Far From Over

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dance Like Nobody's Watching...

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.

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.

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.

A Snorting Matter

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

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

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

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

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

The Truth About Brad Pitt

Brad Pitt

Roger Federer

Edward Norton

Daniel Craig

Colin Firth






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

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

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

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

There, it's finally out.

Another Year

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

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

What lessons?

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so I am.

DFA Today

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

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

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

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

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

The Usual Suspects

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady, Hold Your Liquor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labor of Love

Maverick sent me an e-mail today from the U.S. where she is neck-deep in graduate studies. With it was an attachment of her boyfriend, Andreas', portrait, which she had painted in oil. It is meant to be a present for his birthday, which comes up in a week. I dare say, she has captured an extreme likeness of him. In fact, I'll venture even farther and say she did an excellent job.

Artists claim that for one to render a decent portrait of another, some kind of connection must be established between painter and subject--the deeper that connection, the better the outcome. Judging from Maverick's piece, that connection is burning! Looking at it as a work of art, I'd say it's very good--okay, even fantastic, if you twist my arm: the texture (hair, eyebrows, skin, eyeball) is palpable; the three-dimensional aspect has been executed well; the colors pop out; the background (which has been her signature style) is genius; the expression, one can't quite put a finger on it, on what he's thinking, but he's flesh and blood, and very much alive and engaged...but as a mother, It's a bit unnerving, this deep connection. She's only 25..

Well, he's darned lucky, and he better realize it.

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!

Bottle Scar; Not Battle Scar

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

Rants and Raves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Partners Cheat

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Life Keeps Happening

Thank you very much to all of you, well wishers, for the e-mail you sent, the calls, text messages, and the comments from Mike and Mayo on this site and Karla all the way from Melbourne. I am truly touched. It is inspiring to realize that I actually have more than just two friends on this planet ha ha! Again, maraming salamat...

The arm is recovering; the tendon, repaired. But the plastic surgeons, both very young and up front about things, said that although they are optimistic, they offer no guarantees that my arm will regain 100 percent of its normal function. I'll take that; there is no other choice. It sounds so zen, doesn't it, this pronouncement? Well, I didn't really react that way initially. It was a more dramatic, more tearful questioning of what luck has dished out, delivered in elevated decibels.

"But doctor, there are so many things I still want to do like rock climb, learn to fence, and pick up my golf clubs again. I was just way laid by raising the children. You have to get me fixed!"

He answered ever so calmly, "Way laid by raising children? You never stop raising your children." He then turned pensive and added, "Price you pay for the life you choose..."

To which we simultaneously remarked, "Al Pacino, Godfather III." He said yeah; I said yeah and explained further, "he said it to Andy Garcia's Vincent Corleone character in the Corleone house in Sicily." Yeah, yeah. Then we were both quiet.

So life goes on...I'm all stitched up and all seems well. The only problem was they didn't give me pain killers. The first three days post-op are now committed to memory as a blazing inferno of pain--glad that's over with.

Now the focus is on breaking the psychological barrier of not being able to do what I have been doing for all of my adult life. The path of least resistance leads to anger and frustration and it takes much effort to just let go. I've had to learn to do most everything with the left hand: eating, brushing teeth, showering--everything! I feel so dependent, it kills me. I've been so used to doing things by and for myself, quietly, alone in a corner, unseen and undisturbed. I can't even open a pack of splenda for my coffee, it kills! As if that weren't enough, it now takes me double the time to complete the simplest of tasks.

When I look in the mirror now, I spook myself out because I have become a bruha--can't brush my hair properly. My naturally thick eyebrows have merged into a unibrow (maybe I should say wall to wall carpeting to be closer to the truth) because I can't pluck them. But the silver lining is I have a handy excuse for not wearing make-up, which I really detest.

A friend said that the accident was probably heaven's way of giving me a respite from "slaving away" (the intention was sweet but what a cruel thought). See, this is the first time we've travelled without a yaya upon my insistence because I knew that the children were ready to do things on their own. So I've done all the chores with what the children can manage in terms of help--cooking two meals a day, washing dishes and pots and pans after each meal, cleaning bathrooms, doing floors, doing laundry for seven people including hand washing delicates, spray starching and putting stays on shirts, giving Mouse baths, marketing--everything. I had established a system, which ran on a tight schedule and was actually enjoying it. Okay, I bitched every once in a while but the independence was liberating. The down side was I hadn't read a book in two months, hadn't written anything substantial.

