Wasting away--

I was on my way to a mammogram this morning. The rain underlined the fact that I was not too enthusiastic about this appointment, as it were, I have been putting it off until I realized that the referral might expire if I did not do it soon.

The city is awash with gold and yellow chrysanthemums, lush and freshly planted, a true reminder that Fall has come upon us. In the Philippines, my mother used to plant chrysanthemums from seeds. They bloom unpredictably as the Philippines do not have four seasons. Well, maybe it does. Rainy, Dry, Hot, and Ber Season. The Ber season is from September through December, or the “brrrr” season. The Philippine seasons may be described as rainy, hot, muggy, and mosquito-ey season. The plants thrive all year, blooming in beautiful intense colors, with bright green leaves after the rain and grayish green patina from the dust before the rain.

I arrived at the clinic on time. The technician did not smile once. She would not make eye contact when I stood up after she called my name. I was thinking that maybe she was already guilty of the pain she was going to inflict on me. And painful it was.

I found her monologues annoying. She positioned my left breast against the plate (that looked like a paper cutter to me)and pressed the bejeesuz out of it. “Alright. Hold your breath for me. Okay, step back and let us see what we have here.” Right breast, now pressed against the guillotine. “Alright. Hold your breath for me. Okay, step back and let us see what we have here.” Can we be done already? Do you have other lines, lady? Four shots with four exactly the same sentences, uttered by the unsmiling technician. Then I realized she was not addressing me; that she was saying these lines over and over again every single day to every woman who comes to surrender her breasts. I stopped listening. I felt sorry for the robot lady. I went to my own universe where mammograms are so yesterday’s procedure.

As soon as Ms. Personality took the last shot, she invited me to “Come and let us look at the picture together.” What picture? There was an image that looked like the black hole, outlined like some constellation, peppered with little white specks. Those are pictures of my breasts? They were not photogenic at all , so why did she not just say, “Your suffering is over, go in peace.” Was I supposed to say something like, “Gee that is nice, I want 1 five-by-seven copy? And can I have them matted and framed?” I did not say a word and stood there like a moron, deliberately staring at some pink pencils, as a form of passive aggression. She did not offer me a pencil and I did not take one.


Then she smiled. I glared at her. I’d be damned if I would thank her for having my breast flattened like chicken breasts on a plexiglass cutting board. Sorry, lady, this was not exactly my idea of an early morning activity. She wished me a good day, I thanked her (for my good day, not hers) but I did not return the wish. Hell no, if she did not think I was worthy of her smile earlier, who the hell was she to expect one from me? So I exercised my freedom. Freedom of expression. That expression this morning was ungratefulness. I left in a hurry and walked back to see the mums once again.



Decades ago, I met a Japanese woman at work. Mrs. Ito was an elegant woman who dressed immaculately. She spoke English with a beautiful melodious voice. I arrived in Washington, DC during the Fall. I told her how beautiful and lush chrysanthemums are in the States and I have not seen them in yellow or gold color. Mrs. Ito told me that here in the States, they are grown in nurseries and people just plant them in their yard during the mums’ season and afterwards, they die or they are dug out and replaced by other plants.


Indeed, it was Mrs. Ito who broke the news to me that the mums I see during the fall are temporary. As I admired the mums by K street this morning I was sure that they will not be there in a few weeks. Most everything here is disposable.
Mrs. Ito told me that this is a wasteful country. Indeed, if the car radio is not working, they replace it instead of fixing the broken part. If the vacuum cleaner is not working, it would cost more to repair it so people just buy a new one. Why fix a watch or a dishwasher when you can get a new one? Why stay married to a person who has gone past his/her useful life when you can get divorced and get a new one? This is America, you have freedom of choice- to decide to keep the old or get something or someone new.


Thirty plus years ago, when I made a choice to live in this wasteful country, I said goodbye to my childhood where banana leaves and twine are used to pack a nice picnic lunch; I said goodbye to my teen-age years in muggy and noisy and politically unstable Manila. Change for me and in me was inevitable. I was fully immersed in the US by the time I was in my late twenties. This is where I voted for the first time and this is where I became self-reliant for the first time. Many milestones in my life happened in this country.


