40 days and 40 nights.

I rarely write about “current events” but the farcical tragedy of the last four days has led me to tell the story (from my point of view), in a small effort to raise awareness, and to start some kind of discussion about the incredibly tangled failure of 3^rd world governments and countries, and of the growing obviousness of “climate change”, which is pounding the world with a heavier and heavier fist.

On Monday of this week, until today, Thursday, unusually heavy rains, mostly due to an offshore hurricane, blasted Western and Central Luzon (the states of the island of the Philippines I live in). Some places were so badly affected that 32 emergency evac centers were put in place, and 17,000 individuals made use of them. Water as high as a HIGHWAY OVERPASS surged through the lower level shantytowns, destroying tens of dollars worth of property (okay, that was a little mean, but it’s not far from the truth. Many areas, to my uninitiated eyes, looked exactly the same in the “before” and “after” shots, except for the buttinski of a large, light coffee colored river of deadly bacteria laden water flowing through it). According to the local newscasts, the biggest problem the local rescue forces faced was getting people to leave their property.

As for me, I was very fortunate to have power most of the time, and since I was in a 3^rd story building that was set slightly higher than the road, our building was okay. The road itself was completely submerged and impassable by vehicles. In order to grab snacks and some beers for passing the time, I had to wade through knee high water  (in pouring rain). Needless to say, I didn’t go to work for those days, as visions of being trapped on a flooded highway on ramp, in the dark, in the pouring rain, were dancing in my head.

I can’t really say what was more scary, disappointing, or frustrating: the scenes of thousands packed (I must say, pretty cheerfully, props to them) into “covered areas” (that’s like, an outdoor podium with a roof that’s doubling as a rescue area), the video footage of people digging through a nature made dam of “wood, stryofoams, and trash” to try to find usable rubble to rebuild their shanties, or the story that a certain neighborhood had been repeatedly warned in 2009 not to rebuild after a landslide, built anyway (for complex reasons that I won’t even try to parse, but most likely revolving around money, strong family ties, and fear of relocating), and then lost 9 (including an infant) in an identical landslide on Monday.

President Ninoy Aquino, wearing a shiny coated denim jacket, was flanked by (I think? Most broadcasts were in Taglish, which I can only get about 50% of, or heavily accented English) the Marine Corps leader, wearing a raincoat yellow windbreaker, addressed the nation and discussed how he had to insist on the release of some extra rubber rescue boats, since these boats were initially deemed “not ready” for use. Okay, people? What are we keeping 75 unusable rubber boats around for? Posterity?

The existence of the boats, the unsolvable tangle of issues that most likely meant they went unrepaired or un-upgraded, the shilly-shallying about maybe just releasing them anyway and giving it the old college try, the fact that we (as a country) didn’t learn from a very similar tragedy in 2009 and see to those boats then, when the attention (and the wallets) of the world was primed, the need for these boats in the first place (my road has only 1 storm drain per mile or so. ONE. And this is in a tropical monsoon country. Most streets are not built in any kind of grade that would encourage runoff, either). Roofs are flat  or very shallowly graded,(my local grocery store, ShopWise, has gutters that pour rain out onto the un-drainable parking lot, like firehoses. Way to double your pain, ShopWise), there are no public garbage cans or dumpsters, so flooded roads become cesspools very quickly, the lack of a centralized system to handle this (like the National Guard or the Red Cross (we have the Red Cross here, but as far as I can tell, they’re busy handling infant mortality, child trafficking, and drug running, and have their hands full), and so on and so forth.

I was lucky. Me and a friend watched TV, waded to a pizza parlor and had pizza, put together a big puzzle, and had some extremely sweet 5% alcohol wine cooler thingies (those things are a guaranteed headache, but they are so cheap!), and had some fun. But it’s easy to have fun from the 3^rd floor. It’s life on the ground floor that’s shaky.

Early bird gets worm! Worm does not turn!

A full day before noon!

Since I arrived in Manila, my social life has experienced a definite upswing, but it’s been a bit of work, as those who’ve been following my blog know. There’s been some ups and downs, and the same hustle that one would have to follow in the US to make and keep new friends/ contacts is applicable here. You can’t really rely on someone else to be dazzled by your awesomeness enough to just keep texting and emailing you.

