In general, I don't care much for men who dance. I remember writing an impassioned piece on the subject ("Real Men Don't Dance") for my column two years ago but can't find it just yet. During the Olympics season--those two weeks in August--the networks repeatedly showed a Samsung commercial with a dj dancing. It immediately captured my attention and I thought to myself, WTF, here's a man who can really move and not look gay about it. They ran the ad every thirty minutes and I loved every minute of it. Have a look at it here. Please go to the link below and feast your eyes on it. If that doesn't work, please log on to YOU TUBE and type in Samsung F480 commercial. In the words of the annoying Paris Hilton, "He's hot!"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuIE1MRGlxU
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
End of the Road
Relationships die, we know that, but it still comes as a shock each time we hear of it, especially when it involves people close to us. This year, two of our friends closed the doors on their respective marriages. When I heard the news, my knees turned to jelly and I had to prop myself against a table until I found a proper seat. We had known that something was not quite right in both relationships (don't we all have that in varying degrees) but it was never articulated.
What happens when a marriage actually ends? Not much, really. The full force of the hurricane would have ended by then. It is the months leading up to that final demise that plays host to, probably, the most turbulent times in one's life. The fighting, the tug-of-war, the mud-slinging, the torment, the plotting and scheming, the vengeance, and every dirty trick known in interpersonal dealings come into play, until one day, when finally, one or both parties realize that the damage has become irretrievable. This is a profoundly sad realization but that which brings with it a skewed kind of peace, a quiet one. It might be similar to the relief one might experience at the end of a war, or at the death of a loved one who had a long, drawn-out battle with a terminal illness. But then the process ends--that's the relief.
And yet the aftermath is never easy.
I asked my go-to-person, psychologist, Sophie Bate some questions. Incidentally, Sophie is one of the most insightful, most nurturing, most trustworthy people I have ever met (she holds counseling sessions). I have met a number of psychologists and psychiatrists and Sophie is someone who is really attuned to the human condition. Few have made as much of an impression on me and so I seek out her opinions from time to time. Anyway, I asked her if there are merits in staying in a troubled marriage for "sake of the children" (pardon the cliche). She said sometimes, it's best for marriages to break up because the children learn to live with the "unreal" and that they carry this woundedness into their adult lives. Transparency is still ideal; it teaches children clear concepts of boundaries in what is and is not acceptable, what is and is not tolerable or respectable behavior, which ultimately, is tied up to their sense of self worth.
I asked her again how one is to know exactly when to walk out of a dysfunctional relationship. and she said, "One will know. He/she will move; his/her heart will move, and from that point on, there will be no comebacks. No matter what his/her partner does, it would have been the end of the road already. And that partner would have been a fool for not having seen it coming."
Sad...
What of the kids...Raising children is already universally difficult. Imagine having to do that in a hostile environment of warring spouses. Often I ask myself why I persist with this blog about mid-life and motherhood when I'm not on any inside track, when I have no earth-shattering insights, and no mind-boggling revelations. I coast along just like the rest of us.
If you do find yourself in this situation, please get a darned good lawyer.
What happens when a marriage actually ends? Not much, really. The full force of the hurricane would have ended by then. It is the months leading up to that final demise that plays host to, probably, the most turbulent times in one's life. The fighting, the tug-of-war, the mud-slinging, the torment, the plotting and scheming, the vengeance, and every dirty trick known in interpersonal dealings come into play, until one day, when finally, one or both parties realize that the damage has become irretrievable. This is a profoundly sad realization but that which brings with it a skewed kind of peace, a quiet one. It might be similar to the relief one might experience at the end of a war, or at the death of a loved one who had a long, drawn-out battle with a terminal illness. But then the process ends--that's the relief.
And yet the aftermath is never easy.
I asked my go-to-person, psychologist, Sophie Bate some questions. Incidentally, Sophie is one of the most insightful, most nurturing, most trustworthy people I have ever met (she holds counseling sessions). I have met a number of psychologists and psychiatrists and Sophie is someone who is really attuned to the human condition. Few have made as much of an impression on me and so I seek out her opinions from time to time. Anyway, I asked her if there are merits in staying in a troubled marriage for "sake of the children" (pardon the cliche). She said sometimes, it's best for marriages to break up because the children learn to live with the "unreal" and that they carry this woundedness into their adult lives. Transparency is still ideal; it teaches children clear concepts of boundaries in what is and is not acceptable, what is and is not tolerable or respectable behavior, which ultimately, is tied up to their sense of self worth.
I asked her again how one is to know exactly when to walk out of a dysfunctional relationship. and she said, "One will know. He/she will move; his/her heart will move, and from that point on, there will be no comebacks. No matter what his/her partner does, it would have been the end of the road already. And that partner would have been a fool for not having seen it coming."
Sad...
What of the kids...Raising children is already universally difficult. Imagine having to do that in a hostile environment of warring spouses. Often I ask myself why I persist with this blog about mid-life and motherhood when I'm not on any inside track, when I have no earth-shattering insights, and no mind-boggling revelations. I coast along just like the rest of us.
If you do find yourself in this situation, please get a darned good lawyer.
Friday, August 29, 2008
A Painful Decision
Pippi came to a decision today, a painful one. She has been dancing ballet--taking classes under Toni Gonzales Garcia along with her sisters--for five years now. She has also been swimming and training under coach Toti.
We noticed early on, when she was probably three or four years old, that she was a natural in the water, a very strong swimmer, who had the lung endurance to stay underwater for extended periods and the muscular strength to maneuver her body in and out, and through the water effortlessly.
She started formal swimming lessons because her best friend, Cali, was taking them. Because of this, the sport had become extra attractive to her. Many times, as I watch her swim, I ask myself howcome, among all my kids, she has this gift for swimming and I remain as clueless as when the question first entered my mind. However, I have been toying with this theory: since Pippi is asthmatic, she is on and off asthma medication, using the nebulizer, and during severe attacks, resorting to short prednisone doses,which is a kind of steroid. So, I think that the asthma medication, may have, in fact, fortified her lungs.
It is worthy of mention that her lung capacity is so strong that when her coach exhorts her to follow rules by coming up for a breath every two strokes and she questions and says, "Why do I have to? I don't need to breathe."
