Over the cliff!

It cost 300P and required some serious negotiating with the taxi driver, but we made it to the edge of the earth, also known as Mulligan's Irish Gastropub, where Haydn was celebrating his engagement with his girlfriend- now- fiance, Dee. Alert readers may recognize Haydn from very early on in my travels in Manila, the  co worker who I met out one night at Heckle and Jeckle, who saw his opportunity to play cupid and while my back was turned, switched seats with Preetam so that when I turned around, instead of mild mannered Brit next to me, this (semi) eligible Indian guy was doing his best to land on me like a piano. Since then, Haydn has been a friend (although if Pree turned out to be a jerk, the story would be different), and I've actually attended a few events with him and his wrecking crew of ex pats: A barbecue  the Xmas party at Mike's, and now the engagement party.

I brought AllwynKent (I call him Kent--actually I call him "babes" or "pumpernickel", I seldom call him by his name, but his close friends call him Kent) and the rest of the world knows him as Allwyn, so generally I introduce him in this manner, after an awkward moment where I went to introduce him as Kent, and he simultaneously gave his name as Allwyn. Grr. He's also Kent to everyone in the States, since "Allwyn" makes people really, really hopeful that I've met some kind of latter day Robert the Bruce who's going to like, supply them with awesome second hand stories of grog drinking, merry making and lass chasing. "No, he's....not Irish. No, he's....not Welsh. Nope, not Scottish. Funny story, there."

 I had to sort of chisel him out of bed, and he was "saving his energy" (also known as "inspecting my eyelids for holes") in the cab on the way over, he was tired. Cut to one beer later and it's go time for him, especially when the food arrived. I swear the man perks up like a pointer hound when food is in a five mile radius. He would eat a tin can, as long as it had hot sauce on it.

The crowd, I was extremely grateful to see, was not only large ( I had terrified visions of an extremely depressed and angry Haydn at a long table with just Dee, Dee's elderly distant family members, and us-- but I sort of forgot that Haydn knows a large group of ex pats, who, when they say they'll go to a party, they actually go), but was people I knew. We immediately went into receiving- line- mode, kissing the cheeks of Ash, Mike, Jaz, Haydn, Akosh, Luca, Preetam, a different Mike (we call him Tall Mike-- although Mike Harris is the same height, Tall Mike is broomstick thin, giving him a generally "tall" look), his girl (Joy?), and a new couple Haydn knows from "out", Richmond (an African American guy) and his lady, a voluptuous, very pretty platinum blonde, who's name escapes me. Shin and his lady Rhia (it turns out he's also from Iran, same as Ash) were there slight later, and 3 Filipinos, from work. Everyone remembered Allwyn, and he quickly refreshed the routine that had made him such a hit at the Xmas party, shaking hands, slapping backs, kissing babies, throwing around the football, helping grannies across the road, etc, etc.. You know that scene from Casino where Robert DeNiro explains the appeal of otherwise nutsy Ginger? "Watching my wife work the room was one of life's most exquisite pleasures. People loved her. Everyone wanted to be near her." It's kind of like that. With a naturally pleasant, easy going personality, ability and willingness to discuss pretty much anything, refreshing lack of "hot buttons", and flattering attentiveness, one can clearly see the "marks" of a private school education in his interactions with others.

Haydn was in fine form, bouncing around getting drinks, mortifying me by not only asking Allwyn which he would choose: his career or me (with me right there!!-- Allwyn told Haydn how, earlier in the party, he had been in the parking lot taking a call for work for like, 20 minutes, and I came out there, and he thought I was going to yell at him, but instead I brought him a fresh beer, and therefore it was 99% me, all the way. Nice, and very politic.), and "confidentially" informing Allwyn that I "go on and on" about him at work. I mean, I do bring up his name here and there, but come on!! Don't salt my game, man! It's all about leverage! But it was SUPER cute when Allwyn later asked me, in his most James McAvoy voice, "Is that true? Do you really talk about me a lot?" I just laughed "The man is at his own engagement party and Virginia is for lovers. And he's tippling. Come on!" But he was happy as a clam at the idea that "his girl" was going on and on about him.

The night wore on, I got to tell the "Apple Clover" story, which I haven't told in a long time, to Haydn, who very gratifyingly nearly had a coronary infarction from laughing over it. We took group pictures, which Allwyn admitted "I've always wanted to do this" (How someone who's been in more than 25 countries hasn't been forced into millions of group shots I have no idea, but he was really into it, so what the hey).

