Wednesday, June 30, 2010
My Target Shopping List (and it's not what you think)
My friend R. was telling me about a recent conversation she had with a friend of hers who belongs to a Christian Women's Group. After one of the group members mentioned that she and her husband had used one, a few other members of the group also decided to try a c*ck ring.
I assume that you gasped when you read that phrase. It's okay. I realize that it's not a term used in everyday conversation, and that it has some shock value. If you prefer not to continue reading this particular post, I understand. I will post something new and unrelated tomorrow. If you don't know what the asterisk stands for, then I suggest that this post may not be your cup of tea.
If you are still reading this, and you don't know what a c*ck ring is, you can look up the definition on UrbanDictionary.com. If you are my mother, and you want to continue reading this post, let's make a deal: I won't change the name of my blog and not tell you, if you promise never to discuss this post with me ever.
Now, back to the c*ck ring. It might have struck you as odd that this was the topic of discussion in a Christian Women's Group. Christian women have sex, too, you know. I'm a Christian, and I have two children. Their creation was not through immaculate conception. However, I do admit that I was plenty surprised to learn that regular people use c*ck rings.
To be honest with you, I didn't know exactly what they were, although I had a general idea (their name is rather descriptive, afterall). I did have the preconceived notion they were only used as props in Triple-X type movies. They were certainly the last thing I expected to hear about from the friend of a friend of a Christian Women's Group member.
But this post isn't exactly about the c*ck ring itself. Because what surprised me even more than the discovery of an unexpected group of c*ck ring users was the discovery of an unexpected c*ck ring seller. Apparently, these women in the Christian group bought the apparatus at Target.
Come again?
I love Target. I shop there at least once per week. "Target" was one of the first words my daughter learned to read. My best Target purchase was when I was pregnant and my feet were really swollen, and I found a pair of cute flats on clearance for $3.00. They were designed by the same designer that sells shoes at Nordstrom for several hundred dollars. I received many, many compliments on those shoes, and they're still in good condition even though I wore them nearly every day for months, sometimes in the rain. I love Target so much that I spend my free time there. So when I heard that one of my favorite stores was selling this little doohicky, I simply couldn't allow that sort of rumor to go unchecked. Fearlessly, I set out to investigate.
My first attempt to verify this tidbit of information was on Tuesday night. Randy was out running errands when I realized we were out of diapers for the baby. I called Randy's cell and asked him to pick up a box of size 3 Pampers, the baby soft kind, with pictures of Elmo and Big Bird on them. "Also," I said, "Could you go to the condom aisle and see if they carry c*ck rings?"
Come again?
After I explained myself to my husband, he agreed to check. Minutes later, he called back and said that, unfortunately, Target was already closed so he had to go to the grocery store to buy the diapers. And, no, Safeway does not carry c*ck rings. Increasingly curious, I resolved to go to Target the following day.
I decided to limit myself to the three Targets closest to my house in this quest for the ring. Short on time, I made a beeline for the condom aisle. I think this particular Target had poor placement judgment: the condoms and related items were on shelves directly across the bench where people -- mostly moms with young kids and senior citizens -- were waiting to be seen at the minute clinic. Shopping for a c*ck ring is not for the weak or shy.
I guess I was expecting these items to be fairly conspicuous, capable of being identified easily from among the other related items on the shelves. But, alas, my mission required me to actually pick up packages and read the lablels to determine whether they were what I have been searching for. I was amazed that at the first store, I hit jackpot. There they were, in all their packaged glory. FYI, they are not actually called "c*ck rings" on the box. Also, FYI, there are some that have special features, which for someone who didn't even really know what the standard features were, is a bit of feature overload.
So you're probably wondering if I bought one. I think that even in a blog where I reveal quite a lot, some things are better left a mystery. However, I can tell you this: There may come a time when I will refer to those awesome flats as my second best Target purchase.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Windows 2010 or Why I Should Stick to Law And Not Go Into Interior Decorating
There are 50 windows in my house. I love how natural light floods the rooms during the day, casting a luminous glow to the most mundane objects. I love having the picturesque scenes of the preserve that I can view from the master bathroom, the neighbor's pond from the solarium, and the lush lawns from the dining room. I don't love that I am probably committing the crime of indecent exposure when I get out of the shower, run out of the bathroom and into my bedroom for a change of clothes, or pump breastmilk downstairs while I work at my computer on the breakfast table.
I need to cover our windows. Not all of them, mind you, just those at which I am currently indecently exposing myself while I live my life.
Window treatments are spendy. Here is an illustration of why I would have to sell my children in order to afford curtains for this house. Our friends and neighbors, Carl and Gergana, went shopping at Ethan Allen for furniture and the five window treatments. They picked out furniture for their entire house, and window treatments for five windows. The window designer went to their house and measured. When Carl and Gergana went back to the shop, the designer was pleased as plum to tell them that her estimate came in low. The price tag: $20,000. Carl and Gergana were somewhat surprised that the furniture and window treatments were going to cost that much, but on second thought, they had picked out a lot of furniture, so perhaps it was a good "deal" after all.
"All that furniture and curtains, too, huh?" they said to the designer.
The designer, perhaps feelings of excitement dwindling, replied that, actually, no, it was $20,000 for just the window treatments. That's $5,000.00 per window!
"Are these curtains made of gold threads?" asked Carl, as he and Gergana fought to suppress laughter .
Carl and Gergana have lovely window treatments in their house, but they did not come from Ethan Allen. And at $5K times 50 windows, neither will mine.
We have lived in our house for almost three years. Most of the windows are still bare. The ones that have "treatments" are "temporary" treatments until I can find better ones. Here is the problem: I have commitment issues in matters of home decorating. Compounding the problem is that I have a terrible eye for home decorating. Gergana protests this and insists that because I can put together a fabulous outfit, I certainly must be capable of decorating my house. "You know how to dress, so this is the same but it's your house that you're dressing!" she once said. I beg to differ.
Randy begs to differ, too. He is aware of my commitment phobia and terrible eye, and he, regretfully, agrees that my fears are well-founded. I have made so many decorating misjudgments that we have taken to giving the occurences names, the way historians name natural disasters.
For example, there was the Great Bathroom Remodel of 2002. After we got married, I moved into the townhouse that Randy already owned. In my attempt to make HIS house OUR house, I started to remodel. My first project was painting the half-bath on the first floor. I had envisioned a room that evoked scenes of a beach -- ocean blue walls, golden sand colored vanity, sun-shaped mirror. I was unhappy with the present vanity, but because it was an oddly shaped corner unit, it was very hard to find a replacement. Therefore, Randy had to build one to my specifications so I could paint it to fit my beachy decor. I was supremely confident that my remodel would have magnificent results.
The resulting bathroom was hideous. The blue was more of an electric blue than a beachy blue, and the "golden sand" looked more like the shade of yellow used to paint lines on the road. No description that I could write could adequately convey just how ugly this room turned out. Let's just say that being inside that bathroom induced migraines. You know in Trading Spaces when some homeowners cry during the great reveal because their formerly acceptable room has been converted into a freakish concoction of all things repulsive? Randy and I cried like that everytime we went into that bathroom. The room was such an eyesore that after a while we never used that bathroom with the light on. We were embarassed to have guests use it, and when they did heed the call of nature, we apologized profusely for the loud and tacky surroundings. Yet we had so many other rooms to work on that re-doing that half-bath had to go to the bottom of the list. It had already had its disastrous turn.