I actually must hang my head in shame on this since after a pretty good start, I’ve let a few things slide. Firstly, in promoting my blog I joined an expat blog ring that I *never* check the message boards for. When I did check it after a few months (!) of neglect there were actually a few invitations from ex pats there that are now hopelessly out of date. ‘I’ve got wine!’ one even caroled promisingly, making me very sorry indeed that I let that go. (Sadly, it’s still being let go. I just never got in the habit of checking it when I pop into internet cafes, and an early “troll” experience made me a bit nervous about checking those messages.)

Secondly, after a few delightful outings with some of my newest friends, I slightly dropped the ball a bit and hung back, from a combination of being overwhelmed with work/ personal life drama, and being just broke enough that going out was not an option on those nights when I was remembering about my new friends. (Why am I broke? Manila is like NYC- when you get here you gotta bring your GAME and that means a lot more money is going into transportation and personal upkeep. Throw in a 200% raise in my rent and the loss of a stove for cooking cheap meals, and hello Greenwich Village in the 1970’s!)

Well, a few weekends of hanging around the house with just my puzzle and “Spy” wine coolers to pass the time, and I was back on the “making friends” merry go round real fast.

The first step I took back on the friend path was actually about a month ago- I got a tip from I’m not sure where to check out the American Women’s Club (it may have been in this little book “Silvia’s Book”--- a kind of yellow pages/ address book for ex pats in Manila- hello, where have you been all my life, book?!--so I checked it out on the web, and found that a bi weekly “Arrival Survival coffee morning” was coming up. These informal gatherings are hosted at the home of an AWC member, who was kind enough to open up her house to the unruly gaggle of ex pat ladies in need of coffee cake and a friendly chat.

When I got the confirmation email that stated the coffee was set up through the church and kids were welcome, I must admit I was a bit wary. Visions of awkward Amway/ Tupperware parties I’ve attended flitted through my mind. But I persevered, and it really worked out well. The house itself was in DasMarinas villages (Dasma to those in the know) one of the toniest neighborhoods in Manila- a gracious enclave of lovely 1950’s and 60’s California Cool/ Mediterranean houses set back from beautifully landscaped lawns and protected by piqué iron gates painted immaculate white- a kind of mini Beverly Hills, without the flash and the sparkle factor.

There were about 6 ladies there, 3 of which were over 40, with the rest of us scattered through our early and middle 30s. (unless I miss my guess!). The hostess was a mom of 3 who looked fresh as a daisy but not annoyingly put together, and she put on a very nice spread- coffee, coffee cake, fruits, tea, water, you name it. We congregated in the living room, which was refreshingly minimal, without some of those oversized monstrosities you see in some suburban homes- multi seat couches, huge looming lamps, sofa sized pictures, etc. Through the sliding glass doors a small turquoise pool sparkled in the intermittent sunshine. It was the picture of understated, homey, comfortable elegance. Naturally I was beset with “I must move here- itis”.

We all had a nice chat, for about 2 hours, just giving tips, laughing at some misadventures, and sharing stories. Just delightful.

The hostess was nice enough to loan me her driver to take me over to the church, where the headquarters of AWC is, so I could fill out an app and stick my head in the door. The office was manned by two Filipinas who were nice enough, but for one startled moment we were both caught off guard as I looked around trying to make sure I was in the right place.

After that, it was on to phase 2 of the day: Travel Plans!

A surprise four day weekend caught most of us here in the Philippines with our travel plans pants down, so like everyone else, I thought I was doing something “clever” by rushing to the travel agency yesterday (yes, they still have them, more on that later) to try to book a flight to somewhere with white sands, hollowed out coconuts with floating umbrellas in them, and endless sunsets. Two hours and wall to wall booked flights, “well, we still have our Swarovski crystal champagne heart velvet room left, for 200$ a night…”, and a rapid shuffle through Plans A-D and I was looking at a serious retreat for retrenchment.

