shoe therapy

When things go wrong as they sometimes will, when you're stressed or unhappy, or when it's raining and you can't go back to the office because you have no umbrella... what do you do?

I hit the shoe stores. Charles & Keith in particular, where the heels can be five inches and you still feel like you can run to the copy room for a print-out that's needed five minutes ago.

People think I have a couple dozen shoes hidden under my workstation. I don't. But the shoes I do have are pretty ones, and none of them have heels below three inches. The last one I bought last week, white, wedge, and has a funky white buckle, has... let me take out a ruler... 4.5 inches! Lovely!

I bought the white shoes last week because I was due to report in MBA class that night, I wasn't prepared, and the professor asked tough questions. So I figured if I had no chance to finish the presentation unharmed, at least I had pretty shoes while I was doing it. Ha ha.

I don't buy shoes every time I'm upset. Most working mothers out there can tell you that they usually equate a purchase with what they could buy for the kids. Me, I usually end up thinking that a pair of new shoes would be equivalent to two cans of baby formula. But I go to the stores anyway, and I check out the new ones on display. I would scheme about buying one, and how soon I can get it if I just eat Sky Flakes for lunch for three weeks. If I end up dreaming of the shoes on weekends, you can bet I'm on my way to acquiring it. Some conditions must be met, though: (a) it should be able to match at least five outfits in my closet; (b) it should be a color I don't yet have; (c) it should have at least three-inch-heels.

I used to raid the book sales when I'm down. But it's difficult to gloat over five new novels when you're dreading an MBA class presentation. The shoes, well, they're different. You see them on your feet and you feel good about yourself. The books would probably come after the presentation is done.

What I'm driving at is, when you're down, you should have some pick-me-up thing. Some people run to clear their minds (run in marathons-- not run from the problems). Some people get drunk. Some people will do videoke for thirteen hours straight. I look at shoes. Life will not always give you good times, but there are always Band-Aids for little hurts.

I'm beginning to wonder how many pairs of undeclared shoes there will be when my thesis defense comes around.

the name game

I have a Siamese cat named Chloe. I have a two-year-old daughter with the same name.

The cat goes ecstatic at the sight of a fly trapped in the window screen. The kid sneaks up on the sleeping cat and prods her behind with a long-handled spoon, and laughs wildly when the cat jumps up in terror. Both of them love soft bread. Both of them have evil tempers.

When we call out “Chloe!” both cat and child look around to see which one is guilty. To solve the problem, we added a description at the end of the name. Now we have “Chloe the Cat” and “Chloe the Kid.”

But it’s such a mouthful, so we tried calling one just “Cat” and the other “Kid.”
They wouldn’t respond. Maybe it felt like we grown-ups weren’t according them the proper dignity befitting the name, which is one of the many names of the Greek goddess Demeter.

My elder daughter suggested that we change the name of her little sister, so that the cat can lay claim to the name. The nanny argued that it didn’t seem proper for a child to give way to a mere cat. The cat sniffed and looked insulted.

Finally we came to a solution. We’re sticking with Chloe, and we just wait to see which one jumps. We’re also checking closely which one nibbles on the cat biscuits.

unfinished houses

When I was growing up, we did not live in our own house. We lived in my grandparents' house, a grand affair in marble with three bedrooms, terraces front and back, heavy narra furniture, and huge cabinets filled with expensive china.

So where was our house? It was in an isolated little village where my parents' teaching posts were. In those days, you went to wherever the school superintendent sent you. They sent public school teachers to godforsaken places to spread education. We went there only during the summer, because my grandmother thought we were too good to live in a place with no electricity and the only source of entertainment at night was watching fireflies converge on trees.

For the child that I was, I thought our house in the little barrio was the grandest, but in all the summers I spent there, it was always a work in progress. In a place where most houses had walls of wood and roofs of thatched coconut fronds, ours had a stone foundation and concrete walls. It was also elevated, because it had a basement. The basement, my parents said, was going to be a family room. There would be a little library in it. Imagine!

