"Chon Wai? That's a terrible cowboy name!"

How to make beautiful art with a fellow nutball:

1. Meet.
2. Become friends.
3. Endure several grey area "dates" where you try to figure out the following:

• Who's the boss
• If you like like each other or can't stand each other
• If you're brothers, brother and sister, or just two crazy kids in a convertible rag top on Route 66 or what
• What will happen next 

1. Have a contretemps over communication issues.
2. Live without each other for 12 hours, figure out you're miserable without each other, agree to talk it over.
3. Talk it over, hug it out, go back to being Ari Gold and E from Entourage, or Sean and Christian from Nip Tuck, or pick your slightly dysfunctional odd couple who is cosmic destined for each other, or just "deserves each other", take your pick. 
4. Endure teasing from the resident grouch at work about how you two can't be pried apart, even on weekends, and how the rest of the team could use one or the other of you ONCE IN  A WHILE, you know
5. Go back to bickering, laughing, slapping each other's hands off the computer mouse, making para verbal noises to indicate what you want the other person to do, take coffee breaks to sell one of you on the other's genius vision, imitate each other to tease each other, then use an imitation of the imitation to up the ante, and when it goes well....
6. Meet in the lobby by the elevator at the end of the day and give each other the high five of relief and happiness. Promise to always work together.
7. Back to the beginning.

Clairol and the Single Girl: Only her hairdresser knew for sure.

Frivolity: ready yourselves, team. This post is a bit...frivvy.

So, those of you who know me, know (or can guess) that the lovely dark auburn locks I've had for over 15 years are "mine" only in the sense that they aren't a Dynell wig and they're not a very lifelike 3-D projection, but pssst, I dye it. Like every 3 weeks. So this past Sunday I dyed my hair as usual, which I HATE to do but HATE roots more, and lo and behold I was left with medium brown hair, as if I had taken my roots and pulled them over my whole head. At first my reaction was "FUH!" But then I decided to live with it for a few days and see how it went.

When I first dyed my hair I was 15 (oh, wait, did I say I've been dying it for over 15 years? I mean, I was 4. Hey, I was precocious!) and my friend Maria, with whom I was dying, said "Oh my gosh, you're a redhead!" And it was really true. I loved how my hair looked when I looked in the mirror at me and my dark skinned Scicilan boyfriend at the time (I thought we looked so iconic, like a real world Tom and Nicole) and I kept it up for years. I felt like something special, something rare. I felt that my unusual hair color reflected the real me: weird, rare, special.  I couldn't imagine myself as any other color. But I'll tell ya (and those of you who color your hair to a shade found in nature can probably feel me here) it's not the upkeep, it's not the effort, it's the PUBLIC that's your main problem.

I spent the next 16 or so years biting my tongue when jerky strangers would ask "Is that your real hair?" The options: 1) lie. (which I did, telling half the truth: "It's mostly white", leaving them to draw their own conclusions) 2) Tell the truth "I DYE MY HAIR YOU NOSY PARKER. YA HAPPY NOW?" 3) point at something in the middle distance and run away.

I mean, what's it to them? These questions made me feel like I was hiding something shameful (my natural hair color) by dying it, and when I would look at "other" people who dyed their hair red and were unapologetic about it, I would see "HER" (cue horror movie scream): you know who I'm talking about: the large goth with a pin straight eggplant bob and unflattering lipstick and an ill fitting tee shirt that says "I only do what the voices in my head tell me to do."   Eek. So, no, I don't dye my hair and I for sure don't dye it RED, I mean, only to cover these white hairs, you know? 

Also, I was one of a group: brownette (Jess), diry blonde (Amanda) silver fox (Xtine), white blonde (Irene), and me. All those ladies I mentioned are very good looking and in a way I felt like I didn't want to hear a guy say "No, the HOT brown haired one" one day. With so few redheads out there, such comparisons were not likely to occur. I know it sounds a bit silly, especially since I had a few friends with actual, natural red hair (strawberry blonde, where I was darker), but such is the clockworks of female vanity.

I *was* my red hair. I thought of my self as a redhead. My clothes and persona were chosen to highlight this fact. I was locked in.

