Winning the Part of Mrs...Part 6 of Many

From this moment, life has begun...
----Shania Twain

After we signed the pre-nuptial agreement (prenup), fiancé (FE) and I decided to wed in the Spring. When he asked how we were to proceed, I told him, “If we are going to have a much-to-do wedding , we need to do it the Filipino way and that means the groom pays for the wedding. If we do it the American way, we will have a problem. I am not going to spend my money on a wedding. Whatever money I have saved is for my son.”

Lesson – remain true to your cultural norm, especially if it is irresponsible not to.

Furthermore, I have never in my life, fantasized about marching down the aisle, wearing a ton of make- up, hair stiff with lacquer, wearing some drag queen jewelry, a white wedding gown as though I was sweet and pure. You know how some women said that all they did when they were young was to fantasize being a princess and marrying a prince? How sexist! Really! When I was a young girl, I fantasized about being a hippie wearing lots of bangles, wearing a long skirt, and living in a theater commune. Girls should instead fantasize of being the ruler, be the one to see if the boy fits the shoe! Anyway, I was a forty something bride. At this point, a short ceremony before a court official would have sufficed. I could not imagine being a blushing bride and if I were blushing at any point past my 37th birthday, I probably was having hot flashes. And finally, I come fully packaged with a first grader. Indeed, I was not interested in a big wedding. However, FE said he wanted to give me a proper wedding.

We considered getting married in the Philippine Embassy but we found out that if we did that, our marriage would have been “officiated in the Philippines”, as the embassy is legally part of the Philippines. I did not particularly favor one church over the other. The Catholics did not want FE to use their church! He was divorced and was a sinner. On the other hand, I was born and raised and baptized and confirmed a Roman Catholic, I became a protestant at 16 without the Catholics knowing anything about it, I had a child out of wedlock but never married in church so I was viewed as deserving of the Catholic rites and blessings and has the right to kiss the Pope’s ring. Not FE! Not good enough! So we decided to go “Catholic light.” Light on guilt. Allows you to dip the host in wine. Gives communion to everyone. My kind of church. We were going to be wed at the cathedral of Saint Agnes and Bernadette, a historical, beautiful Anglican cathedral in town. Go King Henry!

The next issue was the date. It could not happen just anytime in Spring. First, I was in the center of a theater production. I was directing a flagship production for the Philippine Centennial, to be mounted during the week of the Philippine Independence Day. We were rehearsing every weekend and every waking moment I had, when I was not working was spent visualizing, creating, planning, and honestly had no time to spare for a wedding. And so, with the blessing of my cast and crew, I took one weekend in April to have a church wedding. Planning for the wedding was easy. First of all, I knew that the lead actors would show up. There was only one rehearsal, there were no prima donnas to deal with. There’s only one performance. He and I get to choose the audience. We decided the Cherry Blossom week would be good and a trip to Europe in June right after the play was staged would be a good respite; in fact we would leave the day after the last performance.

A week before the wedding, I was changing my son’s clothes. Seated on my lap, I noticed he was crying so I asked him what was wrong. He looked at me and asked, “Mommy, do you really, really love me?” “Mommy loves you of all the little boys in the whole wide world.” “Then why am I giving you away?” “You are not giving me away.” “You said at the wedding, I will give you away. I do not want to give you away,” he said as his tears flowed. “Oh no, that was not meant for you to give me to someone. It only meant that you are going to lead the way for me to Tatay. We will walk together…” “I do not want to give you away! Mommy, please do not make me give you away.” “No, you do not have to, Anak. Hush, it is okay… See, I am here and you will not give me away. Will you walk with me to the altar because I will be too scared I may not be able to? “ “No, I will walk by myself. I will wear my tuxedo and I will look like James Bond. I will be your ring boy and Tatay’s best boy, ‘kay?” “Okay, you got yourself a deal! Tahan na, anak. Do not cry anymore. Mommy will never, ever leave you behind, okay? Remember, we are a team you and I. I love you, always. Always.” “Ok. Always. Now let’s read Harry Potter. Mommy, is Hagrid a redneck?”

It was seasonably rainy on my wedding day. The cherry blossoms were scattered like snowflakes on the emerald green grass. The world sparkled through the prism of gentle rain drops. I walked to the waiting car, with little Kris holding on to my hand.

He was crying earlier because his shoes were too big so I gave him a pair of woolen Christmas socks to wear and he loved them! I put my hair up, put my make-up on, put my wedding dress on, a simple sheath made of Philippine pineapple silk fiber with rice pearls adorning it, a pearl tiara an tulle veil, and an old pair of cream leather shoes, and I was ready to walk down the aisle. Checking my list of "props," I made a mental note. Something old: me; something new: pearl tiara; something borrowed: sister Carme’s wedding veil; something blue: engagement ring. Seemed like I was ready to get married.

We were half walking, half skipping to the car when my little boy slid and fell on his buttocks on the sidewalk. He let out a cry but I pulled him up and said, “Whoa! What a brave little James Bond!” I almost went down with him but I caught myself and I could see the amused look on our chauffer’s face. Victor, my husband’s favorite chauffer, who spoke with an elegant British accent, greeted me, “Good morning Madam. Shall we take you to your groom?” “We shall, thank you very much, Victor!” With a smile in his eyes and much happy chatter between me and my BFF and my overflowing love for the handsome little boy seated next to me, I was on my way to say “I do” to my beloved glow-in- the- dark white knight in shining armor.

It was not a stage, but all the characters were there. My audience was not that big and the venue was solemn and the musician was cuing me for my entrance. There were beautiful ferns and flowers adorning the church. The two little girls went first, so pretty in their matching crisp white dresses, each carrying a bouquet of white flowers, walking behind them was my little boy, then there was just myself and no one else. It was an out of body experience.

I was cuing myself: Curtain! Enter. Walk, do not run, hello? Slowly. Smile. Jeez, float! I was seeing and thinking in slow mo: my friend L was there, hahaha, did she just get a face lift!? J and A, wow, she lost a lot of weight, both look happy, geez they should allow same sex marriage. Oh, E, you look good in that color, girlfriend, eeeeee! eeeeee! Can you believe this? A, hey, hee-hee-hee, I told you I was not going to screw this one up. See? I was multi-thinking in rapid Taglish, “Okay,kay,kay!”, What? Sige,sige, sige walk na! Ano ba, OMG, get a hold of yourself! Grabe! Nay ko po! Shishkebabs! Is this real or is this Memorex? Hahahaha. This is so scary. Yikes!

I needed to enjoy the moment. Instead I was freaking out. I was thinking, laughing, crying all inside my head. It seemed forever to get to the altar.

Inside my head: I was thinking: OMG, this guy has really lost it. He truly is waiting down the aisle for me. I was laughing: He is not running to the nearest exit! I was crying and saying: He is so reliably, devotedly, lovingly waiting for me. Then I saw a sea of jusi and pinya outfits - my family, my young nieces and nephews and sisters and brother and sister-in-law and my heart swelled with all the love I have for them and all the love they have for me. I saw my friends who have been through so many roads with me and I saw my FE’s friends and family. Yikes! This production was awesome. I stopped saying, crying, and laughing inside my head. That was schizo, alright! I calmed down. I smiled and I continued floating down the aisle.

“For better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until death us do part…

Pangako sa iyo, ipaglalaban ko, sa hirap at ginhawa ang ating pag-ibig. Upang di magkalayo kaylan man..."

Having said our vows, wedding songs sung, rings exchanged, we officially became husband and wife. We proceeded to the reception site. Union Station was filled with tourists. And the Ringling Brothers had an exhibit on the promenade. The circus was in town. What an appropriately wonderful way to send us on our way! I threw my bouquet from the top of the stairs of the cafe to the delight of my friends, family and total strangers trying to catch it.

Two weeks or so before our wedding, FE called me and asked me if I would make a call to the pastry shop. It seems that everyone told him that we had to have a wedding cake. It was the last thing on my mind and his too. He did not like cake, he would rather have a wedding cookie. I was busy with my play and could not be bothered by of all things, cake! But I had a favorite French bakery in town and FE called them. He told me that they insisted to talk to the bride. So I called them and asked them to bake a pear mousse cake. Mr. French baker or whatever you call him in Francais was nice but I could hardly understand him. He wanted me to come and choose a design. No design monsieur, just a plain sheet of mousse cake please. He wanted me to choose a decoration – a bride and groom on top of the cake. Were they thinking like a white guy and a brown doll perhaps? No thanks. What, like a Mr. and Ms. United Nations about to skate on ice? No, merci beau coups. I just want a plain sheet of pear mousse. D'accord. I thought.

