friends died, and my world suddenly made no sense. He was my hero, someone I looked up to and leaned on; his very existence in this world gave me comfort, whether I saw him or not. For a while I retreated into a very dark place I didn't want to emerge from; to this day it hurts knowing I'll never see him again. And while I can't say I've found meaning in this tragedy, I know that losing him meant finding something within me. I'm no longer content with merely going with the flow and seeing where my life goes. Now I've taken up the paddles and am choosing my path, with the understanding that my time on earth is limited but that what's important isn't how long I get to live but how I live.

I believe that my attitude during adversity has somehow turned me into an optimist. When I screw up, I try not to dwell on my stupidity (even if it's hard not to); instead, I try to understand how I could have committed such a lapse in judgment and, more importantly, how not to let it happen again. Finding something good within so much bad makes it easier to stay positive, I find. And better yet, it keeps me from nursing regret. After all, how can you wholly regret something that has taught you something valuable, or has given you meaning in the midst of confusion?

Yes, things happen just because they do. Natural disasters hurt or kill people, destroy their lives and livelihood. Accidents happen when we least expect them. We get sick and perhaps die. People break other people's hearts, and often not because they want to. We can lose everything we have or love because of a simple error or a stroke of bad luck. But then again, good things happen, too.

We can try to control things we can't possibly control or tread through life with as much caution as we're capable of. Or we can just try to make the most of what we have and find as much love, kindness, joy, and laughter that we possibly can, which then makes our time here worthwhile. What I'm trying to say is in the middle of all this unpredictability lies opportunity for discovery. I'll continue to find my reasons, even when I can't make understand why anything happens at all, except that they do.

WHEN PRETTY GETS UGLY

I confess: I like pretty things.

Even when I had just moved out on my own and could barely manage to pay rent and utilities every month, I lived as well as I possibly could. I had only two sets of plates, bowls, goblets, cutlery, and napkins -- but they were the best that I could afford at the time. Same went for my towels and sheets, and pretty much everything that I touched -- including my bath products, even toothpaste. I suppose it was my way of reassuring myself that constant deprivation didn't have to mean complete self-denial. I didn't have a lot -- but I surrounded myself with only things that I loved.

But then as the years went by, I accumulated so much more, even if there has never been more than two persons in my household at any given time. I'm certain I have enough dinnerware to entertain a party of 20 -- even if no more than four persons can fit comfortably in my dining area. I have enough towels to hand out to all the folks bathing in the community pool. I own so much cookware and serveware that I need to store half of them in the garage -- which means that they don't get used. Let's not even discuss my clothing, accessories, and shoes, which are spilling out of every possible storage area in this 1040 sq. ft. townhome. You get the idea, I'm sure: there's just way too much in here.

But now I'm in a period of transition and I need to pack everything up. Every day, I eye all my possessions wearily, and the task before me always feels a bit too overwhelming. How did I end up with all this stuff, stuff that I now have to box up, store, sell, donate, or give away? I mean, do I really need four table lamps in my tiny home office cum guest room? (Definitely not.) I've said it before in this blog and I'll say it again: there comes a time when stuff turns into shit, especially when you have to move all of it, and the time is now.

For the past couple of years, however, I've stepped on the shopping brakes to stop this runaway train. Before buying anything, I remember that I have to find room for it (not so easy to do these days). If I'm undeterred, I ask myself if I really have any need for it, or if I already have something similar. And if I still find myself tempted to pull out my wallet, I remind myself that I'll need to organize or clean it regularly -- and that usually does the trick. The last time I cleaned out and organized my closets I felt like one of those World War II soldiers emerging from the inner depths of the jungle 30 years later to find the world had passed them by.

So I no longer use credit; I use cash for everything. I have one account I use for non-essentials, and my company deposits only a small amount in it weekly. So even if a dress I've been eyeing for months finally goes on sale at 70% off, if I don't have the money in my spending account then I can't buy it, period. I save up for what I want, and if what I want is no longer available, then I reassure myself there will always be something else that will catch my eye.

