Gah -- once in a while I remember something and get the urge to blog about it. Good stories are hard to come by after all, agreed? And especially when they're personal and real, correct?
But when I think about the real and personal faces who read this blog, I quickly change my mind. You can imagine the stories I sometimes am itching to tell; after all, I've already written about how, say, I once dated a guy who claimed he had sex with a girl I knew -- who really was a guy at the time they were supposedly intertwined. Or about how my health professional once instructed me to buy (and, obviously, use) a dildo for post-surgery therapy, and how I ended up with my own mini-collection instead due to my inability to understand simple medical directions. I've even written about the time I needed to move apartments and was flat broke, and so I assembled a crack team of ex-boyfriends who soon discovered their common denominator as they were lifting my dining table (I still cringe when I think about how that conversation started).
So, yes. Those were the stories I could tell, and there are still those I can't.Sometimes I think it's time I start up an anonymous blog. The only danger is ensuring I don't post a story there that I've already told in this one -- and then blow my cover. After all, if I can't follow plain medical instructions, how can I be trusted to know when to keep within my own guidelines? I probably just broke one by writing this post, too -- and so I guess I can't. But it sure would be fun, wouldn't it?
This is NOT a Michael Jackson-related post.
That being said, however, his passing can't help but reinforce my belief that we tend to be kinder to people in death than in life. I'm not quite sure why this is, why we find it almost taboo to speak ill of the dead when we don't hold back our cruel words when they are still alive -- as if we were aiming darts directly toward our target's center so that we win something, even if it's only a sense that we're better than they were.
Do we do this because we fear that if remain as cruel to those who are no longer around as when they were among us, that we'd be opening up the possibility that others would do the same to us when we're gone? Is it because of our sense for fair play -- that it just isn't right to attack those who can't defend themselves (as if we all can protect ourselves from harm merely because we're breathing)?
Or is it because when we honor the living then it's about them, their needs, and their reputation; but when we do the same for the dead then it's about us, our needs, and how we're perceived? Are we kinder to those who have departed because they no longer pose a threat to ourselves -- that they're no longer better than us, more successful, or even happier than we are?
I'm certainly not saying that we should be cruel to the dead; in fact, I believe we shouldn't strive to be vicious to the living either. Neither am I suggesting that we should forget all about the dearly departed's crimes or transgressions -- because we should always aim to learn from all mistakes and misdeeds, not merely our own. All I'm saying, however, is that if we are clearly capable of giving the benefit of the doubt to someone who is no longer with us, then we should try to do the same when it matters the most.
I also say that it's dangerous to either vilify or sanctify any individual; we're all highly complicated, none of us being entirely bad or good. When we hold up someone to be a paragon of perfection, we also set that individual -- and ourselves -- up for a steep fall. But when we demonize a person, then we risk losing sight of whatever good he or she might have left behind and possibly benefit from it. They say that history is always written by the victors. I say that we all lose when only part of a story is told. And when this happens, what we choose to remember often says something more about ourselves then the ones who have left us behind.
I suppose it's evident that I love fashion more than the next person -- depending on who that person next to me is, of course. My love for fashion is much more than just a predilection for clothes shopping; I view it as art and business masterfully blended and find its constant change exciting -- and yet I don't take it too seriously. I do spend a bulk of my time reading fashion magazines and trade publications, scouring the internet for on-the-minute updates, and - yes -- checking out what's in stores (OK -- shopping), so much so that I'm pretty well-versed with the latest looks and upcoming trends, but it's all purely for my personal entertainment. Watching, say, a Vera Wang Fall fashion show online can give me the same kind of extraordinary rush that a Lakers fan got out of following the 2009 NBA championship games. And speaking of games, my idea of one is walking into a store, spotting a dominant trend, and betting to myself whether it will fly or fail -- and I love it when I'm right, even if I don't get to win a prize.