Operation Tropic Thunder was out. Plan Z had to come in. On my “Philippines” bucket list is visiting a World Heritage UNESCO site called Vigan; a perfectly preserved 15^th century cobblestone adorable-zone WAY up north (about 10 hours by bus. And by 10 hours I mean 14- 16). It’s also accessible by plane (albeit there’s a plane ride and then a bus trip, but a much, much shorter bus trip). I booked a hotel, then scooted back to the travel agency earlier today (Thursday) after my let down yesterday (Wed) when I discovered that anyone with half a brain had already taken all the available seats on the Fiesta CharterMobile Prop Plane to El Nido. (My first choice destination).

Success was mine! A few minutes later I was the proud owner of a round trip ticket to Laoag airstrip and back! Whee!

Things you need to know to make this story come more alive:

1)The quaint little bustling travel agency of your dreams, circa 1962, complete with perky secretaries, walls of travel posters, overflowing file cabinets, ringing phones, multiple clocks showing the hour ‘round the world, and so on, is alive and well here in the Philippines. It’s not even a “cottage” industry. With an archipelago of 7000 islands, and with so many people opting to jump over to another island for a vacation, the travel industry is booming. Throw in a majority of people who use cash only and can’t book tickets via the internet or over the phone and who don’t know how to do it in any case, and you’ve got yourself an industry that’s not going ANYWHERE anytime soon.

I booked my entire trip to Cebu last year through an agency, and I actually really recommend it, especially if you’re in a foreign country.

Number one, save yourself the headache of screaming your name and email one agonizing letter at a time to someone who can’t really get it the first 50 times by letting a local do the talking for you. Number two, you get your tickets right then and there, no worries about “did this transaction really push through?” on the ‘net.

2) Air Fare to other islands is pretty cheap. I mean, it’s not taking the Greyhound (or in this case the “Victory Liner”) which is like, 10 dollars for as far as you can imagine, but if you don’t need to hole up at the Ritz at your destination, you can afford to drop everything and jet off to another island for a few days for less than 300 dollars, all said and done.  And the best part? With little island hopper planes you bring your luggage on the plane with you (usually overnight bags, since there’s a weight limit of 40lbs) and you get to use a STAIRCASE to get on the plane after crossing the tarmac-- no “umbilical cord” causeway thingie connecting the gate to the side of the plane. So glam! Just what you mentally picture when you think “I’m just going over to _____ for the weekend”. Packing up a bag and hopping on a flight, movie star style, hair whipping photogenic-ly in the wind created by the engine as you alight on the stairs to the plane.

G-L-A-M-OUR-OUS. The fast lane, that’s where I’ll be!

Fortress of Solitude

Part of this is my fault, but the rest is...nobody's fault, I guess.
Once again, I have to completely break a "friendship" because everything that person does is making me speechless with rage.

Exhibit A: JoelMari. JoelMari is actually back in my life now, but about a year ago, I had to end the friendship because of an escalating series of inexplicable choices he kept making that were making me crazy. As a result, whenever a clueless dude makes me nutz, me and my friends call it "another f---king JoelMari!".

But this story's not about him, it's about someone else. And in order to tell that story, we have to go back a bit, explain a certain phenomenon called "super fans".

 Those of you in the helping professions, such as nursing, teaching, child care, etc, are probably nodding along already, but for those of you who work in more white collar-esque jobs, allow me to shed some light on this: out of every group of people you deal with, there will be an oddball who you take pity on and this person's lack of social skills, the thing you felt sorry for, will lead him or her to make your life slowly more and more MISERABLE, a la "The Cable Guy."

 These people are what I call "superfans". Most just follow my every move on FB, send me game requests on same, and when I had them in class would be the ones following me with huge Bambi eyes and a slightly open mouth. There is no gender, class, or sexual persuasion that most superfans come from- straight, gay, ?, men, women, you name it, I've had a _____ superfan. Most are harmless, cute, and nerdy, but sometimes you get a corker, and then all bets are off. That corker is Omar.

My last class of trainees before I left Clark included a young man named Omar (a Filipino). Omar is a nice, relatively harmless dude, who is about 5'2" and has a body like a fire hydrant-- his main leisure activity is working out. He has a kind of miniature Muscles from Brussels humorlessness about him, as if the larger his arms got, the smaller his sense of play got. He spent his free time hanging out behind the concession stand at the cafeteria and ringing people out (he doesn't work there and is not friends with the vendors there either). He's not a jerk by any stretch of the imagination, but to put it mildly, I have NOTHING in common with this person. Nothing. Naturally he's become my latest "superfan".

