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.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Unleash Your Inner Bart Simpson
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…”
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Persian Food and other stuff
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?
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?
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
In the Hallowed Halls of Academe
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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIKaQAOeq3ntJU0Zk8Z_DMvw2L28mLjOqNHIHoV2Nf3vNDvxyFSUdr01PRCmQ0cMQ0aH52x465eGK8ljioPps5HOX7OEmZhdF72UpDK_bwvR7w_9KY9FroiaLgNANk0u2ZgdI0knEMSIA/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
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
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
Monday, November 24, 2008
City of Angels
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.
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.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Mensis Horribilis
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Our Country as Seen from the Eyes of Others
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.
"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
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?
Monday, November 10, 2008
Separation Anxiety
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
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
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