GIGI GOES GAGA

THE WORD ACCORDING TO GREG AND LIZ

Meeting someone you like and dating him is supposed to make you feel better, not worse. That's always a good rule to live by, no matter what the special circumstances (i.e. excuses) are.
- Liz Tuccillo

One of the first things I did when I left my marriage and moved out was to buy myself a computer. I purchased the new iMac -- the one that came in Bondi Blue -- and a printer.
It was just me and my cat Boo now, and I wanted to be connected to the rest of the world via internet. I'm not sure how I did it, but I dragged both these huge, heavy boxes through the parking lot, up the stairs of the apartment building, and down the lobby. When the elevator door opened, I shoved the boxes in, and propped myself up against the wall, panting and flushed. One of my neighbors, who looked like one of the original tenants of the building (built during World War II), looked at me, smiled and said, "Oh honey, you don't have someone to help you out with that?" Reality bit me in the ass: I got it, I was all alone now.

I just finished reading this Buddha-wise but laugh-out-loud book that my friend Stacy told me about -- He's Just Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys, by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo. Where was this book when I was busy dating? Where was this book when Renchie (or Wretched, as I like to call him) told me his relationship issues stemmed from his fear of his father? When Jay said he got cold feet because we were discussing moving in together (no Mr. Twister, YOU were, not I)? When Roy said he was going blind? When Allen said his ex-girlfriend called to say she was pregnant with his child (either he can't do basic math or he cheated on me -- either way, not good)? Where the HELL was this book when I was wasting time on all these losers?

To all my single girlfriends: you need to read this book. I'll do you all a favor and not write the Cliff's Notes version, so you have a reason to buy or borrow a copy (I'll even lend you mine). But I highlighted a few lines while I was reading, so simple yet so profound:

• Fear of intimacy is an urban myth. "That's just what we say to girls when we're just not into them."
• If he's not calling you, it's because you are not on his mind.
• People tell you who they are all the time. When a man says he can't be monogamous, you should believe him.
• He sounds perfect, if you like bad people
• You already have one asshole. You don't need another.
• Let his mother yell at him. You're too busy.

In a nutshell, here's what I got out of it. Men are not evil, and they really are not that complicated either. So before you drive yourself insane trying to figure out why the man you are with is doing what he is, stop making excuses for him and think: he just might not be into you. OK, he might want to hang out with you, talk to you, sleep with you (duh) -- but that might be all he wants. So if you want more than that, and he's giving you all these reasons why he can't, then stop right there: step away from him, and go the opposite direction.

Sure, even the authors acknowledge it's tough to be alone and sometimes it seems easier to settle for less just so we're not. But when being with this guy makes us feel miserable, unworthy, and insecure -- then it's not worth it. In the end, we have to keep positive, disregard all the statistics that instill fear rather than faith, and know as Greg says, "profound love is uplifting, joyous, inspiring, and intoxicating, and that (you) should never settle for anything less. Shitty relationships make you feel shitty, and that's not what you were put on this earth for."

Amen to that, my brother.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM

When I turned 21, mom asked me if I wanted to go to a Chippendales show with her. I've never found male strippers hot, titilating, or even entertaining (I have a theory they are all gay -- which is not bad in itself, of course -- but the thought of being turned on by a gay man sounds pretty tragic to me), so I turned her down. Mom said I was no fun.

That wasn't the first time mom had told me that, and neither was it the last. Today, in Philippine time, is mom's 73rd birthday and I bet she's having more fun than I did when I became a legal adult. I don't know if I can sum up my mother's life as having been happy overall, but I will say that she's had more adventure than I probably ever will.

My mother's a true original. She's much stronger than I am, and also has more energy, drive, determination, and moxie than I do. That's saying quite a lot, especially since I'm usually described as being strong, energetic, driven, determined, and gutsy. But she's also stubborn and incorrigible; when she sets her mind on something, there's no way to stop her or get her off track -- she really is the human equivalent of a freight train. If you're in her direct path, get out of her way if you can (but usually you can't).

Through the years, I've struggled with my mom, fought with her, and rebelled against her. But it cannot be denied that I am completely in awe of her. Once you've met her and gotten to know her even a wee bit, you remember her. If you do forget, then you just don't pay enough attention to things that matter. For me, there are two images of her that are seared in my brain: they are so real that these memories still ignite all my senses. I think they say a lot about the kind of woman she is.

