Looking Good!

In 1994, “The Washingtonian” featured some women who have gone under the knife to look younger. They looked awesome. From hag to fab! I promised myself that when I grow up, I will consult the very same plastic surgeons should I decide to do a procedure to make me look better.

My pre-nup did not mention financing a facelift but I stated it very early on that when I reach my late forties, I will want a facelift as a holiday present. Around my 48th birthday, I convinced myself that it was time for a consultation. Lo and behold, the doctor in the partnership has since retired but the other partner was still practicing. I convinced HB to come with me. “If the doctor says I am too young for it, then I will defer to his opinion.” HB knew he might be in a hook so he listed at least 100 questions in his Blackberry to ask the surgeon.

THE VISIT. We arrived in the doctor’s Virginia suburban office one morning. We were greeted with an enlarged photo of the 1994 magazine that I have brought with me as my talisman. They found that impressive; that I kept the magazine all those years. The staff are all very pretty women. I was invited to the office of the consultant where she showed me a computerized version of what I can look like. (I did not look anything like that, post surgery.). A few minutes later, we met face-to-face with Dr. W. He was very nice and easily admitted that he himself had a facelift, which endeared him to me.

He had his assistant give me a mirror and asked, “Now Mrs. G, what don’t you like about your look?” I replied, “I look like a woman who writes bad checks and I do not write bad checks.” He laughed, “I have not met a patient who said she looks like she writes bad checks!” “You know, looking angry and upset with her life. I am a happy person, doctor.” I have seen mug shots of women on grocery stores’ bulletin boards. They pass bad checks. I do not like to look like that. They look angry. He turned my face this way and that way. These doctors are very smart. They know which buttons to push. “I do not really think you need a procedure because you are beautiful as it is. You are a beautiful woman. However, we can rejuvenate your look.” Bingo! “I do not transform women into having a windblown look. But yes, we can make you look younger and rested,” as he points this way and that, already mapping the incision and the stitches. “Yes, you will love your result.” Jackpot!

Then it was our turn to ask questions. “Do you have any questions?” HB said, “As far as my wife goes, I think her question is ‘how soon can we do it?’” Then he proceeded to ask the doctor questions like, how long has he done this, what are his credentials, his hospital affiliations, how many of this procedure has he done, how long is the recovery, what are the chances of failure, how much will it cost, how exactly and where will the incisions be on my face? Et cetera, et cetera. Then HB said, “She and I will have to discuss this and we will get back with you.” That was just fine. They appreciate that we were not making a decision like pulling a tooth. This was after all a “major major” decision that may end up with my face looking like the Joker.

Once we got in our car, I was anxious. I was not sure if HB bought the pitch. Then he said, “Okay, so, I know you feel very strongly about this. However, this is a very expensive procedure. You also want a Smart car. So which one do you like first?” “I want them both. I will be very sad if you make me choose one over the other.” “What I am saying is that you cannot have both this year. Choose which one you want to do first.” “I want to have my surgery first.” “Okay, then you fill out your leave forms in the office and call the doctor’s office to coordinate with them.” Easy as that. My HB agreed. I told him that if I would work through my fifties, I would want to at least look like I am not old enough to retire. Wish granted.

After all the paperwork was filed, my employer decided that this was a major surgery and it qualifies for disability leave. I was very grateful that I would not be forced to come back to work with stitches on my hairline. My best friend at work had a brilliant suggestion. She said, “Buy a DD cup bra and wear it on the first day you return. People will pay attention to your chest and think that that was what you did. They will ignore your face.” I did buy a pair! But not DD, it was like a full C but the cups were stuffed like a Butterball turkey breast for Thanksgiving.

THE CUTTING and SEWING DAY. It was one chilly morning when HB drove me to the plastic surgery clinic for my rejuvenation procedure. Yes, that is what they call it. Photos were taken of me for the “before” look. Anyone who has woken up at 4am, and asked not to put make-up on will appreciate any “after” look with make-up. I looked terrible, and I was very aware of that. I looked like I just got out of jail. Writing bad checks. Then they led me to the operating room.

It was a huge high-tech room. The nurses greeted me and told me that I would be made comfortable, how was I that morning, was I ready to get rejuvenated? I was shaking. I was cold and yes, scared. But I was ready and I needed to be brave. My faith was in the hands of my prestigious surgeon, touted as the best that money can buy in the DC Metro area. I was then asked to lie down on the operating table and I saw my doctor come in. He greeted me with a smile, then the nurse gave me an IV shot of Malbec, or Sauvignon Blanc, or Vouvray, my favorite, and I was off to a dreamless sleep.

When I came to, I felt top heavy. My head felt like a huge cotton ball. I was gauzed up and groggy. I felt like I had a turban on my head. The nurse who was pushing my wheelchair was very kind. “Sweetie, how ya feelin?” “I feel good,” came my groggy response. “Sweetie, there is a black limo outside, is that yours?” I said something to which she said, “Oh no, he is not cheap. He just paid thousands for you!” I apparently said, “No limo for me. You see a Mercedez, that's me, my husband is cheap…” Another patient had her own private plane at Dulles waiting for her, I was told by HB later. It must be nice but I could not imagine being airsick after being cut left and right on my face and not being able to properly puke. Anyway....

My HB took me home and made his turbaned wife comfortable. Then he called my best friend. She told me later that what he said was, “Oh my God, your best friend looks like she was run over by a train. Do you think she will ever look normal again?” My best friend assured him that I will look normal again.

I had staples on my hairline above my temples, my hair was matted with blood, I have bruises, I was swollen. The only thing visible was my mouth and my beady eyes. The next day or so, I returned to the clinic and they removed the gauze. I waited to get home to check it out. Was my face transformed into a thing of beauty that would last forever?

I screamed when I saw my face in the mirror for the first time. I looked like a huge smashed pumpkin with eyes smaller than Connie Chung’s. In other words, I was a mess. I was ugly. My son would not go near me. “Mommy I love you very much but you look gross!” Well, one has to look worse before she looks better. But my spirits were high. I was very eager to see my “after” look.

Around Thanksgiving day, I was starting to have cabin fever so I asked HB if I could go with him to the grocery store. He refused. I asked him why. He said, “I am 6 feet tall, you are 5’4”, Asian. They might think I have been abusing my mail order bride with all your bruises around the eyes.” I said, “I will camouflage myself, please take me.” “You will need to walk a few feet behind me so people do not think you are with me.” So at around 6:30 on a dark autumn evening, I put on my sunglasses, a strip of band-aid below each eye and my felt hat. I walked about 3 yards behind the mail order groom.

The one thing I love about living in the U.S. is that people do not care about anyone but themselves.:) No one cared if I looked like someone has bashed my face. Absolutely, they saw me as a normal human being that might have just been wearing a Halloween Costume 24 days later after trick or treating. Asian and weird, of course she does not know Halloween had been weeks before. Did you see those staples on her hairline, what was she supposed to be anyway?

I still had those darn staples on my hairline to hold my new look during Turkey Day. The staples unnerved me. However, a few days later, I was relieved when they finally pulled those things out and off my face. I had yellow bruises, a very good sign that I was healing well. HB took me with him to California, where I hid myself in a Ritz Carlton by the ocean. I felt wonderful. I felt young again, well not that young, but I looked a tad different. Those naso-labial folds were not as pronounced. Yay, I can work for ten or more years!

While in California, I was convinced (not proven) that people looked at me and wonder about my still swollen face. I began to think that I looked like Imelda Marcos. I did not think looking like Imelda was a compliment. I went from Connie Chung to Imelda Marcos, what's next? Then I began to see the difference in my face. My HB began to see it as well. I looked like I was taken to the cleaners to get pressed, without starch, please.

I still looked the same, I just look much rested. My surgeon assured me that this procedure does not give one a dramatic change compared to say a nose job or a breast implant. No, this procedure should and shall be subtle. I am for the subtlety. After all, I am happy with my nose!

We returned to Washington and I got to stay home until a few weeks before Christmas. This procedure was the best Christmas present I would get that year and onward.

REALITY CHECK I returned to the office, aware that people were wondering where I have been or what has happened to me. I watch them look at me, wearing my stuffed chest with pride. After a week, I went back to my old chest and embraced my new face.

We had a male receptionist who took me aside and said, “Hey people are asking me what is going with ‘my full name’?” So I said, “Tell them, I had the time and the money so I had a mini facelift. I can give them the name of my surgeon.”

It has been a couple of years since then. Truly, the surgery has helped me deal with changes reflected on my face from the seasons of my life. I have always believed in reinventing myself to be better, to be at par in this competitive world. I have gone back to school to learn a new profession, helped my HB raise a teen-ager, be an engaged partner in a successful marriage, open my mind to things that were previously outside my comfort zone. My face matches my energy, my spirit, my inner joy. As a result, I like myself even more as I got older.

My HB teases me and says I am “high maintenance,” but I tease him back that I am the showcase of his wealth. I told him, “I would be in my box and the mourners would exclaim, “what do you mean she’s 80, she looks so young, such a waste!” And I would be laughing all the way to the heavens.

I hope the wings I will get are also rejuvenated so I can fly like an eagle. I hope that Saint Peter will greet me with such confusion “Did you say you are 89 or 80?” I will be honest this time, “Sir Saint Peter, I have always lied about my age. I am really 89.” He would say, “Are you kidding me? Why, your wings look like they are 65 years old, too young! Dude, enjoy your Social Security checks!” “Sir Saint Peter, I am not bullshitting you, Sir. I am 89 years old and I need to stay. Please do not send me back. My surgeons are all here with you.” Saint Peter will then say, “Okay, you can stay but please remain on the prude side, will you? ” “Oh….Kay…”

Vanity. It is not a bad word. It forces one to maintain his/her looks. It is nice to reinforce the “Hey, I am not just a pretty face; I got brains to match it too.” We arrange and re-arrange our homes and spaces to find harmony, balance, and beauty. Why can’t it be applied to our looks as well? It is like the old BMW ad, “as long as there are people who want perfection, BMW will continue to pursue it.” And yet, even these highly engineered cars need maintenance every now and then. We all need it. Some of us are shy to admit it; some of us want to share the positive results of it. I am shy. But only when I am asleep.

Here is the deal: I will never in a million years be perfect, but I feel perfectly happy in my skin, in my rejuvenated skin, that is.

I am now ready to age gracefully…

Friendly Ghosts

It is Halloween night, and tomorrow Monday, it is All Saints Day in the Philippines. It is an opportune time to write about ghost stories, my ghost stories.

