Merry Christmas one and all! 

Tales of Kaylee and Coby

After one week of sleeping proudly in her own room, seven year old Kaylee has regressed somewhat and demands to sleep on a mattress on the floor of Coby's room, which is also where yaya sleeps. This has not really bothered us; at least, we save on airconditioning.

Since she started sleeping there, she's posted a sign on the door of her room.
The sign is in red crayon with yellow doodles on the margins, and it reads:
"Out of order"

You have to laugh.

The most wonderful time of the year 

How can you not get the holiday feeling with these two? 

That holiday feeling

There's nothing in Singapore's weather that gives you a sense of Christmas. Some people claim it's a few degrees cooler, but I think there's really not that much of a difference. The sun shines vibrantly in the afternoon and the glare is still, pretty much, tropical in feel. It's beach weather more than anything else. And yet, amazingly, I always feel that tingle of Christmas. Maybe it's singing in the choir for advent. Or the flurry of holiday gatherings that always takes place between December 5 and 23, before the Pinoys head to Manila for family reunions, endless parties, last minute mall shopping, traffic, and queso de bola. Why, already we've had a Christmas brunch and a pre-Noche-Buena Noche Buena that involved hot chocolate laced with Peppermint Schnapps--all taken in air conditioned comfort, of course.

But I have my own queso de bola...and even managed to wangle some Majestic ham. My little family of four has come to enjoy our Singapore Christmas celebrations immensely, I must say. Yes, it's true. The Christmas that Kaylee and Coby celebrate is vastly different from the zaniness of my childhood holiday celebrations. But it's no less joyful, no less meaningful.

In fact, I spoke to my sister about their impending celebrations back in Manila, and I was surprised not to feel the usual twinge of envy and longing. What's up with that? Of course, Manila is a blast and seeing my family, plus all the many cousins, aunts and uncles for the holiday season is always loads of fun. And yet, and yet, and yet...I find that I'm content, even pleased to simply hear about it second hand, happy to plan the times when I'll be calling in to say Merry Christmas to one and all as my sis's handphone is passed from ear to ear.

The truth of the matter is, I am happiest to be home for the holidays. Right here in my own living room with my husband and our children, enjoying the magic of our own Christmas tree and our old-fashioned parol. On the 24th, we will bake Christmas cookies, the same old-fashioned dark gingerbread recipe that we used to do at the Estebans' house so long ago. We will have a light lunch of sandwiches and maybe a soup. We will head out to survey the crowds on Orchard...then attend the 6pm Children's mass at St. Igs, which includes a Christmas pageant. Then home to Roast Turkey dinner and all the trimmings. We'll do a holiday flick at home...and after putting the kids to sleep, T and I may skip out to a wild Kylie-Madonna Christmas party, thrown by a friend and colleague, who lives, interestingly enough, in the transvestite district of Little India. We will wake on Christmas morning to garlic rice and tuyo breakfast, ham and cheese and milo, open gifts and just hang until our tummies grumble...then it's time for Christmas day brunch. What happens after that just depends: we'll go out to the park or for a swim maybe, and what I'd like to do is drop off our boxes to the Salvation Army as well. Then home to the family tradition of Turkey Barley soup.

I am toying with the idea of a Boxing Day merienda of cookies, cheese sticks and maybe some prociutto, melon and wine for friends that have, like we have, chosen to stay in Singapore. That, will play by ear...

38 Feels Great

And so another year begins.

It's a cliche to say time flies when you're having fun, but I persist in the notion. And today, I was given the welcome gift of a meaningful way to celebrate the day I was born, thanks to RSM and the Samsons. She arranged for a group of us to do a Christmas carolling session at the Children's cancer ward at NUH. As I had been toying with the idea of taking leave, it was the final push I needed.

I was up at the crack of dawn to attend the 7am mass...make my connections as it were. Then it was back home to enjoy comfort breakfast of champorado and tuyo with T and life-long friend Rofel Brion of the Ateneo. Kids are on break, so they weren't up, before we left for the hospital. Picked up Celeste then drove to NUH. Not too many kids, but there were enough. And we kicked off everything with a Christmas poem and a Christmas story, before singing Joy To The World, Jingle Bells (twice) and We Wish You A Merry Christmas. Margo, Gina, Rofel, Celeste, Ria and I were all in red. And we had a surprise appearance from Ally Samson and her parents Mikey and Lou, who have been discharged, thank goodness for the holidays.(Please see WHERE I CLICK for updates on Ally). After gift-giving, one more song and an impromptu "Fruit Salad" dance...we said our goodbyes.

Then it was off to Melt at the Oriental for buffet lunch--a sumptuous feast finished off by a Willy Wonka chocolate fountain fondu. Came home to find that my son and daughter made me gifts and cards, and we settled in for a reading of a chapter of CS Lewis's The Voyage of the Dawn Treader and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. They then left me to nap while they went for a swim with "Nino" Rofel. Now we go for family crab dinner.

I couldn't ask for a better birthday!

A New York Movie

Back in the days of betamax, I was in charge of renting the family's weekend entertainment. Without fail, Mommy would tell me, "Can you get me a 'New York' movie?" Even at age 14, I knew what that meant. It meant much more than just--getting a movie set in New York. First, it had to be something romantic, or at least, something with romance. Ideally, it would be a city tale, New York City most obviously, but you could have a "New York Movie" set in Boston, San Francisco or even Chicago. Of course, the quintessential New York movie was Woody Allen's Manhattan. That's what Mom meant. I remember renting Romantic Comedy with Dudley Moore and Mary Steenberen from Sonix in Dasma. The Goodbye Girl with Marsha Mason and Richard Dreyfuss also counted, as did Kramer vs. Kramer as well as The Competition (Again with Richard Dreyfuss and Amy Irving) and Crossing Delancy (again with Amy Irving). These days for that New York Movie feeling, we revisit episodes of SATC and sometimes Friends.

