Let me hear your body talk...wait, that sounds weird.

Okay, NOT that I'm an expert, but I DO have an opinion- shocker, I know.

I came across this layout in vogue that shows models and their BFs and asks them what will they do for Valentine's Day, etc.

Here's two photos:

To me, I could immediately see the difference in how Asians act in relationships by their body language. It was SUPER obvious to me now that I've been here nine months.

The Asian man (like the men I've dated) is intertwined unabashedly with his woman, with the very romantic interlaced fingers. Also note that she has her hand upturned and his fingers are on top of her hand (this is the way my ex used to hold my hand. He would run his hand down my arm to turn it palm up and then lace his fingers (very tightly) through mine.) , and that they are "showing" this hand holding by putting it at shoulder height. Even his leg leans towards hers, they are a unit.

but notice the very strong, protective, and paternal grip he has on her arm with his other hand. I guarantee he just got done gently positioning her.

Also notice how she relates to him, with the "pigeon-toed" little girl stance. He's also very proud of her, almost showing her off. This is all TOTALLY par for the course over here.


The Americans:

Notice how he's relaxed and you don't even see him touching her. His one hand is grounding himself in his pants pocket (he's too cool for cuddling). She leans on him, arms around him and "claiming " hands on his chest. They're also laughing together, something that's very important to their self image as a couple- they could almost be two friends at a barbeque.

Generalization? Yes, but it comes from my own experiences here. I was stunned to see those photos. The one could have been me and my most recent ex, the Americans almost exactly duplicates a photo I have of me and my ex from high school (an American).

I just wanted to share that with y'all.

Movie reviews!

Movie reviews part: whatever I'm up to now!

Beastly:


The modern version of Beauty and the Beast, with the most inspired casting I've seen since I've been here: one of the Olsen Twins (or maybe both, who knows) as "the witch" a role she inhabits in all of it's scary, icy, kooky glory like she was born for it. She manages to take the Southern Cali whisper glam voice and removed rich girl demeanor and make it something dark, genuinely scary, and awesome. And great clothes.

A fluffy, enjoyable starlet vehicle notable for it's good casting (extremely likable Neil Patrick Harris playing a blind version of Barney from How I Met Your Mother), one of the other things that I really liked about this movie was how refreshingly natural Vanessa Hudgingson's (or whatever her name is, sorry honey) body is- she's very small "in the balcony" and it seems like she even has (gasp!) a bit of a tummer in some scenes. For someone with *multiple* sex tape/ nude photo leaks to her "credit" it's a bit of shocker to see that she's so...ordinary.

Anyway, the movie bounces along with various tortured plot points, which as a movie goer who only paid 3$ for the movie I just let go, only marred by one thing: The leading man is lovely, with disheveled blonde locks, a cut glass face, and a cute accent. However, when he undergoes the "curse" and becomes ugly, there's some scenes that show his ungainly mitts- bloated, puffy hands the size and shape of catcher's mitts with painfully short, bitten, blue nails. Wow, I thought, they *really* did their due diligence here. And how awkward it must have been to wear prosthetic hands the whole time! Har.

Imagine my horror when the uggo goes back to being a hottie and puts those huge, square oven mitts on either side of the heroine's face. Oh dear. Now, I have a rather well documented pickiness about men's hands, hands are for sure a make or break issue, but for god's sake, child! I know he can't help it, but hide those things!

Anyhow, rating: 2 stars out of 4. See it at the dollar theatre, or buy one get one. (or as they call it here, very tellingly "take one")

Water for Elephants:



Is it wrong that I sort of felt for August, the villain, of this movie?

EXTREMELY old fashioned (as if the movie makers themselves were adhering to concepts and devices from the era that the film was set in) but entertaining, the movie trills up and down every key in the heart-string piano: parents die in a car crash, dying animal must be put down, jerk teases big lug of a performing animal, young hearthrob loves damsel in distress, dwarf with a cute dog dies (is murdered!), old guy is dying of "jake leg", happy ending where the couple gets everything they want, old man tells his story to "frame" the movie, etc, etc.

The various roles are drawn with crayon on butcher paper but the actors (especially whoever it was that played the ringleader- a man you were drawn to against your will and better instincts, a man with a fire in the belly that Robert ("milquetoast") Pattison can only hope to warm his hands on), but Reese and Co. valiantly struggle to make it work. Some scenes are very lovely in old school way, but the movie is just so predictable (well, there's one scene that did surprise me into a shocked gasp, but I won't give a spoiler), and one thing that made me NUTS was that Robert's character wears a long necklace on a leather cord (or something very like it). That would have NEVER occurred in the 1930s. Okay, I've become my mom. However, it was the kind of thing that really bugged me.