My mother has always told me not to fear the dead. She said, “They cannot harm you. They are dead.” With that in mind, I made up my mind, earlier in my youth that I will not fear ghosts. Of course, I get goose bumps when I hear stories about them, whether they are just tall tales or the truth. One of the stories that I recall was told by an old friend Gigi from Belgium. According to her, when she was on duty as a nursing student, she was asked to go to the Blood Bank. It was past midnight and the bank was in another building. She asked a classmate to go with her. They hopped in the elevator and there was another person behind them. Towards the trip down, they saw through their peripheral vision that the person behind them was levitating. When the door opened, they went running and screaming at the same time. I am not sure whether the story really happened or meant as a joke, but it spooks me still when I recall it.

My first encounter with a ghost was a “family” encounter. It happened in Manila when I was a teen-ager. One early evening, our screen door kept getting pushed and pulled as though someone was trying to open it although there was no one on the other side. My sister checked if there was wind but the evening was very still and humid. We closed the wooden door and locked it. Then, someone or something was pushing the door. My other sister started screaming and she sprinted upstairs to get her rosary and tied it on the knob. It was a scary sight; it seemed as though a force was trying to get in. My mother stepped up and said “Ipang, ikaw ba yan?” (Ipang, is that you?” She was referring to her late sister Felipa. “Ipang, ipanatag mo ang kaluluwa mo.” (Rest your soul.) The door stopped moving.

A few minutes later, my cousin Amang knocked on the door. When he came in, he told my mom “Inang Trining, my two sisters were fighting then we heard footsteps on the hallway.” My mother said, “That was your mother. It is her birthday; she wants your sisters to remember her and to stop fighting.” That experience taught me that I should never doubt when someone tells of a visit from someone who is not living anymore.
My belief was tested when one of my dearest friends contracted cancer and other complications from AIDS. We decided amongst us who were very close to him that I would be okay if he visits me after death. I would be the conduit between him and our friends. The two of us made a pact that he would “turn off” my VCR when his time came so that I would know that he has passed away. One day, I came home and noticed that my VCR was off. I called his number. He picked up the phone. I asked, “Buhay?” (“Hey, you alive?”) He yelled, “Buhay!” (Alive!) I said, “My VCR was off.” He said, “Call VEPCO. Maybe the power went out today, crazy!” We had exchanges like this. From time to time, I would call him and just yell, “Buhay?” He would yell back, “Buhay!” and we would hang up. One day, I came home to find all my lights in my condo were on. When I came in, he was collapsed on the couch, snoring away.

I have to mention that before his sickness my friend Joel was a very healthy, fun loving guy. He and another friend Vic and I would go out clubbing to dance the night away. We literally came in, danced, got a drink and go home. He would regale me of stories about his encounters with UFOs – which always led to his being chased by them in his little Chevy, his speeding on route 29, ending up somewhere in Washington, VA, which would always end up, for some reason or another in a bar where he would be dancing the night away while the UFO returned to its mother ship. Or his being a victim of a crime, yet he would have time to call the cops and join the chase in his little jalopy and he would always end up leading the cops during the chase. The absurdity of his stories would always reduce me to tearful laughter. He was my comedic relief. And yet, there was no one more loyal and helpful, kind, and reliable than my friend Joel. As a young man, he paid his way to the Ateneo de Davao, worked in the Middle East then Europe as a hotel employee. He came to the USA and worked as an employee at a Middle Eastern embassy and later on, he became a permanent resident and ultimately a U.S. citizen. He had his own printing business, and he won a contract to print stage bills and tickets for the DAR Constitution Hall. Then he got sick. His friends rallied behind him and planned for the inevitable.

In 1994, we had another group meeting amongst his closest friends. We decided to set a protocol when the day comes. As it turned out, I was assigned to take his body to the crematorium. I laughingly objected because one of our friends Beth volunteered to host a party after the memorial service. I protested, “What is this, I am burning our friend in an oven and you guys are partying?” Our friend Jan would just say, “Whatever you do, do not come to visit me because I will be too spooked.” One day, he was with me in the car. He pointed to a building not too far away from where we were. He said, “You know where that smoke is from? That is the crematorium.” It was not. But I said, “Oh, your personal grilling machine.” He laughed. But the laughter became subdued as the months went by. Then one day, he was rushed to Georgetown Hospital. I visited the first opportunity I had. We chatted for a while and then I had to go. He then asked me if I had two quarters. I handed him the quarters. Then he gave them back to me, and said, “Listen, put each on my eyelids.” Then he gave me his handkerchief and said, “Then tie this handkerchief around my face.” I burst out laughing. He said, “Normita, I am serious. You do this.” I asked why. He said because he cannot control his eyelids, they kept opening a little and he could not keep his mouth shut. I said, “We are going to spook the nurse. She might think you are dead when she sees you like this.” He said, “Let her be spooked. Maybe she would pay me more attention when she sees me dead than alive. ”

After he got out of the hospital, he went home and was fine for a while. During one of my visits, he told me he was strong enough that he actually killed a “huge snake.” The way he described this garden snake, one would think it was an African python. He said, “It was going to come into my walk-in basement.” He took me to the basement, he opened the door and showed me where the “python” was. I asked, “How did you kill it Joel?” He said, “I spanked it with my slipper!” “You what?” “I spanked it with my slipper!” “You spanked the snake?” “Well, I whacked it hard with my slipper. I swear it ran away!” I was laughing hard. “I have not heard of anyone killing a snake with a slipper!”

A month or so later, his condition became worse and despite all the discussions of us taking turns taking care of him, taking to the hospice when the time came, he decided to go home to Manila and die in his family home. That was the last time I saw my friend but before he left, I gave him a letter, while he could still read and understand that I would never, ever forget him and that I would tell my son all about his goodness. He left me his drafting table to give to my son. Every time I see the table, I think of all the origami Christmas ornaments he made on that table. Christmas is the one season my friend truly loved and he would forbid us to wrap presents without his help and he would turn out exquisite boxes, wrapped as if each contains the most precious gift in the whole world.

Second encounter: My friend Belle and I were visiting the home of a mutual friend. It was late in the morning. We were talking by the kitchen. I saw a shadow that kept going up and down the stairs. I checked if there was a car or something outside that might have been reflecting a shadow but there was none. It happened a couple of times. When we left the place, my friend turned to me and said, “Did you see…” I could not wait for her to finish her sentence. “Tell me if you saw what I saw!” We both saw the shadow and we both described it going up and down the stairs. The next day, I found the huge fruit bowl that had been sitting on my microwave oven for years broken in two. I never heard it break but it was neatly broken with one half on the kitchen counter. Enough of the VCR. Turning it off would not have an impression. The same day, we received news that Joel died the night before, April 17.

Third encounter: Joel’s best friend Bette was visiting the USA from Uganda. She and Jan and I decided to meet and reminisce about him. It had been years since Joel passed away. Unfortunately, the meeting did not happen due to conflicts in our schedules. One early morning, my little son woke up and complained about the smoke alarm going off. No one smokes in our home so my husband (HB) turned off the alarm. It went off again, so he removed the battery. Then, the radio in our bathroom, which has not been working for a year or so started playing weird noises; the noises like someone talking but incoherently. HB said there was nothing else he could do since the battery is dead. We closed the door while the radio kept playing. It sounded like Joel when he would cough and I flatly told my husband that I think it is Joel and I realized that he was probably annoyed that the meeting, designed to reminisce about him did not happen. The next day, as I drove to my theater rehearsal, I stopped the car at Old Georgetown Road where across the street stands a church and its graveyard. My son turned to me and said, “Mommy, we should move here near that cemetery so that Uncle Joel and his friends would not have to fly all the way to our home to take a shower.” I took note of this and then realized that it was April 17th and there is no doubt this was Joel reminding me through my son. When I got home, HB said, “Listen, talk to Joel and tell him that he has to stop.” I went upstairs and went into the bathroom then I said, “Joel, I am sorry the meeting did not happen. I also know you are annoyed at me because you wanted to come back and I advised against it. I did that because I know you would not make it. I am very sorry. I remember you and will never forget you. Please stop talking on the radio because it is starting to spook us.” The radio became quiet. We took it off the wall and threw it away. We rewired the smoke alarm and it stayed silent.

Fourth Encounter: HB went on trip, recruiting law school students at Yale. That night I was studying in the study room at the basement. It was Friday night. We had a maid who did the laundry on Wednesday. All of a sudden, the washer started spinning. There were no clothes in it. I turned it off. A few minutes later, it started again so I turned it off again. The phone rang and it was my coworker, Lise. I told her what was happening. She said, “Unplug it. If it turns on again, do not call me.” It turned on again so I unplugged it. I continued studying when the phone rang. It was my sister-in-law’s brother. He told me that my sister-in-law Ann just passed away. She was vacationing with my brother in Spain. I am not sure where I got the idea that a person’s dying spirit uses up an overwhelming energy so that the signs the soul sends to the living stand out. I believed that it was my late sister in law Ann who was behind the washer spinning.

Over a year later, my brother who has since remarried was moving out of state. My new sister-in-law asked me if there was something I wanted from the attic. I asked for an old serving bowl that belonged to my brother’s late wife. The bowl has never been used and it was still in its original box. Unfortunately, when I opened the box, it had cracks and I decided to use it only for fruits and only on special occasions. As I put it away, I “talked” to Ann, “Sister Ann, we still miss you and now I own your bowl. I will take care of it.” I called my sister in Florida who does ceramics to ask if there is a way to fix a cracked ceramic and she said there’s none. I told her about the bowl and she told me to continue using but do not put liquid in it. Around the summer, I took it out to use it for summer fruits. I was careful to handle it because of the cracks. Then to my surprise, the cracks were gone. I was bewildered. I called my sister again to ask if she has had any cracked ceramics that “healed” themselves. She said never.

Fifth Encounter: My niece and I came back to our hotel room from a day’s outing during our vacation in a resort in southern Philippines. I noticed when I went in the bathroom that there was sand in the bath tub. This struck me as strange since we have not been swimming in the ocean. And we were out the whole day. Some of the flowers by the dresser were also in the tub. I changed into a new sarong I bought from our trip into town and posed for a photo. Behind me was a wall and window. We occupied the end room on the second floor of the main pavilion. When we reviewed the photo, my niece asked me, “Nice photo. But who is this?” pointing to the man behind me. There was a silhouette of a man behind me. The shape was totally discernible. It was a man standing straight. I asked her to take another photo. The man was no longer in the photo. My other niece knocked on the door while I zoomed the photo, trying to put some logic as to why there was a shadow of a man behind me. It could not have been my niece since she was the one holding the camera to take the photo. It could not have been my shadow because I was posing obliquely. I deleted the photo as I sensed my niece was getting scared. The other photo without the silhouette disappeared from the camera as well.

