GIGI GOES GAGA

27 OF 30: RIP HELEN GURLEY BROWN

Sometime in my early 20s, after I'd moved into my own apartment and decided to put off my last semester of college due to sheer lack of time from working two jobs, I received an unexpected visit from a school buddy. I'd treated him like a younger brother for years, but now he was at my door looking like he had grown a couple of man-legs.

An hour or so into the evening he jolted me from my exhaustion by announcing that he was now stripping part-time. No, not stripping paint, he assured me. He was stripping his clothes off on weekend nights, mostly for bachelorette parties. I think he could hear the gears of my brain gnashing shredded metal as he narrated his adventures: sure, the boy could dance but I couldn't imagine anyone paying to see him do it almost naked. But I was being unfair; of course someone would, he had his boyish looks and charm, I suppose. It's just that particular someone wouldn't be me.

And then as if to cast off all my sisterly feelings for him, he began to seduce me with words. About how independent, empowered, intelligent, and sensual he always thought I was. He said I was the perfect Cosmo Girl.

Just like that, he was out the door. I couldn't handle being propositioned to by someone I still thought of in geeky glasses and a mouthful of braces, even if by now they were gone.

As he descended inside the elevator into the renovated lobby of my prewar-era apartment building, I wrestled with my feelings about being described in terms of Helen Gurley Brown's creation. At the time I identified with feminists like Gloria Steinem, and I had misunderstood Brown's complex legacy. The term Cosmo Girl, to me, was the Scavullo-photographed cover: pushed-up boobs and long legs bursting out of a tight mini dress, big hair, and fierce makeup. Copy that practically shouted "read this if you want to seduce and keep your man by being a sex goddess!"

I didn't understand at the time that I owed the life I enjoyed as a single woman to HGB.

I was a young city editor for a newspaper and, to help make ends meet, I worked a few evenings part-time at Victoria's Secret. I was on my way up at both places, and eventually I chose where the money was. I lived alone in my Hollywood apartment, furnished with pretty things I'd paid for (and even assembled) on my own. My closet was a mix of working girl and party girl, with pieces from DKNY, Ann Taylor, and the Bullock's dress department. I had boyfriends and I dated regularly when I didn't. I had a stash of condoms hidden from view beside my bed, a copy of The Joy of Sex on my bookshelf, and a drawer of sexy lingerie I'd purchased with my employee discount. I knew I'd get married someday -- but not just yet.

I was single, independent, empowered, intelligent, and took guiltfree pleasure in sex (responsibly, I might add). I loved men but I didn't depend on them for my happiness and security. I could take care of myself, thank you very much.

I was born the year HGB took over the reins of Cosmopolitan magazine, which was failing at the time. By the time I was the age of the woman she was editing for, I was reaping the benefits of her vision. I didn't always agree with what she said or wrote; for instance, she saw nothing wrong with having affairs with married men (they always went back to their wives, she said) but I've always viewed it as a betrayal of sisterhood. But she truly was a product of her time and circumstances, and as the years have passed I've begun to see her life and legacy in a different, more forgiving, light.

It's quite timely that we're discussing HGB again today, albeit under such sad circumstances. Fifty years after her landmark 1962 book Sex and the Single Girl, which we all thought had changed women's lives completely and forever, there are recent efforts and movements -- political, legal, even cultural -- to bring us back to the days when we had to be wives and mothers in order to be good. We're called sluts when we demand the rightful control of our own bodies, of our destinies. When we engage in sex for purposes other than babymaking, then we're whores. Even being single is now viewed again as a radical act.

Oh, I wish we had HGB's passionate voice today to help us all remember how far we've come and how fast we're going back. Whether we're single or married, childless or mothers, homemakers or executives; whether we love sex or can do without it, and whatever our passions in life may be -- we are women with choices. And they are all valid, as are we.

"Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere." ~ Helen Gurley Brown

26 OF 30: HOW DO YOU KNOW?

I've been asking the same question for the past year and a half, practically since I met him. How will I know?

He was 16, partly blind and deaf, eerily silent, arthritic, and showing signs of canine alzheimer's. You can say I fell in love with him despite myself. I knew I wouldn't have much time with him before I'd have to say goodbye, and I thought it best not to get too attached. But when he saw me he hobbled over, nuzzled my leg and rested his chin on my knee, as if to say "you are mine." And I was. Still am. But not for much longer.

My Ozzie -- Ozzo is his given name -- is now resting on his bed, unable to stand up. Whenever I tiptoe over to the laundry room and peek to see how he's doing, he senses my presence and wags his tail. When I walk away he wants to follow me but can't, but still he tries. He twists his body over the side of his cushy, towel-wrapped and pee-pad-lined foam bed, and tries to drag himself over to the exit. He never gets far -- when I walk back half of his body is on the tile floor and so I lift him back up, hoping he'll fall asleep this time.

It only got this bad yesterday, but I suppose I saw it coming. He used to walk up and down the stairs a few times a day, albeit quite tentatively, even painfully. And then a few months ago he could no longer climb and had to be carried upstairs. His gimpy gait slowed down even further, he could no longer control his bodily functions, and he slept most of the time. But every time he'd pee on the rug -- sometimes when he was asleep or usually after he'd just woken up -- you knew he felt simply awful about it because he'd be too afraid to approach you afterward. Sometimes he'd even start crawling down the stairs, as if to say he knew he was supposed to do it outside on the grass instead and was now on his way there.