What I've discovered is that I'm way more judicious now; I don't fall in love too easily anymore. And what I do decide to purchase -- usually after at least a couple of weeks of saving up for it -- I treasure even more. I've always been really good about taking care of my things; after all, I still wear clothing I purchased more than ten years ago and people ask me where I got them, as if I just bought them over the weekend. But now I remember what I had to give up in order to get what I want, hopefully need, and now each piece has a more meaningful story.

I'm also finding out that the less I can have, the less I really need, and the happier I am with what I do have. I almost long for those days when I only had two of everything -- one for me, one for a special guest -- because that was all I really needed. I still like pretty things -- I suspect I always will -- but I've since learned that too much of pretty can get pretty ugly. When everything is packed up in a few months, I'd only have kept the most valuable, necessary, and meaningful, and I plan to keep it that way. I've been saying repeatedly that I'm ready to fly, after all -- and the only way I can is to keep my load light.

And now excuse me while I pack up all this shit. I can assure you that they're not looking too pretty right now, even if they once did.

 

 

 

FROCK, WHERE'S MY DRESS?

I'm on a tireless, never-ending quest for a dress. A party frock, if you will. The kind of dress that can hang in my closet indefinitely, but that I can pull out at a moment's notice. Last-minute invitation to a wedding? An impromptu night out on the town with the girls? A fancy dinner to celebrate an anniversary remembered almost too late? No problem -- I've got a dress for that!

Unfortunately there's a problem. Actually, there are quite a few. My clothing budget is just not what it used to be; in fact, I no longer have one, since I don't have a discretionary fund to take it out of. I've also cut up all my credit cards so I buy everything with cash -- which I don't really have a lot of these days. Which means that I buy everything on sale now, preferably 50 to 70% off. The good news is that I know of just about every women's apparel sale going on at any given time. The bad news, however, is that usually when a dress I like goes on sale, my size is already out of stock.

But my biggest problem is that even if I had the cash -- and lots of it -- I'd still have a hard time finding a dress I liked. I'm not sure when this happened, but one day I discovered that all dresses were being designed for midgets.

I mean, how else to explain why they're so short? I am as tall as the average American woman apparently, so I can't understand why all the dresses I see hanging on store racks just barely cover my rear end. And how on earth am I supposed to sit or bend down in them? Actually, forget about bending at all: the necklines are so low these days that if I so much as lean forward to reach for my wine glass, my boobs would pop out and land on my dinner plate. I'm also not sure why everything is so tight, either. Is a size 8 now what a size 2 used to be?

I started thinking that the lousy economy is probably to blame for the state of (un)dress in America today. Perhaps because manufacturers are all trying to boost their gross margins, they've instructed their designers and patternmakers to use as little fabric as possible. But then again, given the rising obesity rates in the country, I just can't see how many women are able to wear dresses so short, tight, and revealing. Which initially led me to think: perhaps everyone is meant to layer their outfits after all! Let's add on leggings or dark tights, bandeau tops or tissue-thin tank tops, and look effortlessly cool -- yes?

No. On a recent night out bar-hopping in Pasadena, I realized that just about every woman I saw was dressed so that I didn't need a full-body scanner to see what was underneath her clothing. I'd never seen so much T&A since the last time I got undressed in the women's locker room at my old gym. As a result, I looked like an Amish woman searching for her wayward daughter on Colorado Avenue all night. How did that happen? Decked in my fashion-forward Fifth Avenue Shoe Repair dress, feet shod in distressed leather straps, wrist armed in a chainmail cuff, and with chunky rings on my fingers, I thought I exuded a Swedish artsy flair. To everyone else's eyes, I probably looked more like a Swedish nun instead.

Somewhere out there, a dress will be waiting for me. But not until women stop buying dresses disguised as sausage casings.