The first one occurred sometime after she had radical mastectomy; her left breast was completely removed, as were all the surrounding lymph nodes under her left arm. Her entire arm was swollen and bloated from fluid that kept accumulating, and her only relief was to keep it elevated. But mom had a school to run and wanted (needed) to get back to work right away. I visited her; she was seated at her desk, doing paperwork. She had tied her left arm up to some kind of a pole that she moved near her chair, and was writing with her right hand -- like it was the most natural thing in the world to work that way. Even while battling breast cancer and later surviving (winning actually), mom never chose to be a victim. She never used it as an excuse for anything -- when she could have.

The next one was while she lived here in the US. Mom worked as a secretary in the day, and taught English at various state-funded adult continuing education schools at night. We lived in the heart of downtown LA in those days, near my school (FIDM), and all her jobs. One Sunday we were walking through a really bad part of town, and I wasn't as street-smart then; I was scared. We got to an isolated corner, and a tall, menacing man who looked like he hadn't bathed in a week was walking straight towards us. Mom didn't flinch or hesitate: we kept walking ahead. As he got nearer, just a few steps in front of us, he stared even harder into our faces and slowed his gait. Shit, I thought, we're done for. Seconds later, his face broke into a smile, "Hey Mrs. S. -- how ya doin'?" Mr. Scary-Man was one of mom's students.

My mother isn't the kind you see on TV; the kind who bakes bread or says "I love you" at the end of a phone call. But she's no Joan Crawford either. She made sure I learned how to drive, gave me a key to the house when I got to high school, never read my diaries, and tolerated my having a boyfriend at age 15. She also taught me the importance of real work, the proper way of answering the phone, and how to type. And as I type this, I hope that one day I will grow up to become a little more like her.

Happy Birthday, mommy. She may not be reading this (I didn't tell her about my blog because I don't want her to read my sex-toy story -- she may be cool, but she's still my mother) -- but I'm so glad you are. Now you've met her, too; I think everyone should.

WHEN PIGS FLY

Among mom's most fervent wishes for her daughters was that we would learn two things: to play the piano and learn to dance. I was too restless as a child to sit and practice chords for more than 15 minutes, so mom quickly gave up on that pipe dream. But she did put me in a scratchy pink leotard with matching tights, and ushered me off to ballet classes at the Aldeguer Dance Studio in Magallanes Village, just a few blocks away from home. Truth is I felt like a small pig being led to slaughter, and during my second class I received my death sentence from the butcher.

"You're too fat to do splits," evil teacher said, in front of all the other girls.

I was too proud to cry right then and there, so I smiled and pretended I didn't care. But when I got home, I went straight to mom and announced I was not going back. She was fuming by the time I finished telling her why; the next day mom marched straight to the school and gave teacher a piece of her mind. And let me tell you, if she could have stuffed that piece into the poor woman's mouth as well, she would have.

But there it was: for the first time in my young life, I was too fat to do something.

So anyway, last night I was channel surfing and landed on America's Next Top Model 3, another cheesy reality show. I've got to admit it's a guilty pleasure watching 14 beautiful but insecure women battle it out to be the...well, you guessed it. I'm not sure if it's because they're angst-ridden teenagers, or because the modeling industry fosters insecurity, but these women cry over body parts I didn't even realize I had.

Kate Dillon, a top plus-sized model (read: full-figured) was a guest in Episode 6; she revealed how she used to be a regular fashion model but developed an eating disorder, and ended up leaving the industry. She gained 50 lbs. and then came back and shot straight to the top, along with the likes of Emme and Carrie Otis. The model most interested in what Kate had to say was Toccara, an aspiring plus-sized model (she's 5'9", 180 lbs., and boasts a bra size of 38DDD).

Obviously, the message certainly isn't that anyone can be a model: you still have to be beautiful, photogenic, and have that X-factor the Ford agency folks always refer to but can't quite define. But it's always empowering for me to remember that boundaries can always be stretched, barriers broken through, and terms redefined. After all, when I was 7 years old and struggling to fit into a tight leotard, there was no such thing as a plus-sized model.