Snarfle! *Push up glasses*/ why am I still single, again?

Rating: 3 out of 4 stars: Watch it when cable is on the fritz.


PIE-RATS!
ON REALLY ODDLY RELIGIOUS TIDES!



Okay, this is a movie I'm still digesting, because I feel like I have a LOT to say about it, but I'm not sure where to start.

Basically, my diagnosis is that the movie has several very inspired "pieces" and is unable to forge them into a whole. The George 3 thing is HILARIOUS and very enjoyable, the "doubles" scene was woefully underused, (even if graceful, gorgeous most beautiful woman in the world Penelope Cruz gives herself away even in silhouette), the Spanish buccaneers on their ship (YUMMERS- call me! ) staring straight ahead, feathers fluttering in the wind, is a hair raising-ly cool moment, but the movie suffers from one thing:

MEL GIBSON-itis.

Dear God: You know I love ya, but please get your harp OUT of Hollywood! And take the burning bush with you, it's staring to smell, and tell Gabriel he owes me 5$. Love, me.

I mean, for REALS! The movie has a REALLY weird "religious" undercurrent that set my teeth on edge. One of the most likeable things about Captain Jack Sparrow was his merry way of amorally walking the earth without a care in the stone tablets. Now he gives one of two possible rats' asses?!!! Uh, excuse ME!

The most badass pirates care about "saving their souls", there's a priest who's not hooted off the ship, the Spanish destroy the fountain of life while melodramatically declaring "The only eternal life is FAITH" or something equally annoying.

Now, on one hand, the tinkle of altar bells is kind of just a plot point, I mean, this IS the era of the Catholic Church as God, but this just didn't sit right with me.

The action scenes were "eh"- actually I've never been a huge fan of the extremely stylized and choreographed nature of these movies' action sequences. Sometimes they really work, but most of the time, they're too much of a set piece to be believable, if that makes any sense at all.

There's something muted about all the performances, too, as if the zany energy and devils (heh) twinkle has left the building. Depp just hasn't had "it" in a while (I kept meaning to write about The Tourist, but I kept forgetting).

Anyways, it was a welcome diversion from the travesty of a "date" that I was on, so:

As an emergency anesthetic: 4 out of 4 stars.

As a movie: 1 star.

IJWTBF

In which the (genuinely innocent) parties will be given the names "Keith" and "Mary".

Mary is a coworker who is very pretty, bubbly, with a very strong personality- outspoken, emotional, intense, and very likeable. She carries a few extra pounds of delicious around the middle which she offsets with the legs of a Vegas Showgirl, long swinging hair, gorgeous full lips, perfect skin, very fashionable, flattering clothes, and a great smile. Anyhow, not suprizingly, she has a battalion of male admirers, some of which are bad boys who show up with hickeys on their neck on their second date, and some of which are sweet, hopeless male friends.

Enter Keith. Keith is 32, reasonably good looking, well dressed, educated, a perfect gentleman, sweet as buko pandan, and as such hasn't a chance with Mary, who, if anything, is *more* into Vin Diesel types than I am.

Mary, like anyone with half a brain, stumbles on the "perfect" solution: She's got a nice single girlfriend, who's in dire need of a nice guy, she's got an "extra man" hanging around giving her just a bit too much attention....

Enter THE SETUP.

"I've got a man for you!" She tells me. Naturally I'm skeptical, but finally I cave. "Is he good looking?" I ask, as she describes his "great personality".

"Be honest."

"BALDO!" she screams across the campus at our coworker.

"IS KEITH GOOD LOOKING?" (Keith used to work for my program before moving on to other ventures).

Baldo thinks about it.

"HE'S AN EIGHT." Yells Baldo, mortifying me. Great, now I'm locked in. "Okay, let's not make this a worldwide affair (way too late for that, as we'll see later).

I can't say "no" to an "eight" or that makes me look like I think I'm better than an eight, which I AIN'T.

Anyway, Mary facilitates the number exchange, and is beside herself with glee, no doubt thinking it's A LOCK. All her problems are solved and besides which she's helped a girl who just got done wrong.

I asked my one coworker who knows him "what do you think of Keith? Mary wants to set me up with him." and his handsome little face crumpled a bit, trying to find the right words. "I think he might be a little too ner-dee for you" he said. "But he's so nice! He's so sweet! Give him a chance!" Oh groan. In for a penny, in for a nerd.

So Saturday day I text Keith and invite him to join me and a group of friends at Hacienda that night, but he declines in a very Newbold Archer note, extremely formal, and asking if instead we can have coffee the next day.
We make plans and he says he'll let Mary know.
Uh, okaaayyyy, whateves. At this stage I'm just a hollow shell of my dating self anyway, what the hell, I'll play along.

