ADHD- A label I wear for life, proudly!

I watched Rock 30 or whatever that Brian Williams’ program is about Adult ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder).  One of the sufferers who was featured is a mom who dreamt of becoming an architect and did not pursue it because she felt different and inadequate academically.  She now cleans other people’s houses . She has a son who has the same challenges she recognizes as her own.  The other  sufferer used to be a writer for TV programs like Melrose Place. He was brilliant but was let go because he could not get his act together and is always late for his deadlines.  He defined, succinctly, what challenges people with ADHD face, and his definition resonated with me: ” We do not pay too much attention  to the details of life.”  

I am sure I have, presently, a mild case of ADHD, but when I was younger, I  had the hyperactivity. I was always referred to as kiti-kiti, magaslaw , which can be a negative when you are in a country that believes in the timid personification of women like Maria Clara, a character in Jose Rizal’s novel.  Simply, I was  hyper-active and as a teen-ager,  I was not getting good reviews and boys did not want to have anything to do with me,haha.  My teachers would run out of things to say to make me stay focused, quiet, or be seated for long periods of time. Some of them recognized my  challenge and had me do projects or pursue acting,  public speaking, cheer leading, etc.  I thrived when I have things to do, prove, think about, talk about. I was constantly in motion, bodily and mentally. 

As a young adult and living on my own,   I could never recall how I got from one place to the next, literally.  It used to scare me that I was driving on the highway without memory of which turns I took;  I just did it!   I was generally on automatic pilot when it comes to the little details of life; I was bright and talented but I do not think I have actualized my potential until I was in my late twenties as I realized that I  am different in my thought process.  I willed myself to really understand what I am reading, focus and analyze, and acquire some personal "tricks" to retain a lot of knowledge I am getting from my academic and professional pursuits.  I would repeat things I learned like someone else is telling me a story. Also, for instance, during classes, I would wear a rubber band on my wrist and pull it away and let go when I get distracted, telling myself, "Snap out of it!" 

I have succeeded in overcoming my “disorder,”  I believe I can write a handbook on the “How-to survive life (when you think ) You Have  ADHD for Dummies,”  I am no longer impaired by it;  and in fact due to my acknowledging this problem, I have made it a point to compete with myself when it comes to my academic and professional life and prevail over the possible impairment.

My domestic life is another matter though.  I am fortunate to be married to someone who appreciates my “weirdness” and loves me, despite and because of it.  To give you a view of how it is to be with ADHD:

A weekend morning will start with me going to the basement to practice  piano.  This is my meditation.  My piano at that time was against the wall leading to the laundry room so I would first decide to take out laundry and put them in the dryer and put the dried ones in baskets . As I look up from the basket of clothes, I see all my canned goods in the pantry so I start re-arranging them.  Then I would put some in a grocery bag to take upstairs.  I will then check the litter boxes as I pass by the cats’ area so I can complain about it if necessary.  So I want to play the piano, which at this point I have more or less forgotten,  but then I have not made coffee. I run upstairs,   forgetting why I am there. So I walk around the kitchen talking to myself, “Ok, ok, what am I doing, hello…”

I go back downstairs hoping I would remember what I was doing upstairs, saying loudly, “piano, piano” So I play the piano but it bothers me to see this stupid bag of groceries I meant to take to the kitchen.  So I get up and I realize that I have not dusted the piano in a while. I dust the darn thing.  Then I sit down and I feel icky with the dusting so I wash my hands in the basement bathroom and I decide to clean the toilet.  I get out and with cleaning in mind,  I  start fixating on the vacuum cleaner.  Then I get reminded that I have to make the darn coffee!  I go upstairs, decide to make the coffee and  play the digital piano in the living room while waiting for the coffee. This digital piano was at that time located near the window near  my plants. I go and sit on that bench, start with some notes and think about watering the plants so I stop playing and I start taking dried leaves off the plants and I would go to the kitchen to discard the leaves.  Now I need water for the plants and also start thinking about photosynthesis and the Calvin cycle.  I get the water for plants and start watering.  I start playing again and then I am stressing that the water can is at my foot and on my way up to the kitchen, I see my laptop so I go on FaceBook.  Then I get some coffee and when I get cream from the fridge, I wonder what I can grill for lunch and take out meats from the freezer.   

I start drinking the coffee,  I panic that I am running out of time, Facebook has to be put to “sleep,”  so I go back downstairs and play the piano downstairs.  At this, I calm down, and I practice for a couple of hours.  One year, I played for over five hours straight -don’t be too excited, I am not a concert material by any stretch of imagination – but I go through my  music books and I start playing something and then exclaim, “Are you kidding me  Mozart!?  Seriously, you and I cannot be friends!”  or “No, thank you,  I will not be abused by your music, I cannot play that!! Who plays that?”  You see, people with ADHD can hold conversations - smart, funny, witty, informative, sarcastic  quips with many personalities and only one person doing it.  I certainly do not hear voices or  I am talented enough to turn off anyone's voice except mine! One year, I ended up with tennis elbow and had to quit piano for over a year.  Lesson learned:  Do not play Mozart any more than necessary. 