I have mentioned this quack theory to family and friends time and again but then I also think to myself, yeah, right. Anyway, for the past two weeks I was glued to the Olympics because of the phenomenon that is Michael Phelps and the oldest Olympian medal winner, swimmer Dara Torres. Lo and behold, it was mentioned several times during the course of the games that both Phelps and Torres are asthmatic. Imagine that! I might just have a nine-year-old Olympian in the making running around my house at this very moment!
Anyway, she has been taking ballet lessons twice a week, and swimming twice a week as well. She has finally decided to drop ballet and concentrate on swimming, adding yet another training day to make it a total of three swimming sessions per week. It took a while for her to decide. She has invested many years in the dance and has become quite attached to it. But I think her heart is truly in the sport of swimming.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Pesky Rascal
I was with a fellow parent at school earlier, discussing this curious age that our children have entered, this stage called "preteens." It seems that our 12-year-old daughters have grown overnight. Their interests have shifted, they are more forthcoming with their opinions, and they are enjoying the concept of privacy more. They all remain very wholesome still, with Belli even less sophisticated than the rest of her friends, I believe, given her personality.
But there is this one pesky boy, who was a transferee from some other school, and who, naturally, has attracted some degree of attention because he is the newest fish in the pond. He is, in every way, the stereotype of your garden-variety grand stander, show-off, who thinks he is God's gift. In the period of one year, he has courted almost every girl in their grade and, in "tween" parlance, gone "M.U." with each one. Of course, every time he hops over to the next girl, he leaves some poor child broken-hearted, even if they may not admit it, or at least pissed, in his wake.
I have gone down on my knees, thanking THE MAN that Belli has been spared from this little twirp. She couldn't be bothered; she's more into her toys and games than boys just yet. But she sees how every other girl has had to deal with this boy. She says, "He is gross, Mama!" And I completely agree. I ask myself, how the heck did a boy like this sprout from a mother who looks like an oriental Madonna. She truly looks like the Virgin Mary, in Pinoy street terms, mukhang Nene. She seems totally oblivious to his son's detestable ways.
I always bump into him at school and see him strutting down the halls if not posing against the wall with all the attitude of a slimy loser. And I feel like pinching his ear till it detaches from his big head. I actually have to convince myself to stand down because kneeing him in the groin seems the more logical thing to do (I didn't say the more mature thing; I simply said, "more logical"). But you know what psychologists say about our kids, "Let them fight their own fights..." This is one time I'm dying to say, well, that's a load of B.S. Yes, he hasn't done anything to Belli but wouldn't it be nice to burst his bubble?
Really, one of these days, I might just flip him the finger, so heaven help me! In the meanwhile, I let the better of me prevail and keep my fingers firmly tucked in my jean pockets. For how long? No one knows...
But there is this one pesky boy, who was a transferee from some other school, and who, naturally, has attracted some degree of attention because he is the newest fish in the pond. He is, in every way, the stereotype of your garden-variety grand stander, show-off, who thinks he is God's gift. In the period of one year, he has courted almost every girl in their grade and, in "tween" parlance, gone "M.U." with each one. Of course, every time he hops over to the next girl, he leaves some poor child broken-hearted, even if they may not admit it, or at least pissed, in his wake.
I have gone down on my knees, thanking THE MAN that Belli has been spared from this little twirp. She couldn't be bothered; she's more into her toys and games than boys just yet. But she sees how every other girl has had to deal with this boy. She says, "He is gross, Mama!" And I completely agree. I ask myself, how the heck did a boy like this sprout from a mother who looks like an oriental Madonna. She truly looks like the Virgin Mary, in Pinoy street terms, mukhang Nene. She seems totally oblivious to his son's detestable ways.
I always bump into him at school and see him strutting down the halls if not posing against the wall with all the attitude of a slimy loser. And I feel like pinching his ear till it detaches from his big head. I actually have to convince myself to stand down because kneeing him in the groin seems the more logical thing to do (I didn't say the more mature thing; I simply said, "more logical"). But you know what psychologists say about our kids, "Let them fight their own fights..." This is one time I'm dying to say, well, that's a load of B.S. Yes, he hasn't done anything to Belli but wouldn't it be nice to burst his bubble?
Really, one of these days, I might just flip him the finger, so heaven help me! In the meanwhile, I let the better of me prevail and keep my fingers firmly tucked in my jean pockets. For how long? No one knows...
A Brave Show of Talent
Belli has been playing violin for eight years now under an incredible teacher, Teacher Lois Espinosa. We carry no gene for musicality in our family so clearly, Belli wasn't born with a gift, or maybe, not even an ear for music. But I went ahead, bought her a tiny violin and enrolled her in classes. It is probably fate that I found Teacher Lois, who has, singlehandedly, nurtured a love for music in her. Now, she can play Bach and Mozart but over and above that she can grope around for notes to pop songs. She has not had formal lessons in piano but, in the same fashion, she can play by ear.
This is fierce testament to the fact that musical talent can be cultivated. This time, definitely, nurture wins over nature. However, given Belli's personality, this talent has been pickled in the house for eight years. I never meant for her to showboat but I have badgered her constantly to play for others (outside of the loyal audience in her annual recitals, who are all family members of fellow violinists). She is a sort of Shrinking Violet, one who hates calling attention to herself. I keep telling her that not sharing one's talent is a crime against humanity, but she laughs it all off.
She practices on her own at home and each time I hear the strains of her violin, which, as an instrument emits a very haunting, melancholy sound, my hair stands. Hearing her play never fails to move me. I stop in my tracks, drop whatever it is I am doing and listen in deference to her talent, in appreciation of her efforts, and in celebration of music.
Today, for the very first time since she first picked up a violin, she played in public. Along with a group of middle school kids, she played a pop song by the local band, Narda. One of them chose the song and asked her if she could play to it. She listened to the song once, groped around for the notes and then played it like she, herself, wrote the music. She was very nervous climbing up that stage, I saw it in her eyes. But the moment she posed bow against strings and and slid it down to create the most hushed of musical wails, she was off to her own world. I was blown away.
Pay back Time
I have been enduring nasty bouts with indigestion lately. Almost overnight, my stomach has become intolerant of my all-time favorites, calamari and steak. I have gone through a strict elimination process, praying to the high heavens for the culprit to be anything other than the two things I had mentioned. But no, each time I ate steak and/or squid the symptoms were the same: overwhelming pain, spastic and relentless, a night of up-chucking, and blinding headaches. Not at all pretty.
