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!

Australia - up, down and around!

After my husband (HB) returned from a successful trip to Antarctica, sans yours truly, we decided that we should make the long-dreamt trip to Australia. He wanted to take his backpack to Australia, to have the bragging rights that his “back pack” has been to all the seven continents. I wanted to go with or without a back pack. I wanted to meet Crocodile Dundee.

The opportunity to go "down under" was inevitable. Our son left for college; we did not think he is keen on seeing kangaroos and koalas. We decided to make this trip our first major vacation since we took him to college in the Midwest.

In February of this year, we boarded a Qantas flight to Melbourne. We were met at the airport by my childhood friend and classmate Cha-cha. With her was her Aussie husband, Estevan. This seemingly simple get together was planned two years before. Cha and Estevan decided to drive us all the way to Adelaide through Warnambool from where we could catch a flight to Kangaroo Island. This was designed for us two to catch up on each other's going-ons.

As soon as the plane landed, and at the realization that I was on a continent, floating by itself from the others, I felt a deep longing to hear my son’s voice. Then I realized he does not even call me when I am at home so I whipped out my Blackberry and sent him an e-mail. “Son, your Dad and I just landed in Melbourne. We are now half the world away from you. If anything happens to me and him, you will be a wealthy young man. I am now giving you a chance to say thank you.” He responded, surprisingly, quite promptly at that too. “Mom, Thanks for everything. Much love, KS” I told my husband about it. He said, “He just told you, ‘Nice knowing you, Mom!’” My son’s sense of humor mirrors mine and we appreciate his wit and sarcasm.

The next day was a gloomy day; the "Aussies" picked us up to start the first leg of our road trip to Warnambool. My husband can pack a ship in a car. This is a talent that I do not have. When Estevan opened the trunk, I could not help but laugh inwardly, knowing fully well that I would have packed in the same way he did. We had our two suitcases, their two suitcases, a cooler, water bottles, backpacks, a picnic basket, extra tote bags, etc. But HB took over and helped to re-arrange the trunk and we were on our way.

Estevan is the quintessential Aussie. He is laid back and has a childlike sense about him. He would point out something with a twinkle in his eyes. He is dressed up like he is on perpetual vacation to a beach or a ball field. HB is your quintessential tourist with layers of sunscreen and an IPod with a thousand songs, at least, downloaded in it. Aussies drive on the left side of the road. I was always grateful that the “near-misses” always, "missed." Cha and I did not shut up one minute. We were very close friends since we were in grade school. I remember her wearing shorts and no socks in elementary school; I remember us working on our school paper’s articles in high school. We were in the same classes and had mutual friends. She was petite, long-haired, caramel color skin, and prone to bursts of laughter. We were part of a clique of five; we spoke English to impress ourselves and others, mostly to impress ourselves. The boys had a crush on her. I am still smarting from the fact that none of the boys in my class had a crush on me. Cha and I wrote of our longing to free our country of foreign imperialism, of poverty, of injustice, inequality, and corruption. We talked about the problem of brain drain in Manila. We were both radical and idealistic; socialist and capitalistic; we came of age in a paradoxical decade.

We parted in college but since our high-school friends found each other in the mid 2000’s, we have renewed our friendships and she and I were now in the back of the car, giggling, and rehashing what happened in the last 30 years or so. I loved hearing my friend speak with an Aussie twang. She would say “yeh,” and something that sounds like “hai?” where I would say “uhuh” and “pardon?” Her intonation was music to my ears- I loved hearing her stories of how she and her husband met; how her sisters are doing; her political activism in college, her first job, the boys who became men, confessing their crush on her when we were in high school. It was hilarious to hear of balding man profess infatuation with someone when he was 15 years old! In her stories, I saw the “movies” of our childhood in my mind once again. I am sure I talked as much as she did because HB made a comment that my voice was hoarse later.

We drove through the Great Ocean Road, a winding road that presented a picturesque view of the ocean. At some point, I turned to Cha, and asked, “How long is our drive going to be on this winding road?” She laughed. She responded, “I was just waiting for you to ask that. It is another hour. Every visitor we take by this route gets bored.” “I am not getting bored but I think I am ready to throw up.” So we stopped, mercifully, and walked towards the beach. Gratefully, I did not get sick but we needed the break.