My father had a fishpond in the front yard, but we all begged him to turn it into a swimming pool. There were fruit trees around the fish pond, and we had a tree house. Well, the river was just across the road, but how many kids could sit in their own tree house while fishing?

My mother loved plants and had an enviable collection of orchids. She also grew vegetables in over a dozen plots in the backyard. My father loved animals; he kept pets that weren't exactly ordinary. He had a couple of dozen geese, a family of turkey, and assorted birds. He had pigs in a pen, fighting cocks, and lots and lots of hens that chased children. At any given time he had three fierce hunting dogs, and when he told his friends that his dogs were trained to kill, we children looked at the drooling sonsabitches with respect. At one time he also kept a deer, a hornbill, and a hawk. He hunted; it was his dream to kill a wild boar single-handedly.

And we spent those summers in the not-quite-a-house, with rough timber all around and steel bars in the backyard, piles of hollow blocks and pails of nails. It was fun, like being at camp, like pretending you were Indians and you lived in the wilderness.

My parents saved a little, built a little. One summer we didn't have stairs; the next we had balusters. Maybe my parents looked at tile samples together, or talked to carpenters together to know if the basement walls could withstand seeping water.

But somewhere along the line something went wrong, and they stopped building. Perhaps they stopped loving. Who knows? Then they started to accept teaching assignments in other places, and they left the house. It was the start of their marriage's decline, although we kids were blissfully unaware of it.

My parents separated when I was twenty. My father died when I was thirty-two. The house stood there over years, slowly rotting. The steel bars in the basement rusted, and it was said that there lived large snakes. The bedrooms became the territory of a colony of bees. The large hardwood panels were brought to various neighbors' houses for safekeeping. Until when, they did not know. Maybe they're still there, or already a part of the furniture.

I don't like looking at unfinished houses. They look so much like unfinished stories. You see the beginnings of something good and wonderful, and you know that someone took the time and effort to start building it. It was planned, and there was love in it.

It was sad to look at that unfinished house. You see the beginning of a dream, but you will never know why the dream turned sour. You will never know the many stories that will be told inside the house, the meals to be shared, the laughter in the morning, the comic books on hot afternoons. You will never know if it will have walls in a shade called robin's egg blue, or if the library will have warm yellow light from wall lamps. You will never know if the orchids in the garden will be the envy of everyone, or if the father will run out of exotic pets to keep. You will never know if there will be visiting grandchildren in the summer, and how many of them will fight over the privilege of sitting in grandfather's knee. You will never know all that could be, in that house.

Unfinished house, unfinished love. It's all the same. Left untended and neglected, all it will be is an empty, sad ruin.

talent

I'm currently reading Stephen King's 'The Dark Tower VII' for the third or fourth time. It's 1,050 pages long, and a third of the way through, on page 349 to be exact, there's a statement that I love. Ted Brautigan was explaining how he was using telepathy.

"Because talent won't be quiet, doesn't know how to be quiet," he said. "Whether it's a talent for safe-cracking, thought-reading, or dividing ten-digit numbers in your head, it screams to be used. It never shuts up. It'll wake you up in the middle of your tiredest night, screaming, 'Use me, use me, use me! I'm tired of just sitting here! Use me, f**khead, use me!'"

The only thing talent wants is to be used. Check out the auditions on Pilipinas Got Talent, Pinoy Records, and all the various talent contests on TV. People from all walks of life, trying their luck. No, let's be honest: showing off. And some of them impress you so much it makes you want to stand up and cheer, for talent cannot be denied.

Ask the real artists, the masters of their craft. The ones who can reach glass-shattering notes when they sing, the ones whose paintings go for million-dollar auctions, the ones who twirl and dance like they have no bones. Ask the authors whose books are on the New York Times Bestseller List. They'll say that at the bottom of their hearts, they don't do it for money. They do it because they can; they do it for love. (Of course you get a kick out of being paid, but it's just icing on the cake.)