The next day at breakfast, I asked our waiter if there is a ghost in my room. He said there is no ghost in any of the rooms. My sister asked me why and we told her the story of the photo we took. She told me and my niece not to empower the ghost; that we should refer to it as a shadow and nothing more. She asked me if I believed in ghosts and I said I did because of my friend Joel. “And oh by the way, what was today’s date?” I asked. She said, “Today is April 17th.” I went back to the room by myself and talked to my friend “I am sorry I deleted you from the photo. You are welcome to join in.”I started taking photos of the room but I did not capture one shadow. I regret having to delete the one the previous night but my niece said that the “pass” the spirits get to visit is limited to a few seconds only. Thus, I missed another chance of chatting with my friend again. I know, however, that one of these years again, as he has done in the past, he would send me some subtle sign that he is hovering over me.

My husband, (HB) sent me a text message. “Are you okay? I saw some charges at the Mercy Hospital.” I responded, “I am very okay, that charge was for a massage.” I was on my way to visit my girl friend who lives out of state. When I requested her to make an appointment for a spa massage, she told me that we were going to get massages from the hospital instead. I was very curious and could not imagine myself getting aromatherapy massage at a hospital. This may prove really interesting.

I have a regular masseuse. She is a Vietnamese lady named Lilli. You need to hear her talk and I can only share it phonetically: Hullo, Munah, I miss you! You gone too long. “Lillli missed you, okay, now I give you mussai. Lilli tek ker you. Bee zee work, bee zee travel? Good you come, Lilli tek ker. Ok, everything ok, everything pretty, husband very lucky!” Then she gives me a massage and I can never predict if she would remember only one arm or both but she makes it up with the wonderful hot stones and a free mini-facial, always whispering, “Ssssssh….owner very cheap but I tek care, okay, no talk!” She would wink and goes into a whispered diatribe of what seemed to me is a foreign language although at the end, she would punctuate it with “Yeh, Lilli come work, Lillie tek care everything, everything ok, not ok!”

I am a firm believer in pampering myself. My eldest sister told me that pampering oneself is justified as our bodies are the machines that do the work; machines need grease to work and maintenance to continue working. I have adopted that as my personal philosophy. Here are some of my memorable massage experiences.

MANILA: The very first time HB and I visited Manila together, we were told that the hotel offers in-room massages so we promptly requested the service. Two young Filipina girls came. They were giggly and chatty. As they were giving us massages, they told me about their lives; they were both breadwinners in their families, helping to educate their siblings, keeping their profession from their boyfriends. To be a masseuse is stigmatized due to the sex industry offering massages as pretext. I told them that they are making an honorable living so long as they do not cross the line to providing sex-related services to their clients. At this, they were quite adamant that they do not; they are required to call their supervisor the moment they arrive in the guests’ room and the supervisor would call them after half an hour to make sure they were okay. HB was amused. He told me that he did not enjoy the massage because I and the two girls were very noisy. The next time we asked for massages, he decided to go to the massage center himself. Later on, he told me, “Those girls are hilarious. They told me, “Sir, you should lose some weight!” At another resort, I ended up teaching the “manangs” how to give massages. HB said that was disorienting. One manang was massaging his foot, the other his head. By the time we arrived in the Southern Philippines, I have stopped socializing with the masseuse and just enjoyed the treat.

THAILAND: The year we were in Bangkok and we asked for another in-room masseuse. This tiny Thai girl walked in with a basket of oils. I asked repeatedly if she was strong enough to do this; she was below five foot tall and my husband is tall and bulky at 6 feet. At some point, she was knelt behind him; he was seated and she hooked her arms from under his armpits. She pulled his arms with all her strength backwards. The force of it pulled HB flat on his back, collapsing with her underneath He looked like a bottle of large waffle syrup collapsing on a pancake. He was so relaxed but the force jilted him into alertness and when she crawled out from under him, she collapsed into peals of laughter, I was laughing so hard by the look of this big white guy collapsing with this tiny little girl flattened out under him.

CALIFORNIA: HB and I had a mud bath in Calistoga, California. I was squeamish about it. It looked like a quick sand bath and I felt l ike being buried alive in mud. As we lay in the warm mud, I whined about how gross it felt, looked, and smelled. HB reminded me that I grew up in the Philippines, surrounded by farms. That was the whole reason I was acting the way I did. I am familiar with the smell of water buffalo dung and this tub of mud reminded me of that sweet pungent smell. Alas, it made our skin glow and smooth like a baby’s bottom. We were rinsed with water from a geyser, enveloped in a thermal blanket, and massaged and soothed into a state of nirvana. Later on, I learned that the “mud” was made of mulch and other organic matter from plants. But I will let you in on something, from a girl raised around farms: water buffaloes also eat leaves and other organic plant matter.

CHINA: The masseuse in Guelin had me on a massage table and proceeded to give me a relaxing massage without having touched my skin. She did the whole massage using a dry towel. It was surprisingly relaxing but I was not sure why but I had a huge headache afterwards and could not function for the rest of the night. In Sou Zhou, I was afraid the masseuse was about to molest me. She was very up close and personal and I was very tensed with my own thoughts of having to punch her on the face if she moved that hand one notch more!

SLOVENIA: The masseuse was a muscular woman in her thirties. She showed me the way to stand up properly and she proceeded to give me a lecture on why people should maintain good posture and good diet. She said that she needed fifteen minutes in between before she would massage my HB. She said, “I need to restore my energy. There is an energy that I draw and without that, I would give him negative charges.” Later on, I told HB about this and he said, “You bought that bs? Yes, she needed to store her energy by taking a smoke break so she reeked of cigarettes during my massage.”

TANZANIA: The masseuse brought her table to our tent to give us our massage that can be described only as a communion with nature, punctuated by braying of zebras and the sounds of the wind as it rustled the leaves of the drying savannah. Afterwards as I took a dreamless afternoon siesta, I was woken by a gentle beating of drums and our butler announcing that tea is being served in our verandah. I think I died and woke up as a princess that afternoon.

PERU: While we were at Machu Piccu, our interest was piqued by a massage center located in the center of Aguas Calientes, where we stayed during our visit. The massage center was located above an internet café. The massage areas were enclosed much like the beds in a hospital emergency room. For $10, we were just glad to have a massage after a whole day of climbing and walking. At some point, my masseuse’s hand left the skin of my back. I peered from barely opened eyes, enough to see what was going on. I saw my young Peruvian masseuse with her hands cupped together, her eyes closed and her mouth moving as in a trance. She was saying things that did not sound Spanish to me. Then she whispered into her cupped hands, bowed, and continued with my massage. I did not levitate or felt like I was entering heaven but I am sure I left Peru momentarily to hover over the massage table and came badk with the full blessing of the Pacha Mama.

ECUADOR: Then there was Galapagos. During our family cruise a couple of years ago, the cruise ship offered a chance to have a full body massage during a visit into one of the islands. They took me by zodiac into the middle of the ocean, surrounded by the beauty that Darwin fell in love with. They had anchored a massage station right in the middle of that vast ocean for me. Seemed like I was the only one brave enough to be taken out to sea for a massage. All around me, I could hear and see ocean waves lapped against majestic rocks. As I was positioned on the massage bed, I realized that the station had a glass bottom and I could see the sea lions underneath. One of them was “checking me out.” I would like to say that this experience was memorable but only to the extent that I was out there in the middle of the cold Pacific Ocean. The massage was mediocre at best. The masseuse was more interested in telling me about her saving money to have plastic surgery for breast implants. But for the fact that I could not have swum back to the boat, I would have hit her on the head and leave. At the end of the massage, the playful young pup came on board and played with the masseuse. She told me that the pup is her friend and it would always come and visit when it sees the floating station. The sea lion pup reminded me of my cat I left at home and it melted my heart! For that alone, I think it was alright to have paid a princely sum.

Meanwhile, at the Mercy Hospital, I was taken to a room where a massage bed sat in the middle. There are battery operated candles that lent it a nice glow and recessed lights on the ceiling added a warmth to the room. Posters on the wall are circa 1960’s. The floor looks like a hospital floor. The whole room looked like a 24/7 emergency treatment room, only I was there not for a flu shot but for a massage. I was in for a wonderful surprise. I did not smell vanilla or jasmine and in fact there was none of those smells at all but the oil she used smelled of fresh grapefruit and pretty soon, as she methodically massaged every sore part of my body, I began to drift off to a place where it is light and warm and wonderful and peaceful.

Afterwards, I told my therapist, “If I were dying, I would not ask for morphine. I would ask for your massage to help me cross over.” She replied, “I have done it once. I did it for my best friend. She was passing away and I massaged her while her daughter held her hand.” The masseuse eyes welled up. She continued, “Today is her birthday. How nice that you made me remember her.”

Waiting for the Big Fish

I actually have a fish story—

I have been thinking a lot about fish lately. Do not give people fish; teach them how to fish. There is a grilled pomfry stored in my freezer, I have some milkfish and Boston mackerel in my freezer. I want some grilled fish for dinner. The Chinese lady smiling at me when I buy my fish, “no clean? Oki, oki, xie-xie!” I am obsessed with fish for the time being. My niece Joan and I will operate a grill in Manila and it will sell nothing but grilled fish – small fish, large fish; we think this is our destiny- grilled fish gurus and entrepreneurs.

When my son was barely 4 years old, I agreed to fetch some fish from Florida in exchange for a round trip ticket to Pensacola, Florida. What would be the downside; I could frolic at the beaches with my baby and my Florida-based family who lived near the most pristine sugary white sand beaches of Pensacola, Florida. All I had to do was bring home a giant tub of round scad for my sister to sell in her Asian food store in Virginia. In Florida, we read and played under the sun until we were dark like raisins; we ate oysters, crabs, and shrimp to our heart’s desire; laughed and dipped in the warm water of the Gulf of Mexico. Life was good and the sun was warm and my skin was getting as dark as terra cotta. The only thing that cast some sadness to me was that I no longer was able to travel outside of my now smaller world- work and home, home and work. No longer could I afford to go out on European vacations with my friends; my mantra has become “Spending unwisely will take food away from my child’s mouth.” The other thing that was frustrating to me was that my savings was going fast as I pay my lawyer a dime for every nickel I was getting for a pittance of a child support. Nevertheless, my needs may be more than I could afford but I had a very beautiful and healthy child and he was worth more than a few trips to Rome or Madrid.

