GIGI GOES GAGA

WHEN I'M OLD

Sometimes I wish I were old.

Strange coming from someone whose bathroom resembles a chemical factory, what will all the lotions and potions to battle all telltale signs of aging overflowing in heaps inside baskets and drawers. In fact I'm currently in full-assault mode against two deepening frown lines between my eyebrows which are threatening to make me appear as if I were perpetually cross. And don't get me started on broken capillaries and brown spots; if I can help it they won't be there for long.

But sometimes I wish I were really, really old. I wish I were at that age when I could say or write whatever truth was in my head with little or no fear of consequences. I wish I could simply divulge what I thought or how I felt about matters that all proper women should keep to themselves. I wish I could reveal what I ought to keep hidden. You see, if I were an old woman simply shooting from the hip, I'd have nothing to lose. Most people would say that I was probably losing my senses or describe me as becoming more eccentric in my old age. But however they try to explain whatever shocking thing that comes out of my mouth or pen, they would probably forgive me because I was old. Or dying. People usually tend to forgive the dying.

The problem is when I'm old I'd probably have forgotten all the things I wanted to say when I was younger but was saving for much later. But don't bet on it.

HAIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW

Many, many summers ago my friend J fell in love with a boy and was so infatuated with him that she couldn't eat or sleep for days on end. Two months later she had lost 15 lbs. and had gone from pleasingly plump to scorchingly svelte.

The only downside was that due to her rapid weight loss, she had lost so much of her thick, black hair that she had a huge bald spot on top of her forehead. I remember joking with her at the time: This is how God evens out the playing field for us women, you see. You may be able to show off your body but now you have to hide your head. She didn't think I was funny at all, obviously.

Well. So guess what else I've been shedding besides all this weight lately? As I peeked a glimpse of this blindingly white patch of skin at the top of the back of my head this morning, I realized where all those strands of long hair on the floor, in the sink, on my pillow, and even on my cat were coming from.

Karma. Ain't it a bitch?

QUOTE OF THE DAY

I read this on -- of all things -- a paperweight today:

What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?

I'm on the right track. Now all I need to do is stay on it.

Happy Thanksgiving to All!

PERMISSION TO FAIL

This keeps running through my head tonight. It would be an annoying refrain, almost like an earworm, if it weren't so true: We're never too old to make mistakes, yet it's never too late to learn from them.

It's not that I regret quitting my job (I don't, not even a wee bit) but ever since the day I realized I no longer had a guaranteed paycheck to depend on I've been having serious dialogues with myself. My state of mind and being seems to change every few hours and I'm not used to having so many sudden fluctuations in mood. Sometimes I feel exhilarated by the freedom I now have, other times I'm afraid of the challenges that lie ahead of me.

So just moments ago I gave myself permission to fail, to goof and make mistakes, if only to learn from the effort and experience. It was the only thing I could do to guarantee that I keep trying. I'm visualizing myself at this same time next year feeling only too happy and grateful that I decided to bust out, take a leap, and learn to fly. I'm committed to keeping the faith, to focus on thinking and feeling positively despite whatever obstacles come my way. And they most certainly will come my way. But I'm determined to keep knocking them down and keep pushing forward.

I've decided to chuck my former notions of success and redefine what I want out of this life. I'm going to have to learn how to do without many of the things I took for granted and to question what I really need. But the important thing is that at least I've started asking questions again; it's been so long since I had the time and energy to even want or care to.

And besides, you can only have answers when you ask questions first. I'm expecting a lot of both during the months ahead. Before I left Manila last month, a beloved friend and I made a pact that when we saw each other again we would make at least one drastic change about ourselves.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to confound my friend's expectations. But even more so, my very own.

Updated: I read this today. I wish I'd seen it a couple of months ago, but at least it's reaffirmed the choice I made.

WHILE I WAS AWAY

These last nine days have been crazy; I haven't noticed that so much time has gone by. Just a quick update before I get back to the usual blog posts.

