The Greatest Living Filipino Writer

Yesterday was the launch of "Soledad's Sister," the novel of Prof. Jose "Butch" Dalisay, PH.D., which was shortlisted for the Man Asian Prize last year. I cannot sing enough praises for this writer. His language is genius, his prose, brilliant. He is not only, arguably, the greatest, living Filipino fictionist, he is also the greatest essayist. See for yourself. Please pick up a copy of "Soledad's Sister."

Forest Club, Laguna

Forest Club is a plant and tree sanctuary in Laguna. The owners had reinvented this former farm into an eco conservation park designed as a corporate team-building, conference, or school field trip site. I had been there before as a parent volunteer for Belli's class. This year, it was Pippi's turn. And so, once again, I chaperoned. The trip from Makati took an hour and a half and then, after several minutes of briefing, the entire 4th grade batch was divided into groups for an explorer's treasure hunt. The children were given clues at specific stations and had to use compasses to find these stations. They, of course, had fun. The formula of open fields+children=fun remains foolproof.

All the children had to do the canopy walk, which I did as well. Everyone did the log across the river walk, the rope across the river course, the rafting, and the mud crawl. The most challenging is the mud crawl, I think. They had to crawl on their bellies in a foot of mud through a screened tunnel--yes, yuck! Most of them made it through in spite of the initial fear they felt. It was the psychological barrier that was most difficult to overcome. Imagine crossing a river through a narrow log--it was definitely mind over matter. Some fell into the water but enjoyed the refreshing dip. So all went well. If you're interested in visiting Forest Club just google them and you'll find the web page.

Gentlemen, Hold Your Liquor

Bartenders are experts on the male species. They see them at their most unbuttoned and most unzipped of states. They know what they are looking for on any given night; what will make them happy; what will get on their nerves; and what will persuade them to spend their hard-earned cash. They have gotten so adept at reading personality types that they don’t have to wait for a customer’s order to say what kind of man he is.

I was inspired to write this piece because of an interesting article I had read recently in the London Independent newspaper, which, unfortunately, made no mention of the author. It said that the Richard O’Reilly, bar manager of the Harvey Nichols’ Fifth Floor Bar said that, “If two well-dressed, middle-aged women come in, I can say to them, ‘Two Champagnes, ladies?’ and it’s almost always what they want. Or if two men come in for a business meeting, the older one will have a Gin and Tonic and the younger one, a glass of Chardonnay or a vodka and tonic. Definitely not vodka for the older one, definitely not gin for the younger.” O’Reilly is a man who knows his customers.

On a recent night out with friends, I had a chance to chat with the affable, long-time bartender (let’s call him Barman) of one of Manila’s famous nightspots and squeeze some information out of him. Our deal was that if I upheld his request for anonymity, over and above the information I wanted, he would mix us the meanest, classiest, most unadulterated martini this side of the Pacific—“just like they used to do back in the day,” he said.

So, over a glass of, admittedly, the best classic martini in the country, he dished out the juice. He said that men and women in Manila are cocktail-bar typecast victims because ours is a society that thrives on trends. We spot them, we embrace them, and we bleed them dry until the next one surfaces.

He cited several examples: “Remember that Moet et Chandon craze? People who could hardly afford it would forego dinner just to be seen with a flute in hand. What about the Grey Goose and Ketel One Vodka frenzy? Everybody but everybody needed a bottle tableside as a prop to be considered cool. I could tell who the trendsetters were, who the copycats were, and who were starving and blowing their budgets for a chance at cooldom. Oh, and remember all the rave about Bellinis?”

Barman said he could certainly tell a lot about the customer from the drinks he orders, the way he orders them, and the way he drinks them. He added that he could gauge a customer’s mood as well as what kind of person he is. If a regular were out to impress someone, it would be a Martini. “If he’s here on his own and wants to sit and mull things over, it will be something long and sippy—you know, long island iced tea and stuff like that. If he’s out for a night on the town, it’ll be bubbles. And you can almost use a stopwatch to predict the point at which a party gets going.”

Barman said that bartenders could tell when someone is ordering drinks because of the image that goes with it. Some customers are fakers. They order something they don’t really like because it makes them look a certain way. “It’s like fashion,” He explained. People who care about clothes are also into fashion where alcohol is concerned. “Cosmopolitans, Manhattans—these are what they ask for and I blame that on Sex and the City,” he was quick to add. He also said that businessmen ask for beer if they arrive in the afternoon, but come six o’clock they automatically shift to vodka tonic.

“I worked abroad for many years and in different countries and cruise ships. I noticed that foreign businessmen are partial to Gin and Tonic or G and T as they call it. But Pinoys are vodka drinkers. British customers are sophisticated and knowledgeable. They’re very much into Martinis but they hardly mention brand preference. Americans are sophisticated; they always specify a brand. Filipinos do too, but I think they’re not necessarily fans of a particular brand. They ask for it because everybody else asks for it, which is good for business whatever way you look at it.”

Barman let out a throaty laugh and went on to say that, “It’s funny how a well-dressed, middle-aged man ordered a Martini from me once and when he took his first sip his face contorted, parang mukhasim. It took all his will power not to spit it out but he pretended that it was his favorite drink. I could tell, though.”

Bartending gets to be fun when a customer doesn’t really know what he wants and asks for assistance. Barman said that he normally asks questions relating to taste to find out what the customer is partial to: sour, sweet, bitter. And then he tries to come up with a perfect fit. “Of course I’m careful,” he said. “I never serve a big, burly man some kind of frou-frou drink that’s colored pink, like a strawberry martini. Baka gulpihin ako!”

Over the years, Barman said that he has formed profiles of customers depending on what they order. “Someone who orders a Martini on the rocks is not a real Martini drinker—he probably wants vodka instead. Cosmopolitan? A follower not a trendsetter. Red wine? He has health concerns—maybe a heart or blood pressure condition. White wine? He’s a wimp. Beer all night? His monthly allowance is running out. Scotch? A serious drinker. Single malt? sophisticated and worldly. Vodka? that’s the drink of a ladies’ man. Cognac? that customer is older, a smooth operator, and with lots of money to burn. Champagne? A man who drinks Champagne is pleasing his wife, the moment she turns her back he’ll pour it onto the nearest flowerpot and order double vodka straight up. Men don’t drink champagne for the long haul. If they do, they might as well order some quiche to go with it. If someone asks for a shot of some kind—any kind, holy s***! He’s out to get ripped as fast as possible!”

“Okay, then,” I said to him, “let’s turn the tables. What’s your drink of choice?”

He chuckled and then, replied, “I’m a bartender, Ma’am, I don’t drink.”

“Yeah, Right!” But I let him off easy; it was darned good martini he gave me.

“Tell me about the worst customers.”

“That’s easy,” he said. “The drunks! They’re a pain in the a**. They make our lives difficult, not to mention messy. You can tell the real gentlemen apart because they can hold their liquor. They know how to have fun, they tip well, and they don’t cause trouble—never rowdy or out of control.