So I finally decided to see a doctor today. I think I have mentioned many times that I never get sick, never catch cold or the flu, and never drink medicine. I take after my Dad. I guess I'm lucky that way. Today, I was sent home with four different kinds of medicine: two to take once daily and the other two, twice daily. And you should see the size of them tablets, they're the size of Mouse's toes! I'm serious! And the doctor expects me to take them religiously. Hah! Her verdict was definitive. She put them in very simple terms. "It's age," she declared. "You're oxidizing, just like all middle-aged people do--all those forty and above..parang kinakalawang," was what she said. The nerve!
A blood test is scheduled for next week. In the meanwhile, I had a run through. I took 6 tablets as soon as I got home. Blech!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Maverick Breaks Into the Scene
As I had mentioned, Maverick has relocated to Los Angeles for her graduate studies. Her classes just started and during the summer she hunted for part-time jobs to augment her allowance and to occupy her time. Because of the recession in the U.S. jobs have been scarce. She was hoping for a retail posting at Barnes and Noble or some other similar art or literature establishment (Maverick needs to smell art and literature at all times to in order to thrive) but had not been lucky. She passed around her resume and got a call from LA2DAY.com online magazine. Her first assignment was a write-up on the Tres Jolie boutique on Beverly Hills. In fact, she was in the thick of the interview with the owner when that recent earthquake rocked the Los Angeles area a few weeks ago. Basic utilities: power and phone lines, were cut as a safety measure and I was freaking out on this side of the globe because I couldn't get a hold of her for hours after having seen the news flash on CNN. Thankfully she was alright.
But how ominous, I thought. I joke about it still, as I always have. Maverick isn't the type of person to just quietly walk into a scene. There either has to be a brass band, a full-on Mardi Gras, or in this case, an earthquake to herald her arrival. So there, as a very proud parent, I present her first article, her official break into into the Los Angeles writing scene (I posted the text below). Please log on to LA2DAY.com to access the magazine or directly to http://www.la2day.com/fashion for the virtual article with photos.
Mabuhay, Maverick!!! You do us proud!
CALENDAR
NIGHTLIFE
DINING
FASHION
MUSIC
ART & DESIGN
MOVIES
HEALTH & BEAUTY
TALK
TOYS
Boutique: Tres Jolie
BY FRANCESCA AYALA FOR LA2DAY.COM 22 AUG 2008
As the Crew Cuts song goes, "Life could be a dream, sweetheart". And so it is for Tres Jolie boutique owner, Glenda Lugay.
Dreams of making a bold and bejeweled impact on the fashion world flitted through Lugay's twelve year-old head as she stacked handbags after school at her neighbor's shop in St. Martin. Since then, she's been working nonstop to fast-track those dreams into realities and now packs a resume laden with international exposure and employment under high-end brand names. The culmination of Lugay's endeavors now proudly stand on South Beverly Drive, right in the heart of Beverly Hills.
While Lugay may have named her store Tres Jolie ("very pretty" in French), the items she carries make it evident that this boutique does so much more than present consumers with pretty things of the cookie-cutter variety. The handbags and accessories that hang throughout wood and glass display cases - all built by Lugay and her father - call to those in search of stand-out pieces that can magically transform the ho-hum into the va-va-voom! A definite must-have on the top of the trendsetter's hotlist is Jivanna, Lugay's custom blend scent, which infuses tuberose, pikaki, jasmine and lilac.
The unusual and eclectic aesthetic of Tres Jolie has been on the radar of Hollywood's stylists and celebrities for some time now. Pieces from the store have made unforgettable cameos from the silver-screen (Remember Samantha's 18-carat diamond flower ring in Sex and the City?) to television (she's worked her magic on the past two seasons of American Idol).
But don't let Hollywood's passion for Tres Jolie scare you. "Tres Jolie is for every woman," says Lugay. "I wanted to create something that would be for everybody, every price point, every look... I wanted to have a price point for every woman that walked through the door and break that belief that if something isn't a designer brand, it isn't good. Fashion comes from all walks of life."
Additionally Tres Jolie supports several charities and works with several fundraisers, sometimes up to twelve a year. Past ventures have involved partnerships with the likes of the Make-A-Wish Foundation, the Downtown Women's Shelter, Young Musicians and the Gramercy Housing Group.
Tres Jolie breaks the high-brow, price-based stereotype affixed to Beverly Hills boutiques. It is, indeed, more than just your average store. It is Glenda Lugay's dream come true, a charitable business and a treasure trove of fabulous finds for just about every fashion fanatic. La vie c'est tres jolie!
And watch for LA2DAY's Fashion Make Over Contest for your chance to win Tres Jolie jewelry! It all starts September 1st!
THE MUST-BUY: Jivanna Perfume ($29 for 1/8 oz.; $56 for 1/3 oz.; $105 for 1 oz.)
THE DETAILS: Tres Jolie
181 S Beverly Drive
Beverly Hills, CA 90212
1.310.860.1110
www.tresjolie.us
Story by Francesca Ayala.
But how ominous, I thought. I joke about it still, as I always have. Maverick isn't the type of person to just quietly walk into a scene. There either has to be a brass band, a full-on Mardi Gras, or in this case, an earthquake to herald her arrival. So there, as a very proud parent, I present her first article, her official break into into the Los Angeles writing scene (I posted the text below). Please log on to LA2DAY.com to access the magazine or directly to http://www.la2day.com/fashion for the virtual article with photos.
Mabuhay, Maverick!!! You do us proud!
CALENDAR
NIGHTLIFE
DINING
FASHION
MUSIC
ART & DESIGN
MOVIES
HEALTH & BEAUTY
TALK
TOYS
Boutique: Tres Jolie
BY FRANCESCA AYALA FOR LA2DAY.COM 22 AUG 2008
As the Crew Cuts song goes, "Life could be a dream, sweetheart". And so it is for Tres Jolie boutique owner, Glenda Lugay.
Dreams of making a bold and bejeweled impact on the fashion world flitted through Lugay's twelve year-old head as she stacked handbags after school at her neighbor's shop in St. Martin. Since then, she's been working nonstop to fast-track those dreams into realities and now packs a resume laden with international exposure and employment under high-end brand names. The culmination of Lugay's endeavors now proudly stand on South Beverly Drive, right in the heart of Beverly Hills.