During the reception, my newly minted husband (HB) told me. “I had them cut the cake already.” It appeared that the restaurant staff called him into the kitchen to show him the cake and to ask him what he wanted to do. They opened the box, and the cake said, “Café at Union Station.” It seemed like Mr. Frenchesco wrote the destination of the cake instead of “Congratulations HB and GE" (ok, GE for gorgeous). We laughed so hard, nothing else could go wrong, but did, and made our wedding all the more memorable. Lessons for my non-existent daughter on planning a wedding.

1. Get real, it is just a wedding. Worry more about the marriage.

2. KISS it. (Keep It Simple Stupid).

3. Ask your friends to take photos. They provide the most realistic view of your day. Our photographer failed to produce one single useful photo.

4. Laugh at the “unfortunate” happenings. Those become the memories you relive through the years. Worry about substance over form.

5. Marry the one you love, and only the one you love!

6. And last and more importantly, celebrate marrying a frugal guy, he would always have money stashed away somewhere. I promise.

Two months later, my cast and crew had a gala opening of “Filipinas, Circa 1905”, at the Marvin Center, George Washington University. We had a very good review. Our production henceforth became part of Fil-Am theater history in the Washington, DC area. I was once more a true Anak-Tibawan, proud of my University of the Philippines theater background and proud to be a Filipino kilos-sining.

The day after our final performance, Mr. Victor took us to the airport .“Have a pleasant trip, Mrs. Russell. See you when you get back, Madam.” Whoa! Did he really call me Mrs. R? Here's the deal, this is serious, serious business! My name has changed, and I was still reeling from the previous night’s discussion, which was a meltdown about his name and mine together on checks and a credit card with my first name and his name on it. Oh. My. God.

We boarded a Swiss Air flight bound for Rome, Italy.

“Please do not get used to this.”

Audition for the Part of Mrs...Part 5 of many - I was chosen for the part!

Audition for the part of Mrs….Part 5 of many

And so it was that in the summer of 1997 that BF, myself, little son, and nanny moved in together.

There was his ugly sofa. But then I was told that my sofa was equally if not more hideous. So, the hideous sofa went to the basement and the ugly sofa graced the living room. There were heated discussions about where to hang art work and there were “compromise walls” that went empty for over a year. We could not agree as to what should hang on them and we voiced our strong opinions against each other’s choice. We decided that the only thing that was acceptable to us both was to leave the space empty.

A few weeks later, BF asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I wanted a Pyrex meatloaf pan. Seriously. On my birthday morning, he handed me what felt like a metal meatloaf pan, albeit wrapped elegantly. My heart skipped a beat and my mind raced. Why did I do this to myself? I was thinking, “He is cheap! How could he have bought me such a cheap metal pan?” DISSAPPOINTED! (as uttered by Kevin Kline in the movie, “A Fish Called Wanda”) I said “thank you” without opening it. He asked, “Are you not going to open your present?” So I politely sat up and proceeded to tear the wrapper. Inside the pan was a small white box. Inside it was a ring with a four-carat blue sapphire center and a trillion-cut diamond on each side. He got on his knees and asked me to marry him. Thus, BF has earned a new abbreviation of FE (fiancé).

Around the end of January, FE announced that I needed a new car. I had been driving a 1989 Saab, with manual transmission and a big chocolate stain from a Hershey chocolate bar hurled at the rear window by my son. The chocolate bar melted under the sun and made an ugly stain that looked like I attempted to murder my son. FE did not like my car. For a lot of people, a Saab 900 is an acquired taste. I absolutely loved mine.
Unbeknownst to me, FE had been taking little Kris and test-driving cars. At this particular time, when he announced that I needed a new car, my son said “Mommy, we drove a Jaguire.” FE said the Jaguire did not have enough room for his legs so would I mind driving a Mercedes Benz? It was 1997; M-Benzes were not as common as Dunkin Donuts in the US at that time. Did I mind driving one? I minded it like I mind flying business class. Hee-hee. He himself drove one, whom he affectionately called Ben. So we went to the dealership to look for a baby Benz to keep Uncle Ben company. I wanted a black car. He wanted a silver/gray car. Boring. Boring. Boring. I wanted a black car, period. He wanted a silver grey car, period. I told him my skin would look better against a black Benz. He has not heard of such a preposterous idea.

He said grey or silver car color is classic. I told him it’s blah. We quit speaking to one another. The salesman was getting nervous. Then, I saw, a few feet away from us was a Calypso Green model. It was the color of the Interstate Highway signs all over North America. I said, “Okay, we should buy that green one.” The ploy did not work. Instead, he said, “Okay, we will buy that green one.” So we took home the Beltway Green car. The salesman Mahmood told us it was a trendy color at that time (he probably was happy to get it out of the lot) but I honestly did not want a trendy car. I imagined it is perfect for a TV ad – a guy with a George Hamilton tan and a young woman with Victoria Beckham’s balloons are smiling at each other against a backdrop of sun and sand– A voice over asks, “How would you like to spend a week in the Caribbean for as low as $1199? Call now, 1-800-WE-TRAVEL for a 20% discount for the first 100 callers. $1199 is all it takes to stay at the Ranchos Resort for not 1, not 2, not even three but a total of glorious 7 days. You must be eighteen or older to participate. ” Camera pans the twin sister of my green Mercedes Benz driven in front of resort , young woman with Victoria’s balloons in sarong and hat and George’s tan man poses and go towards the green water while the green Mercedes Benz drives away. But not fast enough for viewers to exclaim, "Look at that ugly car! OMG, are they serious?"

He bought the green car. I named her Sally. We both made vicious fun of “her” color but she was dependable and flirtatious!

Lesson 1 – hideous is in the eye of the beholder.

Moving on, FE asked me if I would sign a pre-nuptial agreement.
I consulted a lawyer, but not the one I was getting married to. My lawyer read the pre-nup document and advised me to go ahead and sign it. Some people consider signing a pre-nup unromantic. “Why would he ask you to sign one? It shows he does not trust you about money?”

Why should he trust me? I do not even trust myself to make the right decisions about money. I mean, I have actually overpaid for things and those salesmen exist to rip you and me off. Anyway, I believe that a pre-nup is important to lay down the rule that no one is entitled to anything that each party to the agreement (marriage) earned or owned prior to the time of marriage. I also think that it is absurd to think that I was marrying my FE for romantic reasons. I was marrying him because some people love each other enough to swear they will not leave each other come hell or high waters. I am not sure I got the idiom correctly. I wanted to marry this person who treats me as an equal and someone I respect a lot, and someone who decclare his devotion to me and to my son. Okay, let me cut the BS. It was fine, really, I was okay with it and I was also dying to know exactly how much he was worth that he would spend the money to pay for language to make sure that I do not get my hands on it. And only if I divorce him. If I don't, maybe he would share a little?

When the lawyer asked him what I was bringing into the marriage. He said “Nothing.” She said, “Is she in some retirement plan?” “Yes, she works for the US Congress.” “Well, she might be worth more than you are!” she teased. When he told me this, I cracked up. I told him, “Did you not say I was bringing beauty and laughter, grace, and a kid into your life?”

My fiancé was a quick-thinking, smart, financially savvy guy. He did not want to marry anyone with any debt. He did not want red marks on my financial statement so he and I drew a plan on how I could make the red marks go away before we got married. By the time I signed my name on the pre-nup, promising that I would not be greedy if we get divorced; that I would not try to take what was not mine, that I would not go after his money that I was not about to go after any collections he owned, Christmas ornaments, art, savings, stocks, bonds, the ugly sofa, his monogrammed towels, antiques, coffee mugs, food processor, whatever, I was a good catch. I did not have any debt, I did not have any car payment, no credit car debt. I was clean as a whistle.

The pre-nup work both ways. It stated that if we get divorced, he was not entitled to go after my hidden wealth either, so well hidden, I myself could not find it, or my collections like – my shoes, bags, jewelry, true crime books, my white and blue porcelain bowls, and my Balinese art and my Filipino book collection. Oh, and my jazz CDs and my plants, and my old pots and pans. He told me that he liked the that he did not have to go through diaper changes and bottles with Kris. I asked him where he was when I was doing all that. He responded, “I was busy in law school preparing for our future.” Then, I told him, "This is a hypothetical question. Does a man get to fight over someone's son brought into a marriage that is dissolving?" His response: "Hypothetically? No. Don't worry, you can tell your hypothetical friend her son is safe." Good.