Regardless, I thrive in my professional endeavors, let alone my extra-curricular pursuits; however,  my brain functions differently. For instance, I am very visual.  I have to concentrate to listen.  I can photographically remember verbiage and texts and situations, I can visualize artistic possibilities on stage; I can see the colors that will work and movements,  but I will be damned if I can organize my closet if my life depends on it.  The second point, and more importantly is that this disorder is not always bad.  As the wife of the writer in Brian Williams’ program said, “My husband enriches my life because he says and does things that make me feel alive.”

When you are living with someone with ADHD,  expect to hear the following in one paragraph: “I want to eat some chocolate cake. In Germany.  Let's really plan a trip to eat cake in Germany.   Someday I will drive an Audi oh no, maybe a Passat.  I will eat kiwi ice cream there. You know that plant that I was telling you that I bought for $25? Do you know that it is so exotic , it was featured in the paper and I feel such a special gardener owning it.  What would you like for lunch?  Ok, we can go out, or I can grill, whatever, maybe,  let us just go out. Oh no, I will grill ok? Yeah, what do you think?  Hmmm...shall I take some dancing lessons? Hey do you think I should take dancing lessons?  I am saying these while thinking: "But I will really want to write a book. Wow, our cats are getting fat. I think I should stop drinking coffee."  Oh, we need to get laundry detergent from Sam's!    Hello, I am talking to you.” 

The answer from 'someone' loving of the partner with ADHD usually will be: “Sure, we can plan that for next year.  Wow, that is really nice!  We can either go out or you can grill, you can decide, you are a grown up, you know.  Ok, take lessons, it will make you happy. You should do that, you should organize your writing.  You drink whatever the hell you want.” Then it is followed with, “YOU are weird. I love YOU.”

 I am not gung-ho about the details of my life. Instead, I just live it!

"Looking back" is a bowl of hot soup and paying forward can be size 4 or 5.

It all started a few years back with  my sister Elvie’s noble idea.  She wanted to start a feeding program at the Santo Cristo Elementary School, which most of us attended; it is located  in the barrio where we were born, in the province of Nueva Ecija, Central Plains of Luzon.  My family has a strong connection to the school – our Inay, (mom) or Ninang (godmother) to Elvie and our cousins was the first principal of the school.

I have memories of playing under the pomelo tree with a huge bell hanging over my head. That bell is rung to herald the start of classes.  In my child’s mind, the ringing reverberates in the whole province of Nueva Ecija.  I attended “pre-school,” “kinder” “saling-pusa or saling- cat” (I was in the class but I was not graded)  and first grade in this school.  I was a kid whose interest was not easily contained so I would ask to be excused to chase dragonflies in the open fields behind the administration building.  My Inay would embarrass me and my sister EM by taking us out of the classroom to be fed a bowl of rice porridge in the hallway, sometime there would be rice cakes and a glass of water.  We would still be wiping our lips as we head back to the classroom! I was told by both my sisters, and my former classmate who is now a teacher at the school,  that when the kindergarten teacher was out, that I, all of five or six years at that time, would teach the class.  My parents moved to Manila where I continued my education until I left in 1975.

At some point , I decided to join the feeding program.  The team of principal and teachers picked the most needy kids from all grades and came up with 35-37 kids.  Each week, the teachers use the funds we donate and incorporate the harvest from the school vegetable garden into the meal preparation.  They cook lunch and serve to these needy kids.  There is now a total of three regular sponsors and others who give a one- time contribution allow for a fourth lunch for the kids. 

Last December, they sent me photos of the kids taken during a Christmas spaghetti lunch I sponsored. I also decided to distribute goody bags.  The wisdom of the principal prevailed and instead of toys, the kids got a t-shirt each.  When I examined the photos, I noticed that some kids were wearing flip-flops that seemed too big for their tiny feet. Ergo, I decided to give tennis shoes to the kids during my visit to the Philippines in January.  The children were made to trace their feet, write their name on it. My nieces Nerry and Joy facilitated the procurement of the shoes.  Fast forward to Monday, January 28, 2013.  My niece MaryJane drove us to Nueva Ecija.  It was a three hour drive going  through the provinces of Bulacan and Pampanga.  The scenery is much more pleasing and relaxing the farther away from Manila one gets. The Arayat Mountain was at attention and the sun was out and beaming.

We grabbed a quick bite of the lunch the brother sister team of Willy and Nery prepared and then we rushed to the school.  They have homes in our ancestral land in the barrio.  Always good to walk on the grounds where my parents and ancestors walked on; where the stately santol tree watches over us and where the mango trees of my ancestors bear witness to the family history. 

The kids were called and I got to see the faces of the little ones. We started to distribute each of the shoes, calling each by  name.  I gave each kid a hug—all of them smelled clean; looked  groomed; but oh so skinny.  Some of them are 14 years of age,  but it was rather obvious that malnutrition stunted their growth.  Most have 3-6-8 siblings and are children of poor farmers.  They were shy but grateful.  My attention was caught by a pretty but very pale girl. Her eyes downcast and I did not see her smile throughout the whole time, even when she was handed her "package."  I learned later that Lyka is an orphan, taken in by her poor peasant grandparents.  I asked her how old she was, "Porteen po."  I asked her what grade she is in "Grade One po."  I gave her a hug. 

