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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
