Fourtyfied

The Wisdom of Youth

2008-12-11T16:44:00.000-08:00

I received an email from a 20-something reader with whom I have been in constant touch for the past several months. His reaction to my series of misfortunes has been so inspiring--completely unexpected from a 20-something male--that I am compelled to post it here (with his permission of course). He will remain anonymous but please let me say that he graduated from the Ateneo and is a budding writer. I have always looked forward to his correspondence which are filled with nuggets of insight that belie his youth. I am sure that very soon, he will burst forth into the literary scene and takes everybody's breath away. And hopefully, by then, I will have the honor of formally introducing him to everyone. Here is what he wrote:

Good day. I don't really know if this famous saying still holds true, coming all the way back from the biblical times; but St. Peter once said that 'the greater the darkness, the greater the light'. I've had a fair share of major screw-ups in life lately, too. Ranging from an advanced stage of dengue fever to conflicts of interest in the nuclear and extended family...Maybe it's not a bad thing to have bad events in our lives. No. Scratch that. Maybe it's really bad to let bad things happen. I don't know. Hay. Anyway, I just find this funny, but reading your blog makes me feel light. Your funny reactions and comments to serious events just make me laugh my head off. But still nothing beats the laughing power of Spongebob Squarepants. Anyway, (one big ANYWAY. haha) I hope you get to rise up from all that lingering trouble, which, I guess, you are able to without hardship.

Maraming Salamat, po at Mabuhay Ka!

Far From Over

2008-12-10T15:10:00.000-08:00

My streak of bad luck is far from over. Yesterday, while doing the grocery shopping at Shopwise at 9 am, My wallet and cell phone were pickpocketed. I saw the man clearly and knew he was hovering along the same aisle but my mind was admittedly somewhere else--my fault! I am normally very vigilant with my belongings and have not had any of my valuables stolen or lifted in the last thirty years--not here (i was in Divisoria just the previous day), and not abroad--where bands of gypsies abound. In my wallet were cards that will take an eternity to replace and P11,000 that I hope would be put to good use, i.e. feed the thief's family.

The staff of Shopwise were paralyzed the moment I informed them that I had been pickpocketed. The simply stared at me in disbelief! The man, thirty-something, in shorts and a polo shirt, was maneuvering a cart in my aisle and bumped me. That alone should have rang alarm bells but like I said, I was in stupid land, daydreaming. Anyway, after he had scurried off, I instinctively reached inside my satchel, groped for my wallet and found it missing. I scampered after the man, while asking for assistance from the staff loitering around. No one responded, I couldn't catch up so the man got away.

I asked if they had a head of security who could assist me. They didn't. I asked if they could contact the guard quick so he could seal the doors and trap the man in. They said he would have already gotten away because they had no radios to warn the guard. I was livid at this point but I counted to ten. These people sell meat and produce and dry goods, they are not the FBI. And so...

There are big lessons to be learned here: never daydream!!!

What gets me most is the thought of having to line up for hours at the LTO to have my driver's license replaced and at U.P to have my U.P ID replaced. After lunch yesterday, after I had gotten partial function of my brain and motor skills back, I replaced my cell phone and SIM card. So yes, I have retained my cell number but have lost over 700 entries in my personal phone directory of friends from decades ago and all across the globe--this is the biggest loss. I will not be able to reconstruct that even if I kill myself trying.

I am appealing to friends who may be reading this to please text me your number (I have retained my old number) so I can have your number again and resume life as we knew it. I am glad yesterday is over.

Grad School Chic

2008-12-08T17:17:00.001-08:00

Maverick turns 25 in two days, on December 11 exactly. She won't be home with us then, but she will arriving on December 16 to spend the holidays with family. Here are some photos she sent of her and her classmates monkeying around for a breather, I guess, before hell week descends on them, and all requirements need to be turned in, and the semester comes to a close. As always, humor never fails to save the day. She looks well. I am happy.

An Eating Tournament

2008-12-07T05:14:00.000-08:00

Every year at Christmas time we are invited by the Munoz Family of Angeles Pampanga for lunch to celebrate their matriarch's birthday. Today, she turned 97. And every year, the spread is always two dining rooms-full of native Filipino food, enough to feed Ethiopia with left overs to spare. I am told that the preparations and cooking begin two days before and involve battalions of cooks and prep assistants who do nothing but chop and dice until the cows come home.

The food is always the best to be had as far as I am concerned. Isn't it legendary--this Kapampangan cuisine? Why? Because during the second world war, when the Japanese and American invasions happened, the rich Manilenos who employed the best chefs trained by the Spaniards retreated to nearby Pampanga to go in hiding. So Manila court food was literally transplanted to Pampanga. Thus, this rich culinary traditions grew in that place and was handed down through generations of Kapampangan women who are practically born in the kitchen.

The Munoz house itself, a 54-year-old structure built by my children's Grandpa, the late Remigio, sits on a hectare of land. the place is a throw back to olden times when there were hand pumps in the backyard, when huge dirty kitchens were built behind the main house, when orchards where built for a family's private supply of food. Roaming the property is like a walk down memory lane, when as children in the province we knew and wanted nothing better than that bucolic lifestyle and uncomplicated surroundings.

There must have been over 200 guests who hardly made a dent in the food. There were lots to spare. Everything was delicious but the star of the spread was the binalu--a type of sinigang that is cooked inside bamboo cuttings (called Balu) and slow stewed over live coals in the backyard. They use kamias and sampaloc to sour up the broth and it is the best ever soup you will try in this country; I swear.

Notice how many sauces are served with the dishes? Kampampangans will die if they don't have one millions condiments to eat with their food that's why they have pretty jaded palates. So they pile on even more sauce--too rich for my taste, actually. I kind of prefer the organic taste of food, not wanting it layered with many different tastes brought on by sauces. But it's good to have rich, palate-electrocuting stuff once in a while.

Sisig: my absolute favorite

Bringe

Tawilis

Ukoy

Rellenong Talong

Inihaw na Hito

Steamed vegetables

Tapang Kalabaw

Mango Buro and Mango Salad

Longganisa

Pancit Palabok with Chicharon Galore

Pure taba ng talangka

Binalu

Binalu rice cooked inside bamboo cuttings

Binalu broth stewing inside bamboo poles over live coals

The Height of Narcissism

2008-12-07T02:24:00.000-08:00

I attended a formal event last week for which I had to shun the jeans and white t-shirt for a few hours and really put on the glitz, big time. There were only two more weeks before the occasion when I realized that I had nothing to wear so I turned to Mr. Inno Sotto, who in my opinion, is one of the, if not the, greatest fashion fairy godmothers in the country. When I told him I had only two weeks of lead time, (all designers ask for at least a month with at least three fittings) he didn't even bat an eyelash. He said, "Doable."

Oy!, I thought to myself, if he can come up with a decent dress, then he rules! But of course, being the procrastinator that I am, there were only 12 days left when I came to see him. He said, "You have to do two fittings. One this week and another next week."

I had that first fitting with just the lining of the dress. They needed to take it in in several places because I had lost even more weight since they last measured me, the previous week. Lo and behold I had to rush to L.A. to be by Maverick's side after that and I arrived ONE day before the event with absolutely no more time for repairs in case the dress didn't fit right. I was very anxious when I finally had the dress in my hands. But, being the genius that he truly is, Voila! it fit like a glove and with not a single stitch out of place. Some said, "Sure, he has done for you before, he knows your body type, that's no mean feat." But still, I say, "Genius is as genius does."

Mean words have been hurled his way since his late beloved partner, Richard Tan's, death. They claimed his art has suffered. Clients had an exodus to other designers. But you know how the infamous crab mentality (like crabs climbing on top of each other, those below take others down on their mission to reach the top) of the pinoys work: you're already down on the pavement and people will delight in kicking you even more.

I had no date for the evening. I was thinking Daniel Craig in Bond's legendary tuxedo on my arm would have been the perfect accessory. No, maybe Roger Federer. No, maybe Alex Rodriguez--Madonna will eat me alive! No, maybe Robert Pattison--cougar alert! Zues would have been the perfect choice. But since Zeus was holding court in Olympia I turned and did better thing. I took Belli with me.

We ended up having the time of our lives, chit-chatting the whole night, and giggling away! She is by far the best date I've ever had!

I was debating on whether to post these photos. But given that I have no photo of just the dress (it's still at the cleaners) and I don't know how to put a heart graphic on my face as some bloggers do to conceal their identity, I'm going face commando here. Anyway I know that all you readers are my relatives (thanks for following the blog. I love you all). I'm posting them risking ire and judgement but I do so with an official declaration that it is the height of narcissism! But may I please argue that it may be warranted this one time since, in the words of Julia Roberts in the Erin Brokovich movie, "It took a village to raise that cleavage."

In fact , when I looked in the mirror after putting on the dress, I was quite pleased with results of the effort Inno put in. I started getting smug, I admit--feeling self-important, posing a la Binibining Pilipinas for Pippi who was taking the pictures. But when Belli blurted, "Mom! What are you doing posing like that? You're a mom!" I stopped in my tracks and reflected briefly on what she had said.

Really...there's nothing like an innocent child's words to bring one back down to earth and keep him grounded.

All I can say is Inno Sotto rules, always have, always will! Thank you so very much, Inno!

Knight in Shining Armor: Millennium Style

2008-12-02T23:29:00.000-08:00

On a recent shoe-shopping trip with a girl friend, as we sat barefoot on a quilted ottoman contemplating dozens of pairs of shoes in dizzying colors strewn about the floor, an image of Prince Charming slipping the glass slipper on Cinderella’s foot popped into my mind.

“You think knights in shining armor and princes charming still exist today?” I asked her. She snapped her head to face me and with a raised eyebrow said, “You on something? Stupid question, so here’s your stupid answer: there’s Osama Bin Laden, there’s the Bali bombers, there’s George Bush, there’s O.J. Simpson…sure, yeah, they exist.” She then proceeded to pay for her one-pair purchase while I walked out empty handed. Shocked? Well, we were both under the weather that day so the shoes stayed in the store.

Because I thoroughly enjoyed my friend’s reaction, I ventured to ask other people the same question, not necessarily in search of answers, but for the entertainment value that their facial expressions and sarcasm may dish out.

But first, I had to set parameters with which to define the term “knight in shining armor” in the event that I am asked to be more specific. Here’s what I came up with: according to www.phrases.org.uk knight in shining armor means, a person, usually a man, who comes to the aid of another, usually a woman, in a gallant and courteous manner.
The present-day use of this phrase is, of course, figurative and refers back to the notion of gallant knights saving fair maidens in distress. The reality behind that imagery is dubious and no doubt owes much to the work of those Victorian novelists and painters who were captivated by the chivalrous ideal of an imagined court of Camelot. Nevertheless, knights did wear armor, and that worn by royalty and the high nobility was highly polished and did in fact gleam and shine.

Today, it may simply mean, according to www.idioms.thefreedictionary.com someone who helps you when you are in a difficult situation.

And so I asked a thirty-something cousin if she believed in present-day knights in shining armor by first defining its modern meaning, which, simply put, is a helpful man and she said, “Whatever. You can define and simplify it all you want, there are no knights in shining armor, duh! It’s all about female empowerment, as in, do it for yourself and by yourself.” That was pretty cutting, so I moved on.

I bumped into an old French teacher, who is now in her late sixties and asked her the same thing. She said, “Yes, he lives in my mind. The real knight I have at home snores, won’t help me with carrying grocery bags unless I threaten to eat the sinigang na bangus belly before he gets to it, and once handed me the screw driver when I asked him to help mend my broken eyeglass frame. But oh, in my mind, he looks like the young Robert Redford in Out of Africa and he would slay lions for me. The one at home wouldn’t even scrunch out a cockroach to stop me from screaming; he just hands me a rolled up newspaper.

I was unfazed. I knew someone out there would be a positivist like me, so I forged on. At the beach with some friends two weekends ago, I met somebody’s 23-year old niece—a pretty girl who had just landed her first job. Over margaritas, I asked her the same question. “Sure there are,” she answered, “good looking men atop cantering white stallions with swords drawn. The problem is, they just keep galloping past me or if at all they stop, they do so just long enough to cause heartache and then move on to their next conquest.” Oh no, I thought to myself, so young yet already so jaded.

Done with females, I badgered a 46-year old male friend to share his thoughts on the matter. “What? Knight in what? That’s the problem with you women, you romanticize everything. We will help you when we can, if we have the time, and we don’t need no armor to do it. What else? Ha? Slay dragons? Mosquitos pwede pa.” No luck here either.

Desperate at this point, I went to my all time go-to guy: my brother. “You think there are modern-day knights in shining armor?” I asked. He hunched his shoulders, shook his head and said, “Ano nanamang kalokohan yan?” He gets exasperated because of the many social experiments I conduct for this column and with him always as guinea pig. “Nothing, I’m just asking.” Of course I was lying. He took a few moments to consider the question then said, “Yeah, me. I’m that by default because you’re always in trouble. I’m always having to rescue you.” “And you feel bad about it?” I snapped at him like a spoiled brat. “No, but please try to space the incidents out so I get some reprieve, okay?” he teased.

After we spoke I contemplated what he had said. He was right, like he always is. I do run to him for anything and everything and each time he was there for me. The last time this happened was when he was all the way in South Africa. He asked me over the phone, “Do you need me there?” I didn’t answer because I didn’t want to impose. Nevertheless he said, “I’ll catch the next flight out. I can be there in 36 hours.” And he was. Plus, he never fails to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. Everything will be alright.”

Just before I sat down to write this piece, I mentioned to my 12-year-old daughter over dinner that there might not be knights in shining armor anymore in this post-modern world. She disagreed, “That’s not true Mom. Remember that man in the Seattle airport shuttle who helped you?” That is one story that merits a retelling a hundred times over.

A year ago, I was in an airport shuttle in Seattle. The bus was half full and the atmosphere was serene. Directly behind me was a young man, 20-ish, his ears plugged into an iPod, his hands, thumbing his PSP. I reclined my seat back to get comfortable as we rolled along and started reading a book when I felt a pounding behind me. I turned around and saw him kicking my seat. I said nicely, “Excuse me, please try not to do that, thanks.” This only provoked him to kick harder. Then in a raised voice he said, “Put your seat back up! Put it up; I need leg room!” The entire busload of passengers looked at him, which only made him shout louder, “Put up the seat!”

“No thanks,” I answered. “I like it the way it is.” He then let out a barrage of expletives, complaining how cramped he was. So I explained in a normal tone that it was my seat and I had the right to do with it as I pleased, that half the passengers on the bus had their seats reclined, and that no one else was complaining. After I had turned back around and resumed my position, he raised both feet onto my headrest, hitting the top of my head in the process.

“Could you not do that?” I said, now trembling with anger.

He answered, “No, they’ll stay there until you put up your seat.”

“Had you asked nicely in the first place, you would be enjoying more leg room by now, but no thanks. The seat stays reclined.”

At this point, I was livid and ready for anything. Then, from out of the blue, somewhere off to my right, a huge man (over six feet and over 200 pounds), mid-30s, whom I oddly did not notice before, screamed at him in defense of me. “Leave the lady alone!” The manboy attempted to argue with him but the gentle giant said, “It’s her seat; if you have a problem move somewhere else. But leave her alone. You got that?” The manboy didn’t as much as breathe after the forceful dressing-down he got.

But then the deed doesn’t have to be all that dramatic for a man to be considered a knight. Random acts of kindness—so rare these days—are enough to merit a knight’s title: a helping hand; a sincere inquiry about how one’s day went; a please or a thank you; a big, warm hug; or in my case these very words—eleven of them: “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. Everything will be alright.” He might not be able to fulfill all of that or even half of that but the gesture itself and those soothing words always manage to assuage fear and anxiety and appease a troubled heart. It’s works like magic.

There are modern-day knights in shining armor. Believe me; there are.

Harvard Business School: Educating Leaders

2008-12-01T00:23:00.000-08:00

The idea kept floating around in my mind. “We educate leaders who make a difference in the world.” This is the mission statement of the Harvard Business School (HBS), a century old educational institution founded as part of Harvard University in Massachusetts, USA.

I entered the Tower Club in Makati, the venue for the Centennial Dialogue of the Harvard Business School Club of the Philippines. The club, composed of HBS alumni based in the country, marked the school’s centennial with cocktails and a dialogue featuring HBS Professor Howard Stevenson, via live video conferencing, and Mr. Manuel Tordesillas, co-founder and President of ATR KimEng Financial Corporation and HBS alumnus batch 1982. The night’s discussion was aptly called “From Hindsight to Foresight: Lessons from 100 years of Market Volatility.”

“They are only the best and the brightest,” a fellow writer said after I had told him of my assignment to write about HBS alumni. “What’s there to write about them? The whole world knows that only exceptional men and women get into HBS. These are demi gods!”

“There’s nothing else for you to say,” another colleague had blurted out. And so, I felt stymied as I took on the task but take it, I did anyway, albeit reluctantly, because I wanted to feel what it was like to move in the same arena as them.

I walked around the room, observing gentlemen in smart suits—HBS alumni all—huddled in small groups and engaged in banter. I scouted around for an opportunity to eavesdrop, to catch a line, a gesture, an unguarded moment—anything—that would differentiate these men from the rest of us mortals who have not gone through the “Harvard experience.”

Well, for starters, they knew how to hold wine glasses (by the stem and nowhere else). No one chewed with his mouth open; none of them burped after hefty swallows; no one wore visibly scuffed shoes; and no one had a stained tie (the lighting was good so, yes, I did see very well). There were no shout-outs to waiters and no manic flailing of the arms to catch their attention; they were quite content to wait to be served.

Manuel Tordesillas: Before the evening’s program started, I was introduced by the HBS Club’s incoming President, Sheila Ramos of Batch ’93, to a couple of alumni, who were gracious enough to grant me short but insightful interviews.

Mr. Manuel Tordesillas of Batch ’82, 56 years old, is a co-founder and President of ATR KimEng Financial Corporation, a publicly-listed company which is one of the country’s leading diversified financial services group engaged in investment banking, corporate finance, securities brokerage, money brokerage, life insurance, mutual funds, asset management and property investments. He has over 30 years of investment banking experience in the Philippines and throughout Asia.

He seemed reluctant at first, when Ms. Ramos asked for the interview on my behalf. Still, he obliged, broke into a tentative grin, greeted me with a firm handshake, and led me to a quiet corner where we could converse undisturbed. I immediately told him that the interview was for a lifestyle feature, not for the business section, and that it was meant to be an informal and intimate recollection of his “Harvard experience.” He seemed to relax upon hearing this and once I threw him the first question, he never stopped talking. He was a journalist’s dream: eloquent and articulate without being overbearing and boorish. His eyes lit up each time he pulled out a specific incident from his HBS memory bank. Clearly, he looks upon those years as a student with much fondness and a hint of sentimentality, I dare say, especially when he spoke of how his family—young wife and children—supported him throughout those trying two years. “They were my life line of support.”

“It was a humbling experience,” Mr. Tordesillas admitted. “You see, we (first year enrollees) were excelling in our own fields before getting there but then we later found out that we were average because we were among the best. We realized none of us had all the answers so we had to learn to work together.” I asked him if completing the MBA program was, indeed, as tough as others make it to be. “Sure,” he said. “You must be driven; you must have the attitude that you will overcome anything, that you can do it because if you don’t, you will fail.”

He became even more animated in the succeeding minutes and to my last question which was, “Do you believe that a Filipino student from one of our local universities could make it into HBS?” he answered a resounding, “Of course! I came from LaSalle!”