 Let me set the stage with a little story about Omar. It's a Friday and the class is scheduled to have a grammar lesson. Since it's a Friday, I decided to mix it up and use George Bushisms as examples. I found 25 golden examples and the class spent the first 15 minutes or so rolling in the aisles over such gems as "Childrens do learn" and "I think it's a shame that more ob-gyns can't practice their love with the women of America" and so on. Even those of the class who's grasp of the subtleties of English wasn't quite so clear were laughing along, buoyed by the general high spirits and giggle fest. Omar is, on the other hand, squinting at the projection screen as if he's trying to read the Rosetta Stone, and all but has one hand shielding his eyes. He's concentrating real, real hard on something, and most tellingly, he's not even "going along" laughing. He's dead serious. As Amanda, my Canadian friend who was also his trainer from another, previous account, puts it "Yeah, that's Omar. Untrainable Blockhead."

Well, by dint of having similar schedules, I would run into Omar once in awhile, and since he seemed nice, I would chat with him. The danger in this situation is that I have so few friends over here that someone who seems the least bit sympathetic winds up getting an earful, and looking back, I can see how my cozy little chats about personal stuff like the dating scene could have created the "wrong" impression. At the time, however, I didn't think much of it, since I had zero attraction to this guy, and I thought it seemed obvious I was treating him like my new Best Gay Friend.

Things went along like this until I left Clark for Manila, and I didn't give it a second thought, to the point where I literally forgot all about him. (This is an unfortunate side effect of living here. I literally meet dozens of new Filipinos a month  at work and around, and to those that I meet, I'm as unusual as a meteor shower they'll never forget, to me, they're one of the hundreds of Asians I've met since I've been here. As a result, quite a few people are "Champ" and "Honey" to me. Yes, I'm "THAT girl.") Imagine my surprise when I got a text message about 6 weeks into living here that said "Hi Naomi how's Manila?" After a few attempts to draw out who this was (the fact that he didn't put his name on the initial message should have been my first clue, buttt itttt wasn'tttt), I broke down and was like "uh, who IS THIS?"

"Omar."

 I spent the next day wracking my brain and asking my coworkers "Do we know an Omar?" No, no one knew him, except for an expert who worked on a different account who had glancing contact with our department.

In the call center industry, one meets, no exaggeration, hundreds of people a month. You've got your agents, your managers, trainers, big bosses, experts, consultants, clients...and that's in one center alone. Outside of work there's staff, the staff of your friends, fellow ex pats, people who wait on you regularly, etc etc. It's a real shame that I've never felt so alone in my life, in one of the most overpopulated places on Earth, but that's another entry too. Back to Omar. I didn't remember him, and then it  came to me: "Ooo, the dingbat who worked behind the concession stand for shits and giggles. Okay."

I later found out, from him, he had memorized my phone number from the "goodbye" email I sent to the whole department. This should have been another clue buttt ittt wasn'tttt.

This is where I should have nipped it in the bud. I don't know him. I don't WANT to really get to know him. He's just one of the hundreds of people I'll be fake nice to so as not to be perceived as bitch and then forget about 3 days later. (Ugh, that's so awful. But I'll tell you what, I really feel for celebrities now. It's a fucking hard knock life if you're at all sensitive. You have to be fake 24/7, or as my dear friend Chris Long would put it: "48/7") But I was lonely and feeling rejected by my at- the- time crush so I allowed it to blossom into what they call over here "textmates"--- people who have a quasi friendship over the phone only. This was a mistake, in hindsight. (And me reading Stephen King, I couldn't recognize a Christine when I saw one? Damn.)

It got up to 10 texts a day or more from him, all really mundane stuff, like "I just ate a banana for breakfast". Homeboy was tweeting his life to an unwilling audience of one-- me. I attempted to sort this out into something workable, by inviting him to visit me (he's from the area originally) and went so far as to set a tentative date. In the meantime, the texting was getting worse, a fungal infection that was giving me palpitations every time the phone would light up, and one of those little pink timebombs would appear "Hi, just got to work!" I would feel my throat start to close. I was raised to believe it's the HEIGHT of rudeness to ignore people ("How you treat the least among you is how you treat me"--- Jesus), so I was torn. How should I treat this? Do I have to answer, thus prompting another dinky doo text, thus strengthening the already choking ties of this doom loop? What the fuck is going on and how can I make it stop?

