GIGI GOES GAGA

MOTHER

I phoned my mother to greet her for Mother's Day. She no longer speaks; she grunts, no doubt because she's highly sedated from the pain medication. My sister S, who sat by her side, asked her gently, "Mom, are you listening? You're not talking again."

This is a difficult post to write, simply because I struggle with the tears that seem to be stronger than I am these days. I try not to cry, afraid that if I do I won't stop, that I'll break down completely. Instead I cry when I watch videos of cute animals who are unlikely best friends, I cry when one of The Voice contestants has a "moment." I cry when good and bad things happen to other people, even when they're only characters in a movie or television sitcom. My tears are like little earthquakes that appear unexpectedly and often, if only to ease the pressure building up from The Big One that threatens to blow.

My mother is a force of nature herself. She's never been one to follow societal conventions although she's keenly, painfully aware of them. As I've gotten older I've discovered the push-and-pull dynamic that frequently tore at her from the inside, the kind that has also characterized the kind of relationship I've had with her my entire life. She's never been the nurturing kind of parent who held me close, who said she missed me when I was gone or uttered "I love you" at the end of every phone conversation. Yet she gave me everything she had. She would give me more if she still could.

In one of mom's final email messages to me from late last year, she was filled with regret. She said she was aware that she wasn't the kind of warm, nurturing mother I probably would have wanted, but that was only because she didn't know how to be that person, that her own mother wasn't that way with her either. She wondered if working so hard alienated her from her children, and if sending me so far away for college was the right thing to do because we were now so far apart.

My mother's words broke my heart, even if I already knew what they were before she said them. Mom and I have had sporadic conversations like this before. She once confided to me that she probably would have been better off had she never married so that she could have traveled more and had the kind of adventures she could only dream of. Then she paused, looked at me, and said, "But of course then I wouldn't have had all of you. I don't regret my children." Push and pull indeed.

Mom didn't have to explain her words; I understood that her generation of women didn't have the choices mine do, and that even today we still have to deal with the consequences of those we do have. My mother wanted a career, she wanted a family. About a decade ago she was eased out of the last position she held, perhaps because of her age, and she wondered about the costs of everything.

My mother recently told my best friend that I am strong. If I am, it's only because she was, too. Everything she did in her life helped make me who I am, and I thank her for it. When people talk about a mother's sacrifices, we don't ever know half of it, I'm certain.

With my mother's ear to the phone I told her I loved her and I thanked her for everything she's ever done for me. I didn't mention that it wasn't just for the food on the table or the house I grew up in, the good schools I attended or all the opportunities I was ever given. I'm grateful that I had a mother who was her own person. She taught me, through her example, that becoming what other people think we should be is the worst betrayal of ourselves -- despite the costs. She never gave in, even now as she is slowly giving up on life itself. And what a life it has been. Hers, completely.

As my mother lies on her bed, often asleep, I lay awake trying not to cry over her. I fight with my tears as hard as mom and I once fought. In the end, I will make peace with them as I have with her. In the meantime here's what I wish my mother knew: I wish she knew that whenever things get really rough, whenever I don't know if I'm as tough as what I need to deal with, the first thing I think of -- the first thing that has always come to mind and that always will -- is that I wish my mother was here with me.

 

 

 

 

A GOOD MAN

I married a good man, a decent man, a funny man. After more than a decade since we first met, he's still that same kind of man. But we're no longer married.

We now live on nearly opposite sides of the world, living wholly different lives than the one big life we had together. But we communicate still, at least once in a while. Nearly two years since we split up, there are still things we need to discuss, things that connect and bind us. When we talk there's still the same warmth and concern in our voices; we still want to know that the other is doing just fine. I miss his family; he still asks about mine.

Two years ago we decided we weren't going to discuss our marriage with other people. "It just didn't work out, but we're okay," is what we decided to say. Only our closest friends might know a few more details, but even they were stunned to discover we had ended things for good. There was never any drama, no back-and-forths, no test separations. We kept details of our married life close to the chest, even when we were husband and wife. We decided at the start that we were going to treat each other with respect and value each other's reputations. That didn't end when we did.

Looking back I know what I could have done better, of course. I don't know if I could have tried any harder then -- remember that I'm writing this through the dubious benefit of hindsight (it can lead to tremendous guilt for things we did as we were before, not as we are now). Then was then, and I was I. Then. But I do know what I could do better now as I move forward in my life. And I am trying to do, to be, better.

Someone asked me if I regretted anything, all those 10-plus years. Never, not even when it got really, really, really hard. We went through tremendous difficulties together and just didn't make it through to the other side the same way. Now I'm not one to believe that fate is inescapable, but I do believe he and I were meant to meet and build a life together. I wouldn't be the person I am today if it hadn't been for him. Believe me when I say that I like who I am today, much more than I've ever liked myself in any other time of my life.

