under the poinsetta

Overall, the weekend of Christmas parties wasn't a total failure, but just somewhat less than thrilling.
It's hard to explain what the issue is without being really "cutting" but...basically, the things that Filipinos go crazy for are, for me, irritating, boring, or both.

Party one: held at Ikabud at SM mall, there was a large spread of Filipino food, red ice tea, a videoke machine (sighhhh). All the girls wore white, the two guys wore red (and one confused lady wore red and white, hee hee). The food was vegetables cooked in peanut butter sauce, roast pork, fried chicken, stir fry veggies of some kind on angel hair pasta, rice galore, bird's nest soup, bread, and a few other things I'm no doubt forgetting. Oh, and flan for dinner. Now, as usual, even though I've politely told me a MILLION FUCKING TIMES I just don't like rice, that's just the way it is, people REFUSE to believe it.

I was asked all the usual questions "have you ever lived abroad? How do you like it here? Have you tried any native foods? Where have you visited here?"

Now, they're just trying to show interest, but the problem is that if I'm honest ("Uh, I'm bored out of my mind, asleep, or irritated about 80% of the time") that just might not go down too well...so I have to give people generic, dull, one word answers. "Not much. Not really. It's okay." That's not me, but why hurt people's feelings over something they can't change?

You know, the problem is, people are just following their own cultural edicts by trying to force me to eat rice, sing Videoke, and talk about something in a totally fake way, but I am really over it.

So, as usual for work parties, the host (in this case Nadj) ran around barking orders and trying to make people "participate". It was nice to be with work friends outside of work, but I just am having so much trouble getting over the "hump" of feeling comfortable with people. I just don't have the same ideas, dreams, and values.

I don't really like children. I don't want to get married anytime soon. My family is important to me but they live all over the US. I'm 31 and I'm a "career girl". I don't care about looking "hot" and wearing the latest designer gear. I hate videoke. Sitting around playing cards at mini stop is not my idea of a hot Friday night. And so on and so forth.

Don't get me wrong, I'm NOT criticizing this way of life, it's just not for me, and everytime I go to a party I really feel it.

The other party was at Anne's, on her rooftop, and it was slightly better, as there was at least one other North American there, who also is not totally into videoke (although she rented a machine.) Food was good, although once again, not something I would choose: white rice, fried rice, roast beef tenderloins, chicken, and tempura shrimp, and four kinds of super decadent cheese cake ( I chose wine instead). A few people brought their children, some people had a few glasses of wine or beer, people sat with their teams and mostly spoke in vernacular, people sang kareoke and talked about work, while Anne (the host) frantically bossed people around, handing out gifts and generally being a menace.

The rooftop itself was stunning, and the party was held at dusk, so the purple blue night air bathed everything with gorgeous light. The thing was, I had been in the grip of intense blues, barely holding it together while having a pre party very weak cocktail and making up my face before going. I just couldn't shake the feeling of sadness that was over me.

And it was justified, I think.

Here's what happened, as best as I can explain it:

About 2 weeks ago, when I heard about this party, Anne mentioned several times that people should bring their spouses or Sig O's and since almost everyone on the team is married, I was like "I'll be DAMNED if I'm going to be the only one with no date." So I asked Antony and he agreed to go.
The day of I just texted him a reminder at 1.30, like "hey, we still on?" and he texted back "Hey I just woke up."
Kind of not a good sign, in my book.
So I texted him "we on for 4.30 at my place?"
him: "ok."
It was at that point I started to get reaallll nervous. I didn't care so much about going by myself but I didn't want to wait until 4.45 to find out he wasn't coming. I just had this bad feeling about it.
He did indeed show up, at 5.00, and he told me about his weekend, and then we went.
It just...there was nothing wrong with how he acted, he just was quiet and didn't even sit next to me, choosing instead to sit across the table. The problem was once again, I had sort of failed to define what I wanted until I wasn't getting it, which was a date, not the services of a pinch- hitting- male- friend- who- I'm- kind- of- seeing.
so when I asked him if he wanted to go out or go back to my place or what after the party, he said "I'll drop you off at your house." Seeing as we took a trike, I was baffled. "Uh, you're going somewhere else?" He said he wanted to go home to sleep.

So after that I just wanted to leave, call a trike, and go home and lay down and go to sleep. The evening was shot. I didn't want to be there. He didn't want to be there either.

So we left shortly after that, I told him I could hail my own trike, after double checking that I really understood what he wanted (to go home alone and go back to sleep) and as I was getting in the trike, I told him "you're not going home." meaning "I don't believe for a minute that on a Sunday night at 9 PM you're headed 'home'. You'll get one text message on your way home and somehow magically find the energy to go out."
I was extremely angry and crushed, and when I got home, I kept thinking about that chair at the end of the table, between us, empty. I was thinking "he didn't even want to sit next to me at a party where he barely knew anyone else. How much clearer do you want the evidence to be, fool?"
All the reasonable explanations in the world can't convince me of what I can see with my own eyes is true: he doesn't want to be with me.
So...that's that. I'm going to try with all my willpower to stop attempting to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear and just call it a night with Kid Dynamite.
later, babies.

silver and gold

The afternath:

Mistakes were made, people got blamed, the mushroom cloud carried ashes for yards until the truth came out: I need more friends (over here).

What happened was that a) I took a long weekend because I had to work Saturday, so I took the preceding Monday off. b) Ankit indicated that he is most likely not coming back from his "vacation" (IE, he's fleeing the country while the getting is good), and c) I was supposed to hang out with Ant, and he couldn't make it.

So as I was flinging myself around my apartment boiling hot and trying not to send sarcastic text messages to the "quitters" (Ant and Ankit), because, really, what do they owe me anyway, and both of them have been, on the whole, pretty decent to me, I was overwhelmed with waves of intense emotion, in fact questioning every decision I've ever made, society- wise.

Maybe I shouldn't have taken a hard line about Buffalo, I mean, drinks *were* very cheap... Maybe I should have just stayed in Rochester and married Mike C.... Maybe I should have just have gone to grad school in another state...

It's hard to go from being Vinnie Chase to "E" overnight. (In other words, from being Queen to Infidel).

So I went to bed kind of sad, but not broken hearted or anything.

Anyway, the next day at work I was pretty much over it, or so I thought, and I was doing audits, and Ant pinged me just to basically say "sorry I had to bail, I wanted to hang out, but just couldn't". Now, the thing to keep in mind here was that he had already given me very timely updates as to his increasing inability to come over, he was just giving a sort of "follow up sorry", and at the time of the "bail-age", I distinctly remember that I was upset but not beside myself.

So....when he was explaining how busy he was I was surprised to find myself struggling not to CRY. I felt like I wanted to put my head on the keyboard. Obvs, this was WAY out of proportion to what really happened, the importance of the characters involved, the situation, etc. What really got to me was how hurt I was, and how hard it was to keep it myself. So I just got off OCS and got coffee and asked myself "what did you REALLY want?"

The answer, after the mental hurricane died down, was I wanted someone to hang with, and while it would have been nice if he made it, it wasn't totally about him, per se. This realization was almost more upsetting than thinking I was going to have to pretend I had "allergies" to my coworkers when they caught me crying over OCS. I was staring into the void, and it was full of a lack of friends.

Waiting for the coaster, I called Adam at home and was like "slap some sense into me". He did, and he gave me the same advice I had essentially given myself: Time to find some more friends so if one friend has to cancel you're not ALL ALONE FOR ALL OF ETERNITY.

So the thing is....I have a phone full of numbers, and very few real friends. I complained to my mom "I'm so tired of starting over with new friends. I want my old cool friends back!" (They're still my buds, they're just in different places right now, literally or figuratively). My mom was like "uh, maybe you shouldn't have moved to East Asia, just a thought." She also pointed out, rightly, that I moved here for "mew experiences" and new friends was one of them. Yeahhhhh..... she's right.

Operation Populate Fields (har har!!) went into effect the next day. I'm (as anyone who knows me knows) not one to lay around on my divan with crystal tears slowly leaking down my alabaster cheeks, wanly wondering where all the buddies are.

Step one: identify targets, lock on them and take them down

There are several friendlies at work, so I got to work on them. My tops are Arthur, a floor manager, and Panda, a trainer in the Learning Center. Fate smiled on me (well, my own efforts were rewarded) because the next day I ran into Panda and had a little chat, so we'll see. I also sent a message to Arthur, asking him and the Mrs. to dinner, and he was down, so that's that.

Step two: make more of an effort with the current contacts

So the deal is, I have been told over and over that I'm not "open" emotionally, and hard to approach (hmmm. maybe being a giant in a land of tinies might have something to do with it?). This is an ongoing effort, including actually telling people "I'd like to HANG OUT MORE. what say?"

step three: find something to do besides hanging out on Fields or in my apartment. Maybe some friends will be there, out in the big wide world. At any rate, they're not likely to crash through the ceiling while I watching "A Perfect Murder" for the 15th time.