“What do you do when a customer makes a scene?”

“We have bouncers and I’m not out to judge. I have a good time behind the bar. I can put up with bad behavior, even turn it around sometimes. Drinking’s cool,” he said as a parting shot, “just make sure it goes to your stomach, not your head.”

So, gentlemen, what’s your poison?

A Professional's Take on Infidelity

I found this article on the internet and since an earlier post in infidelity struck the curiosity of many readers, I thought of posting this one, which is from a professional, whose knowledge on the subject may be more enlightening than anything else we may have heard.


Dating Myth or Truth? Once a Cheater, Always a Cheater
Expert advice on surviving the aftermath of an affair
By Diana Kirschner, Ph.D.
Special to Yahoo! Personals
Updated: Jul 23, 2008

So you've been cheated on. It's devastating -- like being kicked in the gut and thrown into the gutter. You can't eat or function at work. Or maybe you're up all night watching old movies, bawling, and eating pints of Ben and Jerry's. Discovering your partner's affair gives you such heartache and pain that you doubt you'll ever recover.

But when the cheater tries hard to win you back, some questions loom large: Should you forgive him/her? Is this cheater going to cheat again? You may feel torn; perhaps wanting to take your remorseful partner back, but you feel like it's a point of pride not to. You may want to drop the cheater altogether, dive into an online personals pool, and start looking for a more loyal significant other.

No doubt about it, it's difficult to deal with a cheater, and you're not alone. Research shows that even among married couples, cheating is relatively common: about 22% of men and 13% of women cheat. According to recent studies, even spouses who describe themselves as "happy" with their marriage have affairs.

But the good news is this:

Some couples who share strong chemistry can actually work through the crisis of an affair.
Some couples who share strong chemistry can actually work through the crisis of an affair. Not only that, they can become closer and put an end to cheating once and for all. In some cases, couples can learn and grow from the painful emotional hurricane, otherwise known as the aftermath of an affair.

Of course, there are promiscuous players who will cheat and cheat and cheat again. These are the ones you truly have to stay away from. How do you tell if you're dealing with a chronic cheater?

Here are five signs that may indicate a former cheater is not a chronic case and that the relationship still has hope:

1. Your partner is truly remorseful and regrets having cheated. Look for heartfelt apologies that ring true when you hear them. He/she accepts total blame for his/her betrayal.

2. Your partner cuts off all contact with the relationship perpetrator.

3. He/she shows a renewed appreciation and devotion towards you.

4. You wind up having deep, open, and honest conversations with each other about your relationship, including what was missing in it and how you'd like it to progress.

5. Your partner wants psychotherapy or counseling either individually or with you to understand his/her own dynamics and to improve your relationship.

If the former cheater shows these signs and you can forgive him/her, consider taking your partner back. Yet, be aware that taking your partner back carries one caveat: There's a possibility your partner will slip back into infidelity.

And just how do you know if the cheating has resurfaced? Here are some common signs that may indicate secret betrayal:

He/she works late a lot.
He/she suddenly takes trips you aren't invited to go on.
He/she spends too much time with hobbies that don't include you.
You get mysterious phone calls with hang-ups.
You find bills for unexplained hotel stays or gift-type items.
Intimacy in your relationship dramatically decreases.
He/she grows more distant or agitated than usual.

Prepare yourself emotionally for the chance that you may become a victim of an affair again, but don't expect it. You've chosen to forgive your partner, so let bygones be bygones. But if you uncover another affair, it's time to protect yourself from any further heartbreak by breaking up with this hurtful person immediately. Move on and don't let this unfaithful person ruin your future relationships. Leave your anger and sorrow behind; it's not only fair to your next partner, but beneficial to your psychological well-being and your potential to bond with a better partner. Keep your spirits high, because there are wonderful new matches waiting out there -- and right there on your computer screen!

In sum, if your partner strays, it doesn't absolutely mean he/she will do it again. "Once a cheater, always a cheater" isn't necessarily true. Forgiving and reuniting is an option. If you've been betrayed but want to see if it can work, go ahead and work on it. Just keep in mind that you've decided to take a risk, and don't let paranoia get the best of you. But at the same time, pay attention to your partner's behavior so you can spot which way the train is heading!

Diana Kirschner, Ph.D., is the author of the forthcoming book "Love in 90 Days: The Essential Guide to Finding Your Own True Love." She is a recurring relationship expert on "The Today Show" and her free love etips are available at www.MyDatingPatterns.com.

Middle Schoolers

I received a letter from the children's school last Friday and it was about Middle Schoolers, kids aged 11-14. I know I have put the children in the right school because they thrive there. The school's concern doesn't stop with education inside the campus. Over the years they have found ways to involve the family and have maintained a strong school-home communication system that keeps parents in close touch with their children's affairs.

I am transcribing in this post, word for word, the letter about adolescents that they had sent, hoping that it may shine the light on how our youngsters are and how we, as parents, may better understand them.

As children grow, they begin to experience physical, intellectual, and emotional changes. The way they learn, feel, see the world, and relate to other people becomes different from when they were younger. These changes, along with demands from present-day society and peer pressure, create conflicts and tension in the adolescent, which are reflected in their behavior in school and at home.

Young people at this age show a good number of contradictions and conflicts, which is normal. There is no "model" adolescent. All young persons are individuals with strong and weak points and with positive and negative qualities. There are some common characteristics that should be kept in mind in order to understand and help the middle schooler in daily activities at home and at school:

1. Adolescents have high levels of physical and emotional energy, which may contrast with long periods of idleness, generally disapproved of by adults.

2. They take risks, are curious, and love danger and adventure, yet their feelings can be hurt easily. This is the time when they feel immortal, but they worry a lot about what their friends think about them.

3. They want to be independent from their families, and at the same time, they need to be pampered and protected.

4. They withdraw and want a private life, and at the same time, they worry about being accepted by their peers.

5. They demand privileges but avoid responsibilities. At the same time, they are developing an awareness of social problems and the welfare of others.

I haven't read anything as insightful as this about middle schoolers. It has given me that proverbial "moment of clarity" (when the light bulb suddenly turns on in the brain) on how to deal with my pubescent children. I hope it helps you too.

Pushing the Body

Belli has been dancing classical ballet for many years. It takes up much of her time. Ever since she got to middle school she has had to make a serious commitment to the dance because juggling her schedule has been challenging. She goes three times a week: Mondays, Fridays, and Saturdays for three to four hours each time. Too much for a 12-year-old, I think sometimes. But she loves it: the dance itself and her ballet family of extremely supportive classmates and and an excellent teacher and mentor. Her body looks for it; she doesn't feel good whenever she stops for extended periods in the summer. She cries each time we go out of town because it means missing her dance classes. It has been the bone of contention in the family because we have had to give way to her dancing. But this is how parental support is measured, I believe, when we have to have to make sacrifices as well.