I won the Lotto of life. I found my soul mate - an honorable, caring, responsible, intelligent, successful man who earlier in our relationship told me, “I will not say I love you yet because when I do, it will mean I have thought a lot about it and I have made plans and those plans include Kris.”

Lesson 2 – Powerball hits you only once. When it does, do not duck!

Sally, the calypso green car was sold three years later and I hope whoever bought her loved her as I did. She was replaced by a much bigger model that’s silver and grey. I did not name her replacement. It’s just a car.

Lesson 3 – Learn to accept that color can be blind – or that you can get blinded by color or that you must be blind when you cannot see color. In other words, if it is free and it is a Mercedes Benz, just take the darn thing, say thank you, and drive it.

So I signed our pre-nup and our wedding was set for the Spring of the next year.

Saying "see you soon" is not soon enough...

Middle of summer, 2009 –

We just returned from taking our son to college in the Midwest. We live in the East Coast so why out there, you ask. The only unjust reason I can think of is he wants to stay as far away as he can from his parents. Actually, we gave him a choice to pick a school that would meet the standards that he and we set forth. What made him decide was someone who he worked with as an intern last summer went to the same university and told him how great her experience was. He made a big decision based upon hearsay. A good decision, if I may add. Thus, the journey to his adulthood began with college visits last fall, culminating in his choice of moving out to the Midwest to pursue a degree he has not quite decided yet.

We flew in on a Saturday in the middle of hot August to move him into his dorm by Sunday. It was not lost to us that it took us longer to go to Missouri than to fly from Washington, DC to London, England. We were met with a thunderstorm, a precursor of what to expect in the next few days.

It was a busy day- an organized chaos with adults and would-be-adults moving “stuff.” They were pushing, pulling, carrying, bringing with them computers, mini fridges, microwave ovens, printers, and other accoutrements of the 21st century. I think the move was a moment of truth for our son —he has to share a small room with another student. No longer does he have exclusive use of his own room, play/TV room, computer/study room, and bathroom. Now he has two and a half drawers, a hanging closet that also serves as his pantry, and a storage closet to store his suitcase. There was a tiny desk for his laptop, papers, books, phone, and the printer was put on top of his foot locker. Under his bed were cases of Orange Crush and Fanta Grape soda.

But the ratio of every inch of his space in that tiny room to the size of his freedom is 1 to 10. Imagine - he can eat as much junk if he so chooses; he does not need to do his laundry for the whole semester, he can drink a whole truckload of soda. He can stink as much as he wants for as long as he wants. I gifted him with a can of Febreeze. At last, no longer is his annoying mom fixing his favorite rice and beans, jerked pork and chicken, buying the most gorgeous apples at the little marketplace near home, making popcorn and iced tea to share while watching another one of his silly “Mom, it is so funny, trust me!” videos during those afternoons when his mom is working half days. No longer is his Dad going to ask him twenty thousand questions like, “Did you return the book? When did you return it? Were you late? If so, by how many days? How much did you pay in fees? Now do you realize that you did not have to pay late fees? What lesson did you learn from this experience? ” My son and I have a secret. When he was about twelve, he told me that on his Dad’s second sentence, he (son) is already in Jupiter and in his own orbit. I believe that all three of us were in our own orbits during the move- I am sure my son was in Uranus, I was in Venus, and his Dad was the only one on Earth.

No longer would he hear his parents saying, “Please take your shoes to your room” to his “I will!” progressing to “How many million times will I ask you to take your shoes to your room?” and the final “Take your shoes to your room, right now. I mean, NOW at this moment!” to his “I said I will, calm down, what’s up with you! Calm down. I will do it!” “NOW!” “Ok, jeez, what’s the big deal?”


Here are the “ginzu knives” to sweeten the deal: No longer is he going to take out the trash and clean the cats’ litter box. No longer is his mom going to open his bedroom door and exclaim, “OMG, what died up in here? Is there an alien growing here? How can you breathe? This is an anomaly, no this is abomination. Can Febreeze help this? Clean it. Get rid of your alien. NOW! PLEASE!!” to his “Mom, stay out of my room.” “What do you do on your afternoon off aside from spying in my room?” To which his mom responds, “As long as you are living in this house, you do not have the right to expect reasonable privacy. I will go in your room and spy. I will not read about your secret in the newspapers. That is my and your dad’s job. End of discussion.”

Or, when his mom would say, “You will die if you do not wash your hands! You will die if you do not eat fruits and vegetables! You will die if you drink too much soda!” He always finds it overly dramatic, and I have to agree, but whenever I say that he would die, I am being a Filipino pessimist in my heart. We use the word dying lightly “Sige, pag hindi ka kumain niyan, mamamatay ka.” (Go ahead, if you do not eat that, you will die.) So he laughs and says in a monotone, “Really, mom.”

In reality, I am sure he will not have the patience nor I the time to talk about the dynamics of catching a virus or a life threatening bacteria. When he was young, I would tell him that “munchies” invade and kill and I would have his undivided attention as he conjured visions of the munchies slowly crawling. He is no longer my little boy. “Mommy” gave way to “Mom.” “Kissy gave way to Kris.” Or when I mean business, I say “Kristoffer!” or “Hoy!” (Hey!)

It was rainy when we moved his things but the weather improved to a bright sunny afternoon to our relief. There were so many chores to do yet. The week preceding this move, we spent time packing and attempting to clean his rooms at home. We counted over a thousand videos that were put in his old toy box. We gave away old clothes that had been in his room since he was in middle school.

Now moving into his little dormitory, we helped him connect computers, organize closets and drawers and shop for things he might need. During the momentous move, however, I believe I have turned into the dummy and official punch bag. Everything that came out of my mouth was met with indignation. I had no suggestion that did not meet with a “are you from this earth?” look; I said nothing that was intelligent. If I said, just for conversation, “The sun is out!” I was told, “Why would you think it would not come out?” If I said “The rain started again.” I was given the “what kind of stupid statement is that” look. When I was his age, my equally dismissive retort to any adult’s statement would be “Obvious ba?” (Subtext: you idiot!)

Despite what I was feeling, I had to be the parent and in control of my emotions. I understood, and my husband made sure to remind me, that our son was under a lot of stress. But that did not stop me from reminding my son that all three of us are under stress and he has to be nice, we would leave him alone sooner than much later.

When we were done with our task at the end of one hectic day, he looked at us and asked without fanfare, “So what are you still doing in Kansas? Are you not leaving yet?” We told him we were scheduled to attend parent sessions. He was incredulous. Does that mean that we would still be together? Our mere presence was objectionable to him. Unfortunately for him, the answer was yes because 1) he has not been to an orientation; 2) he has not registered for classes ; 3) we had to set up a local bank account for him; and lastly and most importantly, we had to write the first of the big fat checks that will pay the University to help him become a responsible adult.

I said something about his choosing his classes. He said something that made me furious and I became the child throwing a tantrum, “Listen, this stupid mother of yours graduated with a 3.89 GPA at the university. Until you can top that, do not talk to me like I am some kind of an idiot. I am so sick and tired of your attitude, snap out of it. NOW! “ I slid down the path I had been trying to avoid. I told him that the feeling was mutual, that I did not want to be in the same space that he was in, but that I had to be and that was it. And while we were on the subject, I reminded him that my name's on the check that was paying for his education so maybe he had better be nice to me.

On the way back to our hotel, I cried and my husband said that my son would miss me too. I told him I was not crying because I will miss him. I was crying because he seemed to hate me. Not true? Tell me that tomorrow.

We saw a movie and I completely forgave my son’s demeanor. I realized that maybe he was going through the same separation anxiety process I was going through. My heart was going out to him. I am sure he was tired, overwhelmed, and embarrassed that he has parents.

Then my Blackberry buzzed. "Sorry I was being difficult, I am stressed and I was acting out. Much love." So there.

The next day, we attended the orientation and learned so many insightful things. He is learning about the the value of community, opportunity, hard work, success. For our part, we were reminded that we need to allow him to make his own decisions, be a consultant, not the facilitator. We need to give him space. I met another family whose mom is Asian as well. She and I compared notes about how we are treated by our sons. We seem to be talking about the same “boy.” Her husband is American, she is from Jakarta, her son looked Chinese and they live in Oman. I then realized that as much as we are just like any normal family, outwardly, we are not typical. I am Filipino, my husband is White and my son looked Persian . Ratna, my newfound ally told me that they wondered about us and I told her that I wondered about them. She gave me the opportunity to laugh again. I wanted so much to get back at my son, for how he was treating me. I wanted to momentarily distance myself from him, and declare that he is adopted. But instead I told her, “Oh, he is adopted by my husband...” One beat, two, “He is my son.”