Now, this is hard, since my overnight working schedule, my social and "political" status separates me from most natives, and I don't like to take chances offending people, and this tends to make me stick to my well established comfort zone. But I'll be working on it.

Also, before I make friends with anyone else, I will be inspecting their visa very thoroughly: are they liable to up and leave the COUNTRY in the next three weeks (LINDSEY, RYAN, and ANKIT, I'm looking at you!!!!), if so, keep it moving to the left, to the left. No sale.

I'll keep you all posted on how it goes.

Atlantis

Last night was a night for revelations:

So I met up with a very sleepy, husky voiced Ankit, who, in a very typical move, wanted to hang out, made plans, and then stayed up from coming off shift at 6 am until 6 PM (so more than 24 hours total) playing video games and drinking and then was like "uh...crap. I have to meet Na at 10, better go to sleep." Anyway, we went to the poker room to eat (after a spirited debate in which he argued for the Red Sea and I told him to get stuffed.) and there we ran into Matt and Michelle, who for some reason was looking different, and gave me a start as I struggled to introduce her to Ankit without saying her name in case it wasn't her (it was, she just got a retainer and hadn't straightened her hair that day).

So after one drink I let Ankit have it for the "phillies incident". Why, in the name of all that's holy, did he bother to come out to the bar to meet me if he was just going to hug a pole across the room. After a little back and forth where Ankit tried to wiggle out of it by using, variously, untranslatable shrugs and sort of pretending his English wasn't *quite* good enough to follow me, he finally coughed it up: Veron.

F-ing VERON was the issue. He didn't even really want to say it, but as soon as he started it, I knew exactly what he was talking about. He doesn't like Veron and didn't want to be "waved over" and "trapped".
I told him that not to worry, Veron was a failed experiment.
The noteworthy part of the conversation was when Ankit described Veron (who is extremely dark skinned) as "the black Indian" (Ankit's from the north and quite fair, in fact I'm almost as dark as he is when I'm tan, although I'm "red" a kind of sugar ham glow, and he's "yellow"- a pecan colored tan). I turned my head to the side that had the good ear- "what?! The WHAT?"

My eyebrows were in my hairline.
"The black." Ankit repeats, confounded as to where the confusion lies.
"Uh, Ankit, Veron's not black (I meant "African") he's mixed Indian and a little Portuguese" (although Portuguese are not considered "white" by most whites either, but that's another story...they're most assuredly not "black").
"Is he, uh....part African as well?" I mean, it's not outside the realm of possibility, but it seems *very* unlikely.
Ankit laughs.
"No, he's...dark, a black. That's what we call those from the south."

Stunned silence from my end. Now, it's a tragic reality that most of the Indians I've met are almost comically racist when it comes to skin color, which is a bitter irony since what they're missing is that as soon as you set foot on US territory, if you fail the "paper bag" test, you're "of color" and there is no such thing as "a black Indian"- (well, I'm sure there are "African Indians", but I've never heard of or seen them)- so you can be "fair" or "black" and guess what, you're still "of color". I guess, being charitable, they could be using this phrase the same way some people say "Black Irish" but given the fact that it refers to skin color, I doubt it.

This also highlights the typical attitude I find from others too, which is "my hometown is a bustling metropolis, and everyone else is a bumpkin from the wrong side of the tracks." Cyrus in fact comes to mind, as he explained how he himself was not a vegetarian, but "people from the south, or from the provinces" might "still" be ( as opposed to "Bombay" which left that ridiculous poor- person nonsense behind 50 years ago).

This is very common, and in fact a Pinoy broke it down for me the other day (more on that guy later), explaining that "people from the North" didn't "stink" (a common and very annoying perception that I've heard from more than one person. If they had any idea what most Americans think of everyone from "over there" they'd be in a dead faint on the floor, or twitching with anger.) I just gave a non-assent grunt ( I mean why anger someone you just met?) and was prevented from using my "trump card" argument by discretion: I've been seeing someone from the south, and he most assuredly does NOT stink.
Over here, skin color is a big issue too- everyone wants to be "white", in fact I struggled to find skin care that wasn't "whitening", seeing as I already have "that pinkish white glow" that Jergens promises you, and I worked hard for my slight golden color. Although next to most people I look like a Kabuki actress, or Nicole Kidman under particularly hot lights- super pale with startling light eyes--heh.

Anyway, this Pinoy is a type. He happened to be in the car taking a ride with my car service. He's a type that is, personality wise, like nails on a chalk board for me. Overstyled, metro, and unctuous, with a mouth full of huge, straightened, blindingly white teeth, he's got a way about him that just grates. I guess I could sum it up as "how do you keep them on the farm after they've seen gay Paree?" This guy had been to Chennai for work, and this is where he got his "information", including the very upsetting assertion that most Indians "hate" Westerners. I did argue that with an incredulous laugh. "That's not been my impression, kuya. In fact, much to the opposite. I've got rather a full dance card, as far as it goes." I didn't want to spell it out, but as I've pointed out, if I was "on the market", there would be a discreet stampede to try to be the "first" through the door.

It's hard to pinpoint what my issue with this dude was, kind of a combination of his high handed way ("I'm renting a van, that's why I was over at the car service house"), and his slinky, sly way of not answering questions; when asked where he was staying, he said "over here". Yeah, no shit? When asked who he worked for/ what program he said "I'm helping out Randy". Randy is the Sales Training MANAGER, a big boss who handles the sales training for like, 5 programs (and actually when I told Randy what he said, Randy rolled his eyes and corrected it: "He wants to work for me."), so people don't "help" him, they WORK FOR him. Although this is relatively common over here, people who are lower on the totem pole are introduced as "helping". I barked at Davie when he tried this with me, "Thanks for making me sound like the chambermaid!" He laughed, and I felt bad when the guy he was introducing me to introduced his VPs and "helping me with the program".

Also, in other interesting things I've heard: asking Ant how old his father was, he thought about it, thinking out loud, this is what he said "Wellllll, he was born the same year Indian was granted it's freedom, so that was 1947, so he's 63". It's hard to overestimate the bombshell this throwaway statement had on me. I literally (and I never use that word) have no idea what it must be like to having living relatives that remember living as a colony. It sort of blew my mind. And it was just another night.

one at a time, people!

Little pieces:

One:

The other day I was teaching class in a new room, Palawan boardroom, and I was having trouble with the speakers that I had attached to the computer so we could listen to call recordings and assess the good and the bad points. So the two guys at the end of the table Ramon and Annelie Hermee ("Mon" and "H") fiddled with them together, wiggling the wires, and teasing each other that the other one had "the magic touch", and as soon as we heard the voice of the agent come in, they gave each other a crisp, almost military high five, without even looking at each other, they just both had the instinct to do it. The class was giggling at the dead serious expression on their faces, as if they had just lifted a car off a puppy. So cute.

Two: as an addendum to this, I went back to that same boardroom, which is in a separate building than I usually work in, across campus, around 3 AM that same day, to get the room ready for my late class, and I pushed open the door, my mind a million miles away. There in the room, which was by now ice cold since the air was on high for me, was a guy I've literally never seen in my four months over here. He looked up as if shot with a .38 and I laughed- did you book this room too? I asked sympathetically.
No, I was about to take a call- he indicated the phone, which he was indeed leaning over, about two seconds away from dialing into to a bridge line. His most standout feature was several gold rings on each hand, giving him a kind of potentate look, so when he waved me in I suppressed a grin. Take it, I'll find another room, go ahead! He toddled off graciously, rings twinkling.

So then, about 3 hours later, I was hanging around the poker room having a Caiprini and a burrito with Davie and this group of Indians busts in and takes over the billiards table. Once again, dudes I've never seen, except for one, who has a familiar glitter about his person. Could it be...?
Davie becomes oddly animated, waving like he's on parade float and does this thing that people do in certain circumstances: when they feel they "must" greet someone but they don't want them to come over and they don't want to interrupt you: he "mouthed" out an enthusiastic "Hi [so and so]!! HIiiiiii". Seeing as I've never seen him act this way (other people, yes, but not him), I turn around to see what the fuss is about. To me they're just four slightly disheveled Indians wearing rather ill- thought -out pleated khakis and heavy striped Polos or rumpled dress shirts with visible undershirts below.
The guys take their place, laughing and ordering beers and talking in what I recognize is a typical mix of vernacular and English; English for when you're speaking business, vernacular when you want to make a point or say something scandalous.
Are those [company men]? I asked.
Davie all of sudden becomes an E entertainment gossip host and nods in a circumspect way and then whips out his *cell phone* and texts me (since the billiards table was right behind us, to the point where the back of our bench acted as a beer ledge for them) with the account name, and waggles his fingers in a gesture I took as "don't look now. Don't. Look. Now."
I've heard, let's just say, a lot about some of the people that were there. Of the four, two of them had figured highly in some less than flattering stories at "white people gripe session", and one of them was....yes, you guessed it, the guy from the boardroom. An odd coincidence but it sort of makes sense, since if you think about it, once you meet someone, you have a tendency to more easily spot them later.
Do I know them? I asked Davie.
His answer is one I'm still pondering:
No, but theyyyyyy knowwwww youuuu. He says in a stage whisper with waggling eyebrows.