While Lugay may have named her store Tres Jolie ("very pretty" in French), the items she carries make it evident that this boutique does so much more than present consumers with pretty things of the cookie-cutter variety. The handbags and accessories that hang throughout wood and glass display cases - all built by Lugay and her father - call to those in search of stand-out pieces that can magically transform the ho-hum into the va-va-voom! A definite must-have on the top of the trendsetter's hotlist is Jivanna, Lugay's custom blend scent, which infuses tuberose, pikaki, jasmine and lilac.
The unusual and eclectic aesthetic of Tres Jolie has been on the radar of Hollywood's stylists and celebrities for some time now. Pieces from the store have made unforgettable cameos from the silver-screen (Remember Samantha's 18-carat diamond flower ring in Sex and the City?) to television (she's worked her magic on the past two seasons of American Idol).
But don't let Hollywood's passion for Tres Jolie scare you. "Tres Jolie is for every woman," says Lugay. "I wanted to create something that would be for everybody, every price point, every look... I wanted to have a price point for every woman that walked through the door and break that belief that if something isn't a designer brand, it isn't good. Fashion comes from all walks of life."
Additionally Tres Jolie supports several charities and works with several fundraisers, sometimes up to twelve a year. Past ventures have involved partnerships with the likes of the Make-A-Wish Foundation, the Downtown Women's Shelter, Young Musicians and the Gramercy Housing Group.
Tres Jolie breaks the high-brow, price-based stereotype affixed to Beverly Hills boutiques. It is, indeed, more than just your average store. It is Glenda Lugay's dream come true, a charitable business and a treasure trove of fabulous finds for just about every fashion fanatic. La vie c'est tres jolie!
And watch for LA2DAY's Fashion Make Over Contest for your chance to win Tres Jolie jewelry! It all starts September 1st!
THE MUST-BUY: Jivanna Perfume ($29 for 1/8 oz.; $56 for 1/3 oz.; $105 for 1 oz.)
THE DETAILS: Tres Jolie
181 S Beverly Drive
Beverly Hills, CA 90212
1.310.860.1110
www.tresjolie.us
Story by Francesca Ayala.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Iron Chef Manila
This past weekend, I hauled myself over to the Palms Country Club at Alabang for their version of the "Iron Chef" competition. The contestants were all members, organized into groups of four--no credentials required. I was there to support bosom friends, two of the "usual suspects", Jun and wife, Abigail, who is, by far, one of the best cooks I know. She has an incredible palate; her taste is always spot-on and has never, ever failed. Plus, she is just one of those lucky people who cook by feel. Forget recipe books, her recipes come from her head and her heart. As far as I'm concerned, she was born to create fantastic dishes. The irony is, she is a top banker in one of the biggest International banks. Talk about left and right-brained. Yes, folks, some guys do get all the luck!
As though that weren't enough, she was teamed up with only best--Nicky Camcam, a Les Roches, Switzerland educated, Internationally-trained Chef, who has such a sophisticated and yet delicate palate. Deadly combination, if you ask me. Their group, christened "Crack Pots", was completed by Margot Garcia and Mike Garcia, who were invaluable in their culinary input.
There must have been about five or six teams, who all did their best. The energy was frenetic in some groups, but the most relaxed and the most fun to watch were the Crack Pots, whose members were dancing away as they went through their tasks. Chef Nicky manned a tight ship but always with his trademark jovial, wacky, countenance. His sous chefs, Gail, Margot, and Mike were always quick on the draw. Their menu was astounding. The contest's premise was that they had to use mandatory ingredients such as beef and salmon and condiments such as hoisin sauce, mayonnaise, and capers. They came up with a blow-me-away appetizer, which was pan fried salmon and prawn with a cilantro sauce. Their main course was the "piece de resistance". It was top blade of beef, sliced thinly, drizzled with a reduction of demi glace, hoisin and lemon grass, which was simmering for almost four hours. I tell you, I could bathe in that sauce! It was served with blanched asparagus drizzled with lemon-zest infused, whipped mayonnaise. Fantasmagoric!!! There are simply no words.
But wait. Here's the thing. They didn't win first place. They run away with first runner-up because of one measly point. Imagine that. One point. Oh well. Doesn't matter. I can't say much about the qualifications of the random judges. I know one was from the California Culinary Academy and he's good. The rest, I really can't say much because, well, there's nothing to say. To my mind and most definitely to my tummy, they were the champs, hands down!
Kudos to The Palms for a well-conceptualized, well-organized event!
A Gem of a Find
I attended the Iron Chef competition over at the Palms Country Club over the weekend, which I will elaborate on in a succeeding post. It was a highly successful and entertaining event but the evening's bonus was a discovery of Ybarra food products, which were showcased as one of the event's sponsors. Ybarra is a line of Spanish gourmet food offerings--mostly delicatessen types: bottled olive oil, olives, pasta, sauces, cheeses, etc.
I first sampled an olive and was simply wowed! It was heavenly. Haven't we all gotten used to the cardboard-tasting stuff offered in grocery stores at affordable prices? The decent-tasting ones normally cost so much more. And so, on occasion when we need the tasteful, plump, full-bodied olives, we go to Santis or Terry's for the Kalamatas. But the Ybarra bottled olives did not disappoint. They just might be the best tasting among others of its kind in the similar price range.
Adding to that, are the delicious sauces that I sampled one by one. My favorite is the gaucho sauce--a sort of tomato, cream sauce for dipping, marinades, or to put over pasta. They also have the Sicilian sauce, which is a chunky tomato, there also is the pesto or pisto in Spanish. The tuna dip is another offering that's to die for. The list is endless, so please go to the nearest grocery store and sample them. They are available in Rustan's, Shopwise, South, and Makati Supermarkets. You will fall in love; I promise! And oh, they make Christmas baskets and they do deliver. I have placed my orders this early.
If you have inquiries please call Malou Castro of Oriental Merchants, Inc. at 588-5777.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Freudian Slip
The conversation was about relationships. A cousin-in-law was recounting how his teenage daughter had started asking him about his past relationships, demanding specifics at certain points. “Just how much information do I give her?” he asked us, a group of middle-aged women.
“As little as possible!” we all rang out in a chorus.
His brother, who was well within earshot, swiveled his chair to face us and butted in, “Play safe, just follow the golden rule, bro, you know, the rule of three. Tell her you had three girlfriends—three relationships ranging from three months to three years. Don’t be the genius that you are and mention the three-day one.”
“Listen to your brother,” the women said, “He seems to know what he’s talking about.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “So I’ll just tell my daughter that I had three wholesome, monotonous relationships. No! MONOGAMOUS! I meant monogamous!”