There are people who would argue that we're fools for giving up, that marriage is something you keep together unless there's abuse, cruelty, and deceit. And even some folks would say despite all that, too. I have young friends who wonder how two people who have so much love and affection for each other can't possibly make it work. All I can tell them is that it just shows how much work is involved in a marriage. I'm not saying it's not worth it, I'm only saying that marriage goes way beyond romance, lust -- even friendship.

Our circumstances are still difficult. We each face challenges we didn't think we'd have to deal with at this stage of our lives. But I know for sure I wouldn't still be standing if I never had spent all that time with him. In the end, that's the gift I have: the certainty that even when I fail, I've also succeeded somehow. Nothing is ever for nothing.

I once married a good man, a decent man, a funny man. A man who still asks if there's anything I need, who delivers on his promises, and who makes me laugh. In his way, in our way, I also became a better woman. That is all.

 

 

 

VALENTINE'S DAY 2013

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, I decided to ask my true love for what I wanted most: a can of Elnett hairspray. Forget a box of chocolates and overpriced roses; I much prefer a large bag of Maltesers and a bouquet of daisies anyway. He then looked at me in awed silence, waiting for the punchline -- and then it came: Oh, and I have a $3 off coupon you can use when you buy it, 'k?

The thought of Valentine's Day makes me nervous even if I had decided a while back that it was a"holiday" created purely for commercial purposes. It's a day fraught with overhyped promises and impossible expectations; after all, how can anyone possibly prove the depth and breadth of one's love in one day?

Restaurants are unfailingly overbooked, which makes intimate conversation difficult at best -- that is, if you do manage to get a reservation. Then once there your only option is to order the prix fixe menu, comprised of items you'd probably not put together if you had a choice and that would cost less if you had them on any other day.

I've worked retail for so long that I know only too well the face of a man (or woman) who needs to buy a last-minute Valentine's Day gift. It doesn't matter where I worked at the time, the look of panic is the same whether it was at Victoria's Secret or at Trader Joe's (PS: flowers at TJ's often cost less than what you can get at the flower market). I always try to say something like, "You did good here" or "Great gift!" to try to assuage the nerves of the poor, crazed soul.

Despite the number of February 14s that have passed by in my life, I still do remember the days when I dreamed of having someone to spend Valentine's Day with. When I was 14, for instance, my bestfriend and I decided to give each other flowers just so we wouldn't feel so left out. Before the big day came, however, a cute boy swept her off her feet and handed her a nice, big bouquet to boot. I got nuthin'. But that all changed the following year, and since then there have been only a handful of Valentine's days I spent on my own.

I have this nagging suspicion that Valentine's Day really happens at the office -- when deliveries from the nearby flower shop start streaming in and the much-awaited call from the receptionist arrives. "There's something here for you downstairs," the sweet voice says, with a teasing punctuation at the end. By the early afternoon a stroll around the office resembles a trip to a wedding chapel or a funeral parlor (however you choose to see it). Even the receptionist has a floral arrangement sitting on the front desk, so large that you can't see her beaming face.

One year I told my (now ex-)husband that I didn't want any flowers from him. "Don't bother," I said. "Let's save the money for dinner out this weekend or something." On that Valentine's Day, as a result, my desk was one of the few unadorned. I felt like that kid in school who happens to be celebrating her birthday with a couple of others in class -- but I'm the only one whose mom didn't bring a cake or cupcakes for everyone. I decided then and there that V-Day is not so much about showing your love best, it's about showing your love ALSO.

In fact, I already know that on that day my Facebook newsfeed will be strewn with photos of gorgeous bouquets, thanks to joyful status updates by friends. After all, in this age of social media, does something really happen if it's not shared with everyone else? That being said, I may just be tempted to post a picture of my new can of hairspray. It won't be as pretty, but that's okay: I'll have more than just a can full of air to celebrate this faux holiday. I'll also have the one with the sheepish grin, presenting the newspaper coupon at the drugstore check-out counter, trying to make his girl very happy this year.

 

MANILA MISSIVES #1 - LOST IN SPACE

My mother looks at me straight in the face -- but she's not there.

When I look at her I remember the mother I've always known: strong, feisty, independent. I know she's still all these things, but now her limbs can't carry the weight of her body and mind, her mind further laden with constant confusion.

Mom remembers me, thankfully; she even remembers my birthday still. I often wonder: if one day I'm in her shoes, what will my mind hold intact? Does the brain select only the most important or significant details of one's life -- or does it pick out random information, bits and pieces that happen to float up to the surface at a given time?