We detoured and drove on a straight highway. The landscape of Australia is beautiful. We stopped somewhere to have breakfast. This “somewhere” has a Hollywood set feel about it. It was a short quaint strip of shops, coffee shops, fruit stand, a tiny pharmacy. When you go in, the shopkeepers do actually talk to you and sincerely wanted to know how you are doing. The pharmacist discussed your symptoms with you. In a day trip later to Leura, the lady in the purse (oh yeah) and shoe store commiserated with us about the high price of leather. The only problem is that I could not easily understand the way the Aussies talk.

I was told it is English they were speaking but they sound like they have combined the accents of Boston and crossbreed it with South Carolina, and I have to turn to my friend or my husband to ask what was being said. In fact, every time Estevan says something, I would turn to his wife and ask, “What did he say?” She said, “No worries, when I first met him, I would just giggle every time he spoke. I did not understand him either!” Now, HB is from Boston so he adapted right away. He started deleting the “r” in “Melbourne” and so he joined the whole continent in saying what sounded as “Melben.” Since that was not a natural tendency for me, I always stood out as the tacky tourist, who would say “MelbouRne” and “CaiRns” where they would say “Cans” whatever! So, is it kangawoo or kangaroo?

We stopped at some beautiful place, under some beautiful sunny skies and our hosts announced that we are now going to experience an Australian “barbie.” We carried the picnic basket and the coolers. Estevan and HB proceeded to go to the grill, cleaned it, turned it on, grilled the steaks. We on the other hand encroached on some family’s picnic table, claimed the other end, put on the tablecloth and our implements. I noticed that the family on the other side was eating this huge lobster with lots of meat on its head. I was told that Aussies call those things bugs; a cross between a crayfish on steroids and a lobster. Also, if the USA has the Big Apple, our hosts told us Australia has the Big Banana, the Big Crab. But if Big Apple is a whole city, their biggies are actual inanimate work of some-dundee-eccentric- artist bananas and crab. To wit, I took a photo of the BIG CRAB, looming over what looked like a 1950's ice cream joint. I took the photo while we drove by it.

Within a half an hour, we were eating steaks, drinking cold soda, remarking about the glorious sunlight we were gifted with.

We stopped to admire the Twelve Apostles, awesome rock formations coming out of the great ocean. These formations are so spectacular and so vulnerable that seeing them stirs a feeling of wanting to preserve it for the future generation. We also saw what they refer to as the London Bridge rock formation.

We reached Warnambool in the afternoon. Our friends booked us a lovely contemporary apartelle. It is furnished like an HGTV model townhouse. We went out to dinner with our hosts and their daughter and her friend. Now let me tell you about Aussie food. The appetizer is called entrée and the main course is, well, the main course. And it is good food. And it is expensive food. And there is always Australian wine to drink. Australia=Shangri La. Cheers.

We started our drive early the next day towards Adelaide.
In an hour or so, there was nothing else but brown parched land or seas that seemed to have brown water; desert, brown earth. I am not sure if we had enough gas to drive all the way to Adelaide but no one seemed to worry. It reminded me of our drive from the Serengeti to Ngoro-ngoro in Africa years before. There was nothing but the Sahara desert and now as I looked outside, it seemed there was no end to the brown earth and the skies. The sun was high, the light was bright. I was hoping to spot a kangaroo like Nicole Kidman did in that movie, but I was not that lucky.

If someone told that the earth was flat that day, I would have agreed without debate. As the landscape looked arid and endless, our conversation quieted down. Then, Estevan stopped the car and asked HB if he wanted to drive. HB did want to drive. It was a good technical rehearsal for him. No turns, no stops, all the way down under. Cha told me that she always flew into Adelaide as there was really nothing worth seeing along the way should one opt to drive. I agreed.

Adelaide is like a mirage; a green place in the middle of the desert; an oasis, a paradise. It is busy but not hectic. It was even contemporary. We went out to dinner in one of the pubs. After dinner, we had another cup of “flat white” (coffee with a frothy creamy top) and said our "goodbye’s and see you soon’s." Early the next day, we caught our flight to Kangaroo Island and thus our official outback experience started.

We did the Australian tour essentials namely Kangaroo Island game drives, staying at the Straener Homestead. We saw kangaroos, koalas, seals, wallabies; we had elegant lunches in the game park with linen table cloths and stainless flatware, always with good Australian wine. We went to Cairns and stayed at the Palm Cove resort; we went by catamaran on a day tour of the Great Barrier Reef to snorkel, dive, and take a helicopter ride to admire the corals. We had dinner at a Greek Taverna where the owner played backgammon with my husband and where he told us of his years living in Naples, Florida. It is a friendly town, with friendly people except for the lady who was at our hotel's front desk! She was the type of a service provider that if you say "Good morning.," she would respond to you without looking up from whatever she was looking at on her PC monitor. She was like an old wooden chair. She was functional but not user friendly.

