Date Night

In front of the Washington Memorial in Mt. Vernon

Last night was Randy's and my first time out with someone other than my mother babysitting Jagger.

The Babysitting Dream Team:

•  Juvy, former nanny, loving maternal type
•  Gilbert, Iraqi war veteran, head of security for the children, black belt in judo
•  Glen, nurse-in-training, black belt in judo, dog whisperer - necessary for Jetsam's happiness
•  G.R., IT and media specialist, necessary for successful operation of DVD player, black belt in judo 

Site of our date: 

• Maisy's, http://www.maisys.com/, 313 North Charles Street, Baltimore, creative American food with great wine bar
• Our friendly server:  Levi

The menu: 

• Appetizers -- onion tart, blue corn battered calamari
• Entrees --  ceasar salad with steak for me, whole romaine hearts with crab meat and steak for Randy
• Dessert -- chocolate chip cookie pie with vanilla bean ice cream
• Beverage --  copious amounts of wine 
• NOT on the menu  -- chicken fingers

Gas to get us to and from Baltimore:  $20.00.

Android cell phone used to call to check on the kids 10 minutes after arriving at the restaurant:  $150.

Dinner and tip:  $100.00.

Babysitter:  $50.00.

Cosmetic surgery to reverse the signs of aging caused by the stress of getting dressed and out of the house on time:  $2,500.00.

Cost in 1815 to build the George Washington Monument in Mt. Vernon, where we took a walk after dinner:  $100,000.

Time alone together:  Priceless.

The Blogger's Dilemma

So I'm at my official place of blogging -- the breakfast table -- attempting to entertain and amuse the small group of readers who officially and unofficially follow my blog, and  my psyche feels the not insignificant weight of pressure.  Even though I began this blog as my method of relaxation, a purely selfish form of recreation that I can pursue any time of the day when the kids are in camp/school/bed/free play, I weakly permit myself to be influenced by someone else's blog about the Top Ten Rules for writing a successful blog.  Although it has never been my intention to blog for any reason other than for fun, I cannot get the Top Ten Rules out of my head. One of the Top Ten Rules is to post something new at least three times per week.  I have to admit that I am really thrilled that there are people who are reading my blog faithfully, and some who even call me to ask when I am going to post something new, so although I initially thought I wanted to write a blog just to write, I have come to the realization that I want to write a blog to be read. Therefore, this bit of advice about how to write a successful blog is nagging at me.

Becoming a blogger has changed my perspective.  Now, every event, conversation, and observation goes through a blogworthiness filter.  It's sort of like Elaine's spongeworthiness analysis on Seinfeld.  I don't want to blog about just anything old subject, notwithstanding the fact that I have blogged about laundry.  My dilemma is this:  I love to spend time with my family, so when I'm not working at the office, I'm home with my kids, husband and dog, reveling in our domesticity, doing things that I love but which are too mundane for anyone to read about in a blog or elsewhere.  In other words, there simply isn't a lot of blogworthy activity right now.  

While I am not without problems, I lead a rather charmed life.  How can such a charmed life suck so much that I don't have enough material to post something new three times per week?  I could blog ad nauseum about the craziness that our job-related and child-centered schedules create, but it wouldn't be all that different from the craziness that is experienced by anyone with a job and/or kids and/or grandchildren.  Everyone's life is crazy and stress-filled, and I don't suppose mine is especially so.   

I love having kids.  I never would have predicted feeling this was when I was unmarried and childless, but becoming a mother is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.  That it happened twice is a grace that I can't quite grasp.  Only God knows what I did to deserve this kind of blessing.  My children have made me discover things about myself that I didn't know could be true:  that I have a large capacity for patience; that I can become sincerely interested in something simply because my child is interested in it; that I am happy to put my wishes second to my children's; that I am capable of loving with such depth; that I can be fierce when I am protecting my children; that 18 years feels heartbreakingly short to me.  I would rather be with my kids than doing anything else in the world. 

Recently, though, I have started feeling the desire to get out once in a while.  I fully acknowledge that there is  a strong possibility that I am the one who suffers most from separation anxiety; the children are fine.  Now that Jagger is almost 10 months old, I think he and I are ready for me to start going out without him to someplace other than my office.   So, tomorrow, Juvy my niece is coming in the evening to babysit. 

Randy and I don't know what we will do with our few couples-only hours.  Probably something simple -- a nice dinner, or a nice dinner and copious amounts of alcohol, or just copious amounts of alcohol.  It doesn't really matter.  My goal is simple:  To venture someplace where chicken fingers is not served.  What's important is that we will be out and I will be carrying a purse, not a diaper bag; Randy will be holding my hand, not pushing the stroller; our conversation will be uninterrupted by a baby squealing with glee at the top of his lungs or a 5-year old with unending questions about millions of subjects; we will be led to a table that has a tablecloth by a hostess who does not have to bring along a cup of crayons; we can eat with our plates in front of us and not off to the side, far away from a baby's reach; and we can leave the restaurant without apologizing for the mountain of crumbs and cheerios on the floor.    It's all so exciting.

And, because I believe in jumping in with both feet, here is another bit of news:  We have a sitter for next weekend as well!  We are going to the Chelsea vs. Milan soccer game at the M&T Stadium in downtown Baltimore, courtesy of Gergana the Sophisticated European Friend.  (My previous post has left her concerned I will leave Finksburg, so she feels motivated to offer me more cosmopolitan diversions to offset the fact that I have penciled in my calendar the smash up derby for next year.)

As I try to develop some semblance of a social life again, I will keep my eyes and ears and nose open for blogworthy experiences.  Stay tuned.

Finksburg -- Wasteland Sweet Home?