My full immersion in disposable USA is nothing unexpected or truly dramatic. I just went with the flow. I throw away struggling plants and buy new ones; I buy more when I could not find the thing I am looking for and throw it away when I realize I do not fancy it after all. I became accustomed to disposing whatever does not suit my need anymore. I own up to my wasteful contributions. I wasted smiles on people who would not smile back; I wasted my heart and my mind on people that did not return my love; I wasted words on people who are too stubborn to understand, my efforts on endeavors that were fruitless, and wasted my time on friendships that turned out to be untrue. In the US, I learned not only to dispose of things but also of relationships that are making me unhappy. I learned to take back as much as I give. I learned that I will be subjugated only if I allow it.



Even today, I allow myself to absorb more, to learn more from people and experiences and in the process, I become stronger in my beliefs. No more wasting. My best friend has a mantra she made up. One day, she said, “Kung ayaw mo, huwag mo…” This can be literally translated as “If you do not like it, don’t” Indeed, a true form of self-preservation is not to waste any of your resources on something you do not like.


As for where the mammogram fits in this diatribe, I will offer that I think I started with the premise that I considered it was a waste of my morning. However, I could not discard it like common rubbish. The chrysanthemums that are bright and lush are a reminder that nothing stays the same forever. Even their brightness and color will fade in a few weeks and go to waste, discarded and forgotten.



As for me, I continue the rest of my journey in life, and as I do, I will take great care to cherish and preserve the friendships I have forged, keep the love I have for those who matter most to me, and use the knowledge I attain to widen my point of view. I will continue, every moment, to end each of my profoundly outrageous thought with peals of silent laughter, wasted in some corner in my brain.

Madam, how shocking to see you here??!!

I was at a gala reception at the French Embassy recently; fancy but not overly done so as to intimidate me. We were requested to wear cocktail chic. This was a welcome signal that it was not going to be that stuffy. In fact, we even drove our little SmartforTwo, a baby Mercedez Benz mutant that is made in France.


We were at one of the wine stations when out of the blue, someone I recognized was looking at me and exclaimed, "Madam, how shocking to see you here!!!" Exclamation on Decibel 7, roll and drums please. He was the friend that I have earlier written about, the one who took me to parties decades ago, so that he could stay in the closet until he outed himself. We were so happy to see each other and I gladly introduced him to my husband. With him was his pretty young niece, who he referred to as his protege. He obviously made it his life's goal to turn young women into confident social creatures.


My husband thanked him, "Thank you for what you did for my wife. She is so good at these functions." I was trained all those times decades ago, by this same friend; to treat food with indifference; nod only to acquaintances; use the room he booked to powder my nose, talk in a quiet voice, etc. During this particular night, the rule was forgotten as my friend and I saw each other after a very long time. It was a feel good occassion; we were supporting our mutual friend who is the CEO of the non-profit having the reception. Furthermore, the non-profit employed my young son as an intern for two summers. And in fact, CEO used to babysit "the intern" when my son was all of four years old. In the truest sense of the word, we were with "family" and I sat down and enjoyed my Merlot. My mentor/friend was shrill with happiness having reconnected after these long years.


My very first formal function as the wife, was at the Lukemia Ball. I was conscious of the fact that it was a real test as to how I could handle these types of occassions. I put on my beautiful midnight blue beaded gown. My digicam was bulging through my evening clutch bag. My husband (HB), noticed the bulge, asked me what I had in there. I 'fessed. I was after all Filipino. Pinoys love photos. If there is a roasted pig on the table, we take a picture with the pig. If we have a new purse, we take a photo with the purse, we cannot start to eat at parties until we have blessed and taken photos of the spread. If there is a wake, we take photos with the dead. That was just something we do without further discussion. If you point a camera at a Filipino, he could not help but pose and smile. I was not an exception. My husband still teases me about a family photo during my mom's wake. I was seated in front with a wide smile on my face while my siblings all looked sad. My baby sister had a smile on her face as well- the two of us are the "carcajadas" in our family. (given to loud laughter). The only defense I could offer, is that, my mom was never a sentimental person and would have understood why her two baby daughters were smiling on the photo. Perhaps we knew something the others did not!