She wakes up at 5 am, tries to scramble out of bed in a mad rush to get to Mass -- which, incidentally, won't be held until 12 hours later, or sometimes even a day or two from today. She forgets that she can't stand up on her own and she falls to the floor, calling out my name. Every day she panics, thinking it's my younger sister's wedding day (it's not for another two and a half weeks); she worries she's late, she needs to get her hair and makeup done NOW. She scolds me for not helping her. She'll call a cab, she threatens. I push back. "Where do you plan to go at this time? Nothing's open right now!"

We go through this every day, sometimes every few hours, and often at the most inconvenient times. I've marked her calendar, hoping it helps her realize that she's not late for the wedding. I've circled the date in red and I cross out each day leading to it as it ends, hoping she notices.

"No one's here, yet," I tell her. "There can't be a wedding without the bride and groom. Besides, mom, we'll make sure you're not late; if you are, we won't leave for the church without you." I stroke her arm and soften my voice, trying to reassure her.

"But what if you forget?" she wails. Mom, who sometimes forgets that her own parents passed away a long time ago, worries that I won't remember. At my age, sometimes I neglect to do what I said I would only moments ago. And one day I might also forget what day it is, or not know if the darkness means it's before breakfast or dinner. In the meantime, the darkness is inside my mother's mind, and I often look for signs that the fog is lifting so that a little bit of brightness can shine through.

My mother is in there -- somewhere -- still strong, feisty, and independent. But now all those traits that worked in her favor for eight decades threaten to bring her down. Even when I sleep, every thud I hear wakes me up and squeezes my chest; before I run to her I hope she hasn't fallen again. Even if in so many ways, she already has.

 

30 OF 30: EVERYTHING BUT THE (GIRLY) GIRL

I went through a (thankfully) brief, awkward period as a tomboy in my early teens. It wasn't because I was good at sports, played with guns and cars, or was able to throw a decent right hook. In fact, I still can't do any of these things. I can't climb a tree, jump over a fence or ride a bike, either. The only reason I decided to become a tomboy was because I thought I wasn't any good at being a girl.

First of all, I didn't hit the genetic jackpot: looks-wise, nothing about me says "dainty" or "delicate." I'm big boned, especially for an Asian female, with chubby fingers and large feet. But before I hit 18 my situation was much more dire -- I had thick, coarse hair that refused to be tamed and I had a propensity for breaking things (accidentally, of course), especially since I didn't know my own strength. I must have been about five years old when I dented the rear door of my mother's car by swinging it closed with my elbow. To this day I have to remind myself "gently, gently" any time I have to use physical force to accomplish anything.

I've never been particularly graceful. To this day I walk like I'm trying to generate wind energy -- for an entire city -- and I talk particularly fast. Mom once tried to ingrain a bit of feminine elegance into me by enrolling me in ballet school. Big mistake, huge. I hated every minute of it -- from trying to squeeze into an itchy leotard and tights to learning the basic five feet positions. And when the teacher said I was too fat to do splits, well, that was the end of that.

So when my hair was cut short because trying to manage it long was next to impossible, even boys thought I looked like a boy. And when my father, who shopped for my clothes during his trips abroad, bought me jeans, tees, sneakers, and a pair of Earth Shoes, my conversion was nearly complete.

At first being a tomboy was exhilarating. I didn't have to try to be feminine in the way my friends naturally were. I could be gawky without having to worry about it. It was okay to be not-so-pretty. But then I knew I was merely faking it because I didn't know how to do, much less like to do, any of the things the boys did. It just hurt so much to be a girl, especially because I was the only one among my peers who had her period and boobs -- yet I didn't have any idea how to act like one, much less like a woman that I was supposed to be quickly morphing into.

And then there was that pesky problem of hormones. Suddenly, I had a crush every week. I had to pretend that I didn't like any of the boys I hung out with because I didn't want them laughing at me or worse.

"You are the most boy-crazy tomboy I've ever known," my bestfriend at the time told me. And that was that; I had to learn how to become a girl again.

It wasn't until much later that I learned that girly-girls can do all the things that boys could do without losing an ounce of our femininity. One of my closest friends was the quarterback of her high school football team; today she still scores with her quick wit and a wave of her gorgeous strawberry-blonde hair. A classmate of mine in fashion school had a Tae Kwon Do master for a father who would make her do push-ups with her knuckles as a child, which she continued to do even when her long nails started getting in the way. An ex-roommate can easily navigate her way around anything electronic and electrical, and I know a gal who can change the oil of her Jeep and do basic car repairs in her sleep.