Who knows, maybe someday I'll learn how to execute a graceful split. There's no reason fat girls can't, and I'd like to prove it one day. I can assure you of one thing, though: I won't be wearing tights when I do. I might pull a groin muscle and survive; but I won't live through the image of my thighs looking like sausages in casings. Even Kate Dillon, I'm sure, would agree.

I JUST SAW A MOVIE, BUT DOES IT REALLY EXIST?

This is not a movie review. In order to write one today, I would need to be able to explain at least two things about the movie I just saw --One, plot; and two, conflict(s) and resolution. I can do neither, at least not completely or in any meaningful way.

I can say that my sister came over yesterday, because we agreed we'd catch a matinee. I wanted to see Alfie, or maybe even a feel-good chick flick like Wimbledon or First Daughter. I was sleep-deprived from the night before, and it was overcast and grey outside. Definitely a good day to stay in bed and snooze -- but doing so would have been rude considering Joni had to endure about 40 miles of the infernal 5 freeway just to get here.

But it wasn't a good day to, say, perform complex mathematical calculations or ponder over the reasons for global economic inequality. Definitely not. But I suspect my sister was in the mood for vigorous mental exercise, because she insisted we watch I Heart Huckabees, widely described as an existentialist comedy.

I knew nothing about the film, except that it was an art-house type of flick -- which is great because I'm more Laemmle than Edwards to begin with. I still wasn't convinced, but Joni vetoed all my choices, and I was too sleepy to fight for any of them. Big Mistake. Because if I still remember a little bit from college philosophy classes, the theme of Choice is central in Existentialism -- that it is inescapable, that even refusing to choose is a choice, which also entails commitment and responsibility. In other words, I just screwed myself for giving her the freedom to choose for both of us.

Fast forward to the end, because I can't quite explain the beginning and the middle (partly because I had dozed off a few times, during my futile attempts to free my mind of preconceived notions of what the term entertainment means). The credits are rolling, and I'm staring at the screen in a daze. I realized I didn't like the film, definitely did not love it, but didn't quite hate it either. I merely felt...perplexed. Sure, there were funny moments where I laughed (or at least snickered), and there were brilliant conversations peppered throughout. But I felt like I had just been visually and verbally assaulted, and then consoled by being assured that the experience was actually good for me.

Not looking at Joni, I said, "I have no idea what I just saw here." To which she responded by laughing heartily in a way that meant, "Me too, but I will never admit it." If you plan on seeing the movie, here's a piece of advice: Huckabees is intelligent and thought-provoking, but don't think too hard and just go with the flow. For a few seconds I considered watching it again -- but only because I'd never left a movie theater feeling utterly confused and slightly frustrated, but challenged nonetheless. In the meantime, I'll let a real movie critic do his thing. Here's Roger Ebert's review of I Heart Huckabees:

I went to see "I Heart Huckabees" at the Toronto Film Festival. It was on the screen, and I was in my chair, and nothing was happening between us. There was clearly a movie being shown, but what was its purpose and why were the characters so inexplicable? I found the pressure point that is said by the master Wudang Weng Shun Kuen to increase mental alertness. Then I dashed out for a cup of coffee. Then I fell into the Yoga sutra of yatha abhimata dhyanat va, literally clearing the mind by meditating on a single object until I become tranquil. I meditated on the theater exit door.

At festivals, the moment a movie is over, everybody asks you what you thought about it. I said, "I didn't know what I thought." Then how did it make you feel? "It made me feel like seeing it again." You mean you liked it so much you want to see it twice? "No, I'm still working on seeing it the first time."

All I Really Need to Know I Learned at Victoria's Secret

My first retail job was at Victoria's Secret in Downtown LA. It was a tiny shop decorated in the original "Bond Street" design, and was the 50th store opened by the Limited Corp. (by the time I left the company in 1994, there were more than 500 stores nationwide). I was with them for five years, and, as the oft-used literary line goes: it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I never worked harder in my life, but the rewards, when they came, were great. And I don't just mean the 40% discount.