One would think I'd be the kind of person who gets a thrill out of Fashion Police type of articles, posts, and TV shows -- you know, the ones that declare when someone's got it all wrong. The ones that sneer at the "worst dressed" celebrities, even the ones who look all schlumpy on their days off. Well, I don't. The truth is that these irritate the heck out of me almost all of the time (except when self-declared fashion experts get it wrong themselves -- and then I revel in shadenfreude like an alcoholic trapped inside a bar). It simply reeks of snooty superiority and it's often downright cruel. Besides, if you read as many fashion articles as I do, you'd know that oftentimes, what one editor thinks is brilliant is the same as what another commentator condemns as hideous. Anyway, I think people should be able to express themselves and have fun with what they're wearing, or at the very least feel comfortable and be able to move around and do the things they need to do without feeling unencumbered by what they have on.
Of course, as with everything else in life, there are exceptions. There are occasions when what you choose to wear shows respect and courtesy. For instance, I think guests should make an effort to look nice when they attend a wedding -- it lets the hosts know that their event mattered, that it meant something special to their guests as well. But I also believe it's never a good thing to try to outshine or outdo the bride either; those who do are, in my opinion at least, tacky and rude and perhaps horribly insecure or alarmingly narcissistic. And so, for the same reason, I take care to look properly somber at a funeral or wake, the same way I would want to look festive at a summer night's party or elegant at a dinner event. If the host thinks I was important enough to invite, then I feel it's just right to reciprocate and show you feel the same way about him or her. The effort and consideration is what matters.
There are places where image also matters. For instance, business dress codes serve a purpose; they express expectations and priorities to the employee and communicate something about the company to its clients and vendors. And even in workplaces where there are none, it also reveals the same to all of the above. And let's not forget that it's considered sage advice to dress for the position you want rather than for the one you already have. Sometimes there are fashion rules, at times there's just common sense.
Otherwise I don't think it's anyone else's business what any of us choose to wear. I might softly giggle at the sight of the woman in front of me in the supermarket checkout line who's wearing a wild profusion of different animal prints from top to toe. I may do a double-take when I see a girl at the mall oblivious to the sight of her many rolls of belly fat fully exposed from her squeezing into a too-tight short tee and very-low-cut skinny jeans. Most likely I will roll my eyeballs when I see the top of a guy's boxer shorts above a pair of pants four sizes too big. But no matter what I might think or how I react, it's not my world that others only live in and I don't get to decide who's in or out. It's only my opinion and I don't have a license to inflict cruelty on anyone just because we don't see things the same way. No one does.
I'm trying to find my shape again (and, yes, I'm perfectly aware that round is a shape, too). For the past 10 years I've been trying to lose the same amount of weight; instead, I lose and gain it back over and over again. I have an extensive wardrobe consisting of clothes in all the different sizes I wear during my perpetual weight cycle -- I never stay in one size long enough to wear out any of my garments and so I can reach for them again whenever I have to.
I used to be able to lose five or more pounds in a week simply by depriving myself of food. That, in a nutshell, is my problem. I always knew that no matter how big I got, I could lose it using a combination of temporary starvation and my normal nervous energy (I fidget a lot and I'm never still even if I appear to be). But now I'm at the age when everything that used to work no longer does, and I'm not used to actually doing any kind of real work to stay physically healthy or fit so nothing works right now.
The last time I was at my goal weight was in 1995. My friend J asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding and I didn't want to be the only tubby one in the pictures. So I lost 30 lbs. in less than three months and everyone was saying how fabulous I looked. I loved how I looked in clothes again and dressed in what I wanted to wear rather than in what simply looked good on me. Obviously I started putting on the pounds pretty quickly, and 10 years later I weighed the heaviest I'd ever been in my life. Fortunately since then I've adopted a few better habits that have kept me from getting to that point ever again. I don't even own any clothes in that size anymore.