Well, tonight, the husband, the mother and I went for Prime--a New York movie on all fronts. And it was okay enough. A good premise and a thin plot held up by a great cast and slick cityscapes of good old NYC. Uma and Meryl made the most of very thin characters and a "I see it coming" dialogue. Still, there were a number of charming moments alongside some utterly cheesy lines. ie: "Having you offer that to me only shows me just how deep your love goes."

But as a once-upon-a-time New Yorker, I did think more than once that this flick was a little bit like chewing on bubble gum when you're in the mood for dark chocolate.

It's always nice

to find someone who takes real pleasure in the work that they do for a living. As I sat for three hours while my cheery faced dentist filled four cavities, I was charmed by her murmurings, seemingly to herself. When the mold for my lower molar came out completely intact, she gave out a little, "Yay." When she studied the design for the porcelain cast, she clapped her hands. And whittling and polishing the newly filled tooth had her humming along to the whirr whirr whirr. She didn't know I was eavesdropping on her, and maybe, she didn't even know she was doing it. But it pleased me that her work pleased her so much. We should all be so lucky to love what we do...

Onward ho

It's been two days of moving, and we're still not done. The husband is under the weather with a very nasty cold bringing on an equally nasty temper, the mother is in town, and the children are clamoring for their daily routine. I don't know where my clothes are and I still need to find out what the hell is in those boxes. Then there was a must-go family dental appointment that revealed the need for more work. And now I sneak out for a minute with Mom to an internet cafe. And as much as all that's going on right now is chaos, disorder and frustration, in an instant, I am thrown out of my own life and my own petty cares into the world of Ally Samson and her parents, dear friends Mikey and Lou.

With poignancy, passion and utter truth, Mikey gives us daily updates on Ally's transplant procedure, intended to finally stamp out her leukemia and expresses his own thought process as he struggles to make sense of these days. Ally-booboo turns two on December 4, and has proven herself powerful beyond her years in her ability to withstand experiences that are downright unthinkable. I can't get over Lou and Mikey and their complementary strengths as parents -- strength that calls to mind their name. As Ally likes to say, "Ay naku, naku, naku..." Read about her in the website that Lou built, under WHERE I CLICK. Get thrown out of your own life in an instant...

Fifth time to Rent

Karen Mok and a New York cast are doing a run of Rent at the Kallang Theatre here in Singapore, for two weeks. And last night, their second night, was a rather uneven performance, I'm sorry to say. But the reasons are...multifactorial. First, as a veteran "Renter" that's seen the show four times previously, last night's performance suffered in comparison. Pregnant with Kaylee in 1997, I saw Rent on Broadway--granted, with seats going at $85 a pop, we were high up on the balcony...but that cast was excellent. In Manila, in 1998, I saw the New Voice Company's production at the Music Museum--the ideal, intimate concert venue for this show. I remember being blown away by JM Rodriguez's Mark and Monique Wilson's Maureen, and Jamie Wilson's Benny. Not to mention the beauty of the production itself. When Angel sings "Kiss me, it's beginning to snow" ...actual snowflakes fall to the stage. In fact, that show was so mesmerising, I saw it twice. Then in 2002, we saw virtually the same cast do it at the Victoria Theatre--JM was still doing Mark, Calvin Millado was still Roger...and Rachel Alejandro was a sultry vixen Mimi and her sashaying was totally hot to say the least...matched note per note by her golden vocal.

I will say though that last night's New Yorker Maureen was the best I've seen...beating out Monique, especially in vocal quality. But overall the production was on the uneven side...low-key and somewhat low-energy. It's true that the players may have been affected by the half-empty Kallang Theatre which is massive and a monster to fill. Or maybe they were discombobulated by the faulty sound system which sometimes caused erratic voice disappearances. I don't know. As for the much publicised Karen Mok and her Mimi--she was just on the okay side of the spectrum. There were a couple of instances that she was straining, even shouting vocally. Her Mimi was pretty, but not really the smouldering vixen of sensuality. And her "Let's Go Out Tonight" was actually awkward to watch, I don't know why. Most offputting was her British accent popping out at inopportune times. Hello. Mimi's a New Yorker, and hispanic to boot. I know she's the Canto pop queen of Asia...but...but...but...she doesn't make a very good Mimi, is all.

Still, Larsen's material overcomes in the end. And as a veteran "Renter" I still found pleasure in the melodies. It's hard to really mess up a great thing, I think. Or at least, you have to try really hard.

I'll Cover You

In this day and age, it's hard to come by, let alone write, a truly romantic song about selfless, unconditional love. Yet Jonathan Larsen manages with finesse in his
"I'll Cover You", a duet by the drag queen Angel and the macho homo grad student TA Tom Collins. Both as Angel says, "provide a comfortable home for the Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome" --and they find each other and fall in love...just in time.

How wonderfully quirky, new age and authentic that this most romantic duet is performed in heartfelt harmony by a homosexual couple. And that's just one of the things I love about Rent. Sing it, baby.