It was there where I realized I was a really good retail sales manager. I started out as a salesperson (with absolutely no previous sales experience); in three months I was promoted to assistant manager. After another three months, I was co-manager, and within a year or so from when I first stepped onto the sales floor, I was store manager. My mentor, Susan, was one of two regional managers and legendary for having fast-tracked her way to the top. She was a vision in Chanel, her makeup and hair always perfect, she charmed her way into getting anything she wanted, and she cussed like a truck driver when she got pissed off. She taught me well. And here are just a few of the many things I learned during my years spent submerged in luxurious lace and sensuous satin:

1. Appearances can be deceiving. Silk thread is stronger than cotton (except when wet). I also learned that men who wear pantyhose are usually straight, not gay. Customers who spend the most don't always look like they can or will. Many of the classiest-looking ladies I ever saw at the Beverly Center store were actually hookers (they were Heidi's girls).
Some of the sweetest folks who worked for me were also among the worst thieves I've had to deal with, and the youngest shoplifting accomplice I ever caught was a cute three-year-old girl who was taught by her mother how to distract salespeople while she stole.

2. Safety first.Inspect the garment before trying it on, and wash undergarments after purchasing -- I don't want to describe the horrors I've seen, but you'll have to take my word on this. I also learned never to get on the top rung of a ladder while wearing a tight leather skirt and high heels, never chase after crooks who look like they can tackle me (because they will), and never use a box cutter when I've had only two hours of sleep and haven't had my morning coffee yet. Bleeding is a bitch, especially when I have to clean up the floor afterwards.

3. We all need a solid support system. More than 75% of women wear the wrong bra size. We don't realize that our bra size, just like our shoe size, changes all the time.
Think of the consequences of inadequate support -- we don't look good and we don't feel good. Now translate that to life, where having a strong support system of family and friends can make all the difference. Without them we'd just be droopy and crestfallen on days we need help most. Choose well when you can, and take good care of your choices. And never deceive yourself, and try to be something you're not, because you'll end up with something wrong for you.

LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHICKEN POX

Dating Commandment No. 1: Thou shalt not piss off your prom date for she shalt strike back one day.

This is that day.

When I was 13 years old, I fell head over heels in love with a boy named Martin. I can't explain why, except that maybe he was the first boy who phoned me regularly, with our conversations lasting for hours on end. OK, so maybe he was smart, funny, and a bit charming in an arrogant sort of way, I suppose. And during one of those late-night talks, I promised I was going to invite him to my first prom, in two years. I figured I had scored myself a sure date and didn't have to worry about it later. Yes, I was a proactive kind of girl, even in those days.

One day he stopped talking to me, not even acknowledging my presence. He was in love with another girl (who later, it was revealed, preferred other girls to boys) and didn't want talk linking us both to each other. But this is merely conjecture because, as mentioned, he wasn't talking to me. Unsurprisingly, he didn't win her heart, and eventually we resumed our friendship, although to a lesser degree.

Two years came around, and all the girls in my class were in a flurry trying to decide whom to ask to the prom. I remembered my promise -- and also because I couldn't think of anyone else I'd have fun with anyway -- so I asked Martin. He accepted.

Then disaster struck. First up, I was felled by chicken pox two weeks before prom night. I tried my best not to scratch the blisters that invaded my entire body so that I would survive unscathed. Then Rosanna's sister-in-law, an aspiring dressmaker, forgot to make my dress. That's right: she simply forgot. Now these were the days before RTW; teenagers today don't know how lucky they are that they can simply run into a mall and buy a pretty dress (or rather, ultra-low pants that show a hint of lace thong and a scant piece of cloth that can barely pass for a top). The only dress I owned was a Pepto-Bismol-colored meringue constructed of layers of eyelet cotton and a ribbon around the waist (can I mention it was something I was forced to wear to my grandparents' Golden Wedding Anniversary?).

Gamely, I pinned both sides of my hair in little pink clips, applied lipstick, and smiled. My braces were shining, and the scabs on my face were gone. Martin arrived to pick me up, and pinned a gorgeous corsage on my dress. We were off.

If you think this is "Happily Ever After," think again. After dinner, when the evening's awards were presented, he leaned towards me and snarled, "If it weren't for you, we would have won Best Dressed." When dancing started, as the disco ball circled above, he whispered loud enough for everyone else to hear, "Don't smile so much; your braces reflect the lights and you're blinding me." I wanted to cry.

