Super Trouper

Despite her fever, K was a happy little girl today as only a nine year old can be happy on her birthday. All sweetness and hugs..."I don't mean to be rude, but may I open my presents?" No longer did she care about her party, once she found out that we could move it to next week. At breakfast, she gamely posed for her bday photos - surrounded by her gifts. And when she read the card her Dad and I had written out especially, she was visibly touched - "Thank you Mommy! Thank you Daddy!" she exclaimed in her little girl laughter-laced peal. Utterly utterly sweet. She set about preparing to see the doctor, all sensible and business-like. And during the day, she claimed, "I can't really lie down and rest..." and set about fixing her school bag (even fixing C's school bag), painting her craft sample (the one she had planned for her and her schoolmates to do), assembled her new dollhouse, played with it, and gamely did all her Kumon worksheets. In other words, she was a terrific trouper. The only time she started fading was when night fell - and she hadn't much of an appetite for her spaghettti bolognaise and pizza dinner. But again, she smiled and blew out the candle on her birthday cupcake (she decided she would save making a bday cake for when her friends were coming). We ended the day with six chapters of Dr. Dolittle. When I got to a word - obstreperous - I commented that I didn't know the meaning of the word, K piped up, "It sounds like angry to me..." Just marvelous - that's what she is. I am brimming with joy and pride that I am her mother.

The Dappers

After some 10 years working in women's magazines, I have entered the wild, weird, world of men's magazines. It is taking more than a measure of getting used to. To complicate matters, the company I've joined - it's now been a little more than three months - is a start-up. This means it's all the things you've ever heard, read or experienced on your own about start-ups - good and bad. It is interesting, though. And not boring. And in no way, automatic, the way women's magazines were getting to be. So far, the experience has taught me a lot about being a man. Some things happen fast, almost without warning. And some very important things are allowed to creep along unnoticed. A workplace laced with testosterone is very volatile, I must say. Decisions tend to be instinctive and all-of-a-sudden-like.

And then, there are the Dappers. I work for the Dappers. Was hired by them. They are not what they appear - but they are very comprehensively both as a group and as individuals very dapper. There is a lead one, a second in charge, one who supports and one who looks at the physical, day-to-day things. And there's a wise, yoda one - who is still very dapper. Sometimes, on the days I have time to think of things that do not matter, I am of the mind that they should also start a band.

Chaos!

While C has no more fever, he's not quite himself eithe r. So we go out for K's family bday celeb - she had requested sushi and ramen. We also go shopping for her bday gift - she picks out a wooden doll house. We run our various Sunday errands as a family, glad that we have already attended mass the evening before. And then all of a sudden K says she's not feeling too hot. Which actually means, she is feeling hot. 38.4 hot.

This means we have to cancel her little after-school bday tea party. She is livid and desolate. C is too out of it himself to even react. Tomorrow will not be fun - as it means I have to hie them off to see Dr. N - without a car. The time for resisting a prescription of antibiotics is past. Now we seek professional help. K bursts into hot, tormented tears of anger, resentment and self-pity. No one wants to be sick on one's birthday. Misery is a sick little nine-year old girl - abject misery.

TGIF!

What a week this has been! Kiddie medical business. Great good news in the family. Finding out about new responsibilities at work. Catching up with Cam from HK. Sympathetic supportive session with sunny side sister over Starbucks (Now, try saying that three times without stopping!). A visit from my dear kasin Ninarkitek and the wonderful four hour chismis session late into the night - just like old times, as though we were sixteen again. Topic: family business, real estate, modern relationships, men and ...well women, keeping sane and coping with failing memories, the multitasking life. Amazing how with family, you slip into your codes and there's no need to footnote references. She knew my Yentle lyrics. She got all the contexts. And laughing as only quintosians can about the perennial Pinoy romantic line, clearly considered courtship: "Have you eaten na?" That's a sign that a Pinoy guy cares about you more than just a friend. Even though, haha, that's a line T has never uttered to me. Ninarkitek tells of a version that's even one step higher: "O...make sure you eat well, ha?" We nearly died. I think we must have woken up the neighbors. (Note to Ninarkitek: You should start a blog called Ninarkitek... o...diba!)

The only cloud...C's down with a horrid flu bug and just not his old self. ("I hate this. I hate this," he mutters to himself almost unaware he is saying it out loud, his eyes and nose streaming. He is very good about expressing his feelings.) Taking him to the doctor later to make sure that it's not the new strain of staph infection that kills in 72 hours (What can I say - headlines affect me). The silver lining? T comes home tonight, I did five rounds on the track this morning. Let the weekend begin...

Productivity

Why does it all come down to getting up early and getting exercise, first thing? Listen to me, could I be more annoying? Yet there's just something about this run I've been doing. Maybe it's because of this track on Evans road ... it's so inviting, it just begs to be run upon, even though you're not much of a runner, not really. But you want to be. So you try. You don't try. Like Yoda, you just do it. And the result is you wake up, you really wake up, and all the rest of it - like energy levels and mid-morning munchies - it all comes easy. Or easier. Who would have thought that there would be a discernable difference between a morning walk and a walk with a real 400 metre jog at brisk pace right smack in the middle of it? Managed to reinstall my yoga membership as well as my bookstore discount card in one fell swoop. All ready for Hatha or Hat with Mahds on Thursday. And would you believe it, I even got parking for while T is not here.

Had scrumptious noodles for lunch today with a lovely older gentleman, also a Dapper. He very gallantly invited me to lunch to talk publishing shop. He was so nice about it, I agreed, even though I had errands to run. Who would have thought you could still get a lunch for 2.8o on Orchard Road. Good food and fascinating conversation.

Tomorrow, Day 2 and hopefully more of the same. Forming the intention of productivity actually does work. And as far as everything else goes, I should just make like a duck and have it all simply slide down my back.

Non-sequitur on craft. If you're in the habit of starting with a title, drop that. It can be more stifling than a fellow student in a writing workshop. Don't think about a title. Just think about the story. And think on Electric Company terms: beginning, middle and end. Yes, very especially end.

Later that night

Scratch that. Just had work interrupted by a terrified K who demanded that I take that book out of the house. Close to tears and near hysterical, she all but shrieked, "No more Roald Dahl!" I tried to calm her down. Come on, it can't be that bad. She wouldn't have me even utter the title of the book (Witches). "Take it out of the house. Please take it out of the house." Roused by her noise, C burst into the room all concerned. K dissolved into tears, all but inconsolable.

When we finally got her calmed down with hugs and kisses, rosary beads plus permission to sleep in C's room, I asked, "Was it really a bad book?"

She answered definitively, "Yes."

"Didn't it have a happy ending?" I asked.

"No," she replied flatly.

"But -"

"Just. Take. It. Out. Of. The. House," she chanted in a way that made the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on edge. What could be so bad about that book, I wondered to myself. Dahl wrote Danny Champion of the World and Charlie & The Chocolate Factory and Matilda - all three of which K enjoyed, by the way. Sure, he also created the stories in Tales of the Unexpected, and the TV series scared the pants off me when I was a kid. But I thought that was more due to Alfred Hitchcock's creepy narration and the circus music that played in the opening credits. Not so much the stories themselves.

When she was finally asleep, I located the book and gave it a quick skim, taking more time at the final chapter.

In the book, witches are just like you and me. You just don't know they are witches. The three ways you can tell - witches are bald, so they must wear wigs. Witches have blue spit. I forget what the third one was. Anyway, the narrator/protagonist is turned into a mouse by a head witch. But over the course of the book, even as a mouse, the narrator is able to save all the children in England as well as defeat the head witch and the entire coven with the help of his grandmother, who is, naturally, human. In the final chapter, they are having a conversation about whether there are any more witches in the world. The grandmother answers that there must be. The narrator, who is at this point, still a mouse, is dismayed. Together they unhatch a plan to locate all the witches in all the world and defeat them. In the final paragraph, they agree to set off on a great, new adventure.

In short, it's a fairly upbeat, quite hopeful even. However, I must agree with K. While it's not a sad ending, it's not a particularly happy one, either. After all, how happy can it be if at the beginning of the book, you were human, and at the end of the book, you are still a mouse?

Rainy days and Sunday

It's been a good weekend, if rainy. We started with The Queen Friday night. Very very watchable. A good screenplay - just the right kind of talky. Good to have seen Borat one week followed by The Queen the next. Targetting The Good Shepherd which seems to have a cast of a thousand Oscar winners.