Seeing as every once in awhile Davie will tell me gossip I've told him as coming from Anne, I chalked it up to typical Davie brain vacation, but it did give me a chill for a moment. How do they know me?

I racked my brain for similar circumstances to when I "met" Ryan; which was the following: on my first weekend here I went out with work friends, and we were at some wretched hole in the wall, our last stop for the night, and there across the room was a tall, good- looking man wearing a WOOL SWEATER.
He had the most imperious, infuriating look on his face I've ever seen and in my state (let's just summarize it as "not sober") I had the uncontrollable urge to take him down several pegs and show him what's what. Side note: still have that urge, but sadly the Indian Ocean is now preventing me from doing so, as it is between us.
"LOOK AT THAT HIGH- TONED F*CKER OVER THERE WEARING A SWEATER!" I shouted to Anne. "WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?!"
Anne, to her credit, didn't turn an eyelash. "Oh, him. He's a complete wanker." she concurred.
"So,want to meet him?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." I growled.
Now, neither Ryan or I remembers this. ANNE told it to me after I told her about "meeting" him in the work lobby. "Don't you remember insisting I introduce you to him last weekend at Pony Tails( or wherever the hell it was, still don't have the foggiest)?" she asked, a sympathetically confused note in her voice. Thus history is made, little ones.

Anyway, I was pretty nervous that something similar had occurred with these dudes, but I think it's more likely that Davie was teasing me that they had "seen me around" and thought I was "cute" or whatever.

Three:
I got a series of oddly worded text messages from Ankit, who had been "on hiatus" since the Phillies "incident", meaning I wasn't texting him and he was doing his usual workaholic "and whooooo are you?" routine, until I got a text from him "what's going on, hon?"
I was a little peeved, but I was like "eh, work..." whatever. Why bother trying to change someone who clearly is so clueless you don't even know where to start?
So he texted back "I'm so upset and I don't even know why."

It took me several attempts to answer this without being sassy. Basically, I can tell him *exactly* what the problem is. Recovering from a stomach infection brought about by having too much ALCOHOL acid in his body, he had to stop drinking for 10 days, which made him dry out for the first time in probably two years, causing him to take stock of his life: working all day and night, no girlfriend, no real friends, far from home, working in a pressure cooker stoked by the fires of relentless capitalism, feeling restless, no plans....etc. He was astonished to find that "life wasn't going the way he wanted" as soon as he pried his lips OFF the perma- Red Horse/ Jack and Coke that had been there for the last however long. Sigh. So I told him we could hang out and talk about "it" (knowing full well that incompetent coworkers and money hungry gold digging girls would most likely be blamed for the brown study he found himself in), so we'll see if Baby Boy has a revelation. Heh.

Anyhoo...good night and good luck.

Movie reviews

Movie reviews:
"Takers".
A fast paced by the numbers bank robbers caper, complete with Russian (!!) side- villains, a subway tunnel aspect, a corrupt cop you never saw coming, a cop who's *thisclose* to solving it but no-one will believe him, etc. (you heard it here first- my prediction is that "bank robbers" will be the new "vampires" in about 6 months or so). The sort- of twist of the movie is it focuses on the rarely- seen " black upper class" ( Although how "upper" is hard to say...I guess money doesn't get any newer than that which was robbed from a bank!) black characters. Swanning around like something from a Hennessey "Privileged" ad, the mostly black characters drive fancy cars, smoke cigars, get engaged to Zoe Saldana (the new Mia Long), etc. The "blackstocracy"looks good, but it's a shame that they're shown as having to steal everything they've acquired.

Rarely do you hear me say so- and- so can't act (actually I've never said it. I'm as easy to fool as a grandmother with cataracts wearing Blu Blockers), but my god does Chris Brown struggle mightily- yet- unsuccessfully with that paper bag! Such clunkers as "Our biggest heist yet and you don't see all that jazzed, bro" are given to "the weakest link", a man mostly likely cast for his almost inhuman ability to run, jump and "execute"(not sure of the right verb for the urban gymnastics called "parkor") parkor in a dazzling series of stunts during a key footrace scene.

Also we have what I think of as "too much charisma for one room". Several "Smoove- D" characters are actually given rather a short shrift by the addition of competing "types". Chris Brown is the well dressed, athletic, and handsome bank robber by night, playah by day...unfortunately so are the other 2 main black guys, as well as the two white guys.

Side note: Junkie sister who throws a monkey wrench in the works is named: Naomi!!!

TI Payne is back, fresh from the unsuccessful attempts by the State of California correctional institution to tame him ( in real life, actually, and in the movie too), which have merely added to the cold, hard, speculative sparkle in his eyes. He makes a chillingly convincing villain, and his unmistakable patois- a kind of tightened- up Drrrty Souf drawl that gives his songs their completely unique sound, makes for an unexpectedly zingy delivery on such run of the mill jokes as "I'll put three holes in your head like a bowling ball if you don't talk": it becomes:"Awll phut three hawles incha heyad like a bowlin' bawl if yauw dun't tulk" (one of the only lines that got a laugh from the audience, by the way).

Someone I think is Brad Renfro, with pachinko- machine eyes and a bad color, plays a throwaway role (red shirt alert!!) with one good fight scene with what must be the sturdiest broom handle in the Universe (he uses it to crack about 6 huge bad guys over the melon successfully before it breaks), which leads me to what I wanted to discuss: the "showdown" scene.

Shot in slo mo and scored to (very oddly) hauntingly ethereal violins, it also had an unintentionally funny aspect: the sound of the bullets is muffled and echoed out (sorry I can't be more technical here, Matt!), to give the viewer a kind of "you are there! Shell shock!!" feeling, and the vocal track is raised, so that the totally awesome mundane lines that the characters pop off are given "Apocalypse Now" status. "I'mmmmm owwwttt uvvv ammmooohhhh" echoes the Darth Vadar voice of one of the dudes.

This leads me to discuss another odd yet similar choice: during the climatic robbery that leads to the shoot out, a complex series of events leads to a face off, during which handheld cameras doing their best Tony Scott impression induce seizures in the less prepared audience members and we're treated to the voice of TI's (called "Ghost"- can't decide if I like that or if it's totally cheesy) character sort of giving a color commentary blow by blow (he's ostensibly communicating to his brothers in arms via a blue tooth mic thing) with such lines as "He's crazy! Watch out! What's he doing now?" etc. I found this rather an odd misstep, especially considering the delirious fun that "Roll Bounce" (his cinematic debut) was, and since TI is listed as a producer. Also, TI has a rather odd stiffness in some scenes (a high school production of Hamlet with an understudy rushed to the stage comes to mind) which is also at odds with his usual limber, menacing, natural, and quicksilver music video persona. I wonder what's up with that.

Anyhow...two stars. Good enough for 100P, but wouldn't recommend storming SM right away.

"You again":
Cute, also by the numbers comedy, with two of the AWESOMEST WOMEN ON THE PLANET, Sigourney Weaver and Jamie Lee Curtis. Unexpectedly funny (although most of the jokes either fell flat or were over the heads of the Pinoy audience), especially a scene in which a hopeless fuddler of a character tries to storm off emotionally and is seen in the background of the scene (once he exits the two primaries are shown talking) trying unsuccessfully to swerve around an old lady and her dog.

Also the wedding planner (that super zippy tiny little blonde opera singer with the Minnie Mouse voice) is very funny, and her entrance as a ribbon curtain gymnastics dancer is gold. (not sure how to describe this- it's a new type of "Circe Du so lei" thing where you sort of go stripper pole on a long curtain of flexible silk). It's so over the top and great. Jamie Lee (couldn't love her more) is funny, warn, and natural, especially when she confesses to Signourey's character "When I saw you flipping your hair around I was all jealous. I almost got extensions". It's delivered so well it almost sounds like an ad- lib. Signourney's character is a nerd made well, who's given such throw away gems as: "Sometimes I think it [my private jet] owns me". (with a faux- resigned face, perfectly judged.)
I was laughing out loud the whole time.

Rating: 3 stars. If it's on cable, put the phone on silent and curl up with a bottle of wine and enjoy.

Well...later, followers!

things the guidebook left out: part one

Things the guidebook neglects to tell you or only hints at:

(keep in mind this is my experience)
--The Phil is not meant for women, of any race.


The entire culture revolves around men: marrying them, catering to them, kissing up to them, rooking them for money. Case in point: the other AM after work I was in MCDo waiting for my food and I saw this ultra drunk old fart stagger over to a table of giggly young ladies and start in with the "lovely ladies" crap. My whole body was as stiff as a cat on a wire and I was ready to tell him off (he was American) when I heard the one girl: "Do you have a car, Daddy? Can we go to your house?"