Jerry Angping: It was fortunate that I had landed an interview with Mr. Jerry Angping, 53, of batch ’82, and outgoing President of HBS Club. He is Chairman of Geograce Resources Philippines, Inc., a real estate and cement distribution company. He is a dynamo, a firecracker, if you will. His effervescent personality had me on edge the entire time, anticipating his every line. Clever, would be an understatement of his take on life. Entertaining, would be a fair description of his delivery of anecdotes. Fun and enlightening would sum up the entire exchange with him.

“I was 24 when I entered HBS,” he started off. “I had the vigor of youth then, the yearning for excitement, and the hunger for education. I wanted to learn and at the same time have fun. The first year was all education; the second year was all fun and that’s because in the first year everyone takes the required courses. I was lucky; the first year was very, very tough. They have this rule where you hit the screen if you don’t perform well so you get kicked out after the first year. You have these gigantic egos competing against each other in the first year. In the second year, us mere mortals are resigned to our fate and those who cannot get the honors just go for the fun. If you get to the second year that means you’re alright.”

I then asked him if he had heard of the “Harvard Four Minute Rule,” some sort of urban legend obviously proliferated by Harvard rejects. It refers to the allegation that it takes, on average, four minutes, from the point of having been introduced to somebody (who happens to have graduated from Harvard) for that person to casually mention that he/she graduated from Harvard.

He chuckled and said, “That’s very interesting…very interesting. I guess it depends. It’s a very useful credential to drop but if used ostentatiously, can turn people off.” He chuckled a bit more and added, “When I came back from Harvard I went to teach in U.P. and the first thing I told my students was, ‘There’s MBA from Harvard but there’s DBA from Divisoria’ and I honestly, up to today, I think that the Divisoria Business Administration degree is more important that the MBA from Harvard. The Divisoria one is all about street smarts, how to deal with people, how to treat friends and foes alike, how to treat peers and how to manage laterally, and linearly, and vertically and that’s very important. Sometimes, if you are too bookish it’s not good. It’s never as important as what you learn when dealing directly with people in the real world.”

When we both stood up to bid each other goodbye, he said to me, “Nice red shoes.” I instinctively looked at my pumps and there they were: shiny and bright red, as red as my cheeks had probably gotten because of the nice gesture from that gentleman from Harvard. I shall not forget him.

Sheila Ramos: Still relishing the effects of that very engaging interview with Mr. Angping, I moved on to incoming HBS Club President, Ms. Sheila Ramos, 40, of batch ’93. The first thing I asked her was what her official job title was. When she said, “Transitioning,” she immediately captured my interest and then held it until the very end of the interview because of how forthcoming she was, how deliberate of speech, how clear-minded on what she wanted to do, and how definite her future plans were.

“I had been with Tokyo Tokyo (the family’s chain of fast food restaurants) for the longest time and now at 40, I figured I need to regroup and spend time with my family, helping each member find their passion in the way I did—a passion for work or play which carried me through my two years at HBS. It’s really for the kids. Although I don’t want to talk about them, it’s the age; they’re growing up too fast. I’m going on sabbatical for five years for them and then at 45, I’ll still be young enough to go back and do what I have to.”

I asked what was the most important thing she had learned in her two years at HBS. “It’s not what you learn but how you learn it,” she answered, clear-eyed and enthusiastic.

Ramos then spoke at length about the case study method, which is a powerful interactive learning process that brings the complex and dynamic realities of business analysis and decision making into the classroom. The Case Method is the cornerstone of the school’s renowned general management approach, which provides the student with skills, insights, and self-confidence required to meet the demands of real business situations.

“The first six months at HBS were tough for me. In fact on the very first day, I said to myself, ‘I’m gonna die.’ Class can be terrifying. I was 23 and quite lonely, plus I had come from a school, which was very traditional in teaching methods. It was rote learning, where one wasn’t allowed to think out of the box and to ask questions. At HBS that was mostly what we had to do—ask questions. We had to figure out answers by asking questions and analyzing given business situations. All HBS alumni go through around 500 case studies before they graduate.”

I then asked her to talk about her HBS classmates for a quick profile on what the people who make it there are like. “They were equally passionate outside school as they were inside. We had Olympic swimmers, singers, dancers, techies. At the end of the day, they are passionate people. That’s what makes them different.”

Quintin Doromal: Next, I sat down to speak with Mr. Quintin “King” Doromal of batch ’52, who, at 81, is the oldest member of the HBS Club. He is Executive Director of Bantayog ng Bayani, a foundation for those who were killed and incarcerated during Martial Law. It was a welcome change of pace as Mr. Doromal reminisced leisurely about his days at Harvard.

“Are you finding pleasure in retirement?” I asked him. He looked genuinely surprised. He then piped up, “Why, you’re retired? But you look young.” With wit as sharp as a knife I knew I was in for an exciting ride with Mr. Doromal. He continued, “My tuition then was only, $210 a year, can you imagine that? What is it now, $40,000? $50,000? Now we can both agree that I am the luckiest man in this room!”

I then asked him if he had always wanted to come back to the Philippines upon graduation and he answered, “Of course! I belong to a nationalistic generation. I had always known I was coming home right after school. My goal had always been to come back and do something for this country.”

Miguel Aguiluz: Next up was Mr. Amable Miguel Aguiluz IX, or Miguel for short, of batch 2005, who was kind enough to have given me a few moments of his time. He is CEO of the ACA Group of Companies and was enrolled under the HBS OMP program, which caters to business owners. He is known for winning the school’s business strategy competition, besting 149 other participants. The winning project, now operational in the country, is called “Ink for Less,” a printer ink refilling station.

I asked him, “Was there one definitive experience while at school that changed you?” “Well, there were many. The experiences I shared with my classmates for one, and what I had learned from them. Also the professors there are the best in the world, and of course, the lessons I learned, specifically in corporate strategy, which I have retained up to now, have improved my management style and my company.”

To lighten the mood a little, I ventured to ask Mr. Aguiluz if he had heard of the “Harvard Four Minute Rule.” He said no, so I explained to him the myth that it takes four minutes for someone to mention that he is a Harvard graduate. He let out a hearty chuckle upon hearing it and said, “That could be true but I always wait until I am asked.”

Manny Ayala: In the middle of the evening’s program, I espied an old friend, former media personality, Manuel “Manny” Ayala, 45, of batch ’92. Manny is currently Managing Director of IRG Limited, a specialist investment bank based in Hong Kong that focuses on the Telecoms, Media and Technology sectors in the Asia Pacific. Apart from advising clients in the region on Mergers & Acquisitions projects, he also spends quite a bit of time running and coaching companies that IRG has invested in. He currently oversees an animation outsourcing company that services the video game and film industries”

He was in conversation with incoming President, Ms. Sheila Ramos, so I went ahead and took the liberty of asking him for a printable quote about the Harvard experience. I knew I was going to get either the most controversial or the funniest one from him because whenever he sheds the serious image and lapses into his loveable clown mode, he never fails to bring the house down.

He then answered almost instantly with his trademark impish smirk, “HBS without the H is simply, BS. How’s that for a quote?” So I looked to Ms. Ramos for approval and she said with a big smile, “Sure, you can print that but please don’t fail to mention that the source is the muse of the Harvard Business School Club, Mr. Manny Ayala. “Done,” I said.

“Seriously though,” Manny added, back now in his usual business-like persona, “I thought HBS was one of the most intense, eye-opening intellectual experiences I’ve ever had...kind of like boot camp for capitalists. Having all those brilliant, type A personalities as classmates, you were constantly forced to raise your game and push your thinking to higher and higher levels of rigor.”

Aurelio “Gigi” Montinola: Right before leaving I spotted Mr. Aurelio “Gigi” Montinola III, 57, of batch ’77, President of Bank of the Philippine Islands (BPI) among the crowd and kindly asked him for a quote as well. He replied, “Give me five minutes,” and then turned pensive. It hadn’t even been two minutes when he turned back to me and said, “Here it is: I thought I was gifted but when I got there, it turned out I was ordinary.” We both contemplated that for a moment and it didn’t sit well because anybody but anybody in Manila’s business circle knows that Mr. Montinola is anything but ordinary.

So he came up with a better one in the next breath: “I didn’t speak much in class but I learned, through three cases a day, about business analysis by osmosis.”

Fred Ayala: In the process of writing this piece I remembered the one Harvard Business School alumnus that I have always admired since the first time I met him 27 years ago, Mr. Alfredo “Fred” Ayala, 47, of batch ’87, because of his old world charm and manners, his intelligence that never fails to enchant those who come across him, and the absence of arrogance that many in his stature easily fall prey to. He is currently CEO of Livelt Solutions, Inc., Ayala Corporation’s holding company for its investments in the BPO sector. He was gracious enough to humor me and here is what he said: “Harvard was a great catalyst for discovering what I really wanted to do, by exposing me to classmates, professors, and career opportunities that were much more diverse and inspirational than I had anticipated.”

Gathered in the Tower Club that evening were indeed leaders who make a difference in the world, true to their alma mater’s mission statement. But more than that, up close and personal, they are passionate men and women. They are cerebral warriors who battled their way into HBS, bastion of the world’s elite intelligentsia, where only one out of nine applicants ever gain access, and then labored for two years to finish what they had set out to do. They are highly intelligent, driven, inspired, and exceptional, but at once tempered by a keen sense of humor that seems to say to those they encounter, “C’mon, don’t take me too seriously, don’t be intimidated, I’m a regular guy.”

After spending several hours with these people I figured that the “Harvard Four Minute Rule” should be radically altered so that it refers to the average amount of time wherein one realizes that he is in the presence of a Harvard graduate.

Dance Like Nobody's Watching...

2008-11-29T09:36:00.000-08:00

My Uncle in San Francisco sent me this link and for the four minute-something duration of the video, my worries flew out the window, my mind was emptied of negative thoughts, and I actually did get up and dance along. Please take a break; it will be the best four minutes you'll ever waste in your life and oh, find a room where you can be alone, lock the door, and dance along.

Unleash Your Inner Bart Simpson

2008-11-28T21:24:00.000-08:00

This business about growing up and staying grown-up has all but slaughtered the joy in men, don’t you think? A couple of weeks ago I wrote about joyless men who have turned whining into a sport. The piece had received much reaction from readers so I decided to push the envelope further and figure out what, in fact, leads men to this sorry state, and how, in practice, they can avoid it.

Yes, there is a world-wide economic recession; yes, global warming is a phenomenon that has finally descended upon us; yes, no definitive cure has been found for AIDS nor cancer; yes, terrorism remains a clear and present danger, but there is also this business called living in spite of all.

So how does one make the experience tolerable, if not fun? Laughter, I believe, and a little, if not a whole lot of mischief, from time to time, to make this mind-boggling concept and exercise called living a lot more palatable.

Watch little boys at play, in complete abandon, and oblivious to all that is unpleasant and threatening. Isn’t the image priceless? And isn’t it sad that they, one day, will have to grow up and turn into sourpusses, if they don’t watch it?

Let’s revisit the Peter Pan Syndrome for a minute, that which psychologists have coined to classify men who have never grown up because of a desire to remain young and not face the responsibilities of adulthood. Although it has gained a negative connotation in quasi-psychological use, it is, according to blogger Evan Bailyn of Never Grow Up: A Tribute to Peter Pan, “A normal part of the post adolescent mind set. It is the natural result of anyone who had a good childhood. If, however, the Peter Pan is to completely shun adult responsibilities, he can be said to be a “victim” of this syndrome.”

What of men who thrive in the adult world, of those who hold down responsibilities with efficiency, dependability, and dedication? What of those who are caught up in the daily grind of making ends meet, of feeding, clothing and housing families? And what of those who are vanguards of world peace, of those tasked with keeping the global economy from crashing down? Must they all suppress inner child, slay their Peter Pans?

I hope not. I think it is necessary to nurture it. I find it actually quite refreshing—this childlikeness in grown men, this sense of wonder, this playfulness, this ability to find delight in the corniest of things, this gift of looking at the brighter side when life gets gloomy.

In fact, I would wish for them to take it even a step further, to elevate it into what we shall refer to as the “Bart Simpson Syndrome.” It is that tiny pocket in time and space, where one could revert to a state of devilish menace, something so natural and spontaneous in little boys, as to temporarily unload the stress and the pressure brought on by adulthood.

Remember Bart Simpson, the fictional main character in the animated television series “The Simpsons?” Well, he is ten years old and is the eldest child and only son of Homer and Marge Simpson. His most prominent character traits are his mischievousness, rebelliousness, and disrespect for authority.

Bart has become so popular that TIME magazine named him one of the 100 most influential people of the 20th century. Richard Corliss writes in TIME, “Talk about the arrested development—this kid has been 10 for 11 years. And we hope he stays there. Deplorable, adorable, Bart is a brat for all ages. Bart knows right from wrong; he just likes wrong better. The reason for his appeal is that he’s so brilliant at being bad; his pranks have a showman’s panache…He is a complex weave of grace, attitude and personality…”

Grown men should, on occasion, unleash their inner Bart Simpson as they shed that suit and the tie and all the weight and baggage that come with it and, as the quote from Mark Twain goes, “Dance like nobody’s watching; love like you’ve never been hurt. Sing like nobody’s listening; and live like it’s heaven on earth.”

I have a friend—an articulate and eloquent businessman with a larger-than-life personality—who is simply in love with life. I am in perpetual wonder of how he can remain so positive in light of the disappointments and setbacks that besiege everyone’s life. Once, he was relaying how he had to confront an employee whom he suspected of embezzling money in the six-figure range, earmarked for a particular project. He said he was livid as he spoke to the person, but at that very moment of retelling, he was smiling and laughing at the whole situation. I had expected him to still be foaming in the mouth and fuming out of the ears and nostrils so I asked, “How could you laugh at such a time?” He replied, “Because I called him ugok!” So then, we both laughed. And he added, “It’s done and things won’t get better if I continue to be angry.” Then, he went on to deliver joke after joke after joke, flailing his arms and guffawing away as though there was nothing the matter with his day.

Another friend, a stockbroker this time, resorts to the good old karaoke as his de-stressor of choice. After a particularly trying day at the office, he would head over to his favorite karaoke joint and not only sing and hog the mike until the cows come home but sing rock songs and mimic drugged-out rock stars complete with the head banging and air guitaring and the enacted false exits and reentries to imagined encores. And then just as quietly as he slips off of the grown up, responsible man persona, he slips right back into it when the night is over. How’s that for wild abandon?

Another man, a friend’s friend, a computer engineer this time, plays pranks on his kids during weekends. He claims that he slaves in the office the entire week and looks forward to Saturdays when he can finally put into effect the plans he had been hatching in his mind all week long. He becomes Bart Simpson on weekends. His kids have come to expect the pranks and anticipate them, so their family’s weekend is a fun-filled and dramatic celebration of sorts for the week that was. He tells of his favorite moment, when he replaced an entire bottle of shampoo with honey. His ten-year-old son came rushing out of the bathroom in all his naked glory, dripping with honey from the head down. “Dad! Help!” they boy said, “It’s all sticky and gooey.” To which he answered, “That’s okay son, just ask Mom for pancakes to go with it.” And so later in the day, the son, who, of course, did not fall very far from the tree, ingeniously snuck into his Dad’s shower and liberally poured red powdered dye into the showerhead. So you can expect what happened next, right? This Stanford alumnus of a computer engineer, stepped out of his bathroom, as naked as the day he was born, covered in streaks of red, and still oozing droplets of blood-like liquid from the tips of his hair, literally screaming bloody murder. “And what did your son say?” I asked. He shook his head from side to side and with an impish grin answered, “He said, ‘But Dad, you started it.’” “You didn’t get pikon?” I asked him. “Are you kidding me?” he was laughing now, “Talo ang pikon. I’ll get him good next weekend.”

If simply reading these anecdotes makes you feel lighter, maybe it’s time to unleash your inner Bart Simpson, as long as you don’t hurt anyone and that you do it with a good measure of control. And so to borrow again from the late, great Mr. Twain, “Dance like nobody’s watching…”

Thanksgiving

2008-11-28T19:20:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day here in America and it is a huge thing. Hundreds of thousands of turkeys are roasted all across the country and as much families come together to celebrate and give thanks for a multitude of things: that in spite of the world wide recession, everyone is well and able to come together as a unit. I have family here, members of which I visit only once a year. This year, I consider myself lucky; I see them for a second time and in this most revered of occasions.

So we gathered together over a gigantic turkey that can maybe feed dozens of villages in Ethiopia. But guess what, like in all Filipino households, the superstar of the buffet is never the bird but dishes that somehow bring us all closer to the home country. It is a four-day weekend so everyone was at work in the kitchen whipping up the best of home: kare kare with bagoong, callos, dinuguan, pancit molo, pancit, fresh lumpia, along with all the rest of the continental stuff lined up on the dinner table.

The party started at noon and ended up late into the night with people--friends, family, neighbors, ex and current partners, high school buddies, coming in and out of the house throughout the day. People eat, chat, laugh, and then eat again until they grow food babies in their tummies and until it hurts to even just move. We all survived it, thank heavens, with half of that mammoth turkey still around for the eating.

Today, the day after that eating tournament is Black Friday--christened so because it is the biggest retail sale event of the year. Apparently, people have been lined up outside stores since 12 midnight for a chance at grabbing merchandise at practically give-away prices. My sister says, "Most of the shoppers are pinoys, you'll see." And so being the pinoys that we are, we went at 11 am to the mall and promptly got the shock of our lives. Droves; no, throngs; no, crowds; no, mobs of shoppers were stampeding through the stores. I had ONE pair of jeans on hand and had to line up at the cash register for 30 minutes. So, automatically, that pair had escalated in value! And I had no choice but to run with the crowd because this is my last day--I leave for Manila tomorrow.

THe highlight of my day was going to Target, which is my mother ship! I bought a portable oil-filled heater for Maverick's room, Jonas brothers shirts for Pippi and Mouse, season 3 Avatar cartoons for Bidi, and a Twilight shirt for Belli, which she will adore, black kitchen towels, and black, pure Irish linen dinner napkins.

I feel totally devastated about leaving Maverick here and the rest of my family, but life does go on and I have to go back. The small kids continue to grapple with the fact that their two older sisters study in different continents--they can't quite grasp it. I have run out of explanations, even to myself. When I see how lonely it gets at night for Maverick here in L.A. and Kitty over in Sydney, when their days at school are done and they set out for home, I feel like hauling them back home. They don't have the luxury of dinner being ready upon their arrival, they have to cook, clean up after themselves, do the laundry, do the groceries, pay the bills--all these while chasing deadlines, making ends meet on a tight allowance, and fighting the homesickness that I'm sure creeps up on them from time to time.

It builds character, I keep reminding myself. But whose? For what reason? And at what price? I raised them knowing that one day, they will have to leave home and strike out on their own once they reach University age. But so far, I think I am the one who has suffered most. I miss them terribly and constantly and painfully.

Whenever we hit bumps in our lives, I keep reminding them that the mind is a powerful thing, that we must use it to sustain ourselves. But now I think it is more than that; it is faith, too--that there is a pot of gold at the end; that there is a higher power making sure that all will be well; and that the universe has immeasurable rewards for all who work for something bigger than themselves and outside their comfort zones. Let's hope all that is, indeed, right.

Persian Food and other stuff

2008-11-26T21:23:00.000-08:00

Maverick took me to Westwood today for Persian food and some shopping. We took a leisurely walk around the area as she pointed out her favorite haunts: corner grocery store; nail and waxing salon; sushi place; sandwich place; her boyfriend's barber.

We then stopped for lunch at the Attari restaurant, a quaint Persian joint fronted by a courtyard and a small bubbling fountain. We had beef tongue sandwich and beef kotlet sandwich and ash soup, a kind of thick lentil soup with chopped parsley, turmeric and caramelized onions. The food was divine. I'm thinking we could make that tongue sandwich at home. It's simply lengua in between between french baguette with dill pickles, yogurt, tomatoes, and chopped parsley. Super good!