I was miserable the entire evening. My date thought I was ugly and unworthy, when I just felt lucky to make it to prom that night. Gone were my dreams of feeling like a princess; my date was obviously a frog, and a kiss to turn him into a prince was out of the question.

The next year, I was ready for Senior Prom. My date was my cute boyfriend, a college boy three years older than me. I wore a beautiful organza dress designed by Pitoy Moreno (why didn't dad mention the year before that the designer was his friend?), and the braces were off. Martin was there, with another girl. I floated past him and wanted to give him the finger. But I didn't, because finally I was a princess, and princesses don't do that (unless they hail from Monaco). He didn't win Best Dressed that night either, and his date looked fine.

Alas, this story has no real happy ending. Martin grew up to become a successful executive in the telecommunications industry, and my cute boyfriend cheated on me and eventually got someone else pregnant. But Martin doesn't keep a blog to tell his side of the story...and I do. And old friend, if you're reading this, this finger's right in your face. Now we're even.

ON LEAVING AND LIVING

"It is in your moments of decision that your destiny is shaped."
- Anthony Robbins

I still remember quite clearly the moment I decided to ask for a divorce.

Sure, there were many other times I wondered about it, thought deeply about it, and even fantasized what it would be like to put my fractured marriage behind me, and just move on. I'm not the kind of person who likes to ask for help, but I prayed for guidance and strength, and even saw a therapist and a psychiatrist. I read books (one of my favorites: Too Good to Leave, Too Bad to Stay) and magazine articles to help me sort out my situation and see if this was something that could be fixed. All throughout I told myself that commitment in marriage was different from the kind you agree to make with a boyfriend; you commit to love your spouse -- even on (especially on, I should say) mornings you wake up, look to your side and think "I cannot stand this person anymore."

But when I made the decision, I was done. I knew I had tried to make it work and that the only option left was to lose myself and settle for less of a life than I deserved. So on that day, as I took a break from packing all our belongings in boxes -- we were about to completely remodel and renovate our home and were moving elsewhere temporarily -- I realized I had no desire to take this next step with him and was too exhausted to even try. I was all packed up, and ready to go even if I had no idea where I was going. I picked up the phone, called him and said, "I can't do this anymore."

Since that moment, I've never looked back or regretted my decision. I've never asked myself if I could have tried any more than I had. I started all over again -- moved out of our beautiful home in San Marino into a one-bedroom apartment, and lived from paycheck to paycheck until my circumstances improved. And I never wondered whether or not I made the right choice.

If I had not made that choice, I would have been married 10 years this month. That's a lot of living to be either enjoyed or endured. The other choice I made that day was to be happy -- what gave me the courage to pick up the phone was realizing that happiness, just like marriage, was also a choice that requires constant commitment. I've been happy ever since. Life isn't perfect, for sure, but at least now I'm committed to living.

File This One Under TMI Part Two

Note: This won't make sense unless you've read Part One.

We took our friend Meg along; she had never been to the store and was in the mood for a little field trip. We quickly realized why the place was legendary; displayed along one corner of the store were dildos and vibrators of every material, size, shape, and color. I felt lightheaded -- a combination of fear and excitement perhaps.

Meg nailed it right on the head: "Look if you're going to have to use one of these things, you might as well have fun doing it. Go get a vibrator instead," she suggested. Ted and I looked at each other and nodded; as always, she made perfect sense. Picking the right one took much longer, however. After drawn-out discussions of size Vs. shape, etc., I chose a "realistic-looking" one, supposedly molded from the penis of a famous porn star (Did I just mention the P-word in my blog?). I went home and decided that if I was going to be intimate with my new friend, he'd might as well have a name. I called him "Pierce" (yes, as in Brosnan).

Long story short (sorry for the unintended puns), this wasn't working. So I went back to Debbie and asked for more detailed medical advice. "No," she said, "You need to get a dildo that is soft and pliable." I made sure I got all the facts right, called Ted, and went back. This time, we followed the specs and bought an 8-inch dildo. I named him "Peter."