("Daddy" is what you call every man over 30, regardless of if he has kids or not. On the floor I hear my agents call male agents "DaddyJoe" "DaddyAl", etc".It's common to address people by a shortened version of their title and name: "MOD Ry" (manager on duty Ryan) "Boss Nikki" "Kuya Guard" ("Brother" Security Guard) in general).

I was, to put it mildly, stunned. Well, they could fend for themselves, apparently!

Basically, instead of being offended, these women saw what was clearly a row of triple cherries: jackpot. A walking wallet. I don't know who I was more disgusted by, but when I left I was thinking "this is not the country I'm going to spend the rest of my life in."
Even other foreigners that I see getting dragged around by their Arab husbands (or whoever- usually this is the case though- there's practically a shuttle from here to Dubai and back) look shell shocked by the super rigid gender roles (for straights- for gays anything goes- go fig!). All the managers are men, and men stick together. There's literally only one other white woman in the ENTIRE TOWN and that's Anne, my boss. On one hand, I've always been the odd one, so nothing new, but on the other, it's a little tiresome to have people trying to snag you to put on their mantle piece.

I was talking to my friend Davie trying to understand the odd behavior of one of my Indian friends and he made a "hole punch" motion with his hand- "He just wants his 'white girl' ticket punched, honey." I protested that I thought he has most likely already had that ticket punched (I just went with it. Too exhausted to argue). The look Davie gave me was priceless. He slowly looked around the Paradise. " And that would be by whoooooommmm?" he asked. Good question. "By whommmmmm?" Indeed.

If you're American, you're a target for everyone.

The mildest, least annoying thing you'll get is open stares (once a baby was looking at me from her highchair at Pizza Hut saying what I thought was "atte" (that means "sister" in Tagalog) and her mother told me helpfully "she thinks you're sexy". Uh, baby in a highchair renders her verdict. Okaaayyy. For days I wondered about that one. More on "appropriate" words later.

What you usually get is relentlessly hustled. Relentlessly. In the store, on the street, and I hate to say it, by your "friends". Several of my white friends have loaned out over 20,000P only to never see it again. I don't blame the hustlers- hey, "everyday I'm hustlin'" is a lifestyle for a lot of people because they don't have a choice, but it's just depressing to think that everyone who smiles at me doesn't even want to bed me, they just want to dip a hand in my back pocket.

Sexuality: short shorts and no FCC= a Friday night.

Basically, leave your Puritanism at the front door. Sex is so prevalent that I would tell my friends "this is not the place for you if you have uncontrolled appetites of any kind: for booze, drugs, or sex especially". And the (to me) shocking part is the venality of it: it's all for sale: boys in thigh high boots and corsets lounging in the doorway of the club across from Club Bossa, girls in school girl outfits with "register numbers" pinned to them (meaning they're legal and clean) eating from a street vendor at 6 AM, tired and washed- out from a night of "Dancing" at the bars, drunk ex- pat men openly prowling the streets, wallet in hand, clothing that refers quite openly to "performance", the way people dress (agents wearing what we would call "stripper heels" in the States, painted on jeans, and a wiggle in the walk), the cheating on spouses....it goes on. Suffice to say they're alot of pregnant women up in here. Falling in love is for fools and teenagers.

As a side note, physical Puritanism of any kind is "passe". Despite being fastidious, Pinoy are..."raunchy". "Earthy." "Open." In short, bathroom humor, and hell, bathroom activities are cool. Don't keep it to yourself. Share with the class, please. This is relatively easy to get used to, but hard to keep the shock off your face when someone picks their nose at the dinner table. Whenever something like this happens I always think "Prime Directive, Na. Prime Directive."

People will act like you're the only one that ever had any problems of any kind.

There's an unspoken pact that people who've traveled overseas come back and make it sound "easy". "Oh, you can get anything you want over there. I had no problems. I got free candy and massages every Friday. What's up, bitch? Wish you were me, much?" Even long- time transplants have a way of acting like "what's the beef? What do you mean the store doesn't carry size 39 shoes? And? I don't have any problems at all! Umbrella drink?"

I have to say a repeat offender in this department is Ant, who once failed to sympathize with me about "riding" in a Jeepney (which I only did once- and that was more than enough), pointing out : "I'm a perfect fit" he laughed instead, with a dreamy look on his face, probably relishing all his super- cheap rides across town. Yes, dear. And I am 5 foot 10 with a 35 inch inseam. It's a tad uncomfortable to fold oneself in half to fit in a Jeepney whose main source of shock absorbers is the insane amount of people they've crammed into it. Also, men are usually "half and half"- half legs, half torso, whereas I'm ALL legs. I guess if I could dangle them out the back we'd be cool. Some *trikes* are too small for my legs! Sigh.
Ryan was like this too, although he was worse. He would tip his head to the side and launch into a lecture about procedures "here" as if I should know by now. He would sigh and shake his head and drink his tea (he loved tea with the same level of mania as a Brit) and lament my foolishness. I mean, I've been here 2 weeks. Duh! EVEYONE knows about "the coaster." Then he'd follow that up with stories of women in love with him, trike drivers who gave him free rides, stores who begged him to put up his picture (okay, not that last one, but almost). Etc.

The point is, it's a hard road, and you'll be alone. There will be times when you're fed up, angry, and feel like you're going to cry. And NO ONE will admit to this. There will be times when you wake up thinking "wait, where am I?" and for a minute you'll page through the plane ride, the staff house, the house-sitting house, the hotels, and finally you'll come back to earth...oh.

More to come if I member.

the dud

It was ashes in the mouth. Burning trash. The scent left on the sheets after he spent the night and then you fought and as he left you knew you'd never see him again. The crumpled letter you found one day too late.

In other words, last night was a dud.

The dud is when you're flush, you're dressed in a magic combination of clothes that fits, flatters, and doesn't bind, and you're alert and ready to party- and then the night just lays there like a dead octopus in your bed.

Yesterday I had to work from 5 AM to 2 PM, then I went home. I was super bitter about giving up my Friday night since I had to work the next day at 5 AM so the plan was that if I woke up at midnight or before I would text around and see who was up and wanted to go out.

I didn't want to do the whole dress -and -high- heels window- shopping thing, so I just put on this tee shirt, which is white with a design of black and white photographs of all these heads- a monkey, a baby, a dog, James Dean, Jesus, etc, all wearing a Soviet Era space helmet, organized in rows of about 5x5. I originally bought it for Antony but I just fell in love with it and kept it for myself. It's very 1970's America- it looks like something that you'd see on "That 70's Show", so naturally I had to have it.

Anyhow, this awesome shirt:
and I went for a stroll over to Phillies to meet Veron and "the client" (he was first on the scene so he won the lottery) This sounds sort of bad, but I was hoping the client would be an American (I told this to Davie and he nodded sagely and said what I thought was "so you could get laid" and as I reinserted my liver which had promptly popped out in the ensuing cough, I realized he had said "so you could RELATE"---thank god!!, which was true. I was even thinking "maybe he'll be from Rochester!!".) but he wasn't, he was from Hyderabad, India.

Super, super sweet guy...totally boring. Married and the type of person who's delighted to find sugar- free mints on his dinner check, he was a pleasant conversationalist which was good since Veron, the person who invited me was totally engaged in laying over the pool table, singing along with the band, and hitting on the women at the next table.

My big boss, Shah, was there also, sucking mournfully on a White Russian
(!!!--see Big Bang Theory for a hilarious take on how some Indians are oblivious to the "femininity" or "masculinity" of drinks), at the far end of the bar, and rather obviously tired, having just blown in from a two week vaca. He was alternating between sneaking food off Veron's plate and wandering around trying to get a signal for his phone and looking worried, so he was useless, or close enough to it for horseshoes and hand grenades.

So me and good old Hyderabad had to make do, generally sharing our observations. He was genuinely entertaining, with a refreshing lack of the jackal grins and backslapping that most clients have. He told me a very funny little bit about being mistaken for a Pinoy that had me laughing. He does bear a passing resemblance to your average Pinoy, except that his skin is light mocha, and he doesn't have the uptilted Asian eyes that Pinoy do. Also, when I saw him the first thing I thought was "An Indian!? Oh, man, bummer!"

So, if someone who occasionally can't recognize people she's been introduced to can see that this guy wasn't Filipino, he can't look *that* Pinoy. I think some wishful thinking may have been involved on the part of the agents who were gabbing away at him in Tagalog. His face as he imitated himself baffled and cornered was very funny.

And a good damn thing too, since I was more than a bit steamed at Veron, a person who had spent the last few weeks doing everything in his power to insinuate himself into my life in a sort of personal way (and who would NOT drop it when I told him I was seeing someone, and it was private. He didn't get it out of me, despite his promises to take it to the grave. I told him "I'm not embarrassed or whatever, it's just that he and I made an agreement to keep it between us and if I told you I'd be deciding for him too, not just me, and that's not fair to him. Just take my word for it I'm all set on the dating tip for now.") was acting like I was "tagging along", despite the face that I very well knew he invited me for "prestige" reasons.