I fell in love with this house, which is why we moved to Finksburg.  Before we started house-hunting, I had only ever been to Carroll County once, to visit a client in the local jail.  When I arrived in Carroll County that day, I wondered why in God's name anyone would ever live here.  Let me put it this way:  I am a shopper, and the only stores that I eyed were Truckin' America and Tractor Supply Company.  Carroll County used to be mostly agricultural, and only recently has it been developed.  To be fair to Finksburg, that visit to the jail took place almost 10 years ago.  Recently there has been a lot of movement to this area by young(ish) professionals wanting to get out of the city but not be too far from it.  That would be us.  In fact, we were introduced to the area by our friends, Carl and Gergana.  Gergana is a sophisticated European.  If she could live in Finksburg, then surely it can't be bad, thought I.

There are days when I question my real estate judgment.  Gergana and I have considered circulating a petition to change the town's name.  That would be a start, but doesn't really get to the heart of the matter.  I'm not knocking my community at all.  Finksburg is part of the greater Baltimore area-- there are beautiful houses, blue ribbon public schools, lovely parks, a decent mix of chain and independent restaurants, and acceptable shopping (including Target).  The crime rate is low, and the people here are very friendly.  It's only 20 miles into Baltimore City and 45 miles into Washington, D.C.  But I grew up just outside of Los Angeles, one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world.  By comparison, Finksburg is like a certain unmentionable city in Egypt.  When my children get older I want them to feel like they had a culturally rich upbringing, and sometimes I worry they will be deprived of that because of the effort it takes to access the offerings of a big city.  Randy and I are tired.  I worry we won't  have the energy to make aforementioned effort, and as a consequence, when my children are older they will seem like there were raised in the unmentionable city in Egypt.   

I voiced my concern to Randy on Saturday.  "You wanted this house," he reminded me. 

That is true.  I knew when I pushed this house on him that I would never be entitled to complain about anything associated with it ever, but I loved it so much I didn't care. Randy was on the fence about this house.  Ever so persuasive, I reasoned with him:  "We could buy the house that we like and can easily afford, but you would have to hear me say for the rest of our lives, 'I like our house, but I wish we could have bought that other house.'  OR  we could buy the house that we love even though it costs more, and you could hear me say for the rest of our lives, 'I LOVE our house.'" I guess the thought of listening to me complain about our destination house for the rest of our natural lives was too much for him to bear, because, well, here we are.

"I love our house," I reiterated, "but don't you think we sort of live in a cultural wasteland?"  

Randy gave me this look. A look that I interpreted as saying, we're not moving.  "It's not a wasteland," he said.  But I noticed that he didn't offer anything in the way of support for his position.

Approximately six hours later, Randy came up with something to back up his claim.  He had heard from his new female barber (who has several tattoos and was shot (yeah, with a gun) on July 4th, evidently lived to tell about it, and was back to barbering by July 17th) that there was an event happening that evening that we might be interested in, since I wanted to expose the children to enriching experiences.  The event:  The smash up derby.  Having never been to such an event when I was growing up outside of L.A., I asked him to explain.  Definition:  "It's like bumper cars, but with real cars that are junky, and they go fast." 

And I thought we lived in a cultural wasteland.  Silly me.  What better way to turn out sophisticates than watching cars purposely crashing into each other at high speeds?    

I have to admit, though, that a small part of me is interested in the smash up derby.  Unfortunately, we had prior commitments, so I made a mental note to remember to do it next year.  Really.  No, really.

Randy also reminded me that the 4-H fair is also going to be next weekend.  We have gone to the 4-H fair before.  Last year, Skyler watched piglets being born.  My mother even went with us and saw Alpacas up close and personal for the first time.  We watched sheep being shorn, and learned to identify different cows. 
There is also a carnival circuit that goes from fire department to fire department.  So far we have been to two carnivals this summer, and we plan to go to our favorite one, the Reese Volunteer Fire Department Carnival, on Friday. 

Did I just claim to have a favorite carnival?  I guess I did.  We have made a tradition of going to these local carnivals every summer.  Skyler goes on all the kiddie rides, and Randy goes on the bigger rides with her while I take pictures.  (See pictures following this post).  We always eat dinner there -- usually pit beef and milkshakes -- and then get funnel cakes for dessert.  Skyler comes home with junky prizes and a look of pure contentment.  It's usually on a balmy summer evening, and we always see someone we know -- a neighbor, Skyler's classmate, my hair dresser.  I never went to carnivals when I was a kid -- although there were lots of trips to Circus Circus in Las Vegas -- and I sort of held an aversion to them.  Something about a ferris wheel that is transported on a small trailer bothers me.  But I have actually grown to like carnivals. 

Now that I think about it, last year we attended several Carroll County events that we really enjoyed:

• The roasted corn festival.  My mother was here last summer and saw this advertised in the paper.  She loves corn, so off we went.  For $9.00 per person, you got fried chicken and all you can eat the roasted corn-on--the-cob, served by a volunteer.  We ate tons of corn just before a huge thunderstorm rolled through, soaking everyone. 
•  The peach festival, where there were things made of peach that I didn't know could be made of peach. The cobbler was to die for. 
• The butterfly festival, where you could adopt a monarch butterfly and then track it to see if it made it to Mexico.   (See pictures posted following this blog)
• The home and design show at the Farm Museum, where everything related to taking care of your home was on display.  For some reason a lot of the vendors were giving away wood backscratchers, and Skyler any my mother went on a mission to collect as many as possible. 
• Handbag silent auction at the Carroll Arts Center. 
• Peep Show.  Works of art made of the marshmallow treats.  One of my favorite entries was a bust in the likeness of the singer formerly known as P. Diddy, and it was entitled "Peep Diddy."  Next year, Skyler and I plan to submit an exhibit.  
• Christmas tree farms.  It's great fun to trudge out in the snow, pick the biggest tree that will fit in our house, and watch Randy cut it down with his bare hands and drag it to our truck.  There's always free hot apple cider and hot chocolate, too. 

There are other events that we haven't had the chance to attend yet:  tractor pulls, apple festival, parades, tree-lighting festival.