On the day of my return to Washington, DC, a huge Styrofoam ice box of about four feet long and two feet wide was filled with the round scads and ice, duct taped to make it stay shut and cold. As I checked it in, I almost felt like I was bringing in some contraband from some exotic place; something that was taboo or even illegal. This was what I signed up for and now I was about to check it in. How would anyone know that the woman with a cute little baby, carrying a designer purse and wearing a pair of Rayban sunglasses is bringing into the flight at least 50 lbs of roundscad, otherwise known as “galunggong.” The airline agent smiled at me and said, “This is one huge ice box.” It sure was.

Life as a single mom has taught me the virtue of humility; it was perfectly okay to ask the camp executive director for a huge discount for my son’s summer camp so he could learn to swim and draw and play with other kids. He agreed. It was even okay to ask the mechanics and upholsterers to lower the prices of their services to help me out. They agreed. I accepted hand-me-down baby clothes from coworkers, diaper coupons from friends and acquaintances; and shopped for toys at thrift shops. I even bought a few clothes from the consignment stores to avoid looking like a derelict, while I fought to get child support. It was more important to clothe and feed my child and pay the day care provider. So that on this day, bringing in more than 50-lbs of galunggong in exchange for a round trip plane ticket to get my son and myself to play at a beach was a no brainer.

My son got airsick. The poor baby was a mess when we landed. As I rushed to take him somewhere so he could feel a little better, I saw my ice box on the conveyor. As it began to slide down, the box broke in half, spilling every fish out onto the conveyor. People began to look with amusement at the little round scads, so many with ice still attached to them going around and around amongst the suitcases. I was horrified but I acted as though I had nothing to do with the damn fish. People were quiet and polite at first but then they started to make comments about the fish, “Oh my goodness, whose fish are those? That’s a lot of bait! I have never seen so many fish swimming above sea level.”

I stared in disbelief as the ice box proceeded to break in many places spilling galunggong and a few blue fish. I was horrified. If I walk away, I would not know what I would tell my sister. I had nothing to show for the airline ticket that she gave me. So I stood there stoically, praying to Saint Therese to cover the smell of fish with smell of flowers. She delivered. I could not smell the fish, only a faint smell of my baby’s vomit.

It seemed like an eternity before the crowd disappeared with their suitcases and beautiful memories of Florida, punctuated, surely, with a “funny story” of fish spilling out of a white box as they claimed their luggage. They must know or guessed those fish belonged to that Asian lady with a baby. I was the only one who looked like I would eat those little fish, with eyes staring out into nothingness.

I rushed to change my son’s clothes and cleaned him up. His color was coming back. Now I have to take care of some fish “swimming” on the conveyor belt. I approached a porter, “Excuse me, I need your help. Those fish are mine.” He looked at me, face beaming with amusement, and called out loudly to the other porters, “Hey! Let’s help this lady. That fish is her lunch!” “What?” “The fish on the conveyor! She owns them. Lady, that your lunch?” At least three of them approached me. “Lady, this is a lot of fish! Where did you get all these fish? You gonna use them for bait? Man, ain’t seen them many fish in a long time and they ain’t swimming in no water. Na-ah!” I wanted to die, I wanted to disappear into the floor, but I also needed to take the fish to where I should so I said, “Thank you. My baby and I are trying to sell the fish today in Virginia so I can pay my rent.” “Lady, we will help you, no problem.” “Hey! Help the lady with her rent!”

They found a plastic tub that fit perfectly in the trunk of my car. They put fish and ice in that tub and covered it with plastic trash bags. I was very grateful and knew they would have something funny to relay to their wives and children that night. I on the other hand, drove straight to Virginia to deliver the fish. They were still stiff frozen when I got there.

My nephew René reminded me recently of a saying that says, “That which did not kill you, makes you stronger.” The fish incident did not kill me. It could not have. Despite the fact that it was mortifying while it happened, I focused on my mission to deliver them to their owner. I was also aware that there was something honorable in doing something good for yourself and those who depended on you. The horror and embarrassment of that day did not humiliate me. I moved on with my life doing the best I could to fish and provide for my son.

Today, I look back on that experience as a reminder of what I have gone through; so to speak, I did not raise my son asking for fish; I learned how to fish and I think I finally caught a big one.

His Royal Highness, the Prince of Darkness-

There are only two lasting legacies we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots; the other, wings.”- Hodding Carter

May 2010
My son is back for the summer. Looking at him, all tall and lanky, I realized the changes that occurred. He is more confident (or is it cocky?) and yet forthright in the revelations he professed he has had while away. Unfortunately, one of those revelations meant he is back to stay with Mom and Dad while he figures out where he is going next. He found the Midwest to be too monochromatic. He acknowledged that his mother’s choice of college for him was also his, but he went against her wishes to prove his “independence.”

Well, enough of the independence. He breached a clause in the contract we made him sign; that clause states that if he caused his out-of-state college pursuit to change by his own doing, then he would matriculate in our state's State University and pay his own way for a semester at the community college until he is transferred to the State U. As it turned out, the State is on a first come-first served basis for transferees so he needs to wait for the Spring semester in December.

Much to his disappointment and to ours as well, we all have to live together this summer and the Fall semester while he toils at the community college, waiting to leave in December. He successfully took two courses this summer to jumpstart his “out of ‘rents sight” pursuit of college.

Most people agree that college is an overwhelming place to hone one’s skills in critical thinking, scientific reasoning, communicating, prioritizing, among other things. College teaches a student how to learn. It is a place to celebrate the lack of parental intrusion/control, parental nagging, a place to party, and learn to hug the toilet bowl on weekends.

When we left my son in the Midwest, I had the sinking feeling that he was not ready to be independent. I was wrong; he was so independent that he never sought our advice on anything. While this is good on some areas; it failed in many more. He avoided calling us; would not respond to our emails; and basically got himself independently distracted and independently lost amongst the more than 22,000 kids in the campus. Along the way, he concluded that there’s more to life than getting wasted; more to life than assuming you are doing well just getting by. I strongly believe that he would have been much happier if there were such a thing called MonteSorri University, where one can pursue courses in “Debate Anybody in English,” “Passive Aggression is the New Rebellion,” “Debit Card Sets You Free,” and an elective called "Texting for Ijots."

My son decided he did not like the Midwest enough to want to go back; his political views differed from theirs, he missed the diversity of Washington, DC. The first text message I received upon his return was, “Mom, there is this homeless guy screaming about his false teeth in the Metro. I love D.C.!” He did come home more agreeable to ideas, surprised about the things he found out about himself and his views of the world. We were glad for this apparent quasi maturity. Based upon his choice to continue his studies back home, we discussed the implications of this change of heart. He seemed to be fine with the outcome. Meanwhile, he learned to cook at home and worked as a summer intern in the US Senate.

July 2010

Midway through the summer, everyone in our household came to some level of stress. My son was no longer cooking at this time but he continues the eating, or shall I say the vacuuming of food. The kitchen has turned into a “killing field,” as in “Mom, can I kill all these ribs?” “Shall I kill the grilled chicken?”

Faced with the fact that he is going to be living at home for a full semester, before he can go back safely to the “You don’t have to bathe if you are wearing body deodorant" culture in the dorm, he has become impatient. The eye rolling started again and before long I was telling him that if he is annoyed to be around me, that the feeling is mutual. However, we still had to continue to parent the prince of darkness (PoD). He seems to come alive at night, socializing until the first hour of the morning with his posse. I see him briefly in the mornings before he and I go to work. On weekends, we don’t see him until later in the afternoon when he comes out to “kill his lunch” and sometimes, part of ours too.

Very recently, the time has come for us to exercise, yet again, our “parental control” in his choice of subjects to ensure that they can be transferred to the state university. The university is situated about three hours from our home so that he will still be safely "away" from us. But he is not leaving any time soon. At the earliest, he will be attending the state U beginning January 2011. He did not appreciate our guidance. It came to a head one evening when we were insisting that a certain class will not work they way it is scheduled. He told us that we are doing nothing but controlling his life. Hurtful words were exchanged. He told us that we are annoying, and that whenever he is done with college and successful, he would never have anything to do with us.

It hurts to hear this from your child, let alone your only child, the center of your universe for the last 18 years. When I have calmed down, I told him “When you are done with college and you do not want to have anything to do with me nor your Dad, that is just fine. You can forget all about us.“ His Dad plainly told him that his statement has fundamentally hurt our relationship with him but that regardless, we love him and want him to succeed. I find it ironic that we would still finance his college pursuit so that he can disown us afterwards. What joy!

I would have never dreamt of saying something hurtful to my parents. When I left Manila, my mother told me that leaving would lead me to great opportunities. I left with a heavy heart because I was leaving the warmth and the security of my mother’s and my family’s support. I was going to join my Dad and the rest of my family in the USA, who I have not seen in decades. I was all of nineteen then, the same age as my son's this year.

The most disrespectful thing I had the audacity to utter to my mother, in my Dad’s presence was an innocuous “Pambihira naman!” (You’re unbelievable!) and I found myself kissing a step of our stairs with my Dad’s hand pushing my head. He said, “Don’t you ever, ever disrespect your mother with that tone of voice.” I now hear my Mom’s voice when I warn my son, “Do not use that tone of voice on me.”

The American way is to get the child out of the house when they reach the age of 18, which is the age they can vote but not drink where we live. But it is considered generally the age when they can be on their own. My husband said there is no wonder why 18 year olds make good soldiers. They have so much anger in them that they would shoot anyone who pisses them off. But I am not a drill sergeant who can tell this arrogant asshole of a recruit to shut up and do as I say. “Do you love your Momma piojo?” (louse, Spanish) “Yes sir I love my Momma.” “The Air Force does not need another mama’s boy. "You a mama’s boy, piojo?” Indeed, there might be some wisdom into letting children move out of their parents’ home at 18. They can either go to college where they could be in the company of other angry and lazy kids or take a menial job and do nothing but complain about how their jobs “suck.”

"Here is the deal," as I am known to say: The kid will stay with us for the next semester. He would continue on to the out-of-town state U in the Spring. If he decides to stay around, he has to find a job where he might ask the following things:

1) Sorry that DVD is out of stock. Thanks for shopping Good Buy. Have a good day.
2) What size of soda do you want with your meal? Have a good day.
3) Sign the receipt on this line please. Thanks for shopping Tuesday Evenings, Have a good day.
4) Do you want a regular or deluxe wash? Under car wash? Ok, fine. Have a good day.

Or, none of the above. But he will need to move out. We will no longer tolerate the stink of piled laundry or the half-hour full blast hot showers! He can join the Peace Corps, the Air Force, the Navy but not the Army nor the Marines. I want to be proud of my son but not in a box covered with the American flag. I want to miss him but not miss him for eternity.

On this note, I wish him well and when he is done with “searching for himself,” but not at my or his father’s expense, he may decide that college is not a bad thing after all. As sure as the sun rises, we and our family and friends, and the whole village will be there to help the Prince of Darkness come out in the light.