Otherwise his appetite was terrific and he enjoyed the sun on his face whenever he could get it (as Seattlelites always do). He'd follow me around until he was too tired to do so and wag his tail when I'd give him his one glucosamine-enriched peanut-butter-flavored treat for the day. He'd nap beside me whenever I dozed off, and when I'd be seated on the couch or at my desk, he'd plop his body over my  feet and nap there, too.

So how do you know? -- I'd ask friends who had loved and lost their dogs. When do you know it's time to let go?

You'll know, that's what they'd always say.

And they were right, even if I didn't know how I would.

Ozzie's asleep now. I sat with him as his body lay half on the cold floor and I cradled his face, kissing his head. I wrapped him in a bath towel and lifted him back onto his bed and I stayed with him, sitting still, until he appeared to be calm (I think he was tired, too). Then I went back to my room and cried.

It's time now. Ozzie needs to rest.

So how do you know? When you let love decide, you just will.

 

25 OF 30: HOME

I woke up feeling thoroughly unhinged today; for a while there I wasn't sure if I'd just had a dream because it still felt so real to me. All I can remember now is that I'd found myself sitting inside an auditorium beside a man who I could only assume was my date, like I'd just been instantaneously transported there through space and time without any apparent disruption. It was 1987 and I was in downtown Los Angeles all over again.

The details are fuzzy now, but I know that once I'd figured out where I was I felt a twinge of almost unbearable excitement. That year, you see, was not a very good one for me (okay, it was awful) and I realized I now had a chance at a do-over -- and better yet, this time I had not only my youth but also experience, and especially wisdom, on my side. Soon, however, joy turned into confusion. I realized I didn't know where my home was and how I was supposed to get there. I moved around so much during the second half of the 1980s that if you named a month and year I couldn't tell you where I lived then.

Most of my recurring nightmares have to do with feeling unmoored or being lost. I suppose it's because for nearly three decades the concept of home has been an unfettered one for me. When I lived in Los Angeles I thought of Manila as my home -- and the reverse was true, too. And now that I'm Seattle-based I feel like I have two other homes waiting for me. I may never set roots in Southern California again but practically everything I own still remains in storage over there. In this place where I now live -- without my furniture, household goods, even clothing -- I don't feel quite settled, yet.

Wherever I am something seems to be missing. Here in the States I regularly get homesick for the Philippines, yet when I'm there I miss it here, too. And even if I absolutely love it here in Seattle, I miss my friends and ol' stomping grounds in both Los Angeles and Manila. At times it feels I have too many homes and yet none at all.

They say that home is where the heart is, and that might be the reason I feel this way: I've left a huge chunk of myself in every place I've ever lived and loved in. Yet I know that change is not only inevitable but constant, and that what I remember about each place often transforms or disappears the moment I get up and leave. It's why I often feel sad when a favorite restaurant shuts down or a familiar building is demolished. One more touchstone, gone.

But I never feel trapped anywhere. If I don't like it somewhere, I can always move -- as I've done many times before. My world can't completely fall apart if there's always a space elsewhere I can find refuge in, somewhere that still feels familiar even if it's not quite the same as I remember it to be.

I suspect I'll always have these dreams of being somewhere I once was and feeling lost. The good news, however, is that when I wake up I'll be home. Wherever that might be in the world.

24 OF 30: NOT YET AT THE FINISH LINE

No one has probably noticed, but I'll 'fess up anyway: I didn't get to finish 30 blog posts in 30 days like I set out to do a month ago. Bummer.

But on the bright side, I've completed 24 posts in 30 days -- way more than I've done since I started blogging in 2004. The point of this exercise was for me to develop the discipline to write every day, and not to rely on inspiration (which happens to be truly unreliable). And the truth is I almost did -- the only time I didn't bang out words on a keyboard was when I was in VA/DC this past weekend for my sister's wedding and didn't have time or a laptop. I must also confess there were days this past month when I started blogging and then deleted the post because it wasn't going anywhere except down.

So I'm not yet at the finish line but I intend to get there, just a bit late. Reminds me of a friend who competed in a triathlon in San Diego a few years ago: not accustomed to the cold mornings, he cramped up soon after the swim portion, and through sheer will and dedication pedaled and ran through the pain and exhaustion. When he finally staggered to the finish line, just about everyone was gone except for his parents, a couple of buddies, and the folks cleaning up. But he made it.

Just as I will. I'll need a few more days to finish the last six. If you have any suggestions of what you would like me to write about, please let me know in the Comments section below.

In the meantime I'm starting another 30-in-30 personal challenge. For the next month I will exercise daily. Nothing crazy, you understand. Twenty minutes here, 45 minutes there...a run/walk on the treadmill one day, a fast walk on the trail behind my apartment the next, and a few sets with the dumbbells and weight machines on yet the next. The point here is to keep moving and get the blood flowing until it becomes a habit I can maintain at least a few days a week.

Come to think of it, I probably should have started this endeavor earlier; I could have used the bloodflow into my brain. Probably would have been more effective than hoping for a bit of writerly inspiration. Anyway, if I get this right I'd have developed two good habits by my birthday, which is at the end of the month.

Wish me luck!

PS: You will be relieved to know that I will NOT be posting my daily exercise efforts. Instead I'll write all about it when I'm done.