If the half bath experience were the extent of my poor decorating choices, I would proceed with decorating this house undeterred. But there was also the Dining Room Furniture Fiasco of 2003, which set off the Series of Unfortunate Furniture Purchases. There was also the Lighting Fixture Debacle, which had several aftershocks: A chandelier that never left its box. A chandelier that took forever to install and then didn't work. A chandelier that took about five hours to install because the 400 pieces of capiz were individually wrapped and taped. Floor lamps that were either too short or too tall. Pottery Barn lamp shades that we drove to three different states hunting down only to realize later that I had bought three different shades of white, which was totally noticeable when you turned on the lamps. I won't even get into the accessories that I goofed up on. That would take up an entirely separate blog.
At this house, I have so many rooms yet to furnish/decorate that I can't afford to screw up and have to redo any of them. Paralyzed by past decorating mistakes, I just sit at my computer writing this blog, taking breaks to look out the window to take in the scenery. Oh, right, I must do something about these windows.
I need to cover our windows. Not all of them, mind you, just those at which I am currently indecently exposing myself while I live my life.
Window treatments are spendy. Here is an illustration of why I would have to sell my children in order to afford curtains for this house. Our friends and neighbors, Carl and Gergana, went shopping at Ethan Allen for furniture and the five window treatments. They picked out furniture for their entire house, and window treatments for five windows. The window designer went to their house and measured. When Carl and Gergana went back to the shop, the designer was pleased as plum to tell them that her estimate came in low. The price tag: $20,000. Carl and Gergana were somewhat surprised that the furniture and window treatments were going to cost that much, but on second thought, they had picked out a lot of furniture, so perhaps it was a good "deal" after all.
"All that furniture and curtains, too, huh?" they said to the designer.
The designer, perhaps feelings of excitement dwindling, replied that, actually, no, it was $20,000 for just the window treatments. That's $5,000.00 per window!
"Are these curtains made of gold threads?" asked Carl, as he and Gergana fought to suppress laughter .
Carl and Gergana have lovely window treatments in their house, but they did not come from Ethan Allen. And at $5K times 50 windows, neither will mine.
We have lived in our house for almost three years. Most of the windows are still bare. The ones that have "treatments" are "temporary" treatments until I can find better ones. Here is the problem: I have commitment issues in matters of home decorating. Compounding the problem is that I have a terrible eye for home decorating. Gergana protests this and insists that because I can put together a fabulous outfit, I certainly must be capable of decorating my house. "You know how to dress, so this is the same but it's your house that you're dressing!" she once said. I beg to differ.
Randy begs to differ, too. He is aware of my commitment phobia and terrible eye, and he, regretfully, agrees that my fears are well-founded. I have made so many decorating misjudgments that we have taken to giving the occurences names, the way historians name natural disasters.
For example, there was the Great Bathroom Remodel of 2002. After we got married, I moved into the townhouse that Randy already owned. In my attempt to make HIS house OUR house, I started to remodel. My first project was painting the half-bath on the first floor. I had envisioned a room that evoked scenes of a beach -- ocean blue walls, golden sand colored vanity, sun-shaped mirror. I was unhappy with the present vanity, but because it was an oddly shaped corner unit, it was very hard to find a replacement. Therefore, Randy had to build one to my specifications so I could paint it to fit my beachy decor. I was supremely confident that my remodel would have magnificent results.
The resulting bathroom was hideous. The blue was more of an electric blue than a beachy blue, and the "golden sand" looked more like the shade of yellow used to paint lines on the road. No description that I could write could adequately convey just how ugly this room turned out. Let's just say that being inside that bathroom induced migraines. You know in Trading Spaces when some homeowners cry during the great reveal because their formerly acceptable room has been converted into a freakish concoction of all things repulsive? Randy and I cried like that everytime we went into that bathroom. The room was such an eyesore that after a while we never used that bathroom with the light on. We were embarassed to have guests use it, and when they did heed the call of nature, we apologized profusely for the loud and tacky surroundings. Yet we had so many other rooms to work on that re-doing that half-bath had to go to the bottom of the list. It had already had its disastrous turn.
If the half bath experience were the extent of my poor decorating choices, I would proceed with decorating this house undeterred. But there was also the Dining Room Furniture Fiasco of 2003, which set off the Series of Unfortunate Furniture Purchases. There was also the Lighting Fixture Debacle, which had several aftershocks: A chandelier that never left its box. A chandelier that took forever to install and then didn't work. A chandelier that took about five hours to install because the 400 pieces of capiz were individually wrapped and taped. Floor lamps that were either too short or too tall. Pottery Barn lamp shades that we drove to three different states hunting down only to realize later that I had bought three different shades of white, which was totally noticeable when you turned on the lamps. I won't even get into the accessories that I goofed up on. That would take up an entirely separate blog.
At this house, I have so many rooms yet to furnish/decorate that I can't afford to screw up and have to redo any of them. Paralyzed by past decorating mistakes, I just sit at my computer writing this blog, taking breaks to look out the window to take in the scenery. Oh, right, I must do something about these windows.
Floor lamp graveyard
Floor lamp graveyard, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.
Just a small sampling of the rejected floor lamps.
Capiz Chandelier
Capiz chandelier, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.
I love my chandelier, just not the 5 hours it took to install it.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Mind Your Ps and Qs and Aunts and Uncles
According to a book, A Quick Guide to Customs & Etiquette of the Philippines, that I once gave Randy as a Christmas gift, the Philippines is a hierarchical society, and respect for an deference to authority and one's elders is an important part of the culture. The book states, "The Filipino expects those in authority to be parent figures, and automatically accord them respect. A father's authority in the family is unchallenged, at least in public."
Because of the extreme importance of respecting our elders, Filipinos have various titles to address their elders. For example, I call my parents' contemporaries "Auntie" and "Uncle" even if they are not technically my aunt and uncle. Another term for them would be "Tita" and "Tito." People who were the contemporaries of my grandparents would be referred to as "Lola" and "Lolo," the Tagalog term for "grandma" and "grandpa." Again, it didn't matter that they weren't technically my grandparents, or even that they weren't related to us at all.
Because Jagger is younger than Skyler, he will address her as "Ate" (pronounced "AH-teh"). (But Jagger currently calls Skyler "blublublub" -- he is only 8 months old). Skyler refers to my brother's older son as "Kuya Miko" and older daughter as "Ate Maya." She refers to the youngest as "Ading" which is a term of endearment for a younger sibling or cousin.
These terms of respect are not reserved for those significantly older, either. My cousin, Kuya Gabriel, is in his 60s, and he has kids who are nearly in their 30s, so they aren't that much younger than me. But they all call me Tita, since I am their father's contemporary. In other words, there is a term of respect that is dependent on your place on the hierarchy.
This is not the case in America. When I finished school and started working, I had a very difficult time getting used to calling my boss by his first name. It just seemed wrong to me. But at the same time it seemed so formal to call him "Mr. Riley" when everyone else was calling him "Bill." I think it also made him feel old. So I slowly grew accustomed to calling my bosses by their first names, and recently I have become comfortable with that. Maybe it's because I'm getting older, but let's not go there.
When Randy and I were dating, I addressed his parents as Dr. and Mrs. Jones. Randy called my parents Mr. and Mrs. Villamar. I was always nervous that he would slip and call them by their first name. I warned him before he even met them that calling them by their first name was a deal-breaker if he ever hoped to get their blessing to marry me. I'm just guessing, but any American hoping to marry a Filipino has about as much chance of getting parental approval if he called the parents by their first name as if he said the F-word to them.