None of this sounds surprising to anyone today, especially to young girls, but that's just not how I was taught in my day. In school I learned how to cook, sew, and manage the household budget. We weren't allowed to chew gum and we were admonished, almost daily, to sit with our legs closed and lift our feet as we walked. The closest we got to shop class was learning how to shop for groceries without going over the household budget

Today I chuckle when anyone describes me as a girly-girl. Sure, I'm clothes-crazed, beauty-obsessed, and admit to a shoe...enthusiasm. The only pair of sneakers I own is for the gym, I'd much rather wear a skirt than jeans, and I never leave the house without at least a touch of tinted lipbalm. I wear pretty lingerie and discreet parfum, and I have an arsenal of makeup at my disposal.

But I still can't get my manicure to dry without getting a chip in one of my nails, and I teeter perilously when I wear high heels. I eat the lipstick off my mouth within minutes and I drape my bag across my body because I haven't learned how to carry one without having it fall off my shoulders when I walk (maybe it's because of how I walk). I'm still not graceful, and definitely not dainty or delicate. And when I discovered (albeit a bit too late) that being a girl doesn't mean not having to do things that guys generally must learn how to do, I've since learned how to use an electric drill and a level to do household chores and I can change a flat tire.

I've still got a long way to go, granted. But I refuse to learn anything about football or go camping. I'm certain that if I were born male I would have been one of the wimpiest of them all. So when I'm laughed at for "throwing like a girl." I'm thankful I can simply shrug my shoulders and don't feel the need to defend myself. It's not because I am a girl; it's because I have lousy eye-hand coordination. But don't let my sissy self fool you: I'm still freakishly strong and can knock any guy unconscious with a swing of my right hand clutching a copy of the September issue of Vogue Magazine. I'm a girl, after all.

_{*I'm the one wearing the vest, with hair that could have used a flat iron back then.}

 

 

 

29 OF 30: TODAY'S RANT

These days I find myself wishing people would simply stop trying to impose their personal beliefs on others, thinking their way is the only way, that it's the right way. There is a thin line between advocating for one's convictions and shaming someone else for theirs. Besides, if the goal here is to get someone to cross the divide and join your side, condescension and judgment would be your worst strategy. No one wants to hang out with a bully. If you want to entice folks to come over, then throw a party and make it look like you're having so much fun that they can't help but want to play with you.

Because it's election season, it's easy to assume I'm talking about politics. Or even religion, as religious-based groups are using the political to influence what should remain personal. To a certain extent, I am. Now, I'm moored to my political and religious beliefs so there's not much that can sway me to any other side at this point in my life. Still, I continuously strive to understand what I don't believe in; I read, I listen, I ask questions. In the end I usually become even more rooted to what I already believed in, although learning why others think as they do makes me see where commonalities exist and where compromise is possible.

But what I'm talking about here today is just as personal, though not as contentious (at least on the surface). I'm talking about what I choose to do with my own body.

I'm not referring to contraception and abortion rights here, by the way. I do want to make my own health choices, especially in that regard, but today I just really want to know: is it too much to ask that other people don't try to tell me what I should and shouldn't be eating and what my body ought to be doing?

I read, I listen, I ask questions. Anyone who does the same would agree with me that there's a lot of confusion out there. It's not enough to simply eat one's veggies anymore -- now you have folks who think you ought to eat ONLY vegetables and food that is harvested from the earth. Then there are those who will tell you that you MUST eat only those that are locally sourced or organically grown and others who say you should eat them raw, not cooked. I've also seen charts listing fruits and vegetables that are good for you, as well as those that are not. Really? There are bad ones?

Fine. If people decide to eat only certain things and not others, I don't begrudge them that. If their food choices line up with their principles I completely respect that as well. But it's my body and I ought to have a say as to how I choose to nourish it. And if it's that time of the month and I happen to crave fried chicken livers, please don't try to shame me or make me feel bad as a person. Trust me: I know I shouldn't be eating the stuff all the time, so I don't.

Recently, a story about how a television news presenter was scolded via email by a viewer about her size went viral. The man who told her she set a bad example for children everywhere because she wasn't losing any weight was obviously fit and active. His zeal for fitness, unfortunately, was matched by his contempt for those who didn't share it.

We see this everywhere today, not only when nameless, faceless trolls tear down celebrities with cruel words about their weight, their hair, their clothes, or any of the many other choices they've happened to make. We also see this when family, friends, and other well-meaning people judge us for ours.

Now I'm not a skinny person -- not by anyone's standards. But my body can do what I need it to: I can climb stairs without running out of breath, I can walk for miles and carry a conversation without turning blue in the face. I can move furniture when, in the middle of the night, I choose to redecorate my space. I can lift things using my legs, not my back; and I use 10-pound dumbbells to strengthen my arms. I get on a treadmill three to five times a week for 30 minutes and break out a sweat. I'm not superwoman -- but I'm no sissy either.