Sunday I had to DRAG myself to this assignation, but I told myself "To the victor belong the spoils of war." Or something. Anyhow, it beats a stick in the eye.

As soon as I saw him I thought "nope." And it wasn't looks! As tall as I am, well formed with clean, regular, albeit very "Asian" features, dressed cool but not trendy, with long "curly" (that's what they call wavy hair here- everything but pin straight hair is called "kulot"--curly) hair, he just had no....

zing. No "it." No fire. No impishness. No playfulness. No zazz. None of that edge that you get from certain men- that "something"- that glint in their eye, that swag, that daring. He was totally sexless. He may have well as been a woman for all that he lit a fire in my belly (and sad to say some women have turned my head more efficiently).

We actually had a very nice conversation, he was a perfect gentleman, nice, educated, perfect English, not shy or nervous (maybe a little nervous), but the main thing here is that he wasn't any too interested in me either because he's IN LOVE WITH MARY.

I felt like I was on a date with a married couple. He used the phrase "we" meaning him and her. He called her "his salvation" (they act as each other's "walkers" for formal events since they're both single). He teased her that she should be in the fashion show that was on at the mall that day. He automatically handed her his cigarettes when she was out since "WE" smoke. He pulled her out of the way of a suspect movie goer who was staggering around in a scary way. He teased her with just a touch of bitterness about "man hunting" when she commented on the hotties in the mall.

Mama didn't raise no fool. I had given up the minute I laid eyes on him so I just enjoyed observing the interactions like an anthropologist; "Observe how Mary insists that our heroine rides in the front seat, in a last ditch attempt to create sparks where there are so clearly none." Heh.

At least the movie was okay. 3 stars out of 4, Pirates of the Caribbean is vintage Johnny Depp. Swashbuckling Bonanaza with only one thorn in my side, which is the priest who falls in love with the FUCKING MUTE mermaid. "Oh, I love you, perfect, helpless, mute 16 year old. I know you're different because you're so beautiful and helpless." PUKE!! Other than that, you'll have to wait for the full review.


Yesterday at work an unable to contain herself coworker busts up to me (naturally four feet away from the ex, who has ears like a freakin' satellite dish and knows everything about everyone--ironically one of the things I found attractive about him) "So! You went out with Keith!! How did it go?!"

"He's greeeeaattt. Perfect gentleman. Handsome, total package."

"Any sparks?" She presses.

I shake my head, and laugh.

"Give him a chance! He's too awesome!"

" No chemistry." I say with finality. "He is great, but..." I shake my head.

"I guess you don't go for nice guys, just crooked ones like that one-" she indicates the ex, right behind her.

"No comment." I laugh and roll my eyes.

Nothin' like being "Hollywood Royalty" or "A list Gay" (as Kez would put it). I've noticed that wherever I land there's a bit of a stir. And I always complain about it while dating the most conspicuous (Jean Claude, anyone) big baller in town. And then I am "crushed by the weight of my own celebrity" and then I go into hiding and then I move and then it starts all over. Heh.

Stay with me for this one, peeps

In which our heroine realizes that she has an uncomfortable amount in common with Jen Aniston.


Okay, just indulge me for this one, okay, team?

We all remember the lack of shock with which the world greeted the "bombshell" that was the announcement that our latter day Elizabeth Taylor had stolen the equivalent of Eddie Fisher from Debbie Fisher---in other words, when Brad Pitt left Jen Aniston, his WIFE for the thin, ropy, tattooed arms of Angelina Jolie and then proceeded to severely test our sympathy for the two by knocking her up and gabbing about their charmed life so soon after the dissolution of his marriage that most of us had whiplash.

And the world sort of mentally took sides. And everyone wants to be on the side of a winner.

So, despite the fact that Jen is an Aquarius, and us water bearers gotta stick together, I was 76.57% Team Jolie. It seemed like Jolie and Pitt were doing something big, daring, emotional, and authentic. Now that I'm older, wiser, and more broken- hearted, it seems like the most predictable, cheap, and sleazy thing outside of David Letterman's fatherhood at AARP age.

Jen's subsequent antics, including two regrettable go- rounds with bedroom-eyed Jon Mayer, did nothing to further endear me to her. She was quite clearly torn between two personas, on one hand the angelica Madonna tearfully holding the tattered remains of the heart in a technicolor Pieta, on the other she was tearing up the magazine layouts in slit- up- to- there dresses desperately trying to prove how sexy and over it she was. It was tiring for everyone involved.

Then things sort of blew over amid the nanny tell- alls and "Teen Mom"/ Jersey Shore/ Kardashian thangz, and the world moved on.