HB forbade me to take the camera with me. He told me that only the Press would take photos at this occassion. Really? After spending a good amount of money for my gown and my accessories, there would not be any photos to show for? That was first of only two times I went to the Leukemia Ball thereafter. I failed in prevailing the second time so I told him that I would not want to spend money on fancy gowns if I could not even have proof that I was there!


HB has a rule that if anyone uses manipulation, whining, or passive aggression, that he will deal with it so that the only person who suffers is he/she who whines, manipulates or otherwise use passive aggression to get what she/he wanted. I learned quickly. My son said that I take advantage of his Dad. I retorted, "That is my job! I am the only girl in this family. Your Dad needs to spoil her." "Is that why you take advantage of him?" "Who else would?"

I realized therefore that I was on the losing end and that the fun and the exposure outweighed the lack of photos during those occassions. I recycled my ball gowns and my cocktail dresses and agreed to go. Some of the functions are truly memorable like the time we were at the Museum of National History in New York , or the Museum of Women in the Art in DC, or the Portrait Gallery of Art, or the time we attended a function where the Secretary of the Treasury was the honored guest, or the Canadian ambassador; and others.

The honest truth is, I could only remember what I was wearing or how much my shoes hurt. Oh, and I also pay attention to jewelry. Not mine but what others are wearing. And then I would make hints about getting a big-@xx diamond someday. The ploy never worked. And that is another story. During these functions, the food was always special, the wine was always very impressive, the ladies were always beautiful with sparkling jewelry and full make-up, and the men look like penguins. One of the things I enjoy during these functios is the small talk. I love listening to where people have been, to discover most of the time, that I have been there at one time too. I like looking at faces of couples who are married and unmarried as well, reading body languages and sometimes, wow my husband when I would make an observation later that would turn out to be true.


One time, walking from the Plaza Hotel in New York City to a function not too far from it, I asked my husband if I deserved to be there. He told me, "The day I married, you, you belonged everywhere I take you." I have gone to many functions and had some near misses, like the time I drank from the glass of the firm's partner. My husband was grinning at me and whispered, "You just drank from his glass." I was quick to apologize and the partner smiled at me and said, "You too? I do the same thing and both I and the other guy were tipsy enough not to care." He laughed and told me not to worry. Or the time in Manhattan when I wandered off to another function, thinking it was a lesbian's wedding. The mom asked me if I was having fun and I said I was so having fun. I admired the flowers, as though a whole garden was plastered on the wall. The mother said, "So how do you know Juliette?" That sobered me up. I said, "I know Heather, I do not know Juliette but I hope your daughters are happy ever after." Then she had a funny look and then I realized that I was in the wrong wing. I said, "I am so sorry, is this your daughter's wedding reception?" "No this is a joint bat mitzvah." I apologized and told them I was attending my friend's wedding. I bid adieu and she wished me a good evening.


As I continued to enjoy my friend's gala reception, I reflected on how far I have come. I no longer question the validity of my presence in any of the events I go to. I am confident in who I am and what I stand for and the dress, shoes, and jewelry are just part of my evening's costume. The true person resides beneath them. And I happen to actually like that person:-)

The food line was getting long and my mentor, who decades ago would have prevented me from getting in line was in it and I knew, that even he, has learned that it was perfectly acceptable to be humanly hungry both for wine and bread and everything else is, well, a photo op.

Cheers!

When in Rome, do what the Romans do!

We got settled in our seats, happy to take a break from the last few months of having to plan a wedding while rehearsing for a play. Now, husband (HB) and I could relax. My passport was amended to reflect my new status as Mrs. Russell. The plane never left. I dozed off and on and still we were grounded.