After Randy and I got married, his mother wanted me to call her Dottie and Randy's dad Cal. I was mortified by the thought of doing this, partly because I was afraid of my parents' wrath. I protested a bit, but caved in at Dottie's insistence. When my parents for the first time heard me refer to my husband's parents by their first names, they were, as expected, appalled, and reprimanded me for my bad manners, feeling as if it was a sign of a poor upbringing. To them, it was bastos (translation: rude). On the other hand, my parents asked Randy to call them "Mama" and "Papa" which is what all their children-in-law call them. Randy was uncomfortable with this at first, too, but now he seems to really like it; he says it like he means it. I must confess, I think calling your inlaws some variation of "mom" and "dad" is much warmer and loving.
After Skyler was born I had a tough time deciding how to teach her to address her elders. At first, I was teaching her the Filipino way. But my friend Renee, who is white, told me that she didn't let her son call anyone else Auntie other than Renee's sister because it diminished the significance of the title to use it for anyone else. My other friend R. had her kids call her non-Filipino friends Auntie and Uncle, but then those people's kids referred to R. and her husband just by their first names, so R. took that as a signal that the familial terms weren't welcome. That gave me pause. Also, I do appreciate that someone who is not related to us might not want to be called Auntie. Still, having Skyler call my friends just by their first names sounded disrespectful. It's not easy to ignore a cultural value that is ingrained so deeply in me.
For me, the solution, while inconsistent, has been a good one, in my estimation. Skyler addresses all Filipino people in the traditional Filipino way -- she has lots of Aunties and Uncles and Titas and Titos and Ates and Kuyas. She addresses close family friends in the traditional Filipino way, too, even if they are not Filipino, because they get it since they have known me for so long. In a surprising twist, Baltimore culture has solved the rest of the problem for me: apparently, Baltimoreans address their elders as Miss and Mister followed by their first names. I'm not sure how that tradition developed, but I like it. So Skyler addresses everyone else as Miss _____ or Mister _____. My father would be proud.
Because of the extreme importance of respecting our elders, Filipinos have various titles to address their elders. For example, I call my parents' contemporaries "Auntie" and "Uncle" even if they are not technically my aunt and uncle. Another term for them would be "Tita" and "Tito." People who were the contemporaries of my grandparents would be referred to as "Lola" and "Lolo," the Tagalog term for "grandma" and "grandpa." Again, it didn't matter that they weren't technically my grandparents, or even that they weren't related to us at all.
Because Jagger is younger than Skyler, he will address her as "Ate" (pronounced "AH-teh"). (But Jagger currently calls Skyler "blublublub" -- he is only 8 months old). Skyler refers to my brother's older son as "Kuya Miko" and older daughter as "Ate Maya." She refers to the youngest as "Ading" which is a term of endearment for a younger sibling or cousin.
These terms of respect are not reserved for those significantly older, either. My cousin, Kuya Gabriel, is in his 60s, and he has kids who are nearly in their 30s, so they aren't that much younger than me. But they all call me Tita, since I am their father's contemporary. In other words, there is a term of respect that is dependent on your place on the hierarchy.
This is not the case in America. When I finished school and started working, I had a very difficult time getting used to calling my boss by his first name. It just seemed wrong to me. But at the same time it seemed so formal to call him "Mr. Riley" when everyone else was calling him "Bill." I think it also made him feel old. So I slowly grew accustomed to calling my bosses by their first names, and recently I have become comfortable with that. Maybe it's because I'm getting older, but let's not go there.
When Randy and I were dating, I addressed his parents as Dr. and Mrs. Jones. Randy called my parents Mr. and Mrs. Villamar. I was always nervous that he would slip and call them by their first name. I warned him before he even met them that calling them by their first name was a deal-breaker if he ever hoped to get their blessing to marry me. I'm just guessing, but any American hoping to marry a Filipino has about as much chance of getting parental approval if he called the parents by their first name as if he said the F-word to them.
After Randy and I got married, his mother wanted me to call her Dottie and Randy's dad Cal. I was mortified by the thought of doing this, partly because I was afraid of my parents' wrath. I protested a bit, but caved in at Dottie's insistence. When my parents for the first time heard me refer to my husband's parents by their first names, they were, as expected, appalled, and reprimanded me for my bad manners, feeling as if it was a sign of a poor upbringing. To them, it was bastos (translation: rude). On the other hand, my parents asked Randy to call them "Mama" and "Papa" which is what all their children-in-law call them. Randy was uncomfortable with this at first, too, but now he seems to really like it; he says it like he means it. I must confess, I think calling your inlaws some variation of "mom" and "dad" is much warmer and loving.
After Skyler was born I had a tough time deciding how to teach her to address her elders. At first, I was teaching her the Filipino way. But my friend Renee, who is white, told me that she didn't let her son call anyone else Auntie other than Renee's sister because it diminished the significance of the title to use it for anyone else. My other friend R. had her kids call her non-Filipino friends Auntie and Uncle, but then those people's kids referred to R. and her husband just by their first names, so R. took that as a signal that the familial terms weren't welcome. That gave me pause. Also, I do appreciate that someone who is not related to us might not want to be called Auntie. Still, having Skyler call my friends just by their first names sounded disrespectful. It's not easy to ignore a cultural value that is ingrained so deeply in me.
For me, the solution, while inconsistent, has been a good one, in my estimation. Skyler addresses all Filipino people in the traditional Filipino way -- she has lots of Aunties and Uncles and Titas and Titos and Ates and Kuyas. She addresses close family friends in the traditional Filipino way, too, even if they are not Filipino, because they get it since they have known me for so long. In a surprising twist, Baltimore culture has solved the rest of the problem for me: apparently, Baltimoreans address their elders as Miss and Mister followed by their first names. I'm not sure how that tradition developed, but I like it. So Skyler addresses everyone else as Miss _____ or Mister _____. My father would be proud.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Skyler Says
"Mommy, I'm going to be a princess-ballerina-cheerleader-ice-skater-fairy while you work on your blob."
If These Walls Could Talk...
The best Thai food in Maryland is located at 340 N. Charles Street in downtown Baltimore. Banthai has had my business for the past 15 years. The walls of Banthai have been privy to every development in my life as of 1995.
My Joy Luck Club friends -- Christine, Ashley, Dian, Francine, and Kim -- and I ate at Banthai regularly as a group during law school, and regularly now with our respective families. I took my parents to Banthai when they came out for my law school graduation. During my single girl days when I was dating I always picked Banthai for dinner dates. Banthai has seen me through boyfriends and breakups. I celebrated job offers over pad thai noodles and thai iced tea. The Joy Luck Girls joined to honor Dian's memory at Banthai after she passed away. I took Randy to Banthai before I took him home to California to meet my family. Many of our dates before we got married started out with dinner at Banthai. I knew Randy was Mr. Right when randomly one night he told me that one of the things he loved best about me was that I introduced him to new things, like watching plays at small community theaters, singing karaoke in public, and Banthai. My girlfriends and I meet up for lunch at Banthai in the middle of the workday. Girls' Night Out almost always includes dinner at Banthai. I have been going to Banthai so long that the servers have stopped asking me what I want to order -- they know based on my facial expression. I planned my wedding during dinners at Banthai. The Banthai staff has seen me through my engagement, wedding, first pregnancy and second pregnancy. Banthai food was part of my Healthy Pregnancy Diet. After my father died and my mother came to stay with us for a few months, we regularly went to Banthai for comfort food. We've celebrated birthdays, Valentine's Day, and promotions at Banthai. I had my 40th birthday dinner there. When Christine and I are depressed we forego happy pills in favor of my Ped Pad Kaprow (crispy duck with basil, Chinese broccoli and sauce) and her Larb (minced chicken with fresh lime juice and spices). Jagger had his first chicken satay at Banthai. He only has two teeth, yet he chomped down one entire stick of chicken. I'm glad he liked the food, because he will be growing up there.