We opted to sleep in and just hang out Sunday morning. The second time this weekend since C's soccer training was rained out. It's the weather. What else is there to do on a rainy Sunday, after all? K and C are old enough to have a say in issues like when we'll go to mass, where we want to eat for lunch. They can be quite civilised when they choose to be, that is, if you can drag them from their books. C asked for more cheese. T replies, "I gave you some already." C pointed to his empty English muffin, retorting, "It's already a tepid memory." What a vocab. You have to laugh.

Yaya was on her day off, and she's decided to use the time to her advantage by taking a class at Holy Trinity College on Adam Road. She's currently enrolled for Basic Computer every Sunday from 1pm-4pm for the steal price of $10 a month for a 12-month course, organised for household helpers. Good for her.

The kids wisely get their Kumon worksheets out of the way. C, recently appointed Class Monitor, tries in vain to get away with doing just one, but we manage to convince him. He finishes both, but his time is on the slow side, at an average of 30 minutes each. Unlike K who gamely concentrates and manages to do one in 8 minutes and the other in 9 minutes. When she really wants to make good time, she tries to get one of us to race with her. Her idea of a race is having us give her a one-minute headstart. To my chagrin, I once raced her on one sworksheet, gave her a headstart and she finished in 7 minutes. I finished in 11. Scary. It pleases me that she's getting on in math and no longer seems intimidated by it.

Working on the story, but it's tough going. Woody Allen says he plots things in his mind before he writes, and then the writing goes very quickly, once the thinking work is finished. I tried to do the same, but it doesn't help when things start to change on the screen, veering away from the plan you thought was pretty much set. It's also weird when characters emerge more strongly than you had intended. We shall see, we shall see.

Procrastinated with the Sunday paper. Allowed myself to get peeved by Sumiko Tan's inane column in Life about her, her, herself and her unbelievably puerile little personal epiphanies. I don't mind reading about someone's personal life - in fact, I enjoy it - but I do mind it when the conclusion is something a pre-teen-aged girl could come to, with a lot less whiney reflection. It's terrifying what's passed off as human insight these days.

Then out we ventured for Pepper Lunch, some birthday gift shopping, a leisurely bookstore browse and later, coffee. Trying to get the kids to read better. K chose wisely - Roald Dahl. But C could not be budged from his Bionicle series. I felt a little better when I saw a kid reading the same book. He was at the very least, a fifth grader. At least, he's reading beyond his vocabulary. I shouldn't complain. Mass at 6pm, then dinner at Spizzas.

Now suffering Sunday night "I-don't-want-to-go-to-the-work" malaise. Fortunately, the sentiment is not shared by the members of my family.

Would Higgins marry Dolittle?

T and I took K to see her first broadway musical in a theatre - a West End tour production of My Fair Lady at the Esplanade. Funny. My first ever broadway show was, I believe, a Repertory Philippines production of Oliver at CCP. I believe I was eleven. Anyway, it was a rather lacklustre Eliza Dolittle, sadly - her vocal transitions from chest to headtones were all too apparent, as though there were two people, two distinctly different voices singing. Higgins was much better, but overall, it's hard to outdo Hepburn/Matlin and Rex Harrison. The big surprise was an argument with T about how Higgins doesn't really love Dolittle in a romantic way. That it isn't love, not really. And I was just flabbergasted.

"Of course it's a love story," I insisted.
T was equally adamant. "Higgins just wants her around for company, but very likely, he's..." and so K won't hear, he whispers, "gay".
"What?!?! No way."
"What," T continued, "You think that Higgins will eventually seduce Dolittle, and they'll eventually get married?" He laughs.

But I'd always thought that I've Grown Accustomed To Her Face was a love song. "Her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs are second nature to me, now. Like breathing out and breathing in. .. Of course, it's a love story. How can it not be?

We turn to K. "What do you think..." Always the little pleaser, she answers, "I think you're both right."

Happy Birthday T

It's tough when your birthday's in early January - you have party fatigue and you're in the midst of trying to stick to new year's resolutions. Still we managed a good day. The treat was getting away from the office and going off for lunch at Corduroy & Finch. Managed to get a scrumptious mango cake upon which I had the words written, Happy Birthday Daddy. It was K's idea to forego a family dinner (after all, she and C had already blown out the 4 big candles and the single small one!). "Go out to dinner," she said. "Pretend you don't have any kids!" They were quite happy to stay home for spaghetti. So we walked the kiddies to the playground so they could have a little run, and then we walked ourselves over to Spizza's for a surprisingly yummy Aglio Olio with pepperoncini and shrimp plus Gina pizza with anchovies and capers. And it was another pleasant evening walk back. As for a gift, I bought him an antique Chinese chess set with intricately carved wooden pieces.

Thrown for a loop

What would life be without these out-of-nowhere surprises? The challenge is about taking it all in stride, keeping your eye on the ball, continuing to do what you do best and remembering why you found yourself at this very spot in the first place.

After all, you're the one who asked for rich and spicy, right? Rich, spicy and strangely unexpected. Remember, it's all good.

Vanity Fair Error

I am not proud of my own perverse pleasure upon spotting an error in a magazine. As a magazine editor and even an ex-sub, I have only always worked with lean editorial teams, usually no more than ten people, and that's including art - most of whom, let's face it, don't really read copy anyway. We don't have fact-checkers. We don't have proofreaders. We wear different hats, trying to do everything, and very frequently, not succeeding. As a result, astounding mistakes can take place - and we all live in deadly fear of it. The occupational hazard is we are weirdly attuned to these errors in just about everything we read. Including other magazines.

Like today, on my day off, I was reading an old Vanity Fair - November 06 with George Clooney on the cover. The piece was by Gore Vidal - in Letter From Italy - in which he writes his memories of Federico Fellini during the years Vidal lived in Rome, working on his novel. On page 130, there occurs a paragraph that starts with the arresting sentence, "Suddenly, one day in 1971, there was Fred on the terrace of our Largo Argentina flat." It goes on for about three inches of space. And then it is followed on page 131, by the same exact paragraph.

These errors are amusing, making you blink for a few good seconds of befuddlement, wondering momentarily if it is you - some mental synapse. And then the print comes into focus. And you realise - it happens. Even in the most global of publishing institutions. A mistake.

And foolishly, you find it oddly reassuring and make a mental note to show you boss.

Finding Weeds

Although I am still in House Post Partum, we took a stab at the Showtime series for which Mary Louise Parker won a Golden Globe this year in her role of Nancy Botwin. Weeds is dark chocolate dark - even in its very premise. A suburban wife with two sons who copes with widowhood and impending poverty by selling pot to the neighborhood. The show is different, decisive and disturbing. First, there's the drugs, of course. Then there's the sex. The issues of parenting in these difficult times are dealt with. Just two episodes in, am not quite sure how I feel about it, but I'm compelled to keep watching.

Because Parker is so lovely to watch. So much is expressed in the mere parting of her lips. And then there's the talented Elizabeth Perkins (Remember her from BIG and ABOUT LAST NIGHT?) as her controlling friend, desperately trying to make her pre-teen daughter lose weight, while equally desperately trying to keep her teenage daughter from having sex with her boyfriend, who just happens to be Nancy's son, Silas. "Promise me," Perkins begs Parker, "Promise me they will not have sex under your roof." Parker answers, "I promise, as a mother." The kids end up having sex in the Botwin's guest room, which has a skylight. The precocious teenage nymphet argues, "At least, we're not technically under your roof!" There's the pothead CPA played by SNL's Kevin Nealon who tells Botwin she must put up a legitimate "front" for her real business of drug dealing. Parker says, "Can my front business eventually be my real business?" Nealon says, "Nah, small business is f**ked." Oh...I almost forgot...Botwin's teenage partner, a drug dealing poet. When Botwin warns him, "No selling to little kids!", he retorts in verse: "No grass on their field, no grass will I yield." But when she chastises him for a ten-year-old in the nieghborhood getting busted, he says, "I promise you. The kid swore he was 37!"

This is a show I just know my mother would hate. This is a show my friends in the US with, the ones with kids, would blanch at and squirm uneasily. Disturbing is one word. But it is also delightful. When the overwhelmed, distraught Botwin breaks down in the arms of her pot supplier, you can' t help but cry with her. And when she deliberately trips her son's bully, you cheer for her.

It's not House. But I like it.

January 3, 1993

The weather cooperated. I wore a dress with a floral print to the hotel and me and L and M spent a few minutes taking photos of the sign that read CHUA DE JESUS nuptials. I was not nervous. In fact, I remember being hungry most of the day. T and I spoke once. "See you later," he said, like it was completely normal and ordinary.