We were asked to disembark our plane at Dulles after being held in the cabin for over an hour. A bad thunderstorm came and made us late for our connection flight to NY. It was a zoo when we arrived in JFK. No amount of explanation and appeal could get us to Rome. HB had to be in there for a meeting the next morning with a Big-5 accounting firm. While the airline could put him in the next available flight, and his firm would pay for first class, he turned to me and asked if I minded going back to Washington, DC. I was okay with that. I have been to Rome a few times before. But even that possibility went for naught. No flights were leaving. It was almost midnight and he was still negotiating our flights for the next day. The airline booked us into a hotel in the Big Apple for the night. It was past midnight.

The flagship of fleabag hotels in NYC was waiting for us. It was so bad that we could see cables sticking out of the hallways. “Please do not get used to this.” This was the mantra HB would always remind me. When we got into our room, we both decided to sleep in our clothes for fear of contamination. I could not wait to get this night over with. With much trepidation, I took a hot shower at dawn’s break and we were out of there as fast as we could and buried the memory of the last nightmarish twelve or so hours. We caught “Les Miserables” in Broadway to while our time and proceeded to the airport, got into our Swissair flight and off we were, to a new start.

Rome was happy to see us or was it the other way around? I have forgotten how crazy they drove on the Auto Strata. HB told me to hold his hand and close my eyes. It was awful! There was no seat belt and I was scared I would make Kris into an orphan. I must have made an impression on the cabbie. He stopped somewhere and got out, came to the passenger’s cab and took out the seatbelt, which was tucked under the seat! He motioned me to put it on and off we flew! The five-star hotel we were staying in was situated right across from the American Embassy at the Via de Venetto. It was not lost on me that it was next to a Salvatore Ferragamo shoe store, which I could only afford a pair if I were willing to forfeit a full week’s salary. And I was not used to that :-)

Before being a mom, and before being a wife, I travelled on a shoe-string budget. My travel buddies and I would save enough to buy our airline tickets, get some pensions lined up, survive on cheap eats and cheap wine. One year, we ended up staying in a pensione in Italy that was managed by a Filipina maid. It was owned by a priest who was not in residence. The pensione faced the street called Via de Merulala. Miss Letty was forever asking us to hush up, like the pensione was part of the Vatican! The more she told me to hush, the more I cackled because she was so scandalized by our rowdy group of seven. We teased her; asked if she and the priest were having an affair and does the Pope approve, is he handsome, any plans of taking him to the Philippines? She kept saying “Ay naku, patawarin kayo ng Dios!” (May God forgive you!)

Miss Letty was an enterprising woman. She asked if we were interested in shopping for Italian designer goods. She then proceeded to open a walk -in closet. She had a whole walk –in closet full of leather goods in there. Gucci, Ferragamo, Celine, Cartier, Balenciaga, she had them neatly stacked, wallets, purses, shoes. She also had bottles of Holy Water, “rosaries blessed by the Pope you only need to wave it during the procession from the Vatican on Thursdays.” She had post cards, with stamps already affixed to them, “you only need to leave them with me and I will post them for you.” She also cooked some Filipino food for us, hoping to quiet us down with purses and food.

My friends and I took a bus into town and there were Filipinos in the bus. They said to us, “So, you look like you just arrived. Too bad the Signorinas are not hiring these days. Are you looking for jobs?” We told them that we were touring, we were not looking for a job. So they told us to go to the train station to eat Filipino food. We were not prepared for what we saw. There were hundreds of Filipinos at the train station. They were selling cooked food from the trunks of their cars. There were people playing mahjong on a card table, situated on the sidewalk, complete with miron (kibitzer). We bought some noodles and had small talk with some of them. They were teachers, engineers, accountants, etc., working as domestic helpers in Italy.

A few years before this trip with my friends, I visited my friends in Belgium and stayed for over three months. During my stay, I was introduced to some of the domestic helpers (DH) working in Brussels. They were hard-working and hospitable. I had the opportunity to be their guest in a room not much bigger than my bedroom at home, and there would be a total of five women in that same room. And yet, they gladly shared with me their food, their laughter, their friendship, and their stories.