I may be overstating it a bit, but I was angrily bored as the band (naturally) warbled away with their own five piece band version of "Club Can't Handle Me"(thereby rendering all conversation either null as it was swallowed in the noise or horribly awkward as you were caught shouting "...ten whole inches!" in the pause between verses).Veron seemed totally content to shoot billiards and swan around like some sheik, leaving me and Little Lord Fauntleroy to make small talk.

The thing is, last weekend he was there making it rain 100p for every song he requested, and now the staff all call him by name, and call him from the stage, etc. To me this is the cheapest, most transparent kind of "fame" in the world, but it seems to turn most men's heads. It's just so tragic. I wanted to shake him and yell "THEY WANT YOUR MONEY, YOU BIG LUG! THEY DON'T CARE ONE BIT ABOUT YOU!!" as he confessed that he was "known" at this club and he was "a bit of a favorite", hanging his head in a show of faux- bashfulness as the band gave him shout-outs. I mean, this is a country where they fan themselves with your money (as compared to the states, where at drag shows they let the dollar bills fall to the floor, or put them somewhere in the costume acting like nothing happened.) Poor dumb lout.

So I texted Ankit, who was recuperating from a stomach infection and going crazy at home, and he blew in with Vickram, and then ! the two of them slouched against a pole all the way across the room. Sigh. I could see what kind of night it was turning into.
When *Veron* pointed them out ("Hey there's your friends from [other company across the street from my job?"] I was stunned. "Uh, I invited them!" I yelled over the thumping bass of a swing version of "Poker Face" (which was followed by the Tom Jones monster- hit "Sex Bomb"- sigh.)

I went over there, giving Ankit the "uh, what the heck?" face, and was immediately sorry. Ankit has a way of communicating common to Aquarians (myself included) that's part facial movements, part telepathy, and totally opaque. Good luck figuring it out unless you're on the same wavelength. Sometimes we are and he'll make a complex series of little moves: pushing out his lower lip and giving me a side look and rolling his hand around, and I know exactly what he means, but tonight he was stuck on another frequency and finally I got it out of him; he was "pushing off" any second since (shocker) bars are boring when you're not allowed to drink. He was seconding Shah's motion by moodily sucking on what looked to be a screwdriver (at least it had juice in it...) and being there obviously under duress.

"Just get me out of here!" I pleaded with Ankit. The problem was that Veron was willing to blow the Popsicle stand, but we had to wait for Shah and Madame Bovary to come back from MacDonald's, where they went to fetch Cyrus and get some food and then they were coming back. Veron had brought "The Package" and couldn't desert him- "45 minutes, they'll meet us here and then we'll go to Skytraks" he promised.
"Just text Shah!" I begged. But Veron had found his true love in a pair of bimbo heels and short shorts and was perfectly content to drink beer, show off his brand new (and *dreadful*) tattoo and generally make a nuisance of himself. He was, I told Davie later, a magically awful combination of over- the- top (bouncing along to the music, making exaggerated faces at the cue ball, hollering across the room to a wincing Shah, etc) and totally boring (let's put it this way: Man of The Hour, a stranger, was a better conversationalist than Our Hero.).

Anyhow, I chucked back my drink, extremely grateful that Ankit was wanting to leave, (after Veron and Ankit had a conversation in a mixture of vernacular and English, clearly about business, a sort of pose and flex that naturally made me feel the most like a trophy wife I've ever felt in my life) and was hit with what I thought was the parting shot from Veron "You can go with them, it's okay." Oh, CAN I? Thanks, your highness.

Well, what happened was Ankit took a seat across the bar in the two seconds it took me to settle up, and proceeded to become totally absorbed in the billiards table himself, watching it was like TV and bitching about his restricted life in very, uh, graphic terms ("I can't do ANYTHING for the next ten days. I feel like less than a man" He moaned, leaving me to wonder exactly what he had been up to prior to the infection. Thankfully this topic was skirted around, and whatever "anything" was, I was left gratefully in the dark), generally making himself just as miserable a companion as Veron. Vickram is someone that, if you found yourself seated next to on the subway, would not panic you, but nor would you be happily ensconced in conversation with either. In other words, a crashing bore.

After about 45 minutes of fruitlessly watching the door for Shah (my plan was to kidnap the extremely pliable Cyrus and make for somewhere else ANYWHERE ELSE), Hyderabad, and Cyrus, I packed it in. I kissed Ankit's cheek (he gave me a distracted, 1950's grey flannel suit "bye, dear") as I got my purse and made my retreat, having finally seen the writing on the wall.

On the way home I ran into Matt and AK (getting out of the same trike, having squeezed in together in the car, how cute!) and Matt genially listened to me bitch about the debacle that was my evening, and added his own squeeze of lemon about Veron (remarks redacted!- basically he's no huge fan either) and then surprised me by giving me a little hug (it's always nice when people soften up around you) and toddling off to get his hair cut and meet up later with his "other half" (who was going to meet Lovely).

This has happened before. I don't know how or why, but sometimes it's just not "on". As Davie puts it "It's off. It's off. It is just off, man!"

The one redeeming thing was that the moon was full, and as I walked home, I saw that the clouds had given it a corona, which shimmered with color similar to the oily puddles you see in parking lots- something I've literally never seen before. A small comfort as I dragged myself, broken in spirit but ever hopeful, home to bed.

soup's on

For those of you who know me well, you know that once I burst through the doors of a party I wasn't invited to, the first words out of my mouth are "where's the bar?"

Shortly after a dazed frat boy and a sparkly frat girl have made me a watermelon fizzy something or other, giggly all the while at my tats, my skimpy brim, and my tattered copy of Custom of the Country in my back pocket, the next words are "what's to eat in this joint?"
Throughout my adult life, there's been a current of similar night in which a more responsible friend "manages" the situation, finding me food, drinks, a bathroom, a cab, or if there's no friend, someone sort of materializes from the crowd to show me around and tell me what's what.
(This aura may at least partially explain why I find Indians so "bossy"--they're just doing what they think I want them to do, at about 90% they're right.)

Usually the "fixer" guides me to a platter of veggies and dip, or a bread dip, after which I cock my eyebrow and start digging around in the fridge, locating the "good" cheese and some french bread and some chocolate mousse someone was saving from last week's wedding. They I usually ensconce myself in a chair and watch, finding the token fab gay man to make snide remark about and oogle the cute boys with.
This life is...over.
I'm still getting squired around and told what's what by various well meaning people, but the days of brie and raspberries are over.

So what am I eating over here? Well, I'll tell you it's NOT bagel sandwhiches, which I would *kill* for.

Breakfast (which is at 4 PM) is always the same: Pancake house, Spanish omelet with extra toast, "brewed" coffee (yes, you have to specify or you'll get instant!), and ice water (which I also have to ask for it before the meal otherwise it's saharaville until they saunter up with the food). Sometimes I get a fruit "shake" (which is really more like a slushy- fruit juice and fruit and ice blended together).
I've had a few native specialities, most notably stuffed squid, which I described to my coworkers during the Monthly Business Review while we twiddled our thumbs waiting for our client rep to wake up and get on the phone: "Well, it was delicious.
But the squid was served whole and it was kind of looking at me like this:
So that sort of put me off a bit. They were dying with laughter (which always makes me unreasonably happy- usually they're laughing AT me not WITH me).
I've also had a sort of veggie soup- a kind of thin potato base with peppers and other veggies, which was okaaayyyy. That was at the ubiquitously misnomer-ed "Congo Grill".
I've also had Ube ice cream, which I love, and Ube paste bread, which made me stop eating it and throw it away. Ube is this, (below) which gives it an intense, unnatural looking purple color when used, but as you can see, it's all natural.
It's a kind of cousin to the taro. It's really good in cakes and ice cream but terrible in a paste form in bread. And it's lurking everywhere...
Things I've said no to:
sisig: (below) Oh, you think it looks good, huh? well let me tell you it's PIG CHEEKS and it smells like a salt mine combined with a men's locker room after a polo match. People eat it at the bar, it arrives sizzling hot like a platter of Mexican food and leaves a stink that won't die.
Also said no to: Cheese ice cream. Uh, yeah. Nuf said on that one.

I tried: these little square "candies" made out of *condensed milk* and sugar (yes, you heard me right. They're just dreadful. They're a peso each in the pantry and people buy them by the pound.) They're still in a powdered form and have been squeezed into a square and wrapped like a caramel. It's like opening a can of powdered milk and shaking it into your mouth. It's below. The version at the pantry is more "homemade" looking, but just as deliriously awful, trust me.