Live in my house
I'll be your shelter
Just pay me back with one thousand kisses
Be my lover, and I'll cover you

Open your door
I'll be your tenant
Don't got much baggage to lay at your feet
But sweet kisses I've got to spare
I'll be there, and I'll cover you

You'll be my king, and I'll be your castle
Oh you'll be my queen, and I'll be your moat
I think they meant it, when they said you can't buy love
Now I know you can rent it, a new lease you are, my love
On life...be
Oh...lover, I'll cover you

I've longed to discover something as true as this is
Oh with a thousand sweet kisses
(I'll cover you)
With a thousand sweet kisses
(I'll cover you)
With a thousand sweet kisses,
(when you're cold and your lonely)
With a thousand sweet kisses,
(you've got one nickel only)

Oh lover, I'll cover you

The stuff of life

The movers come the day after tomorrow. The house looks like we're testing missiles. The trick is to sort through stuff and get rid of stuff and pack stuff, and still have enough stuff out so the kids can do their stuff--easier said than done. And of course, there's the whole time-consuming task of trying to decide, do I still need this? Will I still use this? And why on earth do I still have this, for goodness sake? And what about the stuff you accumulate, things that are meant to be mementos for specific occasions, with no other function than just that. Plastic thingumies and paper doodads. A menu card, a box of business cards from two jobs ago? I have done the impossible and just tossed it. Trickier are things like old magazines--special fiction issues of the New Yorker. Or those one-off copies given for an article written. Ordinarily, I would clip the article, file it in one of those books with the clear plastic pages, and toss the magazine. But even that task seems too daunting, not when the movers are coming in less than 48 hours. And we haven't even gotten to the clothes. This T-shirt looks horribly tired and ragged at the edges, but it's also so comfy, I can't bear to part with it. What then? I even have a little plastic bag of a few of my children's baby teeth, the ones I managed to keep. And what do you do with half-consumed bottles of moisturiser or hair conditioner in little bottles that we took from hotels...even though niether of us uses conditioner, ever. On the bright side, I did run into notes and old letters. Funny missives from friends, and photographs that never did get put in an album. These go back, higgledy-piggledy into a box I've labelled bits and pieces. Bits and pieces of my life. What is it with us, that we can't seem to organise? That our lives, the very matter that makes up our nitty-gritty... why is it, that it must be encountered in disheveled bits and pieces, odds and ends...and little doohickies we run into in the different corners of our everyday? And when will we learn to streamline and compartmentalise so as to have order? I see other people's houses and I wonder, where is all their stuff? Meanwhile, I run into newspaper clippings of job ads in my prayer book, and old credit card bills in my cookbook--and yet, I'm always looking for something I can't quite find. And there's always stuff enough to fill another box...

I'm taking a deep breath and closing my eyes and tossing a few of these doodads and doohickies...there's always more where that came from...

Ocean Park 

Disneyland -What a trip! 

Wak wak wak! 

My son, the graduate 

Something strange

We've been cleaning up, right? Setting old toys aside. Setting books aside that we no longer want. Clothes. Knick-knacks. It's operation streamline, and the goal is to just de-clutter.

Over the past week and a half, I put my ever reliable book, "What To Expect When Your Expecting" into the donation pile. After all, I will not need it anymore. I put it there three times on three separate days. The first time, I put it in the pile...but the following morning, I found it back on the shelf. So I put it back in the pile, thinking maybe I had Alzheimer's. Two days later, the book was again back on the shelf, so I put it back in the pile. Over the weekend, I had the pile of books put in a big box and we brought it over to the lady who sends things back home to poor communities. Then last night, I was looking for a book, and there it was, back on the shelf. Very very strange...

T says I should ask Melyn whether she's the one who keeps putting it back on the shelf, but I keep forgetting to ask her. Tomorrow I will.

A female tries...

I am truly back at Female, as they've given me a Female Tries assignment. Never boring, this column is almost always fun to do. Today was no exception. I went over to visit Soul Centre, and had a two hour session of Energy Emission Analysis and Colour Threapy, as conducted by Sally Forrest. The premise is that energy emissions, which are most focused and intense from your fingertips and toes, are able to clue a trained therapist into your physical health and emotional well-being. Once the problems and issues are identified via a photograph of those energy emissions, Sally then applies colour or light energy to the body at converter and acupuncture points. Light pushs the flow of energy through the body, re-energises and resets it, restoring balance and health. In fact, every finger and every toe corresponds both to an organ in the body and an emotion. At first, I was skeptical, because it all sounded way too new age-y to me. But I must say I was amazed by what she could tell, and also at what light therapy was able to achieve.

As Forrest explains: "Any emotion, which cannot for whatever reason be expressed verbally, is held in the body and later expressed as a symptom, illness or disturbance of the mind."

Light is a life force; we should all stay lit.

Express yourself! 

The Adobo Factor

No Adobo Factor 

After almost three years in this flat, that's more like a house than an apartment owing to its spacious two levels and its appealing hardwood floors, we are moving. The apartment is after all, a fluke. With old plumbing and none of the spanking, shiny bathroom fixtures upmarket renters in Singapore have a penchant for, we were able to rent it for a song. But sometime this year, it's due to be torn down. And it its place will arise one of those ubiquitous high-rise condominiums with which househunters are all too familiar. So we started a half-hearted hunt for our next home. We knew it need not be lavish nor spanking new. If we could find something with four bedrooms, even if the overall area were to be smaller, that would be fine.

But, among other things, we were of one mind about what we didn't want. We named it--the adobo factor. What we did not want was an apartment with a layout that would allow someone at the front door to clearly see exactly what you're having for dinner. In short, there has to be some sort of foyer or alcove, some sort of architectural pause that will prevent, say your UPS man from exclaiming upon entering, "Ay, adobo! Or "Fried chicken!" Or "Spaghetti!" Either that, or the dining area, if it's not a dining room (which it would rarely be), had to be sufficiently faraway from the front door so that though someone might be able to smell dinner, they ought not have a clear view of the dishes. You'd be surprised how many places we saw that seemed perfectly suitable, except for this idiosyncracy. "That was nice," we might concede to each other. "Kaso, adobo factor..." And we would move on.

Then all of a sudden, like a little bit of magic, there it was. Smaller, certainly, but four bedrooms. And no adobo factor. We move in two weeks...

An epiphany

I have a friend from college, L. She was always someone I felt drawn to, even while recognising how different we were from one another. As it turned out, we had much more in common beneath the surface. After we graduated, she and I went into the same field, had many mutual friends, and despite not being one-on-close, I felt we always had an easy affinity, something that we could easily call upon, whenever the moment or the circumstances arose in which we found ourselves together. As the years passed, we, of course, saw less and less of each other, so as to lose touch almost completely.