When Randy, the kids and I eat at Banthai, it's like eating at a relative's home. The owner, Mr. Tim, comes and sits with us to see what we've been up to. Skyler greets him with a hug and excitely updates him on her life. He always sends over a plate of oranges to our table when we're done eating. In Asian culture, you give someone oranges at the end of a meal to wish them a sweet life.
My Joy Luck Club friends -- Christine, Ashley, Dian, Francine, and Kim -- and I ate at Banthai regularly as a group during law school, and regularly now with our respective families. I took my parents to Banthai when they came out for my law school graduation. During my single girl days when I was dating I always picked Banthai for dinner dates. Banthai has seen me through boyfriends and breakups. I celebrated job offers over pad thai noodles and thai iced tea. The Joy Luck Girls joined to honor Dian's memory at Banthai after she passed away. I took Randy to Banthai before I took him home to California to meet my family. Many of our dates before we got married started out with dinner at Banthai. I knew Randy was Mr. Right when randomly one night he told me that one of the things he loved best about me was that I introduced him to new things, like watching plays at small community theaters, singing karaoke in public, and Banthai. My girlfriends and I meet up for lunch at Banthai in the middle of the workday. Girls' Night Out almost always includes dinner at Banthai. I have been going to Banthai so long that the servers have stopped asking me what I want to order -- they know based on my facial expression. I planned my wedding during dinners at Banthai. The Banthai staff has seen me through my engagement, wedding, first pregnancy and second pregnancy. Banthai food was part of my Healthy Pregnancy Diet. After my father died and my mother came to stay with us for a few months, we regularly went to Banthai for comfort food. We've celebrated birthdays, Valentine's Day, and promotions at Banthai. I had my 40th birthday dinner there. When Christine and I are depressed we forego happy pills in favor of my Ped Pad Kaprow (crispy duck with basil, Chinese broccoli and sauce) and her Larb (minced chicken with fresh lime juice and spices). Jagger had his first chicken satay at Banthai. He only has two teeth, yet he chomped down one entire stick of chicken. I'm glad he liked the food, because he will be growing up there.
When Randy, the kids and I eat at Banthai, it's like eating at a relative's home. The owner, Mr. Tim, comes and sits with us to see what we've been up to. Skyler greets him with a hug and excitely updates him on her life. He always sends over a plate of oranges to our table when we're done eating. In Asian culture, you give someone oranges at the end of a meal to wish them a sweet life.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Canned Meat Products
No respectable blog purporting to portray the life of a Filipino would be complete without a blog about canned meat products. You are not true to your culture, Pinoys and Pinays, unless you can appreciate the rather significant presence of Spam, Vienna sausages, and corned beef in your lives. My parents didn't immigrate to the United States until I was six years old, back in 1974. Ours was a home that was as Filipino as it could be considering the lack of a cohesive Filipino community in California back then. We spoke Tagalog for the most part, and we ate Filipino food -- we didn't grow up on Big Macs and fries. Both my parents were excellent cooks, and they lavished us with the most delicious Filipino dishes you can imagine-- just typing about it makes me salivate.
But our palates were not too refined for canned meat products. There's nothing like coming home to the smell of ginisang corned beef (corned beef sauteed with onions, garlic, and tomatos). It's easy and scrumptious. It was one of the first recipes my younger brother learned to cook. Or how about that chicken dish with potatos, red bell peppers, green olives, and sliced vienna sausages cooked with a little bit of tomato paste? The Vienna sausages are always the first to go. I often crave the egg thing Mama used to cook for us for breakfast -- the fancy word would be "frittata" -- but in my house we just called it diced spam and potatos cooked into an egg mixture. In my opinion, it's best eaten with Mafran, a Filipino ketchup made from bananas. Spam for breakfast is another favorite -- served with scrambled eggs and rice. It's better than bacon, and, because sliced Spam is rectangular and flat, easier to cook. For that matter, Vienna sausages can be breakfast for the champions as well.
Big-box stores profit off Filipinos if they carry canned meats. Before my parents would go to the Philippines for their annual trip, they would hit the local Price Club and buy cartons and cartons of Spam, Vienna sausages, and corned beef. They could fill a few balikbayan boxes with them. Our coat closet at home looked like the canned goods aisle at Price Club, Costco and BJs. This wasn't unusual -- I guarantee every Filipino house in America at one point or another has contained at least 50 cans of meat products simultaneously.
Randy read a newspaper article recently about a Filipino couple who owned a bar in Fell's Point. They were implicated in an arms deal, and the police were closing in on them. Coincidentally, right before they were to be arrested, the women in the family left for the Philippines. The police found it "highly unusual" that the four women checked in 14 pieces of luggage on their flight. This information was used to establish probable cause for a search warrant. My husband, who due to my influence has learned to look at police action with a skeptical eye, gaffawed at this.
"They're Filipino!" he told a co-worker. "I guarantee half that luggage contained their shoes. And the other half contained Spam and sausages."
He was sort of right, because the newspapers later reported that the police in fact found no guns in the women's suitcases and boxes. Randy knows. He's been married to me and my family for eight years, after all.
But our palates were not too refined for canned meat products. There's nothing like coming home to the smell of ginisang corned beef (corned beef sauteed with onions, garlic, and tomatos). It's easy and scrumptious. It was one of the first recipes my younger brother learned to cook. Or how about that chicken dish with potatos, red bell peppers, green olives, and sliced vienna sausages cooked with a little bit of tomato paste? The Vienna sausages are always the first to go. I often crave the egg thing Mama used to cook for us for breakfast -- the fancy word would be "frittata" -- but in my house we just called it diced spam and potatos cooked into an egg mixture. In my opinion, it's best eaten with Mafran, a Filipino ketchup made from bananas. Spam for breakfast is another favorite -- served with scrambled eggs and rice. It's better than bacon, and, because sliced Spam is rectangular and flat, easier to cook. For that matter, Vienna sausages can be breakfast for the champions as well.
Big-box stores profit off Filipinos if they carry canned meats. Before my parents would go to the Philippines for their annual trip, they would hit the local Price Club and buy cartons and cartons of Spam, Vienna sausages, and corned beef. They could fill a few balikbayan boxes with them. Our coat closet at home looked like the canned goods aisle at Price Club, Costco and BJs. This wasn't unusual -- I guarantee every Filipino house in America at one point or another has contained at least 50 cans of meat products simultaneously.
Randy read a newspaper article recently about a Filipino couple who owned a bar in Fell's Point. They were implicated in an arms deal, and the police were closing in on them. Coincidentally, right before they were to be arrested, the women in the family left for the Philippines. The police found it "highly unusual" that the four women checked in 14 pieces of luggage on their flight. This information was used to establish probable cause for a search warrant. My husband, who due to my influence has learned to look at police action with a skeptical eye, gaffawed at this.
"They're Filipino!" he told a co-worker. "I guarantee half that luggage contained their shoes. And the other half contained Spam and sausages."
He was sort of right, because the newspapers later reported that the police in fact found no guns in the women's suitcases and boxes. Randy knows. He's been married to me and my family for eight years, after all.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Riding On The Metro
When Randy and I lived in Mt. Washington, which is a neighborhood in Baltimore City, it ws only a 15 minute drive to our respective offices, even when there was light traffic. Before we had Skyler, and there was no major rush for me to get home, I used to drive to the bus stop in Roland Park, leave my car parked on the street, and take the number 61 bus into the city. When I was about 7 months pregnant with Skyler, it became very uncomfortable to ride the bus -- it took a while to get to my car, it was a bumpy ride, and there was no restroom, a very bad combination of factors when you're pregnant. I started driving to work and paying for parking. I used to park in the "Gucci Lot", so named because the daily rate was pretty high: $12/day in 2004, but $13/day as of today's date. Then, after Skyler was born, I had to get home by a certain time so the nanny could get home. I was spoiled for a long time by the convenience of driving to work, and after a while I got used to the extra expense of parking.