We spent the next hour conversing with the teachers and the principal, discussing the kids’ life stories and partaking of their hospitality of ripe mangoes and steamed sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves. We left feeling good for the kids.  Some of the kids lingered behind trees and under the canopy inspected their loot – a pair of shoes, socks, toothbrush, toothpaste.  We did not give away cell phones, computers, money. What we gave away is a gesture of kindness, hopefully a lasting thought that kindness can come from strangers.   

At the moment, we are  addressing the immediate need for nutritious meals and clothing for the kids.  They do not need toys; they have the sun and the rain and the garden and each other and their loving teachers to interact with. However, they need to know that others care about them and they need colors that they can put on paper to paint their thoughts and hopes and dreams. That means I will be sending crayons and papers.  If you read this and you and I socialize in person, bring a box of crayons next time we see each other, along with a coloring book (CVS, Thrift Store, Dollar Store –partly used is fine).  I will send them a box of the goodies; you will make a tiny heart swell with joy!

Epilogue: I left funds to get Lyka a medical examination, some clothes, vitamins, etc. We will invite her to help with my niece's Nery's flower garden, a pretext for her to earn a stipend. If this works out, Lyka, in my view can become a teacher or an engineer....I have opened my heart and other places to give a chance to a shy little orphan, who at 14 must know and has all the reason to know that her opportunies are nil to nothin without a fairy godmother to pave the way...

 This was my first grade graduation photo, I finished at the top of my class with a ribbon that said, "First Honor" - take note of my new dress made by my sister Linda, shoes cleaned and spit shined by my brother Rev. Ernie and my socks, trying to hide my bird legs.  Oh, and my handkerchief! My Dad pinned my ribbon onstage and later on, he had to deal with the "Intelligent but very talkative in class." or "Very, very, very, talkative in class," ADHD-hello?

 

Sojourn at the Golden Triangle with Two Dancing Angels

 

Bangkok, Thailand is charming and hot in more ways than one, and the most beautiful women gracing their fashion magazines may possibly be  lady boys.  It is a third gender that the Thais embrace and I embrace that about them. The Thais are fashionable, friendly, and beautiful. There is a spirituality that cannot be ignored.

Bangkok is an improved and much cleaner Manila, reminded me of Singapore, only the latter is much cleaner and has hawkers’  pavilions whereas the Thais sell their Bourdainesque foods along the sidewalks.  We ventured out into the weekend market.  This was the main  reason I wanted to return to Bangkok. I wanted two boat-shaped bowls .  I saw them first in our favorite Kuning-Kuning Thai restaurant in Amsterdam and the owner told us where we can buy them.  He gave me a piggy shaped platter.  That was four years ago.  Last weekend, I became the owner of two of those boat bowls I covet plus some. I spent a king’s ransom for them.  If you figure that I paid $5 for each bowl  plus airfare, hotel , and meals - there you have it.  I need to will these bowls to a deserving future daughter-in-law.

What did we do—we pampered ourselves with foot massages and body massages daily.  In one of these places,  a statuesque beauty with eyes so beautiful I have not seen any  as stunning, and with cheekbones for which I would gladly borrow from my 401K account to get some,  did my HB’s foot massage. I could not keep my eyes off  her and she would  shyly smile at me for obviously gawking at her. The Thais are always smiling, they must go to sleep with a smile.  The next day, I found out from her colleague that she is a lady boy.  I was envious of her  beauty, lady boy or not.

We hired a private guide named Lian who came in safari shorts and shirt, carrying a monk’s prayer beads as big as marbles.  He spoke Thai, English, and French.  He looked like a monk taking a sabbatical with all his “meditation phrases” inked on his arms.  I felt safe travelling with my private monk.  I felt like he was a man of peace, without the Ghandi costume.  He was to to take us to the Golden Triangle, where Thailand meets  Laos and Burma. These are border towns.  We took a boat to Laos. 

Laos has the most number of fake Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Guess, Coach purses that I have seen in my lifetime.  One pavilion was filled with antiques (or reproductions-seriously, is it possible to find an antique lamp in every stall with the same design?) but a pavilion half the size of a football field is filled with purses.  They apparently come from neighboring China. The Chinese come to play in the Laotian Casinos and shop for Chinese made knock-offs.  I have to say, the casino looks, despite my misgivings, an elegant structure amidst the woods.  The Communists has something to say about self-restraint. 

The most staggering sight for me was the little kids by the dock who were begging.   I was starving by the time I decided that the only thing I wanted here were little souvenir type Laotian dolls for our Christmas tree. I saw a vendor grilling some tiny sweet yams. My Asian-American sensibility told me just in case  I have forgotten, that this is not a rich country.  This yam will be discarded in the States, they were spindly and slim as my ring fingers. However, they were cooked over charcoal so I was sure I could eat it without a problem until the young girl at the dock approached me.  I did not have any coins to give her but then she pointed to my miserably skinny yam and I realized she was hungry.  I gave my grilled spindly, skinny, miserably tiny yams to her.  HB handed me some Thai bills and I gave them to the kids and much to my sadness, they started hitting each other to fight for what amounted to fifty cents for each of the four kids.