Then I moved here, and 1) surprisingly, red hair dye doesn't really sell to jet black haired Asians, so it was hard to find my shade 2) I sort of got over it when I got blonde highlights. Originally I wanted strawberry blonde, almost orange, highlights, but they went blonde, so I went with it. The result: a Neapolitan Sundae of hair. Blonde, light auburn, and dark brown (looking darker due to the blonde) at the roots. After reading Mary Elizabeth from Salon's essay about having to stop dying her hair due to minor scalp surgery, where her technician told her "wow, you've got a few colors going back here, eh?" (Including white, which I also do have almost half a head of at this point), I had to think "Will this be me someday"? After having a hair cutter cut too short, giving me a badass 1990's "fade" of two colors by accident years ago, I had to laugh ruefully in recognition.

For women, hair is a big deal. It's who you are. I mean, are there male dumb blondes and male brunette secretaries? Not so much. And there are NO ads geared towards men that say "Make her drop her romance novel red" like those ads for hair dye that came out a few years ago "Make him drop the remote red" and "Make him come home early blonde."
 I made a piece of artwork once for a male friend on "the male redhead" (he was a red head), but other than that and a coffee table book I once saw, I can't recall ANY art or fashion pictorials on male hair color.So men can have white, grey, brown, black, or no hair, and it's all the same, or nearly so. Personally, I love red hair on a man, but mostly because I love the personality and heritage that usually comes with these guys (Irish brawler) and I like the idea of having a unicorn boyfriend. Over here I have two choices: black or white blonde (white blonde is a Korean rock star who's being a bad ass with 6 inches of black roots). Good think black hair is my first choice on a man, eh?

But for women, our hair color defines us in a very real way, and when I first saw my brown hair, I felt let down and crushed, as if someone had told a secret about me I was ashamed of. Thinking about it, I thought "Do you think that you have to have a certain hair color to be yourself? I decided to try to find my way to answering "No."

Being here has been about slowing throwing away those things about me I thought were "permanent": being the party girl, being the social hub, being the hottest one in every room, being the artsy one, and having red hair, being a "dame", a flirt, a certain kind of woman, being an eternal student, being a rebel.... That was who I was, and (not entirely by choice) that's not me anymore.

Now I join the ranks of famous brownies through the ages, including Natalie Wood, Audrey Hepburn, Olvia Wilde, (Hey, the other Olivia that I like, Olivia Palermo as well, come to think of it), countless magazine editors who want to look "patrician" and Angelina Jolie. Hey, if Angie can rock it, so can I.

We'll see. I mean, natural hair is much more Ralph Lauren, don't you think?

Global Warming

Yesterday was a big success, with some qualifications.



I woke up early for once, at 7 AM, allowing me to finally take a peek at this hip little resto called Apt 1B that I had been wanting to try since moving here.It's not open on Sunday, and I'm never awake before it closes at 11 AM on a Sat. It only really serves breakfast. Well, it was worth the early wake up call! Charming and reasonably priced, with good food served quickly and excellent service, it just might be my new early bird special spot.

Then it was off to get my nails done and then meet a new friend from the DinnerNations event, Rena, for lunch and some shopping. Rena and I went to a Greek place called Cyma, in Eastwood, and had a lovely chat and some shopping. After scaring me by admitting that she had literally gained 100 pounds after moving back to the Philippines from the US, most of which was gained in food heaven Manila, she promised to take me to all the good food places. Hello Spanx!

Then home to disco nap, and off to InterNations event 3! Held at Enderun College in Taguig, it was a supposedly french themed event (MC'd by a French lady), but really the only thing french about it that I could discern was the wine, of which there was plenty. I met August (Risky Business, as you may know him)    who called me from his dinner to grill me about what to wear.

 He was wondering: should be go ahead and bring his 100 pound wire frame camping back pack or was that a no? (He was having dinner with a mountaineering group that had just finished a climbing orientation). I gently discouraged him, pointing out that last time there was an after-party, and he would most likely want to be foot loose and fancy free. (Upon arrival at the very fancy cocktail party, he sort of broke my heart by remarking that he was really glad he left his climbing gear with his friends, as it would indeed have been very awkward. So lovable when his sneaker isn't so far in his mouth he could tie his shoelaces with his teeth)

We mingled, me wearing a very cool sculptural dress I got a few months back on a trip to Manila when I was still living in Clark. It's hard to describe, but it has a kind of Paquin 1920's flare and hobble skirt ish look- it's loose with almost wings of material through the hips and legs, then nips in with hidden elastic under the knee. You can make it shorter or longer, by just scooting up the elastic. It sounds odd, but it's very "Asia" so I like it. I was also wearing high, high heels, which made my feet burn, but eh, it's all for beauty, right?