I don't stuff my face all day with crap, and when I do choose to eat chocolate or chips I have only enough to satisfy my craving -- which is usually the amount of one serving size listed on the package. I prefer not to buy my meals at a fastfood joint, but if it's my only choice late at night or when I'm out on the road in the middle of nowhere, then I'll choose something that looks like it won't kill me. Otherwise, I eat mostly homecooked meals and try to mix it up so there's always a variety of ingredients. If I eat out at a restaurant, there's always a vegetable dish. I don't drink sugary pop or even juice and I don't look for red meat. Overall my food choices are dictated by the weekly budget, a basic knowledge of nutrition, and at times powerful cravings. Dr. Oz may not always approve, but he'd probably say at least I'm trying.

Look -- I read, I listen, I ask questions. I try to balance what makes me happy and what's actually good for me. I just don't want to stress over what I eat or how much exercise I get, and I particularly don't want to hear anyone telling me I'm not doing enough. If I'm not the size others think I should be, I'm not going to worry about it.

But if or when I decide my size is a problem, then I'll know what to do then. Or at least I'll figure it out. I just don't want my figure to be someone else's problem. If they're worrying about mine then obviously they're not dealing with the stuff they should be focusing on instead: their own business.

28 OF 30: HAPPY EVER AFTER

I still remember the first time I heard that fairytales don't come true, that there is no "happily ever after." I misunderstood the lesson then, as I misunderstood it for a long time afterward. At first I thought it meant that no one gets to be happy forever because everyone dies in the end.

When I got older and more cynical I thought it meant that even after boy and girl found, lost, and then found it each other again, their happiness didn't -- couldn't -- last forever. Because, you know, shit happens. Eventually they start fighting over trivial matters, they get sick of each other, they compromise on everything until they forget what they originally wanted for themselves, and then eventually someone dies.

But even if the fairytale had absolutely nothing to do with love and romance, I figured it meant that whatever made you happy at the conclusion of that one particular story still had to end one day. Nothing lasts forever, after all.

Where I got it all wrong, however, was thinking that only these huge events in our lives have the capability to make us happy; for instance, graduating with honors, getting that promotion with a huge salary increase, finding that one big love and saying "I do" at the altar, buying your first home, having children and witnessing them go through all the same things that brought you so much joy once. Or if none of these things happened for you, then what ultimately made you happy were life-altering or life-defining in some way at the very least.

What I've learned, perhaps even more clearly these past few years, is that while there is no story that ends happily ever after, it's not because we're doomed souls. It's because within each of us are almost infinite stories, one happening at least every day. We find happiness within each one of them only if commit ourselves to finding it. It's not the scenery, it's the view.

How many times have we assumed that a former celebrity's life had gone downhill simply because he or she seemed to have disappeared into thin air? We think that fame was the fairytale and that when it was over then it only meant sadness, even despair, for the once-famous. What we see is a life now ordinary, but for that person, the view could be just the opposite: it could mean a welcome solitude, a private existence, of living for oneself and not for others.

I could look at my own big stories and feel like a failure: a(nother) failed marriage, no children, losing a beloved home, starting over at my age. But I don't. I've grieved, to be sure; I've found myself lying in bed inside a dark room for days, not wanting to get up. But the point is that I got up: that's MY main story. Every day, I choose to find something I can be happy about. A coworker who tells me on her last day at work how much she loves me; a customer who thanks me profusely for my help; a friend who texts out of the blue to say she's thinking of me; a sister who calls to ask for advice; a boyfriend who says I have a cute butt.

But these don't come out of nowhere; we really do make our own stories. Every day as well, I walk into work with a smile on my face and try to make life easier for everyone. I want to help the people I work with, I really do want to help customers. I reach out to friends, even if only through a comment on one of their Facebook posts, and I try to do the same with my sisters even if we all live so far apart. I pinch my boyfriend's butt, tell him how handsome he is, as often as I can.

We get as much as we give; we need to be grateful for whatever we get. I never got the fairytale, but I got better. I learned how to be happy in spite of the constant challenges and the pain. In a way I get to be happy ever after, if only one day at a time.

 

 

 

 

27 OF 30: RIP HELEN GURLEY BROWN

Sometime in my early 20s, after I'd moved into my own apartment and decided to put off my last semester of college due to sheer lack of time from working two jobs, I received an unexpected visit from a school buddy. I'd treated him like a younger brother for years, but now he was at my door looking like he had grown a couple of man-legs.