We proceeded to the Ayer’s Rock where we stayed at the Lost Camel Resort. Ayer's Rock grew on me. It becomes more beautiful as the day progressed. The way sunlight hits it is like lighting a stage. It was magnificent, it was huge, it was awesome. We toured the Rock, wore our veils to prevent the flies from entering our nostrils, dined under the constellations during a memorable Sounds of Silence dinner; saw the Olgas and then flew to Sydney for the last leg of our tour.

Sydney is a beautiful city; it is busy, contemporary, fashion-forward and very diverse. We took the bus to Bondi Beach, had a nice lunch at Ravesis, a popular upscale wine bar; shopped for, but not successful, for a kangaroo leather purse. We took the river cruise to admire the Opera House from a distance and contemplated but did not climb the Harbor Bridge for a very practical reason. It was not the height. It was the price. I would be a fool to pay $175 to climb a bridge and not get anything when I get to the top. I do not get to ski down; I do not get to jump or bungee jump from it. Not what I want to do any of those! However, I would have considered it for say, a free pair of Ugg boots.

My husband is brave. He drove us on the left side of the road to the Blue Mountains through alternating weather conditions. My job was to remind him whenever he was about to take a turn that he must drive on the left side, that he should stay on the left side, that there's no other way but the "wrong way." He would reprimand me when I would forget and I would get annoyed that he needed to be reminded. I told him that a GPS for tourist should be made for tourists in Australia. I can just imagine what the "lady" would say: "Stay on the left. This is not a joke. Idiot, did you hear what I said? Aaaagh, I am recalculating but you might be already dead!" I felt like he was driving on the shoulder of the road and many times, the windshield wipers would start when he meant to turn on the signal. We had a wonderful time, catching breathtaking vistas of the mountains. Australia is just beautiful, no ifs and but's.

In high-school, we had a schoolmate. She was one of the prettiest girls; skin fair as ceam, soft spoken voice, bushy eyebrows, gentle black eyes. She was smart and articulate. In other words, she was that sort of girl everyone hates because she’s beautiful. She emigrated to Sydney many decades ago. This particular day, she and her husband were hosting us and were taking us to the vineyards of Hunter Valley. And I could not wait to spend the day with her and meet her lucky husband.

It is amazing how maturity can mellow rivalry. As it turned out, my friend Emma is as every inch a lady as she was in high-school. She speaks softly but with conviction. She has that sweet Aussie intonation elongating the last part of each sentence. It was lovable! She is poised, she is kind, and she is pretty. As with Cha, we talked about our youth, our life stories, and our present circumstances. Emma and her husband Jon just recently became grandparents to a baby girl. We talked about our careers, our own particular struggles growing up; dealing with sickness and death in our families; finding our own niche in the world of adults during and after college.

Emma is a nurturer; she is mother earth. She made sure no one was hungry or thirsty during our trip to the vineyards. She was so awesome that I wasted all those years not finding her and making friends with her. I regret that she and I were not close friends in high-school, I regret the competition we had amongst us but I am grateful for the opportunity to make amends.

Alas, I realized that she may be the bigger person between us two because she sought me and Cha and our other friends out. She is the more courageous one. She is the more admirable one. I would have been happy not knowing what happened to that pretty girl that was once my rival. But she came back into our lives and I embrace her with open arms. She gifted me with her friendship. Her husband is an added bonus and she deserves someone who so loves her; they met and wed when she was just all of nineteen!

Australia is a beautiful continent; I am grateful for the chance to step on its soil; breathe its air; and engulf myself with its natural beauty. It is more beautiful because over there are two beautiful women I deeply care about and whose friendships I cherish. They were gracious to share their beautiful adopted land and generous to share their time with me and my husband. I accept with humility, their gift of lifelong friendships, their pride of being women, Asian women, transplanted succesful Asian women! I am honored to be in their universe.

We departed Sydney on a bright, sunny afternoon. We left the bougainvillas, plumerias, cacti, eucalyptus trees, and the koalas behind. I did not buy a boomerang. Instead, I took with me a tiny piece of gravel off of Australia's Ayer's Rock grounds. It now sits next to a piece of stone I picked up from Machu Piccu in Peru. I took a piece of the Australian continent with me.