Also Tried: this thing called "Pinoy freeze" or something. It looked okay (very common circumstance-looks normal, tastes like something from Planet Mars.) but it was very, very weird. It was bubble gum/ cotton candy flavored "ice cream" (like tastee- freeze "whip": a substance with only a nodding acquaintance with ice cream) with some whipped cream- like topping, chocolate chips, and blueberry syrup. Was it bad? No, but I won't be having it again. It kind of made my teeth ache.

other: there's these snacks called "pods" that are potato chips made out of pea pods- very tasty.
Also I love pomelo juice, which they mix with grapefruit juice here. I tried the local wheatgrass juice: it was like drinking green tea with an intense marble rye bread after taste (not pleasant).

Dinner is usually homemade macaroni and cheese from Goodboys (which I eat, trying to ignore the intense encouragement of Ankit to eat some of his pasta with olives- "It's good. Just try it. you'll like. Just eat it. Come on. Doesn't it look good? Okay, suit yourself. Are you sure?" Etc.) Then I get some "breakfast" on the way home from work at 4.30 AM at McDonalds- egg sandwiches, usually, sometimes flapjacks. (both of which are close enough to the real thing to be good enough for me.)

This. Is. Boxing.

Sunday promised to be a day of unrelenting boredom. I was down to my last few hundred peso, since it was payday (not until midnight, though), and I had to save all those peso for food. I did have a stash of murder mysteries and a few movies I hadn't watched yet (Wanted, MI 2 and a few others) but the prospect of laying in bed reading and watching tv all day just didn't seem appealing at all. So the plan was to head to the mall and watch either "Megamind" or "The Easy A", fool around on the internet for a while, and then go home. I had a few calling cards with ten minutes each on them so I thought I might call a few people and leave "just saying hi" messages.

After doing some chores I took a shower and threw on a little linen dress I have and sandals and walked up to Coffee Academy for breakfast. Coffee Academy annex, which was right around the corner, and has breakfast food, was closed. Coffee Academy is open 24/7 and does not really have "American" Breakfast. Naturally. Settling for an egg salad sandwich, I noticed a relatively unusual amount of commotion on the TV. Oh, yeah.

The big boxing match was scheduled for noon. Not caring one bit about a boxing match I assumed was a local match between two locals, I toddled off back whence I came. On the way home, wanting to avoid the deadliest traffic circle in history, I cut down the silent, depressing street of Fields ave. Right at the apex is Paradise Beer Garden, where my coworkers and I have spent many a happy "white people gripe session". I peeked in over the open air railings, to see Daddy- Matt, AK, and Lovely. Perfect. I toddled in to say hi and was immediately enveloped in the warm arms of Daddy-o, who, once he has you in his tractor beam, is not letting go. The bar, which is usually deserted at 7.30 AM, was hopping. The boxing preshow was on, and everyone was ready for what was actually a Pinoy versus a Mexican in America. Huge deal.

So, I ponied up (actually Big Daddy AK ponied up- I took slight advantage of his disheveled, highly partied- out state to extract a cover and some drink tickets on his tab, being broke myself) and settled in.

The players:
Matt: Matt is a 40- something, brusque, brush- cut good- old- boy from Texas. Married to a 20 year old with a kid (that's his, and the reason for the marriage), he took quite a while for me to warm up to. There was an unfortunate incident the night of Lindsey's big night out where he and AK showed up to Bossa a tad worse for the wear and Matt proceeded to spend the whole time frowning over his cell phone and dozing, occasionally making sexist, annoying complaints. AK, the much nicer of the two, was stranded at the far end of the table, so all I got was the top of Matt's mouse- brown head and his hooded eyes peering over his peaked nose, both of which give him a very distinct "Peg Leg Pete" appearance. However, one morning Matt and I were the only people at Phillies while we waited for Daddy-O and we got to talking and he redeemed himself considerably. Defending a girl that a mean memo was sent around about helped too, as did his long story of his tragic love life:"Matt: from butterfly (that's what they call serial daters here) to reluctant, hen pecked father and husband". So now I'm "neutral" on him. Don't hate him, but wouldn't exactly take a bullet for him either.

Anyhoo, his wife is in town from the States (she's a Pinay that lives with Matt's parents, who help with the kid). Michelle is a very particular type of girl: a Pinay who has found her sugar daddy and has NO INTENTION of ever letting him go. Petulant, pretty, petite, and the type of woman who is very likely to develop into a good looking invalid later in life, she wore a gold chain with a flat gold disk with her initial on it and behind it, a "children's" disk engraved with her son's name--they type of thing a woman wears in place of a tee shirt that says "SUBURBAN TROPHY WIFE, FUCK YOU VERY MUCH :)" She was nice enough, as it goes, daintily picking at her food, pouting, and leaning on Matt, chit-chatting in Tagalog (which she made a sort of show of "forgetting"\speaking in such a way that made it clear she had sprung from the crowd and there would be no recoil) with the other Pinoy at the table, and just generally being the kind of woman you intensely dislike and can never "pin" anything on.

Next to her was Lovely. Oh, good old Lovely. Lovely apparently landed like a piano on the unsuspecting AK his second week here (uh, hello Ryan) and never let go. A tad "rode hard" she's a bar girl with a heart of gold. Wild, loud, and crass, she's thin, and tends to wear tiny club clothes that lace up the front, have fringe, and jingle when she walks. She also has some small, sort of jailhouse-y tattoos. She has a pretty, rather hard face, long black hair tiger striped with orange in the front, a slight overbite that men seem to like, even though it makes women look like they can't understand "hard stuff", and a neon tongue ring. She's very loud and "crazy", the type of woman that's fun at 3 AM and resoundingly annoying at a dinner party. Her sharp shouts of AK! rang across the table with alarming frequency. She left pointedly early, her explanation being that she "didn't want to be too fucked up". Uh, didn't want to? I'd say you missed that boat, honey. Both her and AK, when I arrived at 7.30 AM, were eating bar food with the particular concentration that comes from falling on your prey after a long, boozy night out. The group is divided on if we like her. She memorized my phone number and gave it to a bar DJ without my permission in a misguided attempt to steer me away from AK (who I have no interest in), so I'm on the fence. As long as she keeps it to a dull roar I'm okay with her.

AK: An extremely thin Indian who was raised in Dubai, and who's last port of call was Puna ("the education center of India!!"-it is so cute how Indians will "sell" their town to you, despite a staggeringly obvious lack of interest. However I did learn that India's national bird is the Peacock and it's national game is...wait for it...field hockey. Not wanting to be taken on what I suspected was an enthusiastic, National Geographic breakdown on the wonders of India, which the conversation showed every indication of becoming, "major exports: coal, garnets, and clay. Major imports: wheat, taro, and corn...", I hastily flanked a just- warming- up AK with a side discussion about cricket, a subject on which you need know nothing in order to successfully talk about ), AK is a particular type of man, a man who's sort of half complete without a group. Matt's best friend (you never see them apart, ever. In fact the one time I saw AK dining alone I said "AK, where's your better half?" He immediately responded "oh, on a call". He knew I meant Matt!), they met on the first day of orientation and have been inseparable ever since. The most common sight is Matt lecturing a docile and half- smiling AK on some indecipherable topic, while the intensely hyperactive AK rocks on his heels. AK is a heavy duty parti-er, and it shows in his eye sockets, which are sunk in permanent panda paws of inky black skin, and his eyes, which, although extremely beautiful- light topaz, prominent, and fringed with jet black lashes that remind one pleasingly of a camel- are always slightly bloodshot.

AK has a scar that runs down his jaw into his neck and across his throat and when he speaks he sounds like an Arabic Rip Torn, which is also pleasing, in an odd way. A typical Gemini, he's got zing, charisma, and his own brand of icy charm, but not one ounce of sensuality. He tends to cling close to the comforting bulwark of Matt or hover near me or Daddy -O waiting for Lovely to burn herself out so he can slouch in a chair and smoke undisturbed. He has a distinctly simian cast to his features and his body, which is enhanced by his narrow, nervous little paws with their long fingers and pale palms, always picking at something, and by his frame, which only lacks a tail to wrap around his tiny little waist.

So we watched the pretty- well- put- together pre show (shout- out to Matt, who I think does something similar for his work!!), which told the dramatic story of the match-up. It appears that "Pac man" as he's called in a national hero, and his trainer is one too. Shots of Pac-man running and training were inter cut with shots of his dazed looking Anglo trainer being mobbed in the mall with the usual thin, useless security guard impassively staring ahead next to him. Hilariously, Baguio, the training city, is described as "a town were modernity seems to have passed by". Uh, announcer? Have you seen the Phil? Uh, yeah.

This little cutie is "our" hero, and everyone in the bar, including whites, were rooting for him. So after about 3 hours of interminable build up, and 5 San Mig Pilsner's later (thanks, drunk-y AK!) it was on. Twelve breathless, bloody rounds later, the Pac Man wins, amongst a screaming, going crazy crowd.