Once again, August was a modest hit, being flirted with by aging hippie gay guys (wasn't even aware there was such), and when I saw August, with his long wavy hair over his shoulder, looking like the girl from Ipenema, being button-holed by a stout little character in a tie dyed shirt and Lennon glasses, I had to smile. August said later that he's not sure why he's such a magnet for gay men, is it the hair? I didn't tell him that when I first saw him, I thought "My god, that boy is a beautiful as a woman!". He has a small little heart shaped face and I really would be shocked if he even weighs 120 pounds with said climbing gear loaded on his skinny little body. He has a distinct feminine cast without being mincing, he's just a lovely object to look at, and men really respond to that. Anyway, he was okay with it, and I told him "maybe they're just thinking 'hey, here's a guy with long hair, he must be kind of an outsider, like me, a gay hippie. They're just noticing you're tolerant."

After the party wound down a bit, August took me to visit his climbing pal who was in the hospital after a bike accident. There's no visiting hours in the Philippines, so we cabbed it over there and joined a party that was in this girl's room. There was about 6 other people there, playing Pictionary on the white board that nurses use for notes on the wall. Of course I dived right in and was even able to use local movies (hello Moron 5!) as my clues. I think I was a big hit, as everybody seemed to enjoy my 3 words of Tagalog.

 I heard August remarking "Wow, they give you some room so people can crash here!" and I knew right away it was Filipino Nap Time. Filipino naps can occur for anything from 1-60 minutes, on any surface that is more than 12 inches square. Laying down is not needed. I have seen people sleeping at their desk at work, on the jeepney, on the saddle of their motorcycle, on a 2 inch wide ledge, on a piece of cardboard, in a field during lunch hour, and so on. If there is a few feet of unoccupied space, as soon as a slightly tired Filipino cottons to it, it's now Filipino Nap Time. August was out like a light sleeping on the counter top/ window ledge that ran the length of the far wall, occasionally opening his eyes to make sure I was okay, while still being in hog heaven that there was such an awesomely comfy nap spot just for him! Filipinos are cats, basically.

We managed to rouse him and the group took off, but not before giving the very sweet little gay dude nurse a rousing welcome: "HI JC!" they chorused when he came in to give medicines and take the temps and all. It was clear JC was well known to this crowd. I was really touched by the big turn out and how upbeat and sweet everyone was to their injured friend. (She just had some broken hand bones, it wasn't like, super awful). It was a stand out experience, and I'm really glad I went.

Then August took me to his down home spot, where he just goes when he wants to drink and be cool. It was a little hole in the wall with a few couches and a wooden bar. We got food and settled in to have a nice long talk, and in walks this Russel Brand character- a very unlikely but obviously successful ladies man. Tall, skeletally thin, pale, with long spider fingers and a long, rubbery face, I thought "Wow, I would take that guy home in 2 seconds flat". "It" radiated from every pore of this guy's body. He just effortlessly charmed the whole room.He was aloof, intelligent, responsive, dangerous, and sexy. August, who is innocent, raw, childish, and beautiful like a naughty little elf, and who has no idea how to handle himself, was aflame with jealousy, and was telling me how this guy could get any girls number "without even TRYING!" I laughed.

I was not surprised at all. I explained that most women, myself included, have been HOUNDED by men every day, relentlessly, since they were about 13 years old, for sex. So when a man with unusual looks and a glint of intelligence in his eyes just sits there looking hot and aloof, women go crazy for it. And a man who knows how to dress is sending women a signal "I'm a good lover because I pay attention to detail." August was nodding and laughing,but since his love life consists of women landing on him like a piano and him saying "sure, why not" he won't ever really use this advice.

When I was teasing August about his Filipino Nap Time later in the conversation, this guy (who's name is Hank, as if he needed any more pluses, being named after one of the coolest charmers on TV: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0904208/-- Californication) casually teased me, picking up the hook of the conversation and throwing it back in a playful, slightly edgy way. Had to hand it to him. He was a pro. But mama didn't raise no fool, I don't disrespect the guy who brought me by flirting with another guy, even if it's not a date, and I was on the fence if I wanted "something" to maybe happen with Au at the end of the night, so it was Au or nothing. 