Then we moved to Finksburg. With traffic, it would take me around and hour to commute to work. But, no problem, because Finksburg is just a few miles from the metro, Baltimore's subway system. Riding the subway was such a foreign experience for this California Girl. In West Covina and L.A., no one took public transportation. Everyone had a car -- when my sister, brother and I started driving we each had our own car, so our house had 5 cars in front of it when we were all home. Now, I drive to the subway station, take the metro to the city, which takes all of 25 minutes, and get off at the stop that is across the street from my office building. From door to door, it takes about 45 minutes, but without the hassle of driving or paying for parking.
TOP TEN THINGS I LOVE ABOUT THE METRO
10. It's air-conditioned.
9. Parking at the subway station's covered garage is free.
8. There is an Au Bon Pain at my exit in Baltimore, and they have great pastries.
7. Where else can I be preached to from time to time by a passenger with obvious mental health issues?
6. I ride for free if I show my state employee id card.
5. I can wear super high heels to work without having to change into walking shoes, because the metro stop is so close to my office.
4. The people watching is unbeatable.
3. With the money I save on parking and gas, I can buy new shoes guilt-free!
2. I can listen to my iPod uninterrupted for at least 20 minutes each way everyday.
1. I get to take naps to and from work.
TOP TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT THE METRO
10. Germs and communicable diseases.
9. If you miss a train you're stuck until the next one comes.
8. Smelly smokers (is there any other kind?) who sit near me.
7. Where else can I be preached to from time to time by a passenger with obvious mental health issues?
6. I am reminded regularly that chivalry is dead: most men won't give up their seats on a crowded train.
5. If someone who wants to chit chat sit down next to me and prevent me from listening to my iPod, I'm trapped.
4. Rude and obnoxious passengers who think I want to listen to their foul-language-laden, repetitive sounding rap music at full blast while I am trying to nap.
3. Seeing people who have no business having children being really cruel to their children and being close enough to smack those parents upside their heads, but not being able to run away afterwards.
2. Being underground in the event of a terrorist attack.
1. It's not a chauffer-driven limo.
Then we moved to Finksburg. With traffic, it would take me around and hour to commute to work. But, no problem, because Finksburg is just a few miles from the metro, Baltimore's subway system. Riding the subway was such a foreign experience for this California Girl. In West Covina and L.A., no one took public transportation. Everyone had a car -- when my sister, brother and I started driving we each had our own car, so our house had 5 cars in front of it when we were all home. Now, I drive to the subway station, take the metro to the city, which takes all of 25 minutes, and get off at the stop that is across the street from my office building. From door to door, it takes about 45 minutes, but without the hassle of driving or paying for parking.
TOP TEN THINGS I LOVE ABOUT THE METRO
10. It's air-conditioned.
9. Parking at the subway station's covered garage is free.
8. There is an Au Bon Pain at my exit in Baltimore, and they have great pastries.
7. Where else can I be preached to from time to time by a passenger with obvious mental health issues?
6. I ride for free if I show my state employee id card.
5. I can wear super high heels to work without having to change into walking shoes, because the metro stop is so close to my office.
4. The people watching is unbeatable.
3. With the money I save on parking and gas, I can buy new shoes guilt-free!
2. I can listen to my iPod uninterrupted for at least 20 minutes each way everyday.
1. I get to take naps to and from work.
TOP TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT THE METRO
10. Germs and communicable diseases.
9. If you miss a train you're stuck until the next one comes.
8. Smelly smokers (is there any other kind?) who sit near me.
7. Where else can I be preached to from time to time by a passenger with obvious mental health issues?
6. I am reminded regularly that chivalry is dead: most men won't give up their seats on a crowded train.
5. If someone who wants to chit chat sit down next to me and prevent me from listening to my iPod, I'm trapped.
4. Rude and obnoxious passengers who think I want to listen to their foul-language-laden, repetitive sounding rap music at full blast while I am trying to nap.
3. Seeing people who have no business having children being really cruel to their children and being close enough to smack those parents upside their heads, but not being able to run away afterwards.
2. Being underground in the event of a terrorist attack.
1. It's not a chauffer-driven limo.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Flashback to 2009: Skyler asks if baby is in my tummy right now
We told Skyler we were pregnant (when I was pregnant with Jagger in 2009) during our wedding anniversary dinner.
The Birds and the Bees -- Part I
A couple of weeks ago, I was out shopping with Skyler and Jagger. Five-year old Skyler was charged with the task of helping me find a new skirt. Feeling pleased that I had a daughter to be my shopping buddy, I let her know that I loved shopping with her.
"Are you happy you had a daughter?" she asked, referring to the times I have told her that before I had kids I always hoped for a daughter.
"Very glad," I said, my heart swelling.
"But are you glad you had a boy second?" she followed, referring to the times I explained that even though I always wanted a daughter, I was so happy to have a boy, as I never imagined I could love a boy as much as I love my girl.
"I'm thrilled to have a boy, too," I assured her, as I rifled through a rack of sale items.
"By the way, Mommy, how do babies get in your tummy?"
I stopped dead in my tracks. The dreaded question had been thrust upon me without any warning whatsoever, in a setting in which I was at my most unguarded -- the mall, my safe haven from all matters weighty.
Here are the thoughts that ran through my head in that split second while my little girl looked up at me expectantly (pardon the pun):
1) Dammit, Randy, where are you when I need you most.
2) Should I lie and say the stork drops off babies in the hospital and mommy just had a big tummy right before Jagger was born because she couldn't stop eating ice cream.
3) I could go the clinical route and use highly technical terms that she can't possibly pronounce/remember, thus eliminating the possibility that she will educate the entire kindergarten class on human sexuality and also eliminating the possibility that she will know anything about sex.
4) Maybe Randy won't be in a meeting and she can talk to him about it on my cell phone after I park her on a bench with a Cinnabon and some lemonade.
What I ended up doing is telling her that I want to tell her how babies get in mommies' tummies but that we need to talk about it when we have more time and when we aren't in the mall.
"Like when we get to our car after you find a skirt, Mommy?" she asked.
I thought to myself, Dammit Randy where are you when I need you most? And why can't our daughter take a hint and know when to drop a topic that I so obviously want to avoid?
I explained to Skyler that we would talk about it another time, when she is a little bit older. And I will talk about it with her, but not now when she is only five years old. I do want her to get her answers from Randy and me, and not from a classmate, or worse, a classmate's older sibling. I just have to figure out an age-appropriate way to introduce her to those concepts. (For Randy, "age appropriate" would be something that is appropriate when she is 35).
"No, Skyler, I mean another day. But, hey, what do you think about this skirt for me?"
"Hmm, I don't think that's your style, Mommy. But what about this one?" said Skyler, holding up a hot pink super fluffy gauzy number that is clearly more her style than mine.
"I think that one might be perfect," I told her. I held my breath waiting to see how she would continue to pursue the subject of babies.
"Let's take turns trying it on!" Skyler suggested, already skipping off to the dressing room, and thereby deferring for another day the discussion about the birds and the bees.
"Are you happy you had a daughter?" she asked, referring to the times I have told her that before I had kids I always hoped for a daughter.
"Very glad," I said, my heart swelling.
