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.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
Dirty Laundry
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:
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 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-eightAt 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.
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
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?
Sunday, July 4, 2010
I Am Thankful To Be An American
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:
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 know this country has problems, and I'm not without complaint. But I'm still grateful that I get to live here.
Friday, July 2, 2010
I'm Like A Rapper
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!)
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!)
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
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