When I Grow Up, I wanna be a sandwich maker, and other musings on retirement-

Ever since our son started middle-school, husband (HB) and I started staking out our retirement destination. In 1998 or thereabouts, we decided that it would be very nice to retire in Costa Rica. It is near Miami; ergo I can just be a few hours away from the mainland. It has US-trained doctors (think plastic surgeons), it has perfect weather, nice tropical foliage, and I can speak Spanish. HB bought me a book entitled, “Retire in Costa Rica,” and the dream slowly fell apart as we learned that we would be taxed 100% on anything we bring in. We then thought about Buenos Aires, Argentina because we loved the European feel of B.A. but decided against it because the economy in Argentina is bad and we fear for our lives. That was exacerbated by the fact that a friend of ours cannot wear her 10-carat diamond ring in Buenos Aires for fear for her life. I do not have that fear simply because I do not own a 10-carat diamond, but I certainly like to wear my "ornaments" whenever I want to, without fear of being mugged. Then HB mentioned Netherlands and while that sounded like a good idea, I am sure I cannot deal with the gloomy days and I might end up following in the footsteps of Vincent, cutting my earlobe during one of those non-starry nights.

Then I had a brilliant idea. Maybe I should be the only one to retire. HB can ask to get transferred to either their London or Hong Kong office. In London, I can either spend days taking Spanish or French or Italian or even German lessons; having tea with some unknown would be BFF with an English accent and on weekends we can go on a holiday to Brussels or Paris or Rome. BFF would call me and say “How would like to go tea dear? “ And I would answer with my own version of the English “That would be perfectly splendid. I shall see you later at Devonshire.” Think Emma Thompson. The London idea was put in our suspense file.

The Hong Kong idea is superior. If HB works there for a year or two before we both retire, then I can go and use HK as my base to embark on a business venture in Manila, whatever that may be. Maybe I can have a stall in the Greenhills “tiangge” (covered market) selling sundries. Let us see, I can sell fake designer purses, fake CK undies, fake perfumes, fake Nike shoes, fake boobs (silicone inserts), fake lashes (Duralash), the sky is the limit. I can also teach English or Spanish or Office Technology at a college in Manila and fly to HK every other weekend. Or I can just stay in HK and teach Spanish in a private school or give private lessons. Maybe I can even clean houses for some fellow Americans whose spouse's career, just like mine, took them to Hong Kong.

The idea of being an “amah” or a cleaning lady in HK sounds adventurous to me. I watched "American Greed" on TV one day about this golden American couple. The HB was an investment banker for a Wall Street firm while the blonde beautiful wife stayed home. They were from Connecticut. They partied with shakers and movers. They lived in Park View, a resort-like high rise community where the rich and famous Chinese, Britons, and Americans lived. It is a beautiful place with manmade waterfalls over the swimming pools, lined with palm trees and orchids cascading from rock gardens. It has a “what money can buy” gorgeous landscape. I know the place well because HB lived there at some point before he became my husband, and I have stayed in his 2-bedroom flat, which in 1997 cost $10K (USD) a month. Before we get excited, he did not pay his rent; his employer did. While visiting, I spent hours looking out the window and enjoy the view of the reservoir on the East and the man-made waterfalls on the West. I decided that I would marry BF if he asked me. He did not ask me. I asked him. He agreed. And that is a different blog story.

In any case, I think it would be hilarious to earn some pocket money cleaning these privileged women's flats. I may even be a guest in their parties or they in mine. They would think I crashed their party then they will recognize my HB and look at me with a look of "Wow, the maid married her employer."or "Can you believe he married the maid?" Meantime, I will be LOLing my ass out. Anyway, I am not sure what HB would think of this. I can hear him say, "You are insane!" To which I will reply "You knew that coming in."

Years ago, when I was a single mom, a friend of mine asked if I wanted to make some extra money cleaning this couple’s house in Fairfax County, Virginia one Saturday morning. I agreed eagerly. We drove into this thick wooded area and there it was, a house in a group of “starter castles,” nestled in a clearing. Each house is called a manor. Ahem. Tara. We parked my friend’s humble Nova in the circular driveway. I felt so deliriously insignificant. The husband was a heart surgeon of Scandinavian origin, the wife was a stay-home mom, I note here that she is of Asian origin. Why could I not have this same luck? Oh well, I did date an ob-gyn but hearts are sexier than vaginas in terms of profession. What does your husband do? He is a heart surgeon. Wow, impressive. By pass surgeries, really Godlike. What does yours do? He holds dialogs with vaginas. Does he work with Eve Ensler? No, he is not a playwright. He you know, um, he delivers babies. Oh-kay.

Anyway, Mr. Bypass Surgery and wife have two young children and seven (7) bathrooms. As I took in the size of the house, aka manor, I knew I had to clean fast because I had a nail spa appointment at 2pm.

I was to clean the first floor where the piano room, family room and living room and other big rooms were located. Mrs. Cardio requested that I use vinegar to clean the marble floors. No problem. Then she asked me to polish the baby grand. I wished I owned that Steinway. I pretended to dust the keys and played "Chopsticks." Don't we all do that? Play Chopsticks on any piano we see? Or is that a Filipino thing? She asked me to come and vacuum the family room. No problem. The manor is as big as a convention center.

I went upstairs to check on my friend and offered to help her clean one of the five bathrooms upstairs. She saw me scrubbing the shower stalls with scouring powder. She said, “Don’t do that! You will never finish it in time. Dry clean it!” “What do you mean dry clean it?” “Just spray chemicals, really! This is not your home, do not clean it like you are cleaning your own bathroom.” After I did my first bathroom, I took my friend’s advice to heart. Mrs. Cardio walked in while I was reading the label of the cleaning solution. “I have never had a cleaning lady who would actually read the instructions on the label.” She then asked me to speak with her privately.

Mrs. Hongsok Cardio asked me if I drove. She asked I have formal education. She asked if I was interested in working for her full time. I drive. I went to college. I am not interested in becoming her housekeeper. I spoke three languages and can say ‘how are you?’ In her native language. She said she needed someone to take her children to their activities – ballet, soccer, piano, basketball, play dates, among other things. I was not interested in driving other people’s children because I had my own young child; I have a full time job and right now I needed to hurry up because I had a spa appointment.

She asked me who takes care of my child. I have a live-in baby sitter. Where do I work? I work for the federal government, specifically the US Congress. Are you kidding me? I am not going to clean someone’s starter castle with 7 bathrooms, a foyer as big as a ballroom and a kitchen as big as my condo. How many gallons of vinegar will I want to smell in a day? And that would be 52 weeks a year. Sorry, Mrs. Cardio, hire your own baby sitter and hire your own housekeeper. Hire two of them. Get yourself a job so you can get out of your castle and actually join the world of the living, hard-working women.

She said, “I have a boring life. All I do is take my children around. That is all I do.” So I said, “Why don't you hire a nanny with a driver’s license, hire two housekeepers, and get a job outside your home so you get to talk to other women.” I felt awkward for her, but nonetheless, I harbored a feeling that I can only now describe as jealousy for her seemingly better circumstances. As soon as I knew that she was not in a happy place, I started to feel much luckier than she was, furthermore, my condo had only two bathrooms!

If I had been in the same situation today as I did then, she would probably become one of my friends but I was obviously not worthy of her friendship. I was only worthy of becoming her maid.

Alas, she was unhappy and scowling by the time I cleaned her kitchen. She was finding fault in my cleaning. What was she expecting, that I would actually steam-clean her kitchen or that I would stir fry some freaking bok-choy and chicken for her family? I do not do this for a living. I was tired by the time I did the kitchen and I had to work with her mess. They had someone dropping in by the time I got to the kitchen and I was cleaning around them while they drank their coffee standing about. Aaaargh!

Finally, I declared that I was done. My friend came to polish whatever she thought needed a final touch and we said we were going. Mrs. Cardiology gave us $100. It was $80 for the base period and $20 extra tip. She asked us to come back next weekend. My friend looked at me and I gave her the “Shut the hell up or you are dead meat” look. She said, “I will call you if we are available.” As we drove away, my friend handed me my $50. We then went to lunch and then went to our nail spa appointments. Never again for $50. No way, no how.

But here in my fantasy, I would be cleaning small flats in Hong Kong, and I will quit if some spoiled witch is unhappy with my cleaning. I will have tea at the Peninsula , dim sum at the floating restaurant, take a trip to Stanley market on the double decker bus just because. And I can buy more blue and white china with my cleaning service income.

By the way, in the story I started about the couple in American Greed? The wife killed her husband. I kid you not. She put his body in one of the Persian carpets and put it in their storage bin in the apartment. All the gold, diamonds, privilege, Park View flat, parties, social functions, and money did not make one couple happy. She sits in a prison in Hong Kong and she will be there for the rest of her life. Golden girl tarnished forever. She is no longer blond and pretty. I watched every minute of it on TV.

Back to my retirement- anyway, more and more, my family started telling us that we will not be young when we retire. We need access to “911” when we get older. That made a lot of sense so we started thinking about retirement in the USA mainland. Arizona is out of the question; lack of water, messed up government, and I look like an immigrant. Florida is too hot and humid; too many fundamental Christians; Buffalo New York is too cold; moving to Canada did not sit well with our son; California has earthquakes, wildfires, and landslides; Delaware is just too bland, and I will not live in New England. So the plan is to retire when son is done with college, buy a house in an active retirement community either in New Mexico or Colorado, ask movers to hold our belongings, rent an RV, tow our SmartforTwo car, and drive all over the USA for three months.

We will ultimately settle in our retirement home somewhere in Colorado or New Mexico. We have found our ideal community. We are about to visit it this Fall. During retirement, HB wants to work part time as a dump truck driver; and I have high hopes of becoming one of the following: a teacher, bank teller, contracts administrator, notary public helping mortage lenders, full time pensioner, florist’s assistant; museum store clerk; sandwich maker, tea time caterer, stand-up comic. The list is long, the possibilities are endless. Maybe I can even clean my neighbors’ houses for a fee!

"I am not your Mom. I am your Driving Instructor."

I have recently been the designated driver coach for my son. He is a product of his generation, resistant to driving and insistent upon taking public transportation. While we support his stance on driving, we also found out that his college buddies had thrown their car keys at his lap and asked him to be the designated driver for the party animals. So there he was, with only a learning permit, driving kids who had too much to drink to their dorms. Home for the summer, one of his goals is to get his driver’s license.