Okay, so it's not Shakespeare at the Ford Amphitheater, but it's not that bad.  There is a very special feeling that comes with belonging to a community that gets excited about the carnivals and festivals that take place every year.   Upon further thought, I feel fortunate that my kids will have the best of both worlds:  small town and big city experiences.  It really doesn't take much effort to drive into Baltimore or Washington, D.C. - there are tons of museums, ethnic restaurants, the ballet, opera,.  Also, we fly to California regularly still, and we will take the kids on trips to foreign and exotic places.  But it's also nice to have fun in our own back yard.  Upon even further thought, I love our house, which is in this great neighborhood, which is in this neat little town, which holds these fun events that we will turn into fond memories.

Skyler and Mama get ready to catch butterflies

Skyler and Mama get ready to catch butterflies, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

Skyler and me (6 months pregnant) at the Reese Carnival

Skyler and me (6 months pregnant) at the Reese Carnival, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

Skyler and Randy at Reese carnival

Skyler and Randy at Reese carnival, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

Skyler finds a butterfly

Skyler finds a butterfly, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

Little Earthquakes

There was an earthquake in Maryland at 5:00 a.m. today.  I was awake when it happened.  The windows rattled and I felt the house shake a little, but I thought it was just thunder and strong wind.  It was a 3.6 magnitude quake, so it was noticeable.  But what jolted me more than the strength of the quake was that it happened at all.  I didn't know Maryland had any fault lines, let alone an active one.

The last time I felt an earthquake was when I was living in California. I was in college but home for the weekend.  It was past midnight and my friends and I were driving back to my house when the sky turned orange and the streetlights sizzled -- the quake had blown power lines.  My parents had been asleep in their bed.  When my mother heard me come in she came downstairs.  My father stayed in bed and turned on the news.  My mother, always fearing The Big One that has been predicted for California for as long as I can remember, was a bit breathless, but my father remained calm.  His philosophy about natural disasters was that if it's bad enough to kill you, it's bad enough to kill those around you whom you love, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.  What you should fear, he thought, was everyone around you being killed but you being spared and being left all alone in this world.   

Because of my mother's fear of The Big One, we were always prepared with an emergency plan.  At school we had earthquake drills, where we ducked beneath desks, head tucked into laps and arms wrapped protectively over heads.  But at home, the plan was to stand underneath a doorway, which is supposedly the sturdiest part of the house.  Back then both our dining and breakfast tables were glass, so it vexed my mother to no end that we didn't have a table under which to duck when The Big One hit.  Years later she replaced the glass breakfast table for a large wooden one, and our plan changed from standing underneath a doorway to going under that table.  In the trunks of our cars, my mother had packed food, water, medicines, first aid kits, flashlights, flares, and blankets.  At one point someone predicted that The Big One would be so strong that California would break off, drift into the Pacific Ocean, and sink. This precipitated special features on Nostradamus, the accuracy of his prophecies, and references to his works pointing to The Big One happening imminently.  During that time, we packed extra clothes and shoes in the car, too, in case we had to evacuate.  We designated my cousin in Texas to be our check point person in case we weren't at home when The Big One happened and we couldn't find each other in the post-quake chaos. These preparations weren't excessive, either.  It seemed like everyone was equally prepared as we were.  When you live in California, the thought of The Big One is never very far from your thoughts.

My mother feels a certain sense of relief when she stays with us in Maryland because she is free from worry over The Big One.  So when I called her today to tell her about our earthquake, I was surprised by her nonchalance.  "Oh, that's nothing," she said when I told her the magnitude of the quake.  "Remember the Northridge earthquake in 1994 -- that was 6.7," she said.  That quake didn't sink California, but people died, houses collapsed, and parts of a freeway fell.  That might have been The Big One.  Maryland's quake made headline news today, but it was "nothing" to someone accustomed to anticipating a quake so strong that it would sink a sizeble chunk of the continent.

The little earthquake this morning coincidentally took place as I was experiencing a shake up of sorts in my personal life.  My oldest, and one of my closest, friends dumped me by email this week.  From my perspective the disagreement that ultimately led to the disintegration of our relationship seemed minor, but obviously her perception of the events is different.  I have to admit that I have been in shock for the past few days.  But it wasn't the magnitude of the event that got to me, it was the fact that it happened at all.  That she would end our friendship under any circumstances came as a shock the way today's earthquake came as a shock:  I didn't think it was possible.

There was a time when a close friend's "breaking up" with me might have been catastrophic.  But I'm older now, and I've experienced some pretty significant earthquakes in my life.  My father dying unexpectedly was The Big One for me.  That day, a part of me broke off, drifted and sank someplace dark.  But the rest remained intact, as he would have wanted.   Here's the thing about earthquakes:  When you spend years anticipating The Big One, and then The Big One happens and you survive it, other earthquakes are just little ones. 

I feel my friend's absence from my life right now because the our breakup just happened, and in my mind the event is on the front page.  But like today's earthquake, tomorrow it will be old news, but for follow-up stories about how there were no serious injuries or significant structural damage.

Jessica Simpson's Super High Pumps

IMAG0189, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

On Monday, I wore my brand new open-toe platform pumps with 4-inch cork heels designed by Jessica Simpson.

I love these shoes. Although the heels are 4-inches high, and the platform is 1-inch high, making me a towering 5-feet 10-inches tall, these shoes are totally wearable. They don't feel like Uggs, of course, but I can wear them all day at the office, where I have a desk job. To boot, they make my legs look good. There is one teeny problem: They smell like deli meat.

At first, when I was taking the subway into work, I thought someone in the car had packed a bologna sandwich for lunch. But I kept smelling that "sandwich" long after I had settled into my office. I realized then that it was my new pumps. These shoes have a classic design, with the cork heels lending an edgy touch. The 4 inches give my legs a longer, leaner, more toned appearance, the effect of which unfortunately was minimized by the fact that my lower extremeties had the odor of a hunk of meat from the deli counter at the local grocer's. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't like the smell of deli meat. I do! When I'm at a deli. Ordering meat.