Finally, kangaroo tasted like a cross between venison and beef; crocodile tastes like chicken. Chicken from the Australian sea. Jessica Simpson would have been pleased to get this one right.
Cheers, mate!

Sunrise, sunset-

Since finding each other on FaceBook, my friend Elaine and I kept up with our life’s milestones. She told me last year that her first born son, Andrew was planning to get married and they would be pleased if I could be one of his “wedding sponsors,” and would I be willing to say something about the blankie.

My friend Elaine and I met moons ago while she was a young staff member at the Philippine Embassy. We both lived in the same apartment building and we became close friends. She was more established than I was; she drove a brand-new Monte Carlo, she wore suits, cooked good food; and we shared our secrets. Elaine never judged my choices and I never doubted hers, including dumping a guy she dated who ran away with one of her friends.

She got married and soon announced the coming of her baby. I decided to crochet a baby blanket for her. I offer that I was and still am absolutey horrific in sewing, embroidery, or any such thing. When I was in grade school, I had to sew a blouse in Home Economics, and it ended up with the sleeves sewn closed on the arm holes. Then I tried my hand in cloth basket weaving; my work looked like a beret more than a basket.

Then, I had a coworker who was crocheting this beautiful blanket so I thought I should do the same thing. Laura showed me how easy it was to crochet so I bought some yarn and Elaine’s baby was my one and only victim. However, Elaine loved me enough to appreciate my handiwork. My recollection was that it might have been pink and blue or just blue but I remember making it and excitedly presenting it to Elaine’s baby. It was small and plain.

Andrew, the baby, loved my work. It was literally, his security blanket. Elaine told me that they would drive back to their house if they forgot the blankie while on their way to a vacation destination. Andrew would not stop crying until he has his blankie. Then Elaine had a second son and her family moved to Florida. We lost contact. I stayed in Washington and in fact had my own family.

A couple of years ago, back in the day when Facebook was not yet in my vocabulary, I used a legal search engine to look for Elaine. I wanted so much to know how she was doing. I wanted her to know that I fared well. I wanted her to be happy for me as I know she would and I wanted to know about her and her husband, her boys and her mother. I wrote a letter asking if she might be the person I knew.

Soon after, I got an email from her then we spoke on the phone; we made plans to see each other soon. Unfortunately, we have had so many conflicting schedules so the extent of our “reunion” was limited to the emails we exchanged. She has retired from the company she worked for so many years, she is enjoying Florida, she and her husband are doing fine, the boys are grown-ups, her mother has since passed away.

In the course of our conversation, we talked about our children and then she asked me if I remember Andrew’s blankie. She told me that Andrew took it anywhere he went, including when he went to college. She said she was sure the only time he put it away was when he started dating; that Andrew considered it his lucky charm. I was so touched knowing that my godson held on to my gift.

Elaine subsequently called me and told me that when she and her husband visited Andrew in the West Coast, she told him that she found his godmother, the one who made the blankie. She said his face lit up and that indeed he still has the blankie, neatly folded and kept safe in his closet, holes and all. He told her this is his lucky blanket. I was silenced.

I could not have imagined that someone would hold onto something as ordinary as a baby blanket made from yarn, a handiwork of two left hands. But my godson held on to it, not just as his security blanket as a baby but as his lucky amulet growing up. I also did not expect how choked I was with emotion as I listened to his mother relating how Andrew particularly felt about it.

That blanket symbolized the time when I could not offer anything of value to my friend. It also recalled well-cherished memories of years when I found a true friend. I am going to attend my godson’s wedding this summer. I am attempting but not promising to succeed in making a blanket for his future first-born.

Habla Castellano?

I was surfing the Internet one day a couple of months ago, looking for some useful tips I could use in teaching my ESOL class. In one website, someone posted a need for a tutor in Spanish. Out of curiosity, I responded that I could help out. Yesterday, I received an email asking if I were still willing to teach and how much I would charge. The student is a young Filipino coed at the Ateneo de Manila University and her struggle is with the future perfect tense. That would be the “I will arrive there after he shall have (arrived).” Llegare y habra llegado. Who speaks that way anymore in Spanish? You simply say it just like that “Voy a llegar despues de llegar de el. Say it in the simplest way. It will be too complicated to construct the future conjugation in the first part of a compound sentence and the past participle on the second part. Unless you are going to write a thesis, hola? Hello. Or you want to speak “high Spanish.” Where and to whom? That is the question.