Most people were "around the bend" by the time we were getting ready to leave, including a more than tipsy Allwyn, who was trying to explain how he didn't want to leave because other people were leaving, and it wouldn't do to leave poor Haydn alone at his own party. Mmm-hmm. When we tried to leave, a very irate Pree literally burst out of the front door (he had somehow gotten wind of our exit) with a drink sloshing in his hand-- "What the HELL! You're leaving without a GOODBYE?!" He bellowed, his brow furrowed. Well, things were winding down, after all, but he would not be denied his drawn out, soggy goodbye, complete with "iron clad" plans for another time, etc, etc.

So, one long taxi ride, some cheddar cheese with red pepper jam, and some pillow talk later, our night was concluded.

The Found Weekend

The Weekend:

Sat day I spent just lazing around with Kent, who was taking a much needed 12 hours unplugged from work. Around 5 I ordered a pizza and after eating, I got ready to go to Internations and he took off to go back to work for the day. The event was held at the Tower Club, a swank private club in Manila proper. The club was rather oddly organized- a bank of elevators lets you out into a hall, which is parceled out on one side into book- lined, couch- dotted alcoves- pleasant, but also quite public. The hall terminates into two rooms on either end of the floor- a function room (where the party was held) and a private dining room (which led to a smoking room, which was lined with cigar boxes and was---and I’m probably showing my roots here—one of the most intimidatingly posh places outside of historic homes I’ve ever been in). The place screamed money. And not just any money. Old White Fart Money.

 The invitation specified that the drinks would be on tap at the “competitive” prices of the club and the food was top notch: this was only true if you were using some kind of sliding scale, akin to when you jokingly laugh off a broken ankle “Eh, it beats being the victim of Ebola!”. The drinks were 290P (almost 8 dollars) each, and the food was just okay (and actually, the cheese and ham on pan de sal that they usually serve was almost better)—chicken skewers, tortilla chips with green and red salsa, some little fried things, and some egg rolls. The main issue was that the party was attended by a huge crush of people, over 200, and the place was criminally understaffed- 2 sweat soaked waiters failed miserably to service the bar, which had to make do for about 30 people at a time.

The crowd was actually rather young—usually the demographics are 70% doddering old gremlins and the “ladies” who “love” them, but this made little difference to the angry Pole that I encountered in line. Paul, who was 25 and extremely dapper, was at his first and last Internations. He witheringly explained how in other, cooler cities the crowd was made up of people more like him (he was wearing a very unusual tuxedo vest that had a pair of suspenders integrated into it—I complemented him and that’s how we started talking. But unlike in the US, where a dapper, hip outfit almost always signals a liberal outlook, Europeans can fool you: the hippest looking dude in the place can actually have the same general outlook and attitude as your grandfather) but this group was the pits.

The main issue (although the men of the club would frantically disagree) is that it’s very discouraging for young, attractive, gainfully employed white women to look around and see as their only counterparts Sarong Party Girls in bandage dresses and Do-Me heels. And where there are no chicks, there are no dudes. Hence the usual makeup of 80% salespeople of some kind and 20% confused first timers who are writing it off mentally as a bust.  My friend Haresh explains, and he has a point, that the group can’t prevent sales people from Alphaland (TWO OF THEM won the raffle prizes at the event. You know what I DON’T want to see at Internations? Some 21 year old blushing ditz in a skin tight dress and spike heels tottering up to claim her raffle prize to the drooling admiration of the over- 50 creeps in the crowd) and the ‘girlfriends’ of the members from attending, so what are we supposed to do? Well, I don’t know. But I do know it’s tiring. I’ll still keep going though, I’ve made a few connections and I enjoy chatting with people there.

One person I spent a very enjoyable hour or so talking to is this guy Kelvin. Kelvin was at the super bizzaro Christmas party, and his personality can only be described as “piquant”. When introduced to me and Kent, he, after getting an eyeful of us, bounced away from Kent so fast it was comical, only to later relent and allow himself to be drawn into a long conversation with him. I can only surmise he didn’t want to “waste” his time talking to another Indian male, and saw, or thought he saw, ‘the look’ in Kent’s eye—the look of “Hey! Let’s chat!”. Later that night I mentioned his name to Kent, only to have Kent growl out “Why you are thinking of him now?”—a reaction so common it made me giggle. I have literally never had an Indian friend who is not wildly jealous of my other Indian friends. As exhibit A, a married Indian friend asked me recently upon finding out I was dating someone “It’s not that Indian chap is it?!”