Being out of the In Touch-- a magazine I'm SUPER addicted to, thanks Keziah :-)' -- loop for several months probably did me more good than harm, but the other day, behind some hair style mags I discovered a stash of outdated In Touch mags, and here was the cover that blew my mind wider open than the anything after the discovery of Edwardian satirist Saki:


OH. SHIT. Here. we. go. again.

The article inside made me experience an uncomfortable kaleidoscope of emotions, including, but not limited to, embarrassment, ire, chagrin, dark amusement, the thought that damn was Bradley Cooper the perfect specimen of manhood, and "the shock of recognition".

The article surgically and coldly dissected Jen's love life since The Only Breakup That Mattered, highlighting the charismatic, selfish, immature, beautiful men she's dated since The UR Man.

The lineup of "bad boys" that Jen's been linked to was especially illuminating. Gerard Butler. Bradley Cooper. Jon Mayer. Model Paul Sculfer. The line from the article that is BURNED into my memory: "Jen's friends say she swears she really wants a committed relationship, but every guy she dates seems to be less interested in a commitment than the one before."

The men all look vaguely alike- leonine, healthy, tanned, Ralph Lauren cigarette smokers just woken from the most pleasant nap of their lives, a conqueror's twinkle in their eyes. Jen looks the same in each photo with the guys- the avarice and longing of a starving peasant for a crumb of bread from the royal table is written all over her face, along with the pain of knowing that the "relationship" is a fragile as a house of cards and twice as constructed.

Suffice to say this prompted some serious soul searching about the type of man I've always had my heart torn out for.

I don't really know what it all means, or why, like me, the successful, attractive, smart, funny, and together Jen seems to lose it around a certain kind of man, but knowing your enemy is half the battle. The other half?

Well....

That's what a girl's best girls and gays are for: support, tissues, and well timed common sense zingers that pierce the iridescent balloon of "love" before it swells to such a size that it obscures the sun itself.

Glass Tiger

Okay, this is the rest of the story from the previous post:

Saturday night I went out with Amanda (the new SME from Canada who I met through Lindsey), who's nice and down to earth. We met up at Coffiacad, had a few drinks, and she texted a few people to try to get them to come to this new place Hacienda, which had gotten mixed reviews (Ant loves it, Lindsey hated it). So one person she described as the "sales validator" for her account, named Arman, showed up. Prior to his arrival I questioned her intensely as to who this guy was, since I knew someone by the same name and I had seen him in a group of people with her. He used to work for my program and lived next door to my boss at the time I was staying at her house, that's how I got to know him.

Arman is a nice enough guy, but a loose canon, someone you don't tell your personal shit to, if you know what I mean. He's a little...much. You know- baby mama drama, custody drama, work drama, etc, etc.

Anyway, sure enough it was him. He rolled up, ready to have a good time. His first question to me "Where's Ives?" Uh, my guess would be sleeping off the 12 Red Horses he probably had for lunch (not that I'm bitter or anything...). I had to spell out in several different ways that we weren't together and hadn't been for over a month.

Like many Filipinos, they're innocently breaking your heart going on and on about something you CLEARLY don't want to talk about/ hear about: "I mean, I totally thought once I heard you were coming that Ives would be here too. I was like "oh, Ives will be there." I thought I saw you guys together on campus the other day." And so on. EEURGH.

So great, half the campus thinks we're still together. "You broke up? What happened?" Arman, never known for his tact, got the skeleton outline I give acquaintances "we just weren't compatible". I mean, do we really need to get into the whole "Boyfriend decides he doesn't want to be in relationship, misses to inform girlfriend of such?" No, we don't.



Anyway, we head over to the club, which is fronted by twin doors covered in quilted white leather (a bold choice in dirt- heavy Philippines). Inside was what would be, for the US, a typical bottle- service ultra- lounge, and was for Clark the nicest, highest end club in town. The particulars were typical to me: an army of SKYY minions in white shirts emblazoned with the luxury vodka logo taking drink orders, well dressed Beautiful People slouched around, acting bored, pounding dance music, etc, etc.

The major draw was the literal parade of stunning men this place churned out. Amanda is also single (for now) and we roped Arman into being our runner/ wingman/ translator/gaydar and he asked us "who's your type". I looked around. There were several cuties- some fresh faced Bieber types, some big Samoan bouncers, some otherwordly, delicate, exquisite types. There was one guy wearing all black-a slightly loose black button down and black slacks, just a bit shorter than me, with the finish and poise of a young Ramses- just drinking his beer and watching the crowd- eyes moving, occasionally becoming animated as suddenly as an electrical shock, his face splitting open with a huge smile. And a number one crop for hair and Van Dyke beard.

I pointed to him. "na ang isa". That one.

Arman nods sagely. "Just watching everyone, just standing there. Just like Ives. I gotcha. I know your type."