Much like the discovery I made when I arrived in the US, the spoken American English is different from the written. “I’m gonna go if I was feeling it.” This sentence is redundant and the subjunctive tense is missing, and it is painful to hear; yet, it is arguably, understood. Dig?

I started taking Spanish lessons in the USA in the 80’s. I was a mediocre Spanish student in Manila. And I preferred to speak English when I lived in Manila. Anyway, here in the US, I figured it would be fun to say something more than “bien, gracias.”

I was almost kicked out of my first class in Spanish because the professor thought I was just there to improve my grade point average. He observed that I was understanding the Destino “telenovela.” Nothing could be farther from the truth. I understood the nouns but I could not conjugate the verbs. When he found out where I was from, he gave me a look like “Oh now I know…”

Enseguiendo entonces--

On a trip to the Netherlands in the early 2000, I saw a Spanish restaurant and I decided to go in and buy something out of the take out counter “in Spanish.”

I approached, and said, “Hola senior, buenas noches, como esta?” No problemo, as the Gringos would say.

“Hola seniora, como puedo ayudarle?”

This is the honest truth. When you are learning a language, your brain is a walking dictionary of verbs and nouns, and I wanted so much to construct the longest Spanish sentence I could. So I was flipping through the pages of my personal dictionary.

I proceeded to make the biggest, most robust, delicious sandwich in Spanish. So I said:

“Me gustaria tener un bocadillo grande, lo que bastante por dos personas. Este bocadillo debe que tener jamon y queso, lechugas, tomates, cebollas, mayonesa, y tambien podria darme una ensalada de pulpos y un pedazito del pan morena y una botella de bebida…” I was breathless, yearning to say everything for fear of forgetting the words.

And to my horror, the dependiente asked me, “Y cuanto?” How much? I do not know how to measure in Spanish. My brain was doing a fast scan of my inner Spanish rolodex - okay 1/4, jeez, how do you say that-okay “half of the half.”

So I smiled and exclaimed, “Mitad de mitad!”

He smiled back, and said, “Cuarto de libra” “Si senyor, eso es.” Ok, got through that one. “Algo mas?””Ya, nada mas. Creo que tenemos todos.” Wuau! Wow!

He said, “Tenemos aqui.”and I said, “si, aqui estamos.”as I handed him the dinero.

He then asked, “De donde es?”

This was perfect! He’s conversing with me and I was very happy to engage him. “Soy Filipina pero mira, he vivido en Estados Unidos por trenta anios, mas o menos. Y usted senyor, de donde es?”

“Bueno, soy Espaniol pero he vivido en Miami por diez anios.”

JAJAJAJAJA! Both of us laughed, in Spanish. “Miami?! Dios mio, senyor, porque me dejo sufrir? Nos habriamos hablado en Ingles, entonces?” JAJAJAJA

He said, “Yes, but I was having fun listening to you!”

We said our chaos and adios and the que le vaya muy bien. Then I walked back to the other side of the street where my husband was waiting for me. He asked, “What were you buying that it took you this long?” I said, “I bought a lesson in Spanish comedy.”

Epilogue: Every Spanish speaking country has its own set of Spanish Rolodex.

A bocadillo in Spain is a sanduche in Ecuador. But you can still ask them to put mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomato in both. While you lisp in Barcelona and Madrid, you can get away without lisping and speaking your “ll” in fluid y sound as well! Vamos a adelantar! O Adelantemos! O “Adelantehmoh” in Central America.

Now let me teach this young Filipina how to speak Spanish ebonics. Chuy!

The Dark Secret -

My high school classmates and I had our first “grand reunion” after more than thirty years. From across the seas we came – from Australia, United States, and varied places in the Philippines. We met at our high-school. Being the pioneers of a science curriculum, we held the bragging rights of being its first graduates. We gave the school a couple of computers and a stand-up piano. They feted us with lunch. The students had a program that featured a student playing the piano, a theatrical performance (which, in my director’s view was good!), and a very touching welcome from the students and the Division of Schools' chief. The chief was our music and arts appreciation and physical science teacher in different grades. She was my first piano teacher as well, and she was not successful in that regard:)

There were fifteen of us in the class. We were called “intellectual snobs” when we were young. The title was an overstatement. Trust me on that one. More truthfully, we were just cocky adolescents who were aware of how smart we were because we thought we were. Let us face it, we ‘knew it all’ at that time. We were cute, we were fluent in English, we knew our Math, and we were the chosen ones. Yeah, right.