Yesterday, she complained of pain in her legs (Belli never complains and when she does, I know it is at an advanced stage). I was worried because she had a class in the afternoon so I asked her if she wanted to call in sick. She said no; she was adamant. I questioned her decision, maybe even having said something like it was silly to dance in pain. She lectured me about pushing the body and discipline. It was like hearing myself talk four years ago. Didn't I give that very same speech to her when she was whining about having to go to ballet classes?

She wobbled when she walked and had trouble stretching her legs. I was in the brink of pulling rank and demanding her to stay home but that familiar inner voice whispered that I shouldn't. So I didn't. But I went with her to class and sat there for the entire three hours to make sure she was okay. And she was. She danced like her life depended on it, through the pain and the discomfort. I saw her grimace every so often. She was sweating bullets and gulped down water as though she were in the desert. I kept quiet in my corner fighting the instinct to take her home and nurse her in bed.

In between routines she bantered with her classmates and giggled with them. Over what? I couldn't hear. They egged each other on the floor and clapped for well-executed steps. They were a happy supportive bunch. But more than that they were hard workers, athletes all, who pushed their bodies to the edge, falling and tripping and pushing some more.

At the end of the three hours, they were spent but still smiling. I thought to myself, how could they do all this? We all know the answer.

Wifebeater

I do not refer to that brainless, heartless entity who physically abuses his wife, the woman he has pledged to cherish for all the days of his life. I speak of that ubiquitous white, sleeveless, collarless undershirt that has come to be known in pop culture as the “wifebeater,” which in our country goes by the more benign name, sando.

The structure of a wifebeater is simple: it is white; made of 100-percent ribbed cotton with the neck and armholes often reinforced for durability. It usually has large armholes and a neckline that can reach as far down as mid-chest. It is also hangs down long enough to make tucking easier. It is always buttonless, collarless, and pocketless. It is generally tight but may, however, sag and loosen with continued washing and wearing. Using a wifebeater as something other than an undershirt intended to be hidden from view is generally considered a fashion faux pas. Decent, upstanding citizens should never be caught dead wearing wifebeaters or similarly revealing articles of clothing unless they are rappers, professional wrestlers, or Olympic weight lifters. 

Wikipedia defines “wifebeater” (also sometimes spelled “wife beater,” and still sometimes abbreviated simply as “beater”), as a slang term used in North America to refer to a tank-top style shirt when worn as a sole, outer layer (as opposed to being worn as an undershirt). This term is often seen as demeaning and is often associated with the similarly derogatory phrase “white trash.” I think the nickname originates from its association with aggressive, underclass males, usually living in poor conditions as frequently depicted in television shows and movies. It comes from the notion that the shirts are worn predominantly by stereotypical men who beat their wives.

This white sleeveless T-shirt's connection to domestic violence was first solidified by notorious Ike Turner in the late ‘60s who wore black tank-tops often and who was a longtime abuser of his wife, multi-awarded rock star, Tina Turner. This was reinforced in the public’s consciousness in the 1970s by box office blockbusters Rocky where both the Rocky Balboa and Polly characters sported the wifebeater and The Godfather trilogy, where James Caan as Santino, Al Pacino as Michael and Andy Garcia as Vincent, plus various Mafiosi characters with trigger-happy fingers, donned the white undershirt. In the 1980 movie Raging Bull, the main character played by Robert De Niro, a boxer, was commonly seen wearing tank-tops around the house, including the scene where he beat his wife. Countless drunk and disorderly domestic abuse suspects who shown being placed under arrest on the popular reality TV show Cops also wear such shirts. In Philippine cinema it is the likes of Ruel Vernal's character as the stepfather rapist

Here at home the sando is the de riguer house shirt for the pinoy every man and this isn't only limited to the masses. The rich, as well, happen to prefer the comfort it offers compared to other constricting types of shirts. I don't believe that a specific social class can be exclusively affiliated with the sando because just like slippers, rich and poor men alike, wear them around the house. I think the difference is that the underprivileged take more liberties and literally go to town with it. The rich, most often more educated, keep to their homes when they have their sando on. Another marked difference in the manner with which the sando is worn by the rich and the poor Filipinos is the preference for fit. Men in low-income neighborhoods are often seen in sandos that are very loose or more accurately, hanging on for dear life. They are almost always yellowed with repeated washing and the material, stretched and thinned out, the ribbing in the neckline and armholes almost nonexistent. The obvious reason for this is economics: clothes for lounging around the house will be worn until the final thread that holds it all together disintegrates. The rich, however, can afford to replace the worn-out ones as often as they like. Maybe it is not a preference after all, because some clearly do not have a choice but a default acceptance to use what is there.

I asked a gardener why it is that men like to wear wifebeaters not just at home but everywhere else and he said, "Masarap po kasi sa katawan, presko, aircon." Another man, a taho vendor, said, "e kasi, lahat naman nagsusuot nyan, di ako na rin at magaan sa katawan." I asked a friend's husband what he thinks of wifebeaters and he quickly dismissed me with "Oh, I don't use those." while his wife who was behind him kept motioning to me that he has close to a dozen in his closet, which he wears to sleep every night.

I speak for myself when I say that the entire world would be a better place without the wifebeater. Could there be anything more offensive in terms of menswear? Okay, I almost forgot: Borat’s yellow, slingshot swim trunks takes the cake. But the wifebeater comes in a very close second. 

Here are some reasons why. The first involves personal hygiene. The undershirt was first conceived of as something utilitarian: to insulate the body with an under-layer of clothing against the cold, and to absorb sweat brought on by heat.  Curiously, the wifebeater fails to fulfill any of these. The low, drooping neckline and the large scooped armholes are way too skimpy to protect against the cold, and by the same reason of lack of coverage, what seems to be the remaining half of a proper undergarment cannot absorb sweat where it matters — under the armpits. I can’t imagine a man whose sweat pools in his tummy region; it’s a bit of an odd thought. People, therefore, cannot be faulted for pinching their noses when they chance upon men in their wifebeaters — body odor and poor grooming practices have become synonymous with this little white piece of garment.

The second involves the argument that it fulfills aesthetic purposes. Fans of the wifebeater claim that if one has the physique of David Beckham then he has every right to sport a wifebeater. I say, however, that if one is lucky enough to be blessed with such a body, ditch the wifebeater and flaunt the chest instead. Why obstruct the jaw-dropping view? Isn’t it a bit sissy-ish to come within final few inches of baring all, then opting to hold back as though it were a last-minute chickening out? This only prompts the beholder to conclude that one is trying to hide something — the absence of six-pack abs, perhaps.
 
And how, pray tell, can the wifebeater ever be considered aesthetically sound when it was engineered to expose sprouts of unsightly underarm hair; when its whiteness highlights hideous stretch marks; when it accentuates a bulging belly; and when it flashes the occasional nipple?

When I spot a man in a wifebeater I always expect to see some accompanying scratching — whether it’s on the beer belly or on other parts of the nether regions capped by the final flourish of toe- or nose-picking for full effect. I don’t remember a time when the sight of it ever conjured thoughts of sexiness or handsomeness (Ed: Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire, perhaps?). So, avid fans of said shirt, take heed: wifebeaters are not sexy and never will be! Even if the wearer is Brad Pitt, that shirt will not be transformed into anything other than what it really is — a wifebeater. 