So lately I've been eating healthier and moving more -- no drastic steps, just little ones that I keep adding to my daily routine. But now I'm ready to go full speed ahead and start seeing results that inspire me. I won't bore you with details -- I mean, who cares to know what I eat or don't eat, or how many miles I walk a day? Here's what I will say, however:
1. I don't care about being able to get into a bikini. Even in the days when I was told I had a hot bod (1986-1987, just for the record) I never wore one. So why start now?
2. Therefore, I don't aspire for a six-pack or any kind of ripping in my ab area. No one's going to see it anyway. I want sculpted biceps and triceps, though. I don't have loose skin flapping around in that area now (thank heavens for small favors), but I want to look like I can beat up anybody who says I look fat even when I've achieved my fitness goals. This is because...
3. I want to stay curvy; I like my boobs and my ass because even at my age they don't sag. I just don't want to lose so much weight that my face sinks in and starts looking old. Do you know why older celebrities and society women start injecting all kinds of strange substances into their faces and chests to plump 'em up? Because they're too skinny, that's why. But for some reason people these days seem to think curvy means fat. No way -- they all can watch my hips swish beguilingly as I turn my back on them and sashay away.
4. I told my friends that I've broken up with a bunch of really yummy foods that I'm going to miss and most of them tell me that I don't have to, that all I need to do is maintain a healthy relationship with them. Well, I already thought I was, so I'm going to have to compare my recent decision to that of breaking up with a boyfriend. It only hurts so bad because it hurt so good, and if I stick around it won't be good for me in the long run. Eventually, when the time is right and when I get myself under control, I may be able to ring up the troublemaker for a booty call now and then and not suffer any serious consequences. But in the meantime I say to thee, "It's not you, it's me" -- and I'm outie.
See you all in my skinny jeans soon.
Just wondering -- and I may need to ask my other guy friends what they think because I have no idea if this particular fellow would give me a truthful answer today, even after all these many years.
When he and I were "seeing" each other (I use this term loosely because we agreed we couldn't possibly be in any kind of committed relationship at the time), he told me that once he'd been intimate with a woman, he would forever see her as someone he once had sex with. He even recreated the scenario for me on one of the many times we'd hang out in the living room of his post-war apartment (I can still visualize myself sprawled out on his brown leather couch, enjoying the feel of the cool, thick wood floors under my feet). The way it would go, he said, was he'd bump into her unexpectedly, they'd end up making small talk, and all the time he'd be thinking in the back of his mind as she spoke: "We slept together."
So I saw him recently, maybe somewhat unexpectedly (but only because seeing him always gives me a bit of a shock for some reason). It's been more than 15 years since I last left his apartment barely after sunrise like I used to. That early morning he, as always, walked me to my car wearing a rumpled university sweatshirt and a crooked smile and then kissed me goodbye, as I watched him slowly walk back across the courtyard to climb the stairs to his apartment while I waited for my windshield to defrost. Now understand that I have no actual idea what our final close encounter was really like because when it happened I had no inkling that it would be our last; for me it probably was just another morning goodbye. Anyway, we've seen each other perhaps a handful of times since then; each time I wondered if he was thinking what he said he would unfailingly -- just because he said he always would.
Of course, this means that when I see him I end up thinking just that -- even if it's not what I'd like to be thinking of because then I get embarrassed to look straight into his eyes when we say hello and my hug's just slightly bit tentative though still warm, because I'm always happy to see him. He's almost exactly where I thought he would be at this point in his life (perhaps because he used to tell me all about his plans and dreams back then) and I'm nowhere close to where I once expected I'd be at, though we're both in good places in our lives now. But still, only because of that dumb thing he once said a long time ago, he'll always be someone I once slept with -- even if he's really much more than that.
Perhaps it would be better if he told me he'd always be thinking: "We loved each other once." Yes, I suppose I'd much prefer that, even now when we both love other people and especially when everything else that we used to do is slowly fading away from my memory. Then at least there'd be nothing for me to feel embarrassed about.