At the church, we sat on a bench that had no back. I had to sit up straight so as not to look slouchy. The Company sang for the ceremony - through all that picture-taking. Then the reception. J as emcee. L assisting. Niether got to eat much, I'm told. The pianist played "Our Love Is Here to Stay" which M sang with wistful pathos and a touch of nerve. My Dad looked a bit pale. I could tell my Mom thought the programme went on too long, but I did not care. T said his long list of thank you's like it was the Oscars. When the mike was handed to me, I babbled, then I caught a glimpse of her face. She mouthed the word "Goodnight" to me. I dutifully said good night.

In the hotel suite, there was a large fruit basket - Chinese pears, oranges, a mango and a generous bunch of grapes. We devoured it. When I slipped out of my wedding dress, petals and petals of flowers fell to the floor, from what the guests had tossed at the church.

That was fourteen years ago. It was a good day.

House again

Finished. 24 episodes all gobbled up at the average rate of three shows a night. I won't say the series is without flaw. There were little underdeveloped bits, like small portions of undercooked meat. Like the episode where Chase asks for a break, gets assigned to NICU and despite interrogation from House, we never really find out why in a satisfactory way. The Stacey storyline deftly played by the stunning Sela Ward ends way too abruptly - why not stretch that tension out a little? And Foreman's brain problems - how now brown cow? One show, he is struggling with it, and the next, he's all too easily back to his old self. But these are picky points that sound much worse than they actually are, when you consider the shows in their entirety. The overall flavour and texture is delicious in a very rich and complex way and these minor imperfections only serve to enhance the experience.

House is neat because it's about so much more than what it's actually about. I've said this before but it really and truly is about the human condition - and not solely in terms of disease. The other disadvantage is that, of course, you start worrying about the holiday leftovers in your fridge and whether they will give the family some kind of toxin, bacteria or fungus that will make them violently sick while causing their organ systems to shut down. Definite high points: the episode when Foreman becomes a patient - an admirable physical performance by Omar Epps. The whole Stacey storyline exploring the very real draw of rekindling old loves - irresistible. And that final episode of House's hallucinations.

I tend to get infatuated with TV series'. In the early nineties, I could not get enough of Ally McBeal. This year, I tried to see it again and ended up simply getting annoyed. I tried to get my Dad to watch House, and he ran off at the first sign of a little blood from a routine intubation. "It's my age. It's too real." "Wait," I tried to call him back, "That's just the details. That's not what the show is really about."I wonder if House will stand that test for me, the way SATC and The West Wing do. Sigh. In the meantime, work begins, deadlines loom like dark clouds on the horizon, and I suffer withdrawal symptoms.

While I'm happy that the kids are enjoying it so much (and not just for the appropriate value formation), The Cosby Show just doesn't cut it.

Looking Back

I would do a collage ala the Swingapore Sister, but as yet, I know not how... so I must content myself with the hum-drum primordial list of the high points of 2006.

1) C's first day of school
2) K and C's bowl-o-rama bday party
3) The de Jesus Bangkok Bash in February - Part II in September
4) Beautiful Bohol
5) Finding VMG or rather them finding me
6) K's first communion
7) Europe with the Tman
8) Bono
9) The Francis Xavier Choir
10) Itzak Perlman & John Williams

May every day of 2007 be as rich and sweet as gingerbread cookies

Resolve...

In 2007 to...

1) Decrease the clutter from daily living
2) Care about health because it is more important than aesthetics
3) Strive for patience and a better hold on ye olde temper, especially in terms of T, K and C.
4) Spend more time doing the things you are meant to be doing.
5) Stop talking. Stop being greedy. Live simply. Express only the good.
6) Say no with firm resolution and a measure of grace.
7) Be open to different opinions, even the ones that run counter to mine
8) Stop worrying about work, let it slide and above all, don't take it home.
9) Keep in closer touch with the people who matter most
10) Devote more time to Him.

Happy New 2007!

Last days of 2006

The way it works is that you make plans. You make decisions. You make resolutions. You try to get things done so that the new year can stretch before you - a clear path, a route that you plotted out in a fairly organised manner, while leaving room for the possibility of surprises, inclinations toward the unexpected. You can do it that way. Or you can just let the new year wash over you, push you or pull you along like tides or the moon. Some people get zany excited. I used to. New Year's Day was like a birthday. Some people let themselves get discouraged. Either that or overwhelmed. Or just a a little low. And then there's new year's eve.

For our part, we are exploring hitherto unexplored territory. Taking long drives into the wide expanse of country that is thi small city state. Taking the kiddies to playgrounds. Buying school supplies and snacking on dried chili pork. Watching the The Cosby Show. And taking a tip from Tita Maya - and visualising our 2007 with drawings. Oh yeah...and House. If Project Runway is is about creativity, it makes sense that House, as a medical drama, is about the human condition and what that means at this particular point in the century. Have I mentioned I am really loving House?

The doctors in the House

Have begun the second season of House and I'm dreading for it to end. Characters are growing and developing, but even better, the discernable formula - which most people didn't mind really - is now in the throes of reinvention. So much less structured now than it was in the first season. And still those lovely ironies. People ask how I can stand such a meanie, such a carmudgeon - and in truth, if Greg House existed in real life, yes, I would hate him. But as a fictional anti-hero, he suits my cynical tendencies to the bone. The brilliant diagnostician who hates patients. The healer who is himself a drug addict. The people's life saver who can't seem to get his own life together. House reminds me of, do I dare say it, so many people. And some of them are me.

And the writing? the creativity? The slick graphics and the irresistible characterizations of Cuddy, Foreman, Wilson, Chase, Cameron and Stacey - I don't ever want it to end. As second seasons go, this one takes the rich, rum, spicy fruit cake of the season, making Grey's Anatomy seem like feeble key lime pie - sweet, fluffy and not quite all there.


Let's give a hand for the House!

Let nothing ye dismay...

Despite being twenty minutes early to the 6pm Children's mass at St. Iggy's, there was no room on the pews. So there we are, the kiddie Christmas pageant is about to begin, and I have two dressed up sulky kids upset that they can't "see" the show. So I send them to stand behind the choir where perhaps they will get a better view and likely won't be sent away because, well, it's a children's mass and they're kids. The plan worked. The kids got to see the "show" which wasn't half bad, actually. Then T and I wriggled and squirmed our way near them, except when the show ended, the we lost track of where they were. K found our way to us...but C was nowhere to be found, and the service proper was in full progress. All at once I see a man leading a bawling C to the pew way on the other side of the church. Thank goodness, he wasn't yelling, just sniffling. As quickly as I could, I made my way back there and escorted him back. All's well that ended well.

Fr. Chris Soh gave a lovely sermon - the best I've ever heard here, actually. A reflection on the irony of the Christ child as a hero, so unlike Superman and Spiderman and yet so much more heroic in that he saves us with the truth. It was perfectly appropriate, considering this was the children's mass. And the youth choir did a great job...and the congregation left the church humming those great old tunes. Then it was back home to a homecooked family dinner of roast lamb, brussel sprouts, mashed potatoes, fruit salad and the gingerbread we baked.

The best thing? Waking up to a dry, breezy Christmas day. Hurrah. Hurrah.

Joy to the world. Good will to men and peace on earth.
Noel!
Noelle

Traditions

Getting out the Christmas card with the Christmas picture. Sending home the presents to the dear folks in Manila. Buying outfits for Christmas mass - because we should all wear something new for Jesus' birthday. Having fruit salad and sweet treats like poppycock and ginger covered in dark chocolate. Baking the a batch or two of Tita Esther Esteban's gingerbread cookies as well as Mom's fruit salad with the secret zip. Making sure there is queso de bola, majestic ham and Spanish sardines for a noche buena for two. Doing a lot of Christmas reading from the books from Chapter 1 of Little Women to Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus and not to forget Luke 2:1-17. Doing last minute shopping on Orchard Road. Attending the children's mass at St. Ignatius, which is at the very earthly and civilised hour of 6pm on the 24th, thank you very much. Having a family Christmas dinner of either roast lamb or turkey and getting the kids off to bed early so that all the wrapping can finally be "wrapped up" - staying up or not staying up with hot chocolate. Getting awakened by the kids. Opening the gifts and then going off for Christmas day brunch...and then following it with something outdoorsy like the zoo or a traipse in the park or if it's raining (and Christmas day can well be a rainy one in Singapore) a walk in the museum or a browse at the bookstore. And on boxing day, we go through toys, clothes and books that can be brought over to Tita Belen's communities in the Philippine provinces.

Best of all, this Christmas - no work till the New Year!