I actually love watching sporting events in a crowd, especially in an "underdog" city or country. Our little bumblebee, 154 pounds of dutifully circumflex-ing before every round (his crucifix was the last thing taken off him in the pre match ritual) Pinoy, pummeled the tattooed Cali boy into the ground!!! And I was loving it. I was especially loving the crowd which packed the streets, since our bar was one of the few you could see into from the street. There was Pinoy everywhere, silent and reverent, not wanting to be chased off seeing "Pac-Man" on his big day. There were even a few clinging half way up the support beams to get a better view, heads one on top of each other like some peanut butter colored Brady Bunch gang.

All in all a great day and great fun.

welcome to my blog

Here it is. The blog everyone keeps asking for. For now I'm going to compile and edit the emails I've been sending out for my first few posts, and then move on to a more complex format with photos, etc.
Here's the first email (most of you reading this got this)
Hello from the tropics! The JAL flight was amazing, despite being in coach- the airline attendants were all stunningly beautiful, perfect makeup, and Hermes scarves printed with hot air balloons and zepplins tied in very intricate knots around their necks. The plane had a personal TV with four movies (watched all four!) Benjamin Button, Alice in Wonderland, The Box, and Iron Man Two.

Arrived in Manila at 10.00 pm, and my new boss picked me up with a driver ( I have a driver and car, and a housemaid!). Manila even after dark was totally overwhelming. You know those scenes in the action movies where the hero drives the car into the open air market? Well, that's what it was like- crowded, full of Jeepny's (look it up for full effect), honking horns, "tricycles" (motorbikes with sidecars attached. People would be missed by the car by inches and be like "ho hum, I'm just laying the the street dozing on my lawn chair guarding my umbrella shop, ho hum" Everyone is about 4'11 and 80 pounds, tops.

My housing is very spare, with tile floor and just the basics, with (for some reason) very elaborate, luxurious draperies. AC in my room, and my own bathroom. I do share the house but not my room. We also have TV with cable, with all the ads in Tagalog and English, and all Asian ( so startling at first). I am one of four Anglos on the site. So far, there are many, many Anglo men "of a certain age" with tiny little 18 year old brides (I know, gag!) but no Anglo women. Everyone wants to know why I'm not married- it's very common to ask- Anne tells me I will be "victim" of many set ups!

We went to the mall to get towels and a razor, etc. All of the employees in all stores wear tailored uniforms with tiny little woven belts, hoisery and heels. And they're all DYING to help you, ma'am- which they pronounce "mum".

. A natural teacher, Anne is very helpful, and so excited to have another Anglo woman (the other Americans are men) in the country. We already are laughing over the "d.o.m's" (dirty old men) who retire here for "one reason only".

I ate at a little cafe called "extreme espresso" ( the other place I got coffe for 5 cents was called "caffeine overdose"). (the food is always underdone here I'm finding), I had something called "the American breakfast" which was toast, over easy eggs, and a "flunkfoother" after several attempts we got it: a hot dog- and french toast with fresh mango. The fruit is amazing here- the freshest I've ever tasted- in fact I've never tasted fruit like this.

The scenery is a combo of Chinatown and Florida on steroids, palm trees and gated houses, with tiny rickety stores and New Orleans wrought iron everywhere- absolutely stunning. I went shopping and got some groceries and then went home and crashed! My elephant Chaz has been spending the time watching Tagalog soaps.

I have a cell phone which I think you can try to text but not call ( calling is super pricey)- the number is 09275315038. Not sure if I can text internationally and don't want to "spend" my 100p card yet!
Dinner was at work, where I am now (Anne is in meetings and I am in the mess hall) in the converted airplane hanger. Dinner was shark fin and beef dumplings and pineapple juice and cheese crackers ( the packing reads "just when you thought you'd seen every kind of snack, along comes Piattos!"- not exactly, Piattos!) Cost: under 2 dollars.
The other odd thing is that there are uniformed guards everywhere- in all the stores, in the streets, at work. They're not soldiers, they just like to gesture magnanimously and nod and look official.
There is a smaller mall (like Marketplace size) right near my gated community ( which is called "Diamond" and has a huge iron Diamond on the gates, in case you're confused about where you are), and my house has a locked gate with barbed wire !!!! (very common, actually) on the top, locked front door, and locked bedroom door, so very secure. Anne says there is a company list of reputable apartments so she'll help me find a place, or if she goes to India for two months (which she probably will) I can stay at her place.
OH, and the cheese is labeled "tasty", "extra tasty" and "tasty and bitey" (HA HA!!!) - guess what that means? "sharp", "extra sharp" and "sharp and spicy", which I guessed right away. It's easy to guess what things mean, since they're usually close or an odd literal interpretation of English.

Well- that's it. Oh, and one more magic thing- there are cats roaming the mess, one is all white with a black tail and a black mask (so beautiful) and she hopped right on my lap and hung out. She was so tiny (everything is miniature here) and so pretty. I knew then that this place is full of wonder.

first week musings

Just got back from "hypermarket"- a mind bending experience for even the most hardened shopper! I got the basics for another 4 days or so- "bread pan", which is this bread cracker thingie kind of like bagel chips, that is so good, yogurt, tobleron ( so cheap), soap, and shampoo.
Western Union can probably walk you through the security protocols, if need be.

Work is going well- I'm paired with the senior communications analyst, a college educated engineer named Nikki ( male), who is a great teacher and showed me all the evaluation forms for the candidates and the coaching tools we use here. I'm also designing the "maps" for how service calls go- how we can make agents more confident in guiding customers through the processes rather than getting lost in the woods together (which is what happens now).

Despite being culturally the loudest people on earth, get them on the phone with Anglos and Pinoy melt into mice, barely whispering out their script. They are painfully sincere, and as we listed to the "mock calls" more than one person was ready to cry and I heard them tell their instructor "I'm so sorry to disappoint you, Froi!! I got nervous". Having Eric the Red looming over them listening to their practice probably didn't help!!

I went to the drugstore for allergy medicine and was overwhelmed with the noise, heat, and pollution- it is beautiful yet dizzying. So far I've only taken a few pictures but I can't load them onto this public computer, so it may be awhile.

Let's see...oh, Nikki told me that Filipinos don't use indicative case, they instead indicate direction with a moue!!! He demonstrated by making a moue (a mouth like a kiss but with no sound) in the direction that he wanted to point!!! My other CA, Jessica, when asked what she thought the hurdle was for learning better English for the reps "ummm....de interest just idn't dere" (super soft, sing song melody voice) HAR!!! HAR!!!

A typical day involved wrangling with the 8600 security guards, checking my email, sitting in on training classes, making materials, running all over campus, about 6 nescafes (they LOVE their nescafe over here) for a quarter each, and reading up on all the training materials currently given out. I don't have any real set tasks, since I'm still getting used to it, and my boss has been off site and opposite schedule, so me and Nikki spent yesterday slowwwwlllyyy walking to topaz training room, then slowwwlllyyyy walking to the cigarette huts (everyone puffs away like it's there last day on earth over here, and cigarettes are sold by the 2's, the 10's and the pack- they come in little pouches like single serve coffees!!! They also sell "loose" cigs for about a penny each, but not me!! Don't panic.

Seeing Nikki complain about being short of breath in between drags was funny , tho) then slowwwlllyyy eating a pizza thing, etc. We did do work, in between gossiping about grammar errors and other snafus that reps make.
It's getting a little easier for me to see the (to me) subtle distinctions between facial types, and it helps that I watch Pinoy MTV as I'm getting ready for work.

letters to home

Work was super fun today- we certified the newbies/ hopefuls and listened to their final mock calls, crying with laughter on some of them- I got to meet the teachers at the education center, and learn the computer systems more.
Pinoy-isms that crack me up: at the end of the conversation, instead of "alright." they say "so there", meaning "it's all said and done".

Also, they say "do you have a paper and pen handy with you?" hee hee.

I'm thrilling my coworker with all my Americanisms- fortunately given that we have to hang out for 9 hours a day we get along swimmingly, even cracking the same joke about the vending machine coffee.
Honestly, I've never met such nice people in my life- they are all so sincerely sweet.
I went to an amazing coffee house called Coffee Academy Annex and spent a hour savoring my coffee and reading magazines this morning- I took a couple pictures so *fingers crossed* soon!-
I'm still startled to realize that my "home" is Asia now- it's so odd to me, after 31 years, but I'm extremely grateful to have this mind opening experience.

I feel oddly at home- I stick out, but for once I'm ok with it. I'm supposed to stick out- and my status as an outsider is valuable. Still the only one of two Anglo women I've seen, though.
Well, I wish you [my mom] were here to see what I see- gorgeous hazy sunsets over palms with mountains in the distance, motorcycles everywhere, Jeepny's roaring by with the back door open, gaudy lights on the hotels, stunning flowers growing in a lushness that beggars the imagination, and the knowledge that there's so much more to see- and I get to see it all from my car with tinted windows with door to door service. I may never come home! But I will eventually, don't worry!