It doesn’t matter who you might be; you could be Daniel Craig as 007 or Gerard Butler in 300; if you wear a wifebeater outside the privacy of your own home (oh, wait: make that outside the comfort of your bedroom; no, wait: make that outside the confines of your bathroom), you will still look like a smelly, grimy, domestic abuser. You may be wearing the most expensive of bespoke trousers or the most prized pair of alligator lace-up shoes, but if your top is a wifebeater you remain exactly that.

Hold on, though: there may be one exception. Edward Norton, in his lead role in the movie American History X, is a totally different story. Because of the character he portrayed, because of the plot, and simply because he is Ed Norton, one of the most gifted yet underrated actors of all time, to my mind, he just might be forgiven — just might.

You might argue that you wear the wifebeater because your wife doesn’t seem to mind. Well, heaven bless her soul; she is sure to be reincarnated as Angelina Jolie for her tolerance.

What, then, may men wear in terms of undershirts? There are two options: first, there is the basic, versatile, white short-sleeved crew neck tee, which is as neat, as decent, and as sexy as undergarments go; second, there is the V-neck short-sleeved tee, which is a variation of the former. With these two choices available at the same price, there really is no excuse for the wifebeater to exist, certainly not in your wardrobe. None at all.

Mamma Mia!

I finally caught Mamma Mia, the movie.  I had a chance to watch the musical twice, both in London, but two years apart and both times, even with the different casts, it was excellent.  I didn't want to enter the cinema with high expectations but Meryl Streep truly pulled it off.  I can't say the same for Pierce Brosnan.  He looked too stiff and too self-conscious. Each time he broke into song he looked as though he were staring at himself in a mirror. Also, I couldn't get past his "Bond, James Bond" signature face, complete with the squint and one brow lifted.

Of course, the Abba songs were wonderful, they are a throwback to a time when melody and lyrics were what mattered most. This was way before avant garde tastes invaded the music industry and before deconstruction was ushered in by post-modernity. Many say "cheesy and downright baduy," but hey, I'll take the Abba sound over hip hop and country any day. There, I just gave away my age. Also, show me someone who won't break into dance when he hears "Dancing Queen" at full blast.

But what really moved me was the scene where mother helped daughter get ready for the wedding. That, to me, was the heart of the movie. I think of how now, everyone is so caught up with the dress designer, the make-up artist, photographer--all big names in the wedding industry and hired for hundreds of thousands that the mother of the bride can't even get a minute with her daughter before she marches down the aisle. Sad...

Maybe, we should make some changes and let the mother have more time with her daughter and get her more actively involved in the few hours leading up to the ceremony. Well, it's just a thought.

On Books

I stole some time away from what I should have been doing--my thesis--to read Jhumpa Lahiri's new collection of short stories called Unaccostomed Earth.  I was a fan of her first published work, also a short story collection called Interpreter of Maladies.  This first outing of hers had earned her the Pulitzer Prize so as you can imagine, it really was a tour de force.  

She then followed that up with a novel, The Namesake, which I don't think she has the writing stamina for.  Although Hollywood snapped it up and made it into a movie, I didn't enjoy it as much as I did her debut book.  Her style seems to be perfect for the shorts, but then again, I ain't no critic.  So... 

This third book of hers is a return to what she does best.  Please grab a copy.  Fully Booked is all out but National still has several.  You won't regret it; I promise.

Another book that can be one of your best investments if you have pubescent children is the Usborne Facts of Life: Growing Up.  It won The Times Best Information Book Award and covers facts about the birds and the bees and everything else about a child's changing body.  It is a wonderfully illustrated book and it uses a language that every pre-teen can be comfortable with.  Please go through it with your child.  It will be a most rewarding experience.

Pippi Turns 9!

Pippi turned nine years old today, hurray!  She wanted a small, simple party so she invited only her closest friends for pizza at CPK.  But she insisted on this cake by Marta Matute with matching cupcakes.  She collaborated with the artist to work out the design and the final graphics.  The theme was cooking--something she truly loves.  She keeps saying that she wants to be a doctor when she grows up but why do I have a feeling she will be something else altogether?

Bottle Scar; Not Battle Scar

The cast--that constricting, annoying contraption--is finally off of my forearm.  They doctor says the tendon is healing well but is still swollen deep inside, underneath the layers of skin and fat and muscle.  The arm feels weak right now, tender in certain spots, painful in others.  But there is nothing as unnerving as the sight of the scar!  Here's the big reveal...check out the photos...gross!  To think that a plastic surgeon worked on it.  It looks like a frankenstein-ish patch-up.  The doctor says it will definitely fade and recede into the skin more.  It bothers me only a wee bit because I'm just glad to have been put back together.

All Do, No Talk

There are very few things more agonizing than having to endure the company of a man who talks too much. Economy of words, I believe, is hard-wired into the male psyche, which makes the male motormouth a mutant — an abomination of the natural scheme of things. Unkind words, you think? Sorry, can’t help it.

If a man isn’t a lawyer arguing a case in court, or a preacher delivering a sermon, or a Kristo in a cockpit for a Sunday derby, a jeepney or bus conductor hailing commuters over, or an auctioneer with gavel in hand, he should be sparing in his words. The genius in the architecture of a man’s mind gives him the ability to condense his speech into only what is absolutely necessary, not a syllable more. If he spews them out at the rate of a couple of thousand per minute, something is awry. I have carried this bias for most of my life and have been fortunate enough to steer clear of such men until it finally backfired on me recently at the gym on a cruise ship where there were 1,800 passengers from 34 different countries.

I was running on a treadmill — it actually appeared more like I was running after my breath — huffing and puffing, battling against my cardio endurance, against all the unwanted weight I had to carry with each step, against my perseverance, and against my weakening will. I was soaked in sweat; my hair plastered firmly onto my forehead. There was a mirror some 20 feet behind me and I had a clear visual of my bottom bouncing away and swinging from left to right in perfect synchrony with my swishing ponytail as I struggled along. Eeew! Gross! But I couldn’t have walked out on my own body, could I? So I bobbed and heaved, grinned and bore it, and soldiered on. I then noticed a young man lifting free weights behind me, facing my bottom squarely. Poor thing, I thought to myself, considering the sight he had to endure.

Beside me, running on the next treadmill, was another woman, Caucasian, 50-ish, maybe 60, with a full head of gray hair, but she looked like she was ready to take on the New York Marathon. She cantered on, in perfect form and poise, blowing air out of her mouth at calculated intervals. I looked back at the mirror to check out her bottom, hoping that it would at least look her age so that I could feel a little better, but boy, I couldn’t have been more mistaken! She had a perfect little tush that sprouted lean, long legs — the faster to propel her along that treadmill with. I knew then that I was going to have what I call a “loser day” — when nothing seems to go right.