"But isn't it funny, we never see him...and all the gifts come from Toys R Us!"

Feeling like a journalist

Last night, I dreamt I had an exclusive interview with John Travolta. It was a two-hour session at his hotel suite and I asked him incisive, penetrating questions in the way a shrewd, been-there-done-that and wasn't-born-yesterday journalist would. And while he squirmed his way through it, finally breaking down and giving in, I felt an incredible surge of power.

Been feeling like a journalist lately. This is surprising because as a writer in editor in women's magazines, I have never really and truly felt like a journalist. All of a sudden, now that I've left the automatic, easy and yes, comfortable world of female fash mags and am making my way through the strange and unexplored seemingly lunatic world that is the men's news magazine, I feel full to the brim with...what is it? Ambition? Journalistic drive? I don't know. Something. Of course, it occurs to me that aTravolta exclusive, even if it is a dream, isn't exactly the stuff
of hardcore journalism, is it? I guess my magazine sense is still very much esconsced in celebrity gloss and goss.

Shut up about your job already, T says, it's Christmas. OK, I will.

Get that spirit!

Counting Down

Still oh so many things to do and I'm not even going home for Christmas! Fortunately, a break looms in the horizon from the 26th all the way to the 2nd. What to do, what to do...

Rain reigns

You would think after seven years here, I wouldn't be so startled by it. But sultry, sunny days all year make you forget that when December comes, it's quite possible to have incessant rain for days on end, with precious little regard for the festive season. C complained in the car all the way to Sports Camp, and the truth was, inside I was whining right along with him.

We've learnt the hard way too many times. At least now, we know not to book a beach trip in nearby Bintan - it all goes to waste in with the rain. But it's hard to keep that Christmas cheer when it's dark and gloomy outside. T says - in terms of the absence of light, it would be no different from the US or Europe, so we should all quit complaining. He is, as he is on many occasions, quite right.

I hope to get a glimpse of the sun on Christmas morning. If not, with any luck, we'll be able to make a little sunshine from inside out.

Birthday bliss

I'm that proverbial kid on Christmas day. First from T: a lovely item from Mulberry, bagged early due to convenient credit card sale. Saphire earrings from Mom and Dad. And from the girls: the 2nd season of Grey's Anatomy DVD set, Alain de Botton's The Architecture of Happiness, (the whopping how could I forget to mention) The Illustrated History of Vogue, 501 Books You Must Read, The Paris Review's Anthology of People With Problems, the hardbound edition of Ruth Reichl's Garlic and Sapphires the secret life of a food critic in disguise, four very pretty necklaces including one designed by an old school chum, a pair of earrings, a votive candle to keep serene for the season. And my dearest sisters in Manila tell me I've got new sleepwear and a new pair of yoga pants with my name on it! PLUS texts and emails from New York City, Chicago and Alabama and Manila and a phone call from Washington DC. Happy happy birthday to me, indeed.

Something odd: Turning 39 has made me feel for the first time in some three or four years, very much really and truly not 40.

The December Snowball

It happens every year, doesn't it? You hit the the third week of November and all of a sudden, days start to zipping by with the speed of light so it feels like you don't even have time to take a breath, much less get all the things you need to do done. This year is no different. Come to think of it, 2006 seems to have gone by exceedingly quickly and it's all rushing to a crescendo right now.

K and C are still amazingly keeping Santa Claus alive. Work is so very mentally absorbing that for the first time, I am finding it hard to blog about it. Friends and family are in and out of town and the flurry of festive socials has begun with a vengeance - what with brunches and dinners and cocktails. In the meantime, personal and professional deadlines loom for writing projects, so every bit of time from here till the dawn of 2007 will be crammed full to the brim. But but but...will also find the time to go biking at Bishan park, take the kiddies to see Deck the Halls, set our annual Christmas cookie baking session and organise our year-end donations to children's charities, not to mention the holiday card. But first, the birthday lunch...

Let it snow, let is snow, let it snow...

Take a vinyasa!

  

We should all simply

  
Bono has it so very right.

Yoo Hoo! You Too?

It's not the best time in the world to up and leave for a couple of days, but hey...when is it ever? Going down under to see Bono and hang with friends. Hopefully the weather holds up...

One Halloween

After almost seven years in Singapore, I took a ride on the Halloween Bus.

What's that? It's basically the official form of transport on Halloween Saturday for those in Singapore who enjoy getting dressed up in the scary costume of their choice and hopping from bar to bar in pursuit of inebriation. Or at least till their eyes are so frighteningly bloodshot, their faces no longer need paint for additional terrifying effects. The happenstance of why I came to be on that bus was a hen night for the fiancee of a friend. I can think of no other circumstances that would have induced me to go on such a spree, otherwise.

So there I was, completely wide-eyed and sober, sitting in the first empty seat I could find: a lone leopard with giraffe ears separated from my fellow leopards and zebras. Next to me was a guy who's costume I simply didn't get. (He was in a navy pin striped suit and wore a hat. When I asked what he was supposed to be, he looked all haughty and offended. "I'm in the mafia," he muttered disdainfully. The thing is, I felt he was more pimp than godfather. Of course, I refrained from telling him that.

Anyway, the sureal high point was when someone in the front of the bus started coming down the aisle toward me. He was frightening. He wore an under shirt, was barefoot, had scary black circles around his eyes and walked a little like a hunchback, with a shuffling gait. I looked at him and thought: Oh my gosh, it's Gollum from LOTR.

"Noelle? Noelle?" Gollum called out as he approached...coming nearer and nearer to me. I froze. I had no idea who he was.

Only when his face was just inches from mine did I recognise him. An out of context young colleague from my new office.

"What are you doing on the bus?" he asked me with palpable incredulity.

And boy, that's when I felt it. I don't know for sure how he meant it. But I was sure of what I felt. The unmistakable sense that I did not belong. I was officially old. And that spooked me. I felt like an imposter whose mask was pulled off. By Gollum. Tricksy, tricksy, tricksy...

The next day, I discovered, my colleague wasn't even Gollum. He was actually (so he explained) a character from some Japanese horror flick - a boy that had drowned and came back to haunt his home. I told him it didn't matter. He had scared me half to death all the same.

Romance on the River Seine

 

Travel is about the moments you witness and remember. If you're lucky, you have a photo... 

Just like... sex

Do you remember how you learned to ride a bicycle? Because I don't. One moment, I did not know how. The next moment, I did. And the exhileration of that sensation, of suddenly knowing with "exclamatory awareness" - I can do it. This is great. Wow. It is magic.

Witnessing that moment is magic as well. Yesterday, while K went off to her all-girl's bday party, we took C to to East Coast Park and we taught him to ride a bicycle. We decided, let's not even fuss with the training wheels. Let's just throw him into it.
He was apprehensive at first, but it took him, literally, minutes. More than five, and very much less than ten. T gave him two rules: Kick off with just one foot on the pedal. Slow down when you turn. Before we knew it, we were doing that scene in Kramer vs. Kramer, running and jumping and celebrating the joy of it.

And they say sex is just like riding a bicycle...

Raising Beatles fans

C's all-time favourite is Lady Madonna. Especially the part that goes, "See how they run." K was drawn immediately to the poignant and heartbreaking Eleanor Rigby, but she is also very fond of the winsome Penny Lane and the playful Hello Goodbye.

It wasn't planned. Just a haphazard cd changer choice and voila: we have brand new Beatles fans in our midst.

It's all good. Let it be.

Working with men

New job. New life.

I'm realising that throughout my working life, I've been surrounded by women, working with and for women. My first ever job I was a copywriter surrounded by female copywriters, and I wrote catsup copy and banking brochures. My boss was a woman, and although my secondary boss was a man, he was really more womanly than anything. I taught school for a bit, and there were more women there. The majority of my account managers were women. In the early nineties, forced to maximise my salary potential, I became an executive admin assistant in Manhattan. Then I worked for men but only from a very formal distance; my peers - a group of lovely secretaries - were all women. And of course, in the magazine business, it's all about women. Only 2 out of 10 staff in a magazine are men. That's not a real statistic, but it sounds about right.

These days, I work both with and for men - and ultimately, the readers I want to connect to are men. Maybe it's because I have no brothers but yes, it is new for me.
There's a lot to absorb. Things happen faster it seems. Communication channels seem to get crossed a whole lot more frequently. Attention spans are short - what, who where - and they're gone. Words are few and far apart. Ego seems a natural ingredient in testosterone. And assumptions are like puddles of dirty rain water - they just get stepped in - oops.