The morning of our departure, the three of us had breakfast . We paid his fees and prepared to go home. He hugged his father and when my turn came, he said, in a warning tone, “Mom.” I gave him a hug, wished him luck and as he turned to go, I said “I love you, Kris!” He turned and walked away to go to a library tour.

I sobbed as we drove away. I could not believe that I was leaving my son behind. I started beating the arm of my husband, telling him that I could not believe he would allow me to leave my one and only son behind. He asked me if I could at least mentally accept that he is in a good place. I agreed but that did not make it easy. When the plane took off, I felt such sadness and cried all the way up to an altitude of 35,000 feet. Then my husband showed me a text message stating, “Dad I will be fine. I like it here. I will be okay. I will do well. Love to you and Mom.” Fifteen minutes later, and feeling a little better, I was drinking a virgin Mary.

The first thing I did when we got home was to go into my son’s room on the pretext of taking a pair of shoes he left behind. There was a lingering, all too familiar stink in the room and I cried despite myself. Our cat smelled his shoes. Cat looked at me and sniffed the shoes, seemingly saying, “Yeah, lady, I would cry too at this smell.”

Very late afternoon on Friday, my son sent me an email stating that he really likes it at the University. His professors are fine and he was thinking of switching a subject. I was not sure that he wanted a response because earlier, when I sent him a text message asking if he was okay, he responded with “Stop it, Mom.” I texted him back with “Stop what?” “I will email you later over the weekend.” “E-mail your dad. Goodbye!”
I was crying like a big loser when my coworker found me. I closed the door and she told me, “We mothers are naggers, we are repetitious, and we mind what is not our business. This is what my daughter tells me. Do not contact him. Wait for him to contact you.” We left to go home.

As soon as my coworker got off the train, I took out my Blackberry and I emailed my son. I told him that the beauty of being in college is that there are many classes to choose from to satisfy the requirements and that if for any reason he does not like any of the ones he signed for, be it the professor or the subject matter, he can drop it and take another one and that I am sure that whatever he decides will be the best decision for him. I stared at the Blackberry – shall I hit the ‘send’ button or not? Will my response be met with another “Stop it, Mom.” I clicked the ‘send’ button and promised not to ever be the first one to send a message, ever, ever again.

We heard from him today, Sunday. He is fine. He did not switch out of Psychology. He saw a movie with his roommate and his dorm friends. He asked to speak with me. We talked for two minutes and ended with “I love you mom.” I had the temerity to say “You need to go. You might have some studying to do. I love you too. Bye!”

The cats are probably wondering where the boy with long wavy hair went. They nap in his room. At lunch, I made noises with the pots and pans and I automatically apologized until I realized there was no teen-ager still in bed at two in the afternoon. I am beginning to feel good about leaving him in Kansas. He has been our source of joy; the center of our universe. He asked us once, rather presumptuously but rather true, “Mom and Dad, I am the center of your lives. Are you going to be okay when I go to college?”

We are okay. We will look forward for his phone calls, text messages, his emails. We know, however, that this is his time to discover new things, meet new friends, and prepare to compete in the adult world. He needs space.

In the meantime, we cleaned and re-assigned space at home. His room no longer stinks. His play room is now a work-out room and the computer screen in his study room is dark. The cat’s litter is cleaned, the trash taken out, life goes on but dude, we miss him more than he will ever know! In the meantime, his Dad has put together things we are sending out to him. We are okay. We are chill, we are cool.

Thirty years or so ago in New Manila--

I digress and beg my reader’s indulgence -- Someone so very dear to me, all of 18, my son has just discovered the feeling of being with someone who makes him feel special. In his eyes I see a twinkle, his attention is now riveted and I no longer hold the special position as the woman he first loved. He said what they have is "exclusive but temporary." This essay is a nod to that similar special time in my life --

The 70s-
I philosophized like a grown-up and behaved like a child. I was dealing with my own issues and angst. My sense of self-esteem was precariously hinged on my being accepted to attend the state university and to the disappearance of pesky acne. Although I was relatively popular in high-school, there were a lot of things I was insecure about. Then I shot up to an impressive height at 15. I took great photos but I walked with a slight gait. I spoke English well but at times I was full of shit. I also changed my religion. I was articulate, an active student leader, and I was surrounded by a group of smart friends. We were called the “intellectual snobs” in high school. We spoke English and practiced saying ‘choclet’ versus “choco-late”; we spoke in Taglish rather than Tagalog. I was a teen-age beauty queen. I once had the bragging rights of being the prom date of a UP Prep School valedictorian.

The mirror told me something else though—I was breaking out and I was very conscious of my skin. In a country where the standard of beauty was and still is to a great extent measured by how fair skin is I was called “morena,” neither ebony nor ivory. I rebelled by slathering my skin with suntan oil and Coca-cola, and spending hours at the pool to get my skin much darker. I looked like a cocoa bean. I mooned the male students from Marian College who unashamedly use their binoculars to check me and my friends out at the YWCA pool. It was on a month of June in the 70s that I started to be addressed as “Miss…” I was a college student. It was the beginning of a four- year exploration, academically and otherwise.

I was not a straight A student in college. I did not see myself in the future as a brilliant lawyer, professor, or a corporate head. I could not make up my mind what I wanted to be. I did not plan my future. I was living by the moment. I decided to become a journalist. At that time, for me, college was the end in itself. In college, I blossomed; the acne went away, leaving ugly scars on my cheeks. I became the girl everyone became friends with. I was a college theater actress, I was fun to be with, I was tall and I was easy on the eyes, pretty in fact, despite the acne scars.

There was a dividing line between rich and poor in Manila. I was in the middle of a vast gap. Although my family was not poor, we were not part of the privileged few. I knew that it was just a matter of time that I would be going the USA. It was my firm goal as a young woman. This was encouraged by the fact that my Dad lived in the USA and my sisters and a brother did too. It was in the plan. But until I got there, I hated the US for its imperialism. So I was shouting slogans in the streets of Mendiola while wearing Levi‘s and getting deeply tanned by the pool using Coppertone. I was denouncing the US while I was eating Baby Ruth bars and listening to my very own Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band LP at home. It was four years full of irony in my young life.

One day, after lunch, I was sitting on the day’s newspaper on the steps of Vinzon Hall in the Diliman campus of the U of the Philippines. As I looked down, I noticed that I could read text on the paper from between my legs, and I saw an ad that read, “Wanted, female DJ between 18-23 years old. Bonanza Country Club Disco...” It was a very popular disco club during that time. I tore the ad and went to the club before I went home that evening. There were about thirty hopefuls waiting for their turn outside the club. Most of the girls were college students of mass communications; you can tell the “divide” between university coeds and colegialas. (all-girls colleges) The coeds seemed more mature and independent. The colegialas, on the other hand, were standoffish. Most of them wore false eyelashes. The interview was well underway when I got there.

I looked like fish out of water. I was wearing a pair of very casual boy shoes without socks; I had on a checkered red and white shirt under a very short grey jumper. My earrings were huge hoops made of a pair of thin bangles I cut and wore as earrings. I took the jeepney to get to the Club. I was not a privileged Mass Comm princess whose daddy bought her a car for her 18th birthday. Each of the girls got a few minutes of interview with Howard Medina, aka Long Tall Howard at the radio station DWKW. Don’t ask me how I remember; I have a photographic memory, selective, but photographic. I will remember to Google him just in case….We were all told to wait. I was the last applicant. My turn finally came.

He asked me what I did in school, what I did for fun, what music I liked, almost like we were just “hanging out.” We laughed at some silly joke and he asked what I have learned in broadcasting and I told him that I learned to say “Ito ang Inyong….Tiya Dely” or “Lundagin mo Baby!” He and his assistant showed me the DJ booth and showed me how the lights and sound board worked. I asked a few questions like may I “can” the music so I could dance in the booth sometimes? Okay, nothing ventured, nothing gained. But then he said, “Wel, will you be our DJ?” I was so happy I yelled, “Yeba! Yeba!” "You are hired!” He took me outside and announced to the other applicants that he made his decision. To this day, I can hear the grumbling from the others. One of them, dressed in a tight long skirt with a slit up to her hip approached, batted her false eyelashes and said, “Why did you not choose me? I think you chose the wrong girl!” Then he was surrounded by the other girls, whining in protest that he should not decide on the spot. However, Howard was steadfast in his decision. So, the job went to the girl wearing boy's shoes.