All of us have talent, be it deep-sea diving, putting babies to sleep, cooking a mean pasta puttanesca, or, as Ted Brautigan says it, dividing ten-digit numbers in your head. It gives us a nice kind of high when it is used, and used well. What is it that I want to do, the one thing I know I can do well, the one thing that makes me happy and at peace with myself? I want to write. So I think I will keep writing—in diaries, blogs, scraps of paper—as long as I can.

And what happens if I can't write anymore? Then something in me will die.

Let's take the lyrics from The Guitar Man by Bread:

Then the lights begin to flicker and the sound is getting dim
The voice begins to falter and the crowds are getting thin
But he never seems to notice, he's just got to find another place to play
Fade away, got to play.

That's what talent is.

thursday morning

I was standing by the side of the road, waiting for the van that will take me to the office. This was inside a Camella Subdivision, where the houses are mostly large and there are cars parked in front.

I was idly counting tricycles when I noticed a small woman walking towards me, with three little girls in tow. I thought the woman was old; when they got closer I saw that she was much younger than me, but she was a bit haggard. The three little girls seemed 2, 3, and 4 years old. They were all freshly bathed and had clean clothes, but mother and children did not look like they lived in a house with a car out front.

The three little girls all looked like they did not want to walk. The smallest was actually stamping her foot, and the other two were frowning mightily. As they passed me, the mother cheerily said that if the girls wanted bread for breakfast, they'd better walk. She saw me looking, and she flashed me a little conspiratorial smile. Her smile said, "You know how kids are." I gave her a little "I know" smile back. I saw her eyes take in my going-to-the-office clothes, nice shoes, and pretty bag, then they passed on.

I looked at their backs. Given another set of circumstances, the three little girls would have had fun growing up together. I imagine they'd go to school together, borrow each other's bracelets, and be close pals, giggling over the same handsome movie stars and having the same kind of music in their iPods.

But in reality, if my guess was right about how they lived, there's probably very little chance that all three would finish high school. In reality, there may be days when they're still hungry and there's no more rice in the pot. Maybe the mother stays home to take care of the little girls, while the father drives a jeepney or a tricycle, never earning enough to allow his daughters to dream of iPods.

It is a source of wonder to me how the marginally poor can live in railroad shanties, with a dozen children they can barely feed, and grin and say "God will provide." Three little girls are not too many, but to a couple with a sole breadwinner, three may be too much. I have two children seven years apart, my husband and I both have jobs, and sometimes I still worry about my two-year-old's university tuition 12 years from now.

But at seven in the morning, with a fresh day ahead, it is difficult to contemplate the issue of poverty and overpopulation and children who may want, but cannot, go to school. It is hard to imagine the reasons that would make a woman choose to marry young, bear children every year, and raise her children to grow up like her.

And maybe I was wrong about them. Maybe the woman had an SUV in the garage, and maybe her youngest kid would one day be First Lady of the Philippines. But the encounter provoked a thought, and is now worth a blog.

The woman and her three little girls were now further up the street. The smallest girl was now skipping, perhaps at the prospect of her breakfast. From a distance, they look beautiful in the sun.

under the dome

I waited half a year for this book. Powerbooks had this on hardcover last January, and I waited for someone to give this to me as a birthday gift... then Valentine... then anniversary. No luck. I figured I had to buy it for myself. Then it went out of stock.



Last week, I saw this in National Bookstore. Paperback. It was the display copy, and the salesladies weren't sure when the next delivery would be. I happily grabbed it, missed my lunch devouring the first few pages, and finished the whole book over the weekend.



It reminded me of The Simpsons Movie, where their whole town was enclosed by a dome (engineered by the government) because it was so badly polluted it was toxic. Then the government decided to blow the whole town out of existence, and of course Bart and Homer Simpson eventually saved the day.



Under The Dome was no kids' story. The dome came down inexplicably, and of course the town of Chester's Mill underwent some drastic changes. Our heroes, an ex-soldier, three computer whiz kids, a lady reporter, and a few others, sought to discover what made the dome (and how to get rid of it, if possible) while battling an evil town selectman.