In our group, there are mechanical engineers, registered nurses, physicist, business administrators. We also have a lawyer, PhD, paralegal, massage therapist, horticulturist, medical transcription business owner, entrepreneur, college professor, law enforcement professional, and government executives.

We went outside Manila, to Subic Bay to be precise. We rented two villas and reminisced about our high school days. We laughed at our antics, continued to make fun of our former teachers but were unified in acknowledging the positive influences they had on us. We learned to speak English and Tagalog impeccably during high school; we learned that speed multiplied by distance is velocity (is that right?) We learned that there is such a thing called isocelles triangle (correct?) and that subject and verb must always agree. One cannot say I came from the Philippines. One must say, “I come from the Philippines.” If I am stating where I was from originally, then the present form of the verb ‘to come’ is correct; however, if I just arrived from a trip to Manila then I can say I came from the Philippines. You get the drift.

Anyway, on the night that we all gathered for a big supper that my friends cooked, we decided to reminisce more about our youth. We found out who was dating whom after high-school. One of my classmates, my high school best friend in fact, ended up confronting another about breaking up with her. I was surprised. I did not expect they were a couple after high school. He was baring his heart to her in our presence. “I loved you, truly. In retrospect, I should have married you…” Like a real TV Jerry Springer audience we all said “Oooooooh!” in unison.

But wait! He continued, “But for the fact that you were so obviously trying to tell me that you moved on with your life, we would have been together. We walked past each other by the Manila Cathedral and what did you do? You had to make sure that I saw that you were with Ben! How low was that?” She defended herself, “I wanted you to know that I moved on. How did you think I felt when you said you wanted to find yourself so you dumped me? Right, you found yourself a wife and it was not I you chose!’ We were in the middle of this exciting exchange. No one knew the extent of their love affair. We were transfixed. Imagine two 50-year olds settling a score of thirty years ago?

He stood up from the head of the table, and said, “Listen, what happened after the prom…” I stood up so fast I thought the chair was attached to me as I did. In a loud but firm voice, I said, almost like the high-school days when I wowed judges with my oratorical summation, “You son of a bitch, do not say one more bleeping word.” Whoa, I just said it did I not?

Then Maggie, the 'senior citizen' girlfriend and my high-school best friend stood up next to me, pressing my hand, saying to him, "Shut up! That is a SECRET!” Another elongated ‘Huh?” from the audience. Then, “What secret?”

We three said in unison, “Our secret!” I said, “We are supposed to take it to our graves!” Silence. Then, I started laughing and I looked at Maggie. “Can we tell these idiots?” Laughter. We looked at him and asked, “Can we tell them?” He looked at me and then at Maggie. Then he said, “Tell these idiots then!” Laughter. Then I said, “Okay guys, we kept this secret for too long that I had to live with this shame until I became an adult.

SECRET-
Right after the prom, Meg and I, and Bob and Ed drove to the University of the Philippines and we went to the lover’s lane at the back of the Administration building. We let the boys kiss us on the mouth! The security guard shone a flashlight on us and told us we would have to get married. Get married, for crying out loud! I could not let that happen! We could not let that happen. We were going to be in college in two months; I was going to attend the very same university. I would be leaving for the USA after college, Bob wanted to become an engineer or an accountant, Meg wanted to be a chemist or a manager or an accountant and a professor; and I wanted to be a doctor, a lawyer, a foreign service officer, a journalist, a teacher, an actress, the list goes on and I did not care what the heck Ed wanted to be. He was a jock and he was not smart. He kissed well in my young summation.

We were crying; we were so completely busted. We were caught in the act. In the Philippines, it was a shameful thing to be kissing your boyfriend in 1971. We were beside ourselves. This could not happen. We just graduated, we were on our way to our future. The boys put their money together and bribed the guard. I hope that guard suffered from gastro intestinal blowout that night! We were all shamed and quiet on our way home and I lived with the awful shame of French kissing that boy. God bless him; wherever he is.

END OF SECRET-

When my son was little he told me, ‘Mommy I know what a French kiss is. It is when your dog licks your face all over!” By this definition, I was not French- kissing anyone that evening!

Among the four of us that evening, we promised each other that it would be our secret until the day we die. Our classmates were looking at us like we still owed them some juicy “enquiry minds” tidbits.