Anyway, about a year ago, I heard from a common friend that L. had had a baby. This was indeed news. The all of a sudden kind of news that simply boggles the mind, but only for an instant, as you instinctively know to take it in stride. Creative, intelligent and inspirationally energetic, L is definitely not your garden-variety Pinay, thank goodness for that. Why would she not have a baby, after all is said and done?

When I finally saw a photograph of her beautiful baby, I found myself getting choked up, inexplicably. In a strange, surreal moment, I remembered a story my mother told me when I was all of fourteen.

My Mom told me about one of her closest friends in school, a vibrant, amazing, creative woman named Ching. Apparently, after they all graduated from college, Ching made what was then the brave, difficult and unusual move of leaving the country to find fame and fortune in New York City. She did it shortly after graduation, and soon after, she wrote my Mom less and less, likely because her life was so very different and therefore, much harder to write about.

My Mom married and taught school. And some three years later, she and my Dad moved to New Haven, where my Dad went to get his PhD and where my Mom worked in the University bookstore. It was there that they had me. They lived a long train ride away from New York, but when, by some happenstance, my Mom had word from Ching, she made the trip with me in tow, to visit her old school chum in
the big city.

Ching lived in tiny two-room flat in the theatre district, and she worked and still went on auditions. My Mom recalled climbing up the dark, dingey stairs to Ching's apartment. When they got there, Ching looked at my Mom and said to her, "There's someone I want you to meet." My Mom did not know what to expect. This was the 1960s. Would it be a husband? A boyfriend?

Ching took her into the bedroom and there in an old wooden crib was a sleeping baby, maybe a year old. "This is Micah," she said. Mom told me she took one look at that baby and burst into tears. And the two friends, both of them cried.

My fourteen year old whipper-snapper self piped up, "I don't get it. Why did you cry?" And even as she explained, Mom got teary-eyed.

"Because she was my friend. We were kids together and played in the backfields of my Lola's house. And here we were, after so many years, and after I hadn't seen her for so long. She had come all this way, all by herself, and she had a baby. I had just had you--and had just gone though it all, giving birth away from family, in a strange place. And it turns out, she had done the same thing..."

I remember now how I smirked and shrugged and just didn't have a clue. All I could say was, "I don't get it." But then I saw a picture of L.'s little one, and all of a sudden, everything fell together. I got it.

And what do you know? L is in town and gave me a buzz. It's a good time to catch up and reconnect.

Sunday lovely sunday

sunday morning 

As children, my sisters and I enjoyed reading these illustrated Arch Books, simplified tellings of Bible stories. You may have read them, too.

I still remember that one of my favorites was the one on the Parable Of Talents. It tells the story of a master who has to go on a journey and leave his wealth in the care of three servants. The first gets eight talents, the second gets four and third gets two talents. The first and second invest succesfully, the third is scared and just hides it away. I remember, even as a child, feeling sorry for the third servant. Not being good at math or finances myself, I felt that it was rather harsh punishment to mete out to someone who was merely afraid, after all, of losing his Master's money. It took many years and a number of teachers to set me straight. But even after all that, I've felt a particular fondness for this parable, so much so that when I am called upon to do something that I know I'm likely able to do but am afraid to do, I compell myself to do it because I don't want to be that cowering servant who did not act, because he was afraid to.

Anyway, that parable also happened to be today's Sunday gospel. Apparently, according to Fr. O'Niell SJ at St. Ignatius, who on his good days (which thankfully are still quite frequent) is really such a wonderful homilist, this particular gospel is only read at mass every three years. In his sermon, he preached about making use of the gifts that we are given for His greater glory. He spoke not just of the intellectual, emotional and creative talents, but the gifts we recieve as members of the church--the sacraments. When are we actually spreading the faith to those who are lost and in need of it? When are we actively helping others find His grace, and the tremendous comfort and solace it brings?

It was an eloquent sermon, graceful in its brevity and far reaching in its depth. It made me feel thankful that I shepherded my family into going to the 10:15 mass even though it really was a mad rush through breakfast and there was a measure of whining and dragging of feet. But it was with lightness and gladness of heart that we all went about the rest of our Sunday--doing errands, strolling the river to brunch at Brewerkz, and just hanging out at home. So I nagged at them a little. Sue me. Nagging just happens to be one of my talents, one I'm not particularly fearful of putting to use. It was a good day.

Tripping Back 1: Amsterdam

263 Prinsengracht 

“…Your first seeing of a country is a very valuable one. Probably more valuable to yourself than to anyone else, is the hell of it. But you ought to always write it to try to get it stated. No matter what you do with it.”
Ernest Hemingway
Green Hills of Africa

We stole into the city before light broke, sailing into Central Station on an amazingly rapid train one eerily silent Sunday dawn. The cold, crisp early morning cast a gray white light on the Dam Square. There were no bicycles or trams, no shopkeepers or pedestrians. As we wandered down empty streets, we whispered, not knowing quite why. We wheeled our suitcases across the street to the Victoria Hotel, built very neatly around a single, narrow Dutch house so organic to the design that it remained practically unobtrusive. The story, we heard later, was that the owner of the huis simply refused to sell his property, forcing the developers to build the hotel around his home.

Not able to check into our rooms at that early hour, we trudged back out into the city streets on foot all set to take in the major sights. From the Dam Square, we made our way past postcard pretty canals to Prinsengracht, intending to visit the house of Anne Frank. Armed with a Streetwise Amsterdam map, we walked right by the museum twice, without realising that was what it was.

As it turned out, our timing could not have been more perfect. Once we finally got there, our third stroll down the same stretch of Prinsengracht, we happened upon the tourists. The line was a short one, just beginning to form by the house right next to it, which was gutted and modernised to accomodate the museum’s admission desk, reception, waiting area, gift shop and café.