As someone blighted with the habit of being nice, I know I have to protect myself. I will not make coffee. I will not wash coffee cups. OK. Yesterday I found myself saying I would get someone a plastic bag for their waste bin. But hey, I was going downstairs anyway. I will not apologise. I will not flutter and dither. I will smile less. I will say what I think and leave it at that.

At the very least, I will try.

Playing Happy Family

Broke in the game I bought at Musee du Orsay - a game of Happy Families featuring seven great Impressionists - Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Gaugin, Cezanne, Renoir, and Degas. K and C had a blast and learned about art, too. Lots of rambunctious laughter and information retention.

Gotta pat myself on the back for that purchase.

Happy Birthday Rofel!

 

The interior of St. Vitus Cathedral, within the Castle in Prague. 

The amazing thing about the internet

I still recall in the early nineties, living in New York, reading speculative articles about this new medium, the "I-way", my boss at the time called it. (That name never stuck). People said things as blasphemous as it's only good for porn, which of course, in retrospect is simply mind-boggling.

And yet for all the many benefits there are today - the shopping, the banking, the booking of airline tickets and the making of reservations, all these for me pale in comparison to the broadest possibilities of intimate human connection. Through the Internet I have found a number of people who were at one time important to me: my best friend in kindergarten - Denise, now a bio computer scientist and a mother. My gradschool kindred spirit, Janette, a professor at UVA. And most recently, we've reconnected with Ka Magic and his little family, reliving all the hilarious memories of times shared back when we were once New Yorkers.

Today, I read from my highschool e-group that one of my classmates in first year highschool has made the tremendous, terrifying step of taking her small son and their belongings and sneaking out of her house to leave her abusive husband once and for all.

She writes with the same honest familiarity and openess that I remember she had when she was thirteen year old. She asks for our prayers, the prayers of her fellow classmates. We were good friends at one time, and yet, once we were in different classrooms, we allowed ourselves to lose touch. The last time I saw her was after college. We ran into each other once more, at the library at TJCC on Gil Puyat in Manila. She was then preparing for her GREs, full of hope for what I was certain would be her bright future.

And here we are - some twenty years later, having found each other because she reached out through the 'net during this very difficult time.

What is the internet, if not a way to bring you towards such connections and reconnections - despite being, as we are separate individuals all over the globe?

Yoga Blast

To make up for last week's inactivity due to wisdom tooth surgery, I've been at the yoga centre with a vengeance. Monday, I did a Power class with Laurence. Tuesday, it was Hatha 1 with Shyam. Wednesday, I did Hot 1 with Hanoi, but had to run out after an hour for a meeting with the Dappers. Thursday, I did Hatha 1 in the morning with Kumaran and then Hot Flow in the afternoon with Arun. Friday, it was Hanoi's power class, which was great. Arms and shoulders are slightly tender, but other than that I feel great!

Total hours: 6! Hopefully, I can keep this up even after work starts.

On the eve of your birthday

 

May your next five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes be filled with love, joy and all His blessings for your personal fulfillment! All our love and birthday wishes Tita M!! From your family in sunny, hazy, Singapore!  

"You know you're old ...

... when your dentist is younger than you."
- T

Dr. Aidan took the stitches out today - a short procedure that was not without discomfort. I said to him, "You know, I really didn't expect this whole thing to be so painful. The surgery. The recovery. Taking out these stitches..." And you know what he said to me?

"That's why it's ideal to get this surgery done at age 18. Recovery is most painless for the young."

Ouch. Gee, doc. Thanks. It helps to know that.

New displays at the Singapore Zoo

  

Kaylee's First Communion

  

The Scoop

As Woody Allen films go, this is definitely not his best one. But it's funny and engaging and story-wise, still inventive. Scarlett Johansson and Hugh Jackman are both fun to watch, and even the Woodman distinguishes himself in familiar territory.

But it is familiar territory, with plotlines borrowed both from his little novella The Kugelmass Episode as well as his 1995 flic Manhattan Murder Mystery. At least Allen borrows from himself, which is entirely acceptable. It's too easy for him - like nothing more than his own creative training session. That it's done in mostly British accents is refreshing, but it doesn't make it into the top 10 Woody Allen film list, not by a long shot.

What it is is a scoop of ice cream on hot day. Great fun while it lasts, but soon forgotten. And who gave Scarlett Johansson's stylist the day off, please?

Tick Tick Boom!

Also known as Jonathan Larsen's pre-RENT work with a little tweaking.

We went in with lowered expectations, and came out humming. It's more of a mini-musical really, not a full-scale production. But the New York cast was three-man strong - in fact, we were pleasantly surprised to find Jerry Dixon in it. We had seen him previously in two performances of Once On This Island and one ensemble Broadway show right here in Singapore with Judy Kuhn.

Anyway, while Tick Tick Boom's plot isn't exactly the stuff for panorama -- the angst of choices, decisions and turning (Oh my God, really?) 30; at least, musically, the show has some engaging moments. My favourites are as follows:

- The homage to Stephen Sondheim's Sunday in the Park With George in SUNDAY - a satirical comic piece on the quintessential New York thing to do: sunday brunch. Anyone who has hummed SitPwG will recognise its stirring counterpoints in this tune.
- The cute and quirky duet THERAPY, a singable ode to relationship nueroses.
- The haunting REAL LIFE is a little heavy handed but not unaffecting.
- A nice strong melody with a full female vocal COME TO YOUR SENSES
- WHY is not only singable, but musical lovers will recognise the cameo threads of Mary Poppins and West Side Story. It also functions as a beautiful commitment to craft anthem.

Should you see Tick Tick Boom? It's a show that's barely an hour and a half long and has no intermission. Hey, if it's running, I say why on earth not?

What I found along the Seine

  

Project Runway

Am sitting here at home, nursing my post-wisdom tooth surgery ache, which is proving surprisingly bothersome. But I'm cheered up, unexpectedly, by this show on Travel & Living. Watching these novice designers translate their inspirations into garments is genuinely absorbing. Very few things on television are so substantially about the process of creativity. Project Runway is definitely it. Besides, you gotta love all these beautiful, loving gay guys...they're just so sweet. Bitchy perhaps, but sweet nevertheless.

T for Magic

  

What gets me

You have this idea for a short story. But you're always too busy to write it. But it's a good idea. You even have dreams about it. Once, you even dreamed your way to the ending, which is frequently the toughest part. But you're still too busy. There is never that stretch of time in which you can lay down the beginning, develop the complication, and race to the end. Then you think, oh fuck it, just write what you can and if you don't finish, it's there for when you have more time. So that's what you do. You write the beginning. And it's nice and easy. And then the busyness sets in. And life starts happening. And for awhile, you forget about the story. Months pass, maybe even a year or two. Then your mind comes back to it. That story. How did it go again. And you start getting excited. And finally, finally, you have some time coming to you. A real nice chunk. So you look through your stuff for that beginning - those few paragraphs that you wrote that one time. Was it three paragraphs? Wasn't it even a couple of pages. Damn. Where is it. It was pretty good stuff, wasn't it.

But you can't find it. Even though you know in your heart you wrote it. And it was good. You realise you're probably remembering it better than what it actually was. But still. It would have been workable anyhow. Not like the pain of starting from complete scratch. But it's gone. You have no idea where it is.

And now you want to write. And you do have the time. Do you start on something new...or do you go back to that old one. The one you remember.

What are you going to do.

What was playing in a theatre in Montmarte!

 

Not surprising as his largest fan base is in Europe. Unfortunately, we had no time to see the play. Will have to content ourselves with catching SCOOP with Hugh Jackman and Scarlett Johanssen at GV Great World. Hopefully this weekend. 

Risotto & Reading At Kampa Park, Prague

  

It was goat cheese and mushroom risotto and it was delicious!

Bookhunting While Travelling

It's a habit that my husband has come to accept. I must buy a book in each city I visit, each and every time I visit. The T-shirts I ignore, not relishing the way I look in your average souvenir T-shirt. And, no judgement on my mother-in-law, but I have a peculiar aversion to refrigerator magnets.

A book is decidedly different. As a memento of a specific journey, as someting for my personal bookcase, as a signpost of a different culture, even, it offers abundantly more.But I limit myself to just one, especially in view of T's "pack light!" directive, not to mention my own budgetary concerns. That of course makes the process of choosing all the more difficult, but also all the more pleasurable. It is not a decision to be made lightly, and it cannot be rushed. You want to buy a book that has some sort of significance to the city you are in. Ideally, it would not be available where you live, and critical is that its purchase will not break the bank, at least, not unduly.