It is a horror story, but not of the kind that has zombies, vampires, and things that go bump in the night (and perhaps eat you). In the situation of Chester's Mill, the horror came from what happened to ordinary people inside the dome. Alongside those who became heroes, there were people who killed themselves, who killed others, who went crazy.

There was Junior Rennie. He killed two women, hid them in a pantry, and helped hide two more bodies there. But he met two lost children while on patrol, and he was very gentle with them. He made sure they were alright and that there was someone to take care of them. In the end, as he was losing himself, he remembered the children and wanted to keep them safe.

And that's the real horror, isn't it? That we never know how black a man's heart is-- even our own-- until he comes face to face with it. I think there is a blackness in every heart, a germ, a seed. Most of us keep it tucked away, and it lies there sleeping. But in some, it takes root. If you water it a little, why, it flourishes. And it blossoms hate. Sometimes it bears black fruit, perhaps called murder. When it is very ripe, it bursts open and spreads its poison. The blackness clouds the brain, and by the time it clears again, we would have done something regrettable.

A wise man, once he recognizes that the seed has become very comfortable in his heart, would perhaps keep it pruned, to trim away the poison. And he learns to live with it. It is there, like a dark twin of all the kind intentions, all the goodness a man is capable of being, but he is master of both.

It's what makes the story a good story. You recognize the emotions there, it reminds us how fragile life really is, it shows us how powerful the mind is. It gives you a glimpse of black hearts.

It forces us to say hello to the monsters inside us.

when i grow up...

It just struck me that I'm 33 years old and I have never quite decided what I would like to be when I grow up. There were so many things I wanted to do, and how many people can truly say 'This is it, this is where I'm meant to be, this is the purpose of my life.' ?

I read somewhere that the purpose of life is life itself. To be in the moment, to be aware of beauty, to be open to all the possibilities-- that is happiness in itself. But so many of us run around in circles, searching for meaning, looking for the things that they think will bring fulfillment.

So I try to do all that I can, in the hope that one of those things will resonate within me, strike a nerve somewhere, and I'll be able to say 'This is what makes me happy.' But I can't have everything. There is only so much I can do. Happiness is a conscious choice. If I were forever looking, forever searching, I miss the point. I will always be lonely, because there are things around me, within my reach, that are beautiful sources of happiness in themselves, and I will fail to see them.

I didn't have too many grand aspirations. I wanted to design clothes. I wanted to travel. I wanted to live for a while in a trailer to chronicle life in little towns and write stories about fascinating ordinary people. I wanted to crochet pillowcases, build a library, and raise my children well. I wanted to take pictures of clouds and dragonflies, do artwork in pointilism, paint cherry blossoms on my bedroom wall.

You see, I guess I will not decide what I really want to be, because the possibilities are endless. I guess I'll list down all the things I want to do, sort of like "100 Things to Try Before I'm 60," and do them just for the heck of it. I'll have fun with it, and I will not take myself too seriously. And I guess I'll enjoy myself so much I will think of another 100.

So I will tell my children to say this: When I grow up, I will be everything that I can be. Yes, why not?

maids

I ate my lunch alone at Red Ribbon today. While I ate my dinuguan I observed three teenagers at the next table. I liked them for their freshness and youth and unselfconscious cheeriness; I was thinking, had I been that pretty? They looked like they got together for an afternoon at the mall, and their day was just starting. How nice for them.

They chatted about their various friends, then they started talking about their household help.

One of them, the one with a short bob cut, said that their maid was unbelievably stupid. Can you imagine, she asked her friends, she started cleaning my room while I was in bed?

The other girl, this one very fair and wearing very short shorts, said their maid was so thoughtless. She arrived after midnight and the maid did not even ask her if she had eaten, or if she needed anything. So she told the maid, "Hoy, ikaw, hampas-lupa ka talaga, asikasuhin mo muna ako." Or something to that effect.

They all laughed. Little Miss Short Shorts added that she would not hesitate to insult the maids if she felt they deserved it.