Oh, and the baklava is the best I've ever tried: thin sheets of phyllo pastry, baked to a crisp, filled with pistachios and almond paste, and drizzled with a tangy honey lemon sauce. It was mind blowing. We almost gobbled it up because it was too good. I remembered to photograph it in the nick of time.

After lunch, we met up with Maverick's Indonesian classmate, Irma, whom she calls Irmanator, a sweet, gentle girl who looks like an Asian doll--so well mannered and pleasant. We spent the afternoon with her shopping. Maverick spent a lot of time at Urban Outfitters, one her favorite stores because, "they don't use sweat shops," she says. There is a civic mindedness in her now that moves me. She got a really cute pair of funky jeans in kind of a leopard print but in shades of blue. She now calls it "kitty pants"--quite cool and they fit her so well.

I must have spent an hour in Victoria's Secret buying lingerie. Ask me what for? I really don't know; they just looked so pretty and irresistible on the racks. They're probably the most useless articles of clothing I have purchased but somehow I get the feeling that half the women who read this article will disagree. Here they are. Please tell me what you think. Was it a waste of money?

In the Hallowed Halls of Academe

2008-11-25T17:13:00.000-08:00

I met up with Maverick for lunch today at Annenberg and took in campus life. I can't help but feel sorry for my grad school Alma Mater after seeing the facilities of Annenberg. Hello! Philippine Government Officials, U.P. is our State University, could you just please stop making kurakot and divert all your travel junket pocket money into the school so that it may educate future leaders who will be the antithesis of all of you. Okay...enough ranting...

We had lunch at The Lot, one of their cafeterias, which to me looked like a cruise ship buffet restaurant. Of course I had Wolfgang Puck's barbecue chicken pizza and Maverick had chili cheese fries. Then, I met her school posse for the first time. They joined us for one of the most interesting and most animated of conversations I've been privy to in a long time. Or maybe I've just been around old people for too long?

There were seven of them, including Maverick and among the seven there were five different nationalities: Filipino, Egyptian, Indian, American, and Irish. Talk about melting pots! I am glad she is doing well in school at least if not yet in her personal life. She seems to be among good people and is definitely getting the best education. I am grateful for many, many things at this very moment.

Their very own media vans

My lunch at USC's The Lot: Wolfgang Puck's barbecue chicken pizza. Yum!

Happy duck, Maverick and her chili cheese fries

Maverick's classmate and good friend, Tara, whose mom is an honest to goodness rocket scientist for NASA. I can actually boast that I know a rocket scientist! Imagine that!

style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BVmtiZSWjzI/SSyl3SZnhLI/AAAAAAAACJs/l0W4k-fCC24/s400/IMG_3653.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272771632994682034" /> Maverick's grad school posse: great minds!

Annenberg lobby

maverick in perfect stride with grad school life

Dinner for Two

2008-11-25T09:00:00.001-08:00

I wanted to take her out to dinner tonight but she said, "Let's just go to the grocery store buy stuff and cook at home." She wanted to learn how to make lumpia so that's what we did plus terriyaki ribs.

Her first two rolls ups looked like lumpiang shanghai--thin and long but she got the hang of it on the third try--fuller and pillowy in shape

City of Angels

2008-11-24T22:58:00.000-08:00

A shout out from Los Angeles, everyone. I am the happiest I have been since being with Kitty in Sydney in September. I am with Maverick and I can't ask for anything more. L.A. is cold and dark (we are on DST so it's pitch black at 5:30 pm). We have been simply hanging out and talking endlessly and I have not been more relaxed than this in the past two months.

She seems better. The breakup from her boyfriend has slowly sank in and she is in the process of doing the post mortem--the autopsy, if you will--on the relationship: what happened, who did what, what could they have done better, what went wrong...But they still talk; he calls several times a day. My instinct is always to grab the phone from her and give him the dressing-down of his life, threaten him with a machete, banish him into the Ecuadorian rain forest, and let the gigantic ants eat him alive.

But the truth is, it is none of my business; it is theirs alone. As a mother, I can only watch and hope for the best. We all know that after breakups there are residual emotions that need to be worked through, often times painfully. And everyone goes through this process; no one is spared. I just hope they get over it in one piece. But why do I get the feeling it isn't quite over for them yet?

She went to grad school for a couple of hours today. I've never seen her so focused on school work. She has always been the type person to wing it--hardly ever studies but passes anyway. She has since become a different person. She told me, "The one part of my life that is going so well are my studies." I don't know but the amount of work they are given is atrocious and the level is impressive. I have leafed through her papers and I feel like an idiot. I'm in complete awe of how much Annenberg has raised the bar on the kind of writing these kids do nowadays.

While she was out, I took the opportunity to clean her place up. I found lots of dust bunnies under the bed and under the sofa but I got them good with the vacuum cleaner. She didn't have any dirty laundry like Kitty did when I got to Sydney but she had freshly laundered garments shoved into baskets. So that's what I did to day--folded and sorted them out. I must say, it was very therapeutic: the repetitive motion of folding and putting away does wonders for the soul. Come visit her place with me.

Paintings in progress. I love them already

She says she works better on the floor--something I can't comprehend

I was most impressed about the orderliness of her closet. Just a few years ago when she was in Lugano her closet looked like a crime scene. Notice the equidistant hangers? O.C...
Her journalist's gear

Her shower curtain is a dictionary. The love for words and writing is evident everywhere in her place.

The eight-part series of a heart breaking on the bookshelf is her artwork. They are boxes, which she painted, stacked on top of each other, and lined up.

Mensis Horribilis

2008-11-22T14:53:00.000-08:00

My apologies to everyone. Mea Maxima Culpa. I have been remiss about posting and I am regretful. The family has suffered some blows recently and the writer's corner of my brain just shut down.

Mensis Horribilis is Latin for terrible month and November has been that at the very least. But come to think of it, this bad streak of luck, if you will, had started much earlier, in September, by someone's betrayal. But we all survive betrayals--big and small. We may not see how we could ever recover from it at the point of impact because of the overwhelming hurt and pain, but boy, it becomes so small and irrelevant, like a speck of dirt really, when the dust all settles and you realize, s***!, people who commit treason are consenting adults, period. There is nothing you can do but let go. And once you realize that, you start living again.

So all was well and good until Early November when Kitty's bank account in Sydney, Australia was hacked of 7,000 dollars. And not only that, her credit card was maxed out as well. She is now working with the bank and police officers--they had assigned a case officer to her--to uncover the mystery behind all that computer fraud. The thing is, they say it is possible that a friend or acquaintance who had access to her account and credit card numbers is the culprit. Everything is up in the air right now. We are all angry but I think this anger is what keeps us strong and willing to fight the fight until the culprits are apprehended and justice is served. Until then, Kitty has dusted herself off and soldiered on and she continues marching to the beat.

And then just last week, that dreaded early morning phone call from Maverick in the US, distraught and desperate, because of a break up from her boyfriend descended on me like an asteroid. She was inconsolable and I was 30,000 miles away, utterly helpless on the other line. She kept saying, "I need you here, Mom, please come." She is 25 and I thought, she should fight her own battles, go at it on her own, and be the grown up that she is supposed to be. But then she is my daughter--always will be even when she is 60. And each time I hear those words, "Mom, I need you, come over," I think I will be there. Many say it's wrong and I agree with them at some points but I will follow my instincts on this one. I mulled over it for three days and the image that kept coming back to me is the one of Natasha Goulbourn, the beautiful 20-something daughter of Jeannie Goulbourn, who committed suicide in her apartment in HongKong after a breakup with her boyfriend.

That is extreme and tragic, yes. Maverick is strong and is a fierce fighter, yes. But am I willing to take a chance and live with the consequence later, no.

And so I am off to Los Angeles tonight and will be posting from there. As I write this I'm thinking, gosh, I hope nothing else happens. Not soon, at least. I have lost eight pounds and a month's worth of sleep, the heavens should grant me a reprieve so I can have the strength to tend to Maverick. My good friend, M, who thinks in her first language--Spanish--said to me that they have a saying that bad luck comes in threes. She said, "Don't worry, it comes in threes and you've already had three so you're in the clear." I pray she is right.

I was hesitant about posting all these because of the nature of the subject--highly personal and intimate, stuff we were taught to keep to ourselves as children. But then I remember telling myself when I started this blog that it must be more than shallow, self-indulgent musings on the pimple on my nose or the lint on my belly, let's say. I wanted it to be purposeful. I wanted readers to get something out of it. And when I decided that it should cater to mothers and mid-lifers, I made the commitment to be truthful at all costs so that I may bring into the open things that we normally discuss in hushed tones, if at all. To help? Absolutely! But if not, then just to show others out there that they are not the only ones going through these things, that we all make mistakes, get hurt, stumble, grope in the dark. But ultimately, we all endure. And to all else who have not experienced it, to give an awareness of what mothering or being middle-aged may be like. And at the end of the day, when we come into a clearing, that we may just all laugh about it and charge it to destiny.

Our Country as Seen from the Eyes of Others

2008-11-11T15:56:00.000-08:00

I got an e-mail from Maverick early this morning, which said:

"good read... this guy amar bakshi blogs for the washington post and has been all over the world finding out what other people think of americans. i'm at his lecture today and thought you guys would enjoy this site. i've attached the link to his entries from the philippines."

http://newsweek.washingtonpost.com/postglobal/america/philippines/

So, I did as she had suggested: browsed through Mr. Bakshi's posts and saw our own country through his eyes. Please see for yourself. It is eye-opening.

Zeus Almighty

2008-11-11T15:49:00.001-08:00

Do you ever wonder what drives rich, powerful men — these CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, these captains of industry, these rulers of the worlds’ superpowers? What makes them do what they do? What makes them engage in the struggle up the ladder of success?

Compared to other men who believe that there is an order to life, that certain energies rule the universe, and who are content to surrender themselves to this source from which they live and move and realize their being, competitive, driven men make their own rules and play high-stakes games in the arena of power.

Jean Shinoda Bolen, M.D., a Jungian analyst and clinical professor of psychology at the University of California at San Francisco, is the author of The God in Every Man. In this book, she draws portraits of masculine qualities embodied in the gods of Greek mythology and describes their manifestation in the modern man. In psychological terms, one might refer to a “god” or a “goddess” as an archetype.

I attended a three-day seminar on the “Exploration of the Self” premised on Jung and Bolen’s work and organized by the Friends of Jung Society in the Philippines. What I discovered was that understanding these Greek god archetypes gives one a better handle on the varied and diverse personalities of men.

Bolen says, “I see the archetype as possibility. It’s what can develop in the personality. It is laid down much in the way one would put a certain amount of, say, salt in a solution. The crystalline structure is inherent, but you don’t see it until there’s enough substance to make it crystallize. Under certain conditions, the inherent pattern will constellate. It’s the same in a human personality: given a certain life energy, a certain pattern, a certain experience, a certain culture, certain archetypes will constellate.”

Bolen’s archetypes are used as models to understand some of the powerful forces that move in our understanding of ourselves. But since a discussion of all the Greek god archetypes would take the length of an entire manuscript, I have chosen one to write about that I find most fascinating — good ol’ Zeus.

A word on the Greek god Zeus. He, along with his two brothers Poseidon and Hades, were the first generation of male Olympian gods. They divided the world among themselves, and each held dominion over his particular realm. Zeus ruled the heavens (sky); Poseidon, the sea; and Hades, the underworld. Zeus ruled the realm of power and thought; Poseidon, the realm of emotion and instinct; and Hades, the realm of the dim, feared world of unseen patterns.

Zeus was the god of gods; he ruled over all, and his personal attributes are those we equate with powerful fathers, kings, chief executives, officers of corporations or armies, top-dog alpha males, boss figures. His powers extended to both earth and sky and he is credited with having both a macro view of the world and an eagle eye giving him the ability to zoom in on the minutest of details — in other words, all the qualities of a great leader.

A Zeus archetype is intelligent, driven and self-motivated; he goes for what he wants in the way a hungry lion zeros in on its prey. But in spite of all the power, he is not arrogant. He does not wield it with malice or caprice. He is comfortable in his own skin and people respect him for his very reason: they listen to him and heed his call without question. He is enveloped in charisma and magnetism, which enables him to tame even the most disagreeable non-believer.

All these — wisdom, power, charisma — are not merely qualities that Zeus archetypes possess. It is who they are. It is synonymous with their being. And for a Zeus to thrive he must have a kingdom — and not just any kingdom, but a vast one that involves hundreds if not thousands of subjects. In the modern world this translates to vast economic or political holdings and a multitude of manpower or constituents.

Zeus’ kingdom defines him and the loss of it would be the death of him. This explains why men who fall under the Zeus archetype are not good with sharing power; they simply can’t. Doing so would negate their very being.

But as in all else, there is a downside to this larger-than-life phenomenon. A Zeus archetype, exactly like the Greek god himself, can never be faithful to one woman. Zeus, the Olympian, had numerous wives and liaisons with both goddesses and mortals who all bore him children. Because his very essence is tied up with his kingdom, a Zeus is incapable of loving another completely. He is unable to make intimate and personal connections with others. He is incapable of empathy.

The modern Zeus archetype usually has an official wife to whom he holds himself accountable, just as Zeus did with first wife, Hera. But he changes mistresses like he changes clothes. This for him is just a matter of course and for which he makes no apologies whatsoever.

Another downside to this archetype is that he cannot nurture Zeus sons because he is terrified of his power being usurped. In Greek mythology, Zeus led the revolt against his father, Cronus, and the dynasty of the Titans. Zeus defeated and banished them. He is, therefore, paranoid about that legacy reliving itself through his sons. Most often, the sons of Zeus archetypes do not quite measure up to their fathers for the very reason that they were not nurtured to be such.

Women are smitten with Zeus archetypes: the energy they radiate, the charisma they exude, and the power they wield is more aphrodisiac than one woman may need in her lifetime. So it is not a wonder that in our culture there are many rich and powerful men who, as much as they leave a lot to be desired in the looks department, have a succession of the most beautiful women draped on their arms. Women claim that it is next to impossible to resist a Zeus, unless, of course, they are a female version of the Zeus archetype. In that case, a male Zeus and a female Zeus must battle in a different arena altogether.

How does one know he is in the presence of a Zeus? One will know it instinctively; he or she will feel it. It is much too powerful to be ignored. A Zeus is a man who has a commanding and yet relaxed presence. And as Jean Shinoda Bolen puts it, “Being a Zeus archetype is not a matter of power, or of dominance. It is that magic that makes a man take a position in anything, based on his authenticity, and hold it.”

We all know of men who embody the Zeus archetype, probably even intimately in this age of instant information at our fingertips. I have met a few in my lifetime and, yes, they are the most charismatic creatures on earth, but up until recently, those I had encountered were not what we would generally consider good looking. But finally, I have met one who is Zeus personified, in looks and persona, and whose life almost reads like the biography of Zeus, god of Olympia. Simply fascinating, they can make the Greek archetype come to life. Do you know a Zeus out there?

Separation Anxiety

2008-11-10T23:55:00.000-08:00

Letting children go never gets easier. Today, I sent Bidi off on a class trip to Chiang Mai, Thailand for five days. I've sent Maverick and Kitty off to University and Belli had gone off on this same class trip two years ago, so you would think that this would be a breeze, right? Not!

First off, the packing was no small feat. We had to complete a list and I had to secure a corded flashlight, which he could hang on his neck to go potty at night in the mountains, where they have scheduled a visit with an indigenous tribe, and where there is no electricity. I had to get bug spray, sun block, river sandals for white water rafting, and grown-up pajamas. He REFUSED to take his cartoon-printed pajamas, his favorites--SHHH!--which are so comfy. Their packing list also specified: sarong. So, I sent him my navy blue sarong. But he almost had a coronary when he saw it. "What the heck?" he screamed at me. "But the list said, sarong." I reasoned out. "I don't care what the friggin list said, you can't make me bring that sarong!" "What's the matter? Did you want it in another color?" "Mom!!!" Okay, so the sarong stayed behind.

Off we were to school this morning all locked and loaded. I had to do the hugging and kissing while we were in the car because there already exists an unwritten rule that he has gotten too big for PDA. Right before he boarded the bus that would take them to the airport, we just gave each other a high five--the final touch that must carry me through five days of a son-less existence. How much more dramatic can I get, really?

I was melancholy on the ride home but it hadn't even been 10 minutes when my cell phone beeped. It was him and the text message read: "Goodbye!" This one word has never been as meaningful as it was today.

Belli just got home exactly two seconds ago, as I post this, and shouted out that Bidi, who is two years younger than her, just sent her a text message that said: "I love you.

There is one thing I am most certain of: he will have the time of his life. And me? Well, I'll live.

Moms in conference with teacher, entrusting her with their most precious creations

Pretty Moms in a row. Boy, will their sons have a hard time finding partners who will trump their beauty. Real tall order!

Bidi with BFF, Tino

Priceless Moments

2008-11-09T20:09:00.000-08:00

Lately, Mouse has been very curious about God. She has been reading her children's bible over and beyond school requirements. She takes prayers to heart and I always catch her intent in prayer whenever something untoward or unexpected happens. Once, Bidi had sore ankles and was complaining about the pain. I noticed her in one corner, hands clasped, looking heavenward and murmuring something to herself. The next day when Bidi's ankles felt better, she sidled over to me and whispered, "He answered my prayers."

This morning when I woke her up for school, I felt something under her pillow. It was a piece of paper. I asked her what it was. "A letter," she said. "For me?" I asked. "No, Mommy, for God." This is what the note looked like.

Honoring Commitments

2008-11-08T19:36:00.000-08:00

Just two weeks ago, Belli, my avid 12-year-old ballerina hit a major bump in her ballet journey. I need to work through a bit of history to make light of what happened. So, thank you for your patience.

She has been taking classical ballet lessons since she was eight (a little late, in fact) and had fallen very much in love with the dance somewhere along the way. Since she started training for pointes she has had to attend 3-hour lessons, 3 times a week, so her life has been a precarious juggling act. Aside from ballet she takes violin lessons 2 times a week. She also is a member of the student council at school, which meets once a week, and of the school band, which practices once a week. She doesn't have down time and neither does she have a social life.

There are nights she gets home at 10 pm or a little after. After which, she eats dinner (you can't dance on a full stomach) while reviewing for a test or doing homework. We have discussed this matter of too-much-on-one's-plate time and time again but she refuses to let go of any one of those responsibilities. It is her choice and she must not do anything half-baked. This, she is aware of.

She has been doing an outstanding job, I must say. In fact, too heroic for someone as young as she is. But then again, I keep reminding myself, it is her choice, it is, therefore, okay, and that all these build character. So I let it be and I try to support/assist/encourage her in everything she tries to do. That it has not been easy is a gross understatement. So much so that just last week she hit her breaking point.

We were having dinner and, of a sudden, she broke into tears. "I'm quitting ballet. I don't have a life. I miss my friends. I never have time to just do nothing and hang out. I'm so tired." I was stunned/disappointed/relieved/empathetic/saddened all at the same time. I hugged her and let her cry and then, told her that, sure, she could do whatever she wanted, but that she had to think about it for two weeks and then come to a final decision. She agreed.

It hadn't even been a week when she came to me and said, "Mom, I'm not quitting ballet anymore. I love it too much and I've worked too hard. My classmates are my family." And so she continues to dance and she continues to manage a tough life. But don't all athletes, and artists, and everyone else who strive for something bigger than themselves?

She doesn't do it alone. The whole family goes through the journey with her. Vacations, occasions, commitments have had to be sacrificed in order for her not to miss class. But the biggest sacrifice comes from that 12-year-old body and mind that keeps proving just how much strength, and courage, and perseverance, and motivation lies inside it.