 Kelvin is from Northern India, which I have come to realize imparts a very specific personality on its residents, much like the American South or Texas—you know it when you hear it. Kelvin has the kind of self confidence that one finds in, say, characters like Criss Angel, stage performer and “Illusionist”—it’s so intense it almost has its own scent, but it’s somehow enjoyable. Kelvin is a doctor who bopped over to China to study and now lives in the Philippines due to his fiancé, a Filipina who he met in China. He’s also writing a book, called “Go Beyond”, which is a philosophical treatise on…. This part is a bit unclear, but it’s basically a “how to” guide from someone who knows how to: him. He confidently and somehow amusingly, held forth on a variety of subjects, including how parents should treat their children (“Respect their wishes”), if one should just make money or do something good with one’s like (Do Something), and so on. This was punctuated with a very endearing high pitched, rapid fire chuckle that, for those of you who are familiar with Brideshead Revisited, made me think of Anthony Blanche.

After about an hour of chichat, the room became hot, crowded, and loud, so Haresh and I moved to the dining room, which had a bar and three waiters, just waiting to serve drinks to the four or five people there. Connected to the bar was the smoking room, which was constructed in such a way to wrap around the outside of the club itself, to look out into the hallway. Inside the smoking room, several Brits were gathered, eager to chat, so we chatted with them for a while, then agreed to go to grab a late night pizza.

Then listening to a cover of the Furs in the car on the way home, then home to go to sleep early- ish.

Next day: brunch with an entirely new group of people!

About a month ago, I was having lunch at Sala Bistro, by myself, and there was a table of about 12 or 15 women, American, Brits, and Ozzies, clearly having a party of some kind. On the way out, one woman stopped and asked me “Are you here by yourself?” After gaining the affirmative, she very nicely asked me to join her and her friends down the street at a club called Spicy Fingers, but I had to move on to work and didn’t want to bust in on a private party. She gave me her card, which I slipped in the book I was reading. Cut to a month later, when I picked the book (non- fiction) back up and the card fell out. I emailed her reminding her of our meeting and encouraging her to include me in any events she had coming up, and she immediately emailed back with a contact name of a woman who ran the local ex pat events group (no name that I’m aware of, just an informal gathering type of thing). Well, this woman, Camilla, emailed me inviting me to a brunch that same Sunday, and of course I RSVP’d. The brunch was at 10.30 and I had to force myself to go, but I am incredibly glad I did!

 The group was all under 40 (ish), three men, and the rest women. I was at the head of the table and therefore had access to quite a few women, taking four cards / numbers in all. The women there were mostly employed, under 40 and with no children. One man there was single (!!)- -the other two were married to the women at the table. The women there were educated, bright, outgoing, funny, sharp, liberal, interesting, and down to earth—so glad I went. They all had the same goal of trying to meet more friends, and what a relief it was to talk to women about their REAL experience of trying to make friends (all agreed it was really hard).

When I am questioned by my local work friends (I have no local friends outside of work—Exhibit A of how hard it is to make friends), I explain that I spent over a year inviting people out and getting either outright turned down or accepted and bailed on later. The reasons may be complex, but it boils down to the fact that if I want friends, they’re going to have to be ex pats. That’s the hard reality here, at least. It may be very different in other countries, and it’s very different for men than women.  (among the reasons for this is the ease of finding local girlfriends, the safety factor, and the business factor—as well as the fact that outside of the US and Europe, it’s a man’s, man’s, man’s world—meaning most social clubs are designed for, around, and by men) it was a huge relief to find I was not deficient in some way, and that these women had experienced the same difficulties and heartbreaks in finding and making friends.

Counting in the friends that have recently “come home to roost” (a few contacts made at the beginning of my time in Manila just now getting in touch/ back in touch with me), I have tripled or even quadrupled my social circle virtually overnight. So nice.

Do feminists wear lipstick? Yes, and it's red, darling.

I was talking with my mom earlier today about self improvement, specifically all the things I've done since I've been here, which fall into two (intertwined) categories: outer and inner.

One of things that prevented me from making major changes in my self, appearance and otherwise, was not wanting to even admit that there was a problem- naming it makes it real, and if it's real it's not going away by magic. One of the things I admire most about my friend Becky is her very courageous move on her fitness blog of posting a pic of her in her bikini and writing about how feeling embarrassed about her body was one stumbling block to getting to her goals and that was going to stop now.You can read her inspiring blog here:
http://flabtofabbecky.blogspot.com/.