For once in his life, a woman is choosing (at least mentally) him over Hank, and Au is oblivious (or doesn't want it, but let's go for the ego salve that he was clueless or unsure of his position, since he seemed to be edging into flirtation a few times, only to scamper back over the line to "friends only" and watch me with those slanted cat eyes of his, like a kitten watches your hands when you type, "Is this trouble or can I play with it?")


So the night ended with just a beso beso and him putting me in a cab, which is okaaayyyy since I wasn't up for the full banana anyway, but I texted Eric, the 3rd member of our little group (it was a high moment when Au also identified us three as a group during our long talk at the bar, agreeing that we were our own little clique- it just feels good to have someone reaffirm your own perceptions, especially of friendship) saying "So Lovesick. I feel like I did everything wrong, somehow." I mean, love is the wrong word, but the night was so ripe with romance and possibility and good old Au either didn't feel it, didn't want it, or was too nervous to pull the trigger. 

You know, it's not that I like this guy soooo much, it's just that I enjoy being with him, he's cute, and I wouldn't object to trying it out. But he's either looking for some other kind of girl, or I dunno, it's not quite there for him, or something. A little heartbreak, but honestly, I love our friendship so much, it's only a little break in a big warm hug of friends. And friends last a longer time anyway.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that until you believe it.

Celebrate good times, come on!

Celebrate, good times, come on!

Our company recently elected a new country head, and as part of a series of well intentioned and woefully under executed PR moves, our branch held a meet and greet Q and A session with our new CH, called “kapihan” (coffee and a handshake). Of course it’s not a Filipino celebration without food, blastingly loud R-Rated hip hop and some cross dressing karaoke, all of which was in evidence.

Location: Just outside our office doors.

Entertainment: The [name of company we handle outsourced work for] Movers! A group of two guys and two gals who did a little hip hop dance to that eternal classic: “Dancing to Booty Music” (yes, really).

About 4 seconds into their number, one set of speakers blew out, but they gamely kept going with their dance, with just one speaker telling various zodiac signs to “go” since it was “their birthday” (“Go Pisces Go Taurus, it’s your birthday” growls the singer, accompanied by the thundering bass line and tinkling keytar).

MC: Our new training manager for *company name redacted* who sort of acted like she thought she might be in the Miss America Pageant. “I’ve been here just 2 weeks and I feel like family already” she purred, swishing her long, Barbie curled hair and beaming her 1000 watt smile, head tilted just so.

Was she shouting into the microphone?

 Is the Pope Catholic? (Side note: Filipinos haven’t really caught on that there is no need to shout into a microphone, so at any event where there’s an MC, you can count on mega feedback, which doesn’t even come close to cluing the host in that their voice is too loud. I’ve even seen people glare at the offending microphone and switch it out, due to the “mysterious” feedback.)

Other entertainment: Ken. Ken is a man who prefers to dress as a woman- I hesitate to say cross dresser or transgender, because there is a really long continuum over here from totally male to totally female. Some men wear long hair and earrings and vaguely feminine clothes, some men wear short hair and makeup, some men dress like Lady Gaga and want to be called “her” or “she”, some men dress manly but also want to be called “her” and are openly out and proud. It’s kind of a free for all.

Anyway, Ken had a buzz cut but wore full makeup. He (she?- pronouns are not gendered over here, so the solution that Filipinos have settled on in English  is to call these men “it” with much giggling) was petite, but with the definite muscles most men have without even trying. Ken was wearing a cute black dress in an empire style with a short skirt and killer black boots, but no jewelry or anything.

He belted out “And I am telling you I am not going” in a clear, very feminine alto, (almost a falsetto, but Filipino men have a high, soft voice naturally, about a full octave higher than American men, so they don’t need to sing in falsetto, it’s their natural speaking and singing voice). It was pretty good, if distracting, Ken’s jet black buzz cut and Michelle Obama arms gave him (her?) a kind of Sinead O’Connor chic.

The speakers were still out, but halfway through Ken’s performance, someone apparently found the plug that had been tripped over, plugged it back in, and BLAMMO! Ken’s silver pipes were now engraved on our brains. Me and my seat mate were really trying hard not to giggle over this, as we could see half the audience was jolted out of their seats.

After Ken had bellowed his last, the question and answer session with our new country head began. Sample questions: Do you go for the face or body of potential girlfriends? How many wives do you have? Lights on or off…when you go to bed….to sleep?

Free food!

Waffle: nuclear red hot dog wrapped in a soggy waffle that has been specially formed to wrap its pinkish form.