Is anything more annoying than being pegged so succinctly by someone you're not super crazy about? Not really.

I had to laugh. I really do have a type. James Dean. John Bender. Jordon Catalano. Too cool for school. Tragic. Serious. Bad news. Smells like leather, wool, and cigs. Lots of scars. Doesn't talk much. Heh. Howwww predictable.

So I dropped the idea of getting Arman to talk to "that one". There was a super cutie behind me who was smiling at me, raising a glass, so I flirted with him and gave him my number despite his rather ham fist-ed flirtation attempts (Exhibit A: I was wearing an empire waisted dress and he asked, a little nervously, "Are you pregnant, Miss?" HA! And I won't be wearing that dress out again! This is not as unreasonable as it sounds. One out of every two women over here are expecting). He was texting me the next day, and today, and we'll see. I mean, he's 23 and works for a gas station. He needed help from Arman to understand that Amanda and I didn't live at the Holiday Inn, we were just going there to chill and he was invited. So unless I want to bring Arman on all of our dates ( and I DON'T) it might be a case of too little English to get the train started.

So we danced and admired the scenery and I left around 2 AM. It was fun, and just what I needed. Nothing makes you feel like you gotcha bounce back like not being able to pick just one hottie at da club. Heh.

Later, babies.

ikaw din

after a super fun night out (full details later, I promise) where I finally met someone else: sweet, beautiful, young, attentive, and totally into me....


You know what's coming, don't you?

I was *minding my own business* in the MALL ( a place that "someone" swears he hasn't been to in a year or more) and I rounded the corner and there he was (and thank whatever god there is that he was wearing a rather worse- for- the- wear, slightly- too- small short sleeved undershirt (yes, as outerwear; I can't seem to resist the Stanley Kowalskis of this world) and seen- better- days jeans and I was wearing my new bikini and a very flattering short dress as a coverup, tan all over and with the Jackie O sunglasses on the head just off the yacht look-- The staff of Starbucks whistled when I came in a few moments later- you look sexy! they exclaimed. Thank you, Aries. Face it, breakups are war. And anyone who tells you different was never in love)

And in a move that sent a dagger of ice right to the sweet spot between my shoulder blades, when he recognized me his whole face lit up and he started to smile until he saw my expression, which I would describe as "just give me the last cigarette and light it, guard". I gave him the courtesy nod and the "hi". In return I got the particular wave that used to tickle my fancy, a kind of running scales in mid air with those fucking perfect fingers.

That's how the design it, children. You can have anything you want, just not when you want it, and not how you want it.

Oh, for the days of the "cut direct".

On the other hand, letting a man know he sort of bulldozed your heart is not amor propre, either, so one must rely on looking like you haven't a care in the world while reciting your mantra (in this case "Nipa hut, Naomi. Nipa hut.") and then calling up a very sympathetic friend later.

He was still looking at me as I sailed off, and you know what shook me up: it was the SAME FUCKING look that Ryan had on his face as I ran down the street, fleeing the apartment.

The same look in the eyes of cosmonats with soviet era flight masks over their mouths- a kind of studied expressionlessness below the nose and, above, eyes that seem belong to an ancestor, to be chasing tigers on horseback, eyes that show you what you'll never understand about Asia, no matter how long you live here or who you date or befriend.

As much as I think about it, and believe me, I've thought LONG AND HARD about it, much more than I want to, I'll never quite get it.

But for the meantime, I'm still good. Just kind of wondering (a bit like someone who wins the lottery and then gets hit by a car on their way to claiming their new Bentley) what's next?


Light a candle for your babe in the woods. I'll need it.

The Hobbyist

The Hobbyist:

Gun over my shoulder

Relentless, avid, precise

Following every mark you make

Down to the tiniest break in oceanic sweeps of snow

Freezing

Your exquisitely rare pelt will make an exceptional rug

They all will finally see who--

Or perhaps you will be flung over my shoulders

Crowning me with your totemic, beastly glory

I promise I will use every beautiful part of you

Nothing will be lost

Even my taxidermist will exclaim over the astonishing beauty of your lifelike eyes

Your precious, pure white fur will warm me

All through the winter and far into the spring

Should you elude me

I have but to wait for the summer

Where naturally I will

Assume my other ego

That of the lepidopterist

Carefully stalking your antithesis

With the frailest of nets

"one more, just one more!"