During this particular afternoon, as good teachers do, I planned the concepts that I would teach him to become a good driver. I dug deep into my memory as a teen learning how to drive. I learned to drive on an antiquated car whose gears were manual. The driving instructor taught me look at the rearview mirror, taught me how to reverse the car, honk the horn every 2 seconds, and to “nurse the brakes” as opposed to stepping hard on it. For this purpose, he would say “brake, brake alalay.” The word “alalay” (ah-luh-lie) in Pilipino means to “assist,” “do it gently,” “nurse it.” He would also use the word “pasok” (puh-sock), or “merge” or “enter.” Other important words are “kabig” or "bawi" which mean to take it back or reverse the direction of whatever it is one is doing.

He has been “driving” with either me or his dad in the SmartforTwo. Imagine if you will, that this car is very cozy. You can, as a passenger, virtually negotiate a turn for the driver. It is up close and personal in that little car. But it is a fun car and I want him to like it enough to ask to drive it to his many social activities as soon as he has a license.

As Son sat on the driver’s seat, I proclaimed, “I am not your Mom. I am your driving instructor.” He gave me the “Seriously?” look but said “Okay.” “Your lesson today will start with reversing the car. The concept is simple. You turn the wheel to the right if you want the car to turn to the left. You will turn the wheels to the left if you want the car to turn to the right. You will first check whether the right or left is clear, back the car up. The other important thing for you to remember is to alalay the brake.” He said, “A what? What is that?” So I explained it to him. I said “it means gently stepping on the brake until you stop, you know suavemente, alalay.” He was clearly ticked off by this. “Mom, say it in English. Don’t say it in Filipino.” “Look I said it in Filipino, Spanish, and English already. You want us to continue this lesson or not?” He muttered, “Ok, let me drive.”

I would step hard on my imaginary brake every time we were to approach a main road but all I really just managed to do was get a cramp on my leg. Mercifully, he was driving at maybe 15 miles an hour on a 25mph zone. I had him drive over to the community where his friend and his girlfriend live. Over and over, we drove on tree-lined streets with beautifully maintained gardens, Mcmansions, reasonable people’s reasonably-sized homes, with cars parked along each side of the street.

“Son, you are doing well. Very good!” At this point, he turned to me, actually pivoted his body to look at me and said, “Mom, you know, Toy Story is really cool!” I was beside myself. “Hands on the wheel, eyes on the road! You are going to kill both of us!” “So now I cannot talk? I can’t tell you something?” “Maintain your eyes on the road. You are distracted when you tell a story, I will be distracted listening to your story. I will be responsible if we have an accident.” He was put off but then he said, sarcasm not too thinly veiled. “I forgot, you are not my Mom. You are the driving instructor.”

At some point, he was driving too close to the right so I reached out to turn the wheel towards the left. He let go of the steering wheel and exasperatedly threw his arms up, with that ever familiar stance that says: “Now, what? Seriously?” I said, “I had to do that. You were driving on the gutter. You will swipe parked cars!” “Oh, okay. My bad.”

Before too long, we ended up on a feeder road that led us to Old Georgetown Road. This leads to his former high-school, his best friend’s home, the Chipotle, the Starbucks, Balducci’s; in other words, the fun places. Enough of the boring houses with parked cars on the streets and I saw a big smile on his face. “This is way cool, this is great!” “Ok, now remember, watch the brakes, alalay lang.” I think he got it but then, I said, in font size 25, “Hey, stop! Stop! Why is the car still moving?!” He said, font 27, “I am going to stop!” “No you are not. The car is rolling. I meant full stop!” “I was not rolling, I was going to make a full stop!" Then he dared me, "Let us go home!” Me, in font 22 “Let us go home then!” However, I could not stay mad because I had to still guide this brat home. Normal font, size 12, “Okay, maintain your lane, very good. That was nicely done, smooth lane change. Very good, K!”

By the time we crossed over Rockville Pike, we were calm and I asked him if he wanted to continue on to the next subdivision. We did. He practiced getting out of parking spaces. It was bad. He would have dinged both cars along each side and he would have dented those cars that were parked and minding their own business on the opposite side.

We decided to call it a day. “We will practice again next week. There will still be a lot of yelling, understand, but only because I am trying to let you appreciate the fact that you cannot take anything for granted when you are behind the wheel. Let us take you to your date with your friends in Bethesda.” We came to a stop light. He did this smoothly. Then, he started to reach out for his Blackberry. “What are you doing?” “I was going to check my text.” “You will not check your text!” “But we are stopped.” “It does not matter. It is not good practice. Your friends know you are coming. It is not worth having an accident or dying to text 'be right there.'You DO NOT text anyone while you are in the car, you do not talk on the phone, either. You focus.” “Ok, ok, Mom! Jeez!” “I am the driving instructor.” "Ok, whatever, this is warped." "Warped? Did you just call me warped?" "No I did not. Can I have my Mom back?"

I learned to drive in Manila. Things were different then and there. I drove through Rizal Avenue and I had my friends with me, actually seated on the back seats while I was being taught by a "professional instructor." I did not learn rules of the road. I was told to stop and I stopped. I did not look at the traffic lights. My instructor told me to stop; he was in charge of all of that. I was not taught what yield meant or how to park that car. It was always moving; I never parked that car I learned to drive in. Most of all, I did not know or cared that pedestrians had the right of way. I was tooting that horn at everyone to tell them to get the heck out of my way or I would run them over. Driving in Manila was fun then. I took a driving test that was so annoying as it asked me all parts of the car. I was never asked the proper speed limit on residential or school zones. In Manila, you just play it by ear. Someone honks at your or lecture you even and you just go; if you are up to it, you cut everyone else and you are ahead of the race. Go figure. I got my license in Manila knowing nothing about why I should yield or stop or be a polite driver.

I did not know how to drive an automatic transmission car when I arrived in the USA. My sister Lita was generous enough to let me drive her car. She asked me to back it out of her driveway one late afternoon. I was not prepared for the “powerful” Malibu to leap out of that driveway. As a reflex, my sister who was behind the car, tried to push it back, and realized that she would die if she did not step aside. So she did and there was a loud bang. I totally wrecked the gate to their house. My brother-in-law was in shock; my sister was in shock; I was laughing hysterically out of fear and nervousness. !”

The next adventure, which happened in quick succession, was my learning how to parallel park. We went to the Department of Motor Vehicle after office hours to practice on the “test space.” I managed to drive over the barricade and we had to call my brother-in-law to jack up the car so we can free the barricade, and the car.

That following bright and beautiful Monday morning, my sister asked me to drive us into town; I was a summer youth worker in the non-profit she worked in. She must really think I knew what I was doing and she completely trusted me. A few days later, she told me that her colleague, Mrs. Barker asked her, albeit hesitantly, if my sister was driving her car last Monday morning. My sister replied, “No I let my baby sister drive that morning.” Mrs. Barker exclaimed, “Thank God Lita, I was driving behind your car and I was worried you were drunk while driving!” Thereafter, whenever I would be the driver, none of my nieces or nephew would go with us, no matter how they wanted to go out to drive around.

I moved to Washington, DC and quickly learned to drive a one-way direction, from the city into Prince George’s to see friends. Returning home, someone would always drive back the car into town. Years later, and having evolved into a bona fide driver, I decided to buy a “stick shift” Corolla. It was liberating to control the car that way. None of these, lazy-butt automatic transmission car for my free spirit!

The problem was I could not drive the darn car for fear of causing my and its demise. I feared hilly roads and the fact that I seem to back up a mile before I can drive forward a yard. So one day, I plotted my route. I would avoid at any cost having to drive over a hilly road. I was afraid I would cause an accident. Well, it had to happen. There was a police car behind me at a stop sign. Inside were two police officers. Since I was suffering from the backing- up- a- mile before -I –could- move- on- syndrome, I got out of my car and approached the cops. “Officer, can you move back your car a bit please?” They were puzzled. “Why is that?” “Because my car is a stick shift and I have just started driving it so I cannot move forward without backing up and I might bump your cruiser.” “Alright, do you have a license?” “Yes, I do Officer. Do you want me to produce it?” “No, it is okay. You may go back to your car.”

I went back into my car and I did not see them move the cruiser an inch. I started my car and engaged the shift and lifted my foot from the clutch. And sure enough, my car moved backwards, and it kept moving backwards. Then I saw the cruiser backing up, and continued to back up like in a slow dance with my yellow Corolla. I warned them! Finally, when my car has had enough inertia, it went forward and joined the Route 295 traffic into town. I imagined the police officers saying, “There is another evolving would-be idiot woman driver!”

It has been over 35 years since that day. The only accident I have had that involved another driver was when a cabbie went through a red light on K Street. I was so traumatized that when the cops came and asked me to move the car to the side of the road, I told them I forgot how to drive. I kept looking at the steering wheel and I kept saying, “Officer I forgot how to drive.” They told me how to do it, “Okay young lady, turn the key. Put the car on D for drive. Then, step on the gas and drive to the side of the road.” “Okay, I can do that.”

The other time was my car sliding on snow outside the gate of Fort McNair. I beckoned to the young military guard to please come near my car and I said, “I cannot bear to see if I damaged my car. Well, is it damaged?” He smiled and said, “Ma’am your car is fine. But are you?” I said, “If my Saab is fine, I will live.”

This weekend, I will continue to teach my son to negotiate the main roads and maybe even ask him to take me to the grocery store. The last time I taught someone to drive, she let go of the wheel, closed her eyes and shrieked “Ay naku, hindi ko to kaya!!” (Oy vey, I cannot do this!”) That was my baby sister; she now has a 25- year old daughter, who drives ---sometimes badly; having wrecked a real nice Volvo and maybe one other car. So let us see, where the road takes me and my son. Patay kung patay? ([we will be] Dead if death cannot be avoided.)

Can you see the sun?

There are things I remember well as though they just happened. There are things I forget- my age, my husband’s birthday, my wedding anniversary. To anyone who asks my age, I tell them that I honestly lie. I am being honest in lying about it. My husband’s birthday is difficult to remember because I am not his mom. I got married on a first Saturday of April in 1998.

It would be my anniversary soon, and my husband told me that it would be our 12th year of being married. I get the date wrong all the time but I remember that I got married late in my life so it was important to me that I get to wear an anniversary ring on the second year of being married. So my husband, who, according to my son I take advantage of, asked our jeweler to make a modest right hand “anniversary diamond ring” for me 11 years ago. The jeweler warned my husband that just from knowing me for a little while, that I would not like this dainty 5-stone ring. When my husband said, “You know, we can have it reset if you like,” I took it to mean that I could upgrade it to something more “in-your-face.” HB did not want to spend anymore than he already did so I offered my bonus that year out of the goodness of my heart. I argued that I would have just spent it anyway on trivial things so why not put it in something I will wear and leave to my grand-daughter. He said a grudgingly “Oh, okay.”