In Amsterdam four years ago, I remember I bought Anais Nin's dynamic duo of erotic tales: Little Birds and Delta of Venus. She's not Dutch, yet I felt, rightly or wrongly, my choice was fitting somehow in light of the red light district near the city's old Church. Besides, I argued to T, it's not like you can pick either of these titles up in Singapore. In Florence, I bought Mary McCarthy's exquisite Stones Of Florence as well as her Venice Observed, which are travel but also history, and so magnificently crafted, I swooned over her prose throughout the entire trip, carrying the books around in my tote and reading them out loud at odd moments.

The bookhunt for this recent trip to Paris and Prague, was unexpectedly easy. In Paris, all we had to do was pop into Shakespeare Books on rue la bucherie, parallel to the Siene and almost directly across the Notre Dame. After a few minutes of intent browsing in the travel section, I spotted the "winner" in of all places, the language section. Huh?

What I picked up was an English fiction "reader" designed for French people intent on learning English. New York Stories is a Lire En V.O. Anglais, a Nouvelles Annotees (Short stories?) with a preface de Patricia Highsmith.Its pages offer stories by such great names as Dorothy Parker,John Cheever, Bernard Malamud, Carson McCullers, Isaac B. Singer and Roald Dahl, among others. Every page features a list of vocabulary translations in the margins so I know that when Malamud's Sam in THE COST OF LIVING "stumbles into" the store, a French reader would translate the phrase as: "entra en chancelant". A plus for this once-upon-a-time New Yorker is that the stories are all set in that other great city, and I got the lovely little tome for just four euro. Cool.

In Prague, it was even simpler. I knew the title I both needed and wanted almost as soon as I took steps upon the Charles Bridge, my first highschool copy having been lost years ago. And there it was, so easy to locate - Franz Kafka's Metamophosis and Other Stories. The bonus? An insightful introduction by Adam Thirwell, which very intelligently and humourously situates the work in literary history. 320 Czeck Crown which comes to 21$SGD. On the pricey side, but hey, pretty much what I would pay if I got it in Kinokuniya.

I would have wanted to buy a book in Frankfurt, Vienna and Zurich respectively, but finding a bookstore within our alloted time proved a major challenge. I did manage to enter a bookstore in Vienna, but their books in English were on the paltry side, with such popular paperback fiction titles as you would find in any airport book kiosk. As the Austrian bookseller herself said dismissively, shaking her head - "I'm afraid we don't have much. Just...novels..." And I liked the way she phrased it - so fitting to hear her perfectly nuanced "I'm afraid"

Never mind T said. Next time.

Not to be outdone

 
Our own little K, who by the way, receives her first communion this Saturday, was also handpicked as one of the five in her badminton class that could be a school team member in a couple of years.

Such athleticism running in our family...who knew? 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

 

C was one of the grade one boys asked to join special soccer training, in view of possibly joining the school soccer team when he reaches grade three! 

Elisabetha on the Charles Bridge surveys the Vltava River

  

Waiting for the funicular on Petrin Hill in Prague

 

"Hey, at least we didn't walk up Petrin Hill, right?" 

Travelling With Your Spouse 2

A married couple's first trip to a foreign city or or, as is frequently the case, a number of foreign cities over a number of days, can be a close-up photagraph of that couple's marriage. A journey with limits to time and budget will draw the differences between husband and wife quickly and dramatically to the surface. And conflict ensues. I've heard a husband say that he can pretty much count on at least one quarrel with his wife during each and every trip. Our first trip to Paris as husband and wife involved a quarrel literally on the Eiffel Tower.

On the other hand, at a certain point, if a couple has travelled together enough, each spouse knows to sidestep potential areas of conflict, like landmines as it were. There are also some quarrels that have happened so frequently there's no longer an point in going through the charade. A smirk and a grimace functions well enough when conflicts are like well-worn grooves in wood or imprints on the ground. Wife and husband are also able to create their compromises and matter-of-fact strategies that neatly avoid full-on conflict. In travel, as in life, two people can each accomodate the other's needs and wants - in this way, they engender their own unique travel habits - this, of course, makes it a little more difficult to find another couple to travel with, but I digress.

- We pack light and separately - each party being responsible for their own stuff - including their own dirty laundry.
- On the plane over, we recognise the need for rest and sleep - and will limit ourselves to one movie.
- T knows that I require a substantial breakfast if I am to get through the day though previously it was his penchant to not eat anything till starvation set in, and only then would he concede to buy cheap and easy street food.
- I know now not to force the issue of a sit-down lunch, having come to understand that this is frequently a waste of time when there are so many places to go and things to see. The midday meal must be a quick affair - even taken on the go, on the run - a sandwich, street food or a few rolls from a bakery.
- We both understand that while there is daylight, we have to be on the move - seeing as many things as possible, ideally on foot.
- It is understood that I am to ask strangers questions - whether it's a request to take our picture or a plea for directions, for the reason that I am the one who most often believes I am lost.
- If there is a high point to climb to with a view of a city, we will certainly do that. Similarly, if there is a bridge to cross, we will cross it.
- T is now also accustomed to my need to create concept pictures with odd poses that often cause passersby to stare. I consider it quite a triumph now because even he himself will deign to pose in that manner.
- If there is bookstore, we must enter it and time must be allotted for browsing.
- If there is a military centre, monument or museum - it must be visited.
- We have also agreed to disagree once or twice - and no longer have to be joined at the hip. Now apparently, we can separate and agree to meet an appointed place when one wants to do a particular thing that isn't what the other wants to do.
- We also know that while I might want to talk about life and plans say, for the next five years during a trip to a foreign city, T will most definitely not to want to do that - reserving any such conversations for bedtime, if at all.

And once a unique modus operandi has been cobbled together, no matter how imperfectly, travel to foreign cities can indeed be the wonderful experience it is meant to be. Fortunately.

Bankers in Zurich

People who work in creative industries like music, advertising or publishing constantly celebrate the joy of their jobs. How wonderful it is, they will say, that we genuinely enjoy our work. How remarkable is our passion - that we can get up in the morning of each day and sincerely look forward to the hours that lie ahead. To get such a high, such a kick and to get paid for it? What could be better than that?

Invariably, I have heard one or another of us compare our jobs against what we, rightly or wrongly, percieve to be the dreariest of occupations. The words, "Imagine, working at a ... bank?" have been uttered with pure, unadulterated incredulity, to the point that the last word is said with such palpable dismay that the "k" sound at the end of the word hangs in the air like a resonating "ick ick ick ick."

As someone who only very slightly resisted the conventional English major's path,I understand the issues at stake. The money vs passion argument, which unfortunately, does come into play in the choice of occupation. My first ever job interview was for the position of a research and financial analyst for a securities firm. I am well aware that had I chosen to accept this offer, I would surely be making four or five times my current salary at this point. Instead, I chose to enter advertising, but harbored the actual desire to be in account management as opposed to creative. The position was as an account executive, but fate in the form of the Senior Vice President for Creative, entered and, rightly or wrongly, thwarted my plans as a creative position was instantly created for me.

I did however, marry a banker. T is the proverbial creative stuck wearing a suit - unflinchingly, but not without a measure of discomfort. As colleagues writing for the university paper - he made his position to me quite clear. "It's where the money is," he said with resignation. And he made this decision with wide-open eyes, pushing aside his own creative impulses, his own personal yearnings. Ultimately, we make our decisions and suffer the tradeoffs while we reap the practicalities.

Similarly, the young, sensitive, musing M has made her own choice.

I want to tell her, even as I know my words are ineffectual at best, that the most important thing is to do what makes you happy and not look back. Or at least, not look back too much. I want to tell her that of course, it is impossible to be completely sure what will make you happy in the long run. I want to tell her that there do happen to be happy bankers and accountants who exercise their soul and passion and creativity both in but more frequently outside of their work. R who does tax accounting in New York, for example, finds the time to take cooking classes and publish the occasional story. But there yes, there are those who are not so happy - those like L who leave an industry, say publishing, to work in finance and four months later, wanting to return because the money just wasn't worth it.

The point is no one can have it completely both ways. There will always be the stuff you give up and the stuff you have to live with, whatever decision you make. There will always be little spaces in your heart in which reside tinges of regret, perhaps a tipple of yearning for something else or something more or even, the road not taken. But that, it is likely M is already learning.