I have a new found respect for working mothers who are able to juggle career and family without
hired help because I now know first hand that it is impossible!!! With my arm out of commission, it is each man to himself at home, everyone and everything stinks and the place is a mess.

Still, I am grateful for many many things and look forward to each day hopeful that the arm will keep improving. My faith tells me that there is much more to life than a clean house and fresh-smelling laundry.

The cliche goes "Onto each one's life some rain must fall," this is my tropical depression.

Misfortune Strikes

I figured in a freak accident today. I was retrieving a loaf of bread from deep inside the fridge and had knocked over a bottle of wine that wasn't securely positioned. It dropped and I attempted to catch it but was unsuccessful. It hit the floor, broke, and then bounced off. The jagged half sliced the side of my arm (three inches below the wrist way off to the side) as I crouched to save it.

I knew immediately that it was a bad gash because blood was suddenly all over the place and I saw what had always been underneath my flesh. Let's just say I learned much about human anatomy at that moment. I went to the E.R. and waited for four hours to be treated only to be told that I had severed a tendon and would then have to undergo surgery by a plastic surgeon for tendon reattachment.

They stitched me up temporarily and sent me home. That is why I am able to write this sign off entry. I am scheduled for surgery tomorrow at 8 am. After which my arm will be in a splint for six weeks. I also need to go to therapy to hasten the healing process.

I am not sure how long my right arm will be sidelined. I am scared. I never ever get sick, never catch the flu, not even the sniffles, and am certainly never down with garden variety headaches. The only occasion wherein I turn to medicine is to neutralize a mean hangover and so I am filled with anxiety over the temporary diminished capacity my body has to live with.

Let's please pray together. My best to all of you. Thank you very much and will speak to you soon.

Away at Sea

I am asea aboard the Mercury heading to Alaska. I am slowly finding my sea legs--it used to be automatic when I was younger (whoever said ageing is no big deal was lying). I promise to post photos tomorrow. The ship itself is okay--she's clean if a bit tired; she was launched in '97 and was refurbished in '02, if I remember right. She's not posh like the Silver Seas Fleet; she is humble and unpretentious with a larger passenger capacity, which means longer waits and longer line-ups. She has a casual air about her, which means the dress code is more relaxed. She's alright by all measures.

I feel very much at home because, like all cruise ships, 50 percent of the crew is Filipino--hard working, talented, driven, and charming men and women who do us proud. I am in the process of writing an article about them for Fortyfied--some sort of tribute for their Puritan work ethic, their tireless propping up of our economy, and their continued sacrifice of leaving their families.

It is a proud to be pinoy moment I am having here.

Funny Pun

A pun (or paronomasia) is a phrase that deliberately exploits confusion between similar-sounding words for humorous or rhetorical effect. Puns are a form of word play, and occur in all languages.

A friend gave me a good one yesterday about Mahatma Gandhi. Gandhi was the great Indian advocate of nonviolent protest. He was an ascetic. He devoted his entire life to resisting the domination of the British empire by fasting and lecturing to create awareness among millions of Indians. He lived and died a pauper, travelling on foot to far off lands trying to unite the Indians against the oppressive Brits, choosing to weave his own loin cloths from Indian cotton, and eating whatever vegetables he grew in his backyard. He was, therefore, not in the best of health.

So my friend said, "You know, Gandhi is a super calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis." Quite clever, don't you think?

Godspeed, Al!

A childhood friend, Al, passed away yesterday under tragic circumstances. I remember him as the "golden boy" who lived life on the edge, constantly pursuing danger, starting with heart-stopping stunts in the playground as a kid, graduating to motocross and bike jumping, and later, onto high-risk, extreme sports as an adult.

He never just sat there and let life happen to him; he ran after it and taunted it. He was a charismatic leader; he was inspiring and invigorating. Al was a high-voltage electric charge to anyone who came in contact with him.

I will always remember Al as the fun boy who played takyan with us, who delivered the meanest head bops in pillow fights, who could hit that stick the farthest in shatong, and who owned the most gorgeous smile and mop of blonde hair I have ever seen.

See you, Al, because of you our childhood is the stuff of legends. Thank you and see you later.