Before we got out of the car, he warned me to just let him negotiate with the jeweler. I would be quiet and anxious. Mr. Lee was not surprised and he smilingly said, “I knew she would not love it. I know her taste in jewelry by now.” Boy was he absolutely wrong. Through the years, I have gone from dainty to in-your-face to just the right size. But anyway, the ring was given plenty of steroids, resulting in a gorgeous right hand ring. It was going to cost more than my bonus to change the size of the stones. My husband asked if he could speak to me in private.

I negotiated mightily . In exchange of him paying for the difference, I offered to take his clothes to the cleaners, back massages, help the housekeeper do the laundry, bake cookies for our son’s class, heck, I was willing to forego any birthday presents. My husband has taught me something that every woman should practice: Never, ever negotiate against yourself. Do not sacrifice anything for another. Advocate for both. There is no right or wrong answer; there is only a good or bad argument. I turned out to be a brilliant student. Agreed!

The other thing I learned is that reasonable greed is good. It motivates you to kick ass! I asked for a huge, humungous diamond for my 5th wedding anniversary. My husband absolutely hates diamonds. He believes they are overrated, they cause war in Africa, they are boring, they are vulgar. Me, I absolutely like to have a diamond that is sickeningly vulgar. He said I would look like a matron. I said, I look forward to looking like one. Nonetheless, the buzzer sounded “Engggks!” Survey said “No!” But here was the deal: HB told me that if I were patient enough, I will get a nice ring on our 10th anniversary, sooner if I get a straight A when I graduate. I missed the perfect GPA by 11 points. He gave me a gorgeous ring but not a vulgar, matron looking diamond. So I had to patiently wait for years!

One day, we were enroute to Europe when he saw me wearing a huge “solitaire.” I was playing with it, making it sparkle under the plane's reading light. “Where did you get that? I hope you did not pay more than a $1 for that!” Now, when he says these things, he says it with such deadpan expression. I said, “How dare you! “Why do you wear plastic stuff?” “This is not plastic, this is cubic zirconia!” “He said, it looks fake!” “It is fake!” I said. “If I leave it anywhere, I would not be sorry. I just want something sparkly while I travel.” “Ok, that makes sense.” “I hope you did not pay more than a dollar!” “No I paid $7 for this, hello, I am not that cheap!”


Then, suddenly, my 9th anniversary crept in. The time has come to talk about diamonds once again. So I asked him to remember our talk of years ago, and that what I wanted for my coming anniversary is a diamond, a big matronly sparkling diamond. I told him I don’t care if he bought it at WalMart or Kmart or Costco. I do not care about where. I just wanted it to be huge and sparkly. He told me to do research on diamonds. “I am not going to buy you a diamond. You will find it and tell me what you found.” I knew it was not going to be easy. I was up against his strong dislike for it.

One day, while surfing the Internet, I saw a site for Russian diamonds. Aha! I found something very exciting and it was dirt cheap. I read about it and haughtily declared, “I do not need you to buy me a diamond. I can afford to buy one for myself!” He asked me to read aloud what I was seeing to him.

I could not believe my own eyes. It stated that for less than $500 I can get a nice super-sized diamond. I wanted a 3-carat ring. I said, “Look they say here what it is made of.” I read the information out aloud. It was lab-made. I do not need any volcano spewing out my diamond. I do not like people to die so someone can find my stone. “I can get it from these guys and I do not have to hear your diatribe about diamonds anymore.” Ok, what is too good to be true, is. The Russian diamond turned out to be cubic zirconia, polished and set in gold or platinum. Fake.

My life was ruined. He was poker faced. I knew he was having pleasure in this. Notwithstanding, I kept on with the painful research. I went from being hopeful to angry to whiny to cheerful. So I asked to speak to him about it.

The one thing I love about my husband is that when he knows that something is important to me, he takes time to listen. And he knew that owning a diamond is very, very important to me. I asked him if he was going to grant my wish. If so, what is it that he wants me to find out because I felt that he was wearing me out. I showed him the results of my research and I was very worried that since the prices were too high that my wish would not be a reality and I negotiated against myself despite my better judgment.

I said, “Please just get me something cheap so long as it is huge.” “What are you calling cheap?” “A big sparkly diamond ring from Sam’s or Costco or WalMart for $5,000? (up talk, hello.) I will be happy with that. I am very serious.” He said, “That is cheap and I will not have my wife wear crap. My colleagues will see you at a function and see your cheap ring and they will be aghast to see my wife wear crap.” Oh…..Really? He continued, “I have been checking around. You know how I feel about diamonds.” No kidding. Why don’t you tell me again?

One day, he came home with a DVD. It was the Leonardo di Caprio’s Conflict Diamonds. I watched it and loved it. I love Leonardo. He is a great actor. The story was compelling. After I watched the movie, he called me to the study in our basement. I want to talk to you about your diamond.
“I think I might have found one. The Canadians do not have the size WE want. I am not sure the Australian mines have it either. Now after watching the movie, how do you feel about diamonds?” “I feel very strongly about it.” “I knew that would be your answer. This stone is going to cost a lot and something has to give.” “What do you mean? Are you saying for example that we need to sell my piano or give up one of our cats?” “Actually, I do not know why I said that. Forget it. Are you sure you really want one? You know a huge diamond will make you look old. Only matrons wear one.” “I am not young. I will be a matron someday. I want a diamond. I am not worried whether it comes from Canada, Australia, India, or Ceylon. I will be an activist later after I get mine.” “You are out of control!” “You think?”

He called me at work one afternoon. The diamond arrived in his office. He showed his secretary and she said, “Oh my God.” Another colleague, she herself sporting a huge rock exclaimed, “Mother of God!” He came home to present the stone to me. It was huge I felt creeped by it but I would not say it to him. It was so huge it looked fake. OMG! He took it to our jeweler who told him he paid way too much for it as it fluoresces.

Apparently, a diamond has a characteristic that shown under black light, the diamond turns blue. I actually love this characteristic but apparently, it makes the diamond “inferior.” Unless I am going to the bar every day and sit under the black light which emphasizes the size of my teeth and the color of my bra, 52 Saturday nights out of the year, who cares? But HB decided that he would return it just because he paid too much for something that has flouresence. Good, it was too big anywyay!

The next call I got from him was that we needed to drive somewhere in Northern Maryland to a diamond dealer. He has three from the broker in New York that were shipped for us to see. We drove one beautiful Saturday morning and found ourselves in a building shared by the diamond dealer and a Jiffy Lube. We sat down in a very Spartan office. The office had no frills; it was very functional and there were no jewelry anywhere. Matter of factly, three huge diamonds were shown to us. They are ovals, now the favorites of the upper class, we were told. And so it was written, I have to have an oval diamond. We were asked to take them outside. Seriously? Yes, we were supposed to see it sparkle under the sun. I picked which one I liked and went back inside. Now, what I did not expect was as follows:

HB told Mr. Jiffy Diamond that we chose the one we liked . He told him that he would transfer the money within 3 days at which time the funds should be posted. The diamond would be sent back to New York for certification and would be set in a cheap setting for insurance purposes. He signed some papers and off we went. It was anti-climactic. I thought I was going home with a huge rock. Two weeks later, the diamond was delivered by courier to my husband. He took it home to show it to me. I admired it and then he hid it from me.

By January of 2008, I was anxious. But one day, my HB told me that it is time to think of how the ring would be set. We decided that it would be platinum with two half-moon shaped stones on each side. Mervis Diamonds was our choice of who would set it. By February, my diamond was set. We picked it up and I tried it on. It looked very, very, pretty. Sparkly, you bet! It is almost flawless with such clarity. Huge? Are you kidding me, it is absolutely bigger than any super zit I have had when I was a teen-ager!

We went shopping after we picked it up. I knew HB had it in his pocket so I asked to wear it while shopping. He said, “No. You know the rule. Your anniversary is not until April. It is not yours yet.” He started to walk away so I pulled him by his belt and would not let go. Under clenched teeth, I said, warningly despite a smile. “Let me wear that ring for an hour, you jerk. Give it here or I will start screaming.” He turned it over. He knew, after ten years that he married a crazy woman.

On the hour, and not one second more, he came to me and said, “Give me the ring.” Then he disappeared. He came back later. “Where did you go?” “I put the ring away.” That was the last I saw of the ring. He put it in the bank’s vault.

I was worried. I was worried that I would die and not wear the darn ring so I requested to talk to HB yet another time. “Look, if I ever die and never get to wear my ring, I just want you to know that I would die sad. You will have caused that sadness. So here is what I want you to do. I want you to have a viewing and let me bite the ring. Then make sure my casket is under recessed light. Hire someone to jiggle the casket so my diamond will sparkle.” He taught I have gone into the deep end. Then he asked seriously, “What will I do with this ring if something happens to you? Are you leaving it to your son?” “No. No young woman is entitled to wear a three carat ring. They should start small.” "So it was decided, the ring would be sold and the proceeds will go to my trust so that my son can buy his future bride a big diamond." But she ain't gonna get mine, ahuh.

In April of 2008, we celebrated our 10th anniversary with a weekend in the vineyards of Virginia. We had dinner at the Inn at Little Washington. Without much fanfare, he handed me the ring when I woke up on my anniversary. He handed me the box and said, “Here is your ring. Happy Anniversary!” I was ecstatic. At long last, I did not die, I did not have to do anything elses other than live and I get to wear my Lionardo De Caprio or Carpio, I cannot remember, Mr. Carp, whatever.

I asked him prior to our trip to Virginia f he would go down on his knees and ask me to spend the rest of his life with me. He laughed. “You should be the one to get on your knees to ask me hand you the ring over!” I probably would have done so if he asked at this point.

So I wore it, my much coveted and much deserved ring during our wonderful special dinner. I think the Little Inn has made sure the recessed light in the "anniversary corner" of the restaurant show the ladies' rings in the best possible light. Because quite frankly, the twinkle on the ladies' rings resemble an auditorium where flashlights from cameras twinkle like stars. I believe mine was in the center of that night's constellation! Ok, whatever.

I have written so many term papers, taken too many exams, spent many summers studying and balancing my life being a mom, wife, and student. I have gardened, cooked, baked, vacationed, saw plays, did laundry, took piano lessons; yes, I deserved this rock.

The only thing my HB asked was for me to wear my diamond on my right hand. He does not want people to know he gave it to me as an engagement ring. He said it would be too pretentious! I forgot to that one day and it caused a great deal of anguish on my part and his as he proceeded to make a big deal out of the fact that I wore it on my left finger.