He immediately realized the faux pas but his efforts to redeem himself the whole night were unsuccessful. All 18 dinner guests had rip-roaring fun at his expense.
A Freudian slip, or parapraxis, according to Wikipedia, is an error of speech, memory, or physical action, that is believed to be caused by the unconscious mind. Sigmund Freud (1856-1939), the famous Austrian physician who founded the psychoanalytical school of psychology, would have risen from his grave if he could that night, for yet another triumph over the accuracy of his theory on the subliminal mind—the deepest, darkest, most latent thoughts and desires of humans—and how it manifests itself subconsciously.
Freudian slips are what such involuntarily spoken words have come to be known because Freud believed that verbal slips come from repressed desires. These are very telling mistakes that compromise the speaker in different ways, sometimes costing him so much more than just earning clown status for a few hours.
Freud is best known for his theories on the unconscious mind and on the defense mechanism of repression. He is also known for his redefinition of sexual desire as the primary motivational energy of human life. He believed that man’s psyche is saturated with only two types of thoughts: sex and death, and that its most intricate workings are fueled solely by these two concepts. As civilization advanced, boundaries of propriety were defined and the open expressions of these were pronounced taboo, so that man has had to bury them in the recesses of his mind. But from time to time, at man’s most unguarded moments, these potent thoughts surface. In more simple terms, Freudian slips are words that are consciously repressed but unconsciously released. Freud had described such thoughts, as being very faithful to a man’s frame of mind and emotions, as violently as he may disown them.
And so, going back to the previous conversation, did my cousin-in-law just reveal his most secret thoughts on how monogamous relationships are indeed monotonous? Absolutely!
I can say with confidence that those who have been in exclusive relationships for long periods of time agree with this, as bold a statement as might be. In fact, it takes hard work to sustain the excitement in any long-term union. A friend who likes to improvise and whose wife guards him like a hawk, prefers to call it "hard labor in a maximum security facility," and based on the same premise, refers to himself a “lifer.”
One of my favorite authors, Pulitzer-prize winner Jhumpa Lahiri, through one of her short stories said that, “When couples get married, the relationship disappears.” This may not be very far from the truth. The tedium of the everyday just about murders whatever magic there might be in any relationship be it subliminal or otherwise. Those who have partners who snore like dying cows; who pick their noses compulsively as though it were their sole purpose in life; who shower the world profusely with saliva every time they speak; who, not only refuse to open doors, but beat you to entering once you open it yourself; who think they look like Brad Pitt, when in fact, Will Ferrel in Blades of Glory or Seth Rogen in Knocked Up might be the more realistic look-alike; whose idea of a stimulating conversation is a quick exchange on how Manny Pacquiao should spend his millions; who give you dried-flower arrangements instead of fresh cut flowers for your birthday so they last forever and expect a pat on the back for practicality, know exactly what I’m talking about.
Cautionary tales have been disseminated time and again by the experienced, older generation to the young ones who contemplate marriage but has there ever been a concrete and concerted effort to truly catalogue what lies in store, several years down the road, when monotony, may in fact, describe the relationship more accurately than monogamy?
A wise female professor, who is now in her sixties, pointed out how truly incongruous the mentality of men and women are. “We are on completely different planes,” she said. She hadn’t reinvented the wheel with this statement but she went on to explain that this disparity between the sexes doesn’t get as clear as when couples reach the golden years. “When a man hits 6o years old, he looks forward to retiring, to slowing down, and to finally spending time at home with family. But the wife, who at around this age—well within the menopause years—is raring to go forth and conquer the world. You see,” she went on, “During menopause, a woman’s center of procreation is literally shut down, so all the energy for creation must be channeled somewhere else. This is why every menopausal woman suddenly busies herself with all sorts of projects. The last thing she wants is to stay home and be idle. That’s how incongruous it is.”
I had a moment of clarity after she said all that. Things suddenly became clear, a bit skewed and all—yes, but clear nonetheless. Taking these two arguments together, it may be reasonable to say that we get bored with our respective partners until we hit sixty, and then we finally have legitimate biological and chemical reasons to strike out on our own. Not funny; I know, but it was quite liberating to actually say so.
Back to monogamy and monotony. Have we finally come upon the real reason why men huddle together and migrate to one side of the room at parties and women on the other? That it’s because they find their relationships monotonous? Well, we’ll have them know that the reason women clump together as a formidable group at such occasions is to discuss them: how their very own loud snores rouse them into rude awakenings; how their feet stink so much that they make dead rats smell like a botanical garden; and how they break wind every time they crouch to put on their trousers because their tummies get squished in the process, releasing all the trapped air. So mean; yes, I know. But that’s what happens when women get bored. What about when men get bored, what do they do? Sometimes they simply talk; at others, they do! But let’s not go there.
So what must men and women do until they hit 60? Laugh at ourselves, at each other, and the world at large, I guess. And what of those who don’t have a sense of humor? Well, there’s not much choice but to grin and bear it!
“As little as possible!” we all rang out in a chorus.
His brother, who was well within earshot, swiveled his chair to face us and butted in, “Play safe, just follow the golden rule, bro, you know, the rule of three. Tell her you had three girlfriends—three relationships ranging from three months to three years. Don’t be the genius that you are and mention the three-day one.”
“Listen to your brother,” the women said, “He seems to know what he’s talking about.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “So I’ll just tell my daughter that I had three wholesome, monotonous relationships. No! MONOGAMOUS! I meant monogamous!”
He immediately realized the faux pas but his efforts to redeem himself the whole night were unsuccessful. All 18 dinner guests had rip-roaring fun at his expense.
A Freudian slip, or parapraxis, according to Wikipedia, is an error of speech, memory, or physical action, that is believed to be caused by the unconscious mind. Sigmund Freud (1856-1939), the famous Austrian physician who founded the psychoanalytical school of psychology, would have risen from his grave if he could that night, for yet another triumph over the accuracy of his theory on the subliminal mind—the deepest, darkest, most latent thoughts and desires of humans—and how it manifests itself subconsciously.
Freudian slips are what such involuntarily spoken words have come to be known because Freud believed that verbal slips come from repressed desires. These are very telling mistakes that compromise the speaker in different ways, sometimes costing him so much more than just earning clown status for a few hours.