Here she is at their recent ballet showcase, doing what she loves best. Brava, Belli!

The Perfect Man

2008-11-07T17:59:00.000-08:00

I received an e-mail from my sister today, which was tagged, "The Perfect Man." I opened the attachment, which said, "Images embedded." So I eagerly scrolled down the page anticipating the photo of this perfect man but there was absolutely nothing. At the very end of the page it said, "Did you really think there was such a thing?" Smiling, I patted myself on the back, thinking, Ha ha, I thought so. But then, I was secretly disappointed, as I am over and over, everyday, over the fact that there really is nothing of the sort. Well, then again, maybe close...Paul Newman.

It has taken me this long to speak of Paul Newman because I was silently devastated by his death. Such a waste of a good man... I have had this affinity with Mr. Newman ever since I was a child. I remember, I must have been 8 or 9, my parents had come back from a movie premiere at the Lyric Theater in Davao. I had stayed up late because it was a weekend and caught them as they came in. "How was it, Dad?" I asked. "Oh, wonderful!" He said. "The movie is called The Sting. It stars only the best there is: Paul Newman and Robert Redford." He showed me a poster and some key chains, which were given as favors. "For you," he said. As I unfurled the poster, Dad said to me in his signature naughty manner, "You know, I was mobbed at the theater lobby because people thought I was Paul Newman." I looked at him, mouth agape. "Did you get hurt?" I asked in all seriousness. "No," he laughed, "But they kind of messed up my clothes because they all wanted to get close."

I took a closer look at the poster then, and immediately fell in love with Mr. Newman and the longer I stared at him, the more I saw my father, who is in truth and fact, a spitting image of Mr. Newman--a brown version (brown eyes, brown skin, dark hair). You'll just please have to take my word for it. Dad does look like him, I swear to you.

Here's the thing with my father: you never know whether he's telling the truth or not. That time, obviously, he wasn't, but I didn't learn that until decades later, when I had finally accepted the fact that he wasn't perfect either.

I had followed his career closely, watched all his movies, read everything that has been written about him. And what I had distilled from all that information are things that cannot be made more beautiful-sounding by high faluting words. They can only be honored by the simplest of phrases: he was a good man; a distinguished actor; an ward-winning director; a dedicated philanthropist; a tireless political activist; an entrepreneur; a champion race car driver; and a loving husband and father. He is quoted as having said about his enduring marriage, "Why would I go out for hamburgers when I have steak at home."

He was a negligent father in his youth. His oldest son, Scott died of a drug overdose along with an overdose of resentment for his father. This was when Newman took in character roles, "To crawl out of my skin," he had said. There you go--talent borne out of pain and suffering. An imperfect father inside a perfect man's person. He had wisened up after that and had become a devoted family man and husband, living a quiet existence pursuing his art and passions in the midst of all that Hollywood noise and bigness, giving back to the community that had made him who he was, all of 200 million worth of grants to charity through his Newman's Own food line.

He was known as PL to friends and family--PL for Paul Leonard or Paul Lunkhead, affectionately. Screenwriter William Goldman, who wrote Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, said, "I don't think Paul Newman really thinks he is Paul Newman in his head. In many ways this is because Newman has striven to be anyone but "PAul Newman" over the course of his life."

His long-time wife, Joanne Woodward, called him Sam Superstar. She admitted that it was hard to relate to his superstar status because the superstar had nothing to do with her husband.

Robert Redford said upon Newman's death, "There is a point where feelings go beyond words. I have lost a great friend. My life and this country has been better for his being in it."

It has also been reported that on his death bed as the family was gathered around, moments before he had expired, he said to them, "It's been a privilege."

Truly a class act...the unforgettable, the irreplaceable, the awe-inspiring Mr. Paul Newman. There are simply no words...

The '89ers

2008-11-06T18:19:00.000-08:00

Peach and Mango Cobbler
Strawberry layer cake with strawberry coulis
Shiitake mushroom risotto
lamb slices
Roast leg of lamb
Herb crusted lapu lapu with tomato cream sauce
Liver pate for appetizer

I settled in Manila in 1989 after having lived all of my life in Davao and then the U.S. The first friends I had here belong to a group, which I had christened the '89ers. My very best friend, RCA, is part of this. We all saw each other every single day in the first five years and have kept in close touch through the decades. Last night we celebrated 19 years of craziness and lasting friendships over a home-cooked meal. We converged in the kitchen and relived our youth as they watched me cook. So I ask you to please join us through photographs. Welcome to my kitchen...

A Snorting Matter

2008-11-05T21:31:00.000-08:00

Last night, the usual suspects touched base over sushi at Sugi and drinks at one the more popular bars in Greenbelt III. There was much fun and craziness, as always. But a curious incident in the ladies' room diverted my focus from the hedonistic pursuit of having fun at all costs to the reality of night life in Manila.

Mrs. Prime Suspect, G, padded into the ladies' room as I was washing my hands. She made straight for the cubicle and apparently told me to wait for her, which I had completely missed. I marched out the door not having heard anything. When she came out she relayed how two women entered the cubicle next to hers and spent a significant amount of time holed up in there, apparently snorting something illegal, and I'm guessing something probably white and powdery.

The thought gripped me. So, this is the scene that Maverick and Kitty come out to each time they're home in Manila partying with their friends. This is their reality and this might just be the same reality that my four younger kids: Belli, Bidi, Pippi, and Mouse will enter into one day.

After an hour or so had passed, the same two women, traipsed by our table into the rest room again. So G pulled me and said, "C'mon, let's listen in, this is too good to pass up." So we went in after them and locked ourselves in the cubicle next to theirs, careful to be silent. We heard everything that went on in their side: some light banter, a few muffled giggles, and definitely lots of snorting and sniffling. They were having a party for a good 10 minutes.

G and I walked out of the rest room a little bit more enlightened about Manila night life, a little more anxious for our children, and a little more sad about the state of the universe.

James Perse T-shirts

2008-11-04T02:50:00.000-08:00

Hi, my name is Fourtyfied, and I am an addict. I am addicted to t-shirts and I should be committed to a t-shirt addiction rehab facility. I'm talking plain t-shirts: short sleeves, long sleeves, sleeveless, in plain earth colors. A preference for the occasional happy-colored ones does prevail sometimes, but hardly ever. I am partial to the round-necked crews but the v-necked works too. I have tried dozens of brands in perpetual quest for the softest, most cottony, most cushy, and most comfy. My latest obsession is the James Perse brand. I picked up some of these during my last trip to the U.S. and regretted not getting more when I got home. But lo and behold! Rustans carries the brand so I got some today. I am enjoying my t-shirt high right now. They also carry the men's line and if you're looking for Christmas presents for the deserving men in your life, please pick up their robes--they're fantastic: light and fluffy terry cloth outside, lined with the softest cotton. You can have the recipient's initial embroidered on the breast or the lapel and it will be fabulous!

The Truth About Brad Pitt

2008-11-03T17:39:00.000-08:00

Brad Pitt

Roger Federer

Edward Norton

Daniel Craig

Colin Firth

I don't like Brad Pitt. There, it's out.

I have had dozens of reader response e-mails to the column asking me why I keep alluding to Brad Pitt as the "most good looking man." Truth be told, he is in most of my work for a concrete reason. I need a tangible persona--a living, breathing example of what is universally comprehensible and acceptable--a man who is close, if not the "ideal," so readers may immediately grasp the image, which will make the article resonate more in their minds. It is, therefore, a literary tool, so to speak.

Brad Pitt appeals to most everyone, I think that's safe to say. The perfectly-chiseled, symmetrical face; the fine bone structure; the piercing blue eyes; the lean, muscular body; the thick crop of dirty blond hair, show us that this man has all the qualities that most everyone consider good looking. He is the in-your-face type of good looking, not the if-you-look-harder-you-just-might-see-it kind, or the his-personality-makes-him-cute sort. Brad Pitt is handsome; "no two shits about it."

But here's the thing; he's not my type. The rest of the men pictured here are. I'm more into the rugged, brash type of good looking, the imperfect faces with fascinating personas, those that look bad at certain angles, those with careers and talents borne out of pain or suffering, in other words, those who are success stories unto themselves--that's what I'm into--because they're real, palpable, human.

There, it's finally out.

Fathering Children

2008-11-03T16:29:00.000-08:00

I have been reading up on parenting ever since I became one--25 years ago with Maverick; I probably have gone through hundreds of thousands of pages by now. Occasionally, a specific writer grabs my focus either because of his take on the whole subject or his innovative slant or angle that makes the subject more interesting, but very seldom am I arrested by the wisdom of a piece, after all, what hasn't been said about parenting?

Recently, I came across this piece by Ron Leadbetter, father and journalist. Bells rang in my mind as I read on. I hung on to every word and every insight, because everything resonated. He said:

"As I understand daddies, they are playful and willing to take time with children. They actually enjoy being with their sons and daughters, creating new games, watching the stars, sharing their understanding informally, and thus teaching in the best way possible. The teaching aspect of daddies may lapse into the formal instruction of fathers, but I want to emphasize how much men impart to their children in play that is truly teaching about how to be joyful and engaged with the world..."

"But most of all, a father needs to be protector. That is a role most wanted by children, I think--and the one most often NOT fulfilled. Children want to know that home is a safe place where someone will make sure bad things don't happen. They want to know that someone will always be there to stand between them and danger. Of course it is not possible to protect children from everything that comes into the home or goes on outside in the world. But we still want a protective father, rather than a competitor or abuser."

I wonder how many fathers know this?

Leadbetter went on to say that a daughter who grows up feeling unsafe and insecure because of the absence of a father/protector figure will go on in life engaging with similarly dysfunctional men because she may not know any better. Her childhood male role model was flawed and so this is the type she gravitates toward. This is her concept of an "ideal" man. And so her journey of filling that void veers farther and farther away from its destination.

We should all do something about this so our children grow up whole.

Sail Away, Sail Away, Sail Away

2008-11-01T21:09:00.000-07:00

Shelling

On lunch duty
He doesn't look too happy about it

Crabbing

Look at Mouse's tummy. She obviously had a big lunch

This sea urchin that the kids found was delicious.

Fire in the sky: a spectacular sunset

It's amazing what happens when a family is thrown into small, confined spaces. After many months we are back on the boat for the weekend in Subic so the children can traipse on the beach, swim, and go shelling and crabbing. It was very relaxing, no agenda, no cell phone signal, no wrist watches, no curfews, no nothing. There was just the wide, open beach, which was empty except for us, the sunset cruise, and the tiny space that we had to park ourselves every in night, in very close proximity to each other. We were so physically close for 48 straight hours that I noticed new nicks and cuts on their skin, noticed new habits and quirks, read over their shoulder as they buried their noses in their books, watched their favorite cartoon, "Bakugan," and literally felt their breath each time they exhaled. I smelled their smells and picked their brains. What could possibly be better than this?

Another Year

2008-11-01T20:13:00.000-07:00

People of a certain age find themselves, at strategic points in each year, stopping and reassessing their lives. This happens mostly around milestone occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, job promotions, or in grim situations like the death of someone close, or a separation from a loved one. This post is one of those, so please indulge me.

I turn a year older today without pomp and fanfare. The day sort of sneaked in from nowhere following a few months of havoc and confusion wreaked by that tsunami that washed over what I thought was my "orderly" life. I was completely blind-sided. Hurt? Yes. Humiliated? Yes. Defeated? Never. Like I always tell my six kids whenever they take on life's blows, dust yourselves off and soldier on. Soldier on I did and picked up many lessons along the way that are now worth their weight in gold.

What lessons?

1. That the mind is a most powerful thing; so powerful that if willed, it can sustain one even through the most painful of circumstances. It cushions blows. It works as a salve and a soothing balm to a wounded soul. It douses one's hurt over with a bubble bath of humor. It arms one with a steeled determination to get back in control. It showers one with grace and courage to let everything go and simply keep on hoping.

2. That family is the only haven there is other than oneself and one's mind. Maverick and Kitty are my archangels, my champions, my life. My sister is my anchor; she grounds me. She keeps me from meandering, from trapping myself in labyrinths with no minotaurs. My cousins are my sanctuary; they give me safe shelter.

3. That the wounded are never alone. That angles are always sent from above so one can alight upon their wings for a restful reprieve in between personal battles. One must simply be open and aware so he may recognize them and let them do their job. They come in the form of friends, of books, of strangers who happen to drop in a casual word at the most opportune time--when one is on the brink of something unpleasant. Stop and listen and see. They are there.

Two angels came to me. The first one was in the form of an Aunt, Ellen, who said, "Let everything go. All those are beyond your control. Do not mire yourself in anger or negative thoughts because the people you direct them toward are all creatures of God with talents given by him. Let everything be. Evolve. Make your own peace inside yourself. Then you'll find what you're looking for. No one can ever give it to you. You must find it."

The second one was in the form of a Greek God. He said to me, "Don't worry about anything. I'll take care of it."

Yes, my life is still chaotic. Order seems to have flown out the window. I have not shaken off this massive writer's block. It is November and I have not purchased a single present, when in times of peace my Christmas list would have been all crossed out by October. I have neglected the kids' dental appointments. I haven't cut my hair in four months. I have shelved my thesis. But like my aunt had said, "So what? Let go!"

And so I am.

A Different Sort of Wedding

2008-10-28T18:12:00.000-07:00

And so, the most awaited moment is here. Kitten marries Don in the most touching, the most simple, and the most relaxed of ways. Haven't we all been to those glitzy, ostentatious weddings that has been de-riguer in Manila society? But what do we take out of it when we exit the reception? The spectacular decor? The unparalleled food? The profusion of exotic flowers? The fabulous wedding dress?

Kitten and Don wanted theirs to be low-key and unpretentious from the very beginning. Their vision was an intimate and relaxed affair, with only their nearest and dearest as witnesses, and where everyone can attend in their casual best.

And so it was.

The men in the entourage all wore kurta-inspired, cream, collarless tops over khaki chinos and leather thongs. The women wore dresses in tropical colors and flat sandals. The bride initially, was to wear an unstructured, flowy dress but being the fashion designer that she is, she changed her mind and created something "fab" as she calls it. The result was a hundred yards worth of a dream dress, which truly came out stunning. You see, Kitten is the fashionista in the family. Her beauty and stature is couture-worthy. Hence, the dress. None of us could have pulled it off. She was breathtaking! Of course, during the reception she changed into a see-through, flowy, Greek goddess gown, which showed off a beaded bikini underneath. Spectacular!

But what was most special about the wedding is something that happened in church. In every wedding I attend I have this habit of staring at the groom closely to watch his reaction, never the bride. I don't know why; it just fascinates me--watching their expressions. Anyway, I was glued to Don as Kitten walked in, looking as though she were borne atop a dream cloud, floating down the aisle.

Don was zeroed in on her, but in the next breath, he unabashedly broke down in tears--copious tears--of joy, of disbelief, of overflowing affection, oblivious to the rest of the congregation, unmindful of what his reaction could imply. He was later to say that he was overwhelmed with happiness and overcome by her beauty. Everyone in that church was hit--not touched--with powerful emotions. I, the unemotional, jaded, me, couldn't hold it together. I teared and sniffled and looked to my cousin, Adrian for solace, but he too, was in tears.

When Kitten reached the nave of the church, her dad kissed her before leading her to Don, who didn't simply take her arm but enveloped her in a tight hug. Okay, I can only feign composure so much. This time I sort of bawled, but I kept swallowing to muffle the noise and I made sure my shoulders didn't shake--that was a lot of effort, mind you!

It was hot inside the church, like a Swedish steam bath. But none of that mattered because what we were all witnessing was monumental--a coming together of two tightly-bonded souls. Did you feel that way in your wedding?

Sibling Love

2008-10-28T17:54:00.000-07:00

Early morning cuddle

Pippi looking to Bidi and holding on for emotional support at take off. She said, "The loud noise makes my heart go thump, thump."

Nothing warms the heart more than moments of harmony between siblings, who normally spend their times together constantly at war with each other. There is endless bickering and tattle telling of the he said-she said/ he did-she did sort, which is all a form of power play, of individuation, of each child coming into his own and realizing the self. But c'mon, it does get annoying for the parent.

So when I see them looking to each other for affection and comfort, my heart melts. It gives me gasoline to go on mediating their tiny but endless quibbles.

Married Away

2008-10-27T19:01:00.000-07:00

I love his shirt: reverse snobbery
Tito Ernie with his tres marias: Steph (the braniac who placed 9th on the board exam), Val (the uber achiever), and Kitten (the gorgeous bride)

Kitten's family welcomes Don with open hearts

Weddings are celebrations and that is what we are doing here--celebrating each other. The night before the wedding we trooped to Fairways and Blue Water for a "shorts and chinelas" cocktails and and simply hung out, enjoyed the music, drank margaritas and screw drivers and exchanged stories of our common heritage and our collective unconscious--the legacy of our grandparents.

This is the gift of family: the strong ties that are impervious to outside forces, the type that withstands distance, time, and intrigue. We all share the same blood, the same name, whether we like it or not. We consider ourselves lucky because in this case, we do like it. Many of these cousins I haven't interacted with in ages. But tonight it is as though not a moment had passed.

A Boracay Album

2008-10-23T18:21:00.000-07:00

fire dancers on the beach

I am currently in Boracay, a place that I never really looked upon with fondness. The noise, the shoulder to shoulder crowds, the competing blare of different genre of music as you pass different establishments, the sky high prices which defy provincial rates of the same goods and services offered in other parts of the country--all this have turned me off. I much prefer the quiet and the isolation of remote beaches where the only sound I hear comes from nature: my breathing, the ocean waves, birds, and okay, maybe some mood-establishing music.

And so here I am with a big change of heart, first, because of the company and the occasion: I am here for a dear cousin's wedding and so I am surrounded by family. Next, the hotel: Two Seasons resort is like an Ian Schrager boutique hotel. It is spectacular, probably the best on the island--tied with Discovery Shores. And the service is fantastic. They have a gem of a front office manager here. Her name is Rica and she makes the impossible happen--I'm talking 6th sense service, like those they espouse in the Four Seasons and Aman resorts. She is a gem--so efficient, charming, and has such a warm, easy way about her.

Yesterday, I forgot my laptop at one of the cabanas and remembered it only after an hour. I checked the cabana but it wasn't there anymore. I rushed to the front office and guess what, Rica was there smiling at me. She said, the moment she saw me, "Laptop?" She saved my sanity. I want someone like her to "arrange" my life.

Will post a Boracay album of photos next time. Internet speed here is on triple slow-mo mode

Same Time Next Year

2008-10-21T19:49:00.000-07:00

Around Christmas time, every year, this group of friends (some 8 to 10 couples at any given time depending on travels, foreign postings, etc.) come together just because...

This friendship has spanned decades. In fact, I am the Johnny come lately. It is mind boggling how, through individual evolutions, couplings and uncouplings, the crash of '97 and now the world-wide financial depression, the tsunami in Thailand, Milenyo in Manila, two Edsa revolutions, several coup attempts, and middle age creeping in, this group manages to get together every year no matter what. Except for last Christmas, which was the first that I am aware of in 15 years.

It is sheer pain to organize an evening when everyone can make it. Believe me, it is nuclear physics. Just to find a date when everyone can converge at a specific time and place is an exercise in patience and perseverance. Still and all, the effort is justified by the warmth and goodwill that instantly takes over when we all come together (not to mention the chismis). Can't buy friendship.

Want Some Cheese With That Whine?

2008-10-21T19:46:00.000-07:00

There may be nothing more tragic than a joyless, whining man. Each time I think of such a character, the following personas come to mind: literature’s Silas Marner, the protagonist in George Eliot’s novel of the same title, a recluse who exists only for work and his precious hoard of money; or Ebenezer Scrooge, the coldhearted, tight-fisted, selfish protagonist of Charles Dicken’s A Christmas Carol; or Diogenes, Greek mythology’s ascetic who gave up on the world, withdrew from the company of men to live a life of seclusion and hardship, and was said to have gone out with a lantern in hand to search of an honest man.