She was actually nice; I was the evil one — checking out her bum and wishing her to stumble on the treadmill simply because she was 100 times more physically fit than me. She made small talk and offered pointers on how I could maximize my oxygen consumption.

“Focus on something,” she urged me.

“I can’t,” I said. “The sight of my bum in that mirror hanging behind me is much too distracting.”

She broke into a giggle and gave me a thumbs-up for having a sense of humor. She then added, “Think good thoughts or home in on a single spot so you can concentrate, then be aware of your breathing. You want even inhalations and exhalations.”

Just then, a young man, the same one I spotted lifting weights earlier, positioned himself right in front of both of us, just several feet from our treadmills. He was Chinese, I’m quite certain. First, he did some deep stretches, glancing at me every once in a while, prompting me to think that, hey, this guy probably knows me. But I couldn’t place him; I had no recollection of his face and he couldn’t have been my daughters’ friend — I know each and every one of them. The lady next to me asked, “You know the young fellow?” I knew then that she was at least 60 because only 60-year-olds use the word “fellow” to mean “man.”

“No, in fact, I don’t,” I answered.

We couldn’t help but watch him as he lunged very close to the ground, did full back bends until his feet faced one way and his face, upside down, faced the other way. He also did front and side splits spreading his legs apart, completely perpendicular to his body, making me flinch and wonder if he had any groin at all. He did all these while casting glances my way, more often now and for longer periods this time. S***! I was in complete awe of how much control he had over his body.

“Perhaps he fancies you,” the lady running beside me joked.

I didn’t think it was funny at all; in fact, I was a bit offended. “I don’t think so,” I shot back, although her broaching the subject started to make sense. The young man/contortionist was almost facing me this time, like the whole performance was specifically meant for me.

The lady just smiled and ran on along. Meanwhile, the young man, finished with stretching, started a series of crisp, precise moves strung together into a routine. It was clearly some sort of martial art and there was no doubt that he was excellent at it except that he had no opponent against whom he had to defend himself, so my judgment of his skill could have been totally wrong.

Anyway, the woman turned to me again and said, “You know what I said earlier about this man showing off to you as a joke? Well, I’m not joking anymore, he’s deliberately catching your attention. Say something already, the poor thing! How much longer can he hold out, you think? One can only do so much stretching; he might dismantle his whole body!”

I thought that she was quite forthcoming but North Americans are no-nonsense in their dealings so I knew where she was coming from. I told her off as the young man continued prancing about — this time flashing me toothy, come-hither smiles: “Here’s the deal: I’m probably twice his age and I have six children, two of which are right around his age.”

She did a double-take and blurted, “I’ll say!” It distracted me from the matter at hand momentarily because nobody ever says “I’ll say” anymore — she was most definitely over 60!
I told her, “He’s been at it for about 20 minutes now. If he would only talk, he could spare himself all the effort, all the trouble of performing for my sake. If he just came up, got it over with, and spoke to me, I could tell him that I’m a mother of six and I definitely ain’t buying what he’s selling, although it’s an adrenalin shot to the middle-aged ego, thank you very much.”
She said, “Then just tell him, for Pete’s sake!” (There it was again; who says “For Pete’s sake” anymore?)

“I can’t!” I protested. “He might think me presumptuous. What if he were simply practicing his routine? It’s going to be so embarrassing.”

“Oh, we weren’t born yesterday. Between both of us, there’s probably more than a century of living. Of course we know what he’s doing!” She broadcasted the age thing a little too loudly for my taste. “The poor boy,” she continued. “If you don’t tell him, I will.”

And so she did! He stopped right in his tracks — in mid-step if I remember right, on one leg, arms stretched toward the ceiling, palms clasping one another. Then, he jerked upright, looked at me… and scampered away. I felt so bad for him. I had intended to say, “I have two daughters, 24 and 22; you might want to meet them someday,” but he vanished faster than I could say “Abracadabra.”

The lady asked me after the young man had left: “Was I mean?”

“Not really,” I replied. “You simply divulged my demographic: age, marital status, number of children. You might as well have spilled my weight and waistline measurement. What could be so mean about that?”

Then we both broke into laughter.

Okay, now I have to alter my contention. Unless a man has funny speech patterns, an irregular, squeaky voice, or an incredibly thick accent like David Beckham, Rafael Nadal or Steve Buscemi he better stand up and be heard to save himself time and effort in gaining something or someone he desires. The concept of manna from heaven is a superstition; good fortune doesn’t fall from the sky, one must earn it. Contrary to Philippine folklore, the guava never falls from the tree, one must flex his muscles and pick it.

So to all the gentlemen out there, don’t talk too much — but for heaven’s sake, say something!

Empty Nest

It was Mouse's first day in the big school today. I had been dreading this for months. Having lunch with her had been the highlight of my day for six years because the five other kids were never around. I had looked forward to 12:15 every weekday, which was always heralded by a big shout out of "I'm home!" from her. Well, no longer...

Weeks ago I said to her that I had a brilliant idea. I explained that I had found the perfect solution to our impending separation. I would enroll in her school, in her first grade class, buy the uniform in my size with black shoes and white socks to match, and be her classmate so I could be with her all day. She snickered. "Why?" I asked. "Is it because it's a silly idea?" "No, Mom," she said in between giggles. "I was imagining you in the uniform and it's super funny." The little twirp...

She started first grade today and is on a full-day schedule. Of a sudden I am lost; I don't know what to do with myself. Last night as I put her to sleep I told her, "Mouse, I'm not ready." She simply smiled and said, "Don't worry Mom, you'll be okay. I promise."

So, I took her to school, lingered for a long time and stole peeks in her classroom. I went home to have lunch and then picked her up an hour early because the separation anxiety was too much for me to handle. I scooped her up when she came out and hugged her tight. I asked if she had fun hoping to hear that no, she missed me. She said, "It was so much fun, Mom, I can't wait for tomorrow."

Letting go is truly a bitch! But then who listens to a whining mother? I guess it's time to get a life.

Salad Fixings

I found something very affordable and yummy at the supermarket, which I thought you might want to try if you enjoy that particular taste that only Japanese food have.  It's Sesame Salad Dressing, which surprisingly is made by McCormick and Japanese rice toppings sold in packets that I've taken to liberally sprinkling over a bed of greens.

For a quick meal, get a bowl of lettuce, over which drizzle the sesame dressing, then sprinkle generously with the Japanese topping.  It's sooooo delicious.  You don't really need all the glitz and glamour of tomatoes or eggs or cheese; just the dressing and the sprinkles are enough.  Your salad will be so tasty you won't need all the frills.

The trouble is the packets only have Japanese characters on them so I can't tell you the brand or what exactly it's called.  Please memorize their look from the photos and go from there.  You can find them in Rustan's or Shopwise.  Here's a tip.  Do stock up once you find them because they disappear overnight and are hardly ever available.  Oh, and a glass of chilled California Chardonnay will go perfectly with it.