"But are you glad you had a boy second?" she followed, referring to the times I explained that even though I always wanted a daughter, I was so happy to have a boy, as I never imagined I could love a boy as much as I love my girl.
"I'm thrilled to have a boy, too," I assured her, as I rifled through a rack of sale items.
"By the way, Mommy, how do babies get in your tummy?"
I stopped dead in my tracks. The dreaded question had been thrust upon me without any warning whatsoever, in a setting in which I was at my most unguarded -- the mall, my safe haven from all matters weighty.
Here are the thoughts that ran through my head in that split second while my little girl looked up at me expectantly (pardon the pun):
1) Dammit, Randy, where are you when I need you most.
2) Should I lie and say the stork drops off babies in the hospital and mommy just had a big tummy right before Jagger was born because she couldn't stop eating ice cream.
3) I could go the clinical route and use highly technical terms that she can't possibly pronounce/remember, thus eliminating the possibility that she will educate the entire kindergarten class on human sexuality and also eliminating the possibility that she will know anything about sex.
4) Maybe Randy won't be in a meeting and she can talk to him about it on my cell phone after I park her on a bench with a Cinnabon and some lemonade.
What I ended up doing is telling her that I want to tell her how babies get in mommies' tummies but that we need to talk about it when we have more time and when we aren't in the mall.
"Like when we get to our car after you find a skirt, Mommy?" she asked.
I thought to myself, Dammit Randy where are you when I need you most? And why can't our daughter take a hint and know when to drop a topic that I so obviously want to avoid?
I explained to Skyler that we would talk about it another time, when she is a little bit older. And I will talk about it with her, but not now when she is only five years old. I do want her to get her answers from Randy and me, and not from a classmate, or worse, a classmate's older sibling. I just have to figure out an age-appropriate way to introduce her to those concepts. (For Randy, "age appropriate" would be something that is appropriate when she is 35).
"No, Skyler, I mean another day. But, hey, what do you think about this skirt for me?"
"Hmm, I don't think that's your style, Mommy. But what about this one?" said Skyler, holding up a hot pink super fluffy gauzy number that is clearly more her style than mine.
"I think that one might be perfect," I told her. I held my breath waiting to see how she would continue to pursue the subject of babies.
"Let's take turns trying it on!" Skyler suggested, already skipping off to the dressing room, and thereby deferring for another day the discussion about the birds and the bees.
Monday, June 21, 2010
My First Day of Summer Camp
Today was Skyler's first day of summer camp. Her bus picks her up at 8:00, camp begins at 9:00 and is packed with activities until 4:00, and then the bus drops her off at 4:40. That was gist of the information provided to us by the camp. Of course, I knew what the camp experience was going to be in general, based on the quick "tour" I asked to take last Friday, and the informational brochure. You know those brochures -- they are multi-color, glossy-paged brochures which depict pictures of rolling hills, graceful horses, beautiful adults in coordinating outfits, and healthy, brightly smiling children all aglow from their carefully planned and perfectly executed camp activities. The brochures that seduce you into plunking down the not insignifcant amount of change for the privilege of participating in the experience the brochure was promoting. By all accounts, this was a premiere summer camp that Skyler woud be attending. Nonetheless, I was ill at ease about putting a 5 year-old on a bus with a driver I had never laid eyes on before, and kids whe were total strangers to Skyler. I'm a bit of a paranoid type.
I told Skyler I was thinking about following the bus, just for the first day. She protested against this plan. This surprised me because she didn't have an issue with Randy and me following her bus on the first day of kindergarten and meeting her at the school to capture, with still shots and video, her first venture into the real world. Of course, that was back when she was only 4 and starting kindergarten. Now that she was older and starting summer camp, apparently the rules were different. I didn't expect Skyler, who is somewhat of a mama's girl, to not want me to be near her. Could it be that at her tender age she was already aware of the concept of "uncoolness?" After unsuccessfully pleading with her to allow me to follow her, I finally resorted to pity. "I'm not doing this for you," I explained. "I'm doing this for myself. Because I will enjoy your first day of summer camp more if I know you got to the camp and joined your little group safely." At this, she reluctantly agreed to let me follow the bus.
We arrived at the bus stop at the appointed time. The designated pickup spot for Bus No. 3 had about ten other mom-mobiles parked there awaiting said bus. As an aside let me say that the pleas for people to switch to Green Cars doesn't seem to have reached the ears of suburban mommies, because every single one was in an SUV, present blogger included. The bus arrived promtly at 8:00, but it had the number 64 painted on the side. Skyler insisted it was not her bus (the girl demands preciseness), notwithstanding the fact that the school's name was also emblazoned on the side. To assuage her, I asked the driver, "Is this supposed to be the number 3 bus?"
"You see the number 3 on the front bumper?" she asked, gesturing with a wave of the hand not on the steering wheel.
"Yes?" I replied brightly. It wasn't obvious at all, and I had not seen it before.
"That means it's the number 3," finished the bus driver.
I forced a smile. "Okay, thanks," I said, cognizant of the fact that to say something snarky to the woman in whose hands I was about to entrust my daughter's life would be like telling the heart surgeon about to operate on me that my best friend does medical malpractice. There might be the ever-so-slight delay in using his or her finger to plug that pesky burst artery until a proper medical device can utilized to stop the bleeding.
I couldn't help but notice that the other moms (and a couple of dads) sending their kids off to camp all seemed so enthusiastic and happy. As if invisible exclamation points were oozing from within. Were they happy to get their kids off their hands for the next 8 hours? Were they excited about sumer camp because they themselves had gone to summer camp as kids? I didn't know the reason, but I put a big smile on my face and waved enthusiastically to Skyler, too, even though inside I was uneasy and, frankly, sad. It seemed like only yesterday Skyler was tiny enough to hold in one arm, and now she was big enough to climb up onto the bus by hersef despite the backpack bulging with towels, shoes, snacks and other camp necessities weighing down on her.
After waving good-bye to the bus, I promptly got into my car and followed it. At first there was another SUV in front of me, and I sort of chuckled to myself over the fact that I wasn't the only nutty mom following the bus. I was about to call Randy to tell him other parents were following, too, imagining the good laugh he and I would share over it.
But then my fellow follower turned, and then it was just the bus.
And me.
And then the bus turned onto a really quiet and empty neighborhood, where the houses are rather far apart, the lawns are perfectly manicured, and the driveways are long. The kind of neighborhood where the streets are wide, because nobody parks outside. The kind of neighborhood in which a nice yellow school bus adds to the charm, but a big red SUV chugging along behind the bus, following its every turn is very, very conspicuous indeed.
When I say "conspicuous" I don't mean "noticeable." I mean "suspicious." I remember when I was a little girl stories in the news about little kids being abducted by strangers right outside their schools, and it seemed like it was always by men in blue vans. To this day, I find blue vans highly suspect. So, when I say I felt like my red SUV was conspicuous, I mean that I think I might have looked like this generation's Blue Van.
It was on this part of the bus's route that I began to feel ridiculous. I don't think I felt ridiculous for feeling this need to protect my daughter, who is, after all, only five years old. I felt ridiculous because I was following a bus to every single one of its stops all the while thinking that maybe no one was noticing. It is inconceivable that the bus driver didn't notice me. Aside from the fact that I drive a big red SUV, there is also the fact that I was the only other car on the road. I had a sudden vision of the bus driver saying something like, "Who in the heck is that crazy woman following us? Someone call 911," causing all the children to turn and look, and causing Skyler to pray for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. While I am okay with the notion of making a fool of myself, I am not okay with the notion of embarassing my daughter, and risking her being known for the rest of her academic career as the girl with the crazy mother. So, I decided to stop following the bus.