Fish Ball: (couldn’t find it, but here’s what it is) kind of like chicken nuggets made out of fish. LOVE IT. Ate it every day for over 3 months, then was over it.

Ice cream: self explanatory

Free coffee! That had to be served by someone banging something on the table every few seconds, thus causing our new country head to scream louder into the microphone, and then stare incredulously as it whined with feedback.

Awesomest direction given: “Guys, we have a full house today so please populate the front rows. And please compress.”

Later: The custom here is to allow whoever volunteers to participate, regardless of their actual skill level. There is also no “anti -double dipping” rule. I’m sure you can see where this is going. Yes, old “cat on a hot tin roof” regaled us with not 1 but 2 songs, all howlingly out of key and sharp. I couldn’t see it, as I was already back at my desk, but every time the door opened we could hear the performer (not Ken, someone else) attacking the ear drums of the audience with an ill advised version of “My Heart Will Go On” (or something)

This went on until midnight. I think it was actually really fun for those that attended, but I had meetings and stuff so I left as the first questions were being asked

The night walk

The night walk

It's 1 AM. Every night is a different cab. Sometimes one of my coworkers comes down with me, to get a coffee or to go home also. Usually it's to the 7-11 first, for him to juggle three beer bottles (2 high alcohol and 1 low, 2 shots and chaser, kind of) and me to buy coffee and oatmeal for brekkers the next day. Since things come in packages of 1 over here, I have to buy my supplies every day. If I forget, it's soda left over from the weekend, vitamins, and whatever's in the ref for breakfast.

After we say our goodbyes, I get in the cab. It's always a crapshoot- there is no "perfect cab"-- it's always something. Either the unnerving smell of beer (I hope it's left by the previous occupant), the door handle doesn't work, the driver just emerged from 100 year sleep to be hustled into a cab and told to "go for it", the radio's on the god awful talk station, or jackpot! All of the above. Once in a while you'll get a cool guy, and a decent cab and then it's not so bad, after all. Not Christmas in the Poconos, but not some kind of punishment either.

The streets are actually quiet at that hour (which is very rare) so as we slide along, over the river on the raised highway, I'm taking pictures in my mind, planning the next day, daydreaming, wondering about my friends, wishing I would get something more than wild sparks and teasing from "him", or replaying and winning a five year old argument in my mind.

Drop off at McDonald's to get dinner. Get dinner, and start the walk home. Usually it's just me, the ladies in front of "The Joke Box", sleepy guards, a group of teenage guys who think they're so fly that they just said "hi" and then fell to the ground laughing with nerves and relief that they tried it, and the animals.

In contrast to the US, where 5-6 ish at night is "the catting hour" as Jessica puts it, where cats come out to lounge, survey the kingdom, and roll around on the warm sidewalks that have gathered heat all day and now release it into the waiting fur coats of it's rightful owner, the catting hour here is midnight. Slinky, rough, these are no Aristocats, but they still rule the roost. They're scared of humans, and they have bobbed tails due to a genetic malformation that curls the tail into a figure 8 knot over the shanks, or leaves no tail at all. Last time I was walking, a white cat with big yellow eyes was sniffing a puddle so I put some fries on the ground, while the cat nervously backed away and gave me the stink eye. But he came back to check them out after I was gone.

One can see all the fruit stands, covered for the night, and the neighborhood homeless (?- not quite sure what's going on with this guy)guy is at work, asleep in his wooden army cot/ sling thingie that he sleeps in, under a store front awning or benign house front, every night. He is very thin, and very quiet, and one can see him sitting in his sling, taking it all in, most days. 

Dogs are around, making the rounds but not bothering anyone, just hanging on the stoop.

When I get to my place, the door guy buzzes me in, while his friend, who's laying on the fold out couch that they take turns sleeping on, rouses just a bit to say hello. The job of the door guy is very similar to that of Victorian England's "hall boy"-- you sleep next to a bell that, if ringing, you have to get up and answer. In contrast to the lottery that is cabs, door guy is pretty much always the same-- civil without being friendly, all business without being rude. Woken Up Friend is usually much nicer. "HI!" He crows before collapsing back to "bed".

Then it's upstairs to the 3rd floor, lights on, air con on, TV on, shower, then bed. Then wake up and face it all over again. 

Araw-Araw ("Everyday")

On the social front, things have been pretty good- not for any lack of work, though.