We mounted the narrow steps up to the third floor of the annex, and stepped thru the bookshelf that was a door, and the space beyond it – if this space in which twelve people spent two years could hardly be called that. We saw the beds and the furniture. The pots and pans upon which they cooked what must have been the same food day in and day out for two years. The faded pictures Anne and her sister taped up on to the wall of their room. These took my breath away. That there ever was this thirteen year old girl with such a spirit who experienced such a prison only to leave it and find there were greater horrors was in store; that one so young and so optomistic could experience such day-to-day fear and still persistently believe in the good of life and the good of people.

Visitors to Amsterdam should not skip The Anne Frank Museum. The experience is by turns, so simple, so horrifying and yet so indelibly moving, for what it stands for and ultimately, for what it is. Of course, you emerge from this unlikely, unconventional museum experience filled with a quiet awe and a malaise that, fortunately, is fleeting. Do not try for a photo op at this moment, for the smiles will be wan. Wait instead till after you've had a cup of coffee or a bit of lemonade. Wait till the breeze blows off the city's picturesque canals, right there on Prinsengracht. Sieze this moment to take embark upon your on-and-off canal tour. Get into the boat and once it makes its way toward Bloemengarten, once you get a glimpse of the tulips… this is the time to take a shot.

When wives get together...

...inevitably, if they chat long enough, that is, one or another (and usually, it's the same one or another) will launch into some lilting, lingering, little story about her husband's sweet gesture (the sweetness of which often has no comparison). It might be an act of selflessness, or a strikingly thoughtful deed, or even something as simple and as concrete as a gift, for no reason at all: a trinket or a handbag or the fashionista's must-have du jour. Somehow, the telling of this tale is like a way of capturing a bit of living, breathing proof of true love in their bare hands, for all to see. It vibrates, perhaps struggling to be set free and yet trapped, caught, caged. Aha. I have you now. Look! I have it.

And the other wives will coo and twitter with marvelling, perhaps even envious tones. For a moment, one or another (and usually, it's the same one or another) will feel, though she may not own it, the finest thread of discontent working it's way into her emotional needle's eye. How wonderful. You're so lucky. That's so sweet. X would never. I can't even imagine. Wow.

It is to the latter one or another that I write, though I am certain, that deep down inside, she already knows it. This bit of knowledge that is, in fact, yet another length of thread, waiting to be taken up for stitching. She knows it takes a certain kind of person to do a certain kind of thing. And were she to imagine, even for a moment, her particular love doing this particular thing, she would soon recognise he would no longer be the person who does all the other things that she cherishes, values and appreciates, in fact loves - that is, if she is fortunate enough to see those things with her own eyes.

Perhaps this is just one item on the long list of amusing discoveries made aboutmarriage. That the person loved cannot always love one in the way one, every now and then (but not always) wants to be loved. And paradoxically, the person who would love her in precisely that way she sometimes (but not always) might want to be loved, is for the most part, someone she never would have fallen in love with in the first place.

Dancing through life 

Five fabulous days...

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday...sniff sniff Thursday came too soon 

Was it only a month ago that Margo and I flew off to Hong Kong to visit Camille and Viboy for much needed r and r? How time flies when you're having fun... Lots of talk, lots of eating, shopping and of course, more talk. I even forgot I was sick! And then all of a sudden, along comes Camille to Singapore to replicate that same five day experience. She landed Sunday and left Thursday, and I managed to see her everyday. (Yes, CelesteF and Margo and maybe Scho got to see her more, but hey, this is not a competition!) Sunday, grand welcome Japanese Barbecue dinner at Kazu--yumyumyum...Monday the Samsons hosted, serving up a lovely mushroom soup with chorizo garnish, osso buco and not just one but two desserts, the mere memory of which makes my mouth water. (Lemon torte! Lemon torte!). Tuesday, coffee and Elvis cupcakes with Leanne, Margo and CelesteS at Toast. Wednesday, lunch at Project Brothers AND dinner at S. Maharani, plus coffee and dessert at Prego. And on her last day, just hours before Camille had to board the plane, we celebrated CelesteF's birthday with Peking Duck and dimsum at the Raffles Hotel. For LUNCH! On a WEEKDAY!
Oh my goodness. Way too much eating, but hey, it was fabulous fun as it always is.

Camille brings out the best in all of us, in the same easy way that she brings us all together. She is light and sweetness, good humour laced with a wise, tacit understanding. Why oh why did she have to move away? Come back soon, dearie. We have to do that again...and again...and again. And next time, bring Viboy! We need more people here who live on our planet. Love ya girl--muwah!

Now what am I going to do? I guess it's back to the diet and exercise journal...

What would you do, if you weren't ...

doing what you're doing?

1. I frequently think I should have gone to med school. I'd be a gynecologist with a specialty in internal medicine. I felt that particularly strongly after reading Natalie Angier. Consider that western medicine is based solely on the male body!

2. I'd be a lounge singer cabaret-style--like Andrea Marcovicci.

3. I'd be a la leche league consultant. Really think I'd be good at that.

4. I'd be a headhunter. Goodness knows I've done it enough--might as well get paid for it.

5. Teach lamazze.

Two Cents On Hollywood Goss

Read over breakfast this morning that Jennifer Aniston is officially seeing Vince Vaughn.

Vince Vaughn??!! Vince Vaughn?!?!