We continued our trip to Burma, stopping at the Opium Museum along the way.  I bought a bell.  I believe that I ward off bad energy when I ring a bell.  And at this point in life, I need plenty of bells!  We got to the immigration booth.  Now, the Thai think I am Thai and the Burmese must just think I am a freak.  I am much taller than anyone of them, I did not speak Thai and I looked out of place.  After we visited a few temples -where young men and women with red, and pink and blonde hair hang out in front of the Buddha,  and where they  look at me with curiosity, the look turning into a smile when they hear me talking to the white guy and the guide in English-  we took a stroll under the blazing afternoon sun.  The merciless Lian  dismissed the tuk-tuks (tricycles, only more beefed up) and took us on a walking tour.  The roads are dusty.  One entrepreneur was selling gasoline from a makeshift wood counter by the street. The gasoline is contained in empty soda or vinegar bottles.  Apparently, this is the Burmese way and we were not allowed to photograph anyone.  We went through a village where the women tried to sell some hand-made coin purses to me. Not knowing a common language gave me an excuse to look clueless, pretending that I did not know what they wanted from me.  I just wanted to get out of there so that my heart does not break. Then,  Lian the Guide and the Merciless, took us through the street market.

HB has repeatedly stated that I should not be shocked by poverty, muck, or the disgusting wetness and smell of a wet market.  He expects that a woman born and raised in the Philippines must not flinch as “You must be used to this when you were a little girl.”   Here in Burma, I witnessed chicken guts being taken out by hand from the pile of chicken cadavers that were literally on the sidewalk of a muck laden water under the bridge and a woman going through the bag of the disgusting gut mess to scavenge.  I could only imagine this scene in a Clare Danes movie where she would state afterwards with her lady boy beauty,  "That country where we shot the film is a roach infested hell" (which she characterized the Philippines once).   I could not fast forward to the next scene and lady boy  Danes has clearly moved on to be a maniacal Homeland Security pretend agent. 

Anyway, I made a sidelong glance and then pretended not to see the filth.  When I became silent,  afraid that this market would eat me alive, feeling that I was going to be sick and yet telling myself to  snap out of it-this is their reality and I will be on my own in a few minutes, HB started to say, “Oh but you should be used to this…”  I was cross and under my breath stated, “Excuse me, but I never went to the market as a little girl and I have not seen chickens being gutted by the freaking sidewalk!”  “But you must have gone to the markets and haggled when you were a little girl?”  “I am sorry to disappoint you but I was a school girl, not a market girl."  Likewise, is it okay for me to assume that "Anyone born in the USA is an arrogant know-it-all bastard?" 

Where I spent time as a little girl, my Inay (auntie Mom) had a huge poultry farm and I got to eat plenty of chickens I was afraid I would grow wings. I never saw how it got to be fried or become adobo.  First they are flying like mad and the next thing I know, it is in my bowl of arroz caldo. (rice porridge).  Haggling?  I am loathe to even try because I fail miserably.  Ironically, in my contracts negotiations class, my professor warned my classmates to stay away from me, “She will sell your mother to you and you will think you got the best value.”  I start with a position that I do not need the stuff but I always feel like I should buy to add to the economy of the locale.

 At this point, I will digress to share an anecdote.  My nieces and I went to the Greenhills’ Tiangge and I got separated from them along with my other niece Jewel. I asked a vendor how much a pair of coral earrings was and she said, “P300.” I said, “Pwedeng P200?”(Will you sell it for P200?) trying to haggle on my own.  She said, “Ay…hindi mam.” (Ay…no, ma’am)  I said, “Ay, alam ko nga,” and I winced. “Kaya wag na lang…” (I do know you can’t,  so it is ok I won’t buy it anymore) I was embarrassed that I even tried and I started to leave her in peace.  She was taken aback by my reaction that she and Jewel started laughing! Then she said, “Mam, hindi ka pala marunong.  Halika, bigay ko na sa iyo.” (Ma’am you clearly do not know how,  so come back and I will give it to you at the price you want.)  I ended up buying three pairs of earrings plus a necklace and a bracelet.  I told her, “Don’t give me a price expecting me to haggle with you. I don’t know how to do that so be honest and I will pay.”  In Thailand, I saw a benjarong bowl for B300. I said, “I want to buy this bowl.” The vendor said, “Okay, madam, I give you for B260, ok?”  Wow, that was unexpected.  Of course, HB has to always remind me that I was still a loser.  “The guy made money off of you; he bought that for $2 and sold it to you for $5.  I swear, there is no winning when you are travelling with someone who haggles for recreation and then gives up when I would remind him, “That vendor is supporting a family, give him/her a break. “ “Tip that foot massage lady well, she is smiling and she has a son to raise.”  There goes a $30 tip.