The third one said they had resorted to numbering the canned goods in the pantry, so that the maid would not be able to take one without them knowing. Since they have a LOT of items in their pantry, it was easy to see if Corned Beef Number 8 had disappeared before Number 7. Maybe they had imported brands, and of course they were not bought for the lowly household help.

They went on, tall-taling each other about their misfortunes in their maids. I stopped liking their fresh faces because of what came out of their mouths. I wished I was their mother, or that I was as rude as them, so I could give them a proper tongue-lashing. It was an ugly thing, to hear them belittling the people they take for granted, the people who help make their lives comfortable.

If that is what being privileged does to those girls, I hope we don't get rich enough to afford maids. I hope my daughters would grow up knowing how to do housework, and that they would know enough to appreciate people as they are, with enough respect, no matter what they do for a living.

And maybe next time I will just sit next to some more old ladies who look interesting.

the good daughter-in-law

My mother-in-law has seven children. With daughters- and sons-in-laws and fifteen grandchildren, you can imagine the noise and general confusion when we get together. My husband and I are the only ones who live farthest from them. We have to travel five hours to visit them. All the others live close by; if you don't like what's for dinner you could check the other houses what they cooked.

Such proximity has allowed them to be a tightly-knit family. No problem is small enough to be shared, and you're free to offer solutions, whether it's for a four-year-old who's a picky eater, or a loan to finance a new van.

Such proximity also causes little troubles. With the exception of my children, the other grandchildren are always together. So when they fight, or when someone gets hurt, the mothers get into the fray. Then there are the favors given to the siblings. My husband is the youngest son and the self-proclaimed favorite, and so he jokes that my mother-in-law loves us more than the others. Sometimes the others don't find it funny.

Coming from a small family, I am often dazed at the level of activity in the houses and the depth of their involvement in each other's lives. I check and double-check my gifts at Christmas to make sure I don't miss anyone, and when we visit, I am careful to go to each house and stay to chat so I won't offend the various family members.

I am the chronicler of my mother-in-law's family. Any occasion that we are invited to, all the birthdays and wedding anniversaries that came to pass while we are in her house, I get to be the unofficial photographer. Until recently, I was the only one who owned a camera in the family. And it being digital, I was the only one who used it with abandon. After all, I was also the only one known to spend half an hour taking pictures of a plate of chili.

Being a part of my mother-in-law's family is tough. I prefer to deal with them like I'm taking pictures. I frame each shot carefully, making sure I get everyone in the frame. I provide minimum distraction. I don't zoom all that much; I take closer shots. And I try to see each person in a good light.

the smell of love

Last Valentine, for the first time in my life, I bought myself a bottle of perfume. It has a little story behind it.

In the little town where I grew up, perfume was something your grandmother and aunts received when a seaman uncle came home or a State-side relative sent a balikbayan box. And that was when you were special. (If you were an ordinary relative hell-bent on getting pasalubong, all you got was soap. Heno de Pravia, Lux, or Camay. And perhaps a can of corned beef.)

I only remember two of my grandmother's perfumes: Tatiana by Diane von Furstenberg and White Shoulders by Evyan. The little bottles lasted a long time because she used them sparingly. She forbade us to touch them and kept them in their boxes in her knick-knack cabinet, to be taken down only on special occations. When I had to be a flower girl, I would be given a tiny little spray of the perfume, and when I sweated I got nauseated by my own smell.

I rarely saw my mother when I was growing up, but when she came, she was always well- dressed, and she smelled good. She loved Tea Rose perfume, and Giorgio Beverly Hills in its pretty yellow bottle. Still, her perfumes were all gifts.

When I started working, perfume was something you bought on installment from officemates who also sold Avon bras and imitation signature bags. It's not something you just grab off the SM display counter, because it costs so much. To an ordinary employee, a 100ml bottle of Bvlgari Rose Essential is one payday's salary. So you say the hell with it and get a P50-peso bottle of baby cologne that smells suspiciously like those bottles with their thousand-peso labels. If you're raising kids, there's more reason to stick with baby cologne.