Unlike women, who can readily express themselves because, as children, they were socialized to do so, men generally keep their thoughts and emotions private and buried. They may have real and weighty grudges against other people and the world at large but because of their innate ability to compartmentalize, these are harbored in the deepest recesses of their interior lives and are hardly spoken of candidly or at random. They are only let out at the most opportune time, if at all. This is the reason they cringe when women drop the line, “We need to talk” — because it makes men feel cornered. Hence the New Age popular saying, “Men are emotionally constipated,” a sentiment obviously coined by a woman.

Then there are the men who whine. They don’t keep it inside, but let it leak out in joyless dribbles. Don’t get me wrong: my perception of men has always been favorable. I find them to be good company, period. While women, as soon as they congregate, tend to lapse into whining about their relationships and lives, men discuss interesting stuff like politics and sports, erupting compulsively into jokes and ribbing each other to lighten the mood. Their togetherness always seems jovial and effortless and this is why, when I chanced upon three different men who seemed to have a grudge against humanity and the entire universe — on three separate occasions within one week — I thought that the Big Guy in heaven was definitely sending me a message. At first I figured, shucks, this was probably my penance for having said some unflattering things about men in this column. But then again, no: there is no excuse for men publicly ranting and raving about random things. It simply isn’t… manly.

A year ago, when I finally settled quite nicely into middle age, I made a conscious decision to edit all the people with negative energy out of my life: the grumpy ones, the jealous ones, the intrigue and gossip fiends, the pessimists, the control freaks, the judgmental ones — those with a grudge against the world. I figured, my life is half over and I should live the rest of it in as much harmony as I could muster. But then, last week, like a magnet, I attracted three of the most negative people you could imagine into my force field. Just my luck! (Or was it karma?)

While doing my daily errands I bumped into three male friends — casual acquaintances whom I had never spoken with at any great length. One (let’s call him Mr. X) I saw while grocery shopping; the other, Mr. Y, let us say, was at a restaurant; and the third, Mr. Z, I bumped into while getting a haircut.

Mr. X spotted me first at the meat counter and courteously walked over to say hello. And as we waited for the butcher to gather our preferred cuts of beef and pork, he chatted me up. It wasn’t so bad in the beginning; he started off with the McCain/Obama US presidential race and then segued into lambasting Cindy McCain, then Hillary Clinton, then Madonna, and then several ladies we mutually knew. He talked about how one of them had gained too much weight and how she had started piling on too much makeup. Then he spoke of another lady friend who had decided to transfer her child to another school and how he thought the choice was disastrous and how incapable she was as a mother. And then he stepped in it: he proceeded to speak ill of a common male friend whom I just happen to be very fond of. He spewed out a litany of how he thought this friend of mine was too much into himself and how he was prone to grandstanding to compensate for his deficiency in the looks department. I so wanted to hand over my compact mirror to him so he could take a good look at himself and finally realize that “he ain’t no Brad Pitt” himself. How dare this dude, I seethed. How catty and downright barbaric he is to be talking ill of women this way and to another woman at that!

A couple of days later, I encountered Mr. Y at the vestibule of a restaurant, just as we were about to step out. He was dapper enough to hold the door open for me, even going as far as offering to stay until my car arrived as his vehicle had promptly pulled up. How gallant, I thought. But that thought was immediately banished when he began whining about the economy and started laying blame on specific individuals for the worldwide financial crisis. A discussion is one thing — a healthy exchange of ideas about specific issues — but whining and bitching is something else altogether. It is a juvenile temper tantrum, a mouthing off of one’s desperation and hopelessness — something pointless and destructive. It wasn’t a mild expression of concern; it was clearly some form of displaced anger. Mr. Y has serious problems and we didn’t know each other well enough for him to be taking such liberties, unleashing a rant in my personal space. It was one of the longest 15 minutes of my life and there was nothing I wanted more than to tell him to get a grip on himself and lighten up, since he still had his brand-new Range Rover and his new beach house in Batangas.

Then there was Mr. Z paying at the cashier when I walked into the hair salon. After he had paid, he pulled up a stool and sat alongside me as I waited for the hairdresser. His opening was predictable enough — he spoke of the weather, relentless rains alternating with overwhelming humidity. Then, out of the blue, he spoke of this 60-year-old woman whom we both knew and who runs a shop that we both patronize. He enumerated what he claimed were her personality flaws and then got down and dirty and personal by attributing these to her unhappy life, her unsatisfying relationships, and her looks. He then proceeded to talk about a dozen other acquaintances, men this time, in a similar vein — unflattering and accusatory. Mr. Z obviously is a very unhappy man. Everything he said about all the people he judged and criticized was exactly what I thought his problem to be.

Where was the joy in those three men, that quality which I find to be characteristic of their gender? The light-heartedness, the optimism, the sense of humor, the positive world view, the regal sense of fairness, the fighting spirit all ablaze, and the dislike for pedestrian gossip? Where was all that?

I don’t know why I didn’t walk out on them in a dramatic huff, heels smoking, just like in the Roadrunner cartoons, or why I didn’t tell them straight off about their unbecoming behavior, how they were giving men a bad name just by being the boors that they were, and how they were definitely going to be material for my next column. I could kick myself for not doing any of these — for simply standing there listening, and allowing them to make fools of themselves. Yes, my toes curled inside my shoes, smoke puffed out of my nostrils, and images of gruesome murder flashed in my mind, but all I did was stand there in the name of civility and good manners.

Yes, these are difficult times, but there is much to be grateful for. What else do we have to turn to if not good company? What else will sustain us if not our good humor and spirits? Discontent is perfectly fine, if it spawns action for reform and change; whining is not.

A Wedding in the Family

2008-10-18T18:35:00.000-07:00

Our favorite Tita

The gorgeous cousins. Point out any one girl in the group who's not a looker and I'll give you a million......roubles, not pesos, and most definitely not dollars!

The superstar of every pinoy gathering: the mighty lechon

The lovely couple: Don and Kitten

We have a wedding in the family and I am extremely excited about this. My father comes from a family of boys--six brothers to be exact, of which he is the oldest. Their one and only sister died at childhood so they grew up in a fraternity, literally.

Among the six brothers, only my Dad took his family out of Manila to settle in the South where we had no relatives at all. So we were, early on, deprived of the company of family and cousins to whom we were very close in childhood. My siblings and I had to settle for the brief Christmas and summers holidays to visit with them. Slowly, as life happened, distance and time eroded what was left of those ties.

My most treasured memories of time spent with them were of the traveling we did together all across North America, from the East to the West coast, starting from Hawaii all the way to New York as teenagers without parents (Yipee) and with only our favorite Tita as chaperon. We also spent a week in Hongkong in the winter, also without parents, and only with the same awesome Tita.

Those were the best times of my youth and they are priceless.

Now that our cousin Kitten's destination wedding is in the offing, we have a reason to travel together to Boracay. I cannot wait; yes, for the wedding itself and also to just bond with family. Kitten is this beautiful, brainy, talented lady who has a double degree: one in fashion design and the other in textile science. I can't wait to see her wedding dress. Don is the gracious groom, whose personality enabled him to simply ease into the family many years ago. They make such a handsome couple and I can't wait to see them get married.

There is something about weddings that charges the atmosphere in every family with hope, affection, and general well-being. There is much anticipation and excitement, while we set aside our mundane concerns and emotional baggage for the moment. The order of the day is to wish the couple well, celebrate their union, and fill their first few days as man and wife with the support; the loving, positive energy; and the prayers that will definitely need in their journey.

Also, two of the cousins, Maiia and Karen, are expecting (Maiia is due any day now) so there's this heart warming vibe of regeneration, renewal, and brand new life that is simply intoxicating. These are happy times.

Parenting Sons

2008-10-15T18:49:00.000-07:00

Everyday, immediately after I send off the children to school, I ask for a cup of hot native chocolate (tsokolate e)--there you have it, my guilty pleasure; I have coffee sometimes when conscience strikes--and the newspaper. Today, I came across the column of Mrs. Preciosa Soliven on parenting and I laud the nuggets of insight that is sprinkled throughout the piece. FYI most of it is lifted out of the book by Michael Gurian: The Wonder of Boys. If you have a son it would be wise to secure a copy.

I enumerate the points, which I think are informative and helpful:

*During puberty, between 10 to 12 years old, when the boy starts to resist mother's hugs and cuddles, it is time for father to keep him company and coach him in active sports competition as well as teach him the facts of life. He must be allowed to separate from the mother and transition into the company of the father so he can develop his own identity from a secure base.

*The love that a mother and son have for each other must change as the boy becomes a man. The mother must let him go into the world of men. She should not only do this for her son but also for herself. If she cannot let go, she will not make her own passage into the next stage of her life.

*The root cause of delinquency is the lack of older male mentors. This one really struck me. It makes perfect sense. It doesn't only mean that only fatherless sons turn deviant but those who may have fathers but have a "disconnect" from them--those who have cold and troubled relationships.

*The essential lesson that a son must learn from his father is how to be a good worker, as well as to be an organized and cooperative member or leader of a team.

*Single mothers or those who are married to husbands who do not meet their needs or expectations turn to sons to find self-value: the son becomes the surrogate male companion; developing an emotional structure--a false self--that mother seems to need. This is tragic! It is the greatest harm a mother can do to a son.

*For menopausal women who experience decrease in levels of the hormone progesterone: progesterone is known as the bonding hormone. It predisposes the brain to provide the body with a readiness for intimacy with spouse and children. So it is not a wonder why perimenopausal and menopausal women often prefer to be by themselves or experience a strong need to be alone. Progesterone deficiency is the culprit.

A Reader's Reaction

2008-10-15T18:28:00.000-07:00

I received a lot of mail in response to the article "The Face of Guilt," which came out in yesterday's PHILIPPINE STAR issue. As expected, they were mostly from men. I would say that half were favorable replies: expressions of disbelief at the continuing cavalier attitude of fellow men regarding infidelity, and empowering and inspirational words for women to exercise their rights. The other half was real mud slinging from men who think that partners of cheating men deserve what comes to them.

Anyway, one letter stood out and struck me. I grant the author anonymity but share it with you here to show how double-sided everything in the world is. There may not be a forum for such voices to be heard and there may not be many like this gentleman, who is courageous enough to speak of the demon that we call "Infidelity." Let's call him Mr. A.

"Good day to you. Your article regarding the face of guilt has made an impression to me and it clearly stressed about the hurts infidelity may cause. Though the majority will agree, men do not have a monopoly on this issue. Far from it. I am one of the many silent men who have suffered betrayal from a spouse who is unfaithful. This betrayal happened many years ago, and right now we are still physically together, but emotionally apart. I just wanna share my experience and hope that someday I may have a marriage that is happy again. I know this letter is quite short but I find it hard to express myself more. I do hope I wouldhear her say "I have done wrong and would like to make amends."

I feel for Mr. A. But we have to remind each other that we are not powerless, that the CHOICE is very much ours on how to address the issue. The concerns are many and varied, i.e. children, finances, religion, etc. Ultimately, only the person involved has the right and the power to change things or to maintain the status quo according to what best fits his purpose.

We have to take this issue seriously and use the tools that are readily available: professional counselors and therapists, religious confessors and life coaches. But if all else fails, see a damn good lawyer and brace yourself for the fight of your life. You are worth it!

So, to Mr. A., the best of luck. Hugs and prayers.

DFA Today

2008-10-15T00:48:00.000-07:00

After my 7-hour ordeal at the Department of Foreign Affairs several months ago, when I had to renew the passports of Belli and Mouse, I swore never to go back there again. Well, guess what? I had to eat my words because this time, it's my passport plus Bidi's and Pippi's that had to be renewed. I told the guys over at the agency that they couldn't pay me to go back there. But they guaranteed that it would only take 10 minutes of my time tops. "Ten minutes? Are you dead sure?" I needled them. They swore on the heads of their dead relatives and so I took their word.

Lo, and behold, our country is not hopeless. It did take all of 10 minutes, not a second more. The travel agent met us at the gate 2 entrance and in exactly 600 seconds, we were done. Bravo!

Here's the catch, walking to gate 2 I noticed this obstacle on the path: an aircon cement casing that jutted out of a wall directly blocking the pathway. Meaning, if one were preoccupied he would certainly miss the early warning device and smash into that concrete casing, face-on and it would have been a bloody, painful mess. Guess what the EWD was? Leave it to the ingenuity of the Pinoy, it was an transparent, empty water bottle taped to the wall. Hello??? How can you spot that from a distance? By the time you do, you're face would have already looked like a bloody bibingka. Transparent water bottle? Hellp???

Calling on Secretary Bert Romulo, hello!!! Can you please have a proper EWD installed to save lives.

Also, Bidi said the moment we entered the facility, "Phew! This place smells like a pet shop!" Secretary Romulo, Lysol only costs a little over P200 a can plus a proper EWD will set the government back only P500. Please send a footman to take care of it. Thanks!

Lamb at Hossein

2008-10-15T00:28:00.000-07:00

Do you remember the lamb served at Hossein when it used to be an unpretentious affair over at Makati Avenue back in the day? The lamb that opened two branches at the Fort. One on the second floor of Serendra and one in in front of the NBC tent, also at the Fort.

The Serendra branch has gone upscale in interiors and, naturally, in prices. The diners have to sustain the ambiance through the revenue, after all. The lamb, however, is still as yummy as it has always been. So, if you're craving for lamb and don't mind spending a little more for the ambiance, go to Hossein. If you are a party of 6 or more, the Supreme Kebab 1 or 2 should be your best bet. It is a sampler platter that has everything Hossein has to offer that is worth ordering. It goes for P2,700. Add in an order of Biryani rice and you'll have a great meal. Oh, also try their Sangria. I know it's quite irregular to order a Spanish drink in this Persian place, but their bartender whips up a great version. You won't be sorry.

I was just there for lunch. We ordered the lamb shish because there were only two of us. We ate it with naan bread instead of rice. We also had hummus (ground chick pea) and mutabal (eggplant) dips with pita bread. And of course, the Sangria. Everything was excellent.

Besieged in a Bus

2008-10-14T18:43:00.000-07:00

Bathtub
Potty for two
Sentry in Rayadillo uniform

Why do I do this to myself time and time again?

I chaperoned a busload of 30 kids on a field trip to Casa Manila in Intramuros. I had been to this magnificently preserved old Manila style house three times, also as chaperone to Belli's, Bidi's, and Pippi's classes. So why not to Mouse's? This was how I convinced myself to make the trip yet again.

The destination was fine. I always enjoy visiting this grand turn-of-the-century house with perfectly-polished narra floors, Venetian chandeliers, hand-knotted Belgian carpets, canopied beds, stone walls, brick ovens, and nonexistent plumbing. It is the ride that tortures me and turns me into a monster.

Imagine being in a small, confined space such a bus with 30 relentlessly screaming, squiggling, chattering, shouting, unruly six-year-olds. And if you attempt to quiet them down they say, "Why, who are you?" Maaaan, I was so tempted to answer, "Lucifer. Welcome to hell." But hey, I do have a bit of a conscience.

I lived to tell with everything intact including my sanity and just a bit of a head ache. Just another day at the office of motherhood.

Creamed

2008-10-14T18:09:00.000-07:00

The never-say-die boys
Number 17 is the love of my life
Our bench
Xavier bench

Basketball is one of Bidi's great loves. He may not excel in it, nor is he in the bottom rung of kulelats, but it is one of his great passions. His team is comprised of around ten friends and classmates who practice once a week under Coach Pat--assistant coach of the Purefoods pro team. Aside form the camaraderie and the health benefits that this weekly activity provides, It is the main source of fun in Bidi's life right now. There is much giggling, heckling, and ribbing along with the actual hard work that goes into every session.

Last Monday was their very first game against another team--the Xavier boys who are the three-year reigning champions of their division in the grade school league. The boys were so excited but no sooner had they started when it slammed right in their faces that they were simply outmatched in number, age, height, and most importantly, skill. Our boys were mostly ten-year-olds with a sprinkling of nines. Xavier had 12-year-olds, and one as tall as Yao Ming. Okay, I exaggerate; he was probably at least 5'9". And they had 20 players compared to our ten. But enough excuses; they were really good.

Coach Pat didn't warn our boys that they were up against champions so they don't walk into the game psychologically defeated. In fact, he wanted them to be beaten badly so they could learn all the lessons that come with it.

Many times I thought to myself, c'mon, let's just concede. If we leave now, we can end the agony and have an early night. That would have taught them the wrong values but it would they would have cut their losses. Believe it or not the final score was 95-23. But I must say, the boys' spirits did not waver at all, not for a moment. They fought like tigers to the last and died for that ball. I could learn a lot from these ten-year-olds. Shame on me.

After the game I asked Bidi how he felt. he said with a smile, "We were creamed, Mom! But that's okay it was fun and we'll do better next time!"

"Do you want to go somewhere special for dinner?" I asked him.

"KFC, Mom."

And so went, ordered, and sat down to dinner quietly for the first couple of minutes, like an old couple.

Then he said, "You don't like ketchup with your chicken."

"Not really. Don't want to drown the chicken taste."

"You only like it with your burger and hotdog. Plus the hotdog has to have lots of mustard."

"Wow," I said, "You remember!"

"I know these things about you," he said. "And you don't like soda."

"You don't like french fries," I told him; it was my turn.

"Yeah, I don't"

And then, out of the blue, I said, "I love you."

He replied, in a very low voice, and without once looking up from his chicken dinner. "Love you too."

Then I said, "I'm going to love whomever you love, regardless. I'm going to love whomever you choose to marry."

He looked up and said, "Huh?"

"I promise you that," I said.

"If you say so," he said before turning back to his dinner.

He is the only man in my life.

The Face of Guilt

2008-10-14T18:08:00.000-07:00

It appears to be frozen. The expression registers for a few precious seconds, revealing a hodge-podge of emotions: surprise, anxiety, fear, and puzzlement at how one’s hand was caught in the proverbial cookie jar. Such is the face of a guilty man or woman.

It is ironic that there is such purity in it, how untainted and how unadulterated (pardon the pun) the face seems, for those few fleeting moments, when it reveals itself immediately after one is caught and confronted, showing guilt in its most organic form, before defensiveness and the instinct for self-preservation kicks in.

So behold that face, mark that expression, because in the next breath it will vanish and in its stead will rise something you might have to battle yet never slay.

Jardine Libaire, writing for Bestlife magazine, notes in her February 2007 article on the subject of infidelity: “In America, a lapse in monogamy ruins marriages, bankrupts couples, and condemns families to divorce court hell. In Europe and elsewhere, infidelity is considered a bump in the road, if it’s considered at all.”

She cites the example of American couple Jane and Thomas, high school sweethearts whose kids are currently in high school. Thomas, 47, a financial officer at a large corporation, suddenly started volunteering to take his son to soccer practice on Sunday mornings and began using his laptop at home.

Jane noticed he seemed to hide the computer from her, and he never used it in front of her. He sought excuses to be alone; she became uneasy. One night, he made a hushed phone call downstairs while she was in bed. When he came upstairs, she asked who it was. He hemmed and hawed, and then said it was no one; told her she was “hearing things” and said it must have been the TV. His denial was all she needed. She asked right then and there if he was having an affair. And then there was that face — the frozen face. Soon enough he admitted that he was. Their world came crashing down.