Freud is best known for his theories on the unconscious mind and on the defense mechanism of repression. He is also known for his redefinition of sexual desire as the primary motivational energy of human life. He believed that man’s psyche is saturated with only two types of thoughts: sex and death, and that its most intricate workings are fueled solely by these two concepts. As civilization advanced, boundaries of propriety were defined and the open expressions of these were pronounced taboo, so that man has had to bury them in the recesses of his mind. But from time to time, at man’s most unguarded moments, these potent thoughts surface. In more simple terms, Freudian slips are words that are consciously repressed but unconsciously released. Freud had described such thoughts, as being very faithful to a man’s frame of mind and emotions, as violently as he may disown them.
And so, going back to the previous conversation, did my cousin-in-law just reveal his most secret thoughts on how monogamous relationships are indeed monotonous? Absolutely!
I can say with confidence that those who have been in exclusive relationships for long periods of time agree with this, as bold a statement as might be. In fact, it takes hard work to sustain the excitement in any long-term union. A friend who likes to improvise and whose wife guards him like a hawk, prefers to call it "hard labor in a maximum security facility," and based on the same premise, refers to himself a “lifer.”
One of my favorite authors, Pulitzer-prize winner Jhumpa Lahiri, through one of her short stories said that, “When couples get married, the relationship disappears.” This may not be very far from the truth. The tedium of the everyday just about murders whatever magic there might be in any relationship be it subliminal or otherwise. Those who have partners who snore like dying cows; who pick their noses compulsively as though it were their sole purpose in life; who shower the world profusely with saliva every time they speak; who, not only refuse to open doors, but beat you to entering once you open it yourself; who think they look like Brad Pitt, when in fact, Will Ferrel in Blades of Glory or Seth Rogen in Knocked Up might be the more realistic look-alike; whose idea of a stimulating conversation is a quick exchange on how Manny Pacquiao should spend his millions; who give you dried-flower arrangements instead of fresh cut flowers for your birthday so they last forever and expect a pat on the back for practicality, know exactly what I’m talking about.
Cautionary tales have been disseminated time and again by the experienced, older generation to the young ones who contemplate marriage but has there ever been a concrete and concerted effort to truly catalogue what lies in store, several years down the road, when monotony, may in fact, describe the relationship more accurately than monogamy?
A wise female professor, who is now in her sixties, pointed out how truly incongruous the mentality of men and women are. “We are on completely different planes,” she said. She hadn’t reinvented the wheel with this statement but she went on to explain that this disparity between the sexes doesn’t get as clear as when couples reach the golden years. “When a man hits 6o years old, he looks forward to retiring, to slowing down, and to finally spending time at home with family. But the wife, who at around this age—well within the menopause years—is raring to go forth and conquer the world. You see,” she went on, “During menopause, a woman’s center of procreation is literally shut down, so all the energy for creation must be channeled somewhere else. This is why every menopausal woman suddenly busies herself with all sorts of projects. The last thing she wants is to stay home and be idle. That’s how incongruous it is.”
I had a moment of clarity after she said all that. Things suddenly became clear, a bit skewed and all—yes, but clear nonetheless. Taking these two arguments together, it may be reasonable to say that we get bored with our respective partners until we hit sixty, and then we finally have legitimate biological and chemical reasons to strike out on our own. Not funny; I know, but it was quite liberating to actually say so.
Back to monogamy and monotony. Have we finally come upon the real reason why men huddle together and migrate to one side of the room at parties and women on the other? That it’s because they find their relationships monotonous? Well, we’ll have them know that the reason women clump together as a formidable group at such occasions is to discuss them: how their very own loud snores rouse them into rude awakenings; how their feet stink so much that they make dead rats smell like a botanical garden; and how they break wind every time they crouch to put on their trousers because their tummies get squished in the process, releasing all the trapped air. So mean; yes, I know. But that’s what happens when women get bored. What about when men get bored, what do they do? Sometimes they simply talk; at others, they do! But let’s not go there.
So what must men and women do until they hit 60? Laugh at ourselves, at each other, and the world at large, I guess. And what of those who don’t have a sense of humor? Well, there’s not much choice but to grin and bear it!
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Synchronicity
The opening ceremonies of the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing last night was simply sublime. It wasn't the flashy, ostentatious display of a super power's resources that never fails to elicit shock and awe from viewers but an honest to goodness show worth thousands of hours of hard work, synchronicity, and harmony among thousands of performers. That was what wove the magic--sheer man power--not technology, not science, not electronics, but down home, old fashioned practice and perfection.
The performers, 15,000 total, exhibited impeccable precision. One can just imagine the logistics and the discipline involved to mount a spectacle powered purely by humans. Out of the 2008 performers in any given number, there was no one out of beat, no one out of synch, nor out of line. Truly unbelievable!
But then a friend muttered under his breath, "What do you expect, imperfection? These people are followers, who are so used to being ordered around. Let's not forget here that they are still under an iron dictatorship, no matter what the West does to claim otherwise. They follow orders or it's their head on a plate." Touche!
Emotional Floodgates Open
As I previously mentioned, i have been in the thick of moving to another house these past two weeks. Lots of sorting out and packing are involved. It is remarkable how powerful emotions can be stirred up when one goes through personal effects. It's like a portal to the past, a sort of time machine that catapults one to days long gone. I had to sift through all the children's things. It was quick and almost painless for the younger ones but the entire exercise of going through Maverick's and Kitty's things was a test in restraint.
I fingered through their old picture albums, which held photos taken as far back as seconds after their birth and a million others that documented the important milestones in their life. And of course there were also the not-so-important, plus the down right silly ones of sticking the tongue out at the camera for no apparent reason. I poured through report cards, notebooks, test papers, letters, notes, sports paraphernalia, medicine, cosmetics, clothing, accessories, shoes, etc.
I was okay for the most part, able to hold everything together until I stumbled across Kitty's old Cornell University paraphernalia and her high school prom photos. There were Cornell pennants, shirts, IDs, reports. She had aced her first semester there but was very unhappy and so she left Ithaca for London. I felt my stomach lurch and the tears sort of pool into my eye sockets but I held it together until I stumbled upon her prom photos. She was all girly and all dressed up. She had flown to Cornell after the prom and her move to London, along with her decision to embrace an alternative lifestyle happened around the same period.