I went out earlier in the day to run an errand, and a man passing by me looked and said, "Sexy." But before I could feel either flattered or indignant, the wind shifted, and he wrinkled his nose and sort of pulled his head back, then walked away faster than you can say, "A pound of pastrami, please." Later, I wondered whether he was being sarcastic when he said "sexy" and that what he really meant to convey was "Yah, like it's really sexy to belch after eating salami on rye."

Out in the high temps characteristic of summertime in Baltimore, my new shoes became even more pungent. At one point on the way to my errand, a woman complimented the shoes and asked if they were comfortable. Comfortable! Who cared about comfort. At that point, I was just hoping I wouldn't pass by any hungry dogs.

On my way home that afternoon, on the subway, I was surrounded by a group of what appeared to be grandmothers on their way home from taking their grandchildren to an outing, perhaps at the Inner Harbor. Once I settled in and turned my iPod up to a volume that blocked out other people's chatter but not loud enough to block out emergency announcements, I noticed more than a few of them sniffing the air, looking around to see who was breaking the no eating in the train rule. One of the grandmas caught my eye, and, hoping to avoid being outed as the woman who smells like sandwich fixin's, I subtly tilted my head in a direction away from me, suggesting that it was the man in a dark suit across the aisle who was chomping down on a little cured treat. Then I slipped on my sunglasses and pretended to go to sleep.

At home later that evening, I asked Randy to take a whiff of my shoes. He thought they smelled like something, but he wouldn't describe that "something" as deli meat. My husband has always thought I was olfactory-gifted, able to detect odors nearly as well as Jetsam, our dog. On the other hand, I think Randy is olfactory-challenged, because he needs me to tell him when his shirts get that mildewy smell after being left in the washer too long before drying. I don't know why I bothered asking him about my Oscar Meyer footwear.

The other day I read an article on CNN.com.  Apparently, a group was commissioned to study women and shoes, and the study concluded that in their lifetime, women collect around $24,000 worth of shoes. They needed to commission a group to reach that conclusion? They could have just looked in the closet of their female family members and friends. Randy calls it the biggest understatement of the century to say that I have a lot of shoes. I have been wearing the same size for nearly three decades, so the shoes do add up. Different shoes serve different purposes: work, court, date night, mommy outings, beach, cold weather, and now, deli-meat shopping.

Sardines

IMAG0188.jpg, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

I miss my father.

I miss him all the time, but I really miss him today. A lot of things make me think of him, and that's okay, because even though when I think of him I get a lump in the back of my throat, and that sort of hollow feeling inside, I like thinking of him. Whenever I think of him, I try to say it out loud, especially if my kids are in the same room, because I want them to be familiar with the word "Papa," and I want them to feel his presence in my life. Because to me, that means that he will be present in their lives, and they will sort of know him, even if only through my talking about him every time I miss him, which is all the time.

What triggered my missing my father today was seeing a tin of sardines in my food pantry. When I moved to Baltimore I was only 25 years old and I didn't know anyone here. The furthest I had ever lived away from my parents was 60 miles. My parents were always worried about me, but they were so good about letting me go. They used to send me care packages because I missed Filipino food. My father always added a couple of tins of sardines -- the exotic kind in spicy sauces. I always told him he didn't have to do that, because although when I lived at home I ate them whenever my father ate them, I didn't really want any. But he said that I should just keep them in the pantry, so that I would have something to eat and would never go hungry, even if I ran out of food.

Inevitably, because I was a poor law student, and because I hated grocery shopping, I would run out of food. I savored the sardines with crackers and cheese, and to me, they tasted absolutely luxurious. In the next care package, I always found more tins of sardines.

Sardines make me feel loved.

I miss my father.

Randy & Nena Plus 2 and a Dog

Okay, so the title doesn't have the same ring to it as Jon & Kate Plus 8, but at least a reality show about my life wouldn't be as annoying as the show about the prolific now-divorced couple and their eight children -- twins and a set of sextuplets. 

Generally, I hate reality TV, but I been riveted to the tv by shows like Intervention and First 48 Hours.  My guilty pleasure used to be the show about Denise Richards, known mostly for being Charlie Sheen's ex and for kissing Neve Campbell in Wild Things.  Randy's reportoire is considerably broader, with shows like Cops, Inside America's Prisons, Dog: The Bounty Hunter, and Operation Repo commanding his attention while his very own reality show called Your Life takes place around him.  I don't mind that he watches these shows.  It's just that I don't get it.  These shows all feature characters who are all, well, clowns, or buffoons, or, okay, I'll say it even if it's politically incorrect, so trashy.  And the predicaments these clowns find themselves in are usually of their own making or due to their stupidity.  I think it's a bad sign when after watching one of these shows the first thing I think is, "Well, that's 30 minutes of my life that I can never get back." 

Randy told me that a new show was coming out that he was interested in seeing, called The Exterminator.  The producers couldn't even come up with a clever title -- it's a show about exterminators, people whose job is to kill bugs and such.  I mean, really, if Hollywood has to resort to that, they should consider giving me my own reality show.  Surely my life could offer up more excitement than stomping out insects.  Think about it, I told Randy, it could be a show about regular people and their regular lives.  The masses would identify with it because it would be just like their lives.  It would be a huge hit. 

So this morning I was imagining what a camera would capture if my life were a reality show. 

The day started off tense, thus creating the type of drama that hooks the audience:  we woke up at 7:15 because Jagger didn't wake us at the usual time of 5:30.  Skyler ran into our bedroom already dressed for summer camp.  Not hearing any noise from Jagger, who only recently began sleeping in his crib in his nursery instead of in our bedroom, I asked Skyler to check on him.  He was sitting up playing by himself and began flapping his arms with glee when he saw his sister.  There's your cute factor.