I overlooked his angst about this ring. I felt that he still did not see how it meant to me to finally wear a nice diamond. To him, it was just a big boring, overrated and ordinary rock. To me, my diamond is my personal light; I love my engagement ring, which is a blue sapphire and I love its symbolism and its characteristics. However, I do not think my diamond is boring. It is exciting. My husband is not wrong; it is just that I am right.

One sunny morning, as we walked together HB held his right hand and asked me to look at his star sapphire ring. He said, “Do you see the star?” I held my right hand where I wear my diamond and said, “Yes, but do you see the sun?”

Honey re those new shoes? What, these OLD things? and other such lies--

I am not a big shopper. I do not get pleasure out of checking each rack in a department store. I like to plan what I needed to buy, buy it, and leave the mall. The mall, to me, is not a destination. A coworker told me that she dresses up to the hilt when she goes to the shopping mall near where I live. She said that she wants to experience living on the “other side.” I told her that she needs to forgive me if she sees me there. I do not get dressed to go to any mall. I grab the first pair of jeans I see hanging over the back of the chair in my bedroom, grab the first pair of sandals or my flip-flops that I can pull from the closet, my purse, my car keys and off I go. My husband told me that I should be paid if I were a walking advertisement of any store. For this reason, I do not carry Victoria’s Secret bags as I want to keep most of my secrets to myself.

I have friends who hide their purchases from their husbands or partners. They have become adept at hiding purchases under the bed, in the trunk of their car, in their backpacks, guest rooms. I am not an exception. I hide mine in the former nanny’s closet and completely forget about them. I do have a couple of pairs of shoes there, now that I remember!

Men just do not understand the power of a new purse or a new pair of shoes or a new outfit to the psyche of a woman. They think women overdo shopping. My husband does not understand why I have over 25 purses, over 125 blouses; well, let us not start to count pairs of shoes. But if we do the math, he would see that there are 52 weeks in a year, 5 days each week that I need to wear a different blouse, hopefully 2 weeks using the same purse and shoes. He keeps insisting I do not need Botox shots for the pesky “11” on my forehead. Then he asks why I am scowling. That is the point! Without that poison injected on my forehead, I will scowl until the day I die.

One day, he saw a box of what appeared to be shoes. He said, “Oh, expensive shoes, huh?” Wrong approach. Martian versus Venus. “That is why I married up!” I snapped. That was a compliment, right? He said, “I was not criticizing, I just recognized the brand, that’s all.” “Good, because I work too, you know?” What is my problem? I think my problem is that I have been too independent all my adult life. I have a real issue with suggestions or any implication that I cannot provide for myself. I do not like to hide purchases or extra money. See, there is no right or wrong approach to these issues; only a good argument. And there is a good argument to hide them!

Two years ago, borrowing a brilliant idea from my colleague, I pursued the argument that I should keep all moneys given to me as a result of my merit reviews. I also said that I would share whatever is given to me as a Cost of Living Allowance. Husband (HB) agreed that it is a good idea. After all, I said, my merit increase is rewarding me for doing a great job and has nothing to do with the cost of milk. As a result, the merit increases have provided me with a relatively hefty “mad money” in the last couple of years. Very recently, we discovered that due to a variety of changes in my withholding and other deductions, I have been getting an obscenely amount of mad money. Even I was shocked. However shocked as I was, I did not bother to “return” the money because that was money I earned, I decided. I kept mum about it until one day last week, the HB who used to be an accountant before becoming a lawyer discovered it, asked that I fix the “problem,” forgiving my past omission of extra money received (his word not mine), and return the recent extra. We are not even talking of four digits converted here!

There are many truths about women. One of them is that a man shall not bring bad news to them when they are hungry and or feeling good about themselves that day. Why? Because in my case, he messed up my otherwise gorgeous day! I was focusing on something at work and he messed up my mojo! When I got that e-mail, I wanted to kill myself because I am too chicken to kill someone else. I fought with him for the next 14 hours about the issue instead.

My argument: First, we are not impoverished. Return the money I took from myself? I do not even return purchases, for crying out loud! We are by no means poorer by the $175 dollars I kept, okay double that, what for the last three months. I was angry; I actually went online to read the divorce law of our state; I wanted to know if my son would inherit anything if I killed myself and that if I do kill myself, the $525 I have been diverting will go back to HB and he should be happy going forward. No one will steal the $175 anymore every 15th and 30th of the month. Happy?

But then I thought, my jewelry will go to some younger woman who would definitely convince my grieving and infatuated HB to write my son out of our will. You see, a will is a dead person’s wish. And who cares about me when I am nothing but fertilizer!? I hasten to add that this new wife will be driving the Jaguar. Sorry, not acceptable! Besides, you do not die on a lawyer. He will prevail over any last word I leave. So I decided that killing myself was not the answer; besides, I do not know how to. On all the true crime stories I watch, there is always someone put in jail for killing. It would not be fair for my HB to be put in jail just because I took a handful of Vitamin E. Did he buy the vitamins before I swallowed them? Hmmm..premeditation. Did he have a motive? $1050 total I stashed and a trust fund. Intent? He would not tell me that, would he. Well, I opted to fight it out instead.

I am sure I am not alone in believing that women who work outside their homes and still keep up the maintenance of their household should never be questioned about money they get to keep or spend as they. Folding laundry should be paid at a labor rate of $30/an hour, making the bed $45, cooking meals $100/hour, listening to the same jokes and stories, $375/hour! Let the poor, tired woman keep it!

HB asked me why I have a problem of putting the extra money from my pay check into the family coffers and then use the ATM to take it out if I needed it. Is that a stupid question or what? If I were to take it out of the ATM subsequent to relinquishing it, then why do I need to go through the motion in the first place?

When I am pissed, I get loud. Okay, I yell. I yell the following: I have a problem asking someone for money and I have a serious resentment when my activities are tracked via ATM card, Credit Card, and Checks. I assert that I am entitled to some privacy within the structure of my marriage. I argue that I am entitled to some personal space. I did not get married to become my HB’s best friend. My best friend lives in Buffalo. I married him because I love him dearly, and his enemies are mine; his friends my friends. I will pursue anyone who tries to harm him, and we are really compatible but I did not want him to be my twin.

I never understood people who say their spouse is their best friend? What? You do not have any friend that your spouse is your best friend? That is sad. Do you go shopping for shoes at the outlet malls with him? Does he go with you to the nail spa? Do you tell him how much exactly did you spend on your cosmetics and clothes? Not me. I want to keep a few secrets from my husband. That’s what makes us unique individuals in our marriage. He can keep his secrets if he likes. I keep my own – like how much I really paid for the darn outfit or that purse or that I send our son $150 when I say $50. Those kinds of secrets!

We had a long, heated discussion about the diverted $175, twice a month for three months. I was the diverter. Now, as we all know, money is the number one cause of friction in the family. In my case, the problem is that I could never accept the fact that I am part of “our money.” I have programmed myself to believe that I should live by what extra I get to keep from my salary, and anything other than that is just flat out diversion. Okay, stealing. It depends on which camp you are in. If you are my friend, you will say it is justifiable to do that. If you are HB’s friend or his mother, you might say “That woman steals from you!” But how can I be stealing from what is mine to begin with? If I cannot argue that it is my money, is that not "our money?" So I think, someone was playing with my brain and I am too tired for the game so I just wanted a bright light.

I asked, “Am I or am I not entitled to take out money from the ATM, notwithstanding my monthly allowance? “Yes. Absolutely!” “ Really? That’s bullshit. I take something and I feel like a bank robber”. Well, I was told, “You are the one who is mental because you feel that way.” “Did you just label me crazy?” “Yes.” Fine, I did not dignify that. I choose my battles. We are talking about $175 here, okay? He then gave me a golden opportunity.

He asked, “Let us say you are in my shoes. You find out your spouse is stashing away money from you. Would you not be upset?” Lights turned on, bright lights. I said, “You mean you were me and I were you?” “Yes.” “Let me tell you what I would say. Jeez, honey, you do not need to stash money. I tell you what, just keep all the money you make. We can get by with the money I make! That is what I would say!” He was stunned. And annoyed. Big time.

I continued, “Am I or am I not entitled to keep the extra I make so long as I have contributed to what I was told to contribute.” “Yes and No. It is outrageous for you to keep such a great amount of extra money.” “ Well, let me just say that I worked for it, I pay my contributions, I get to keep what is above and beyond my responsibilities. Drop dead to those who are outraged or think otherwise.” And that is when the F bomb dropped and it ricocheted. “Bleep you!” he said. I smiled. “Bleep you too!” It is true that money is the root-canal of evil!! I know, I know. Laughter will set me free.

There was a few moments of silence. I thought at this point that this is probably how grandparents end up having their own separate bedroom. They have more years of pent up issues, perhaps. It occurred to me that I might end up with the basement room if I keep this up. Thank God, he just got an email. He excused himself.

R-e-l-i-e-f.

The next day, HB went out to run his errands. I was getting ready to run my own when my Blackberry buzzed. My Buffalo best friend texted me. “Whatever, do not kill yourself. Your HB called me. Think of the Jayhawk, he will miss you if you die. Be smart! Call me before you kill yourself, ok?”

I texted back, “No worries. I will not kill myself. I am too upset to talk. He is a jerk but I will not kill myself. I am shopping today.”

“Ok, do not kill yourself after shopping today. There will be more items on sale on Easter. You will miss out on those!”

“Thank you, LOL! I love you!”

When HB returned from his errands, I asked to speak to him. He told me he thought the issue was resolved but apparently it was not. We discussed a more acceptable way of ending and resolving issues. Saying “I am sorry I had to pick up my shirts from the cleaners” is definitely not an apology. Responding, “Well I am sorry too because I missed my NatGeo program because of this discussion’” is neither. So he said, “Okay, I thought about this and it is so petty and it is not worth the aggravation. You keep whatever you want to keep and just contribute what you think is reasonable.”

Are you bleeping serious?

This is what I mean—why in heaven’s name did he ever bring it up when it was not going to be worth the aggravation to begin with? On the first day I returned to work, I changed my deductions to reinstate my contributions to avoid future encounter as such.

The day before yesterday, I went home early and passed by the store. I had a shopping bag the size of Bermuda. I had three purses and three blouses and reading glasses in there. I took the Metro home. I was feeling smug. I had not one, not two, but three purses! I planned to hide them. I swiped my Metro Smart card on the turnstile. Then someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Hi honey, I did not expect to see you here!” “Oh hi!” I carried the shopping bag on my left hand. We walked home together, the bag seemingly invisible. We talked, we laughed. He did not utter a word about the shopping bag. YES!! My secret is safe!