Rants and Raves

If you don't know what SM is, you are not Pinoy.  It is an institution in this country and its chain of stores has become the masses' playground cum air conditioned park cum shopping Mecca cum bargain basement, where you can stretch your peso to its ripping point and come out with purchases that give you value for money.

I've heard someone say that if one wants to put a finger on the pulse of Pinoy culture, all he needs to do is hangout in SM and observe.  Kudos to this person for the accuracy of his statement.

But here's the thing: I dread, abhor, detest going to SM department store because of the crowds, the long and punishing walk from the parking lot to the store proper, the intolerable decibel levels, the human traffic, the clueless, uninformed and yet gung-ho and pushy sales staff who will do anything (cartwheels and headstands included) just to make a sale, the promo people who talk nonstop on microphones promoting sundry products, and the completely chaotic ambiance that never fails to give me a headache as big as Texas. 

I'm the type of person who likes to be left alone in a the quietest and most concealed of corners to work and I like to shop in exactly the same manner.  I can't stand sales people breathing down my neck because my thought process is strictly mental.  I deliberate in my mind so that when I set out to buy something, it is a final decision.  I can understand how outside help is crucial to undecided patrons who need second opinions at the point of purchase but I'm never one of those; I prefer to be left alone.  You know how it is in middleage when you become set in your ways?  Well, I'm there.  I have nothing against SM, I think their people are marketing geniuses, I'd just rather not shop there. 

Having said that, I take it all back because I find myself in SM at least four times a year for the children's needs.  You know how parents often say dramatically that they would do anything for their kids?  Well, this is the one time I wish I didn't feel that way.  I love them to pieces but not enough to inflict the whole SM experience on myself.  But I lie, because I go; there's is no other choice.  I could send the yaya, I've done it many times and continue to do so but there's always something that isn't done right or forgotten.

And so I keep going.  Why?  Because they have everything.  Like their commercial jingle goes: they've got it all!  It's the only place where I can find my daughters' mesh hair snoods for their ballet chignons; the only place where I can find a tiara and glass slippers for Mouse's school play; the only place where I can find a fairy wand and wings for Halloween; the only place I can find a cape, Harry Potter glasses, and gray knee socks for a costume soiree; and it's the only place where I can get all of these under one roof!

I was there again today, looking for bed sheets at reasonable prices and I endured all the noise, harassment, cajoling, coercion and clear BS of the sales staff--five of them who didn't have anything else to do because I was the only one in the linen section, who all wanted a piece of the action and who clearly didn't understand thread count and dimensions, who seem to have made everything up as they went along--all because I FOUND exactly what I wanted and for a song!  I walked out of there with a mammoth headache but with the best loot ever--4 sets for the kids of flat and fitted sheets, duvet covers, and pillow cases, all with 500 thread count made with the softest Egyptian cotton with a perfect sheen--a slight glimmer--perfect! and for a fraction of what you'll pay elsewhere plus another 20% off on top of that!  Please go, the sale lasts another couple of weeks.

That's my love-hate relationship with SM.  My body is comatose right now because of the harrowing experience but my mind is a happy duck nonetheless.  Good bargains give me a flood of endorphins.  Yey!

Royce Chocolates

I am a certified, confessed chocoholic.  If there were rehab centers for chocoholics I should probably check in ASAP.  I can wipe out an entire sampler box of chocolates effortlessly and it takes every iota of self control in my body to stop at several pieces.

My favorite are the Belgian ones; I find that their proportion of cocoa to butter to sugar to milk best suites my palate.  They are velvety smooth, not too sweet, and they don't scratch the throat on the swallow.  The American ones are too sugary; the Italian, too chocolaty; the French too buttery; the Swiss, too milky.  But noteworthy are the standout products of pastry chef Thomas Haas of Vancouver whose gold leafed truffles are to-die-for.  Also, the Amedei brand in Tuscany is a cut above the Italian lot.  

However, I do get just as much pleasure from eating the local chocnut or those chocolate gold goins from Goya.  At the end of the day, I'll eat anything as long  as it has a tad of cocoa in it.  Mouse has inherited my chocolate lunacy.  You think there's a gene that carries chocolate obsession?     

Anyway, Royce chocolates, a Japanese brand, is a throwback to my younger days because I used to get them at the Mitsukoshi department store basement in Ginza, Tokyo and they were only available there; nowhere else.  I haven't been back to Japan in 12 years so when my friend told me that Royce is now available in Konbini Japanese Store in Connecticut St., Greenhills, I rushed over and almost threw myself at the pile of boxes of the prized Royce chocolates.  

A caveat though: they don't come cheap--P620 for a puny box but I guarantee you, you will forget all your troubles, heartaches, and even your name.  I'm sure if I say you'll forget your husbands there will be panic buying from women all over the metropolis.

Try the cacao flavor if you're a purist like me.  But if you're more adventurous, the Henessy flavored ones are a killer.  It comes in a silver, quilted, insulated carry case stuffed with dry ice for the ride home.  Since when has chocolate become this grandiose?  Well, it's a Japanese thing.  They package even the simplest, most humble of goods as though they were jewelry.  Please try it.  I promise you won't regret it.  They are well worth the calories.

I made Mouse try it and she completely flipped.  After the first bite her eyes, which already occupy half of her face because they are so huge, got even bigger, they seem like they were going to pop out.  She shook her head; stomped her feet, wiggled her bum; and chanted something indecipherable.  I seriously thought she was having a seizure.  She's a good actress, that one.  

Since we all have to share one box, each of us only gets a few slices.  I'm such a cheapskate; I'm not willing to shell out any more for another box.  Mouse has now resorted to bribing me to give her more.  She says she'll never be a bad girl ever again if I give her just one more slice.  Sometimes, she's too smart for her own good.  She's six going on sixty. But right now, I'm not buying any of her bargains.  Heaven help her future husband.

The Role of Artists

Belli asked me some weeks back why the world has artists and what purpose does art serve.  I told her I needed to get back to her on that one because I had no ready answer.  I did, after a day or two.

I told her that aside from the obvious, which is entertainment that all artists provide the general public with, be they visual or performance artists, actors, writers, musicians, their role is to ask or pose questions.  Their art should bring focus to issues that need to be addressed.  As a writer, allow me to say that some think we have the answers.  We don't; we are as clueless as everyone else.  Those who insist that they do should probably not be trusted.  But in this profession, I think we have the duty to ask questions, to highlight issues that need to be addressed for changes to happen whether it involves interpersonal relationships, governance, environmental concerns, anything under the sun, which when processed as an individual or community, may alleviate our lives.

So, Belli asked me, "You mean, a Picasso painting of a woman with distorted features is an attempt to ask a question?"  Baffled by the intensity of her words I tried a good out.  I answered, "Sure.  The lady is portrayed with distorted features because her life is not in order, maybe even troubled to some extent, or conflicted at the very least.  So Picasso asks the viewer to contemplate on what causes this and what can be done to avoid it or remedy it."  

After some thought, she said, "Hmmmm..."  I don't know whether I made sense or not.