The other woman was a fellow employee who reported to him. She was 14 years Jane’s junior and possessed, in Jane’s words, “a Victoria’s Secret body.” Thomas agreed that he must end the affair, but over the course of four months the evidence said otherwise. Jane discovered cryptic text messages on her husband’s cell phone and there were regular hang-up calls from a blocked number. Jane considered telling the other woman’s husband about his wife’s affair, but then she realized the other woman — out of revenge — could sue Thomas for sexual harassment. This quandary had the potential to bankrupt the family. So would divorce. Mean-while, every time Thomas stayed late at work, Jane couldn’t help but accuse him — even if it was only in silent looks —of having been unfaithful again. In their own home, Jane and Thomas were now deadlocked in marital misery, fighting tearfully and viciously.

Does it have to be this way? Must an affair lead a couple inexorably to annulment court or bankruptcy? Do other cultures handle the circumstance of infidelity with different protocol and ethics?

Libaire cites another example, that of Ana, 30, a European with 1960s Italian art-film looks: an almost decadent face, a slim, curvy body in a tweed pencil skirt. One night, Henri, a Parisian client of Ana’s company, came to town for a professional event. They flirted unapologetically throughout the evening. When she invited people to her place for late-night drinks, Henri stayed behind. Before anything happened, he held up his finger, “You see I’m wearing this ring,” he said. Ana said she did. “You know nothing will change,” he continued. She answered that she did, indeed, understand that.

“It was adult,” Ana says. “It was respectful to me, in a way, and to his wife, to ask that, and to make that statement. The next morning he was sweet and relaxed. We hung out for hours. He didn’t run away in shame.”

Libaire says “Henri is the fairy-tale adulterer: European, sensual, guiltless. He is a figure we Americans look upon with wonder and terror, wanting to believe and desperately not wanting to believe that he (or she) exists.” She adds that when Americans engage in hanky-panky, “We go into hysterics and confess, bawling to our spouses. We enroll in specialized infidelity therapy. We hate ourselves. We fall apart.”

According to Pamela Druckerman, author of a book on infidelity, Lust in Translation, which is based on her survey of married couples conducted over a period of several years worldwide, “Americans are the worst, both at having affairs and dealing with the aftermath. Adultery crises in America last longer, cost more, and seem to inflict more emotional torture than they do of anyplace I visited.”

She had not only charted the international styles and frequency of cheating, but also looked at each country’s capacity for guilt and shame (or anger and vengeance, depending on the party’s role) regarding infidelity. It seems to her that no other population suffers the same magnificent lavish of anguish that Americans do. She claims that “The Russians regard affairs as benign vices, like cigars and scotch. The Japanese have institutionalized extramarital sex through clubs and salary man lifestyles.”

The French, who don’t cheat as much, according to Druckerman, prize discretion over the occasional lie. In sub-Saharan Africa, even the threat of HIV hasn’t created a strong taboo on cheating. She adds that, “Even God-fearing and devout Christians, Muslims and Jews are still cheating and having affairs, still double-parking on their spouses.”

Druckerman says that in the grand scheme of infidelity around the world, “The United States remains junior varsity. We have affairs at about the same numerical rate as the French.” According to the General Social Survey, the most recent statistical examination of marital infidelity, about four percent of married men polled claimed at least one sexual partner outside his marriage in the previous year; around three percent for married women. Compare this with Africa’s Ivory Coast, where a reported 36 percent of married men strayed.

“Why is the fallout so brutal?” Druckerman asks. “In most other countries, an occasional affair is tolerated and even sanctioned,” at least for men.

How about right here at home? How do we Filipinos handle infidelity? Do couples slug it out? Do the wives scream bloody murder and fight tooth and nail for what is rightfully theirs? I think not. There may be a few exceptions but the majority suffer in silence. They cry upon the bosom of their closest friends and endure the pain and the humiliation of the betrayal. Why? Because in our country, as in others — most of Asia and Africa — women have fewer rights. Men cheat and women have hardly any leverage to stop them or to complain. It is not a matter of tolerance but of unequal freedoms. Let us not forget that, in some countries, women are still stoned to death for adultery.

In America, relationships often collapse immediately under the weight of a discovered infidelity because it is considered an affront to the partnership, something that must be addressed and fixed. In this, they turn to professionals: counselors and therapists who espouse utter and unveiled transparency, which are necessary for trust to be rebuilt.

In the Philippines, infidelity is a non-issue. Most wives lick the wounds of their martyred selves; husbands, whose motto it is to deny the indiscretion unto death and who wouldn’t be caught dead seeing counselors and therapists, add another feather to their cap and probably pat themselves on the back, sometimes in secret, sometimes out in the open or in the company of buddies, as they gloat over and glorify their “invincibility.”

Druckerman would have found, had she investigated our people’s capacity for guilt and shame regarding infidelity, that there is close to none. Even our nation’s leaders do nothing to hide their affairs; no guilt there, no shame.

And yet in some rare instances, if one is lucky, one just might glean the face of guilt worn by the erring partner at his most unguarded moment — a look that is guileless and earnest; one that says, “I have done wrong and I shall placate and make amends.”

The Usual Suspects

2008-10-11T19:29:00.000-07:00

When the Usual Suspects are together, the venue and the trappings don't really matter; there is as much fun to be had in a dive as there is in a posh joint. But last night was exceptional. M had organized an amazing dinner for us at SALA restaurant over at Locsin Building on Makati Ave. corner Ayala. You see, M had been in and out of the country these past two months, so she had taken pains to invite everybody out to this special dinner. As it turned out, special is an inadequate adjective.

The food at SALA was marvelous. It was my first time there and was pleasantly surprised. M ordered shrimp souffle, a house specialty, and the ravioli for the first plate. The ravioli had a delicate taste: the pasta, ever so fine; very light in texture and on the palate and the truffle oil sauce provided the rich, decadent finish that lingered in the mouth long after it had been washed down.

M and K were smart enough to order the veal loin and the angel hair pasta to share, so they had two mains, in effect. I had the onion tart, which was exactly how I had hoped it would be: soft, caramelized onions on top of a flaky, melt-in-the-mouth crust. J and C both had the grouper. Funny how G said that this charming couple are always on the same wave-length; so attuned to each other. They were on opposite sides of the table, yet they ended up ordering the same thing. JP, who was beside me, had the lamb and was happy with it.

I thought I had the best seat in the house because I was sandwiched between K and JP, and directly in front of me was J: three of the funniest men I know. So, for most of the evening I was in stitches, and even precariously on the verge of spraying on J projectile after he had delivered some funny punchline.

The price points of the dishes are relatively high but the ambiance (tastefully done interiors), the service, and most importantly, the food, justifies everything. It's not a place to step into on some random day; it is something one must plan for, when finances actually allow it, so one doesn't get caught flat footed when the bill comes. I wish I had taken photos but the place is a cozy space and I would have ruined the mood and annoyed the diners had I pointed and flashed the camera here and there. Some things are sacred and best left that way.

A word on service. Do you notice how in chi chi restaurants, the waiter comes up to give a run down on the specials. More often than not, these have French or Italian culinary terms that involve verbal gymnastics in pronunciation. It is almost painful to sit and watch these waiters struggle with their lines, as they stumble repeatedly, and stand there in utter embarrassment. I wish these establishments would just designate one guy, who can pull it off without damaging his self esteem and without making the patrons feel uncomfortable. Why put both the service staff and the clients in sticky situations? Perhaps, they should just make an effort to demystify these high-sounding dishes and simply present them in no-nonsense English. Maybe they think that if they spruce up the names of the dishes they would command higher prices. Hmmm...

Anyway, thanks so much M, for an exceptional evening.

Food for the Gods

2008-10-11T02:12:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year once again: DURIAN SEASON! Dad just sent me this newest incarnation of the fruit: vacuum packed and frozen. I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into them. So, minutes after their arrival in the kitchen, I stole away to the terrace (the kids have banned me from eating them indoors for life, the little twirps) and sank my teeth into them. Yuuummm...nothing else matters.

I miss Kitty and my siblings: sister and brothers, who, I imagined, as I gobbled up the plump, pillowy, and sticky pulp of the durian off of the seeds, would have savored the experience with me. Every bite evoked images of my childhood in Davao and memories of my siblings. As they say, you can take the girl away from the province but you can't take the province away from the girl. Thanks Dad.

Bioidentical Hormones

2008-10-10T23:52:00.000-07:00

All women on the cusp of menopause face the issue of hormone replacement. Otherwise, they are tasked with struggling to strike a balance between their biological and emotional well-being all alone and it is not a pretty task. Perimenopuase, a ten-year phase between the onset of hormonal imbalance up to the official menopause,which is when a women's periods have ceased completely for one year, is a very tricky thing. It is the period (usually between 40 to 50 years old) when women experience mood swings, hot flashes, migraines, depression, weight gain, insomnia, and palpitations, among many other symptoms. For a long time the only option available was to replacing dwindling hormonal levels with the synthetic kind like Premarin (estrogen) or Provera (progesterone).

I have been reading this book by Dr. Christiane Northrup called "The Wisdom of Menopause" in preparation for when my time finally comes and have found out that Bioidentical Hormones are the best course to take. I quote from her book:

"Bioidentical hormones are exactly the same as those found in the female body as opposed to synthetic hormones, which are made from horse urine. Equine estrogens aren't normally found in the human female body, and they are associated with side effects such as head aches, bloating, and sore breasts. Plus, their breakdown products can cause DNA damage that is carcinogenic in tissue."

"Bioidentical hormones are synthesized in the lab from hormone precursors found in soybeans or yams, their molecular structure is designed to be an exact match of the hormones found in the human body. They are just like hormones that our bodies are designed to recognize and utilize with less chances of unpredictable side effects and which are used at low replacement doses compared to synthetic hormones."

In the Philippines it is only available through Dr. Rebecca Singson, gynecologist par excellence at Makati Med. It is in lotion form and all one has to do is to take a dime-sized dollop in her hands and massage it in strategic parts of the body like the tummy, neck, hips, or shoulders, once or twice a day, where it readily vascularized by the skin.

One of my best friends attests to its efficacy. She claims that her skin is now as supple as when she was in her twenties, her hair has grown back to its original thickness, and her over-all well-being is simply at its best. She says that after two weeks of use her children and husband said, "Mom, you're back."

You may contact Dr. Rebecca Singson at 892-7879. Please see her. You don't have to suffer through menopause. Don't endure the symptoms; manage them.

The Industry's Big Guns

2008-10-09T00:36:00.000-07:00

Wyg Tysman and Marge Enriquez came to photograph the house for the December issue of the Philippine Tatler. I am in awe of how meticulous Wyg is. I have never seen a more thorough photographer at work. I'm merely a bystander and I'm tired already just watching them fuss over the smallest crease in the bed sheet, which is invisible to the clueless like me. Amazing! Marge is such a skilled interviewer; she comes up with the most unexpected questions that one never imagines having to prepare for, so the result is a distilled version of the truth. She's brilliant at what she does.

Catch of the Day

2008-10-09T00:26:00.000-07:00

Curacha

Elephant Shells

If you're within the area, please try the buffet at HEAT at the Edsa Shangri-la Hotel. The raw bar is the best of their lunch line-up. The elephant shells from Samar (first time I've ever tried them) are out of this world in spite of their totally weird look--so fresh tasting. All they need is a sprinkle of dayap and you've got the best tastes of the sea exploding in your mouth. The curacha from Zamboanga is a must as well; the crab meat is sweet, moist, and chunky--all worth the trip.

Well Travelled First Graders

2008-10-09T00:13:00.000-07:00

I was at Mouse's first grade class today as a speaker. It was fun being reunited with these energetic graders who are very enthusiastic to learn. I was amazed to find out that easily half of the class, which is roughly 8 kids, has seen much of the world: Greece, Istanbul, Japan. They start very early these days as boundaries are breached, as cultures are assimilated, and as the world shrinks into one global village.

Who Wears The Pants?

2008-10-07T17:40:00.000-07:00

“I’ll have you know, girls are stronger; we’re smarter and better and we can do way more things than you. We’re mothers and dancers and presidents and doctors and waitresses, and we’re prettier.” All this from the precocious 10-year-old classmate of my son, whom we had invited to a sushi dinner, and who sat directly across from him at the dinner table.

Everyone in our party had heard this and I held my breath expecting my son to return a cross-court, turnaround, backhanded, acute-angled volley. I was turning blue in the face thinking, C’mon, if he were really my son, he’d come back with something clever — a double entendre, maybe, nothing harsh, of course, but anything to make her grapple with the irresponsibility of generalizing gender differences for a few days.

But all he did was deliver an earnest, gurgling, shoulder-shaking chuckle. After which he said, “Really? You think so?” The cute girl replied emphatically, “Yes! I am the boss of you!”

At this point, I narrowed my eyes at my son in an effort to get this message across: Claim your kingdom, son, and hoist the flag! Still, all he did was smile, both at me and at his classmate, who now sat smugly, face contorted in a satisfied smirk.

He shoved a block of spicy tuna roll in his mouth, then leaned over to me, and whispered, through the blobs of raw fish and rice swirling around his mouth, “Dzzzon’t whozzzy, Mom…” “Stop,” I said to him. “Finish chewing that please, then talk.” After a few seconds and a caveman swallow, he turned back to me and said, “I said, don’t worry, Mom, I just let her think that so I can enjoy my sushi in peace.” And then with a wink and a flash of a toothy smile at me and at the girl across from him, he popped another wedge of sushi in his mouth and chewed away.

Heck, where did he get that? From TV? The Internet? His friends? Maybe. But I think it is something that’s hard-wired in the brain of all men from the time of conception.

I remembered an interview I caught on the E! Channel with the newly married Hollywood actor, Jay Mohr. When asked about married life, he answered, “Everything’s perfect.” He was then asked what his formula was for a happy marriage and he said, “Happy wife, happy life. Just keep ‘em happy and you’re good.”

Is it really true, do you think — this conspiracy of the male species to fool us all into believing we’ve got the upper hand, when in fact, they hold all the puppet strings? We’ve all heard the Machiavellian motto — It’s better to be feared than loved — and many a great man down through the centuries has applied this by enthroning a woman and endowing her with powers to rule alongside him as a buffer for the people’s discontent and resentment. Truly cunning. Think of the late strongman, Ferdinand Marcos, or of the former Argentinean military junta leader, Juan Peron — same mentality, same principle.

What then of all these seemingly flattering, popular sayings descriptive of the prized position of women in their partner’s lives — “the power behind the throne”; “wind beneath my wings”; Rasputin; St. Peter at the gates? Notice that in every clause, the allusion to the woman is never on equal footing with the man; she is either behind him or in front of him as the first line of defense against the mob. Go figure.

A friend of mine, a venture capitalist, joked about how domestic matters are settled between him and his wife. He jested, “When she badgers me about needing to have her way once in a while in the home, when she gripes about her opinion weighing nothing, I always remind her as I have stated from the very beginning that I take care of all the minor decisions that concern our family and she gets to decide on all the major ones. But so far, no major ones have come up yet, so there.” Really sly.

So who really wears the pants? Over a bottle of wine at a café yesterday, I sat with Lindy, a stunning, worldly, street-smart, 19-year-old Columbian/Bulgarian/Australian, and a daughter’s friend. Men of all shapes and sizes surrounded us, finding every excuse to get close to her; but she sat there like mighty Aphrodite, knowing exactly how to handle herself. I asked what she thought about this matter between men and women. She said, “Men are stupid sometimes, but we women, we’re manipulative. Ooohhh, aren’t we? We take things, flip them on their heads, and spin them around. We’re bad. We can play with minds.” Very forthcoming.

As I worked my way to the rest room, I chanced upon a man along the hallway, red in the face and glassy-eyed, hand cupped over a phone receiver, speaking loudly into his mobile, obviously to his significant other. “I remember clearly telling you that I was going out tonight… one beer, just one… an hour, tops… We’re all boys… Of course, I’m sure… You wanna talk to George… I said about an hour, hour-and-a-half, maybe, tops…”

It was too much of a temptation and, of course, I couldn’t resist. So, playfully and in the spirit of the moment, I stopped in front of him, wagged a finger, and clucked my tongue, “Tsk, tsk.” He looked at me stunned. I gave him a wink and ambled on.

Perhaps, in synch with the spinning of the earth along its axis, the universe contrives to shift ascendancy between both genders. Equally? In time and billing? Who’s to know? In the meanwhile, let’s make each other think so. In my 10-year-old son’s words, “For the sake of peace.”

Utzon's Genius

2008-10-07T02:36:00.000-07:00

Both times that I had stood within close range of the Sydney Opera House, simply standing there in silence and beholding it, there was a strong yet indescribable emotion that tugged at my gut. This same syndrome happens to me each time I come across something or someone phenomenal.

Imagine having something as grand and imposing as that in your own country, something that would boost national pride and identity.

The Sydney Opera House, an arts complex, was done in the Modern Expressionist architectural style by Danish architect, Jorn Utzon. It has a solid concrete frame and a precast concrete ribbed roof, which is often referred to as "shells." Each of these shells that form the roof are taken from a hemisphere of the same structure.

It is one of the world's most distinctive 20th century buildings and was made a UNESCO world heritage sight in June 2007. Formal construction of the Opera House started in 1959. The project was built in three stages and was finally completed in 1973--14 years!

Full and Fat in Sydney

2008-10-06T18:46:00.000-07:00

Kitty is the type of person we all loathe: that who can gorge on food and stay relatively slim. I wish I could say the same for myself. I have noticed since arriving here that although my limbs have stayed the same, my girth has been expanding by the minute. If I didn't know any better I could probably say I were pregnant--20 months pregnant! Why do we do this to ourselves? Eat like gluttons and curse our lack of self control after? Heck! Life's too short. Pass the carbo, please.

We had Espetadas and Chorizos at a Brazilian/Portuguese restaurant called Amazon on Kings Street. The meats were fork-flaking tender and the secret was definitely in the sauce. They served everything with "Amazon" sauce, which was orangey and thick. I suspect it had paprika and saffron in it. It tasted divine.

It's Raining Men

2008-10-06T18:27:00.000-07:00

Here's a curious thing about Sydney siders, there are two types of them: those attached to their beer and those who are health revolutionaries, and each not necessarily exclusive to their kind; meaning that a beer fiend may also be a health buff and vice versa. So that on any given day at lunch break, which they call "beer o'clock," one may catch a horde of office people either converging at the local pub for drinks or donning their runners for a quick hour-long run down several blocks. And at around 1:00 both types of people are back behind their desks, pounding away at keyboards.

Once, as Kitty and I were walking around Circular Quay at 12 o'clock high, we happened by this mob of men in a local pub--the Customs House Pub. There was nothing extraordinary about this but upon closer inspection, I realized that among probably more than a hundred men, there were only two women in the entire expanse of that pub, which was almost a block long. Mind boggling, really. Where are the women? Do they not have women in Sydney?

Conquering Sydney Harbour Bridge

2008-10-06T02:18:00.000-07:00

I climbed Sydney Harbour Bridge and I liked it--that sounded like a pop song. Sorry, Katy Perry. Anyway, I really did plan to, even before I embarked on the trip to Australia. But the thing was, on the days leading up to the departure something earth shaking happened in my life, one that we don't ever wish even on our worst enemies. And so my frame of mind experienced a sudden shift. Instead of climbing bridges, I was actually burning some. My energies were focused on my internal life: thoughts, emotions, expectations, future plans, and climbing that bridge was suddenly no longer an urgent need.

After several days in Sydney of mulling my life over and having some moments of clarity albeit very few, I was able to get my head out of the ground, ostrich style, pardon the pun. I had been contemplating the famous words of the wise regarding the matter of infidelity and what one actually does when confronted by it in the face. Many have said, "Fight back," others have said, "Get even," Ivana Trump said, "Get everything," and still, there are some who say, "Get your vengeance, demand justice, or spend all his money." What do I think? I think if one has a run in with infidelity, he should run the other way as fast as he possibly can.