The idiots were first quiet, then:

“That’s it?” They wer now laughing uncontrollably. “That is your dark secret? “ “Well, it happened in the dark, did it not?”, I quipped. Then they said, “What were you doing with that boy anyway?” “HAHAHAHA, you downgraded big time!” It was my turn to laugh. Yes, I said, that was what was worse! That I got kissed by him. I said, “Okay guys, now it is out of our chests, okay, you cannot blackmail us anymore!” Then Maggie cut it short “Now that you know the secret, now you know why I am so hurt by him dumping me!” So we tried to tell her, “You were sixteen at that time. You moved on, you now have your kids, a good life.” And he was distraught by her “pain” that he continued to defend himself, “I am so sorry. I regret it. We were so young. I wanted to see what else was out there…” “What was out there was my broken heart and you never tried to get back together with me!” We did not know what to say. Some of the “girls” said, “Hey, come on that was like during the Spanish inquisition!” We laughed but Maggie and Bob did not.

We decided to get out of the villa and we all sat under the stars. Someone started to sing and we all joined in, singing the songs of our youth, we were teary eyed. In between songs, we reiterated how blessed we have become from our youth to the present. We became the people we wanted to be- proud, self-sufficient, educated, successful parents, and professionals. We stated how much we cared for one another; that we would come through for each other. Through it all, Maggie was pensive. Bob was quiet for a long time. We continued to sing. The next day, we continued our exploration of the Subic area. Everything seemed back to normal.

That was five years ago. Maggie subsequently told me that it was very difficult for her to deal with he break-up. He was her first love. She got married to escape physical abuse at home. She loved Bob sincerely and never could get over the speculation of how it could have been if they did not break up. I told her that she needed to have closure. She said she did. They met after the reunion and tried to rekindle whatever was there but it fizzled. As it should. They were both married to other people.

We still keep in contact with one another. I was on vacation with Maggie on a beach resort in the Visayas two summers ago. I kept reminding her that our “dark” secret is out – it should not be a chain to keep her captive to a memory of so long ago. And that kiss, Filipinos have a saying, “Makukuha yan sa paligo.” (A hot shower will take care of that.) In fact, it has always been a point of reference in my life. When things are not going so well, I think of how I escaped the consequence of that long ago lip-locking episode of my youth. That I can keep a secret for those many years speak to how I value a pledge I have made and to find out that the others did the same. That was reassuring. Until our big mouths could not hold it in anymore!

Post script to the secret-

When we all started to take a walk around the community, Bob spoke. "What was with you two? I was not going to tell the secret." "Well what were you going to say, you started talking about what happened after the prom?" "That I intended to go to the same college Maggie was going to so that we could be together but my Father wanted me in another university. I thought you two crazies were ready to kill me." Oooops.

I still have other “secrets” but they are not as idiotically verboten as that secret during that sultry evening, when the cicadas were abuzz and the sampaguitas in full bloom were heady with youthful inquisitiveness and rebellion. My other secrets are as colorful as high definition TV. They are as vibrant and lively as TrueTV. I will let you in on some of them if you stay tuned once in a while, but others are so special, I will not reveal them in this lifetime;-).

As my friend Chutney would tell me, "Mooney, you and I, we will go to hell together. The coolest of our friends will all be there." I say, "AMEN!"

I would rather be mowing than smoking it-

When my son was little, my job was to act as the litmus paper for the movies or shows he wanted to see. We had a rule that if I deem the show/movie to contain mature themes, then he would have to wait until he was of age to see it. I remember one time when I had to rush to the movies to see X-men. I was rooting for it to be acceptable because he wanted so much to see it.

When I got to the movies, I realized that I had so little cash in my wallet (not unusual) that I only had enough to pay for my ticket and a child size soda and popcorn. The counter staff was looking at me with pity. I must have looked pathetic in my nice suit and without cash and I would not use a credit card for the darn popcorn. They were urging me to supersize but I refused, which made me look even more pathetic. I deemed X-men to be age appropriate; he and I went to see it together but I had to cover his eyes during the trailer. He kept saying, “I love you, Mommy.”

A summer ago, we took my son to the Netherlands. While there, he had certain ideas that my husband and I expected but could not encourage. I noticed that son was melancholy for the first two days of our stay, he said, “I cannot believe you took me here and I could not do whatever…” I told him, “Your Dad and I wanted you to see this city and tour the other cities outside Amsterdam. What is your problem?” I knew the problem. So despite our struggle with the issue, we told him one afternoon that he was free to do as he liked. He went around the corner and came back all stupid but happy. He said he was at the coffee house for a couple of hours. He was gone only an hour. He promptly went to sleep and I swear he ate the whole breakfast spread minus the tables and the chairs the next morning.