I have a friend who's now completely lost in the dating world, as in hopelessly confused and clueless. He pretty much married his first love, they had three children, and then she left him for another man (of course, this is oversimplifying a bit -- no one can possibly summarize an entire relationship in a terse sentence with two commas). So now he's approaching his mid-40s and merely the thought of asking a woman out scares him shitless.
I've never asked a guy out; back in my day (geez, I feel absolutely Victorian here now) girls just didn't do that unless they were desperate. Sure, we sat by the phone and waited and pined away -- but we didn't take charge and make the first move -- ever. I suppose if I found myself today wondering if I should call a man and ask him out to dinner I'd be petrified and possibly even make a fool of myself. Me, who's been on enough dates to last a couple of lifetimes.
Truth is I've been on my share of bad dates. That tends to happen when you've been on so many. The good thing about this is I can now look back and laugh, even if none of them seemed remotely funny then. The only thing I've never done is get drunk, and I have my bestfriend to thank for that.
On one of her earliest dates, back when we were in high school, this boy took her out for a fancy dinner. Now I can't remember how he ended up with a bottle of (cheap) wine but she drank a glass or two and halfway through the evening, she asked him to take her back to my place so her parents wouldn't see her so sloshed. I'm convinced he wanted to loosen her up and free her inhibitions so he could have his way with her a bit, but Rosanna was too much of a good girl. When she'd drink, she'd belt out show tunes and make googly eyes a lot. She's still the same way now.
But I wasn't as good -- and I knew it. So I've never been chemically altered on a date, unless you count antihistamines or the Pill. This doesn't mean that I didn't act like I was crazy -- heck, I can still kick myself for saying or doing certain things when I clearly knew better. See, when I'm bored or sleepy anything can happen. And usually does.
I've never kissed on a first date and at times I've actually extended my hand out to shake the dude's hand as he leaned in for a quick smooch. See, I love first kisses -- I remember them all -- and so it's important to me that when they happen, they actually mean something. But I've also achieved REM state while making out; unfortunately I was a working college student with an active extracurricular schedule so I'd fall asleep at all the inopportune times. Still, I give myself credit for simply letting the guys think that their kisses and embraces sent me straight to Dreamland -- though not literally, which was really the case.
The only time a cop ever knocked on the car window while I was inside with a guy, we were just talking. Really. The fact that we were parked at a notorious makeout spot on campus should have told me that the boy had intentions that evening -- but thankfully all of them flew out the window as soon as campus police waved that flashlight in front of his eyeballs. The next time I saw that light was a few years later, when my date had too much to drink and we had to make an unexpected stop inside a peaceful, well-manicured neighborhood so he could throw up. Needless to say, we frightened the nice folks and I had my first taste of what it's probably like to be on a Cops episode.
On one of the worst dates I was on (and this is saying quite a lot), I actually ended up with a different guy by the end of the evening. My friends had set me up with someone I'd see at parties but had never gotten past hello with; they said he thought I was cute but was too shy to actually talk to me. He was a talented, accomplished musician with amazing, languid hazel eyes. Little did I know that the reason his peepers always looked so relaxed, even flirty, was because he was perpetually stoned; I simply thought he was the cool, quiet, laidback type. Our group ended up at a hip LA club after dinner -- where we were joined by one of his new-in-town friends who simply decided he wanted to stay by my side for the rest of the night. By the time my date was flying on whatever he'd brought with him, I was in a corner getting to know this other guy a little bit better. But that's a different story, for another day.
My point is no matter how bad it gets, it also gets better. Trust me on this: get out there, don't expect too much, but pay attention so if the date's a disaster you have a good story for the next time you're out with friends. Or in my case, when you need something to write about. And you can be sure I have lots.
OK, I'm going there. I can't resist, see. Here's all I have to say about the topic du jour in the Philippines -- those sex videos, of which I've seen a few. I don't plan on seeing the rest of them, should they become available. (There are about 40 out there, alleges a senator who now postures himself as the defender of Filipino women and womanhood. Has anybody suggested to him, by the way, that cheating on one's wife repeatedly is not exactly a sign of respect towards women? Just wondering.) I've seen lots of porn in my lifetime, and they always involved at least a moderate amount of physical exertion. I think someone forgot to yell "Action!" in these videos, but I suppose when one of the stars isn't aware she's being filmed then the filmmaker has got to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. Which he was, really.