I also got my perfumes from my brothers-in-law, who are all seamen, and from aforementioned aunts in the States. And I forgot what I got over the years, except for one: Ralph. I positively love it; I even hoarded the two bottles of Ralph Goodbye Dry lotion I was given as gifts (it has body glitter!). There used to be a Johnson's baby cologne variant called 'Playful Tickle' and it smells like Ralph, and I'd buy them a few bottles at a time.

I figured that a bottle of perfume is an expensive present, even for seamen and dollar-earning relatives. It was a measure of your worth in the eyes of the giver. So you see, perfume was something special your grandma wore when she attended graduations, weddings and funerals. Perfume was glamorous, like my mom. Perfume was a luxury. I have bought perfume as gifts for only two people: my husband and my youngest brother.

I have bought myself expensive shoes and bags, but the perfume is different. When I was looking at the bottle, I smelled all the good things that it has come to represent. And I thought that if there's one person who deserved it, it would be me.

So every morning I come to work, I look forward to smelling Ralph on myself. It smells like love.

for senen

Our classmate Senen is getting married!

I'm not going to give him any wishes for a peaceful married life. Get real. Instead I'm giving him this list, compiled over my own ten years of (mostly) peaceful marriage. If he takes this by heart, I can guarantee a measure of peace until at least his tenth wedding anniversary. :-)

Here goes:

Things I Wish Men Knew About Women:

1. Women need to be listened to.
2. They do not encourage rapists.
3. Perfume turns them on.
4. They crave romance and tenderness like drowning men crave life rafts.
5. They do flirt.
6. They like hearing 'I love you' but they have an ear for the words that ring true.
7. They need to have birthdays and anniversaries remembered with the same enthusiasm as boxing fight dates.
8. Their breasts need to be fondled, not mauled.
9. They do not get immense joy from cleaning kitchens and bathrooms.
10. They understand children intuitively, because the children grew under their hearts.
11. They cry, not because they're weak, but because they're in touch with their feelings.
12. They think with their minds but act with their hearts.
13. They can be like cotton candy -- sweet and soft outside, a hard stick inside.
14. To have husbands who are unfaithful is an injury to their souls.
15. They are all mothers at heart -- for small children and big men.
16. They like it better with a foreplay.
17. Menstrual periods do not make them crazy, unclean, or prone to attacks by rabid dogs.
18. They would sometimes like to give the flowers.
19. They like to be held when they're happy, when they're sad, and in-between.
20. They may not have looks that kill, but they can kill with a look.
21. They can feign indifference but can never hide pain, nor love for that matter.
22. They like having their new haircut noticed and commented on favorably, if not enthusiastically.
23. Making love thirty seconds after a woman has gotten dressed to go out is not spontaneous and fun.
24. They sometimes need to be left alone.
25. They need to be loved, desired, trusted, and respected, not just during courtship, but forever.

the luckier one

My problematic daughter had one of her issues again. We were peacefully eating spaghetti last weekend when she announced, out of the blue, that her classmate Taketoshi said she was lucky because her mother was around. I said, Why, where is Taketoshi's (or was it Matsunori?) mother?

In Japan, she said. Like Robelyn, whose mother is in Dubai.

I see, I said. I vaguely remember that Robelyn was the classmate who had really neat toys, and had pretty dresses. Taketoshi-or-Matsunori was one of those little boys who usually had the latest gadgets and knew all the anime characters on Saturday-morning tv.

So they think you're lucky because you're with your mother? I asked. I was checking back how many mornings I brought her to school this year and socialized with her classmates. They were quite few. I was also remembering all the times I forgot to buy her pad paper or a plastic globe, or forgot to pay for her class picture, and of course I had guilt attacks.

These thoughts occurred in a matter of seconds, because her next statement was this:

Yeah, but Melissa is luckier. Because you see, her mother doesn't work. Then she looked at me meaningfully.

I could have spent the next hour equating kids' luck, and explaining the advantages and disadvantages of a working mother, but I lost heart and attacked the pasta instead.