Having accidentally slept through the night, I am in desperate need of my breast pump.  Okay, that part would have to be edited.  It's not sexy, glamorous or intriguing and it would take up more than half of our half-hour time slot.  Plus, the FCC might fine the network because for sure the powers that be are unelightened and think breastfeeding is more akin to nude sunbathing than nourishing an infant who otherwise would starve to death.

While I dress and feed the kids, Randy has to shave, shower, walk and feed the dog in time to leave to make an 8:30 meeting in downtown.  Oooh, suspense.  Will he make it?  Will Jetsam promptly poop? 

The dog compliant, Randy leaves on time.  I will be working at home today, so rather than taking Skyler to the bus stop so I can make my train to work, I can drop her off at camp.  Having promised her friend A. that we would give him a ride today, we make our way to his house.  But, wait.  The panel in my car indicates that my gas tank is empty.  Uh-oh, more suspense.  I decide that I need to pick up A. before getting gas since the gas station is on the way to camp.  I would of course explain such decisions as the camera closes up on my face.

On the way to camp, I try to entertain Skyler and her friend A.  "A," I say, "do you know how to say tongue twisters?"  "Yes," he answers.  "Let me hear," I say, waiting to hear about Peter Piper picking pickled peppers.  "Tongue twisters," he replies.  He got me there. Skyler laughs hysterically.  Humor, check.

Unfortunately for the network, the ratings will not go up due to an episode wherein I run out of gas and have to push my car while my 5 year old drives.  I make it to the gas station to filler up, and deliver the children to camp on time.  With Jagger in one arm, Skyler holding my other hand, and A holding Skyler's hand, I look like a typical SAHM (stay at home mom) waiting to get home to pop my much needed workout video into the DVD player. 

But here's a twist: I am not a SAHM.  I have a full time job.  I work from home sometimes, but all that means is that I have to do all the things that SAHMs do AND THEN do my lawyer work.  I get Jagger home, feed him his breakfast, and put him down for his nap.  Now here is where it turns into must-see television.  Becuase for the next 2 -3 hours, I will be sitting at the kitchen table or in the morning room reading trial transcripts.  While the transcripts themselves will be filled with intrigue and excitement, that will not translate on camera, because I will just be reading the transcripts, not reenacting them.  Besides that would just turn my reality show into Cops. 

It is at this moment when I realize, with some mortification, that The Exterminator actually provides more entertainment for the masses than my life.  When I was single and childless, I remember reading an article giving advice to new parents. One piece of advice that for some reason stuck in my mind was "Stop telling people all the cute things your kids do or say. No one finds them half as entertaining as you do." Having been duly forewarned, I pull the plug on Randy & Nena Plus 2 and a Dog.   Before Randy & Nena Plus 2 and a Dog is even produced, it is canceled due to projected low ratings. 

The Exterminator features poisonous snakes, disgusting rats, and obscene numbers of cockroaches.  Plus, the Exterminator and his family all dress like circa 1980s heavy metal band members, and while we are not supposed to think they are trashy because that would be politically incorrect, they are.  All of that spells entertainment, baby.  My little family and I can't compete, even if we throw in our personal dramas and whacky adventures. My life is crazy and busy and wonderful and lovely and funny and stressful and filled with action, but maybe not the kind of action that makes for good reality TV. 

Just one more thing about Jon & Kate Plus 8.  I did like the opening sequence on their show.  In it, they say, "It might be a crazy life.  But it's OUR life."  My sentiments exactly.

The Sneezy Theory

When I was a kid, I experienced the normal illnesses that children are bound to have:  the occasional bouts with the cold, cough, and flu.  In college I had pneumonia once, but that was as bad as it got.   It was a blessing to get through childhood unscathed by catastrophic illness.

However, my childhood was plagued by phantom ailments. When I was in the fifth grade, my parents thought I had a brain tumor.  I had a headache that never seemed to go away, was frequently dizzy, occasionally saw double, and was just generally fatigued.  I went to several doctors for tests but the results showed nothing wrong.  In junior high, my parents thought I had an ulcer.  I had severe stomachaches, and there were times when I was so sick to my stomach that I couldn't go to school.  Once I thought I even saw blood when I threw up.  Again, tests showed no indication of an illness.  There was also a time when my parents thought I was anemic.  I was listless and unenthusiastic about anything.  But my iron level was normal, and my pediatrician saw no physical explanation for my feelings of malaise.  My elementary and high school days passed similarly, random symptoms hinting at potentially frightening medical issues.  In every other respect I had a normal childhood -- lovely family and home, excellent grades, lots of friends, wholesome, if not geeky, activities. 

Later, when I was in graduate school at Cal State Northridge, these warts on my hands kept recurring even with prescription medication.  (I know, too much information.  Sorry, but I am making a point).  At the time I didn't have a physician.  This was before the advent of the internet, where I now "shop" for healthcare providers before calling to set up an appointment.  I found a doctor in the yellow pages, choosing her out of the dozens of other listings primarily because her clinic was close to where I lived, even though I knew nothing about her qualifications or experience. 

Based on the decor in this doctor's office and the clothes she was wearing, I guessed she was a new age-y sort.  She asked about my medical history, ignoring the medical history checklist I had just fillled out, wherein I indicated that I had never had a heart attack, cancer, diabetes, etc...  She asked if I got sick often, how many colds I had in a year, how I was sleeping, and other similar questions.  I explained that I was sort of a sickly person, and that it was probably because I tended to overload my schedule with a ton of commitments -- at that time I was writing my thesis, working full time at a publishing company, participating in a group project producing an anthology that would be on the reading list at the L.A. County Unified School District, discussing marriage with my long-term boyfriend, and looking for a new apartment.  I thought perhaps I needed to take vitamins. 