My mother arrived in Los Angeles and will be staying for a few weeks. I see my parents once a year at most so I know immediately when something is different about either of them. The first thing I noticed was that she now walks with a cane. (This is not the mother I know.) Then she told me that on the plane she sat beside a man who had purchased the cane in Macao; she told him it was beautiful and that he must be an artist to be carrying around something so exquisite. It turned out she assumed correctly; he decided he wanted to give it to her and now she walks around with it proudly. (This is the mother I know very well.)

I purchased a roundtrip ticket to Manila and I'm going home in a couple of weeks!

Which explains why I've been crazy-busy at work. My co-workers now have to drag me out of my office to get lunch and even to take restroom breaks.

Got together with 27 of my high school classmates last week. Doesn't sound like anything remarkable until you consider that I graduated high school in the Philippines and that many of the girls flew in from San Francisco, Orlando, New York, and even Milwaukee just for the weekend. I haven't seen most of them since we grabbed our diplomas and marched out of the Manila Cathedral all those years ago. Regardless of what anyone else thinks, we believe we all still look the same (only better, of course).

My bestfriend has been going through one of the most challenging periods in her life and I feel completely helpless because we're thousands of miles apart and I can only listen to her cry. I want to tell her that we learn most from our worst days rather than our best (but I won't -- yet -- because sometimes you don't really give a s**t about learning anything when you're going through your worst). The other thing I want to tell her is that I've never been more proud of her in all the 25 years we've been joined at the hip, and that it will be all worth it in the end.

I cringe when I look at myself in photographs because I think I look deformed, especially when I'm laughing. Then I cringe even more when I realize that everyone else in the picture looks just as I see them in person.

Mom and I had a long talk the other day and I found myself giving her advice about how to be happy and enjoy the rest of her life by not stressing over things she can't possibly control. My mother taught me well.

I finally admitted to myself that the main reason I implemented the "burgers and pizza (either one or the other, not both) only once a week" law at home is because I really don't like burgers and pizza. It just so happens that they aren't that healthy either.

Sign that I'm really getting old: When I feel naughty, when I want to be a BAD girl...I eat a handful of peanut M&Ms. Goobers work just as well, too.

Another sign that I'm old: when mom asked me if I had any books on personality development (for a project she's working on), my husband showed her my collection of sex handbooks. Mom didn't even flinch, like there's nothing wrong about her daughter owning such things! (And now he's not getting any until I get over my deep sense of shame.)

THE (UNFUNNY) LATE NIGHT SHOW

It's 3 am and I'm failing miserably at being funny.

I mentioned a while back that my high school class is putting together a memory book consisting of photographs and inspirational stories. Some of you might even recall that I gave up trying to submit a current solo picture of myself, and I didn't attempt fulfilling the latter either because nothing in my life, past or present, can possibly inspire a large group of mostly pious and devout Catholic women (especially the nuns who will also be reading this book).

So the wonderful folks manning the project have agreed to accept only a group photograph from me and have assigned me to write something funny instead. I thought this would be easy: I could choose from one of more than 350 blog posts, revise, and rewrite. I've just gone through my archives, however, and I've discovered I'm only funny when I'm being inappropriate. Or, at least, when it's the last thing I want to be.

But because it's exactly what I want to be right now, I suck*. Next time I watch a comedy that doesn't make me laugh, I'll be a hell** of a lot more sympathetic to the writers -- who really tried, after all. It's all about karma***, and I don't want it to bite me in the ass****.

(*can't use this word in the book.)
(**can't use this word, either.)
(***nope, not this one.)
(***especially not this one.)

BAGS AND THINGS

I've realized that I own too many things.

I don't say this in a bragging sort of way, you understand. I don't have even a third of the possessions that, say, Britney or Lindsey can boast of -- but they live in much bigger homes and can store their things so they don't have to live with them quite so closely. I, on the other hand, inhabit a two-bedroom townhome and have exhausted every creative means to give my things space; so much so that I've run out of my own room to belong.

So I've started going through every closet and every storage bin, weeding out what I no longer use or need (and in the meantime trying not to shop during this splendid summer sale season). With horror I've discovered that I've forgotten I already have certain items -- which I then end up repurchasing as a result -- so now I have two, or three, or more of something I still don't know I own.