Recent travel ended quite fittingly I thought, considering these musings, with a day in Zurich, Switzerland. Zurich, I'd been told, is a bankers' city. So not very imaginatively, I pictured a staid, business-like place - a city of grey pin-stripes, laptops and manila envelopes. Instead T and I were pleasurably surprised by a fresh briskly green little city with glowingly blue-green bodies of water flowing through it. We gasped at the clean breezes flying off the clear wide expanse of Lake Zurich as well as soaked up the verdant meadows and the stunning views of the Felseneg mountain. Everywhere, people were on bicycles, swimming in the lake, playing with their children.

T and I looked at each other. Perhaps it is possible to have it completely both ways. If ever anyone had it all, would it not be these people? Laughing, we acknowledged yet another new yearning - to be a banker in Zurich.

The sidewalks of Prague

From the Meteor Plaza Hotel in Prague

It's all about walking. You need to feel a foreign country with your feet, and you can't do that without a large measure of walking. But thankfully, the city of Prague lends itself well to our footfalls. While we both marvelled at the majesty and the grandeur of the old town square, the stunning Charles bridge, the castle and the great cathedral within, I also found myself hypnotised by the sidewalks.

All the sidewalks are paved mosaic style with squares or parallelograms of coloured stone - white, gray, black, pink. Granite? I promise myself I will look it up once I get the chance. And such a variety of patterns. The white diamonds wrapped in black squares. The large black and white checkerboards. The pink rectangles with the grey borders. The pink crosses lined with white. The white crosses enclosed in black squares. Such simplicity in what seems to be a complex way of paving what will simply be trodden upon. Why? What for? It certainly can't have been easy to lay all those square stones evenly enough, and yet not so evenly - with imperfect perfection.

T says, "Isn't there just one basic pattern?" I insist I've counted more than seven.

And as we walked and walked through the old town and the new, sauntering through Kafka's beautiful city, we felt it pulsing upon the very soles of our feet, with every step we took.

Travelling with your spouse

from an internet cafe in the Frankfurt train station

Count on the following proverbial laws of Murphy:
-one of you will be hungry when one of you isn't
-one of you will need the facilities at an ill opportune juncture
-one of you, at a certain point, would rather shop for shoes than go to a military museum

But all ill will be forgotten in an instant when encountering something great and wondrous. Like a church that is hundreds of years old.Or a beautiful green graveyard at the edge of a city. Or a painting by Pissaro or Latour.

And you will laugh together - all because the z is where the y should be on a German keyboard.

Growing Pains

"I feel really lonely about this."

When my son said this late last night at bedtime, I swear I almost burst into tears.

He's going through a tough time in school, being teased for being "fat" by his entire school bus. We feel a lot of this has to do with the fact that he is very different from his schoolmates, both personally and in his physique. Beside most of the local boys who tend to be on the scrawny, shrimpy, toothpick side (clearly I am upset), C is a big boy. Ironically, back home in the Philippines, he would be just average...big, perhaps, but not fat and certainly not obese. In the US or the UK, he would be just average. But yes, here he is fat, plain and simple. And children can be as cruel and as narrow-minded as adults can.

So what's happening now is when he steps onto the bus, the entire troop yells, "Hi fat Carlos." And apparently, yesterday, one kid says, "Everybody who thinks Carlos is fat should whack him." And more than a number of them kicked him on his shins. I called the school bus coordinator first thing.

T and I sat with him last night to try and strategise. Because it's the entire bus and not just one or two, he can't really pick a fight - he'd be outnumbered. He has tried smart remarks, but with so many of them, he is outshouted. The other problem is that he refuses to just ignore it.

"They make me so angry, I'm tempted to say something back."

One of my suggestions is to answer, "Hi, toothpicks." Or even better, just hi, and simply ignore it. Lola's suggestion is to threaten to sit on them - however, I think that would backfire. T says to ignore it, to act like it doesn't bother him. But C was adamant. It does bother him, and why wouldn't it? He is an outspoken boy. He can't just ignore it.

Wisely, he vetoed the idea of either me or T coming down and shouting at the entire busload (which actually, I'm very tempted to do). But I know, the minute the bus gets on the road, it will simply start again.

He's now very conscious of what he eats and wants to be "thin." But I told him that he can't lose that much weight as he's still growing. Besides, no matter how thin he gets, he will always be on the bigger side - it's in his genes. He sighed and buried his face into the pillow. And that's when he said it.

"I feel really lonely about this."

You start remembering such moments in your own childhood when you felt "very lonely" about something. My moment was in the fourth grade, when the entire class of 17 girls decided to give me the silent treatment for no apparent reason. It lasted a week and a half, until one girl simply got tired of it and the rest followed suit. I ended up forging friendships with the boys. It was humiliating because even the teachers asked me what was going on. At 38, I still vividly recall the loneliness. And here C is feeling the exact same thing. Faced with small minds attached to smaller bodies, what's a boy of seven to do?

With aplomb, he wakes for breakfast. He puts on his clothes and goes to school, anyway. There are no tears, no resistance to what he has to do. He tells us he loves us. He says goodbye. He is resolute, perhaps a tinge hopeful, building inner strength and steeling himself against the feeling of forlorn aloneness.

I am sure he will survive this. He will emerge strong, I'm certain. But there's no denying that ache, that hardness in the heart. Be reassuring. Tell him this too will pass, even while knowing it will stay with him forever. What else is a mother to do?

If these people had blogs...

I would read them:
- Needless to say, I read every blog I've linked to right now, because, well, because I'm interested in the nitty-gritty of people's lives. I like being on other planes
of consciousness.

- My dear friend, creative writing Pinoy poet and teacher Rofel Brion. His would be pure Pilipino, spare and clean and to the point just like his poetry. Every now and then, his would have talasalitaan - some little known or perhaps archaic but useful word that people have stopped using. Now, wouldn't that be interesting?

- I would read TRM. He's an old, old, old friend who frequently drives me up a wall with his grumpy moods and carmudgeonly ways. But I know that deep down, we share a friendship, a history. He's a wire news service editor, very likely the best in his field, I'm sure. Right now, he lives in Beijing. He used to write fiction, likes writing sports, and now burns cds and creates photo journals. I hear he's taken up cooking. I asked him once why he didn't blog and he mocked me. He said (and I'm paraphrasing): "My thoughts are ephemeral, there for the instant for whomever is present, and then gone with the wind." Whatever. If he did I'd read.

- I would read BB's blog, if she had one.Maybe she does, but I have no way of knowing. BB was one of the writers in my writing program. I last spoke to her in 1997 on a trip to New York. She had a permanent temp job at a bank and had just gotten one of her plays running off off-Broadway. In school, she was a tiny little thing with broad midwestern drawl and a skull cap of chestnut curls that she then shaved off ala Sinead O'Connor. At the end of our two year program, she and one of our other classmates ran off to Mexico together. He left his wife for BB. Come to think of it, I would read that guy's blog, too.

- My cousin, the playwright Floy Quintos. I'm not certain what his blog would have. Not showbiz gossip, that's for sure. Well-crafted essays about antiques, architecture, theatre and family. Maybe the beginnings of his memoirs.

- My first ever beloved boss Emily Abrera, who saved me from a life of account service (although I now think I'd probably be making more money today if I had gone into it). Anyway, I would read hers...everyday. I would check it everyday. Very definitely.

- I would read my parents and my sisters. And my cousin Jon, a cardiologist in Chicago - especially if it had hospital anecdotes. Oh...and if Celeste Soliven, Camille Genuino, Angelique Faustino, Christine Esteban, Janette Martin and Leia Castaneda had blogs, I'd read theirs regularly. They live so far away and they rarely write. And Jaypee Sevilla who I believe is living in South Africa right now with his wife, on a project for the Harvard School of Public Health where he's there on tenure track.

- I would read Woody Allen's blog but it's not likely he would have one since he can charge the New Yorker for it. I would read Ethan Hawke, Jodi Foster, Steve Martin, Carrie Fisher. I would read Anna Wintour and Miuccia Prada. John Irving, Alice Munro and John Updike - but why would they blog, they've got books to write...

Clearly, I could go on...

Change is good, right?

Feeling a little hesitation. Maybe that's too strong a word. Minor reservations might be the best way to describe it. How does one cope with certain and impending change?
Think of it like a yoga posture...you just have to do it, move yourself through it with as much grace and serenity you can muster. At the end of the day, it's just another thing. And another thing.

The funny thing is the more things change, the more they stay the same, to use that cliche. I'm still battling the same enemies. Still rushing to make time for the things I want to do and the people I want to do them with. Maybe the change will be better for that.

Anyway, the kiddies are on school break...and I'm afraid I've left them to their own devices in the way of activities. Haven't signed them up for anything. I've said they can do the things they want to do this week, in their own time, at their own pace. I told them to enjoy being bored when they can't think of anything to do. Or perhaps, they can just sit around and do nothing for a bit. That was a large part of my childhood. Adults don't do that nearly enough...