Howard was a gentleman and a mentor. On my first day on the job, he took me to his office. I was wearing a clean pair of jeans and a Crispa (think Hanes) tee-shirt. He said, “Now, repeat to me what you saw on the ad.” “Wanted female DJ, 18-23 years old.” “Female, right?” “Right” “Okay, so starting tomorrow, I want you to look female.” “Huh? What’s wrong with me?” “Well you look like a boy.” “A what?” “A boy who does not wear high heels and socks…” “Do you have shoes with heels?” “Yes but I do not like wearing them.” “Okay, sometimes you need to wear some shoes and clothes that will make you look like a girl.”

One day, I wore heels and a pair of slacks, a blouse that showed my midriff and he looked me over and said, “Now that you look like a female, stay away from the men.” He told me that my job was to play music for four hours and I was not expected to socialize with any patron. I was going to be paid P750 a month, about $210 a month, a lucrative pay for a rising 19-year old. I had free drinks and a free dinner. I was at the professional level, which meant that I could eat whatever I like from the club’s menu vs. the employee kitchen, I was entitled to three mixed drinks, and any soft drink I wanted. I was discouraged to be friends with the hospitality girls but that if I befriended them, I was to avoid being identified with them. He told me that I was not a hospitality girl, I was a DJ and those are two very different jobs. I was all of 19, I was eager to please my boss but I was also curious about the hospitality girls (HG).

I befriended Helen. She was supporting her parents and two younger siblings. She was the main breadwinner. She was a nice and pretty young woman, tall and svelte but heavily made-up with false eyelashes. She had the build of a model. Then there was Liza, who ignored me for the most part. She liked to talk about the self-pampering trips she made to the spa with her upcoming starlet friend, always carried on like some colegiala telling her exploits to her yayas. There was also Mirna and her sister Beatriz; both coeds and pretty with skin, white as alabaster. They were lively and the younger girl Mirna, looked very uncomfortable when she was working. I learned from Helen that they worked on commission. This was how the hospitality girls worked. They asked men who came to the Club without a date if they would like some company. If the man agreed, the HG would sit on the man’s table and order a drink. The girls get ½ of the price of the liquor plus any tips the men gave them. The more they drank, the more money they made. Helen told me that the men sometimes took them out on dates. She also told me that I should eat dinner with her in the “house.” When Howard learned that I ate at the employee kitchen, I was appropriately lectured. He told me that I should never do that again; that my job was above that of a HG. It was part of the great divide; like a caste system dictating who should be socializing with whom. I was DJ, Helen was HG. Two different abbreviations, two different implications. One is noble than the other depending on who is making the distinction.

"Long Tall" checked regularly if my shoes were clean. It was not unusual for my shoes to be smeared with mud from walking. He would sometimes tease me, “O, ano, are we a boy today?” He would share bits and pieces of his home life with me. I admired him. He was unusual in the Filipino husband paradigm. He was faithful to his wife and he loved her and his children. We had a technician named Noel and both he and Howard were very supportive of me at the Club. It was the time of the Doobie Brothers, the Isley Brothers, Smokey Robinson, Eric Clapton, Billy Preston, Roberta Flack, and many others. Life could never be better for a young college kid who had a great gig.

One day, I asked Howard why he hired me over the other girls and his response resonates up to the present. “Because you’re “viva” [full of life], “totoo ka” [you are real], and because you do not wear false eyelashes.”

When the Philippine's premier asshole Ferdinand Marcos declared martial law, a curfew was set. My shift ended at about 11pm, leaving me an hour to get home. I did not own a car; I took a taxi or bus or jeepney to get home. It was during one of those stressful times that a car filled with young men my age stopped and asked me if they could take me home. The young men were at the Club earlier and they recognized me as the DJ. We introduced ourselves to one another. One of them also went to the same university I did. We were definitely not going to make the curfew. They invited me to go with them and wait until the curfew was lifted. I agreed. I was a naive young woman without much choice.

We ended up in an apartment where other friends of theirs seemed to be in the middle of a party. They were kids of privilege I was not accustomed to. They were partying on, and they were making out like they were the only people present in the place. I imagined this was what an orgy was like and I have never been to one and I did not plan on being in one either. I was a nerd in their midst. All my young life, despite my bravado, my exploits were very limited and awkward and sometimes disastrous. The young man who owned the car we drove in was nice. He introduced himself as Jake C. He sensed my discomfort. I was clearly not a party girl. He and I started to talk and we hit it off.

Jake and I became inseparable. We socialized with his friends and mine. I was his "it" girl. I wore his ring. He was kind and thoughtful and always sensitive to how I was feeling or what I needed. He wrote me short sweet notes inserted in chocolate boxes. He waited patiently until I was done with my classes and then we would spend time together, listening to music, discussing the wisdom of smoking or not smoking grass. When you’re 19, there’s really not much to share. Life is just beginning.

In the meantime, word got around that I was the DJ at the club. Many Friday nights, I see my friends and their friends at the university in the crowd, a whole class would be there having a good time. I was good for the business. I loved my job!

Almost each night, around 11pm, I would see Jake quietly sitting in the club while I spun records for the patrons. He was gorgeous. Near the end of my shift, I would start spinning slow dance music and I would get down from the DJ booth to dance to our songs with him. I was utterly lost in my young love.

Sometimes, Jake drove me and his friends to his family’s beach house and there we would talk or walk along the shore. The two of us did not discuss the future, we did not declare great love for each other; but we lived in the moment. Love at 19 was not complicated. You laugh, love, fight, and start all over again.

It was New Year’s Eve and the club was full. I spotted Jake’s close friend Tony. He was born and raised from the same place I was so we had a rapport. He was very happy to see me at work that night and he told me that perhaps I should go with him after my shift, he would drive me to Jake’s and I would be his “New Year’s gift to my friend.” I readily agreed. Huge, huge, huge mistake. Jake was livid that I was with Tony. There was an exchange of harsh words. There was apparently something about Tony and Jake’s former girl friends that I did not know and before I knew it, Tony was being handcuffed and jailed for “kidnapping” me, and I was being accused of two-timing Jake. In Manila, privilege had its privileges. Jake was an heir to one of Manila’s wealthy families. He felt betrayed when he saw me and Tony together. The schism between them has come to a head. When you are a teen-ager, you value friendship as you value yesterday’s stale bread. I was caught in the middle of two boys fighting over their toys.

Actually, it was Tony who told me the truth about Jake. He introduced himself to me using his mom’s maiden name. One day, when Tony saw that I was wearing Jake’s ring, he commented that I must be special because none of the other girls wore Jake F’s ring. I asked him what the ‘F’ was in the Jake F. and Tony was surprised that I did not know so he proceeded to tell me that Jake’s last name was such. He was this of that family of that and this background and this and that of that and this. No one could ever know how completely humbling that revelation was to me. My mom warned me about falling in love with rich men’s children. She was disowned herself by my wealthy late grandfather Don Joaquin because she fell in love with my father, a mere mortal. And that is another story.

I explained to him why I was with Tony. I realized I was in the middle of something dark that I was trying to get out of. Tony was “regular people” like I was. But he obviously crossed the line, and since he was regular people, he spent time in jail. Muck was around me; it was dark and putrid and I could not get out of it. My heart was breaking and I cried until I could not cry anymore. I was defending my honor. I was defending my love. At the same time, I was horrified at how shabbily Tony was treated. He was accused wrongly and he did not do anything bad. An injustice was done and I was not equipped to deal with it. I thought Jake overreacted but he told me that it happened before- Tony would cheat with Jake’s girl friend. He would give the girl a ride and become intimate with the girl. That did not happen to me. I was trying to make him understand that through my tears. What about me- was I that type of girl? I obviously was not special after all.

We drove to the beach house and he asked me over and over again why I was with Tony in the car. We talked until the sun came up. He said he believed me, he said he loved me. We loved and we cried and then I never saw him again. It was, to borrow my son's words, "exclusive but temporary."

I worked my shift at the Club, spinning sounds that broke my young heart. I quit the job; I was becoming too unreliable. I left for the U.S. shortly thereafter. I wrote Jake letters. I had a stong need to let him know that I moved on. He never responded.