Unfortunately, my moment of resolve happened at the very spot where the bus had to make a three-point turn, hindered by guess who? That's right -- conspicuous me. At one very awkward moment, I even had to go in reverse to make more room for the bus, putting an abrupt end to the delusion that no one knew I was following it. As the bus passed me by, I gave the driver a half-hearted wave, just because what else was there to do when she and I were face to face? And then to get out of the neighborhood, I had to keep following the bus because there was no other way out. But I am proud to say that I did, in fact, stop following that bus...
...and opted instead to go ahead of the bus to the school so that I could meet the bus at its destination. There were a lot of parents dropping their kids off, hence I arrived at a parking lot resembling an SUV dealership. The counselors were lined up beneath the signs designating the different groups that the kids were assigned to. Skyler was designated a "Cub" so I went to that area and introduced myself to the young lead counselor. She confirmed that Skyler was in her group. I explained that Skyler was arriving by bus but that I was there just to make sure she arived.
I didn't say this out loud, but I was also there to make sure that none of the various adults who were there presumably to drop off their kids didn't just snatch my daughter. No one would know that Skyler wasn't supposed to be with said kidnapper. No one would even notice that something untoward was happening because there was so much going on during the first day of camp. Even if you teach your kids to yell for help if a stranger tries to take them, what can a five-year old really do against an adult? Even if the adults in charge at the camp are tasked with protecting your child, they don't have the same vested interest, and they can't possibly be as diligent or protective as you would be. But I didn't say any of that out loud. The lead counselor, who is probably around 22 years old, looked at me politely and tried to placate me with an "Awww, that's okay." I wasn't apologizing, I wanted to say. But I didn't say that out loud.
Fotunately, this blog is rather anti-climactic, because as I watched from a distance, Skyler arrived safely, was greeted at the door of the bus by one of her counselors, and led by hand to her designated spot. I had hoped to avoid having her see me there, but she did and she greeted me with just a little smile and a less than enthusiastic wave. Ouch. I called Randy and asked whether it was already possible for a five-year old to be mortified by her parent. He reassured me that Skyler wasn't mortified by me. He's a good husband.
Later in the day, when I was reliving the moment I put Skyler on the bus and noticing the ebullient parents, it dawned on me that Skyler looked nervous as the bus was pulling out, and I realized that the parents were probably putting on a brave front for their kids, so that the kids wouldn't be so nervous about the first day at camp with a bunch of strangers. I will always want to kick myself, hard, for being so nervous about my daughter that I didn't even think about my daughter being nervous.
The bus was 40 minutes late dropping the kids off at the end of the day. For some reason, I wasn't as worried as I was in the morning. I did call Randy, using him as a barometer for how scared I should be. He didn't suggest that I drive the bus route to see if something had happened. When the bus finally arrived, I greeted Skyler with real, not false, enthusiasm. Not only was I happy to have her back in my arms safe and sound, but I was excited to hear about her day. Even the bus driver gave me an indulgent smile. She's probably a mom too and understands about the following-the-bus-thing.
Skyler was talking with so much energy that I could hardly believe she had spent eight hours being totally active. I had a million questions and she was more than eager to answer them. She went swimming, horseback riding, ate chicken nuggets and frozen yogurt, made an image of herself using popsicle sticks, acted like a snake for drama class, and took a computer course. In short, she had a blast. Fortunately she didn't say one single thing about my having followed her, and then my having shown up at the school. The bus was late for drop off because near the end of the route the driver realized that one of the kids was on the wrong bus, so she turned around to take that child back to school. Not a major disaster. No felonies had occured in the course of the first day of summer camp.
My job, where I hear about the horrible things that adults can perpetrate on children, coupled with easy access to headlines, thanks to the internet, probably makes me more paranoid than most parents. I remember the first day of kindergarten my biggest fear about sending Skyler off was that the driver might be a killer or rapist. My friend R. said that if my biggest fear on the first day of kindergarten was murder or rape, I was letting my job skew my perspective too much. I tend to agree. I want to protect my daughter, but don't want to expend so much energy on "protecting" her that I miss attending to other equally important needs that she might have. I don't ever want to forget to put on a brave front no matter how I am feeling, so that Skyler can have the emotional space to experience whatever she feels, whether it's sheer glee or sheer terror. I hope that in the future I can guide my daughter in choosing her journeys, let her take those journeys on her own, and let her know that at the end of the day I will be there with open arms.
I told Skyler I was thinking about following the bus, just for the first day. She protested against this plan. This surprised me because she didn't have an issue with Randy and me following her bus on the first day of kindergarten and meeting her at the school to capture, with still shots and video, her first venture into the real world. Of course, that was back when she was only 4 and starting kindergarten. Now that she was older and starting summer camp, apparently the rules were different. I didn't expect Skyler, who is somewhat of a mama's girl, to not want me to be near her. Could it be that at her tender age she was already aware of the concept of "uncoolness?" After unsuccessfully pleading with her to allow me to follow her, I finally resorted to pity. "I'm not doing this for you," I explained. "I'm doing this for myself. Because I will enjoy your first day of summer camp more if I know you got to the camp and joined your little group safely." At this, she reluctantly agreed to let me follow the bus.
We arrived at the bus stop at the appointed time. The designated pickup spot for Bus No. 3 had about ten other mom-mobiles parked there awaiting said bus. As an aside let me say that the pleas for people to switch to Green Cars doesn't seem to have reached the ears of suburban mommies, because every single one was in an SUV, present blogger included. The bus arrived promtly at 8:00, but it had the number 64 painted on the side. Skyler insisted it was not her bus (the girl demands preciseness), notwithstanding the fact that the school's name was also emblazoned on the side. To assuage her, I asked the driver, "Is this supposed to be the number 3 bus?"
"You see the number 3 on the front bumper?" she asked, gesturing with a wave of the hand not on the steering wheel.
"Yes?" I replied brightly. It wasn't obvious at all, and I had not seen it before.
"That means it's the number 3," finished the bus driver.
I forced a smile. "Okay, thanks," I said, cognizant of the fact that to say something snarky to the woman in whose hands I was about to entrust my daughter's life would be like telling the heart surgeon about to operate on me that my best friend does medical malpractice. There might be the ever-so-slight delay in using his or her finger to plug that pesky burst artery until a proper medical device can utilized to stop the bleeding.
I couldn't help but notice that the other moms (and a couple of dads) sending their kids off to camp all seemed so enthusiastic and happy. As if invisible exclamation points were oozing from within. Were they happy to get their kids off their hands for the next 8 hours? Were they excited about sumer camp because they themselves had gone to summer camp as kids? I didn't know the reason, but I put a big smile on my face and waved enthusiastically to Skyler, too, even though inside I was uneasy and, frankly, sad. It seemed like only yesterday Skyler was tiny enough to hold in one arm, and now she was big enough to climb up onto the bus by hersef despite the backpack bulging with towels, shoes, snacks and other camp necessities weighing down on her.
After waving good-bye to the bus, I promptly got into my car and followed it. At first there was another SUV in front of me, and I sort of chuckled to myself over the fact that I wasn't the only nutty mom following the bus. I was about to call Randy to tell him other parents were following, too, imagining the good laugh he and I would share over it.
But then my fellow follower turned, and then it was just the bus.
And me.
And then the bus turned onto a really quiet and empty neighborhood, where the houses are rather far apart, the lawns are perfectly manicured, and the driveways are long. The kind of neighborhood where the streets are wide, because nobody parks outside. The kind of neighborhood in which a nice yellow school bus adds to the charm, but a big red SUV chugging along behind the bus, following its every turn is very, very conspicuous indeed.