The doctor listened patiently, smiled kindly, and took both my hands in hers.  She looked closely at the persistent warts on my left hand, and told me to tell them to go away.  I started to think she was crazy.  She said that if I decided in my head that these warts should go away, they would go away.  They only needed me to tell them to go away.  I really thought I had picked a nut for a medical provider and was glad I was there for warts and not a cancerous tumor.   

"Do you know the story about Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs?" she asked me.

Of course I did. 

"All of those characters express themselves and their emotions.  Happy is an obvious one.  Dopey is lighthearted and simple; Sleepy is bored; Doc is bossy and a know-it-all; Grumpy is always mad; Bashful is shy.  But you ever notice that Sneezy isn't an emotional trait?  Sneezy doesn't express any emotion.  He just sneezes at the most inconvenient times." 

I studying literature and was used to analyzing James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, D.H. Lawrence, F. Scott Fitzgerald; I was unprepared for the pop quiz in the Brothers Grimm.  But I started to see the doctor's point.

"Sneezy repressed everything.  What else could the negative emotions do except turn on Sneezy's little dwarf body?"  she explained.  "That's what happens when you keep everything bottled up inside.  It's bad to hold things in.  I want you to tell these warts to go away, and then call me after a month and let me know if they listen."

There was something about this doctor -- maybe it was her gentle way of speaking, maybe it was the way she held my hand, maybe it was the kind expression on her face as she watched me explain why I thought I might need to take vitamins -- I don't know what it was, but I wanted to believe her.  I didn't want to just write her off as a nut.   

Shortly after that appointment, my boyfriend and I, instead of getting engaged, broke up after a six-year relationship. Let me qualify the rest of the breakup story by saying that we're friends now -- we exchange Christmas cards and occasional emails containing pictures of our respective children, and when my father died he sent a lovely plant and very touching note about his memories of my father.  But it was a nasty breakup, the reasons for which are irrelevant now.  The night of the break up involved the cutting of shirt sleeves and the ripping of important documents.  You get the picture. 

I imagine that something inside of me broke, like a dam, and every emotion that can be expected to be evoked by the kind of breakup that involved malicious destruction of property came pouring out of me.  I didn't know I had it in me.  I never realized how good it felt to get so mad that I needed to punch a wall, or to cry so hard and long that my eyes swelled shut.  Those emotions lasted a good two weeks, and then slowly they started to dissipate and began to be replaced with the emotions associated with sadness and loss.  And then those feelings began to be replaced by tiny buds of happiness.  Eventually, the beginning of happiness evolved into joy, the kind of joy that accompanies a new sense of freedom and of excitement about the possibilties around the corner.  Whatever mechanism I had employed to keep my feelings tightly wound up and contained internally was permanently damaged, and I had no desire to replace it.  It just felt good to show what I was feeling.

It was more than two months later when I went back to the doctor.  The warts had gone away and, though I didn't know it at the time, would never return.  My health dramatically improved (and to this day I rarely get sick or feel unwell).  My parents even joked that they could have saved a ton of money on medical bills if only I had learned to lose my temper when I was younger.   It appeared that the doctor's Sneezy Theory was correct, and all those years my bottled up emotions were manifesting themselves in physical ailments.  The "brain tumor" was really the effect of an overzealous teacher who had no children of her own and took an inappropriate amount of interest in me -- she even mentioned to my parents that she wanted me to live with her.  The "ulcer" was really the effect of moving to a new school in the middle of the year when cliques and best friends had long been established and there was no room for a newcomer.  And the "warts" were the manifestation of the grief over a relationship that I knew was taking its last breaths. 

I don't think anyone who knows me would say that my displays of emotion are disproportionate to the triggering event.  When I gave birth to my children, I was overwhelmed with gratefulness that they were healthy.  When my father died, I felt like I was dying too.  When I found out someone I cared very much about had developed a drug problem, I was gripped with fear.  Some feelings are too minor to warrant any outward expression, but other feelings if unexpressed morph into monsters with a life of their own. 

I want to teach my children not to be afraid of their emotion and to be expressive.  Fortunately, Skyler and Jagger have no problem with expressing their feelings.  There are times (like right now, actually) when Skyler gets mad or fustrated and throws a tantrum ( believe it or not, my darling little angel is capable of crying hysterically, stomping up the stairs, and slamming her bedroom door).  Sometimes I will just let her cry it out, but usually I encourage her to use words to tell me what is making her cry. "If I know what's wrong, maybe I can fixt it," I tell her, coaxing her to share her five-year old's woes.  Sometimes I can fix her problems, and other times I can't.  The tantrums are pretty irritating, but I want her to have them.  I figure, it's better than high medical bills.  Only the other six dwarfs are allowed in this house.

Dirty Laundry

Our high efficiency washer and dryer, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

My mother likes to tell this story:   It was 1974, and we had just arrived in the United States and moved into our first house. I was six years old. One afternoon, my mother asked me to help her take laundry off the clothesline and fold them. We had a washing machine, but it would be a while until we would buy a dryer. In the meantime, we had four clothes lines in the backyard, near the peach tree. We had a lot of laundry, because there were five of us in the family, and my sister and brother were only three and one, respectively. I don't know how many baskets of laundry I had gone through, but at one point, I apparently started crying.

"I want to go back to the Philippines," I told my mother through my tears.

"Why?" asked my mother, her heart breaking because her firstborn was feeling pangs of homesickness.

"Because," I started, "in the Philippines we had the help doing our laundry, but here we have to wash our clothes ourselves."

My parents had lef their homeland to pursue freedom, democracy, unlimited educational opportunities for their children, and upward mobility. But never mind all that -- I was willing to give it all up because I hated doing laundry.

When Randy and I were first married, I had a reprieve from doing laundry. We had a wonderful housekeeper who did it for us. Then, after we had Skyler, that housekeeper also became our nanny, and she continued to take care of washing our clothes and putting them away. Her help was a godsend because Randy had gotten a promotion at work and was left with few precious hours at home. With assistance with the house work, Randy was able to spend more of his free time with Skyler. Our nanny left when Skyler started preschool, and, having forgotten how much work it is to keep a house in order, Randy and I decided that we would try to do the housework ourselves. That was when I resumed the majority of the laundry duties.