Anyway, after much encouragement and prodding from Kitty, our resident daredevil, who has skydived in Sydney and cliff dived in Corfu, backpacked across the Outback, and gone camping with Hell's Angels in England, I found the necessary courage to go do it.

I woke up nervous that morning; okay, freaking out would be the more earnest statement. It's not everyday that I climb bridges 134 meters high. Kitty drove me there and like a reluctant toddler off to the first day of Kindergarten, I stood by the curb waving goodbye long after she had driven off.

I entered the office and the wait of 20 minutes felt like the longest in my life. When I was asked to sign a waiver, my hand was shaking so hard I couldn't keep the pen steady. On the line that said "next of kin" I was so tempted to put, Spouse: Brad Pitt. What the heck if it can't be true in life, then in death. Okay, that was a morbid thought.

Anyway, I was with a group of 12 climbers with one able guide who had been doing the climb for 8 years, whew! It took about 40 minutes of briefing and gearing up. They were dead serious about the gear: we had a climbs suit on, which was a jump suit; rain pants over the jump suit; a radio strapped behind us; headset; hanky, bungee-corded to our wrist (the nose runs in high altitudes); a cap also chained to the suit; a head set with hi tech ear phones that lie not on the ear proper but on the cheeks, so that the ears are free to pick up ambient noises from the harbor. It works via sound waves vibrating on the cheek, which is then picked up by the inner ear. When I put it on, I though to myself, hayop! This gadget was courtesy of the US armed forces; why am I not surprised. But then again, these are the same people who can't find Bin Laden. Truly, the universe has a sense of humor.

Carrying on, we had the heavy waist belt to which a bungee cord was attached. It had a slider at the end, which would be clamped on to a steel rope all along the bridge. So when we got there, we had to clamp our sliders on to the rails and proceed like this all throughout. In other words, we could fall, but the cord, which can take 200 tons of tension, would save us from hitting the water. Here's the thing though, they haven't figured out how to recover a dangling body from the height of 134 meters. Duh! It looks deceiving from photos but that bridge is two meters taller than the statue of Liberty, five meters taller than Christ's statue in Brazil, and one meter taller than the tallest pyramid in Gaza, Egypt. Plus, they had the gall to say that a fall from 60 to 80 meters onto water is not lethal; you'll have broken bones and stuff but you'll live. Over 80 meters and you're dead meat. We were 134 meters above the water. (Insert soundtrack of Twilight Zone right here).

But I was already there, had already paid, and I kind of liked the shade of gray that the suit came in, so what the heck. The guide led us on to the bridge and I swear I might as well have been walking on a tightrope. we walked and climbed on steel planks with had grid designs, so it was like walking on a screen plate with the entire harbor below highly visible. All we had to hold on to for dear life were 2 steel rods on either side, about 1 and 1/2 inches in diameter. Can you believe that? I still can't. Anyway we climbed a total of 1,437 steps, maneuvered through platforms, steep inclines, and crevices for a total of 3 hours. It was cool and breezy but I was sweating bullets both because of tension and anxiety and effort expended. But hey, I lived to tell and so will you; I guarantee. You know how they say people that who are into extreme sports do it because they want to get as far from earth as possible because all is not fine and dandy in their lives on terra firma? So true!

No still cameras or video cameras were allowed so we had to buy photos that the guide took at strategic intervals. However, I took photos of the photos of the famous and the even more famous such as Robert De Niro, Matt Damon, Sir Richard Branson, Nicole Kidman, Keith Urban, Cameron Diaz, who did the same climb just so I could brag to you that I have something in common with them. Lame? Yeah, very lame.

Breakfast of Champions

2008-10-06T01:24:00.000-07:00

Alright, this has officially been a decadent vacation. All we have done is eat and drink, then complain about how full we are and how sick it feels, and then, a few hours later, we deliberate on where our next meal will be, and then we eat some and drink some more, and then, bitch yet again.

Before we went to bed last night, Kitty and Lindy decided they wanted pancakes and so today we are off on a walking tour to The Rocks, where the restaurant, Pancakes on The Rocks is located.

A word on the locale. The Rocks is the oldest preserved colonial district of Sydney. When the first British fleet under the command of Captain Arthur Phillip arrived here in 1788 along with 700 Irish convicts, they all settled on The Rocks. Nestled at the foot of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, The Rocks is Australia's birthplace. This oldest area of Sydney had recently undergone an amazing metamorphosis, the old district having been transformed into vibrant pockets of restaurants, cafes, and pubs. All this had been done under the strict supervision of the Heritage Conservation Society so that The Rocks' old world charm and character is very much alive.

We had a leisurely walk around the area, starting off at Circular Quay, padding slowly past the Museum of Contemporary Art, stopping occasionally and gawking at the Opera House directly across the harbor. We chanced upon Sydney's oldest pub, and we browsed around quaint patisseries, much like those in Austria's old town.

And then we ate, aaaaaagain. We had tandoori chicken pizza--to die for, Mexican crepes, and baby back ribs--the best I've tried. I figured that since it was one Bacchanalian feast after another that we were having, I might as well get that champagne cocktail for breakfast. And I sure did. And it felt so good--guilt free actually, until now. I don't know why but I'm having a sudden attack of the conscience. Too late though, the champagne is safe and sound in my belly and has probably gone places by now. It's such a shame that we never got around to ordering pancakes, which is what the place is famous for--thick, fluffy, Belgian pancakes, not life the thin, American ones. Shame, shame!

Salon Barbie

2008-10-02T17:03:00.000-07:00

After lounging beach side all afternoon, the sun had robbed us of all energy. But Thai food hit the spot and we were suddenly recharged. The girls spent time primping themselves to go clubbing, while I decided on a quiet night in a place with soft music, low lights, excellent company, and senseless conversation.

Lindy, Kitty's Columbian/Bulgarian, 100-watt bulb, friend, said as they got dressed, "It takes so much effort--this prettifying thing--just to go out. The hair, the make-up, the everything. I'm tired already and we haven't even stepped out the door." Don't all women feel that way? Doesn't it truly take a village to make us look our best? Well, I know some women who need an entire country to get the job done but I'm not saying because they might shut down this site. Oh, okay, if you insist: Ms. Baby Arenas for one, don't you agree? What about the coiffured, coutured, powdered, and rouged women of Manila's social scene? How about Ivana Trump, or Dolly Parton, or Cindy McCain? Make me stop, please! I know you've got at least a dozen names on your mind right now. It feels so liberating to be naughty and plebeian and pedestrian like this. Chismis is the ultimate de-stresser.

Comatose on Manly Beach

2008-10-02T16:32:00.000-07:00

Sydney Harbor Bridge

alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252709145597827858" /> Wall to wall surfers on the beach but I'm not one to complain

Opera House
Sydney Tower

My head feels much better today, thank you very much. We had a night of hard partying the other day and my middle-aged body couldn't shake off whatever excesses it had indulged in, in just several hours. Nowadays it takes about two days for my old bones and my cobwebby brain to get back on track.

And so Kitty decided that I should recuperate amidst nature and beautiful surroundings. So again, along with our posse, we hauled my comatose body off to Manly Beach. First, we took a boat ride and gawked at the enchantment on the water that is Sydney. Spectacular!

And then we had the worst eggs Benedict ever in a cafe by the shore--yuck! After that, we trudged over a few steps to Manly beach and collapsed on the sand for hours. I fell asleep, while the rest frolicked and people-watched. The surf was fierce and I caught sight of real jaw-dropping surfer hunks--mission accomplished!

Sunny Sydney

2008-10-02T03:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was spent pigging out on fresh seafood at the Fish Market, where the lobsters and prawns looked like mutants because of their size. We had those plus octopus, dory, salmon and tuna, and oysters Kilpatrick. The Fish Market is Australia's version of our dampa, where the day's fresh catch is brought in by fishing boats from the harbor. It also is turo-turo style: you point to your seafood of choice and give them cooking instructions. We figured after the first time we went there that fresh is best so we kept cooking to a bare minimum, if not at all.

With bulging bellies, we took a leisurely walk to Darling Harbor and took in some street performances and gelato. We ended that wonderful, relaxed, sunny afternoon with cocktails as we watched boats cruise along.

After a quick shower and change at home, we went clubbing until 3 am. After last night's revelry, only half my brain is functioning, so my apologies for the short post; more tomorrow. Cheers!

Mismatched

2008-09-30T17:07:00.000-07:00

Do opposites really attract? Don’t we ask ourselves this question every time we see couples with stark aesthetic differences? Never mind the slight disparities in height, weight, or facial features— these are normal, maybe even expected. But we speak here of extremes, of the comically incongruous, of the downright absurd and incomprehensible, of those that make our jaws drop and make us think, “What the heck?”

One classic example would be the five-year-marriage of blonde bombshell Marilyn Monroe and cerebral, Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, Arthur Miller in the ‘50s. When pressed for a reason for her hookup with Miller, Monroe said she valued his intelligence and sensitivity. Miller, on the other hand, cited her “enormous sense of play, inventiveness and unexpectedness.” In other words, as many claimed, he couldn’t get over the fact that he got the girl.

Another example would be the pairing up of ‘80s supermodel Paulina Porizkova, who looks like an incarnation of the goddess Aphrodite, and Ric Ocasek, front man for the pop group The Cars, who may best be described as alien-like. However disconcerting their union might be, it is obviously founded on solid ground because, 24 years and two children later, they remain happily married. So men can go on scratching their heads about these two; they shall remain tightly bonded.

Then there was the Claudia Schiffer and David Copperfield hookup that almost sent the entire male population up in arms in the ‘90s. How the nerdy conjurer won the supermodel is a feat a million times more impressive than his celebrated stunts — walking through the Great Wall of China or making the Statue of Liberty disappear.

And just how a low-key, mumbling country singer like Lyle Lovett with his Brill-O pad hairdo snagged America’s sweetheart, Julia Roberts, will forever remain a mystery and a sore point for the entire universe to ponder.

And finally, in recent years, Latin singer Marc Anthony has proven that lightning does strike twice.

This skinny Grammy-award winning artist was married to former Miss Universe Dayanara Torres (no stranger to the Philippines) and is now remarried to Hollywood superstar, Jennifer Lopez and is father to their twins.

True, such couplings confound most people’s aesthetic sensibilities, but it’s nowhere near as disturbing as when the personalities of those involved are polar opposites. It is more logically acceptable for two people to be mismatched in physical attributes because they may actually converge on the very basic level of compatibility — something they need at the very least to sustain the relationship. They may happen to share the same hobbies, or be passionate about the same sports; or, on a more elevated level, they may truly stimulate each other mentally or spiritually; and in the most romantic sense, they may possess a deep affection for each other. These factors are definitely fuel for any relationship and they can turbo-charge unions for very long periods.

Let’s take the case of a friend — a whip-smart, high-powered, good-looking businessman, to whom success came very early, sometime in his mid-20s — and not because of luck but because of sheer genius. He had a long-time girlfriend who was a summa cum laude graduate of the same business school he went to and was, in fact, his equal in looks and smarts.

So it was to the surprise of all concerned when he turned around and married a very unassuming lady with a simple mind and an uncomplicated life — okay, boring, basically.

I asked him about this because I couldn’t contain my bafflement: “Why her?”

He answered: “Because being with the other one was just too stressful. I don’t want to come home to someone who will engage me in mental sparring. I do that all day at work. I want peace and quiet at home. Besides, I don’t want to live the rest of my life in mortal fear.”
“Fear of what?” I asked, still confused.

“Of being found out,” he explained. “Of her proving one day that she is ultimately better than me.”

And what of couples, who are like night and day when it comes to appetites for adventure? I know of one in which the husband is an avid extreme sportsman and the wife is an introvert who prefers to sit at home and cross-stitch. They spend weeks apart: he chasing after the high of cheating death yet again; she stoking the hearth and counting the minutes to his return.

This venture into the realm of mismatched couples was instigated by something I had witnessed at a formal dinner dance recently. We shared a table with this couple that, from the very beginning, seemed as ill-fitted to one another as a clown suit on a skinny man. The husband, resplendent as a thousand-watt bulb and dapper in a cream tuxedo, enveloped us immediately in a warm, electric, highly charged vibe. He was handsome and had an aura of menace about him — a definite chick magnet. He had a wild crop of salt and pepper hair, a sharp sense of humor, and a shoulder span as wide as an Olympic swimmer’s. The wife, on the other hand, was pleasant enough to look at, but her endless fidgeting and nervous demeanor cancelled out all the charm she may have had. She spent the entire evening monitoring all of her husband’s moves. Her eyes were glued fast to him and she held her breath in anticipation of all his actions.

It was puzzling because he did ask her to dance several times, but she refused over and over again. She craned her neck to follow his steps across the expanse of the dance floor each time he found some other partner to boogie with. I sat quietly and observed her, fascinated by the neurosis that seemed to drive this woman, who, from time to time, seemed to be teetering at the edge of sanity. Every time her husband smiled or waved — something he did almost all night — she would snap her head toward whatever direction his gesture had been thrown. If it was directed at a woman, she would give her the evil eye. I could feel hear her breathing heavily and could see her eyes afire with malice and her fists balled by her sides like a woman scorned. Sheesh, I thought to myself, how could someone make herself that miserable? Didn’t she want to boogie and have as much fun as her husband was clearly having?

Once, when the husband exited — to visit the restroom, I presumed — she bolted out of her chair and dashed out to follow him. I, consumed with curiosity, figured that that opportunity to use the restroom was as good a time as any, so I did. I bumped into her pacing the lobby, highly agitated, and darting from one corner of the place to the other. “Looking for your husband?” I asked.

It was an almost-innocent question, but she took it the wrong way. “Of course not!” she scoffed. “Oh,” I continued, “I bet you just want to work off the big dinner you ate,” then I scampered away from her line of fire.

Back at the table, I saw her husband, comfortably seated in his chair. So I asked him where he had been because his wife had been looking frantically for him.

He chuckled and said, “I went for a smoke. Pardon the Gestapo — oh, I mean the wife — she gets that way all the time.”
“What way?” I said, feigning ignorance.

“You, know, that way — like a rabid, jealous wife, wanting to poke her nose into everything I do.”

“And this is okay with you?” I pried, since he seemed all too willing to spill it out.
“Yeah, no sweat.”

“Oh, you like the dance; this little tango you play with her?”

He guffawed. “Well, now that you’ve put it in such an interesting way, yes, I do.” He guffawed some more.

I spent the rest of the evening contemplating the state of their union: a party animal of a husband, and a miserable, nosy wife, running after her own tail, haunted by her own ghosts.

I asked my companion that evening, who had witnessed all of it as well, what he thought of this entire business of mismatched couples, especially the one right beside us. I said to him, “How can that man stay married to someone like that? She gives women a bad name — all that sleuthing and snooping.” In his infinite wisdom, he answered, “What else is there to say? It makes for an interesting life.”

Good Eats

2008-09-30T00:14:00.000-07:00

Piece de resistance: creme brulee and sticky toffee pudding

Crispy Crackling Pork Belly

Half a roast duck

Soft shell crab on a bed of sprouts

Dinner last night was at Coopers with my Sydney family. My best friend and benefactor, Mike A. provided us with champagne and food that was simply amazing! Je suis un cochon!

This is the Life

2008-09-29T23:53:00.000-07:00

I spent today at Bondi Beach with Kitty and posse. Here I find peace and here I want to stay. Being with the young and the carefree and feeding off of their positive energy and their hopefulness is as much head as one gets out of a few flutes of champagne. Add in the ocean and the cloudless sky and you've got the recipe for paradise.

Magnificent Obsession

2008-09-28T17:28:00.000-07:00

The last time I was here, I ate in this restaurant almost every day. It is a Thai vegetarian joint called GREEN PALACE over at King's Street in Newtown. For some reason I am addicted to the food. In fact, even after I had long returned to Manila, I continued to crave it. So, yesterday, after unloading my luggage at Kitty's place, I trooped over to Green Palace and had the sesame soy chicken and tofu curry over sticky rice. Yummmmm!

Please be informed that vegemeat is used in all the dishes but hey, I couldn't tell. The texture and taste could have fooled me and there is absolutely no aftertaste whatsoever. So, yes, I will be eating there everyday, if I could, unless Kitty points a gun at my head. But then again, I could try wrestling away from gunpoint...anything to get my Green Palace fix!

Kat's Cradle

2008-09-28T17:10:00.000-07:00

A shout out from Sydney...

Sydney had a pleasant surprise for me as I walked out of the airport's double doors today: sunshine! Last time I was here, it was the dead of winter--seven to fifteen below--and I froze my buns off. And of course, I was welcomed by the sunshine of Sydney herself, Kitty, who has been at MacQuarie Uni for sometime now and finishing next year.

Nothing can go wrong with the world now that I'm with here. There is comfort, there is peace of mind, there is bliss, of the kind money can't buy and other mortals except one's own children can ever provide.

We went straight to her apartment from the airport and of course, it is a surfer's/skater's/musician's den, what with all the paraphernalia sitting around like land mines, which I had to maneuver around. Still and all, it is her home, filled all things she loves. So then, I am home too.

P.S.
What did I say about patriotism? Notice the Philippine flag hanging in the corner of the living area...and oh, the laundry...a full load awaits me...I look forward to it, though. There's nothing as therapeutic as hearing the churn and hum of the washer and drier especially if you're doing it for someone other than Cruella Deville, someone you actually adore...

15 Children

2008-09-26T00:14:00.000-07:00

Fifteen six-year-olds visited with us today. Mouse's first grade class came in for a field trip in line with their Unit of Inquiry on different types of houses. Mouse assumed the role of tour guide and with much confidence she showed them around. I could see that she was very pleased with herself because of a task well done. This is how children build up their self esteem, I think, by piling up little building blocks of feel-good moments to eventually erect a massive tower of strength.

I will never cease to be fascinated by the curiosity, the energy, the imagination, and the charm of little children. They see the world with such awe and positivity that I become secretly embarrassed by how jaded I have become. Being around them is like being exposed to a powerful life source. Simply fascinating. But then again, I say that because they are not mine and I only had to spend one hour with them, tops. If they were mine and had to handle them 24-forever, I would probably all push them into the pool. Kidding!

Pasalubong

2008-09-25T23:54:00.000-07:00

I leave for Sydney, Australia, to visit Kitty tomorrow and I can't wait! I have been racking my brain for pasalubong material to giveaway to friends over there and I think I just found the perfect ones.

Remember the Collezione shirts of old? Well, they have been reincarnated by no less than innovative designer, Rhett Eala into statement shirts that come in superior fabrics and friendly price points.

I find that the longer my two daughters stay abroad for school, the more nationalistic they become. They have become hyper aware of their heritage and their provenance. I believe it is something that distance awakens in someone--this love of country.

And so tada! Don't you think they're perfect. At P500 each, not bad! They are sold in botiques called C2 by Collezione located in Market Market and Robinson's Galleria.

The Eternal Boy

2008-09-23T19:19:00.000-07:00

We have all met this type of man, this eternal boy. Most of us may have known him fairly intimately as the philandering partner, the irresponsible son, the black sheep sibling, the friend who is always the life of the party, or the elusive boyfriend one just can’t let go of, and yet have never been quite able to touch on his mercurial behavior. He is the perpetual adolescent who is dashing and exciting, and who likes to live dangerously. He has perfected the art of sweeping women off their feet but is totally unable to commit to a relationship. He is Peter Pan. He is James Bond. He is George Clooney. He is the late John-John Kennedy (not John F. Kennedy Jr. as he later came to be known in his adult life) or “Peter Pan with pecs,” as some American pop culture specialists had christened him.