Today's project was the coat closet downstairs by the foyer. Inside are perhaps six coats -- and an untold number of bags. My bestfriend Rosanna stayed with me for about a week a few years ago and was the first to alert me that I owned too many. I didn't quite believe her then because I don't salivate over bags the way I do over shoes or makeup or even bras. So to make her point, she borrowed one every day and then said I didn't even notice. Which I hadn't, really.

Today I hauled out everything in the tiny closet to take inventory before putting not-everything back. Rosanna, as usual, was dead-on right. I even have a few bags in there that are older than my nieces -- who are old enough to use my things now (I say with pride, however, that I keep my things in pristine condition so I can pass them on, if I choose to).

I sorted my bags by material, style, and color; then I dusted them off and cleaned out their insides, the detritus of a life lived outside my home. Every single one still had things inside of them. My things have things! It's possible, I realize, that I am still the same girl I've been for at least the last 15 years because I've continued to lug around the same items with me everywhere I go: lip balm (I've kept Burt's Bees in business all these years, I'm convinced), spare tampons, mints or gum, pens, pocket boar bristle brushes, allergy and sinus headache medicine, sewing kits (filched from hotel rooms), and tissue packets. (I will confess that I found a condom inside one of my satchels -- which not only tells me how long it's been since I used the damn thing, but also of what my life was like as a single woman.)

I'm proud to say that I found the strength within me to part with quite a few things, all now headed for the Goodwill. Better yet, I know now for sure I have no need for another black leather bag (of any kind). But best of all, I'm on my way to living a lighter kind of life, where I don't have as many things, and my things no longer own their own things. I don't know if I'll ever get to a point where I only have what I really need, but it would be great when I reach the day when what I need is not more space to live in, when I have all the room I need.

BITS AND PIECES

I've been running myself ragged at work these past few weeks -- so much so that I am now operating on fumes, my fuel tank is on empty and I don't seem to have time to gas up. I feel like all I have to offer are bits and pieces of my time, energy, and attention -- and so bits and pieces it is for my post today. But hopefully not mere crumbs.

1. So aptly named...

Loving v. Virginia. Tomorrow, June 12th, will mark the 40th year since the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that Virginia's criminal ban on interracial marriage was unconstitutional. Anti-miscegenation laws were struck down not only within the state, but also in the 15 others that had them on the books at the time. I still can't seem to grasp that it was only 48 years ago that the trial judge who ruled that the Lovings -- Mildred Jeter (black woman) and Richard Loving (white man) -- had to leave Virginia for 25 years or else face one year's jail time, stated in an opinion that:

"Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix."

Thought balloon: Unfortunately, God created idiots, too -- and didn't bother to separate them from the rest of humanity. (And did this judge ever wonder why his own ancestor "interfered" with God's "arrangement" and sailed to where the red race already lived and thrived -- quite happily, at that?)

2. Forget 90210...

One day my dream is for my home to be located within this zip code, right next to the Louboutins, the Choos, and the Blahniks.

3. Schadenfreude defined.

All week I've had this classic Hall & Oates ditty running through my head. Still, the real lesson lies not in the song lyrics nor in the message that "if you do the crime, you must do the time," but in the sad reality that celebrities -- at least in Los Angeles -- are truly unlike you and me. People might be laughing at "poor" Paris now, but the joke will be on all those who buy the book she may actually write after she's released from jail in a few days. Or even on all of us who can't stop paying attention to everything she does (but after last Friday's "Mommy!" courtroom outburst, how could we possibly not?).

4. And while we're on the topic of rich, spoiled, narrow-minded girls...

I can't seem to put this book down. I've read historical accounts of Marie Antoinette, the doomed French queen who got her head chopped off and was blamed by generations of critics for uttering a few words of nonsense she never actually said. But Sena Jeter Naslund's exquisitely written novel Abundance -- which never seems to stray far from historical fact -- provides a glimpse of how even the best intentions can become waylaid or misguided when one insists on seeing the world not as it really is but only as far as one can bear to look. I can't wait to finish this book -- even if I already know how it's going to end.