The Burmese are friendly. At the passport control office, the agent went through my passport, looking at the entry/departure stamps and then back at me.  “Ah, Philippine but living in the USA, been to so many countries.”  He smiles so I took advantage of his friendliness to ask “May I use your bathroom?”  Thank God for bureaucrats, the bathroom was relatively clean, hidden by a ruffled curtain from the public.”  “Yes, madam, surely.” The Burmese are poor.   Nonetheless, no one can choose the circumstances of his birth and as I continued to gaze at the very spartan surroundings, I realized I could have been one of them. I could have been born here but by the grace of God, I was born in yet another poor country, but one whose people value and assert the right to democracy and education, with a  citizenry that asserts its mandate with people power.  I tried to wipe out the dire possibilities in my mind.

We negotiated the very narrow aisles under the oppressive heat and smell of dried and fermenting fish.  We stopped and bought an intricately beautiful wood carving depicting what I thought were South Asian dancers.The gallery owner said they are angels.  I thought angels are a Christian thing but now I realize even the Burmese have angels, and they dance.  I cannot see to wait for the angels to grace my living room.

After a couple of hours, I was back in the comfort of our air conditioned car;  as we traveled back to Chiang Rai, we stopped at a restaurant called Cabbages and Condoms. The restaurant has amazing food but more amazing is that it is a non-profit social entity. It uses its profits in educating and preventing STD and unplanned parenthood.  At the end of the meal, the patrons can get free condoms, “Thai size or International Size.” 

Then, Lian the guide had to take a phone call.  When he was done, he apologized and told us it was from his  Chineses lady friend.  He asked us what to do with her- she asked him to marry her, showing him a picture of a baby suckling milk.  I laughed.  He said, “She wants me to have baby with her! What you think?”  He told us that he has custody of a 7-year old daughter from a previous marriage.  He met this 43-year old  lady during one of his meditation retreats. We are being asked to decide a life!  As I got out of the car, he earnestly asked me “Madam, do you think I should marry and have a baby with the lady?” I said, “You marry her  if you love each other. Then you ask her to love your daughter like she is her own.  You do not need a baby at this point in your lives. It is too dangerous at her age, you can lose her and the baby too.”  He smiled with his betel-chewing brown stained teeth.  The driver was grinning, a modern metro Thai young man who clearly just wanted to help out his brother’s tour company so he decided to drive today so he can buy whisky at the border.

Lian extended his tattooed arm towards me, shook my hand and said, “I like your advice.  Yes, surely I ask her that. Thank you very much, merci.  Sawasdeeka.” He put his hands together and bowed as in prayer. I did the same.  “Sawasdee.”  He asked, “You have child?” “Yes, we have a son.” I did not have time to tell Lian that my husband met me and my son when my baby was all of six years and he loves my son as his own; that having a child is destiny and can come in different ways.  As it should always be, loving and raising a child transcends race, religion, circumstances, gender orientation, and borders.

I am a citizen of the world, Asian by birth, Malay-Indonesian with a splash of Spanish blood, and American by beliefs.  I am culturally inclusive, I take the good and do away with the bad.  At the end of the day, I am grateful for having the opportunity to meet people of different cultures and background. They make me a better person, open to possibilities, and thankful for my existence.

 

 

Extra cheese? Nevar neok bebek?

A Letter of Appreciation, Rx by Richard Carlson, Ph.D, author, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff, and it is all Small Stuff.”

 

I used to know a pizza man in the 90's. Well, he owned his pizza restaurants. He drove like a cop because he said that's what pizza guys do. He calls me once a year around the holidays. This year is not an exception. He is a great impersonator and he can have me in stitches within the first three minute and that is why I take his calls. Besides, I respect him.  His life story is compelling, this pizza man.
 

He escaped from Iran at 16 when the Shah's regime fell. He came with $15,000 cash, crammed into a pouch stitched to the inside of his shirt. He did not speak English and he waited for a distant cousin for two days to pick him up at the airport in Ohio. The cousin was not interested in having him live with his family and put our future pizza man on a plane to Washington, DC to live in a group house. He worked as a dishwasher, left the group house because it was infested with drug use, became temporarily homeless, and slept in movie theaters. He bought a bike, stayed with the job, took kindness from strangers, and worked his way up to becoming the restaurant manager, owning only two shirts, a pair of dark pants, a pair of shoes and a bank savings account. He saved up enough money and bought the restaurant from the retiring owner. He also earned a bachelor's degree from George Mason University in the process.

 
His siblings are all working in the medical field- one brother is a neuro-surgeon in Azerbaijan, one is an oral surgeon in France, and a sister is a pediatrician in Tehran. He told me that his first dream was to become an ophthalmologist. I told him I am horrified at the thought that he would be an eye or brain surgeon and I am happy he is not practicing medicine anywhere!

 
He missed his mother sorely; he never quit talking about her; how the smell of nail polish and perfume reminded him of her.  I listened when he learned of his Mom’s death. He drove his car somewhere in the countryside of Montgomery County, got out of the car, knelt on the roadside and wept for his beloved mother, unable to go back to Iran for fear of persecution.  Between the time he left Iran and becoming 28 years old, he longed for his Mom’s embrace, her words of wisdom. I was the closest friend he had. I never hesitated to call him out when I think he was getting out of line. I was his mother, critic, supporter, and sometime lover. I also vowed to be a good mother such that my son would love me the way Hussein adored his.
 