One Mother's Wisdom

An insightful comment posted by reader Mary O' in response to yesterday's entry When Parenting Turns Scary is worthy of mention.  I think it more than merits space here.  She said about parenting, "It helps to remember to listen ( to children) with the intent to understand not with the intent to respond."  There is so much wisdom in her words.  This is a gift to all parents.  Thank you, Mary O'.  

I received a lot of responses in my personal email address from those who obviously know who I am.  I figured many are not ready to openly discuss the delicate issues on parenting over a forum as public and as democratic as the Internet.  But hopefully in time, we will all get the courage to speak without fear and reservation.  The object of concern here is our children--the most precious part of our lives and bringing attention to issues surrounding them in the hope of having a better grasp of their world is something we need to champion.

We have Alcoholics Anonymous, I think we should have Parents Anonymous or some similar support group for one of the most if not the most difficult and complicated vocation known to man.

When Parenting Turns Scary

This is a belated post because I needed to distance myself from the issue before writing about it.  Yes, It is weighty.  I was wary of publishing my take on the subject for fear of being judged but on second thought I had put up this blog in part to engage parents, mothers especially, in active exchanges concerning real issues.  I had committed myself to this cause and I can't cower now.  

I was at a dinner a few weeks before coming home when a good friend sidled up to me and brought up the issue of mothering young adults--twenty somethings.

"This business of their relationships, you know, it tortures me," she said and I listened intently.  "I really am clueless about how to deal with it.  Their boyfriends and girlfriends come to the house, hang out there, which I like because I would rather have them at home than anywhere else.  But no matter how many times I impose the no-boyfriends-in-the-bedrooms rule, they end up there anyway.  I wasn't born yesterday; I know what happens in there.  But birth control is something we never discuss at home.  I don't know why...we just don't."

I picked it up from there.  I asked, "Why, is it because you think bringing it up might be misconstrued as permissiveness, as a gesture that shows you condone the behavior."  

"Exactly," she answered.  "So we just don't discuss it."

I let her ramble on the whole night, listening closely to her very real concerns and commiserating but opting not to say anything.  Mothering is an extremely personal thing; what works for one may not work for the other.  I admit, I didn't want to be held accountable...

Raising Maverick and Kitty, now 24 and 22, is never a walk in the park.  It is more like a soldier's tour of duty in war-ravaged areas.  Their generation is plagued by much more vicious threats: readily available recreational drugs, free flowing alcohol--sobriety issues; relaxed if not absence of rules on dating and coupling; relaxed gender rules; muddled sexual orientations and preferences; full disclosure of personal life on the Internet via Face Book and the like; rampant eating disorders; clinical depression and a host of other psychological disorders--things we grew up without and are ill-equipped to handle. 

I have faced each and every single one of the issues I've listed as a mother and continue to face them.  How?  Sadly, there is no formula.  Have I failed?  Yes, many times over, I have failed the girls by not being exactly what they need or saying or doing exactly what is essential at the very moment they need it.  But I get up instantly after each fall and soldier on.  Have they failed me?  Never.  Because in my mind, they are only as equipped as I have armed them; only as good as I have mothered them.  

When they came of age, I discussed the issue of sexuality in depth with them and have helped them gain access to gynecologists and birth control.  Many are scandalized by how a good Catholic can do such things.  I take my faith seriously but I never let it come between my most important job here on earth, which is raising happy, well-adjusted adults.  We are parenting our children in post-modern times; we can't employ methods of the past millennium.  We have all heard of extremist Catholic schooled girls who grow bellies and eject babies on the first year they step into the real world.  I can't risk that.  I can't delude myself into thinking my children are nuns and problem free.  We are all problem plagued but we tackle it the best way we know.  So I get into the frey and offer support where I can and resistance when I must.  All we really have is affection that is unconditional--the fierce love that we hope will sustain us throughout.

Before the evening was over that friend also asked if I preferred to know the goings-on in my children's relationships.  I simply smiled at her, dodging the question entirely.  Now, I think I'm ready to answer it, if this may be considered an answer at all.  I'd rather not be privy to their private lives.  Fights, arguments, squabbles--these are things better kept from parents because even after children had forgiven their partners already, parents retain the memory, which ultimately affects their view of the children's partners.  Personally, I would rather not know.   However, I'd rather the child come to me than to someone else ill-equipped to give advice.  So, again, we have a major dilemma.  What would you do?

 

When Partners Cheat

I spent Saturday evening with what I have come to call "the usual suspects," my tiny and tight group friends: K and A; J and M; and occasionally Big A, who is all over the place busy with environmental and Eco tourism concerns.  This is a group I simply cannot live without--a network of true and comfortable friendships.  

Over drinks and A's wonderful, home-whipped spaghetti with white truffle sauce, the conversation ventured toward the delicate topic of infidelity.  As expected, the repartee instantly became animated as valid points were raised and argued.  It was an interesting and may I say, healthy exchange between middle-aged men and women who have seen the good, the bad, and the ugly sides of pedestrian life and who have now made peace with being halfway done with this business called living.

The scratched and worn adage of "One must cut clean from any relationship before picking up with someone else," came up.  But we don't really believe this, do we?  Often, the spare is already waiting in the wings before a discontent party completely disengages from his original relationship.  Why?  Because it makes the shift much easier, because it serves as the coup de grace, which finally gives one the balls to up and leave.  We are all aware of how improbable it is to uproot oneself from one's comfort zone without a similar replacement in which to take shelter.  We all condemn those who do it this way--slingshot between relationships, but in reality, it is the path most travelled.

The big question we posed to each other was, "How can one tell if his partner is cheating?"  I ventured to say that it really isn't one definitive thing; it normally is a string of event-incidents-changes that gives away the erring party.  I speak here of men and women and it could be a sudden focus on prettifying the self (new hairdo, wardrobe, escalating dermatologists bills etc.); the over-solicitousness toward the present partner brought on by guilt--sort of an overcompensation for the crime in progress; a marked change in schedule--a manic pace of once nonexistent appointments; generally stealthy and secretive comings and goings; deliberate provocation of the partner to start fights in order to justify a walking out or a getaway for a tryst with the paramour--stuff like that.  But hey, what do I know? 

In summary, the exchanges were mostly funny, at times absurd.  It was a great way to entertain ourselves--us oftentimes jaded mid lifers who navigate through life in the best way we know, oftentimes clumsily.  The evening was testament to the quality of friendship that has taken on a life of its own through the decades--an intimate and fearless exchange of our deepest, darkest thoughts tempered by lots of affection and genuine concern for each other.

On the drive home, in between lucidity and liquor-induced mini comas, a scary thought knocked on my brain: what if it happens to one of us?  It sobered me up.

Home

I am finally home after two months.  Which words does one use to aptly describe a homecoming after prolonged absence?  There are none, I think.  But the familiar bed, my very own bathroom, my dresser and closets through which I can navigate blind, give me a warm, cozy feeling that assures me I am safe, all is well, I am home.