Years later, a post card came in the mail from him. We briefly saw each other – we were both in our twenties. Some things have changed – we were involved with other people. We were a little older but not the wiser. We talked until we ran out of things to say and we loved and disappeared again from each other’s lives.

Now, thirty some years after, we are both parents of children the same age as when we thought life was all about us. We have reconnected, old friends sharing fun memories, but no longer lovers. We have not had the time to fill each other on what transpired in the last thirty plus years. I have almost forgotten through the years, how profound he was, how elegantly he wrote and how well modulated he spoke, how his smile used to make me happy, how tender he was, how I looked up to him because he was more worldly than I was thirty some years ago. I tell him we are so much older. He tells me our outside appearance have changed but that we are the same people inside.

“Won’t you please read my signs, be a gypsy, tell me what I hope to find deep within me, because you can read my mind, please be with me…” (Please Be With Me, by Eric Clapton)

I no longer wear boy’s shoes. I am no longer insecure about my acne scars - laser has zapped them, I wear much better clothes, my shoes, all 100 pairs or so of them are always clean, I have seen most of the world but deep within me I am still the same – I am real, I love life, and I still do not wear false eyelashes.

Understudy for the part of Mrs, The Other Woman...Part 4 of many

Winter 1997-

During my brief stay in Hong Kong, BF and I decided we would live together upon our return to the U.S. as soon as school was over. But before any more commitments were made, we discussed one other very important issue. You see, Boyfriend (BF) had serious concern for the fire engine lipstick I wore during our first date. I initially argued that I had been wearing that color in the last decade, no one tells me what to wear, and furthermore, I paid for it myself. From his standpoint, red was “just gross!” I realized I did not want to get too worked up for something so trivial. I have been dealing with more substantive issues since my son was born that lipstick color was hardly an issue for me. Potty training boys are trickier when they’re over thirty years old. I was wise enough not to stand on a shallow principle and at that point, I loved him enough to give up red lipstick.

Lesson 1 –you are seriously considered for the part when the make-up artist discusses color. If you absolutely hate it, connive with the lights designer instead!

Upon our return to the USA, BF bought a townhouse. Shortly thereafter, my son and I moved into his house in the next State. There was going to be another woman in the house. This chapter is about her. She is the Nanny-Housekeeper (NH).

First there was a language "barrel" (sic), and it did not concern mine. It was the NH's. I would give her instructions and she would nod while saying something back. Then she proceeds to do something entirely different from what I have instructed her to do. I did not know 99% of the time what she was saying, and I was guessing the other 1%. When my face showed confusion, she would talk to BF and he would say, “uh-huh.” I was envious; he understood her.

One evening at the dinner table, she started saying something to him. He nodded and said the usual uh-huhs. Later, I asked him what she said. He said he did not understand a word she said. "So why are you always agreeing?" He said matter-of-factly, "To get her off my back." That set the tone for the next 3 and a half long years of figuring out how to communicate better with a hard working but incoherent woman I trusted my son with. It was an adventure all of its own.

1- electric avenue-
One night, BF was out of the country on business. It started to get hot and humid in Washington, DC. I instructed NH to bring out the electric fan from the basement so we can use it as an exhaust in the kitchen. She emphatically nodded her head. "Do you understand?" I asked. She looked insulted. "Uh-huh." I left to go to work while she took the boy to school. Later that evening, I came home to a clean house with electric blankets installed neatly on every bed in the house. I called BF who was in Germany to tell him what happened. We were convulsed with laughter.

2- mother is dead-
I tried a different approach. I used hand motions, and I also told her that if she wanted, she can speak to me in her mother tounge. She responded that her mother was dead. I said, in Spanish, “Es decir es que podemos hablar una y la otra en su idioma natal” [It means that we can speak to each other in the language of your birth]. She said, “No, I born…hmmm, mi mama murio” (She put a hand under her chin, making a cut-throat motion to make me understand that her mother is dead). Then she closed her hands together and her eyes rolled back as if in fervent prayer. Then she said, “Whoa! We speaken English.”

3- mary poplin -
One bright Saturday morning, I asked NH to go with me to run errands. I figured we could use some time to get more at ease in each other’s presence. I was wearing jeans, an old shirt, and a pair of flip-flops. She came out of her room, dressed in her Sunday best, carrying a leather handbag, wearing a hat, and a pair of pumps. I was too stunned to object to Mary Poppins' outfit. So, it was that fateful day that I "chauffered" her around. She loved going out and about!
She carried herself like a Colombian drag (sic) queen; she stepped out of the car, adjusted her hat, and walked with her nose up in the air. When she would purchase something, she would take out her checkbook and sign it deliberately, with a palpable air of superiority. When a cashier would try to ask her how she was doing, she acted like she was bored with the question. She would not respond or when she would, it would be an enthusiastic “Good!” Wanting to distance myself from the fool, I walked behind her. I succeeded to look like her personal maid in tattered blue jeans. At some point, I wanted to tell her something. She smiled and then whispered a warning to me, "I sayen to myself que I kill her if she talken Spanish to me in public." "She ---who are you talking about?" "Que you!" I wanted to choke her. She was going to kill me if I spoke Spanish to her? I told her "Oiga, voy a matarle antes que se me mata, me entiende?" She looked at me and said "Si, claro. You goen kill me if I kill you." That was the last time I took her around with me. Nada mas que desde entonces! [No more from now on.]
Lesson 2 - do not kill someone who has already killed you.

4- Spinach-
My son told me "Mommy, you know, she speaks Spinach." The problem with NH was that she came to the USA not speaking English. Her first employer who she took care for over two decades suffered a stroke. The lady lost her speaking ability and thus NH and she communicated in a manner only they could understand. She spoke something that sounded like pidgin English peppered with Spanish. The worst thing was that she thought she was speaking fluent English, saying with conviction, for instance "A message por telefono call for you." That was easy to understand but then the message she wrote never made sense so we told her, "If the phone rings, please do not answer. Thank you." "Okay." She did it anyway. However, she folds the linens like they just came back from the factory, inspected and passed by Inspector Number 8. The linen closet looked like Martha Stewart personally organized it.

5- telemarketer terminator

NH’s language skills had its unforeseen and amusing consequences. Telemarketers would call. I could just imagine.
TM: Good morning, may I talk with Mr. Whiteguy?
NH: No, he no here. Please to message?”
TM: Well, is Mrs. Whiteguy there?”
NH: No, she no here. Okay? Please to message?”
TM: Do you know what time they will be home?”
NH: No, I tellen they no home. Look, please to message?"
TM: Okay thank you. Goodbye. We’ll call some other time”
NH: I tellen…Dial tone.

6- hot towels -
One evening, I heard the microwave oven running so I went downstairs to see what was going on. I was worried that perhaps she was still hungry. BF was out of town. I tiptoed downstairs and asked her what she was cooking. She gave me a "what do you care look" and said, "I just dryen kitchen towels." "That is not a dryer. You are cooking towels. Listen why don’t you wash your hair then stick your head in the microwave. Tell me if it dries your hair, ok?" I went back to my room. I was furious. I was now realizing the danger of having this woman in charge of the house and my son. I calmed down when I realized that my son was too big to fit in the microwave oven. BF told me later that I should have not told NH to dry her hair in the microwave oven as I might find her doing just that. Lesson 3 - Do not use sarcasm with a moron. And buy a small-sized microwave oven.

7- what the hickey?
NH was proud of cleaning the house. She scrubbed our range so well that she changed its color from white to "chrome." I also knew that she watched a lot of TV. My son told me that she watched “Okrah” and “Maury Porbitch”. He said, “Do you know that Maury Porbitch is the husband of Corny Chung?” If NH knew I was at home, for example, she would take out the vacuum cleaner to show me how well she does it. Never mind that I might be watching television. She had to be in the same room, vacuuming. Or I would pick up the phone and the moment I started talking, out went the whoop-whoop of the vacuum. I would raise my hand but she would not stop. So I would hold my conversation, and tell her "I am on the phone. OMG you are loca! Why don't you get the electric saw and start cutting up some trees? As she walked away, she would put her hand on her forehead, and exclaim with her hands akimbo , “Oh my Lordy!?” Then with palms up, she would say loudly, “Why I do that? What the hickey?!”

The first day school started, NH greeted me downstairs in the morning, grinning and holding my shoes in one hand and my purse on the other. She stood in the foyer, waiting for me to take them from her. She was wearing an all-white uniform with matching nurse's shoes. She took the little boy to school, he was a few steps ahead of her, carrying his book bag, marching down the path to the elementary school. She strutted proudly, as if she was making an early morning round. BF and I looked at each other after they left and he asked, “What’s with the uniform?” I started laughing uncontrollably. We’re in the set of "Cuckoo's Nest."