Despite what I paid for my two buddies (these suckers are expensive!), I ended up throwing them away. Truth is I was afraid I'd be another casualty of LA gang violence someday, and my mom would clean out my things, find the boys, and think her daughter was a pervert. So mom, if you're reading this (and I pray you are most definitely NOT), I was just following doctor's orders. Sadly, I think Debbie ruined the whole sex-toy concept for me.
But then again, I don't remember seeing the "Rabbit" during my brief shopping spree. Or for that matter, ducks, butterflies, or even peacocks. If you don't understand what I'm talking about, check out Good Vibrations; you can buy the entire menagerie.

File This One Under TMI Part One

If you're squeamish or are scandalized easily, keep moving. There's nothing to see here.

I just opened my email from Good Vibrations; I'm on their mailing list. I love the fact that this online store (they also have brick & mortars in, where else, San Francisco and Berkeley, CA) sells sex toys, books, and videos as if they were the Discovery Channel Store. OK, so maybe it's because their philosophies may not be completely different.

What caught my eye was their mention of (another) new vibrator. And I've done more than one person's share of vibrator-shopping. But not for the reason(s) you may think.

A while back I had a procedure that left scar tissue...ummm...inside me, that blocked the view to my cervix. Apparently this problem was serious enough to merit further medical attention, so back I went for another procedure. After the nurse practitioner, Debbie, removed the culprit, she sat me down to discuss post-procedure treatment. And thank God I was sitting down.

First of all, Debbie resembles a number of my religion teachers back in grade school. She has salt-and-pepper hair and a friendly, wrinkled face; and so delicate that she's allergic to any kind of fragrance. So she sat me down and said, "Well, sweetie, the problem is you tend to scar easily. So you'll develop scar tissue again from this procedure as well. But we need to make sure that it doesn't grow in a way that blocks your cervix. What you need to do is buy a dildo and..."

I swear I didn't hear her next few sentences. "Umm, I need to buy what?" I asked. She calmly repeated herself, with no trace of amusement or irritation. Without going into further detail than I have to, Debbie instructed that I needed to use the dildo every day, so that the scar tissue would form to the side, where it could do no harm.

As soon as I got home, I called my friend Ted, who was a frequent shopper at The Pleasure Chest in West Hollywood. "I need to buy a dildo," I said, "And you need to come with me and help me get one." Being the true friend that he was, he volunteered to assist me in a way that wouldn't involve payment of any kind. But no, I wanted to follow doctor's orders strictly to the letter. So off we went shopping.

OCTOBER IS FILIPINO AMERICAN HISTORY MONTH

My friend Moonie Lantion, in his website The Flavor Online, recently wrote about a new hit show, Dog, The Bounty Hunter. I've never seen it, but basically here's the gist of the series:

A&E's new reality show follows the real-life adventures of legendary bounty hunter Duane "Dog" Chapman, owner of Bounty Hunter International. A former convict who vowed to redeem himself by operating on the right side of the law, Hawaii-based Dog claims to be "the greatest bounty hunter in the world," having chased down more than 6,000 bail jumpers.

Moonie writes that unfortunately, many of those being pursued by Dog are of Filipino ancestry. And although we've been clamoring for more media exposure of Filipinos in the U.S., the common wisdom of there's no such thing as bad publicity, sadly does not apply here. He continues:

It's a cool show but each week I watch it and when they are about to show the person that Dog and his crew are going to hunt down, I always say to myself, "Please don't be a Pinoy, please don't be a Pinoy, please don't be a Pinoy... AWW CRAP HE'S FILIPINO!!!"

Well, I guess it's a start but this is one of those rare cases where I wouldn't mind if some of these Pinoys claimed they were Hawaiian.

Moonie's not dissing Hawaiians. Sadly, there are too many Filipinos who prefer to describe themselves
as being Hawaiian or Pacific Islander -- and we're not talking about Jasmine Trias here, who was raised in Mililani, HI. We're talking about folks who may have vacationed a couple of times in the islands (or worse, have never ever seen the waves break on Hawaiian shores). And why? Because they think it's better to be something other than Filipino. Being Hawaiian, they feel, makes them appear "exotic" or "sensual." I'm afraid to ask what they think the truth means for them, or for the rest of us.

I once went on a date with an idiot who said Filipinos were Pacific Islanders. The last time I checked, I argued, the Philippines was still located in the continent of Asia. But it didn't matter to him; his (misguided) sense of identity was rooted in his vision of island paradise. Obviously that night he didn't get to reach any state of elated bliss with me.