The way things are going

  

Run, Run, Everybody Run

Anyone remember that? The catchy Sesame Street ditty that goes: Run, run, everybody run.Come run with me and we'll have fun. Hey, run, run, everybody run. Five, four, three, two, run. Let's run. You can run in the park. You can run in the street. It really doesn't matter, just move your feet. Just hold my hand, and what do you know? Take a deep breath and ready, set, go.

This is likely the first song I ever learned, the first non-ABC-common-garden-kindergaren-variety song, anyway ... but I digress. I read Miko's marathon musings and am very envious. I want to run,too. I've always wanted to run. But it's tough on the mammary glands, and I can never seem to get things off the ground. They say, start slow. Run for five minutes. Then ten. Build up. When I was a grad student in Bowling Green, my best friend at the time was Janette. She was the coolest. She still is. She with her black cats and her broccoli and pesto pasta. Plus she was beautiful and 43, and a lovely writer. We called each other every day to make sure we were each still alive - this was after we saw Silence of the Lambs together. Bowling Green is the middle of nowhere, America after all. That's what it felt like to us. Anyway, I'm digressing again, she ran. I was 22 and in complete awe of her discipline. Back then, I had no desire to run, as much as I admired it. And now, here we are and Miko's 23 and I'm...well...I'm pushing 40, and I am still in awe. But I feel the desire now. I want those endorphins. Start slow. Even a woman pushing 40 can take baby steps, right? Five minutes. Then ten. Walk, then start again. I want it.It isn't too late, is it?

Maybe this yearning is my body's way of mimicking my state of mind at the moment.
The body is wanting that mind-body connection. So run, people will tell me. Run if you want to run. Just shut up already.

OK, will do.

Trust in Girl Power

  

In the wee small hours of the morning...

- It is natural to worry.
- It is best to keep things in perspective.
- It is important to just breathe.
- It is comforting to pray.
- It is tempting to make plans.
- It is crazy to make decisions.
- It makes sense to write.
- It is nice to be surprised by a brilliant idea.
- It is better to make sure you write it down.
- It is ok to be uncertain.
- It is an occasion for wishing.
- It is not the right time to call people.
- It is good to be grateful for blessings.
- It is ideal to go back to sleep.

Let the games begin

Am looking forward to September 15, and not just because of Paris, although certainly that's part of it. Once again, I am led by impulse into circumstances of uncertainty, a good measure of hopeful faith held tightly in my proverbial sweaty palms. What does the future hold? As Elphaba sings in poignant refrain, "Unlimited. My future is...unlimited." I just hope and pray it's not going to end up with me melting into my ruby shoes. Cryptic, yes, and I'm sorry. But until I know what I know, I can only know what I don't know. And that't just not interesting, not really. The abiity to do something, even the ability to do it well, does not always come with the desire to do it.

I'm looking forward to Studio 60 On Sunset Strip. At least, I think that's what it's called. I saw the ad for a new series from the makers of The West Wing. They brought back Bradley Whitford and Timothy Busfield and put them together with Amanda Peet and Matthew Perry aka Chandler Bing. Should be good fun.

I am looking forward to a weekend that's more leisurely and more restful than the one I just had.

I'm looking forward to following the advice of Debra Spark in her book, Curious Attractions Essays on Fiction Writing...once I have a little free time that is.

I'm looking forward to slowly moving from a state of less certainty to a state of more certainty. Even just a little more.

And then, I'm just looking forward...

What kind of person are you

Do you overthink a good thing?
Do you act on impulse?
Do you flee in the face of risk?
Do you hate to regret?
Do you go for the goal, regardless of the danger?
Do you act with confidence?
Do you believe in yourself?
Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?

What kind of a person does that make you...

Happy Anniversary Francis Xavier Choir of St. Ignatius

  

Something's coming...

I don't know/what it is/but it is/gonna be great

So sayeth Sondheim and thus, I feel thusly. Despite the fact that things at the office could be a hell of a whole lot better, I feel the distinct opposite of John Irving's undertoad. Which is good, right? Good. It better be. It will be, whatever "it" is.

Celebrated the choir's first year anniversary yesterday. A small milestone but it felt good. Of course, that brought on a bout of CelesteS homesickness. How quickly things change. People came up to us to greet us and thank us, and that was gratifying. Then we walked to WestLake and gorged on yummy Kwapao (which I still recall Tanny eating in college teamed with chocolait in a tetra box), kikiam (which apparently here is called rather prosaicly, "prawn roll"), sweet sour pork, butter prawns, deep fried squid and salted fish fried rice - and happily toasted to a new year of prayer and music.

Tomorrow...have a shoot in the morning, lunch with people who enjoy analysing the publishing industry in this fine city state, and three client meetings. No time to go to the office, which works for me...why indeed wouldn't it. With any luck, a yoga class at 7am to kick off everything.

It just occured to me

Someone in my family (I can't remember now whether it was my sister or my Dad) told me about when they first watched Jurassic Park. Most of the group had already read the Crichton thriller, so the anticipation was high. Anyway, it was a small private premiere, and during that scene when the little girl finds the small dinosaur on the beach, one of my Dad's colleagues spoils the moment by yelping loudly and at a squeaky girlish pitch a split second before the little prehistoric predator attacks: "Oh no! It's the spitting kind!!"

After six years here, I can't help but make that same kind of yelp. 7 year old C reports that his classmates do it, why can't he? Then there's always the attention you need to pay on the sidewalks so you don't step into any hoktus. But my number one worst moment was sitting in the backseat of a cab as it zoomed across the ECP so I could get back to the office from lunch in town. All of a sudden, the cabbie rolled down his window, inclined his head out all too slightly to have made a real difference and ptewied into the wind. In that same half a second a droplet was blown back through his open window, to the backseat and onto my bare arm. Feeling it distinctly searing on to my skin, I let out a scream.

The spitting kind.

It was a moment so stupid and so disgusting, I just had to write about it.

Date Night

 

After dinner at Kazu, we saw HARD CANDY last night and enjoyed it immensely. What's not to enjoy? Provocative premise. Inventive plot. A tight, well-devised, dramatically paced screenplay. And great acting by non-Hollywood players. We didn't ask anyone to join us, mostly because we knew people would turn down seeing a movie about a teenage girl bent on revenge upon a pedophile. After all, R and C have claimed not to enjoy infidelity movies, science fiction and horror movies - we were fairly certain they wouldn't go for Hard Candy. To say it is a rather dark flick is an understatement. But really, it was dark chocolate. Devilishly good. The only person I can think of who would like it, off-hand, is Miko of the Musings.

Got home early and decided to put on THE BREAKUP with Vaughn and Aniston, but had to turn it off twenty minutes in; the inanity was just mind-boggling. Usually I watch anything with Aniston, even while being aware of her limitations and the tendency to fall back into Rachel-mode by default. Vince Vaughn is funny. But the problem with this movie is that it was ill-concieved, and while it was comedy,it wasnt the kind where tears run down your-cheeks and you clutch at your stomach. Nothing like NACHO LIBRE or even MEET THE PARENTS for that matter. Uncontrollable laughter. That's what I look for, sue me. Of course, THE BREAKUP, Hollywood flick that it is, will make more money than HARD CANDY. It's amazing the stupidity that makes money, and the intelligence that doesn't. Ironic and downright unfair.

Non-Sequitur: Happy Birthday, Omar. I read your blog by virtue of six degrees.

Ikaw naman! Wanted to comment but there was no comment mode. I'm certain you will enjoy your forays. It's still my hope that I will be able to attend one of your "beautiful people" soirees. You have a point; keep writing.  

10 Things to do when you're out of sorts

1. Yoga
2. Write a letter/email to someone you haven't spoken to in months
3. Watch Sex and the City season 4
4. Go for a hike somewhere green
5. Have a gelato
6. Recommit to an old goal
7. Allow yourself to be silent and alone
8. Read a good novel
9. Make a cup of tea
10. Pray

Happy Birthday Dad!

  

Something to think about

I love it when out of the blue, someone says something thought-provoking.

My office mate or as they say here, colleague D. at the office said: "90 per cent of all self-talk is negative. We should all try to reverse that and make our self-talk positive." I think that's true for many people. But here's another thought: I do know a more than a few people who are virtual fonts of positive self-talk and it's done out loud. The operative word being self. That can be a bit much, as well. Perhaps there's merit in keeping one's positive
self-talk ...to oneself.