After Brad Pitt? I mean, he's amusing and all, and certainly a er large hunk of a man. But there doesn't seem to be much else there, I'm sorry to say. I mean, we're not even close to the writer-director comic, sardonic psyche of a Ben Stiller or an Owen Wilson--two guys who will fool around in flicks like Starsky and Hutch and Zoolander, but it will be crystal-clear that both are, together and individually, capable of so much more. Vince Vaughn? This is clearly a rebound thing, yes? I agree, Brad Pitt is such a tough act to follow that virtually anyone would pale in comparison. But Aniston should set aside her momentary attractions and her temporary loneliness, and consider the possibilities of teaming up with someone who will do something substantial for her and her public spin. She made great strides with that Vanity Fair cover and interview. She should be content to stay solo for awhile. There is much dignity in solo.

Ultimately, she needs a romantic alliance that is creative and stimulating. The kind of connection that will give people a buzz that surpasses physical. After all, she has a career to focus upon--Friends is long gone. What about someone like Viggo Mortenson--okay, yes, he's married so that poses a problem. But someone with smarts, talent, and quiet assurance. Someone whose looks are evident but not over obviously so. Off the top of my head? I'm thinking Steve Martin. So he's a bit older, but no older than Harrison Ford is for Calista Flockhart. What about George Clooney? You just know he'd go for her--but this would be a two to three year, non-marriage thing. Or why not a brilliant character actor? Someone like Philip Seymour Hoffman if she's so into girth? Hear he's done wonderful work in the new Truman Capote bioepic.

Someone. Not just anyone. Think about it, Jen, please. Let's talk more next time we have lunch...

A Tale Of The Unexpected

The view from Caroline's 

Ordinarily, I'm like a book I've already read--even to myself. I spend a day in Paris; of course, I take the Eiffel Tower photo. I resolve to start exercising and start eating right, and I slip into a bad binge by the third day. I'm asked to do a single on Lindt chocolate; is it any wonder that I succumb to a square or two or three? I am a rerun. I am an old movie after primetime. I've been there, done that and am doing it again.

It's time to try something different. On today's work incident--the second one of the week, I should go with my gut. Push to the extreme. Stick out my neck. It's time to surprise myself and do the unexpected ... not just pretend to. Act deliberately, decisively and have no regrets. It's the only way to go, really.

No more vintage Noelle. It's time to try a new twist on a different melody. And if we don't know the refrain, we'll make it up. After all, anyone can write a new song. The question is can we keep it on the airwaves?

And we keep wanting more

Thrown for a loop 

That's just how it goes. Have to keep making those lists. Have to keep jotting things down. Have to keep finding room in the day, in the week, in the month, for all the things I want to do. And let's not forget the free time I want to have to just sit and think, hmmmm, yes, I
want that too.

Meanwhile absorbed in the third chapter of Russell Shorto's The Island At The Centre of The World: The Untold Story of the Founding Of New York. It's just so gripping, like you're living in the story. And really happy about my new Tiger food container; what a way I've come from my third grade tupperware fwoop containing cold rice and equally cold fried chicken. Today, lunch was a pint of steaming hot corn and mushroom soup and a large slice of sourdough granary bread. Missed badminton today in exchange for two episodes from the 6th season of The West Wing; tried to make up with 50 minutes on the elliptical.

The first day. Yes, that went well enough. Got thrown for a major loop though. It's something unexpected and potentially jarring. I'm still trying to decide whether to get upset or majorly apprehensive. Remember serenity. Breathe, breathe, breathe...

Let's see what will happen first before flying off the handle. Just be like Kaylee and Coby: take it easy, day by day and find lots of reasons to laugh. Remember the way Kaylee starts every prayer when it's her turn: "Thank you for this day, and all the fun we had..."

Which is as it should be.

Once more into the fray

As I start another chapter, help me learn serenity 

On Monday morning, it's back to work. Back to the old company, but it's not the old job. I've always believed that the ability to do a certain thing, even to do it well does not make doing it an imperative. When I resigned from my position as Senior Copywriter at McCann-Erickson in 1996, this was my guiding principle. And yet, here I am about to embark upon similar territory, led as it were by happenstance. And I'm not unhappy. I am quite the opposite, yet puzzled as to why.

Perhaps it is the creativity of it or the challenge of persuading people that this is the way they should take, not that. Maybe it is the potential satisfaction of being able to point to profit that I was responsible for. I'm not sure. At the moment, all I know is that I am a different person now from the person I was a decade ago. I am a writer. I am a mother. And I am more flexible and so much better able to see the big picture now than I ever used to be. I'm taking a deep breath and hoping to master a skill I have only recently begun to learn: serenity.

And so it starts.

Things I do

I direct my kids in trick shots 

1. I never buy wrapping paper. Instead, I buy plain brown packaging paper, wrap my gifts in them and have Kaylee or Coby "decorate." Sometimes, if I have a small-enough gift, I will wrap it up in a colourful page from an old magazine.

2. I watch too much tv. These days, it's reruns of old sitcoms like Frasier and Cheers.

3. My gifts to children, as well as to adults, are usually books.

4. I keep in touch with old employers on the theory that...you never know.

5. I take naps.

6. I can't go a day without opening all my email.

7. I sing to myself. Karaoke, acapella, in cabs, while working. You name it, I sing it.

8. I like to ask people what their average day is like, from the moment they get up to the moment that they go to sleep.

9. I spend a lot of time writing about how I never write.

10. I direct my kids in skits, videos and photographs.

Sick

What's not to love? 


When you're home in bed with a temperature of 40 degrees and a pounding headache, alternately sweating and chilling in a fitful, restless sleep, just a glimpse of these faces is enough to make you feel a little better--even if that glimpse is only from a distance.

Writing friends

me and Caroline 

The only overseas trip I had to take for my last job was a quick turnaround junket to Paris to interview the architects of the new Louis Vuitton flagship store on Champs-Elysees. I flew Business Class on Singapore Airlines, landed in Paris at dawn, was met by a car and chauffered to my hotel, Hotel D'Aubusson on Rue Dauphine off Pont Nuef, just in time to shower, get dressed and make my way to the press conference at the LV architecture department headquarters. I would be free in the afternoon but would need to fly back at ten the next morning, ergo the need to fly Business Class.