An hour or so into the evening he jolted me from my exhaustion by announcing that he was now stripping part-time. No, not stripping paint, he assured me. He was stripping his clothes off on weekend nights, mostly for bachelorette parties. I think he could hear the gears of my brain gnashing shredded metal as he narrated his adventures: sure, the boy could dance but I couldn't imagine anyone paying to see him do it almost naked. But I was being unfair; of course someone would, he had his boyish looks and charm, I suppose. It's just that particular someone wouldn't be me.

And then as if to cast off all my sisterly feelings for him, he began to seduce me with words. About how independent, empowered, intelligent, and sensual he always thought I was. He said I was the perfect Cosmo Girl.

Just like that, he was out the door. I couldn't handle being propositioned to by someone I still thought of in geeky glasses and a mouthful of braces, even if by now they were gone.

As he descended inside the elevator into the renovated lobby of my prewar-era apartment building, I wrestled with my feelings about being described in terms of Helen Gurley Brown's creation. At the time I identified with feminists like Gloria Steinem, and I had misunderstood Brown's complex legacy. The term Cosmo Girl, to me, was the Scavullo-photographed cover: pushed-up boobs and long legs bursting out of a tight mini dress, big hair, and fierce makeup. Copy that practically shouted "read this if you want to seduce and keep your man by being a sex goddess!"

I didn't understand at the time that I owed the life I enjoyed as a single woman to HGB.

I was a young city editor for a newspaper and, to help make ends meet, I worked a few evenings part-time at Victoria's Secret. I was on my way up at both places, and eventually I chose where the money was. I lived alone in my Hollywood apartment, furnished with pretty things I'd paid for (and even assembled) on my own. My closet was a mix of working girl and party girl, with pieces from DKNY, Ann Taylor, and the Bullock's dress department. I had boyfriends and I dated regularly when I didn't. I had a stash of condoms hidden from view beside my bed, a copy of The Joy of Sex on my bookshelf, and a drawer of sexy lingerie I'd purchased with my employee discount. I knew I'd get married someday -- but not just yet.

I was single, independent, empowered, intelligent, and took guiltfree pleasure in sex (responsibly, I might add). I loved men but I didn't depend on them for my happiness and security. I could take care of myself, thank you very much.

I was born the year HGB took over the reins of Cosmopolitan magazine, which was failing at the time. By the time I was the age of the woman she was editing for, I was reaping the benefits of her vision. I didn't always agree with what she said or wrote; for instance, she saw nothing wrong with having affairs with married men (they always went back to their wives, she said) but I've always viewed it as a betrayal of sisterhood. But she truly was a product of her time and circumstances, and as the years have passed I've begun to see her life and legacy in a different, more forgiving, light.

It's quite timely that we're discussing HGB again today, albeit under such sad circumstances. Fifty years after her landmark 1962 book Sex and the Single Girl, which we all thought had changed women's lives completely and forever, there are recent efforts and movements -- political, legal, even cultural -- to bring us back to the days when we had to be wives and mothers in order to be good. We're called sluts when we demand the rightful control of our own bodies, of our destinies. When we engage in sex for purposes other than babymaking, then we're whores. Even being single is now viewed again as a radical act.

Oh, I wish we had HGB's passionate voice today to help us all remember how far we've come and how fast we're going back. Whether we're single or married, childless or mothers, homemakers or executives; whether we love sex or can do without it, and whatever our passions in life may be -- we are women with choices. And they are all valid, as are we.

"Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere." ~ Helen Gurley Brown

26 OF 30: HOW DO YOU KNOW?

I've been asking the same question for the past year and a half, practically since I met him. How will I know?

He was 16, partly blind and deaf, eerily silent, arthritic, and showing signs of canine alzheimer's. You can say I fell in love with him despite myself. I knew I wouldn't have much time with him before I'd have to say goodbye, and I thought it best not to get too attached. But when he saw me he hobbled over, nuzzled my leg and rested his chin on my knee, as if to say "you are mine." And I was. Still am. But not for much longer.

My Ozzie -- Ozzo is his given name -- is now resting on his bed, unable to stand up. Whenever I tiptoe over to the laundry room and peek to see how he's doing, he senses my presence and wags his tail. When I walk away he wants to follow me but can't, but still he tries. He twists his body over the side of his cushy, towel-wrapped and pee-pad-lined foam bed, and tries to drag himself over to the exit. He never gets far -- when I walk back half of his body is on the tile floor and so I lift him back up, hoping he'll fall asleep this time.

It only got this bad yesterday, but I suppose I saw it coming. He used to walk up and down the stairs a few times a day, albeit quite tentatively, even painfully. And then a few months ago he could no longer climb and had to be carried upstairs. His gimpy gait slowed down even further, he could no longer control his bodily functions, and he slept most of the time. But every time he'd pee on the rug -- sometimes when he was asleep or usually after he'd just woken up -- you knew he felt simply awful about it because he'd be too afraid to approach you afterward. Sometimes he'd even start crawling down the stairs, as if to say he knew he was supposed to do it outside on the grass instead and was now on his way there.