She's a long way from the four-year-old who wanted to send her yaya to the office in my place so I could stay home and take care of her, but the issues remain the same. It's one of those things that kids will not really understand, no matter how much their parents try to explain. The funny thing about life is that she will learn all about it... when she has kids herself.

So I nodded and said that like her, Taketoshi-or-Matsunori (I never did get that kid's name straight), Robelyn, and Melissa all have mothers who love them, and mothers have different ways of loving, so one kid is not luckier than another.

Being lucky, like being loved, is a matter of perspective. But try explaining that to a kid.

raising kids

In one of my blogs, When Death Do Us Part, I described my daughter's preoccupation with death. I thought we had finished the discussion. Then one morning last week, as I had finished fixing her ponytails before her school service comes, she burst into tears. I was startled and I started asking why. The more I asked, the harder she cried. My first thought was that her computer broke down again, then I thought someone had hurt her. Then I became worried that she'd go on crying until we're both late, and I was thinking of excuses to tell my boss.

She said, between sobs, that she did not want me to die. Oh, so that's it.

I sat her down and asked for more details. Apparently, one of her classmates informed her that all parents would die. I explained, carefully, that yes, all parents die. But hopefully, not too soon. I said I understand that she did not want me to die, and I myself do not want to die yet. But we never know when death will come. I did not add that I could easily die on my way to work, or never wake up at all one morning. I don't think I can handle a hysterical eight-year-old.

I said it's okay to get upset about it, but she has to understand that death is part of being human. And she cannot go on thinking about me dying. I told her I hope to see her children before I die. And I hoped her school service would be late while I explained further and fixed her face.

I think we did fine. Now whenever she hears things from other children, she clears them with me. Mama, is it true that when you take a bath at night, you'll become sickly? No, you'll just sleep better because you're fresh and cool. Mama, my friend said if I lay down at night with wet hair, my eyes will cloud over, and I'll get white hair. No, honey, it's just an old wives' tale. You have weak eyes to begin with, and no third-grader ever grew white hairs. Mama, what's an old wives' tale? Honey, it's a long explanation. Ask me about Facebook instead.

I'll take those eight-year-old tears and gladly explain why people die. But with it came the realization that before long, she'd come to me in tears because she'd broken up with her boyfriend, and it would be harder to explain why hearts break.

In time, she would learn that as much as mothers love their kids, mothers do not have all the answers, mothers are not always right, and yes, mothers die.

growing old, part 2

I had lunch at Sbarro today. In the next table sat two old ladies, obviously old friends, and they had been shopping. Seated a little farther away was a woman who wore something that looked like a maid's uniform. She carried various paper bags and shopping bags for the two old women.


The two old women were sharing a slice of pizza, a salad, and a carrot cake. Sbarro's servings are large by my standards. They ordered their assistant the same thing I was eating: baked ziti. One of them was instructing the woman to sprinkle some granulated garlic in her baked ziti; the other inquired if she found the food delicious. The woman politely said yes, but her face carried an expression of slight distaste.


The old women were dressed simply. They were wearing blouse and pants and flat sandals. They had also dyed their hair light brown. But their manner was very refined, and I noted that one of them wore a Rolex watch. The other had earrings with stones that sparkled too much to be anything but real. They discussed old friends and what to do in the evening.

Okay, maybe I watched them too much, but they were very interesting. It seems I am preoccupied with old women these days.

I often associate old age with being alone. I did not grow up in a household that takes care of old people. My grandmother never made us feel like it's an obligation. She lived in her big house all by herself with a caregiver for company.

I learned from her that alone doesn't necessarily mean lonely. When I get to be an old woman, I hope I still have a girlfriend or two who can go shopping with me. Said girlfriend had better be addicted to books as well, for the sake of intelligent conversation. I cannot see myself discussing the merits of a particular well-muscled DI over lunch.

I hope I will be a gracious old lady, maybe not with a Rolex, but with a few sparkly things to wear when I attend my granddaughter's debut. And I do hope I discover soon what it is with old women, light brown hair, and blouse-and-pants ensembles, so I can plan my wardrobe accordingly.