Finally I sent him an email that I kept as businesslike as possible, detailing that this was inappropriate and making me uncomfortable. I used an example of a particularly ennervating text exchange (below) and how it's so frustrating to try to have a full fledged conversation over text, or try to get to know one another:

Me: "So just let me know [when and if you're coming here] and I'll make some plans"

Him: "May I know what those plans will be?" (This is what we're dealing with here, people)

Me: "Well, I was thinking Tagatay (leisure spa area about an hour away)

Him: "Wow, that's so far away!"

Me: "Omar, I'm done discussing this over text. Either you're coming or you're not. Let's make plans when you get here, okay?"

The bottom line here is that I let a "relationship" go to a place I didn't want for my own selfish reasons, I underestimated cultural, personality, and educational differences and how they would affect our interactions, and I went "girly" and let things go, hoping they would somehow, someway, someday, work themselves out.

They didn't.

This weekend I got a text from him, saying "Hey, my off is Friday to Sunday". Well, fine, maybe we can salvage this. So I texted him "Great, hop on a bus and I'll meet you at Araneta, I want to go to Cubao anyway."

Response? Nothing for almost 24 hours. Then THIS:

"Hey, sorry for the late reply. I had an emergency. My mom was confined but she's okay." ("Confined" is what it's called when you're checked in overnight or longer in the hospital).

I immediately went apeshit.

I knew, I just knew, that he was lying. (I still believe it's probably only about 70% true.) I've been through this many, many times with Filipinos. It's not considered "wrong" to outright lie to achieve your ends: to get money, to get out of obligations, to avoid hurting feelings, to avoid consequences, to make your situation more palatable, etc. One example would be my ex "I 'always' go to Flying V bar." He had been there once. Lying, distorting the truth, exaggerating, lying by omission, fudging the facts, and telling little white lies....all acceptable. But not to me, they aren't. It's disrespect. It's not only one lie, it makes a lie of the whole friendship.

And this "emergency" that convienantly came at a time when he was being asked to do something that cost money, time, and effort, and might take him out of his comfort zone? Time to lie. Or at the very least, time to exagerate the truth to gain some time, sympathy, and breathing space.

I sent him several acidly mean (in retrospect), heartless texts to "cut the bullshit" and "grow up" and how tired I was of "lying, games, and bullshit."

He sent me back breathlessly outraged innocent texts "My mom really is in the hospital, she had a mild stroke!" I must say, if all the accidents and medical emergencies that I've heard of here are really true, the Filipino people are the weakest, frailest, illest, most accident prone people ON EARTH. By which I mean to say BULLSHIT. HORSEAPPLES. BOWLPUCKY.

He later texted me "I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you. Just imagine me there having fun with you." I can't adequately explain how angry, lonely, sad, desperate, and ill this text made me. Why was I even entertaining a visit from this half wit? Why was I even trying to teach this person how to act socially? Why am I, at age 33, still running Naomi's Finishing School for Idiot Boys?

This was the last straw. I mean, in what universe is this an appropriate response? What kind of lunatic planet is this guy hailing from? Another culture, one that I'll never understand, and don't want to be part of, that's where. God bless you child, but please leave me out of it.

It had a sad ending, with me backing off a bit, saying "Look, Omar, you seem like a nice person, and I'm sorry for blowing up at you, but the things you're doing, like 10 texts a day, and a no call no show on our plans, are just not okay with me. They're rude, weird and offensive. It's just not going to work. Please don't text me anymore."

This type of thing, more than any other problem here, has made me miss the US. The US is chock a block full of jerks, losers, and socially backwards people. But at least I can see them coming and give them a wide berth. Here? I keep falling for the "give him a chance, those things that he's doing that are upsetting you--- it's all in your head, it's just cultural differences, be more open minded!" thing. Not anymore.

I hope.

"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