5. Just when we've learned to stay out of the sun...

New research published in the American Journal of Clinical Nutrition this week is bolstering other studies that show Vitamin D -- which is normally and naturally produced in the skin after exposure to sunlight -- may lower the risk of at least a few forms of cancer (breast, ovarian, and colon), although experts caution that more research is needed.

In addition, another recent study found that Vitamin D and Calcium may lower breast cancer risk among premenopausal women. Still, for now, all we need to remember is that we can get beneficial dosages of the vitamin from food sources (i.e. oily fish, margarine, and meat) and supplements, and that this is NOT a convenient excuse to bake under the summer sun, nor to forget to wear sunscreen while outdoors.

PICTURE PHOBIA

I've never liked having my picture taken; in fact my earliest memories of me and a camera was me running away from one -- unless I happen to be peeking through the viewfinder (something I actually enjoy). I'm so used to the glaring looks mom shoots at me while we're having family portraits taken. "Smile!" she always shouts at me exasperatingly -- which only makes me want to do anything but. Days later, when we're looking at proofs trying to pick one where we all look pretty decent, I hear my sisters sigh, as if I had ruined all the shots. But I can't blame them; they're usually right.

I know what they're thinking: I always look pained in photographs, like I'd rather be pulling out my fingernails with tweezers. A cursory look through my two or three photo albums will reveal at least a handful of shots showing me actually being physically restrained by the person standing next to me. And I only have the same few poses throughout: deer-in-headlights, squinting eyes, head cocked to the side (because I simply do not know what to do with myself), and about-to-bolt.

So this year I was asked twice to submit a recent (solo) photograph of myself: one was for a magazine article about female bloggers and the other was for my high school reunion memory book. And twice I replied that I didn't have one to provide. For the second one I was given at least a couple of months to get my picture taken, so I suppose I really have no excuse except to say I'd rather I was forgotten by my class then remembered for my dorky picture.

Last weekend my sister took a picture of me with my cat. Of course I had to run after Boo around the living room and kitchen before I finally scooped her up with my arms and brought her outside with me. She whimpered a bit and then suddenly went limp and heavy as I heard the shutter go off; she just wasn't willing to cooperate, no matter what anyone of us said or did. When I viewed the shot I had to laugh -- she's just too much like her mommy.

I am considering hiring a professional photographer to take that one shot of me I can use for every occasion and need, but I have too many requirements. I don't want a glamour shot because I'm not the least bit glamorous; I want something that doesn't look posed but I don't want the unflattering bits and pieces of me exposed; I don't want to be asked to smile but I want to look at least a bit happy; and I must have good hair on that day.

I am SO going to be forgotten after I'm long gone from this world since there will hardly be any pictorial evidence of my ever having been alive. But hopefully I won't have a dorky picture to remember me by.

RAMBLINGS OF A HUNGRY GIRL

The Good News: I took a couple days off from work this past week so I could recharge my batteries.
The Bad News: Husband caught the stomach flu so we couldn't get away for the weekend.
Good: We got to spend time a lot of time together anyway since I couldn't leave the poor, sick man alone.
Bad: So I caught the bug from him and spent my vacation at home, writhing in pain and practically living in the bathroom.
Good: I've barely eaten all week and thus have lost weight.
Bad: Am so bloated from all the gas and other yucky stuff inside my system that you can't tell I'm thinner anyway.

I'm so hungry right now (although I can't really tell if the rumbling in my stomach is from hunger pangs or from the virus banging at my insides). And because the Universe is in a sadistic mood this week, I've been surrounded by food. REALLY good food, too -- like barbeque chicken and ribs (with beans and cornbread) and prime rib and garlic mashed potatoes and carnitas wrapped in warm, fresh tortillas and this morning I even had to say a tearful "no" when I was offered a McDonald's Egg McMuffin (which I consider a treat and enjoy only a couple of times a year).

Of course, my husband's all recovered now and has been eating anything he fancies. He's even off to a family dinner tomorrow while I stay home -- alone -- and feast on gruel and water. No worries -- I'm visualizing myself in a smaller dress size. In a dress he's going to have to buy for me to make up for giving me this pesky bug, no doubt.