And I hope one of my daughters will marry an Italian, so I can have someone who will cook me good pasta and make a mean pizza. I cannot afford a lifestyle of eating at Sbarro every day!

growing old

I was on my way to buy a bacon sandwich earlier when I met an old woman along the corridor. She had mostly white hair, a pale kind face, a dowdy (in my 33-year-old opinion) blouse-and-pants outfit, and flat brown sandals. She was wearing a retiree's ID, and as she passed me she smiled.

It suddenly occurred to me that I, in my short dress, braided hair and three-inch heels, would one day look like her.

I too, would retire from work. I wonder what I'd be like at 60. Of course by that time I'd have given up my high heels (oh, the prospect of it breaks my heart), but I'll still wear pretty shoes. I'd still like to wear dresses, but perhaps by that time I'll discover the wonder of slacks and tailored pants. The credit cards in my wallet will be replaced by snapshots of my grandchildren.

Here's what I'd like to be when I grow old:

I'll have a library that I'll open to public school children. I'd like to have children around me who can argue whether Tom Sawyer was smarter than Huckleberry Finn. Unlike my mother and my mother-in-law who are so fond of plants, I cannot grow gardens. Even a cactus withers under my care. So my retirement home will probably be a condo with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

I'll have a cat, of course. Maybe not a Siamese cat with an attitude, but something clean enough to bring to bed and behaved enough that my husband won't kick it out.

I will have travelled to other places, other countries. I would like to see cherry blossoms bloom in Japan, go to a safari in Africa, eat crepes in Paris while visiting my friend Monette. I wouldn't want to climb Mount Everest or ride the world's biggest roller coaster, but I'd like to have tried things that I dreamed of doing when I was in my 30s and writing blogs. He he he.

And I'll write lots of stories. By 60 I would have learned enough of the world to write about it. When I write I will leave the city; I will go to a beach, sit under an umbrella, and write with my toes in the sand. Then I'll go back to my condo and publish what I wrote.

One last thing: I will decide to like being old. Most of us (especially women) desperately fight old age. Our weapons are cosmetics, loud clothes, juvenile behavior. But that's inevitable; the wrinkles will win anyway. The important thing is to welcome each day as if you'd live to be a hundred years old, to not forget to have fun, to surround yourself with people and things you love. Because, you see, Mark Twain was right. He said, "Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter."

the beauty queens

You see the shoes? We didn't talk about wearing the same style today. We three met for lunch to celebrate Milette's birthday. Two weeks from now we'll have lunch again to celebrate mine, and again in October to celebrate Irene's.We three friends are so different from each other. Milette is a saint, but she wears hot lingerie; Irene is a self-proclaimed pokwang and is determined not to marry, but she gives the soundest advice on marital problems; I am me. :-)

We three love books. Irene and I both love Pat Conroy, and... uh, we're not sure about what Milette loves to read.

We three work in the same building, but we eat lunch together only thrice a year. During lunch, we talk about anything under the sun, under the stars, under the blanket. We exchange views on topics that would make other women blush. And we ask the waiters to take pictures of us after lunch, in the same place, every year. For lunch today, we have 26 pictures. I guess we'll laugh about it for the next couple of days.

More than the companionship, the lunches, the gifts on birthdays and at Christmas, I love the simplicity of our friendship. I laugh a lot when I'm with them. They taught me to work more patiently on my husband, to be tough at work, to buy expensive bags and shoes. I learn a lot from them, but most of the time I learn things about myself.

We call ourselves the beauty queens. It's a private joke in the ordinariness of our everyday working lives. There is happiness in our uncomplicated acceptance of each other.

These lunch dates on our birthdays, they are not just to eat an expensive lunch together or to giggle over our sex lives. They are celebrations of our friendship, and the conviction that in our own right, in our own worlds, we are beauty queens. Because when we're 70 years old, we'll look at our albums of our lunch dates, three times a year, and we'll sigh and say,

"Shit, weren't we beautiful?"