Still, I was happy for even one day in Paris, and it was the perfect time to meet my friend Caroline Cheng, face to face for the first time. Margo introduced me to Caroline via email, saying, "She's a writer, too." And on and off, Caroline and I have kept up a nice correspondence, mostly discussing how we're not writing, because the duties of motherhood and the details of living often get in the way. Married to Frenchman, she has a lovely pair of five year old twins, and lives just off the Rue Montaigne in a marvelous flat with a magnificent view of both the Eiffel Tower and the River Siene. Although Caroline and her family fly to Manila every year, we had never had a chance to catch up there, so when this trip materialised, I knew it was my chance.

After lunch with LV principal from Shanghai who gave me a complex because apart from English and Mandarin, she could speak French like nobody's business, I popped into H&M for a bit of shopping, then took the Metro to Alma Marceau, right in the heart of Caroline's glamorous neighborhood. I climbed the steps to her fourth floor flat, met both her children and her husband and what can I say? We were like old friends instead of new, effortlessly picking up the threads of conversation that we had only just begun, right smack in the middle. We were kindred--able to talk about everything, all the while telling jokes and making snappy comebacks as though we had been doing it for years. Her delightful husband, Eric shooed us out of the house to have our dinner and continue the tete-a-tete at a nearby bistro, which turned out to be Bar des Theatres on Avenue Montaigne. Caroline turned to me conspiratorially, saying, "We're eating where Gwyneth Paltrow likes to eat," knowing instinctively that this little factoid would thrill me. Sure enough, I was buzzed to read US Vogue October and find that indeed, the Gywneth interview took place right there.

The hours we spent over dinner and wine and dessert and coffee were among the most pleasurable I'd spent in a long time. We talked about (what else but) writing, raising children, and the challenge of combining both. We talked about our childhoods, the way were raised, mutual friends, all the while discovering our shared loves, dreams and ambitions. When it was over, she walked me to the Metro, and we hugged, giggly and hilariously close to tears, knowing full well we both had no idea when we might see each other again but ever certain of the authenticity of our friendship.

These days, when I'm faced with the blank screen or a new page in my writing notebook, I think of Caroline, who may be doing the same...across the ocean, another writer in residence.

If you can't take the heat....

...don't play with the boys.

You have to learn to take it. Or at least, learn to give back as good as you get.
They trash-talk, you trash talk. Stop labouring under the severely mistaken notion that these people are your friends.

Just play the game. Play it as hard and as well as you can.
Don't be nicey-nicey. This isn't a gradeshool playground.
And when the nasties strike, detach. Shake it off, and focus.
Don't lose your temper. Don't throw your racket. Don't cry.
Stop being such a girl.

Just play the game.
Or stay out of the kitchen.

On the complexity of friendships with women

From the age of six, I have been mystified by female friendships and it seems that in my life, it's become a pattern for me to be hurt by them, even as I am determined to find and reap their rewards that are exhilerating, yes, but frustratingly few and far between. My bewilderment perserveres to this very day, even though I do continue to have them, and try to nurture and seek nourishment from them. I must admit, however, there are times I feel a very real impulse to give the whole business up all together as simply being too difficult--like losing weight or reorganising home files or getting rid of household clutter for good. (Right now it occurs to me that those three things I mention are easily accomplished by every other woman, so perhaps, I'm just not built that way?).

It always seemed to me that where friendships among women are concerned, there is unwritten handbook containing a system of rules that are not reasonable, sensible, or consistent within the context of what authentic friendship means. That handbook seems to have been encoded into all women at birth, yet mine seems to have some sort of virus. My access to it has apparently been blocked.

Why is it that you can't be completely honest with a good woman friend? Why is it, in fact that you shouldn't be? Why is it that you can't talk about anything and everything with her without a judgement being made or a mind being made up? Can friendship among women be totally and utterly devoid of even the smallest measures of envy, insecurity, and competition? While I found that it can happen, it does only once in the very bluest of moons. And it is, by no means, permanent. Why is it that a friendship with one woman affects your friendships with other women? Why can't each friendship stand separate and alone? Why do women seem to want to foster exclusivity such that some are left out and some are kept in? Why does there seem to be an unwillingness on the part of many women to share their friendships and to be inclusive? Is it perhaps because one of the highlights of friendship for women is talking about other women?

Growing up, I was often made miserable by my friendships with women. I would happily make a connection with someone and enjoy that energy of shared interests and views, only to be unceremoniously ditched the very next day for another somebody, for no reason that I could fathom. I vividly recall trying to reason with them, "Why can't we all be friends together?" It was apparently impossible; in friendships in a child's world, there is that inclination to have it be all or nothing, with no room for anything in between. In the all girls' highschool I attended, there were two modes of friendship--the barkada--where you were one in a gaggle of girls all of whom you were equally close to or rather equally distant to. Or you had the one best friend. Or, if you were lucky, you had the one best friend and you both belonged to the same gaggle. Due in part to my short attention span and to my being hard of hearing, I was inclined to have one-on-one friendships...and had through highschool, the proverbial best friend friendship--which was not without its ups and downs. Any connections I would make with other people would be have to be defined to my best friend as not being as true, valuable or essential as my connection with her.

I still have absolutely no clue why one friendship works and one doesn't. I know that some people get along better with some than with others, but I also know that some people choose their friends for reasons other that person's ability to be a good friend. It doesn't matter to me who my friends are friends with. And while my natural preference would be to be friends with everyone, especially my friends' friends, I am beginning to accept (though I don't understand) that can't always be the case. I am starting to suspect, too, that there have been times that my friendship has been sought for things that I represent or for things I am believed to have, rather than things I actually am. And when things begin to unravel or fall short of expectations, it is perhaps because the base of the friendship was flawed to begin with.