I slowly got up, locked her bedroom door and let the floodgates open. I had a moment there--a long moment to grieve over what seemed to me as the perfect girl getting into the perfect school living the perfect life and I was ecstatic! But that was just it. She wasn't happy; I was. It wasn't perfect for her; it was all skewed and troubled. I wanted Cornell for her because I probably would have never gotten in. I had pinned my pride on her personal achievements and nothing could have been more wounding. And so, after several minutes, I packed them away in a box that was for transport to the new house. Along with it I packed away my tears.
I have never seen her as happy as she is now, as true to herself, and as liberated. I am proud of her--so, so proud!
Friday, August 8, 2008
Moving House
I have been remiss about posting this past week because I have been busy/harassed/stressed out with moving to another house. What is worse than the actual manual labor involved in packing, lifting, loading, and then, unloading, unpacking, and putting away is the "unwiredness." We have yet to be connected to the Internet so I have to make special trips to the office just to retrieve email. So please forgive this delinquency, which I hope is a temporary situation. In the meanwhile I'm trying to research on who these people are at my ISP provider, who keep promising to send their guys, so that I can gangsta my way way through them if they don't deliver within the next few days. I'm thinking 3-6 in the slammer will be small change compared to the withdrawal symptoms that rack me every second of the day from being disconnected to the rest of the world. Heeeeeeeelp!
God Is In The Details
I had always believed that the male gaze was sweeping, that it scanned the view—any view—by doing a quick once-over, that it came up with what photographers call a situationer, and then zoomed in on one particular element that caught its fancy. The female gaze on the other hand, had always struck me as something microscopic and razor sharp, as something that can pick up even the tiniest, most negligible of points in any given visual field.
I didn’t think men paid much attention to the nitty-gritty like women do. They seemed to me, more concerned with the big picture than the puny pixels that make up a whole. To be more concrete, let’s say a couple goes to a restaurant for dinner, I would expect the man to notice the number of customers, whether it is full or not; the aircon temperature, whether he is comfortable; the prices on the menu, whether he can afford it; or the ambience, whether it is to his liking. The woman, on the other hand, will notice every article of clothing on the man and whether he is well put together; or whether his shoes are scruffy and his fingernails, clipped. Like a radar, she will pick up the slightest of non-verbal signs if the man finds the place pricey by observing his reaction as he peruses the menu. She will notice if the glassware on the table has watermarks, if the perfume of the lady at the next table has floral or citrus undertones, and if the waiter mispronounces a word.
But just last week, a good friend of mine told me about what her husband had said as they were walking to a restaurant. She happened to be wearing her brand new pair of Jimmy Choo, t-strap, slip-ons with a kitten heel (to the men out there, that translates to an open-toed sandal with a one-inch heel that costs as much a set of mag wheels). She was walking a few paces ahead of him and, out of the blue, said, “Hey, those shoes are weird. Your pinky toes are sticking out of the sides and they’re actually scraping the ground. That’s pretty gross.” She was livid!
“But was it true?” I asked her.
“It was, but that’s not the point.”
“Oh, I think I know,” I added. “Your feelings were hurt either because he said you were gross or because the shoes cost so much and yet, they fell short of your expectations.”
“No to both,” she answered. “I got offended because you know him, he’s a man’s man. He doesn’t care how he looks; he thinks grooming is a bad word. He couldn’t care less if his shirt were inside-out or if Valentino had finally retired but he had the gall to call my attention to the way my toe scraped the ground!”
This got me thinking that there are men out there, who may appear oblivious to everything beyond the tip of their noses but are actually very well attuned to the minutiae of womanhood. I had long concluded that if a lady had a pleasing face or extended front and rear bumpers, her unshaven legs, chipped nails, unplucked eyebrows, or unflattering lipstick color would go unnoticed.
Heck, was I wrong! I did some research and found out how far off the mark I was. I asked an interior designer if indeed men noticed these small things and he replied, “Oh, you’d be surprised! We see everything. And a matter as seemingly small and inconsequential as a lopsided smile can really turn some men off.
“Are you serious?” I couldn’t believe what I heard. “I thought you guys were clueless about these little grooming slip-ups or those idiosyncrasies that we, women, sometimes have,” I added.
“Well, you thought wrong,” he answered. He then gave me this whole lecture about the proverb: God is in the details, which was initially attributed to Gustave Flaubert (1812-1880), one of the greatest French writers, who was often quoted as saying, “Le bon Die est dans le detail (God is in the details). It means that the most important things are in the details or that the essence of anything can be found in the details. But in the twentieth century it became generally attributed to the world-famous, German-born architect, Ludwig Mies van deer Rohe (1886-1969), who repeatedly used it to describe his work and his artistic process.
This interior designer friend went on to say that women should be extremely guarded with visual artists, be they painters, sculptors, architects, interior designers, or engineers. “These men have the gift of seeing what the rest of the male species are blind to,” he said. “We have the eye for detail, we can spot the tiniest flaw, but by the same token, we can find the smallest asset in an otherwise aesthetically unsound specimen, and let that attribute outshine everything else.”
He gave a pretty profound speech but I wasn’t quite sold on it so I asked my go-to men: my brothers. “Do you notice little things in women like their pinky toe?”
One brother’s answer was, “Hell, yeah! That’s why I used to take my dates to the beach because I needed an excuse to see if they had nice toes. Even if the face were rocking, if the toes were like ginger roots, it was a big no.”
“Yeah,” I said to him, “And you’re Brad Pitt, right?”
“No,” he scoffed, “But I have nice feet!”
I couldn’t argue with that. That really got his goat, I thought. I never thought a woman’s toes could make a man emotional. I asked my other brother the same thing and his answer was, “Not so much the toes; I’m not a foot man, but the hands and nails. You know, how some women have these yellowish fingernails—aaargh, just aaargh. That’s all.” I immediately got the picture.
And so since last week, I have been keeping one eye open for these things and was surprised at how widespread this phenomenon is. I was at a birthday party and two men on my table, total strangers, were talking about a girl at the buffet line-up. They were scoping her out. I made like I wasn’t interested but my right ear was glued fast to their conversation. One guy was telling the other how hot he thought the girl was. The other answered, “Hmmm, maybe…but her eyes…they’re kind of like too far apart and drooping down like this.” He put both his palms on the sides of his face and stretched them down, making himself look like a hound dog with droopy eyes.
I looked at the girl to see if he was right. It wasn’t that bad. Sure, her eyes were a little wide-set, kind of Jackie O-ish, but otherwise she was hot. But because that one guy had exaggerated, his friend got turned off. End of story.