I confess I haven't been posting as much as I used to (although some of you have probably noticed). There's still so much to say, to show, to share -- but I've simply been stuck in the mud for way too long now.
So I've changed the look of this page. I wanted something clean and spare in the meantime until I can figure out how I'd like this to evolve. My friend Cathy suggested I check out Tumblr and I'm playing with the site until I decide whether to switch over or stay and keep that as a companion mini-blog of sorts. All I know is I'm itching for a change, something that will rev up this sputtering engine of mine.
Any suggestions? Knoizki, are you out there?
I was reading a lifestyle/entertainment magazine that my sister sent me from the Philippines and the feature story was about a celebrity couple that broke up because the man had an affair with a sexy actress. In a slightly different twist from the scenario we're more used to seeing, his acknowledged girlfriend is actually the more successful one of the two and supports him in every possible way. So when she found out about his betrayal, she broke it off with the two-timer and then he supposedly tried to kill himself in his grief. As a doctor he probably should have known a more surefire way of ending his life -- but I suppose this really wasn't his intention to begin with. As the article goes on, we sense that many of his intentions are actually just as murky.
One of the things that really irked me was the 'Other Woman's" comments. She claims to be blameless and guilt-free in this entire sordid affair because she says she did nothing wrong (I'm paraphrasing here). She asserts this knowing fully well that the man was in this (high-profile) relationship, especially since she even does promotional work for the girlfriend's business and has been photographed with the couple at parties and events.
But she says she's done nothing wrong because she never asked the man to leave his girlfriend. She simply continued, she explains, to spend time with him whenever it was convenient for him -- even if it meant she was often lonely and sad. She says she was merely being patient, waiting for the couple to break up and for him to finally choose her. But that never happened. In other words, she sees herself as another victim in this affair.
Excuse me? Sure, if it hadn't been her, it probably would have been another woman -- that much may be true. But it was she who insinuated herself between the two; it was she who has become the face of the public reason for the break-up. Perhaps if she hadn't known that he was in a relationship then she truly would have been an innocent bystander. But ladies -- and we all know this deep inside -- if you choose to have an inappropriate relationship with someone who is supposed to be committed to someone else, then you're no victim. You're actually a perpetrator, almost as much as the philanderer is.
I know this firsthand because I've been guilty of this a couple of times myself. Of course I thought I had all sorts of reasons that justified my choices then. And, yes, I was certain I loved him more and better than she did (why, he even told me so himself!). Sure, I/we never got caught anyway so there was no harm done in the end, right? Wrong. And so was I.
I don't always choose to do what I know is right, unfortunately. Even at an age when I'm supposed to know better, I tend to be a bit too rash, too reckless, for my own good. The only thing that's really changed between then and now, from the days when I could have claimed to be simply too young and stupid and be forgiven for it, is that I no longer try to make excuses nor explain away my guilt. If I make a decision that goes against my rational self, I'm ready to face the consequences and accept what's coming to me. Whether or not I own up my mistake to anyone else, I know what I did wrong and I have to live with that knowledge. What this also means is having to bite my tongue and shut up, instead of trying to protest my innocence with half-hearted rationalizations.
Which is what that other woman should have done, I think. Love may be the answer -- but it's not always a good reason.
We were in a culinary rut tonight. We didn't feel like cooking -- actually, truth is we simply didn't feel like running out to the store to buy ingredients. We didn't care to eat out either, mainly because none of the nearby restaurants seemed appealing tonight and also because we vowed we were going to cook more and eat out less.
"I guess I'll just have sardines and bread tonight," my husband sighed, "Except that we don't have any bread." He decided to heat up a box of frozen garlic flatbread instead. With sardines?