When I say "conspicuous" I don't mean "noticeable." I mean "suspicious." I remember when I was a little girl stories in the news about little kids being abducted by strangers right outside their schools, and it seemed like it was always by men in blue vans. To this day, I find blue vans highly suspect. So, when I say I felt like my red SUV was conspicuous, I mean that I think I might have looked like this generation's Blue Van.
It was on this part of the bus's route that I began to feel ridiculous. I don't think I felt ridiculous for feeling this need to protect my daughter, who is, after all, only five years old. I felt ridiculous because I was following a bus to every single one of its stops all the while thinking that maybe no one was noticing. It is inconceivable that the bus driver didn't notice me. Aside from the fact that I drive a big red SUV, there is also the fact that I was the only other car on the road. I had a sudden vision of the bus driver saying something like, "Who in the heck is that crazy woman following us? Someone call 911," causing all the children to turn and look, and causing Skyler to pray for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. While I am okay with the notion of making a fool of myself, I am not okay with the notion of embarassing my daughter, and risking her being known for the rest of her academic career as the girl with the crazy mother. So, I decided to stop following the bus.
Unfortunately, my moment of resolve happened at the very spot where the bus had to make a three-point turn, hindered by guess who? That's right -- conspicuous me. At one very awkward moment, I even had to go in reverse to make more room for the bus, putting an abrupt end to the delusion that no one knew I was following it. As the bus passed me by, I gave the driver a half-hearted wave, just because what else was there to do when she and I were face to face? And then to get out of the neighborhood, I had to keep following the bus because there was no other way out. But I am proud to say that I did, in fact, stop following that bus...
...and opted instead to go ahead of the bus to the school so that I could meet the bus at its destination. There were a lot of parents dropping their kids off, hence I arrived at a parking lot resembling an SUV dealership. The counselors were lined up beneath the signs designating the different groups that the kids were assigned to. Skyler was designated a "Cub" so I went to that area and introduced myself to the young lead counselor. She confirmed that Skyler was in her group. I explained that Skyler was arriving by bus but that I was there just to make sure she arived.
I didn't say this out loud, but I was also there to make sure that none of the various adults who were there presumably to drop off their kids didn't just snatch my daughter. No one would know that Skyler wasn't supposed to be with said kidnapper. No one would even notice that something untoward was happening because there was so much going on during the first day of camp. Even if you teach your kids to yell for help if a stranger tries to take them, what can a five-year old really do against an adult? Even if the adults in charge at the camp are tasked with protecting your child, they don't have the same vested interest, and they can't possibly be as diligent or protective as you would be. But I didn't say any of that out loud. The lead counselor, who is probably around 22 years old, looked at me politely and tried to placate me with an "Awww, that's okay." I wasn't apologizing, I wanted to say. But I didn't say that out loud.
Fotunately, this blog is rather anti-climactic, because as I watched from a distance, Skyler arrived safely, was greeted at the door of the bus by one of her counselors, and led by hand to her designated spot. I had hoped to avoid having her see me there, but she did and she greeted me with just a little smile and a less than enthusiastic wave. Ouch. I called Randy and asked whether it was already possible for a five-year old to be mortified by her parent. He reassured me that Skyler wasn't mortified by me. He's a good husband.
Later in the day, when I was reliving the moment I put Skyler on the bus and noticing the ebullient parents, it dawned on me that Skyler looked nervous as the bus was pulling out, and I realized that the parents were probably putting on a brave front for their kids, so that the kids wouldn't be so nervous about the first day at camp with a bunch of strangers. I will always want to kick myself, hard, for being so nervous about my daughter that I didn't even think about my daughter being nervous.
The bus was 40 minutes late dropping the kids off at the end of the day. For some reason, I wasn't as worried as I was in the morning. I did call Randy, using him as a barometer for how scared I should be. He didn't suggest that I drive the bus route to see if something had happened. When the bus finally arrived, I greeted Skyler with real, not false, enthusiasm. Not only was I happy to have her back in my arms safe and sound, but I was excited to hear about her day. Even the bus driver gave me an indulgent smile. She's probably a mom too and understands about the following-the-bus-thing.
Skyler was talking with so much energy that I could hardly believe she had spent eight hours being totally active. I had a million questions and she was more than eager to answer them. She went swimming, horseback riding, ate chicken nuggets and frozen yogurt, made an image of herself using popsicle sticks, acted like a snake for drama class, and took a computer course. In short, she had a blast. Fortunately she didn't say one single thing about my having followed her, and then my having shown up at the school. The bus was late for drop off because near the end of the route the driver realized that one of the kids was on the wrong bus, so she turned around to take that child back to school. Not a major disaster. No felonies had occured in the course of the first day of summer camp.
My job, where I hear about the horrible things that adults can perpetrate on children, coupled with easy access to headlines, thanks to the internet, probably makes me more paranoid than most parents. I remember the first day of kindergarten my biggest fear about sending Skyler off was that the driver might be a killer or rapist. My friend R. said that if my biggest fear on the first day of kindergarten was murder or rape, I was letting my job skew my perspective too much. I tend to agree. I want to protect my daughter, but don't want to expend so much energy on "protecting" her that I miss attending to other equally important needs that she might have. I don't ever want to forget to put on a brave front no matter how I am feeling, so that Skyler can have the emotional space to experience whatever she feels, whether it's sheer glee or sheer terror. I hope that in the future I can guide my daughter in choosing her journeys, let her take those journeys on her own, and let her know that at the end of the day I will be there with open arms.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
I'm Becoming a Blogger!
I am jumping on the blogging bandwagon and will be writing about facets of my life that I find noteworthy and, hopefully, at least somewhat entertaining to others. When I told my husband, Randy, about the concept and the title of my blog, he asked how this would be a blog about the Filipino-American lifestyle. I told him just by virtue of the fact that I am Filipino-American, and these are my life experiences, this is a blog about the Filipino-American lifestyle.
I asked myself why I would take on such a project when literally almost every single minute of my life is filled with activity -- I work full time, have a husband who works very long hours, a five year old, an 8 month old, a dog, and a house to manage. I love to write, but don't have the time or stamina to write a novel, and while some (namely, those who have insufficient regard for the concept of Constitutional rights -- you know who you are ; - )) might say that writing my legal briefs is an exercise in "creative writing," it's just not the same thing. I also want to have a written account of how I'm spending my time these days. I am busier than I have ever been in my whole life. Randy and I ask ourselves what the hell we used to do with all our time before we had kids, and wonder how we could have ever complained back then about being busy. But I know this rather insane time in my life will be over before I know it, and then I really will have more time on my hands, and I will need to be reminded what being busy really means. Finally, I'm doing this because I am not a crafty type of person, and this allows me to make an electronic scrapbook of sorts.
These are the days I'll remember.
I asked myself why I would take on such a project when literally almost every single minute of my life is filled with activity -- I work full time, have a husband who works very long hours, a five year old, an 8 month old, a dog, and a house to manage. I love to write, but don't have the time or stamina to write a novel, and while some (namely, those who have insufficient regard for the concept of Constitutional rights -- you know who you are ; - )) might say that writing my legal briefs is an exercise in "creative writing," it's just not the same thing. I also want to have a written account of how I'm spending my time these days. I am busier than I have ever been in my whole life. Randy and I ask ourselves what the hell we used to do with all our time before we had kids, and wonder how we could have ever complained back then about being busy. But I know this rather insane time in my life will be over before I know it, and then I really will have more time on my hands, and I will need to be reminded what being busy really means. Finally, I'm doing this because I am not a crafty type of person, and this allows me to make an electronic scrapbook of sorts.
These are the days I'll remember.
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