Otherwise his appetite was terrific and he enjoyed the sun on his face whenever he could get it (as Seattlelites always do). He'd follow me around until he was too tired to do so and wag his tail when I'd give him his one glucosamine-enriched peanut-butter-flavored treat for the day. He'd nap beside me whenever I dozed off, and when I'd be seated on the couch or at my desk, he'd plop his body over my  feet and nap there, too.

So how do you know? -- I'd ask friends who had loved and lost their dogs. When do you know it's time to let go?

You'll know, that's what they'd always say.

And they were right, even if I didn't know how I would.

Ozzie's asleep now. I sat with him as his body lay half on the cold floor and I cradled his face, kissing his head. I wrapped him in a bath towel and lifted him back onto his bed and I stayed with him, sitting still, until he appeared to be calm (I think he was tired, too). Then I went back to my room and cried.

It's time now. Ozzie needs to rest.

So how do you know? When you let love decide, you just will.

 

25 OF 30: HOME

I woke up feeling thoroughly unhinged today; for a while there I wasn't sure if I'd just had a dream because it still felt so real to me. All I can remember now is that I'd found myself sitting inside an auditorium beside a man who I could only assume was my date, like I'd just been instantaneously transported there through space and time without any apparent disruption. It was 1987 and I was in downtown Los Angeles all over again.

The details are fuzzy now, but I know that once I'd figured out where I was I felt a twinge of almost unbearable excitement. That year, you see, was not a very good one for me (okay, it was awful) and I realized I now had a chance at a do-over -- and better yet, this time I had not only my youth but also experience, and especially wisdom, on my side. Soon, however, joy turned into confusion. I realized I didn't know where my home was and how I was supposed to get there. I moved around so much during the second half of the 1980s that if you named a month and year I couldn't tell you where I lived then.

Most of my recurring nightmares have to do with feeling unmoored or being lost. I suppose it's because for nearly three decades the concept of home has been an unfettered one for me. When I lived in Los Angeles I thought of Manila as my home -- and the reverse was true, too. And now that I'm Seattle-based I feel like I have two other homes waiting for me. I may never set roots in Southern California again but practically everything I own still remains in storage over there. In this place where I now live -- without my furniture, household goods, even clothing -- I don't feel quite settled, yet.

Wherever I am something seems to be missing. Here in the States I regularly get homesick for the Philippines, yet when I'm there I miss it here, too. And even if I absolutely love it here in Seattle, I miss my friends and ol' stomping grounds in both Los Angeles and Manila. At times it feels I have too many homes and yet none at all.

They say that home is where the heart is, and that might be the reason I feel this way: I've left a huge chunk of myself in every place I've ever lived and loved in. Yet I know that change is not only inevitable but constant, and that what I remember about each place often transforms or disappears the moment I get up and leave. It's why I often feel sad when a favorite restaurant shuts down or a familiar building is demolished. One more touchstone, gone.

But I never feel trapped anywhere. If I don't like it somewhere, I can always move -- as I've done many times before. My world can't completely fall apart if there's always a space elsewhere I can find refuge in, somewhere that still feels familiar even if it's not quite the same as I remember it to be.

I suspect I'll always have these dreams of being somewhere I once was and feeling lost. The good news, however, is that when I wake up I'll be home. Wherever that might be in the world.

24 OF 30: NOT YET AT THE FINISH LINE

No one has probably noticed, but I'll 'fess up anyway: I didn't get to finish 30 blog posts in 30 days like I set out to do a month ago. Bummer.

But on the bright side, I've completed 24 posts in 30 days -- way more than I've done since I started blogging in 2004. The point of this exercise was for me to develop the discipline to write every day, and not to rely on inspiration (which happens to be truly unreliable). And the truth is I almost did -- the only time I didn't bang out words on a keyboard was when I was in VA/DC this past weekend for my sister's wedding and didn't have time or a laptop. I must also confess there were days this past month when I started blogging and then deleted the post because it wasn't going anywhere except down.

So I'm not yet at the finish line but I intend to get there, just a bit late. Reminds me of a friend who competed in a triathlon in San Diego a few years ago: not accustomed to the cold mornings, he cramped up soon after the swim portion, and through sheer will and dedication pedaled and ran through the pain and exhaustion. When he finally staggered to the finish line, just about everyone was gone except for his parents, a couple of buddies, and the folks cleaning up. But he made it.