I happened to be on Facebook chatting with my friend Ana, a gourmet and connoisseur of all things culinary-related, and shared with her my dinner woes. "I guess it's a bunch of random leftovers for me tonight," I said resignedly.
"What about pasta and sardines?" she suggested. Genius! I found this recipe online and adapted it to our pantry and palate. Here's our version (we followed the cooking directions of the original recipe).
9 oz. Linguine (the kind you find at the refrigerated section. Note: Fettuccine would have been better but we didn't have any.)
4 T extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium Hawaiian sweet onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, crushed and chopped finely
1 Pomona lemon, juiced (freshly plucked from our tree!)
1 4 oz. can sardines in tomato sauce
1 pinch red pepper flakes
Grated parmesan cheese
*We also added a dollop of green olive tapenade (from Trader Joe's), just to add a bit more zing to the recipe. Again, this bit of inspiration was courtesy of Ana -- she had suggested tossing in a few capers or olives to spice things up
Delicious! Everything was ready in about 20 minutes and we didn't have to pay a cent. Thanks Ana!
The doctor posted the X-ray films on the viewing device and showed me my baby's enlarged heart. From his careful explanation, hers is almost double the size of a normal one. He explained that this discovery meant there was a risk she wouldn't survive anesthesia.
"I haven't had a patient die on the table for the past five or six years," he said, "But there's a three percent risk she won't make it."
And if she doesn't have the surgery? "She'll get worse and suffer further complications," he replied soberly.
What's three percent to me? I've taken much greater risks than that in my personal life for sure. But when the risk belongs to someone I've loved and cared for these past 14 years, it's just too much. Even the doctor who hasn't lost a patient for this long thinks it is. I have a week to think about it.
My baby might "just" be a cat -- but she's the only baby I've ever known. If you've been reading this blog for almost as long as I've been posting, you'd know how she's been the only constant presence in my crazy life for as long as I've known her. I've never had a child, but I'm willing to bet there isn't a single mother out there who would easily bet on these odds I'm having to decide on now.
I'm completely heartbroken over my Boo's broken heart. I always knew my baby had the biggest one -- she's given me so much love and affection every day since she came into my life -- but I just didn't know it would also be in the literal sense. And now I get to discover how big mine is, too -- how brave I can be for both of us.
My friend N was visibly annoyed. Seething, even. See, he had stopped by Seafood City, a Filipino grocery store in Cerritos, CA, to pick up a few items on his way home. At around 8:30 PM he heard a booming voice announce that all prepared hot food items were half-off. He hadn't planned to stop by that section but he figured that it would save him some time from having to cook dinner once he finally got home -- and better yet, save him some cash, too.
By the time he got there, a swarm of shoppers had already picked up everything they could get their hands on. He saw a container of crispy pata (deep-fried pork leg) and put it his basket. As he got to the check-out aisle, an elderly woman was in front of him. She was writing out a check to pay for her purchase and was moving at a snail's pace. In the meantime, the cashier showed her slight impatience by moving her dentures up and down the roof of her mouth. She stopped when she saw my friend standing in line, watching her intently.
The cashier looked at N's items on the counter, and then looked at him inquisitively. "Were there any more of the crispy patas back there?" she asked in Tagalog. He nodded. "Can you do me a favor and grab one of those for me?" she instructed.
N figured that the customer in front of him had forgotten to pick up the item and thought that if she went back to do so he'd be waiting even longer. "Here," he told the cashier, "take mine and I'll grab another one for myself." And then he walked away.
When he got back, he saw the customer leave -- and noticed that the container he supposedly had given her was still where he'd set it down. "So she decided not to get it after all?" he asked the cashier, mildly irritated.
"No," she answered. "It's for me. I didn't cook so there's no food at home."
His eyes were still bulging from both anger and disbelief while he was telling me his story: "Can you believe it? She actually asked me -- a customer -- to go and get her dinner?"
I suppose at this store, at least for this one employee, the term "Customer Service" has taken on a whole new meaning.