Today he sounds like he's American born, married, and has two young sons and he calls me to ask how my son and I are doing, happy to know that I too am happily married. He likes reminiscing the good old days. Unfortunately, I do not share the same view because I do not think I had good old days when I was a struggling single mom.   I tell him to move on and rejoice in the fact that we did not end up together because I told him I never thought he would make a good husband and father. He assures me he is. 
 

We start our phone calls by a boisterous exchange “Hey, nasilsin!!?? Nevar neok, bebek?" Chok iyem, bende, nasilsin?!”  Then we switch to English, “Howya doin, jerk?”  He responds with “I am doing well, how ya doin Habibi?” “Habibi bad bakti, Hussein!” I tell him, "You are a cheap jerk. You are a hopeless jerk!" He laughs and says, "I have changed." Then I say, "You were such a jerk, I was actually seeing someone else when you assumed we were seeing each other!" He says, “We had something.” I say, “We had nothing, nada!!” He asks, "Who were you seeing then, your husband?" "No, Rabih!" "Where is he from?" "Lebanon!" He mocks an attitude, "I will kill him!" Then we both guffaw. I say, “I always knew you were some Arab pretending to be a pizza man! Honestly, know that I never loved you." He feigns pain "My heart, you show no mercy Habibijim!" Then he goes into his impersonation of a Persian woman, a Turkish man, and Americans calling for pizza! This is our Holiday routine, the script is always the same but it never ceases to amuse me. It even gives me some joy to hear the voice of my old friend whom I love to tease and "abuse."  "Habibi, do you think I am handsome?  Because I think I am, hahahaha." I tell him, "Do you want to feel good or do you want me to be honest?" He would say, "Na, na, na, na, you are lyen! You are lyen! No more free pizza for you, kanjik!"   Then we would laugh.  He was in fact good-looking as I remember.
 

We needed each other then. We were both struggling to find our places. I still do not know what it was we shared. It was a symbiotic relationship that expired in due time. From Hussein, I learned that life changing decisions and emotional attachments are mutually exclusive. I learned that kindness never, ever goes forgotten for however mislabeled our relationship was, he and I were kind to each other.  Sometimes, “love for one another” is not a Hallmark card moment. Rather it is giving someone dignity and an opportunity to run away from disaster! And so to my old friend and sometime lover, Hussein Sayef Azabdaftari “Chok tashekur ederem Sayefjim! Evet!” 

 

No Running in the Hallway!

A Letter of Appreciation, per Rx by author Richard Carlson, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff…and it is all small stuff.”

 

 

Dear Mr. Bob Farrar,

I thank you not only for sitting with me daily to teach me the inner workings of an IBM Mainframe three and a half decades ago but for encouraging my never-ending pursuit of education to make me a better employee. You said, "You can call me Bob." I said, "No, I can't.  I was raised to respect my superiors if not my elders." I have you to thank for some very important lessons I carried with me through life:

      When I was all of twenty (and has since discovered BOXED wine),  you gave me an advice as we approached the holiday season:  

1)      Stop drinking once you get the buzz. The fun starts at the precise moment you get a buzz. If you drink more after that moment, you will not remember the fun you are supposed to be having.  I passed out when I “tried to prove you wrong.” I could not even remember what I was doing on the floor of my friend’s bathroom. I missed the whole party and when I came to, the party was over.  Never again.

 In my thirties and about to become a mom to a boy I already named, you sat down with me  and gave the following advice:

   1)  Do not get too worked up if your son comes home with a problem.  Listen, think  through, and give  appropriate consequences.  If you overreact at a little problem, how will you react when he gives you bigger problems like drugs or teen-age paternity?  My advice is for you to sit down with your son and listen without being judgmental.  Love him unconditionally. You do not have to love what he has done and it is okay to tell him so.  Be ready to set boundaries and make him respect them.  If you cannot afford to send him to a private school, move somewhere where public schools are excellent.  You will appreciate this later.

      In my early forties and about to get married, you commented:

    1)   You have done very well and I am happy to see what you have become from the young       woman  I have interviewed many years ago.  You and Kris are going to be part of your husband's family soon. This will be a much different life with a husband to help you raise your son.  I wish you the very best. I congratulate you - live well, travel far, and enjoy the buzz.

   I still hear your voice as you stood by the door of your office while I approach:

1)       “Miss Vil-lorente, NO RUNNING IN THE HALLWAY! You are so full of energy but I don’t need that report this soon.”

2)      “You are the happiest person I know.  Don’t ever stop laughing.”

3)      “You took a class to get rid of your accent?  You do not have an accent, what you have is a melody.'”

  I have tried to live up to your words of wisdom. I appreciate your glowing reviews of my work and my promotions you gave me!  Alas,  that was not the only the point.   I appreciate your support when I “fell out by the roadside” and like a surrogate father, you sat down with me and told me that I was not expected to be perfect.  I was invited at your retirement party, after your distinguished career first with the US Senate Sergeant at Arms Office and then from the Secretary of the Senate's Office. 