Here in our beautiful room, HB and I got settled in and went out for stroll along the avenue. That evening, we had dinner in one of the cafes along the avenue, and the next day, he went to his meetings. I took strolls around the blocks, lined with oleander trees and teeming with people in their fashionable outfits. I ventured out to the Spanish Plaza, sitting on the steps, making a mental note of a restaurant named Domino. On the way back, I stared longingly at a pair of Salvatorre Ferragamos next door to the hotel. Ah, so close and yet so far in my horizon.

The accounting group was hosting a formal dinner for twelve people including us that evening. I wore a little black dress and a pair of high heels. I was horrified that I was not going to sit next to HB, was worried I would make a fool of myself. I was mentally taking it all in. There were just too many things to remember. I did not want to embarrass myself and my husband. I know a few reliable concepts: Red wine, meat. white wine, fish or seafood. Bread dish, left. Glasses, right. Dessert spoon, above my plate. Okay, what the heck were those extra darn things for?

The waiters served us in unison and I was mesmerized by the synchronization of it all, akin to how I feel when I am directing a play and the actors are doing their stage “score.” Suddenly, I saw my HB eating with a flatware that I could not determine. OMG, I was angry! I was angry at myself for being such a peasant. How did he get to that part? Where was I? Outside in, right? But he seemed to be using something from the middle of the setting. I glanced at the person beside me on my right, I glanced at the one to my left. My brain was not absorbing anything. So I looked at the waiter and he fixed me a look and raised his hand ever so slightly motioning to stage left, number 3. I smiled at him and proceeded to eat like this is an everyday occurrence for me. What is with these Europeans and their weird implements?

The wine was excellent, the food was delicious, and the small talk was fun. I had a buzz and feeling great. I excused myself to go the ladies' room. I thought it was weird that a man could openly come in and use the stall next to me and that I was just seated there when he passed by me. I have never been to a unisex bathroom was all I could think of. No big deal, when in Rome do what the Romans do!

We took a cab tour of Rome at night, when the lights were like stars shining on the city, abuzz with traffic sounds and smells. It was great to be alive and in the center of such an exciting city. I was realizing if I have not before that I was indeed committed, a married signora. My rings sparkled and winked like little stars on my finger, sapphire and diamonds, midnight strewn with stars. Midnight and high noon - as dramatic as Miss Saigon.

That night I told HB that I really loved the dinner albeit stressful it was for me. I mentioned that I could not understand why a classy place would have a unisex bathroom. I proceeded to tell him the men who would come in while I was in it. He looked at me, and said something calmly. And that is how so I found out that all through my visit, I had been using the men’s room. Fault me not. I thought the doors had a picture of spomeone with a skirt (tails) and a ruffled blouse. And I had a buzz going in, so pardon the signora por favore.

I also made a case for similar situations, and there would be more in the months and years that followed, that we would make eye contact before he lifts any of those confusing tableware to prevent his “fair lady” from committing a faux pas.

A private car took us to the Leonardo da Vinci airport. When we arrived in Washington, a car was supposedly waiting for us to get home. HB told me to wait for it. It would have our name on it. A big black car passed by, with our last name on the window. I waved. It went past me. It came around again, I waved. It did not stop. So when HB asked me if our car came by, I was frustrated. “It did! I waved and the driver saw me but he did not stop. I mean, come on, do I look like a Russell?” Indeed.

Post Script: Years later, HB took me to an Italian Restaurant in Baltimore, Maryland. I used the bathroom. When I came out, a group of men on a table smiled at me and asked, “How was it?” Startled, I was wondering what they meant. One of them pointed to the bathroom door, “Did you like the men’s room?” I quipped, “Ugh, I was wondering why it was awful in there!” They raised their glasses to offer a toast to the lady who survived the men’s room.

I no longer wave for cars. I stand and wait to be asked if I were Mrs...I act like I am entitled to it. I got used to it.