Just as I will. I'll need a few more days to finish the last six. If you have any suggestions of what you would like me to write about, please let me know in the Comments section below.

In the meantime I'm starting another 30-in-30 personal challenge. For the next month I will exercise daily. Nothing crazy, you understand. Twenty minutes here, 45 minutes there...a run/walk on the treadmill one day, a fast walk on the trail behind my apartment the next, and a few sets with the dumbbells and weight machines on yet the next. The point here is to keep moving and get the blood flowing until it becomes a habit I can maintain at least a few days a week.

Come to think of it, I probably should have started this endeavor earlier; I could have used the bloodflow into my brain. Probably would have been more effective than hoping for a bit of writerly inspiration. Anyway, if I get this right I'd have developed two good habits by my birthday, which is at the end of the month.

Wish me luck!

PS: You will be relieved to know that I will NOT be posting my daily exercise efforts. Instead I'll write all about it when I'm done.

 

23 OF 30: THE RIDE OF MY LIFE

The other day I went on my first ferris wheel ride. Big whoop, people may say with an eyeball roll and a smirk. But to me, it really was.

It's not just because I'm the furthest thing from an adrenaline junkie. Even as a child I didn't climb trees or jump over fences or, yes, get on ferris wheels or rollercoasters. My parents never had to worry about me staring into the deep abyss of a swimming pool and jumping in. I may venture into emotional peril with abandon, but I retreat from any kind of physical danger. It's just the way I'm built.

The reason I decided to get on that 175-foot wheel was precisely because I knew I'd be terrified. I have a fear of heights and, worse, a panic disorder that I can't seem to quit completely.

(Here is where I must pause and explain my last sentence. A panic attack is nothing like simply being really, really afraid, stressed out, and/or anxious. I know what it's like to be all of the above: I've been in car accidents; I've had to cross the Grapevine during an unexpected snowstorm with no tire chains or a working heater and rear window defroster -- and being the last car to make it out because getting stuck with all the others just wasn't an option; I've been attacked by muggers; I've been terrorized by a stalker; I've had a drug dealer repeatedly try to slam his body into my apartment living room window so he could avoid being shot at until he was, leaving blood all over the glass. You get the picture here. A panic disorder, oversimplified, is what you have when you get these irrational, unexpected panic attacks and you constantly fear the chance of another one so much so that it ruins the quality of your life. You can read more here and especially here.)

I'm tired of letting irrational fear control my life, so I've decided to take different steps to conquer it. I've been to therapists, I've done the drugs. I'm not saying that anyone can overcome a panic disorder without professional help; it just so happens I don't have medical insurance so I can't avail of professional assistance at this time. In the meantime, I do the best I can to manage. When I feel one coming on, I start focusing on slowing down my breathing and I start talking aloud, reminding myself that there's no real danger present. It helps a bit, but I still avoid situations where attacks are most likely to occur (ie. driving on freeways).

So I figure: if I can conquer situations that scare the bejeezus out of me but which I know to be safe, maybe little victories might increase my self-confidence and rewire my brain to perceive danger differently. It's only a theory, but I don't see any harm in pursuing it.

As soon as my friends and I were seated inside the gondola, I nearly panicked. The entire contraption was made of glass and I felt like I was going to fall off, even if it was well constructed. I was looking for something to hold on to but there was nothing; all I could do was sit on my hands. My companions started rocking the gondola for fun -- I wanted to kill them. I could feel dread rising from my gut and choking my chest, my breathing going faster, and my shoulders going stiff.

Uh-oh. I didn't want to press the red "Help" button so I could get off so I told myself not to look down and to focus on the vista above the horizon line instead. I told myself to concentrate on my friends, and then I started laughing with them -- a lot. The wheel started moving, next thing I knew we were about 200 feet above the pier -- and then soon enough we were back where we'd started. As we were off on the second revolution I began enjoying the ride; when the third was done I thought it would be okay if we did one more.

I'm thinking my next step would be to get on a not-so-insane rollercoaster ride and then perhaps a go at ziplining. It's funny how to almost everyone I know, these things are simply a way to get a quick adrenaline rush. To me, they just may be a path to reclaim my life.

Once upon a time, I used to find myself deciding on a whim, even at midnight, to drive from Los Angeles to San Francisco just for the heck of it. I remember enjoying the uninterrupted five or six-hour drive, singing along to the music blasting on my stereo, arriving with the dawn. I remember driving over bridges and under tunnels, marveling at human engineering and design instead of experiencing fear.

One day, these won't be mere memories; these will be realities for me again. One day, I'll be stuck in traffic on I-5 and I won't be annoyed; I'll be proud I've gotten myself back there. But first, a rollercoaster -- a real one, not the one I've been on for way too long now.