I meet Ryan

Well, I'm finishing my shift for the week of the second week this am at 7. I've been working on a project to help agents identify and troubleshoot the biggest "dissatisfaction" warning signs- verbal, non verbal, situational, and self inflicted. I've been working with Nikki on it: I generate the content and he organizes it and illustrates it.

We finally figured out a way to work off one master document so we're saving that and sending it back and forth. I've been on a conference call with the guy who runs the call center (s), and I made a new friend (?)- Ryan, an Indian.

As I'm headed out to the car two days ago, the tallest, thinnest Indian I've ever seen jumps out of his chair and springs to life. Naomi? he asks.
Turns out I met him the fateful night I went out with the westerners, and also Ryan knows Shah, the Project Manager, and my bosses boss.
Ryan works for the amazon project, is exquisitely dressed and groomed, and has dark, dark skin and jet black hair.
Ryan proceeds to fall all over himself to offer me "kick ass" pictures of jeepnys when he sees my try to take a picture of one that was labeled "paratroopers", advise me on apartment hunting, and ask me to coffee. I think, to be honest, this was all in the realm of "flirting" but it had that deadly serious quality so many foreigners do. So we went to breakfast yesterday and it was nice- he'll compliment me but he knows the line and doesn't cross it.
Anyhow, he's going back to Mumbai in a month, so it can't get too entangled!

It's hard for me to really make up my mind about him, since he's the only man (besides jerks on motorbikes who whistle at everyone) who's even acted like I was alive, so his attractiveness goes up significantly. He's also handsome "for an Indian" (which is terrible to say, but he's more on the Jaffar side than the Emperor side- thin, ascetic features, not the portly cherub features), but he's a little bossy. So, I think "just friends" for now, probably for good, I have to say.

However, we did compare notes, and you'll be interested to know that my general anxiety level since coming here has dropped about 85%. Ryan reports the same and advises me to "live it up". I think it's a lack of possessions? Also, there's an Edenic feel to this place- it's ancient and removed, you can't feel the layers of time like you can in America, where I know the markers of different eras- it's all "now".

more on the same front

o I thought I'd give you a feeling for what my work is like-
I work from 10-7 am, so around 5 I wake up and shower, text my driver for later, amble to Beatico cafe a few blocks away (ignoring the frantic pleas of the tricycle drivers RIDE!!! RIDE MA'AM!!!) and eat a cold crab sandwich and coffee. Then off to the mall to loaf at Starbucks, window shop, hang out and read, and then off to work.

Work for me is set up like a small college campus, dorms, mess hall, rec hall, small outbuildings. My job site is in what used to be an aircraft hangar.
I usually leave my bag with the lockers at security, get scanned, swipe my badge, and then into the empty first part of the building, which is honeycombed with computer stations not in use (the company had 7 or 8 major contracts for outsourcing- so the office is a series of smaller units for each program).
I then enter the "clean room" of [my project], getting a pat down first. We can't bring any papers, pens, phones with cameras, anything. So I lock upmy tiny purse with essentials in the lockbox and swipe in. The floor is very loud, my desk is in the far corner. We have 170 agents, about 90 of which are on the floor at any given time.

The night MOD, Amit, is there, shouting the same things over and over with his drawling Mumbai lilt: "ACW!! AY CEE DOUBLE UUUUUUU" (this means "after call work, please hustle it up and get back on the phones") "VEE HAVE 5 in and 10 on AY CEE DOUBLE UUUU and WE ARE QUEUEING!!! (meaning calls are stacking up) GET BACK IN PLEASE". "First break? ONE MORE CALL!! FIFTEEN MIN- UHTS!"

Amit, who is charming, well dressed, and handsome,in a very European way- fitted button downs, tightly tailored pants to show off a thin body, like an Arab lounge lizard, gives me the double kiss and I boot up my computer. Like all the managers, he is Indian, married with children, and a terminal flirt. "Naomi! Have you found out what 'Amit' means yet?" he twinkles,still jealous over my exclamation to Shah K-(a word meaning "king" in Mongolian) (yes, his real name!!), the other boss, that Shah's name means "king king", and I call him "the double king", which he takes like the lord of the manor he is.

All around me Pinoy are chatting and milling around. They are shouting the same things over and over too: "RETENTION!!" (Which comes out "ree ten shun" in that Pinoy slush they all have, and means, a customer wants to cancel, get an experienced op on the phone, now). "First BLEAK!!! ONE HOUR BLEAK!!!!" I can hear the murmur of the reps "I'm sorry for dat, sir. And how can I help you today?"

Nikki blows in late, as usual, wearing a tiny little white tee shirt (these men are so small, it's annoying) and a corduroy blazer, and pop star jeans- he's very handsome and he knows it, and is a bit of a dandy. He did give me my first "sis" the other day, which made me melt. Here everyone calls each other "brother" and "sister" as a sign of respect and affection. In English, they translate literally, so it's "thanks sis!"

Nikki, a naturally charming, studious, and gracious Libra, is generous with his "brother" and "sis", and yesterday as we beavered away on our PPT, he said "oh, we have 5 more slides, sis! Ay!" I was touched. Nikki and I work together every day, and are at the point of wordlessly handing each other mints, coffee, holding lighters for one while the other pulls out a cig ( me for Nikki), or opening glass bottles of cola (nikki for me) with a manly flourish. OH, what they call mints are COUGH DROPS!! Mentholated mints are the thing. They're called MAXXX and boy did I get a surprize when I had one. I gasped to Jessica "this is medicine! This is a cough drop!" Jessica: "oh?" She pops another one like no biggie.

My other two closest coworkers, Jessica and Lea, wave hello like we're old sorority sisters. HI NA-ooo-mee!!!

Nikki and I confer and I open OCS and get pinged by Ryan and Anne.

Ryan ( who I told you about in my last email) wants to go to Goodboy's pizza, like, now. Anne wants to have a cig and talk business. Anne wins. We meet (her office is in the At&T building) and we meet at the snack shack area, near a place i call "potato junction". It's really called "potato station", but potato junction is way better sounding and cracks the westerns up.


Randy, a sleepy eyed Anglo ex pat who lived in Japan for 17 years before coming here, is holding court, surrounded by his fans. He's the sales trainer for[a project], and he's been here about 2 or 3 months and lives in a hotel, which he loves. He is single, permanently so, and dapper as hell. He's wearing a thin Brooks Brothers shirt, perfectly cut trousers, and dress shoes. He's just taller than I and has a body like a tailor's dummy and a smile like Dennis Quaid. He looks like a world weary 1970's Jack Nicholson character in a thriller about East meets West. Randy usually saunters up and joins us, and we gossip. Then, work for 8 hours, which is boring and technical, so I won't bother you with it, and then text the driver, put on shades, go to mini stop for a pan de sal, chat with Randy, and go home, pull the drapes and sleep!

updates

Well, I've made a few new friends, but two of my faves are leaving: Ryan back to Goa (India) since his "mind is firm. I am staying for 2-3 years. It's not fair to my brother that he has to handle the family business" but in the good new dept I get to take over his apartment- a one bedroom Apartelle near the main gate, mall, and jeepny terminals, with maid service and all that, and Lindsey (new friend) back to windsor, CA, maybe forever, maybe she'll be back. (She's on a short term contract here).

So that's sad, but Antony's [Antony is a friend I met at a club] not going anywhere, and neither is any of my other buddies- and I'm slowly making more buddies- even with a high "attrition rate".

Night life here is very odd- everyone sits in banquets and smokes their brains out and drinks like it's 1963 and listens to cabaret style music. Most of the clubs we go to are heavy on the ex- pats, so horrible old men and paunchy, self satisfied Indians are everywhere- me and Lindsey call this one bar "little calcutta"- even Antony notes "you'll find a lot of Indians there, if you like that sort of thing."
Ryan was speculating on who I was hanging out with (before he knew it was Antony) and he was pointing out other, random Indian guys: "Is it that guy? I will kill him. I can't believe you would go out with him."

Me: "Ryan, I don't even know who that person is! I couldn't pick them out of a line up! GOD! Relax!"

heh. The funny part is they have no idea how comical it is that they're snobbish about each other, blacks, natives, etc- if only they knew how people in the States felt: all "colors" get lumped together, regardless. "Isn't that Sadaam Hussien there on TV, honey? Oh, it's Sal-man Rushdie? Who's that?"

Work is going well, busy- getting to know the people and the program better and making some headway. Nothing else much new to report- same killer hot weather.

Oh, and a little oddity: how do Pinoy beat the heat and sweat? With a trusty hankie! Everyone- and I mean everyone- carries a handkerchief, which they use to mop their brow when it gets too hot. For women it's a little printed like, miniature baby blanket thing, and for men it's either a bandanna or a regular linen hankie. It's so cute! And odd! Non European ex pats carry them too (Other Asians and Indians). So now I know how hankie companies stay in business- haven't you always wondered how "IMPERIAL EAST INDIAN LINEN TRADING COMPANY TO THE QUEEN" or whatever it is is still afloat at Target? Well, now we know.