Despite my best intentions to the contrary, it does appear that my friendships with women have lives of their own. They wield a power that goes far beyond what I want or intend; in fact, it may even contradict what I want and intend. Can a woman sincerely wish for her friend and want for her, all the very best things in life, without having that wish take anything away the person she herself is in the world...as a woman? This has been for me and continues to be a lifelong mystery.

What I have found is that if you keep it close, but not gut-wrenching, flesh and blood close, the course of your female friendships can be smooth. But don't cross the protective lines. As one of my male friends said to me, "Very few women can have the kind of all-out 100 percent friendship you want to have."

Unless you can do as Merlin instructed Arthur to do in the Lerner and Loewe musical, Camelot:

How to handle a woman? There's a way said the wise old man. A way known by every woman, since the whole rigmarole began. Do I flatter her, I begged him answer. Do I threaten or cajole or plead? Do I brood or play the game, romancer, said he smiling "No indeed." How to handle a woman? Mark me well, I will tell you so. The way to handle a woman, is to love her. Simply love her. Merely love her. Love her. Just love her."

And if you can't do that? I guess you move on, and keep searching for a girl after your own heart.

The corporate exit phenomenon

You've turned in your resignation letter. You're ready for a brand new start. And then, your supervisor asks you, as a personal favor, to stay on for a specified period of time. It could be two more weeks. It could be two more months. Part of you may be thinking, what the hell. You may be thinking, why burn bridges? Who will it hurt if you stay longer, anyway? Clearly, you are not aware of the corporate exit phenomenon.

This is the dynamic.

Stay longer, and you will only be hurting yourself in the long run. More time at this job (one that you've already decided you don't want!) means more possibilities for you to screw up in some way. And even though you mean to continue doing your best, the psychic effect of knowing that you'll be leaving eventually could well work against you, causing you to be careless even though you never intended to be.

Stay longer and you will see that the psychic effect of knowing you are leaving is also affecting your colleagues. Unconsciously, they will treat you as though you are no longer there. Or worse, they may resent you're eventual departure and try to offset this by getting you to do last favors for them.

Stay longer and your own supervisor will very likely try to pile things on upon you, holding you to your promise of work at the highest level, squeezing you of every last drop of work you can muster, all because he or she can.

Stay longer, and by the end of that specified extension period, you may find yourself liking everyone just a little bit less. They may well be liking you less, too. You will have expended whatever goodwill you might have enjoyed had you left shortly after tendering. It is also likely that the whole experience will leave a bad taste in your mouth. And rather than have pleasant memories of the good times you had, the entire time will be coloured negatively by that final period of finishing things off.

At all costs, avoid the corporate exit phenomenon. Make a clean break. Do yourself a favor. Take your leave...and just leave. Not only is it the best thing to do, it's the right thing to do.

Trip of the moment

While I've always loved strong female vocals, recently my preferences have taken a rather odd turn. It started maybe a month ago when I walked into That CD Shop in Great World City. A woman with a voice as sweet as honey and English lightly accented, sang The Bee Gees'"Staying Alive" to the mildest of bossa nova beats. I know that description can hardly be appealing, but the reality of it drew me to the salesgirl to ask what was playing. She told me about Eldissa--three Brazilian lasses who did covers as well as a couple of their own tunes. When I asked her to play more, she fast-forwarded to Irene Cara's "Fame", Anita Ward's "Ring My Bell", Lipps' "Funky Town", Abba's "Gimme,Gimme,Gimme", Michael Jackson's "Rock With You", The Village Poeple's "Go West" And Barry Manilow's "Could It Be Magic", among others. Baduy na kung baduy. And yet it isn't. In fact, it's pretty cool, actually. Listening to Eldissa is like experiencing a series of emotional epiphanies about long ago times, for these are old songs sung like new. Who could have ever imagined that "Go West" could sound so cool?

And then, while browsing at a Hong Kong bookstore, I noted the soundtrack and inquired what it was. A Japanese femme named Noon was singing Frank Sinatra, strong vocals and again, an accent that was startlingly, impossibly attractive. What's up with that? Noon is kitschy cool. When I got back to Singapore, I dropped by Gramophone and picked up Noon's Better Than Anything. Now I'm addicted to that cosmopolitan Tokyo air in "Moon River", "One Note Samba", "It Had To Be You", "Call Me", "Danke Schoen" and others.

There's a whole lot of Diana Kralling going on; and everything is starting to sound alike to me. How marvelous that there are these voices from other worlds, singing the standards in extraordinary ways and giving the old songs their own inimitable flavour. I am so tripping.

In between two jobs

In a couple of weeks, I'll be starting my fifth job in five years. It's not something I'm particularly proud of, but then again, that's the way it is. I am pretty much resigned to the fact that I'm not a Human Resources dream. After all, I've held some fifteen jobs in my life--as a fastfood worker, a secretary, an editorial assistant in a book publishing company, a copywriter, an editor, a trade journalist, a loyalty writer and even a bookstore worker. As I tell prospective employers, I'm a bad bet. I have two kids; I write fiction in my spare time, and my cv shows I've never stayed more than one year in one place.

I know my life so well that this little interlude, this pocket of time in between the job I left and the job I will have has become dearly familiar. It's never more than a couple of weeks, and yet, I've come to look for it--even welcome it. I think it's the nothing and nowhereness that I love, just as much as I relish the potential of it. How I can do anything, make anything happen.

Big things can happen as well as small things. It's a time for new beginnings, resolutions, journal entrees, making lists of what to do and what not to do. It's about resting and gathering strength. It's about enjoying empty hours that are mine to fill ... or not to fill. I could write a short story. Get a massage. Go out and have a solitary lunch by the river. Hunt down ingredients for dishes I want to cook. Clean out my closet. Take my kids to the park.

Maybe that's what I'll do tomorrow. Then again, maybe not.