Part 2:

Okay, Sunday dawned at 5.30 AM when Froi called me to say she was on her way in on the Philippine Rabbit and to get ready to meet her at the station so we could cab it to the Divisoria, a giant flea market so I could get fabric (one of my mom's few requests from Asia). I met Froi and her two friends, a couple- Matt and Alex. Alex looked JUST LIKE a Filipino version of Jess Keltz- same hairdo, same style, even the converse, very similar body type. Check my FB for proof. Anyhows, we toddled off. The three were in high spirits, warning me to watch my bag with my life, avoid the garbage which was piled high in the middle of the street, etc. etc. When I later told Supe Vic about this adventure, he laughed "They say Divisoria is so crowded that when you go there you can leave pregnant and not even know it." he said in his husky, froggy little voice.


It was a fabric BONANZA and it was so cheap. I wanted 3 yards of everything, but I was picky, and I wound up with five selections: olive and cream heavy satin brocade embroidered with a kind of stylized flower design, reversible; a heavy satin in cream with coffee, gold, and lipstick pink circles in a paintbrush-ed motif, local batik in navy and pink, a cream upholstery fabric (my mom loves upholstery) with a cool multi colored bouquet of wildflowers, and a lightweight dimity cotton with blue roses (my personal fave flower motif, FYI).

We were in and out before it got really hot and crowded, and the cute couple took off to visit Matt's mom who had an apoplexy yelling at her cleaning lady and was in the hospital (yes, really).

Froi and I retired to "Breakfast at Benny's" which was a cute little boutique resto right off Rustan's, for brekkers. I had the fruit plate, and Froi had the pancakes. We commiserated about how hard it is for a career gal in her 30s to find a dude who's okay with a woman making more money than him.

After that we browsed in National Books and G5 for a bit, then we split, me to go to pool and chill for a bit before my mom's friend's friend (long story, I'll get to it in a bit, never fear) was coming to pick me up at 4 for a cookout.).

The pool was amazing. Turquoise shot through with crystal, the sun was at it's zenith. Groups of elegant ex pats (really. Two deeply tan Metropolitan types were lounging poolside and wearing their Wayfarers into the pool, along with their faded Lily Pulitzer trunks. I was in love.) were drinking elevenses and dozing. The sun reflected off everyone's bronze skin. The waiter brought me an ice cold water and an ice cold G&T, and a martini glass full of salty little nibbles. I was intensely conscious of wanting to remember everything. The way the men looked in the pool, their perfect Rupert Everett hair dos somehow surviving the heat and the water, the little plastic boxes the food came in, the feeling of the wind ruffling the pages of the Vanity Fair mag I had (the ONLY mag you want to read poolside in the tropics, makes you feel like Bridgette Bardot on holiday), the look of my legs, oiled with tanning lotion, the intense pleasure perforated with pain wishing Ives was there, the recognition that pleasure without pain is no kind of pleasure at all.

At 3.30 Sonny texted that he was in the lobby. Sonny is a product of my mom's huge social circle: her work friend John's sister lived here in the Phil for about 5 years 20 years ago. After her (let's call her MJ) first few emails, I must admit I wrote her off as a hippie who was out to lunch. But then I got serious about finding people to hang out with and I took her up on her offer to introduce me to her ex, Sonny.

She told me two things: "he's an artist and he's kind of a wildman." I had his number immediately. It's hard to explain but I had a strong hunch of exactly who he would be, since Buffalo is positively littered with this type: 50- something "artist and wild man" types with 1 or more failed marriages, multiple kids, the Converse sneaks, the big dog, the unfiltered cigs, the use of pot after college (sigh!), the long boozy dinners with their Javier Bardim group- of- friends, the liking Ayn Rand, the windy conversation, the skirt chasing... essentially I thought "Oh, he's going to be just like my mom's second "husband", Bob". AND HE WAS.

He takes his dog, Doobie, a husky, everywhere. He wears jeans, a stained white tee shirt and jeans and sneaks. He loves Ayn Rand and considers himself an Objectivist. His last GF (and "soulmate") was 30 years his junior. He's so macho that woman (myself included) feel invisible, obliterated, next to the immensity of his male privilege, which he wears like an ermine cape. Some men make women feel warm and protected and loved inside that cape, others wear it like Chris Sarandon in Princess Bride- it's their birthright and they would never think to share.

Anyhow, don't get me wrong, I don't have no beef with these guys, as long as they keep their hands to themselves.

We headed out to his high school friends' pad, where we drank beer and shot the shit as the sun set.

The players:

Sonny we know.

Ray: an affable, handsome (very handsome, distractingly so) guy, who was the man of the house. He was an amateur photographer and showed me some really cool photos. He's married with a kid to Anne, a manic artist who's a type of Filipina that I've learned to recognize: only has two gears: unconscious and hyper. She blew in a scooped up her fluffy Pomeranian who was resting on the table, queen of all she surveyed (both Anne and the dog). She was soon ensconced in issuing orders to the two hired girls, yelling, laughing, sashaying back and forth, hugging people, making jokes, all at once.