There is that ache for family--daughter, sister, and brother--whom I said goodbye to hours before boarding the plane which I know will dull in time.  But I hold on to the bags of memories collected during the visit with them in the previous two months, which should be enough to sustain me for another year.

I am reluctant to get back into the stream of things just yet; buying time, dragging my feet.  Why?  I don't really know...maybe it's fatigue of mind and body, as though I lost some of myself in trying to please and appease certain personalities in the past two months...maybe jetlag...maybe pure and simple indolence...

I look forward to having no household chores--thank heavens for our yayas who make life much easier for all of us.  I look forward to writing again, reading again.  I know I should call friends to catch up on things but what do I say and where do I start?   I have only one close friend with whom I can have a relaxed conversation where we sort of say nothing at all and just take deep breathes but understand each other perfectly.  We had several minutes of that earlier; it was nice.

My son, Bidi, missed his best friend, Tino, so much that he immediately arranged a playdate with him.  I overheard their phone conversation hours after we arrived and it went like this (of course I couldn't hear Tino's responses but one can surmise what kind of friendship is at work here by the context of Bidi's statements):

A: Hey, how was Italy, did anything special happen?

A: Really?  Okay...

A: Can you please come to my house tomorrow?  I have this toy called Bakugan, it's sort of a ball that transforms into a monster when it touches metal.  I want to show it to you because I know you'll like it.

A:  Great!  Can you please try to come early?

A:  Can you please bring the avatar DVD so we can watch together?

A:  Thanks, I can't wait for tomorrow.  Okay, don't forget to come tomorrow okay?  Make sure...

Afterwards, I thought of who I might be dying to see and couldn't come up with any names.  Belli, Pippi, and Mouse said they missed their friends but none of them was as eager as Bidi was to touch base with Tino, his good friend since Kindergarten, who uncannily looks just like him.  I think there's a real connection there.

I guess he equates being home with spending time with Tino; I equate it with familiar corners, familiar scents, of course, stress and chaos as well, but the familiar kind--the kind that comes from the ones I love.

 

Can Do

The “can do” attitude opens any door for any man including any woman’s bedroom, any place, anytime. Now, if only he had it…

The Sixties feminist movement had turned gender roles on its head and spun it around many times over but now, in what we call the “post-feminist era,” the world acknowledges that female empowerment does not necessarily mean pitting men against women. It finally recognizes that the emancipation of women need not cancel peaceful and gracious coexistence between the sexes. It is, therefore, quite a relief that catering to the opposite sex has ceased to be viewed as gender weakness. But in spite of all these, doting men are harder to find than a President capable of elevating the plight of our country.

I consider myself fortunate to have been raised in a family with “can do” men who are readily available for assistance of any sort. They don’t make a conscious effort; it is something that comes as naturally as brushing their teeth in the morning. From extending a guiding grip in crossing the street, to carrying packages, to lighting cigarettes from way across the table, to abandoning previous engagements to lend an ear to a troubled sibling, they know that the words: “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” instantly takes the edge off of any woman’s distress.

Now that we are preoccupied with very different lives and responsibilities and live halfway across the globe from each other, I have forgotten how heartwarming it is to hear a man say, “Akong bahala.” These words, said: “I’ll take care of it,” in English, when uttered by a man, have become a scarce commodity since they have somehow come to allude to a woman’s weakness. The modern woman instantly becomes defensive the moment she hears them.

Here, then, is the question: do women automatically respond in kind and cater to chivalrous, generous, and nurturing men or do men become solicitous because women are subservient? Do the math. But honestly, when it concerns relationships, I don’t think there’s any figuring this equation out because we’re either in too deep in power play or we have simply stopped caring and have focused instead on our own selves, the other person be darned.

These days, I think that a woman probably has to pay for such privileged treatment and boy, I couldn’t have been closer to the truth! I was onboard a ship where 50 percent of the crew of 1,000 is Filipino and in the service industry, especially in the cruise industry where passenger satisfaction translates to revenue, there is nothing more important than the “can do” attitude. I have spoken to our kababayans—our modern-day heroes—who have left home to sustain their families financially, inadvertently propping up our economy. They all concur that the one thing that has secured their tenure in this highly competitive profession is the “can do” attitude. I bump into “can do” men around the ship on an hourly basis, in their starched uniforms with shiny brass buttons stuck on their epaulets, aching to be of service. Did I just die and get catapulted to heaven?

Thirty-year-old Ian Bautista, the ship’s IT technician who has been with the cruise industry for five contracts (each contract is six months long) says that, “We’re here to help every passenger; there is nothing we cannot do for them. If their request is something out of our area of expertise, we endorse is to someone qualified—immediately! Hindi ho pwede yung ‘hindi kaya’ dapat parating ‘kaya.’”

Guest Relations Officer, Charlie Salazar’s standing tag line is, “Please let me know if there’s something I can help you with,” and he means it!

Ariel Macala, the ships Cellar Master who has been in the industry for 11 years says, “We can do anything; we do everything to give the guests the best vacation of their lives.”

I asked Head Bartender of ten years, Inocencio Gabuyo, if he ever gets tired of maintaining the “can do” attitude and he answered, “I’ve never thought about it that way; it’s part of my job, part of me, it’s just always there in my head.”

Redentor Rint, Assistant Sommelier, who has served nine years in the cruise industry, said, when asked how often homesickness gets in the way of a job well-done, “It’s always there; we miss our families, but we’ve been able to do it and we do it well.”

It is some kind of Puritan work ethic that these OFWs have, which has sustained them through bouts of homesickness and separation anxiety, it is their inner reserves of emotional strength and fortitude of character that perpetuates their lifestyle and chosen profession. It is often desperate financial need that drives these men overseas in search of better fortune but many who did not adopt the “can do” attitude have tried and failed.

I asked all of them if upon returning home to their wives and families, they sustain the same attitude and they answered that sure, they do. And their wives in turn pamper them.
So, I asked them the same chicken or egg question, “Are they subservient because you cater to them or is it the other way around?” Inocencio Gabuyo’s answer was, “Does it really matter?”

Not willing to be silenced just yet, I badgered them some more and asked if it sometimes works the other way around, if having to uphold the “can do” attitude on the job at all times exhausts them, making them cranky and impatient with their own families. They all gave me a definitive “No”. Their wives should be so lucky!

Gone are the days when Filipino men fetched water for their intended and serenaded them atop balconies. Nowadays, it is cause for a woman to jump for joy if a man as much as opens the door for her or offers to pay the dinner tab. I’m not saying that those were better days—definitely not—because women didn’t have a voice or a vote back then. We are perfectly fine where we are in time and place; all I’m saying is, wouldn’t it be nice?

Here in the home country, culture dictates that the Filipino man must be pampered by maids and babied by his mother. A wife who doesn’t oblige him is considered unfit. But when he is thousands of miles away from home, sailing in the high seas, toiling to serve total strangers with the widest of smiles and the most enthusiastic of spirits, he finds the biggest treasure any man could ever discover: generosity of self.