If you're still skeptical, check out the import car models on Friendster and look for the ones who look Pinay. You'll discover (as I did) that many of them say they can speak or understand Filipino/Tagalog and can even make a mean lumpia. But oddly enough, they're not Filipino: they're Pacific Islander.

And don't get me started on the "I'm Filipino/Spanish/Chinese" thing. Or worse, folks who claim to have been descended from ancient Spanish (or Portuguese) royal lineage just because they share the same last name, period. Look up your history, peeples. You may be embarrassed to say you're Pinoy, but have you ever thought our Hawaiian or Spanish friends might be ashamed to think you could be one of them?

...AND I AM A MATERIAL GIRL

I became a student activist in college; those years were among the most exhilarating and fulfilling times of my life. The end goal was to pressure the university into offering an Asian American Studies program on campus (which it now has). I spoke to various student organizations in order to build coalitions, passed out petitions, wrote letters to the campus newspaper, and even got to plead our case in front of the Cal State bigwigs in Sacramento.

The fun part was networking with students from all over the state. We attended conferences, slept on the floors of gyms and even churches, and of course partied together (and yes, there was a lot of hooking up going on -- we were hormonally-charged college students after all). As a result, everyone knew who everyone else was.

One day I was invited to, and attended, a secret meeting hosted by folks who were more radical and definitely more "Leftist" than the typical liberal/progressive student activist.Obviously, they were picky about whom they invited (i.e. whom they could trust). A few of my close friends were part of the inner circle and I found myself wondering if I would join them; after all, I admired and respected those who were already involved.

The "wondering" part took all of less than 10 minutes, really. It was one thing to be idealistic, liberal, and progressive. But I knew a more radical kind of life wasn't for me: I was hopelessly attached to my material possessions. I couldn't imagine lugging the September issue of Vogue on the bus to attend another demonstration. And let's be honest -- how I was going to rough it with the workers of the world? Me, who had never been camping and hadn't planned on doing so unless the campsite had a clean bathroom with a functioning toilet and running water and preferably a bed (OK, let's call it what it really is -- a spa).

There are a few vestiges of my old life: student leadership gave me negotiating and motivating skills I later used in the workplace, and my problem-solving skills are pretty well-honed. I'm still a liberal, and still believe in the issues I once fought for. Lastly, all those days spent on long drives and crummy accommodations made me an expert at looking pretty decent with a tube of hand cream and one lipstick. And yes, if I had to, I could probably fight off riot police with a well-worn issue of Vogue.

AND WE ARE LIVING IN A MATERIAL WORLD...

I'm adding sections to the sidebar: "Soundtrack" and "Stuff" as soon as I figure out how to do it. I got the titles in, though, for now. Yay for me.

The first section will list whatever cds I have in rotation; it is by no means a statement of what I find indispensable, or what I would bring if I were to be banished to a desert island all by myself. However, if my life were a movie, there would be a running soundtrack all throughout -- drowning out the dialogue even, but punctuating every emotion. Unfortunately, sometimes I don't choose the songs; they choose me.

For instance, my first slow dance with Rod (a college ex who, inexplicably, took me a year to get over) was to the song "Tender Love" by Force M.D. (who?).
To this day, every time I hear this song I remember how it feels to be so absolutely giddy in love, and just simply content to be near the object of my affection. Would I have picked this '80s confection to encapsulate pure, blind, and misplaced joy? Heck no. But there it is, the result of one DJ's unfortunate choice during my moment of bliss.

The next section, "Stuff," will be just about that: Stuff. It could be my favorite thing of the moment, or a book I'm reading, or my current eye candy. I remember when I moved from LA to OC; it took me, my then-boyfriend, and two (albeit skinny) movers 20 hours from loading to unloading the truck. During the first few hours of the process, my boyfriend kept saying, "You have a lot of stuff." At the eight-hour mark, it was "You have a lot of shit." I learned that day that stuff is what fills empty space; once you have to organize or move it, it quickly turns to shit.

I do have a lot of shit, and the inventory list keeps getting longer. The next time I move, I'll make sure I hire stronger, muscular movers. And hopefully playing in the background will be a kick-ass cd that will get them to move faster.