In my house, there are no toys on the floor over which one might trip and sprain an ankle. There are, however, mountains of clothes over which one may trip and break a neck. They are either dirty and need to be laundered, washed and need to be folded, or folded and need to be put away. We own approximately seven laundry baskets. My disdain for doing laundry is perplexing for a couple of reasons. You see, I love clothes. I love to shop for them, and I love to wear them. Logically, it should follow that I love to wash them. Furthermore, my mother loves to do laundry -- she is the Laundry Queen -- and one would expect laundrophilia to be passed on through the genes.

Alanis Morrisette wrote a song called "Isn't It Ironic" and it was number one on the charts in 1997. The lyrics go something like this:

An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day
It's a black fly in your Chardonnay
It's a death row pardon two minutes two later
And isn't it ironic...don't you think?
It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought...it figures

At the height of the song's popularity, a literature professor allegedly wrote to Ms. Morrisette to explain that these things were not exactly examples of "irony." They were just things that sucked.

Because Randy is somewhat of a neat-freak who deals immediately with the business of washing, folding, and putting away, I find it highly ironic that he married someone who did not inherit the Laundry Queen's laundry-loving genes. Randy just thinks it sucks. He wants to do the kids' and my laundry for me, but, as much as I hate it, I won't let him, because (1) he already does so much and I feel like the laundry really should be my contribution to the household, (2) he always forgets to use fabric softener and I end up getting static electricity shock, and (3) once he put my bras in the dryer and ruined the cups. So I prefer to do the laundry myself. When I get around to it, that is.

My mother will freely confess to not liking to keep house. In the Philippines she had a busy medical practice and hired housekeepers to tend to domestic matters. In America, she does what needs to be done, although she would rather not. But when it comes to washing clothes, well, she considers that and everything associated with it as her turf, and I pity the fool who dares to encroach on her territory. Let me paint a clearer picture: When my father was critically ill and in one of the most highly-regarded hospitals in the world, my mother insisted on taking home the linens that were being used on my father's hospital bed so that she could wash them herself. Only the best would do for my father.

The woman IS good. You wouldn't think that laundry could be anything special, but you ought to see hers: everything folded into perfect squares and rectangles, even underwear; socks matched exactly, proving that there is no such thing as a sock monster; cotton shirts ironed and hangered as if they had just arrived from a professional cleaner's; pants and jeans hung so a neat crease forms down the legs. The whites are blinding in all their crisp whiteness, the darks are the right shade of darkness, and are lint free, and the blacks -- that's right, she separates darks from blacks! -- are still black and not some faded version of the original. And the scent! This is really the element that earned her the title of Laundry Queen. It's the kind of scent that makes you inhale extra deeply, the kind of scent that gets turned into a candle. Even though she has shared her secret with all of us in the family (hint: it involves Downey April Fresh), no one can get it quite right.

After my father passed away, my mother came to stay with us in Maryland part of the year. She insisted on doing our laundry for us. We felt bad because we just wanted her to relax, and we didn't want her to feel like she had to do our housework, but she insisted, saying that her granddaughter deserved it. Finding it difficult to disagree that Skyler, our only child at the time, did indeed deserve to smell good and wear bright whites, we handed over the metaphorical keys to the laundry room and let my mother take charge.

Soon we saw various types of gigantic, economy-size plastic jugs of liquid detergents, and large buckets of powdered detergents, all lined up neatly on the laundry room shelves. There was a different detergent for different types of clothes: colored, white, delicate, black, children's, hand-wash only. There was the biggest bottle of Downey liquid fabric softener that I have ever seen in my life. There were tubes, spray cans, and sticks of stain-removers, boxes containing thousands of fabric softener sheets, and several containers of bleach. We went through propane so fast that the propane deliveryman began to eye us suspiciously, as if he suspected us of diverting our supply to provide energy to a small foreign country. The hum of the washing machine was so constant that between loads, when it wasn't running, we would look up from what we were doing and ask each other, "Do you notice something?  Something doesn't seem right.  What's wrong?"  Randy became acutely aware of when laundry-related items went on sale so that he could replenish our supply lest a shortage of detergent disrupt the flow of laundry. Randy never had to stay up late to wash shirts or socks because he had used up his last ones that morning. My mother the Laundry Queen had converted our laundry room into a place of serious laundering. It was awesome.

Randy and I have had a rocky history with laundry. We sold our townhouse before we found a house we wanted to buy, so in the meantime, my friend Gergana let us use her empty townhouse in a nice part of the city called  Otterbein.  I loved the location of the house, but location of the laundry room?  Not so much.  The washer and dryer were in the basement, accessible through a trap door on the part of the living room floor directly underneath the sofa. Moving the sofa, lifting the trap door, and going down the narrow staircase into a dim basement in order to perform a task that I already detested anyway was just too much to bear. During those days I just let Randy do all the laundry, and didn't care if my bras were totally deformed or if the jolt of electricity that passed through my staticky clothes gave me heart palpitations when when I got dressed in the morning. Then, after we moved into our house (but before the Laundry Queen arrived), we bought a high efficiency washer/dryer set that took the manufacturer several months to install for reasons too long and boring to get into here.  For months, we had to take our laundry to a laundromat every few days, lugging overflowing baskets, detergent, and rolls of quarters with us.

When I became pregnant with our second child, Jagger, I could barely roll my rotund self out of bed, never mind clean the house or wash clothes. Fortunately, our former housekeeper agreed to make the commute from the city and came back to work for us! She even agreed to do the laundry again. I don't know if I got spoiled by the Laundry Queen's style of laundering, or if I developed different, higher standards under the Laundry Queen's tutelege, but for some reason, after Jagger was born, I decided that I wanted to do most of our laundry myself, and I took back that chore from our housekeeper. I still have a problem with putting clothes away, but that aside, I sort of enjoy separating the colored from the blacks and the whites, measuring out the various liquids and powders to achieve the perfect ratio, punching in the specific settings on the washing machine, transferring the clothes, and then waiting for the buzzer to go off on the dryer. Isn't that ironic?