Here is the lowdown. I wanted to be a litmus paper once again so I asked my husband if I could also go to a coffee house. My husband, always accommodating my craziness agreed to research the city and found a perfect place for me to smoke. Okay, so let us cut the crap and let me tell you – I had a trip from hell.

Husband (HB) and I got seated at a very comfortable full- sized sofa. The place was dim but there were rare decorations. HB ordered some drinks and then left momentarily. When he came back, he was holding the joint. I wanted to get the show on the road. What was the big deal?

I had no problem smoking it. After about four puffs, the world started spinning. I could hear all the chatter around me. I could understand Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, English, and French. I could hear everyone talking in Dolby sound, and understood them all! I could hear the music and furthermore, I could see the musical notes, like they were on a big screen for me to see. They were spiraling, G-Clef, Base Clef, C, E, F, flats, sharps - they were coming out of a white grand piano and the notes were in gold floating into this creamy background. I could hear the saxophone and see it opening up to bare the musical notes. I would narrate when I could what I was seeing. HB would say “Really? Wow!” Then there was a giant cake opening up like power-point and as it opens up, musical notes would come out of it. I saw mouthfuls of teeth grinning, skewered in Popsicle sticks, dancing like a chorus line. I could see a shadow of a cart being pulled with a silhouette of a giant rabbit. HB would again say, “Wow! You are having such an awesome trip!” No! It was so weird that I told him that I was about to die. I asked him not to let me die. Not there. Not like that. I confessed my sin to whoever saint was available to help me at that moment and promise not do it again. OMG, I implored, "Let me live through this mess. I am a good person and I am really just a regular working mom. I am just a stupid mom at this moment. " OMG, what would my son think when he learns I died from smoking a stupid 7-Euro joint? Wait, there is a giant slice of cake passing by---

Then, I worried about my jewelry; I was convinced they would be stolen from me. But I was also aware of the time; I kept looking at my watch and then I would “pass out.” I kept wondering if I took my allergy medicine and in fact I opened my backpack to get it. I was in between sanity and total madness. It was awful.

Later on, after what I thought was eternity, I did not die. My husband was holding me close and told me “What a waste! Geez, people pay for the kind of trip you had and you were totally, stupidly wasted.” He said he thought I was sweaty and I was having a panic attack and I would not disagree. It was not worth the time, all 30 minutes of it. It was a “bad trip.”

HB said, “You know, next time, I should be the one to try it and you can sit there and babysit me like I did you.” He affectionately told me that I was a total loser! We went back to the hotel quietly where I experienced such blissful sleep. This was better than watching the Dog Whisperer or American Greed, or Forensics File. Dude, it was just total blackout. And I kept saying "I love you!" to my HB. Let us face it, he did not let me die!

I woke up the next day and went down to have breakfast. I ate the bread, fruits, yogurt, more bread, more fruits, more yogurt. I ate everything minus the tables, chairs, and tablecloths. When my son came down for breakfast and nodded at me, I just looked at him like he does to me with the defensive “What, I have not done anything” stance.

Later, he said, "Mom, why don’t you and I go to Babah together and we can do the wax museum later?" “Are you out of your mind? I am too old for the kind of foolishness you want to do? No!” “I will treat you, Mom!” “You know what, I am scared for you. You will find yourself without your wallet and passport, without your IPod and your Blackberry. You will be homeless in Amsterdam and I would not know about it?” He could not deal with the drama so instead he went to the museum with us. Then we gave a stern warning: What happened here stays here. You will be in college in a few months. You do it, you are in breach of your contract with us; you lose the chance of going to college; you go to jail. This is non-negotiable. We did not raise a pothead. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Now cheer up! Really.

Here is the deal. My son is not interested in being my FB friend; he is not interested in some old lady’s blog. So let us keep it between you and me.

I am living with a secret and I dread the day, when one day, in the next ten years, he would come to me, and say, “Hey Mom, remember when we were in Amsterdam for my high school graduation? Did you get high?” I would ask, “What made you say that?” “Because the only thing you did not eat that one morning was the tablecloth and the table and chairs!” I will give him one of those bite-my-lip cannot really smile and say, “Peace!” I will then LMAO. But only when he is not looking.