The other guys I can't recall their names, but one was a Filipino and one was a Chinese guy, all four men were from the same class. The Chinese man was exquisite- probably one of the few handsome Chinese men I've seen- he had a daintiness to him that wasn't for me, but was objectively lovely. He was perfectly formed, and he wore three jade bracelets and two diamond rings. He was as cool as an Egyptian cat looking over the Pharaoh's shoulder, just listening, his cheeks showing just a hint of "the Asian flush" that comes from drinking.
Actually, the spoke MORE English than my CO WORKERS, either out of politeness to me or just for kicks. Of course they made jokes and all in Tagalog, but I was able to follow about 1/10th of what was being said. Ray's family is prominent in Vigan, the town that's next after Puerto Galera on my "list", and they vociferously invited me to stay at their summer place.

Anyway, the sun dipped beneath the sky, the beer and scotch kept coming, the dog quieted down, and we ate and ate.

Around 7 I was toast, and I toddled back to the hotel to fall into a deep sleep, very happy.

The next day I had lunch at "ArmyNavy Burger", which was very tasty, and while I was eating, my favorite song of all time "When I was Younger" by Rod Stewart came on. Gratitude for being there, eating a good meal, looking at lovely scenery, listening to my favorite song, filled me, pushing everything else aside. This was almost as good as it got. For now it was enough.

"her whole being dilated in an atmosphere of luxury"

Manila mini vacation:

Part one:

This trip was designed for three things: take a little side trip with my then-boyfriend, get my paperwork for renewing my passport started, and take advantage of a coupon that came with my HolidayInn special people club card. Well, as we know I broke up with the man, and thus our adventure begins.

When I went to Cebu, I took the bus after work, and also home, going through Manila to get to Cebu via the airport. Ives and I just waltzed up to the bus terminal after work Friday AM and hopped on a bus to Pasay, finding two seats together no problem. The bus was cheap and he made it easier since he speaks the language. Also, it's just nice to have another set of eyes and hands and a shoulder to lean on if you get tired. There is also an indefinable something about having someone else on a trip that lends it a flavor--you're also seeing it through their eyes as well.
That was then.

I had taken a vacation day this past Friday, on which I planned to travel, meet up with some people (more on that later) go to the Embassy, rest, etc.

So after shift Friday AM (very early) I went home and took a shower and grabbed my bags. I was dreading the trip the whole time, I really didn't want to do it.

All I could think about was the Cebu trip last month and how much fun I had, and now, one month later, I was alone and going on a romantic trip for two as one. I arrived at the bus station at 5.30, just as the sun was coming up. I couldn't find my sunglasses, I forgot to pack lipstick and I forgot Chaz, my elephant. I was feeling like a sack of laundry- just tired, out of sorts, hungry, distracted, sad, you name it. The McDonald's sandwhich I was eating tasted like cardboard to me.

Here's where I made my rookie mistake: I did the exact same thing I did last month with Ives, only allllll byyyy myselffff.


Well, children, it ended predicatbly badly: as I got more and more upset, watching bus after bus go to Tarlac (AUGH!! Ives' home town), Cubano, and other ports of call that were not Pasay, I was steaming hot. The bus station is an open courtyard with no shelter and no benches, and I was standing with my luggage in increasingly hot, unprotected pavement, wishing I was dead.

Finally a bus pulls in that has a *handwritten* sign for Pasay in the window. I asked the porter (the driver only drives, the porter takes your money and assures order on the bus) "Pasay?" He gave a kind of half shrug and went back to smoking. I checked again and he gave a kind of half "yes". Okay. I got on. The only two seats were: next to "Hobo with A Gun" Looking Guy and Tubercular Grandma Who Hates Your Guts. I chose B and tried to sit down and realized the TBGWHYG was taking up 3/4 of the two seats. And she wouldn't budge. And she HMG.

FUCK. THIS.

I gathered my raggedy shit and stormed off the bus. SO THERE, victory liner! You don't get my hard earned 150p after ALL!!!

I just couldn't do it. All around me were reminders of the fun and romance that had left my life and that I felt, at that moment, I would never have again.

I cried all the way back to my house and then flung myself on my bed to sob my eyes out. I got myself slightly together and called my sister, who made me feel better. Then I considered my options. There is a free shuttle from my job on Saturday mornings, so I called the hotel and changed my reservations to Sat- Sun- Mon and then set up a car to take me back through the hotel. Then I slept for a bit, worn out by heartbreak.
5 hours later, fortified by a nap and some perspective, I devised a plan. I needed to completely change the script.