 Tuesday I had a dinner at Relik, this tapas place, in Fort Bonifaco, just around the corner from where I work--with the same ex pat group I've been writing about previously, InterNations. This is kind of a subset called "DinnerNations". I was pretty jazzed to go, wearing this knit Banana Republic Dress in old rose, and a kind of beaded headdress that caused my coworker Rajesh to exclaim "Hey you have a good hairband today!"

As is always the case when you take care to look like a million tax free bux and keep it up all day at work, the after-work event is a bit of a let down. Despite the good food, free (!!) wine and good looking table mates (one of whom, Glenn Lee, I've taken to referring to as "my future husband", which I'm pretty sure is all good since I'm also pretty sure he's g-a-y) I left feeling a bit down- something was just OFF.

Part of it was that I felt ungainly- like I was wedged into a too tight outfit (which I wasn't) or sitting on a child's chair or something. I was also really exhausted emotionally and mentally afterwards and I couldn't figure out why. I mean, the night went really well- grabbed some new contacts, laughed, had fun-ish, and all that. I thought about it long and hard, at first thinking I missed having a date, someone with whom to partner in crime, but upon further study, it turns out to be: I missed the mark of the evening, which was hanging with AMERICANS and  I was at a table full of very nice, well meaning, petite, FILIPINOS. Now, before everyone (not that very many of you are reading this these days, AHEM) gasps and clutches their pearls, allow me to explain:

Living here as "the guest of the state", I have to be "on" almost all the time--- talk slowly, not lose my temper,               explain things over and over and over until I want to scream, answer the SAME FIVE QUESTIONS over and over (for the record:  2 years, ups and downs, New York, here for work, and no, I haven't visited your godforsaken hamlet hometown on a coral atoll, but it's on my itinerary, sugar pants).

Around Americans I can relax and be myself and complain all I want without worrying about hurting someone's feelings or coming off like Paris Hilton. The evening shook down in the way it did through casual coincidence: I was first seated at a table with Americans, but the table itself was too low and I couldn't get my legs under it, so I was sitting sideways, leading me to chat with the friendly Filipinas at the next table over, and then eventually they beckoned me over. From there it was all Ateneo, University of the Philippines, Basic Filipino classes, who's part Chinese and who's not, who's dating whom and who can't get their school certified by the government and why. To add insult to the unintentional injury, they all knew each other from high school, college or both.

Although it wasn't a loss (I got a few numbers and had some form of fun) it was work, not play. It's work to keep it clean, it's work to avoid sounding like you just dropped in from Planet Trump when you complain about the lack of service in stores, it's work to avoid chewing out the waiter after waiting 30 minutes for the wrong check because you don't want to make a poor impression on your new aquaintences, it's work to keep a loving and unenvious mind when YET ANOTHER size 0 sweetheart dressed in something you yourself could never get away with slips effortlessly into the booth that you can't fit your GIGANTIC American legs into. It's not play, people, it's hard, hard, hard work. Meeting gorgeous, quicksilver funny and delightful Glenn almost made it worth it, but "The hustle, the grind, whatever other people call it, that's what I call life now." (loosely paraphrased from performer PitBull). 


Saturday night was much better- my friend from work Eric and his wife Lizel were going out for Mexican at Agave at Eastwood malls, so I was invited along. In a "shoe's on the other foot" moment, Eric, who's local, is married to a Columbian woman, and she was inviting some of her Spanish/ Hispanic friends to eat and Eric (aside from wanting another woman as a buddy for his wife) wanted someone to speak English with when his  wife was happily occupied speaking a language he didn't speak. Oh, the delightful irony!! 


So Eric and gossiped about our coworkers, and I got to know his wife, who's just lovely, and we all feasted on mountains of Mexican food and a few beers, then I toddled off to window shop for a bit, then home to go to sleep early, as I had a spa day planned for today (Sunday). 


As I was explaining to Eric, describing my coworker August's little chip on the shoulder about my white privilege, it only looks easy. I told him about how after Au and I left the event at One Roxas, Au was rhapsodizing about some of the Europeans there and their lofty jobs, and I teased him 'Well, I like to roll with big fish in a big pond" and he snapped back "It's easy for you because you're WHITE." I told Eric, "I wanted to say "No it's NOT Au, it's actually twice as hard to break in, to find friends, to keep it together when you just want to scream, to work and work to find other ex pats who aren't total creeps- it's one of the hardest hills I've ever had to climb." But then again, that's why I got these long stems, I guess.

And more....and more....and more....