Actually, my son said he wanted a young nanny who wears a leather jacket, jeans, and has a walkman. We convinced him that NH is a hard worker, she would be a good mommy helper, he should give her a chance. He was fine with that. So she would feed him and make sure he does his homework. But she apparently talked incessantly until he started to call us and say “NH is driving me crazy. She would not shut up. Tell her to be quiet please!” We told him to cover his ears and say “nah-nah-nah-nah.’ She told us the boy was disrespectful, covering his ears and saying nah-nah-nah-nah.” We told her that she should walk away from him when he does the nah-nah-nah-nah. Imagine the cacophony!

lesson 4 – never underestimate the power of nah-

We told her that she was not to wear her uniform and she was not to wait with my shoes and purse every morning. It was pretentious to expect that kind of servitude. I also asked her to address me by my first name. We both knew where we stood. I did not need any special term of address. She would refer to me only as her patrona, her lady boss. She kept the house in a 'show' condition but I started to become frustrated - it was like directing an improv where one of the characters speoke jibberish and the others were supposed to figure out and respond with appropriate lines. The dialog for Scene 2, Act 1 , Improv, between nanny and single mom living in with nanny's boss:

NH: Patrona, es que I go con mi friends in weeken to choorch.
Me: What did you say?
NH: I sayen que yo go con mi friends de Columbia in weeken to choorch
Me: What did you say?
NH: (sigh) I sayen que me go friends el fin de semana a la iglesia, ja sabe?
Me: (sigh) Oh, you are going with your friends to church. That is nice.
NH: Weekeng, uh-huh.

I started noticing that NH had no problem taking instructions from BF. In fairness, I think "come here" can only mean just that. She goes to him. Or "get the vacuum" and she produces the damn vacuum. But when I say, "NH, please vacuum under the bed and dust behind the closet door." This is what I would get: She vacuums around the bed, and close the door of the closet. If the door is already closed… you do the math. And when I pointed out her faux pas, she would say, “I do exactly you ask me.” If I point out something that was amiss, she would point at me and say “You the one I think you do it.” Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!

It was not easy but I tried to work around these things. I demonstrated what needed to be done and I used to blame myself for trusting that she understood what I asked her to do. Countless times, I could just cry from frustration about the things she did but BF told me that she obviously did not have the mental capacity to process information. He came home late; he did not have to deal with the other woman as much as I did. However, she reliably kept my son safe and the house clean. My blouses were pressed and my kitchen was spotless. Little by little, I learned to be a little bit more patient and took the tonterias in good humor. I found out that she was violated as a young woman, that she was an accountant and a tennis player. She told me that she was raised by her father. Okay, the part about the violation as a young woman tore at my heart, the fact that she was raised by her father was a fact, but that she was studying to be an accountant and a champion tennis player in Bogota made me want to commit murder and suicide. Instead, I put my elbows on the table, covered my face with my hands and shook my head. She's a total wack. Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah! OMG, I crossed over to Twilight Zone!

Finally, one evening she was showing BF something. She said, "Lookie here, lookie, need a buy her blouse." Before I could say anything, he was inspecting my blouse that I have mended and said, "You need to throw this away. Buy some new clothes." Every week, she would show BF something that belonged to me, which she discovered needed to be replaced or discarded. I said, "Tell me, show me, muestra me. Do not show him. You show me." She may have meant well, but I felt humiliated when she smiled at me while she pointed out my mended clothing, broken wristband, scuffed shoes. I felt like she could not wait to show him the crack in the heels of my glass slipper. I was being exposed as a fraud. Aaargh!

Lesson 5- payback is a biatch.

I was given a comeback audition for lead role, becoming Mrs...part 3 of many.

Winter- 1997

We were ready for our holiday in Thailand and Indonesia. I was appropriately warned by BF, "Do not get used to this." I was not prepared for what was to come.

We flew into Bangkok from HK and did the usual tourist things. I was denied entrance to a temple unless I wore a shirt that covered my shoulders. I tried wearing my fishnet shirt over my tank but that did not go well with the Thais either. I had to wear a shirt that they provide to impertinent tourists like me. It did not help my case that I might actually be mistaken for a Thai. They would address me in a tounge I did not understand and they would get a deaf and mute staring blankly at them. From the way they were speaking to me, I was sure that I was being lectured for lack of decorum. They handed me a men's shirt that had seen better days and smelled of mold, but at least it made me look respectful if not respectable and only then was I allowed into the temple. I made sure I was properly covered going forward.

The Thais are very, very friendly and accommodating people. They smiled a lot except when it was about their fish. A dried fish vendor in the market motioned me to go away, saying something with disdain, with body language telling me to "go fish!" as I pointed excitedly at the dried gourami (a fish that I recognized from my childhood). The good thing about being in a country where you do not speak its language is you can get insulted and not take offense. The bad thing is that you are being insulted and you are not taking offense. Thank God that BF was oblivious to all these- he was busy checking out other points of interests in the market. And I was sure it had nothing to do with fish.

Lesson 1, topless women should stay away from temples.

Lesson 2, do not disrespect dried fish.

While in Thailand, I have vowed to forever more observe a higher standard for myself whenever I am in an Asian country. I am always mistaken to be a native of the Asian country I am visiting with my husband. I decided, therefore, that I shall not "embarrass" the women of the host country by publicly demonstrating affection that might be construed as risque, like holding hands with my husband or allowing him to put an arm on my shoulders. I understand completely that there are unwritten rules of "saving face" in these countries and I have become aware that my action would reflect poorly on how women may be treated especially by a non-Asian male. I embraced those rules more than ever when I realized that I was more Fil-Am than Filipino. For his part, BF is cooperative, willing to understand the cultural divide and help to narrow it so that we may both succeed in our choice to be together.

Lesson 3, in Asia, always keep an arm's length from boyfriend.

I add Lesson 4 - walk fast to keep up and never walk behind boyfriend in Asia. If you do, you appear to be subservient most especially when the BF is glow-in-dark White.

We left Bangkok for Bali, Indonesia where we initially stayed at a beautiful Hyatt resort. The sparkling emerald water of the Indian Ocean was warm and we strolled at the beach each evening, taking in the sounds and the feel of the rushing water on our bare feet as the waves slapped the shore. We retired to a beautiful Balinese room at the resort.

After a few days in the sand and sun, we continued on to Ubud, the art center of Bali. Each night, guided by star lights, we went to see Barong and Legong dances performed with such artistry by classical Bali dancers. We traced back our steps to the cottage, walking along the dry rice fields, teased by the gentle wind and serenaded by the rich sound from the bamboo whind chimes hanging on balconies of the homes along the gravelly road.

We took dips in our private wading pool, surrounded by tropical flowers, situated a few steps outside the cottage. In the mornings and during afternoon siestas, we were awakened by the sound and smell of Bali; first there was the sound of the courtyard being swept, then we hear a "kulintang" being played (xylophone) by the same person who swept the ground. On our way to the breakfast cottage, we would discover that all paths were lined by plumeria petals. All around us, it smelled of faint, sweet coconut oil. I felt home - I imagined my Indonesian ancestors smiling at me, applauding at how far I have travelled to step on Indonesian soil.

One afternoon during our daily foray along Monkey Road, I fell in like with the "bench boys." It was a group of boys, individually carved out of wood, don't ask how I knew they're boys; I knew; with mother and father figures, all seated on a wooden bench.

BF was at the store next door so I decided to try haggling myself. I could not do it. When the shopkeeper/storekeeper (SK) told me it was $7.00, I could not bring myself to ask her to sell it to me for half the price. I gave her a mournful look. She did not want to lose the sale so she gave me $.25 discount. When BF found how much I paid the lady, he acted genuinely shocked at my being duped, at the "astronomical" cost I paid. I, on the other hand, defended the altruism behind my purchase, "The lady needs to feed her kids tonight. She needs the $6.75 more than I do!"

You see, BF had a system and I did not "get it." When we would find an artwork we wanted, he would spend time with the storekeeper learning about it. The Balinese takes pride in their artwork and it shows. Each of the mobiles and the masks is painstakingly carved on pule or waru wood among others and painted in deep colors. They are mostly dance masks and represent characters in the Ramayana. And I collected and loved them. Anyway, BF would ask at least 15, in my estimation no less, questions about the work. He and the SK would have an earnest discussion for what seemed an eternity. Then we would leave the store empty handed! The victim (SK) is silent. It drove me absolutely crazy.