Just yesterday, I was queuing up for the cashier at a bookstore and three men were discussing some girl. Two of them were all praises for this certain girl, an officemate, and were selling the idea of taking her out to the third man. The third man agreed to all the points they had raised: she had gorgeous, straight hair; tall, something like 5’6”; really long legs; and a face like Salma Hayek’s. The third man said, “Sure, she’s all that, but don’t you ever notice how she has this fine down on her lip, this sort of very thin moustache? It’s not very noticeable but I see it.” The other two said, “Yeah, that could be a problem.”
I couldn’t contain myself, so I tapped the third man on the back and asked him, “Sorry, But I just have to find out what you do for a living. I know, odd question, but I hope you don’t mind.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’m a graphic designer.”
Bingo!
I didn’t think men paid much attention to the nitty-gritty like women do. They seemed to me, more concerned with the big picture than the puny pixels that make up a whole. To be more concrete, let’s say a couple goes to a restaurant for dinner, I would expect the man to notice the number of customers, whether it is full or not; the aircon temperature, whether he is comfortable; the prices on the menu, whether he can afford it; or the ambience, whether it is to his liking. The woman, on the other hand, will notice every article of clothing on the man and whether he is well put together; or whether his shoes are scruffy and his fingernails, clipped. Like a radar, she will pick up the slightest of non-verbal signs if the man finds the place pricey by observing his reaction as he peruses the menu. She will notice if the glassware on the table has watermarks, if the perfume of the lady at the next table has floral or citrus undertones, and if the waiter mispronounces a word.
But just last week, a good friend of mine told me about what her husband had said as they were walking to a restaurant. She happened to be wearing her brand new pair of Jimmy Choo, t-strap, slip-ons with a kitten heel (to the men out there, that translates to an open-toed sandal with a one-inch heel that costs as much a set of mag wheels). She was walking a few paces ahead of him and, out of the blue, said, “Hey, those shoes are weird. Your pinky toes are sticking out of the sides and they’re actually scraping the ground. That’s pretty gross.” She was livid!
“But was it true?” I asked her.
“It was, but that’s not the point.”
“Oh, I think I know,” I added. “Your feelings were hurt either because he said you were gross or because the shoes cost so much and yet, they fell short of your expectations.”
“No to both,” she answered. “I got offended because you know him, he’s a man’s man. He doesn’t care how he looks; he thinks grooming is a bad word. He couldn’t care less if his shirt were inside-out or if Valentino had finally retired but he had the gall to call my attention to the way my toe scraped the ground!”
This got me thinking that there are men out there, who may appear oblivious to everything beyond the tip of their noses but are actually very well attuned to the minutiae of womanhood. I had long concluded that if a lady had a pleasing face or extended front and rear bumpers, her unshaven legs, chipped nails, unplucked eyebrows, or unflattering lipstick color would go unnoticed.
Heck, was I wrong! I did some research and found out how far off the mark I was. I asked an interior designer if indeed men noticed these small things and he replied, “Oh, you’d be surprised! We see everything. And a matter as seemingly small and inconsequential as a lopsided smile can really turn some men off.
“Are you serious?” I couldn’t believe what I heard. “I thought you guys were clueless about these little grooming slip-ups or those idiosyncrasies that we, women, sometimes have,” I added.
“Well, you thought wrong,” he answered. He then gave me this whole lecture about the proverb: God is in the details, which was initially attributed to Gustave Flaubert (1812-1880), one of the greatest French writers, who was often quoted as saying, “Le bon Die est dans le detail (God is in the details). It means that the most important things are in the details or that the essence of anything can be found in the details. But in the twentieth century it became generally attributed to the world-famous, German-born architect, Ludwig Mies van deer Rohe (1886-1969), who repeatedly used it to describe his work and his artistic process.
This interior designer friend went on to say that women should be extremely guarded with visual artists, be they painters, sculptors, architects, interior designers, or engineers. “These men have the gift of seeing what the rest of the male species are blind to,” he said. “We have the eye for detail, we can spot the tiniest flaw, but by the same token, we can find the smallest asset in an otherwise aesthetically unsound specimen, and let that attribute outshine everything else.”
He gave a pretty profound speech but I wasn’t quite sold on it so I asked my go-to men: my brothers. “Do you notice little things in women like their pinky toe?”
One brother’s answer was, “Hell, yeah! That’s why I used to take my dates to the beach because I needed an excuse to see if they had nice toes. Even if the face were rocking, if the toes were like ginger roots, it was a big no.”
“Yeah,” I said to him, “And you’re Brad Pitt, right?”
“No,” he scoffed, “But I have nice feet!”
I couldn’t argue with that. That really got his goat, I thought. I never thought a woman’s toes could make a man emotional. I asked my other brother the same thing and his answer was, “Not so much the toes; I’m not a foot man, but the hands and nails. You know, how some women have these yellowish fingernails—aaargh, just aaargh. That’s all.” I immediately got the picture.
And so since last week, I have been keeping one eye open for these things and was surprised at how widespread this phenomenon is. I was at a birthday party and two men on my table, total strangers, were talking about a girl at the buffet line-up. They were scoping her out. I made like I wasn’t interested but my right ear was glued fast to their conversation. One guy was telling the other how hot he thought the girl was. The other answered, “Hmmm, maybe…but her eyes…they’re kind of like too far apart and drooping down like this.” He put both his palms on the sides of his face and stretched them down, making himself look like a hound dog with droopy eyes.
I looked at the girl to see if he was right. It wasn’t that bad. Sure, her eyes were a little wide-set, kind of Jackie O-ish, but otherwise she was hot. But because that one guy had exaggerated, his friend got turned off. End of story.
Just yesterday, I was queuing up for the cashier at a bookstore and three men were discussing some girl. Two of them were all praises for this certain girl, an officemate, and were selling the idea of taking her out to the third man. The third man agreed to all the points they had raised: she had gorgeous, straight hair; tall, something like 5’6”; really long legs; and a face like Salma Hayek’s. The third man said, “Sure, she’s all that, but don’t you ever notice how she has this fine down on her lip, this sort of very thin moustache? It’s not very noticeable but I see it.” The other two said, “Yeah, that could be a problem.”
I couldn’t contain myself, so I tapped the third man on the back and asked him, “Sorry, But I just have to find out what you do for a living. I know, odd question, but I hope you don’t mind.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’m a graphic designer.”
Bingo!
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