I Am Thankful To Be An American

Happy 4th of July, 2010!!!  originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

I am proud to be Filipino, and proud of my rich heritage. But I am also thankful to be an American. I am thankful to my parents for making the difficult decision to leave the country they loved so much (and their families, careers, businesses, friends -- everything!) to try to secure for their children the lifestyle and opportunities that are available in the United States.

My father became a citizen a few years after he arrived in this country, and my mother became one in 1984. Because my sister, brother and I were all minors, we became citizens when our mother did (that's how it worked back then -- kids followed their mother, not father). I was 16 years old when I became a United States citizen. My parents had to be interviewed, take an English and civics exam, and then participate in an oath-taking ceremony. Here is the oath one must take in order to become a U.S. citizen:

I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God.

I vividly remember asking my parents about the oath, and as much as they wanted citizenship, the part that bothered them the most was having to renounce allegiance and fidelity to the Philippines. My mother said she teared up when she said those words. Nonetheless, they were proud and happy to become citizens. One of the reasons my parents left our country is that they were supporters of those who rebelled against the dictatoship of then-president Marcos.  When martial law was declared, the situation became more dangerous for those who were not  Marcos supporters.  So my parents left. 

I know a lot of people who want very much to become U.S. citizens. Whenever I think of them, or hear about immigrants to this country who would give an arm and a leg to become Americans, I worry about them, and I also breathe a sigh of relief that I have already attained that privilege.  In recognition of American Independence Day, here are some reasons why I am thankful to be an American:

• 
  
  I can write a blog about anything I want without fear of being thrown in prison.
• I don't have to worry that I will wake up one day and find my house surounded by the soldiers of a dictator regime trying to intimidate me because I was outspoken against said dictator.
• I have a Constitutional right to raise my children the way I want to, as long as I don't abuse or neglect them.
• After I had my first baby, I was allowed to think about having another baby, and allowed to have that second baby.
• I can be a Christian and not have to be scared to let others know.
• I'm allowed to talk to guys who aren't related to me even outside the presence of my husband or brother.
• When I travel out of the country, I can register with the U.S. Embassy, and if something bad happens to me, they will help.
• If I visit Arizona and a cop stops me for, say, jaywalking, all I have to worry about is paying a fine, not getting deported.
• When it's a gazillion degrees out, I can wear shorts and a tank top.
• I can vote or not vote in elections, like or dislike the President, use or not use the internet, believe or disbelieve the accuracy of news reports, support or not support a war.

It's the little things that mean a lot.

I know this country has problems, and I'm not without complaint.  But I'm still grateful that I get to live here. 

I'm Like A Rapper

The Philippine Flag,  originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

It has come to my attention that the term "Flip" may have derogatory origins. Allegedly, during World War II, when American soldiers were in the Philippines, some fool came up with the term "Flip" as an acronym for "fucking little island people" to refer to Filipinos. Apparently, it may be a racial slur as offensive as the N-word, according to one website I read when researching this. One entry in UrbanDictionary.com says that any Filipino that uses this term is stupid for not knowing their own cultural history.

I first heard the term "Flip" referring to Filipinos when I was a student at Nogales High School in La Puente, California in the 1980s. I am proud to say that my high school was known as a true melting pot of cultures -- I had friends who were Caucasian, African, Mexican, East Indian, Korean, Chinese, Japanese, Middle Eastern, and, of course, Filipino. In fact, there were a LOT of Filipinos. West Covina, where I and many of my classmates lived (it bordered La Puente), is now known as "Little Manila" because a large part of the town is is comprised of Filipino establishments, businesses, and residents. West Covina is a warm, diverse, and hospitable city - a nice place in which to have grown up, and a nice place to visit. To me, it's still "home" even though I have been in Baltimore for 17 years.

The people who used the term "Flip" as I know the term were my classmates. These were teenagers who, like me, had immigrated as young kids to the U.S. with their parents (usually doctors, nurses and engineers), or were born in the U.S. to parents who had immigrated here. In other words, they still had a lot of exposure to their native culture. When they used the term "Flip" to refer to themselves, they used it with a sense of pride. Another source that I found that discussed Filipino history recognized that in early to middle 1980's young Filipino-Americans began to use the term for themselves to make known their identity as Filipino-Americans, thus transforming it into an empowering word of identity and solidarity.

I have heard that the modern day usage of the word "Flip" is subversive, a way of taking a word that was used against Filipinos, "owning" that word, and using it to empower Filipinos. It is sometimes compared to they way the African American community appropriated the once derogatory N-word to subvert the dominant culture's use of language to label, suppress, and compartmentalize the minority. In other words, the oppressed minority were taking a bad word and turning it into a good word.

When I entitled my blog "Days On The Flip Side," I was trying to be clever and intended "Flip" to mean two things: Obviously, the first was in reference to the fact that I am Filipino. The second was a reference to "the other side" such as in "the flip side of a record" or flipping the coin, because mine is an interracial marriage and family, and the blog is a portrayal of our life through my point of view. I am embarassed to admit that I wasn't aware of the derogatory origins of the word. I may not have used it if I had known. I even considered changing my blog's title after I found out.

But I have only ever associated the term "Flip" with positive things, and I personally have only ever heard it used in a positive way. I certainly did not know that my usage could be compared to the way that some black rappers use the N-word to "subvert the dominant culture's use of language." I actually sort of like that. It's like I'm taking a word coined by some fool and metaphorically flipping him off by using it to mean "Ako ay Pinay!" (translation: I am Filipino!)