To this end I considered my overnight bag, which had served me faithfully for about 10 years ( I got it when my sister was still in college. She is now 30.) It was (blush!!!) a *promo bag* given out by Estee Lauder for their Provocative Woman perfume launch (this is how I know how long I've had the bag, since the perfume wound up going to my sister since it always smelled sharp and unpleasant on me and heavenly on her- damn her!). It's a cream doctors' bag style bag, about 18 inches long and 12 deep, with a red leather upper, one inside pocket and two outside end-slit pockets.It has some stains on it but they're not noticeable. It's perfectly serviceable. And it should be burned. It was still carrying the MNL airport tags on it! What in heaven's name I was thinking I'm not sure.
The old bag:


Clearly proactive shopping was needed. I knew I could get a cuter, better bag and although it may be shallow, I felt that starting over with a new bag (thus signifying a new, better trip) would go a long way to making me feel better. After looking around the mall I settled on a really cool bag: North Face brand, (a bit more than I budgeted, but if you're going to have something for ten years, it's worth it to pay for quality), a deep magenta with a very subtle grey windowpane plaid, it had three separate sections, an inside pocket, and an outside zipper pocket. It was also a top handle square tote bag style, with short yet sturdy grey nylon straps. It's made out of rip stop nylon, which is a much better material than the mystery linen blend the old bag was made of, and it was much more suited to the task, having me, oh, say, designed for it.

The cool new bag:


I also picked up a new carry on bag, a really cool blend of tweed and perforated leather bowling bag style, for a song (it was 50% off) and I was ready. I repacked my bags and changed my travelling outfit. Then I went to sleep and slept for like 12 hours.

I headed to work rested, clear headed, better dressed, and better outfitted luggage wise. At work, Sat AM, people were coming off the Friday shift, and I chatted with supe Vic (one a my acquaintances who's rapidly becoming one of my favorite people for his dry, understated humor and his quick wit, a great combination) and he and MOD Ry both graciously agreed that everyone has a breaking point ( I told them the story, glossing over the "I just broke up blues" part), as Vic put it, his eyes wide "YOU tried to take a public bus?!"

I took the shuttle to the Manila office and then got picked up by the Holiday Inn Intercontinental car service at the Manila office Starbucks. (Thus beginning the realization, one of many, that everything is better in Manila.). Driving through the Forbes Park neighborhood, which was well manicured, with no tricylces, loud motorcycles, and actual little shopping centers with parking lots, I felt something odd--couldn't put my finger on it. Then I realized "this looks like the US." It looked *exactly* like the Palm Beach neighborhood where my well- to- do paternal grandparents lived. "I LOVE this neighborhood!" I told the driver. Stood to reason. It's the richest neighborhood IN THE PHILIPPINES. Heh. Champagne taste, anyone?

We got to the gorgeous Holiday Inn, which there's pictures of, so I won't bother describing in too much detail other than to say it was lovely. I got settled in and ran across the street to the Glorietta Malls, which are five shopping malls linked by a spine. The middle one, G4, is where most people recommended I spend my time. On the ground floor was a store called "Rustans Essences" which is a high end makeup and body products store. Throughout the mall are high end stores full of brands like Gap, Banana Republic, Guess, Ralph Lauren, etc. The mall and the surrounding areas are clean and bright and new looking. I was in Rustans (which astute readers will recognize from the Cebu vacation story) and I realized "this is where I feel the most pleasure". It's not so much luxury goods as the space, the design, the scent, the care and attention to detail. I'm really an aesthete- and often the Philippines is like nails on a chalkboard aesthetically---loud, bad smelling, glaring, ugly, run down, hopeless, broken, ill planned, and physically dirty on top of that. Not this little slice of heaven.

I took pictures of Chaz in various awesome poses (one is in a display that had a miniature vintage racing car! The guard and the assistants all came over to watch and the guard opined "I bet he [Chaz] is really special to you.") and wandered around, then went back to the hotel for a dip in the pool and a nap. I had dinner at the Prince Albert Rotisserie, which is the hotel's fine dining resto, and it was delicious. An appetizer of a crisp toast with a swizzle of veggie cream cheese on top came free and then a complimentary salad since my order of creamy risotto was taking too long (although I didn't say anything). I had a Absolut citron and tonic to compliment the creamy, risotto, which was perfectly cooked, and came with a sprinkling of mushrooms and a rich cheese. For desert was a pineapple and carrot "chiffon" (a flan, if you must ask) that was a good compliment to the richness of the risotto as well. Then off to watch TV (BTW, if you watch one show, let it be Modern Family. If you watch two, add "Outsourced", a show that made me laugh harder than I can recall laughing since I've been here) and sleep the sleep of the just.


Part two, in which I go to Divisora, meet the Filipino version of my former "stepdad" Bob (henceforth called FilBob), eat some local food, swim, etc, next time!!!