I hope your retirement is as happy as you planned. I hope you are sunning in Bora-Bora, having dim sums in Hong Kong, eating paella in Salamanca, and sipping a robust Soave in Florence with your wife.  My son is now two years older than I was when I worked with you.  I have given him Lesson 1, "The Buzz" already.  Thank you ever so much, "Mr. Farrar."

 

Photo credit: Mr. Robert C. Farrar, Jr. - 2nd fr right was my Manager both at the Senate Computer Center  (Operations); much later as my Manager in the Budget and Procurement Dept where I worked as his Senior Financial Specialist. Photo taken when I received my 13 years of service appreciation plaque at the US Senate.  My son would be born four months after this photo was taken.

"Haha. Everything good, mama!"

I rushed through traffic.  I was a woman on a mission. I had to grab lunch, take clothes to the cleaners, go to the pediatrician, go to the pharmacy, and teach an ESOL class.  I have five hours to do all of these tasks.  I do not get home till ten pm.

It is a month after spring break and my son is about to complete his first year of college in the Midwest.   Only 19 years ago, I watched in horror as he threw up his formula in a projectile vomit.  As I changed his bed sheet over and over again, I realized how much I really loved this little guy that I cradled.  I knew the drill: BRAT and flat coca-cola. In the early hours of the morning, I called the on-call pediatrician to ask what to do.  She asked me if the baby had a fever and I said his temperature is 99.  She then quipped, “It is 99 and you are worried?”  I tersely said, “You tell me. You are the doctor, are you not? I am just the ignorant worried mom. So why don’t you tell me?”  She said, “Oh, okay, if it gets any higher, then you should take him to the emergency room.  Do not show your baby that you are stressed because you are going to cause him to get worse.”  I said, “I did not know that. So now you know I am stressed. Thank you for your time.  I hope you appreciate the contribution I make to your salary.”  I then bundled my son and took him to the emergency room of the Children’s Hospital in Washington, DC. 

Of course I worried when I heard him crying but the nurse assured me that she was more the nervous one than my baby as he was kicking and screaming as she tried to get blood from his little feet.    Countless times, I advocated for this little guy.  When one nurse told me with the six month old baby on my lap, “Make him calm down so I can draw blood.” I told her, “You want me to make a  six-month old to calm down?  I tell you what, why don’t you calm down so you can draw his blood?”  There is not one person in the world who would be a better advocate for your child than you. 

At the instant moment I now recall, I was rushing to the pediatrician so I can get my son's medication refilled.  This is the same doctor who has been seeing my son since he was six.  I still take him to her for many good reasons. She has children almost the same age as mine. Her children went through the same growing pains as mine did. They went to the same school where mine did and most of all, what she says echoes what I say when it comes to issues I care about.  It was important to me that his doctor shares the same values that my family believes in. 

However, based upon our discussion on this day, she recommended a book to read as my child has turned into a teen-ager, “Get out of my Life, but first, take me and Sheryl to the Mall.”  As a parent I have become a psychologist, a mentor, an enforcer, an advocate, unwanted presence, the controller, the one who knows nothing,  the adversary, the dork, the enabler, the terminator all wrapped up in warm blanket of nothing but love for my child. The child loves you but hate your “control” over them. You use the familiar, “I am not your friend and I am not raising your friends. My job is to….” “I do this for your best interest.”  The child throws a fit, slams the door, glares, refuses to cooperate, sabotages his/her own success  but as a parent, it is my job to be patient because this is the child that his father and I are parenting and we love no other more than we love him.  That love is tough.  It breaks our hearts to say no or disagree but there again is the question: Is it for the best interest of this child to…?  What I cannot do for my child is be his source of failure. 

Now in his early twenties, I still worry that he is not taking his allergy pills; that he is not taking an umbrella when it is raining; that he does not wear a muffler; or that he is not eating right.  It used to be my job to keep him safe and now it is his job to tell me that he is safe. 

He just celebrated a birthday. He is all tall and lanky and mild-mannered. No longer confrontational, he must have concluded that his parents were not the control freaks he had when he was 17-18 years old.  I have watched him transform into someone I like to have “my son be friends with.”  He has a sense of humor, even goofy at times but he is a smart, articulate young man who is still a work-in-progress and he is still like a sponge who absorbs and learns from his own experiences and from the counsel he seeks from his parents.  We no longer doubt that he can make it into this world; he is learning life’s lessons on his own.  We just have to let him drive and allow him to hit and recover from the bumps along the way.  My child, my forever love.