I was given a unique chance by moving across an ocean from everyone who knew me to start over, make over my life, from top to bottom, without any well meaning objections, worries, comments, and bad reactions from the peanut gallery. So in the last 3 years I've done a lot, and changed a lot.

Inner changes:

The biggest thing that's changed is how I see my market value, both in the working world, and the romantic world. Having a real career that I'm very good at, and having a high demand job in a buyer's market will do a lot for your self esteem. Now, all that can of course be taken away at any time, but I've worked so hard for so many years as a nanny, store clerk, day care worker, and the like, to finally make it to a decent job where I can do rewarding, creative work, is a wonderful feeling.

On the romantic front, I somehow managed to reset the whole game here (partially by no effort on my own, I increased my market value to supermodel level just by being white and decent looking, but it feels good to be a high status partner and sought after, even if it is a bit hollow at times), so that I am no longer dating men who are far, far, below my level so that I feel safe that they'll never leave me, and if they do, no great loss. Dating Kent is sometimes a bit scary because he's such a high status partner, a true equal to me, and someone that I don't feel superior to, but yet he's not someone I put on a pedestal (anyone who manages to lose three phones in three weeks isn't James Bond). I've dated some really sweet, wonderful people who, while they were very nice, were way below me in career ambitions, intelligence, overall "having their life together", looks, or any combination of all of the above.

Finally gaining street cred-- and finally wanting to leave the game behind.

After a literal lifetime of chasing the high rollers, parachuting into a city, clocking all the big fish and setting my cap to roll with them at all cost (Lesbian High Council, anyone?), when I got here, I was handed the keys to the city in a way by my well connected friend Ha-Ha, and while we rolled around in his well appointed car on our way to another hotel bar to drink top shelf liquor and look out over the whole city, which he sort of own, I thought to myself "Do I really want to start this up again? Do I really want to Gucci Gucci Louis Louis, Basic Bitches?" I still don't 100% know the answer to that, but especially on New Year's Eve, surrounded by the top of the ex pat crowd, in an ultra lounge, toasting the New Year with free champagne, I felt the melancholy that can only come from seeing the ultimate hollowness of the dreams you used to have, that have now gone dark.

The scaffolding (outer changes)

I've written about some of these, such as choosing to dye my (mostly white at this point, anyway) hair back to its natural color (brown with auburn highlights) after 15 years of coloring it red, but I've also made other changes one by one.

Seeing a dermatologist about my skin. I never, never, ever, talk or write about my skin problems because it's an extreme sore spot with me, and even though it's been handled now, it's still sensitive, so I'll keep it short. I worked with a doctor to get out the big guns and take care of my unresponsive breakouts and it has made a huge, huge difference in my mind. It hurts me to write this, but I'm doing this for those of you who wrote something like this that touched me and that I could relate to: I felt like a failure of some kind because of my imperfect skin, it was always there in the back of my mind, every time I looked in the mirror or a lover looked at my face. I felt like I had to compensate in some way for this flaw by being extra lovable, and I always wondered if I was getting passed over because of this flaw. Now (and fingers crossed in the future) I don't have to worry about those things anymore. It's been 20 years that I had this problem. 20 years. I'll never be perfect, in fact I'll carry some of the scars forever, but it's a sea change from what it used to be. And that was a priceless gift that only those who've been through it can understand.

I went to the dentist for the first time in 10 years. The dentist was thrilled and kept exclaiming over my perfect teeth ("if anything you brush too hard!" He sang). It wasn't too bad, I just got my teeth cleaned and whitened (subtly, not glaringly) as a Christmas treat for myself, and they look great.

I started eating "clean" (mostly fruits and veg and little or no bread, dairy, preservatives, or sugar) during the week, with "cheat" days on the weekend, and I also just hired a personal trainer so I can combine the modified eating with exercise. The lifestyle I'm leading (at a desk for up to 12 hours a day) won't allow the weight I'd like to kick to the curb to lose itself and as much as I'd love to believe shopping burns calories, it really isn't cutting it.

Because it's so reasonably priced, I now get regular professional services at the salon, such as hair cut and color, and bi monthly manicures, pedicures, and foot spas. It's made a subtle but significant change in how I carry myself and how I see myself.

Investing in how you look, as a female in a male dominated business (and the upper ranks of the call center industry are almost ALL men) is a must- it sends a message that you're serious, and you're a contender. You take yourself seriously and you value yourself. I could argue all day about if it's acceptable for a self identified feminist to modify my appearance to raise my value, but the bottom line in the real world is it works, and I'm glad it's a choice I can even make.