AS A MATTER OF FACTS

I have lists running through my head at any given time. If you see me staring blankly into space but sense the brain cells working double-time, I'm probably trying to figure out what I need to do Vs. what I've already done. Sometimes you can even hear me talking to myself, rattling off words that don't seem to make sense: Cleaners, bleach, manicure, Sandra, property tax. That would be my list you're hearing.

The list I need to be writing down instead; after all, isn't that what all organizational gurus preach that we must do before anything else in order to succeed in life?

I used to live by my lists, but then I tried to go electronic and then I ended up living on the fly. A few years ago I got a Palm T2 -- it was supposed to change my life. I even got it a luxurious leather jacket, custom-made in Argentina, to celebrate its prominent and indispensable role in my road to self-actualization. I entered in all my information, all the facts I would ever need, downloaded a bunch of nifty software designed to add ease into already relatively easy tasks (like calculating tips), made sure to sync it up with my computer nightly, and carried it around with me during the day.

But for some reason I couldn't sync with it. I found it too tedious to write on (in?) and I had to be careful not to get the screen dirty or else I'd end up throwing it off and inadvertently press on the wrong key. It got to the point that when I'd bump into a long-lost friend at a party or some random place -- with the chance I'd never see him or her again -- I'd pull out a scrap of paper and a pen to to jot down and exchange contact information. All this time my trusty T2 would be sitting quietly inside a little pocket in my bag, snoozing unaware.

Unlike some of my other friends who soon traded their models for new, improved versions, I never did. I just felt too guilty, knowing I didn't deserve even the one I had. But I still kept hoping I'd decide it was the only thing that could organize my life -- even after I pulled it out of my purse and left it displayed on my table beside my Mac, next to its HotSync pod. And thus all these years since I've been left to fend for myself, with no place to organize my facts and check off lists.

Until today, that is, when I went back to my old Filofax (well, not exactly my old one, but a newer, prettier version). I've realized that I'm the kind of person who prefers to write important things down on paper. I like to leaf through pages and see things crossed out or checked off. I like to insert notes, torn off sheets from newspapers or magazines, photographs, and things like concert tickets into the white sheets filed into the leather binder; I like to see the occasional handwriting of an old friend who jotted down her new email address or phone number in my book when I ran into her at the mall. I like seeing bits and pieces of my life and all the things I find important and don't ever want to forget whenever I pull out my little book. And know that whether or not I forget to connect it to a pod or a plug it will always remain there.

So tonight my husband walked over and asked for my T2; he said if I'm not going to be using it he'd like to take it off my hands. I picked it up and plugged it in so I could power it on again, brushed my fingertips against its smooth, matte metal surface and caressed its elegant leather jacket. Sure, I said. Then he saw me looking at it longingly, lovingly.

Unless you're going to use it, he added. To tell the truth, I'm still torn (maybe I just didn't give it a chance?). But I know my T2 is better off sitting in the palm of his hand, of being used instead of just looking pretty, so I'm passing it on. And who knows, it might just help him finally remember our wedding anniversary next year? That would certainly be worth its 2003 price -- leather jacket included.

WHEN IMITATION IS A GOOD THING

I came across something brilliant the other week. I don't remember if I'd heard or read it (great, someday I might say or write something pretty darn smart and other memory-challenged folks like myself will forget I had anything to do with it. Anyway.) still I've been putting it to good use since then.

Someone said (and I'm also paraphrasing here) that if you'd like to have an idea of how someone else is feeling at a particular moment or instance, simply mimic the person's facial expression and it's the closest you'll ever get to experiencing an actual mind-meld -- unless you're psychic of course.

I've imitated folks (hopefully without their knowledge) forcing smiles, grimacing, biting their lip, staring straight ahead, and even looking completely blank, for instance, and I'm amazed at how much insight I've received about their state of mind or being. Of course, sometimes I wish I could copy my own expression just to figure out what it is I'm actually feeling, but of course it doesn't work that way. And then I worry that someone else is going to figure it out for me.