 

LaCrosse Game, Baltimore

Balong and his late grandpa, circa 1996

Lady's Choice--Tatlong Babae...Lani, Ate Vee, Nessie

stock photo/wwwdogpiledotcom
 

WARNING/caveat emptor:  all words as spoken or 'SIC'  to the speakers, wala po yang correction allowed ng Mam namin Charo.  Yun lang po. Ito po ang transcriber ng telecast. Wag na lang ninyong ilagay sa Internet at baka maBicutan tayo. --


Ladies and genelmen, magandang hapon po mga kapuso, kapamilya, at kabayan sa ibang countries na may TFC, London,Paris, Dubai.  Today, we have the pleasure of not having one, not two, but three celebrity, yes, three celebrities in our program. Please welcome Melani Marquesa, Vilma SanRecto, and Alma Ness Morenow! Ito po ang inyong showbiz central  (wohooo!!!!) program "Don't Shit with Me"  in other words ha, "don't lie to me" - tah-ray!! 

Applausa! Applausa! 

Welcome to our show, Melani, Ate Vi, Ness!!! Welcome to all of those in the studio also! (Palakpakan, yehey, yehey!!)

Melani: Thank you, I am glad to for here.

Ate Vi:  Thank you everyone, Hi Senator!

Alma: Thank you po! Luzon, Visayas, Mindanao!

First si Melani: As always, beauty ang ating very own Miss International. Eto ang question mo from the fans: What is your beauty secret?

Melani: Oh (smiles with killer cheeck bones) thank God I was blessed with beautyness with loving and fearing of God in my heart. My secrets is not a secret, as you know, I am model for Olay and that is my secrets.  So I just use what I use and never abuse naman for goodies sake.

-And to the rumors that you are also considering to run for office, what do you say to that?

Melani: I never consider to become politician but if I consider it, I cannot for now concentrate because I have many tele-seryes to do pa with offers from many studios who want to get me.  But if I think I will run, why not?  Because I think now the Philippines need beauty and brains in the government and not only brains because the brains can be confused and beauty is always in the eyes of the beholder.

Alma: Tama! Korek!

-Thank you Melani.  Now we turn to Governor Vi! Gob, kumusta na?

Vilma:  First thank you for inviting me. (Applause!) First also, hi to all fans and everyone, Senator and Lucky are watching us today.  (APPLAUSA!!! )

-Sow Gob, ikaw naman ano ang beauty secret mo? Ay, taray deba??  

Vilma: Siempre to do good for the people of Batangas.  I always make sure that I have served them and I keep young by continuing to do movies kaya ok sa alright naman ako.  By alphabetical order, lahat ng teachers sa Batangas my alibreng diamond peel sa end ng school year kaya okay naman sa alright sila.

- Oh you plan to run again for governor?  Walang limit ang term ng office mo Gob? Tah-ray de ba?

Vilma: Yes, I plan to die in office.  Waray mean, I will die as a governor if not president. That is now my home away from the mansion that Senator and I built. Alam naman ng marami na I am always given an award by the University of the Philppines, recently the Diwata Awards.  I was also given an honorary doctorate degree.  Also, Lucky will most likely succeed me kasi he is now running for councilor.  Ok di ba?  I am sure mahusay na konsehal ang anak ko, okay sya sa alright and he will follow in my footsteps. I did not need a college degree to become governor, I married a Senator and who knows, maybe I will be running for president when I become 65 years old…right Senator?  By the way, by the way, don’t forget to watch my film The Healing, palabas nap o ito, panoorin ninyo, okay sa alright!! (Super applause, walang tigil!)  Ok, ok, alright.

-Thank you Gob! (Applausa!!) Yes, one day you can be President!  Ay ang taray!!  (Applausa!)  Okay, ladies and genelmen, and now, we again welcome Alma Moreno Sultani.  (Applausa!)

-Ness, it is nice to see you. Kumusta naman?  You have been busy the past decades and so the fans want to know the secret to your stamina.

Alma: Well, ganyan lang ang life, it rebounds around di ba.  Hindi porke natapos ang isang malungkot na chapter  mag give up lalo na ang kababaihan  (Applausa!!!) Kita naman ng fans ang aking fighting spirit and my versatiliness in all and all my being wife to many husbands, with childrens of different fathers and my tv shows, my political inspirations to become if not mayor, governor e di Senator. Multiple choice is a Lady’s choice.

Melani: Korek ka dyan, Ness!

-So Ness, you have declared  that you are running for Senator 2013, ready ka na ba?

Alma: I am ready and I am going to run fast for the Senate senator of Marawi if I do not get pregrnant this year.  Naglalayag na ako e.

-You mean…

Alma: I mean it is the same, Marawi, Paraniaque, if not Congress then Senate…basta remember I want to push the rights of women.  Every women has right to marry as many times they want and a right to bear children with anyone and everyone.  That is my campaign material and all those people saying I am writing rubber checks –you are wrong, I know they are paper because I was the one who signed them!

-Ok sa alright!  Okay, ladies and genelmen, there you have it, the three most popular women in Philippine celebrity and politics these days. Wag ninyong kalimutan mga kapuso and kapamilya, a strong Philippines need stong women—wala nang dadaig pa sa  tatlong yan…Wika nga po ni Alma, it is our lady’s choice! Hanggang sa muli—abangan si Pekwang at Deonisia Pakyaw and Annabelita Rama sa next show! MAGSABUNUTAN KAYA? That is the one million pesos ques-tsen! Tah--RAY!! Aaaaaaay!!