I had gotten to know more of this eternal boy in theory and concept when I attended a workshop conducted by the Friends of Jung Society Philippines on Exploring the Self. Jungian analyst, Marie Louise von Franz (1915-1998), luminary disciple of Carl Jung for 30 years, called this, Puer Aeternus, latin for eternal boy.

This man remains a perpetual 17 or 18-year-old in adulthood, who, despite having everything: financial security; fulfilling job; perfect companion, is afflicted with a vague but discontent. It is a general dissatisfaction that, when verbally expressed, comes out as, “Nothing…but…” in answer to the question, “What’s wrong?” When outsiders assess his life, they ask themselves, “Why can’t he seem to settle down, he’s got everything?” Women, whom the eternal boy attracts in droves because of his extraordinary charm, delude themselves into thinking that they just might be the chosen ones to finally tame him into domesticity. But sooner or later, when the bored and anxious multi-headed monster inside the eternal boy finally surfaces, the stress and the frustration shred the women’s self-esteem because of failure to pin him down and make an honest man out of him.

Filipino society, which remains conservative in the matter of domestic arrangements, where church marriages remain the norm, and cohabitations and casual long-term liaisons are still frowned upon, the slippery eternal boy has been labeled a deviant. This elusiveness has been called a “problem” by older people; a personality disorder by some professionals; or commitment phobia by women who are after an engagement ring. His mother may quickly come to his defense by saying, “Oh, he just hasn’t found the right girl, yet,” depending on the degree of her attachment to him. If she is the rabid sort of Pinoy mother, who has made managing her son’s affairs her vocation in life, she may the one personally responsible for shooing away all the women who may be prospective partners.

Parents and friends of women he has wronged have condemned the eternal boy by tagging him playboy, or pabling, or even gago. What we may not be aware of is that the phenomenon of the eternal boy is deeply rooted in his relationship with his mother. He may not be inherently bad. He is simply trapped in what we have come to know as the Mama’s Boy syndrome. And since his mother has orchestrated this dysfunctional relationship since the eternal boy’s birth, his fate has been completely out of his control. In other words he did not have a choice; he did not bring this upon himself.

This phenomenon happens when a mother fails to find emotional fulfillment from her own husband. Her tendency is to redirect these needs to her son. Both become emotionally welded to each other in the process. The son becomes the mother’s emotional husband, thus the term “Emotional Incest,” which has come out of late as a more graphic description of the dysfunctional alliance. This results in the son’s inability to relate to women his own age and to sustain meaningful relationships.

When he grows up, every time an eternal boy zeroes in on a woman of choice, he projects his mother’s image on to her and does everything in his capacity to win her. But the moment he has taken possession of her, he disengages, because the nagging feeling of the what else is there syndrome or the is this all there is syndrome sets in, yet again.

Jungian analysis shows that the eternal boy has been made to feel special very early on either by his mother, or by himself. This latter phenomenon happens when a boy is neglected, making him resort to creating his own fantasy of being special. Whichever the case, the underlying concept is the feeling of being special. However, the self-inflicted mode of thinking is said to be more harmful than that instilled by the mother because the latter is a form of delusion.

Everything for the eternal boy is provisional and temporary. He is unable to commit to any long-term relationship because of the fear that the situation is ultimately not where he wants to be. This attitude may last an entire lifetime. He is said to have a Messianic or Savior complex. He enjoys the feeling of saving someone helpless from a problematic situation. He immediately assumes the role of gallant knight in shining armor only for the rescued damsel to realize very soon that this knight will gallop away shortly after the rescue, never to return again.

The eternal boy has a fascination with danger as a form escaping reality, which to their thinking is harsh and confining. He turns to extreme sports—sky diving, racing, mountain climbing, etc.—as his ticket to getting as far away from earth as possible. He is infamously impatient and easily bored, so to avoid boredom, he turns his entire life into a game. He cannot deal with mundane matters and the tedium of the everyday. He is incapable of grounding himself in real life and is therefore not equipped to deal with family matters—playing the role of husband and father and raising children. He may try to settle down into married life but all odds point to his, one day, walking out without a care. He might have spurts of intense interest and manic performance in certain projects but for limited periods of time and this, just as easily, wanes. Holding a 9 to 5 job will be the death of him.

We may wonder why many women are attracted to the eternal boy even with all his glaring flaws, but the truth is, he is extremely hard to resist. There is always something otherworldly about him. He is charming and effervescent like champagne and one gets heady and giddy in his company. When he speaks, he sounds very mature and full of empathy, which is misleading because he is not in touch with his true self.

The question that needs to be addressed then is, “Is there redemption for the eternal boy?” Jungian psychology has always been about transformation and individuation so, yes, there is. Self-awareness is key. If the eternal boy becomes fully aware of his plight, he can start his own transformation by stepping away from his mother’s clutches. In other societies, military service is a viable option that will have profound effects. While our own culture doesn’t make it easy for men to become adults because of the “doting Filipina mother” syndrome and the “live at home until you’re married no matter how long it takes” syndrome, sending a son to study abroad or in another city—anything that involves physical separation—will do the job.

The task will be a bloody one. Imagine having to extricate oneself from a mother who follows a toddler son’s every step, who lovingly wipes his brow and inserts a lampin under his shirt to absorb sweat, who spoon-feeds him and bathes him long after he has learned to do so himself, who provides him with a yaya, who becomes the surrogate in her brief absences, who demands calls or text messages from him several times a day, and who refuses to send him away for vacation or for studies because she might die of loneliness but masks it as concern for his safety.

But there is good news: even if the mother refuses to let her eternal boy go, he may save himself by completely disengaging and moving somewhere far from her reaches.

There is that cliché, “A boy can only grow up once he breaks his mother’s heart,” that may have been coined precisely for this situation. But for this to be consummated, once the son disengages, the mother, in her devastation, must acknowledge the offense and the hurt. There is an anecdote on how one stubborn mother tried desperately to cling to his son. He intentionally committed indiscretions to cut her apron strings and in one confrontation blurted out to her, “I keep trying to break your heart but you keep forgiving me!”

So mothers, let go! Give up the mother-son drama and help make this world a better place by doing this singular, divine act of thoroughly and unconditionally letting go.

Collateral Damage

2008-09-22T17:22:00.000-07:00

I have discovered this about all my children: during the initial years of their involvement in after-school activities like piano, violin, ballet, basketball, taekwondo, swimming lessons, etc., they struggled with the commitment to the routine of attending sessions, week after week, when they could very well be at home doing free play or burying their noses in their electronic games.

It was difficult to keep them motivated. The stress of having to argue the point of commitment and dedication and learning took its toll on both them and me time and again. I kept repeating the mantra of, "your skills define who you are," and "doing something difficult builds character," and "learning is its own reward," but somewhere in the middle of that, I started questioning them too. There were lots of tears and bargaining and it just become too emotionally taxing to keep them motivated. It was way too much effort. But just as I threw the white towel in, I noticed that at around a certain age, somewhere between 9 and 10, something clicks--they experience an aha! moment. They either begin to understand the whole point, or their body starts responding to the sport, or they develop if not an attachment, an enjoyment of the music that they play.

Belli had hers much earlier than the rest--at around eight years old, when she grew to love ballet. But it was a different story for her violin lessons. It took much longer. It was only two years ago, when she turned ten, that she came up to me and said, "I'm gonna practice some more because I really want to improve in violin." She never looked back.

So there truly is that tipping point for children, when they start to appreciate or even look forward to the lessons we enroll them in, when they truly become one with it and take it a step further on their own. So, Moms, please persevere; you just might be on the cusp of the period of reckoning. Please don't give up just yet. I promise, the aha! moment will come. It will take lots of time but it will definitely come.

It has been the same for Bidi with his basketball and taekwondo lessons. He comes home now saying, "I luuurv basketball!" or "I really wanna beat someone up in taekwondo," as a joke. What a dramatic turn around when he used to throw mega temper tantrums just to get out of having to attend lessons. He tried every trick in the book: from feigning illness to bribing me with his savings.

The same goes for Pippi with her swimming and piano lessons. Now piano playing is her pick-up activity. Straight from school in the afternoons, with backpack still slung behind her, she stands in front of the piano and plays it for long periods, oblivious to everything else. I have to actually remove the backpack from her because she thinks it's a waste of piano playing time for her to stop for one second and take it off.

The struggle, however, continues with six-year-old Mouse, who mounts a one-man revolution each time she has to go to piano and ballet lessons. I'm talking Oscar-award performances here and honestly, I feel like I'm getting too old for this. But I have got to hang on to my own words... but when I do the math--she's 6--it means I have to endure another three years of her Bella Flores-ish acting. I might not last that long.

Anyway, I shall digress onto an interesting story about Bidi's new found love affair with Teakwondo. Coach Tyrone has recently called our attention to his remarkable improvement in the last months. I credit this to his recent aha! moment concerning the sport. So, he has, in fact, gotten much stronger in his moves.

Well, last Saturday, he was forced to spar with A, an exceptional, lovable girl his age, who is a family friend, neighbor, and carpool mate. They are practically brother and sister, which is why we have repeatedly asked the coaches never to pit them against each other. But they so happened to be short on partners that day so they ended up face to face for the first time. To get to the bottom quick, A had to be taken to the ER for a fractured finger. Her Mom told me over the phone and I was in a bind on whether to tell Bidi or not because A only complained of pain long after she had gone home from the session.

"Bidi will never forgive himself if he finds out," I told A's mom, knowing how much concern and brotherly affection he has for A. A's mom said, "Don't tell him na lang." But I figured I had to because he would see the cast on Monday anyway when they ride to school together.

And so I did tell him, very gently. repeating over and over again how it wasn't his fault, and it was what was considered collateral damage. His face said it all. There were tears wanting to come out, I could clearly see, but he held back. He just kept nodding to what I had to say.

Monday came and went and when I asked him yesterday if he apologized to A in the car he said, "Yes, in the car, in school, all day, for around one million times. I really, really, want her to get better fast."

I went to Bizu and bought two big boxes of macaroons--Bidi's absolute favorite. I showed them to him and said, "I got one for A and one for you." To which he replied, "Thanks, but please give them both to her." My jaw dropped because he normally would kill for those macaroons.

Baptism by Pool Water

2008-09-21T18:56:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday there was an International Schools Swim Meet. Pippi, together with her teammates were each signed up for two events: freestyle and breast stroke.

In order to give this story justice, I will have to paint a brief character sketch of Pippi. She is a quiet, reserved child, with a very big heart--she will give someone in need the shirt off her back and she truly delights in sharing her things with others. Most of the time, she is plagued by self-doubt--not the strongest child in the area of confidence. She is self-effacing, never wanting to call attention to herself. She guards her privacy passionately and likes to be left alone to do her business.

She was composed in the days leading up to the meet. But somehow, I knew there was something brewing because she wasn't quite her carefree self. I slept with her the night before the meet and talked about several scenarios that might happen. She started expressing anxiety. We talked some more and prayed. I told her that she should just go ahead and compete because there's nothing to be lost in the exercise and all to gain. "You're going there with nothing, so there's nothing you can possibly lose. But if you win, you can just imagine how big a thing that will be for you because you trained so hard." She fell asleep holding my hand so tight.

When we got to the venue (Brent, Mamplasan) I saw in her face, how disturbed she had become. When they started stripping down to their suits and gearing up, her tears started to fall--copious amounts in a steady stream. I hugged her and assured her that everything will be alright but inside I was losing composure as well, wondering how heartless a parent I might be for making a nine-year-old endure something terrifying like this. I kept asking myself if I was doing it for me or for her.

They proceeded with the warm-up: several laps across the 25-meter pool length. And each time she surfaced for a water break, she sobbed, tears drenching her face. She kept coming up to me asking to be taken home. It was serendipity that my good friend, psychologist Sophie Bate, mom of Pippi's teammate, Cali, was there too. I always look to her for wisdom in such matters and she said, "Let her cry. It'll be good to let it all out. She will be fine." Had she not been there I probably would have whisked Pippi home and spared her the agony.

It was Pippi's first time ever to compete and I knew that if she copped out on this one, she will never be able to live down the sense of failure, which might affect her self-confidence for a long time. I just kept telling myself that even if she doesn't finish the race, she must get in the pool. She must get in the water. She must do it, in spite of herself, in spite of her fear.

Minutes before the race she started lashing out at me, "Why did you bring me here? Why are you making me do this?" It was so easy to have simply snapped at her with as much anger but I kept calm and tried to appease her. When they called for her heat, I could see she was shaking. But I let go of everything--that was all I could do at that point.

They got up on the boards for the freestyle event. There were six competitors and she was in the middle lane. The girl on lane 6 accidentally fell from the board before the starting horn blew. The other 4 girls thought it was a start cue so they dove in. meanwhile, Pippi, who was drilled many times never to jump in without hearing the horn, hesitated, but seeing that she was the only one left outside the pool, she dove in as well. The referees called it a false start but the girls continued to race to the finish. Pippi, swam past each and every girl in spite of being the last one in and won it. After I saw how fast she swam, I felt very confident. But then, they had to do the race over again and I thought fatigue may slow her down in the next run.

Anyway, she breezed through it a second time and won first. I screamed my head off like a crazy woman trailing her from start to finish by the side of the pool. I probably would have jumped in there if there were no cordon. When she finished she was completely clueless. She didn't realize she had won it. It only sank in when they handed her the first place ribbon.

By the time she was called for the breast stroke she had already calmed down and I dare say that she appeared like she was looking forward to it. She was so relaxed that she was waving at me before she got on the board. Breast stroke is her favorite and so she breezed through it and got her second first-place ribbon!

For the rest of the day she was floating on air. The next morning I asked if it felt good to know how powerful one is inside, how great it must be to realize how one can dig deep and find so much strength and talent and bravery hiding way inside the soul. She smiled and said, "Yes, Mom." "You feel macho?" I asked her. She giggled and said, "Yes, very." I told her how lucky she is. Some people go through life shying away from challenges, never realizing how much they can do and just how far they can reach. Then she added, "Actually, that wasn't even my fastest. I was just, you know, swimming around. I can do way faster than that!" So I said to her, "Next time?" "Yes, Mom, next time."

Go Ahead, Make My Day

2008-09-16T18:46:00.000-07:00

I spoke to Maverick over the phone yesterday just to touch base and find out how she's doing in grad school. She is well. School is challenging but she says she is learning a lot. She then told me that her boyfriend, Andreas, took her to the shooting range on his birthday just a few days ago. Little did he know that Maverick has been doing this sort of thing with her Dad in Davao.

They both fired a 9 mm, a 45 caliber, and a 357 magnum and had a blast at the range. I asked her who was the better shot and she replied, "I'm better with aim, shhhh... When Andreas left for a while, the guys next to us said, 'His girlfriend is better than him!'"

That's my girl! I'm a happy duck and a happy mama. That was as good as telling him, "One false move and you're steak tartare!" Translation in Filipino in the words of the late Fernando Poe Jr., "Isang bala ka lang."

I'm really enjoying this! Brava, Maverick! You are your father's daughter.

For Maverick and Kitty

2008-09-16T05:13:00.001-07:00

Wish you were all here!

Lady, Hold Your Liquor

2008-09-14T02:12:00.000-07:00

I never thought I would one day say this: “Gentlemen, if your lady loses composure due to alcohol inebriation and starts to make a fool of herself, kindly extract her from the scene promptly. If she puts up a fight and, in the process, creates an even bigger spectacle, go ahead and drag her out of the room by the hair, caveman style.”

I have been championing gender equality for a long time now and am intolerant of any form of manhandling: aggressive, rough, or violent physical contact between the sexes. But I witnessed one incident that almost had me sidling up to the gentleman across the room, whose wife clearly had one two many drinks, and whispering to him, a la M to agent double 0-7, “Initiate immediate extraction process!”

It was around ten o’clock in the evening in one of the reputable country clubs in the metropolis. A successful culinary event that started in the afternoon had just finished and the waiters were cleaning up the day’s mess: rolling away table tops to the storage area; clearing out used plates and cutlery; changing table linen; and resetting plate service in readiness for the following day. Only a couple of tables remained occupied by patrons who lingered for nightcaps. The club’s chef and manager, both foreigners, graciously came out and thanked the remaining guests for their support. Naturally, the generous folks from one table invited them for drinks to which the two gentlemen obliged.

After several minutes, I noticed that the chef, who was difficult to miss because of his height to begin with, plus the extra inches that his toque added, moved to another table across the room. The manager had stayed exactly where he was seated and everyone else carried on with their business.

From out of nowhere, a scream erupted! All heads snapped to the source of the sound—the table from across the room, where the chef was now standing in confrontation with a woman. It was learned later in the process that she was the Filipina wife of one of the expat guests. She was clearly drunk and incoherent and was shouting at the chef, demanding an explanation for why he had chosen to sit with the guests from another table and not with them. She was relentless in her ranting, verbalizing her scorn at the top of her voice. She was alternately drumming her palms on the chef’s chest and collaring his shirt. She was a runaway train.

The manager then walked across the room and tried to pacify the woman. Her husband, who, by this time, was also in the thick of convincing her to stand down, did all he could. The other guests on their table did their share as well but their pleas for her to stop were drowned by what seemed like a child’s extended temper tantrum. Nothing worked. When she espied the manager approaching, she turned away from the chef and redirected her ire on the manager instead, who, sadly, suffered the exact same fate as everyone else who tried to help. It was a toe-curling, nail-biting experience for all of us, witnesses, who had to sit through the fiasco paralyzed by a potent cocktail of embarrassment for our countrywoman, fear of the situation escalation into total chaos, and disgust for someone unable to control her liquor.

Both gentlemen handled the sticky situation as best as they possibly could. They maintained composure throughout the entire debacle. Their voices remained properly modulated and their demeanor was not altered in any fashion even as the scorned woman drummed her palms on their chests and screamed at their faces. Something must also be said about the club’s service staff who carried on with their tasks as though all were fine and dandy, resisting the very human urge to stop, eavesdrop, and gawk at scandalous situations. They completed their duties without losing the smile on their faces and the graciousness and courtesy with which they treated every guest.

In the end, only the woman’s fatigue had gotten her to quiet down. No amount of non-violent, pacifist tactics employed by well-meaning people in her circle to neutralize her meltdown were successful. She worked herself up in an alcohol-induced frenzy and tired herself out as we, the bystanders/spectators sat in total disbelief.

I am sure that most of us have witnessed this kind of scene at least once in our lives. While it is not rare for a woman to make a fool of herself in a drunken stupor in a society like ours, where we have been inured to various types of bad behavior as a consequence of bars and night spots mushrooming downtown, it is damaging, and not only to the woman herself. Forget her! She, who can’t control her alcohol, deserves whatever comes her way. I refer to the people who get trampled on in her wake.

Most of the time, it is waiters who become the object of any drunk’s unleashed subliminal anger, simply because of proximity. By profession, a waiter will be within the frontlines of drinkers at any given point in an evening, so they are the closest targets. Others may say, “So what of that? That’s their job. That’s collateral damage.” To which I say, “I don’t think waiters get decent wages so if they get verbally abused by a patron, they better get tipped well.” Maybe there ought to be strict fines for people who lapse into unbecoming behavior and not just for property damage but for disturbing the peace as well. And this fee should go to the servers’ pot at the end of the day for aggravation and humiliation.

What of the youth who take to the town, drown themselves in drink, and commit similar disorderly acts? I am somehow inclined to be a little more tolerant of them because of age. I would like to charge such behavior to the folly of youth and expect these youngsters to mature eventually. What to my mind is intolerable is an out-of-control middle-aged person, who should have learned his or her life lessons much early on.

Going back to story, I take my hat off to the two gentlemen, the chef and the manager, for their handling of the incident. The foreigner husband, who remained a gentleman throughout, may have been the bigger person for behaving the way he did, but what do you think would have happened if her husband were a Filipino?