I held, and still hold the belief, that if I spend time with a SK, posturing as I might that I am interested in something he is selling, and I discuss prices with him, and I show interest in the object we are discussing, then I believe that I am actively negotiating. When ShopKeeper and I both agree about his merchandise's quality, about its beauty, and about its price, I ought to buy it. I owe it to him, for his time, and his goodwill, to show him the money. Not BF.

He would spend endless time, with what I personally termed shooting bull with the shopkeeper. Maybe "bs-ing" is a strong word, but you see, I feel strongly about these things. For example, when I so badly want to own an object and it is taking forever to buy it and what's keeping me from owning it is BF's and SK's endless exchanges of "No, too high, it should be lower" and "No too low, give me a little bit more..." , I honestly believe I have the right to rescue myself from this stressful situation by raising my hand to call their attention and proclaim, in no uncertain terms, "Excuse me! I do not want it anymore!" Silence from both sides of the negotiation counter. Uh-huh!:-)

"But I thought you liked it?!" "I don't anymore." "Why?" "Because the guy is lying." I am particularly emboldened by my hope that the SK does not speak English because I am 'dissing' him. I tell BF, "He would not give his honest price. He is lying and your haggling makes me nauseous."

One day, in Hong Kong's Stanley Market, I was asked by one by well-meaning shopkeeper why I looked so annoyed. I told her it was because I hate that everyone was lying to me. She told me that the shopkeepers respect someone who haggles; right, they respect me when I acknowlege by haggling that all of them are con artists trying to make me part with my limited single mom hard-earned money that I was totally spending on crap. OMG, was I that bitter?

Anyway, when I would ask BF why he would not buy after all that banter, he would tell me that now that he knows more about the subject, he would find similar objects in other shops and perhaps get a better deal. As a result, after eleven years of a happy marriage, we still have not bought fine china.

But his system clearly worked. On our way from Ubud, he bought a pair of Balinese gold and sapphire earrings without ever speaking Bahasa except for "No" and a little Casio calculator. He and ShopKeeper would take turns at the Casio, "text touch"* ferverishly, (*another one of my personal coined words) the price they want and hold it high for the other to see. Each would excitedly say "no!" during his turn waving the Casio in the air. The negotiation suddenly attracted a sizeable crowd. The negotiation was going on in a little jewelry store by the roadside. Imagine if you will, that the next store was a fruit store, and on the other side was a soft drink stand. The jewelry store had only one wall, one display case, and the rest of the store was a thatched roof and three open sides. It looked like a forlorn bus stop but in fact, the earrings were beatufilly made out of 24 k. gold. Women in beautiful batik sarongs with fruit baskets on their heads, little children with sleep in their eyes, men carrying tools or fish baskets started to gather around the shopkeeper, emphatically shaking his head and saying "No,no, no!" and the White man brandishing a Casio saying "No, no, no!" It was theater of the absurd. I was transfixed despite myself. And the winner is.....the white man with the $250! Please pass the earrings this way. "Do not get used to this."

In the end, we packed a whole suitcase filled with Balinese mermaids, male-mades (:-, and nymphs. He told me that he was starting to like my Balinese crafts (not crap). I made sure I heard the "f" not "p" in crafts. You never know, we Filipinos are known to exchange our p's and f's and "him" and "her."

We went back to HK, packed and shipped whatever needed shipping and stayed in HK for a couple of days of rest before heading back to the USA. On the day of our departure, the GM or some other top level guy with the JW Marriott in HK escorted us back to the airport for our journey home. I kept carrying my suitcases with my Balinese crap :-) and BF kept reminding me to put them down. I was not used to having an entourage following me and carrying my bags. He kept saying in a hushed tone, "Please do not get used to this." What was he saying? I carry my bags but he keeps telling me to put them down for these people to carry them. So, if I were already doing what I should not get used to, what was the problem?

A shiny black M-Benz limo waited to take us to the airport. Really? Oh-kay. Let him do his "staging." BF and Marriott GM were having small talk on the way to the airport. GM was very nice to BF, speaking to him like he was Mr. Marriott's personal emissary, the way things were going. Like how we Catholics talk "to Jesus through Mary," remember? Suddenly, it clicked. BF was an international development attorney for Marriott. He was like, how many degrees from the guy who owns the bacon? :-)

So someone carried my suitcases. We were VIPs. My luggage has seen better days. Mr. Porter may have been thinking, "Wow Filipina amah got lucky, she is now with American investment banker. WRONG! Hee-hee-hee! Hee-hee-hee. Underscored.

At the ticket counter, they told BF that he did not have a reservation. However, they told us I have a seat in business class. I felt very uncomfortable; I had no right being the chosen one. Then I witnessed how calmly he spoke with the airline staff, how he was able to straighten things out. I was appropriately impressed. Not only was he issued a ticket, he told them that we were on a honeymoon, so they made sure we were seated next to each other, and most embarrasing of all, the flight attendants were going out of their way to pay us extra attention. Somewhere in his possession was a 4-carat blue sapphire that would be my engagement ring. I was mercifully excused from bearing witness to the haggling that went into buying it. He realized I was useless when it came to shopping. I did not know a good from a bad gem. If it was big, I liked it, if it was small I liked it. I was a nubie and I acted like one.

We arrived to find a very happy little boy. I proceeded to show my son a very special yo-yo we brought for him. I was so excited to show him how it worked so I said, "Here, let me show you!" Bam! It hit the floor and broke in two pieces. He cried for a while and I apologized all over, but he forgot about the broken yo-yo the moment I hugged him tightly and showered him with mommy kisses. In reality, mommies are better presents than a yo-yo when you are a six year-old.

To this day, I do not haggle. The bench boys watch me cook in the kitchen. My engagement ring is beautiful and sentimental. My BF became my HS (husband!). But the journey has just begun...

Audition for the role of "Mrs...." Part 2 of many chapters, Winter 1996

Previously on the Audition for the role of “Mrs….” My reality show part 2, winter 1997:

Recap: WG (white guy) aka BF (boyfriend) met SM (single mom).
Shortly after I met my future husband, he handed me a dozen yellow roses wrapped in old newspaper. He told me that he had to leave to work in Hongkong for six months. He was to leave in January. I asked him if he would marry me. Someday. Not now. He said "yes." Then he left for HK.

He did the calling most of the time because I hated calling him. His secretary was a Hong Konger. Do not laugh; a HK resident is a Hong Konger. Anyway, I imagined his secretary to be around my age, short hair, eyeglasses, pumps, custom-made suit, no make-up, no nail polish, Gucci purse. Her responses seem to be on the curt side. I told him that I did not like calling him. “Your secretary is rude." "He said, “She is efficient. They do not coat their words with unnecessary pleasantries here."
No kidding!

USA: "Hello, hi Jane, this is WG's girlfriend. How are you?
Oh hi my boss' girlfriend. How are ya? (response in allegro)

Great, and how was your weekend?
Oh it was wonderful, I went shopping with my daughter and we had fun!

That’s great, how's work?
Oh my Lord, so much work, it is driving me crazy! (forte)

I am sorry! Well, he is not there huh? Will you please tell him I called?
Will do. No problem. (allegro)
Great. Thanks, I appreciate it!"
You are welcome! Have a great day! (forte)

Hong Kong:
Hello Chen, this is …. "Hi" ( snow falling)
How are you? "Fine" (snow sticking)
Is WG there? “No” (snow piling)
May I leave a message for him then?
"Yes….What?" (freezing rain starting)
Sorry?
“What’s the message?” (someone fell on the ice)

Will you please tell him that I am getting ready to jump off the bridge?
Okay." (Snow turned to solid ice)
Okay, I will jump and I will die. Will you tell him that?
"I will." (keep out. Danger. Icy)
"Ok, thank you very much, Ms. Chen!"
“DIAL tone.” :-0

The Zamboni skidded to a halt.


While WG was in Hongkong, he made a business trip to the Philippines. He had a meeting with Filipino lawyers of the most prestigious firm in Makati, the country’s financial district. As they made small talk, he told them that he was planning on visiting the province where I was born. A Filipina lawyer told him, “Your girlfriend is Filipina? She will clean your house, cook good food, and give you beautiful children.” He said he was taken aback. He said, “Oh, she is not a mail order bride.” “It does not matter, she will be a good wife, and she will clean your house and cook for you.” “She is college educated.” “She will be a good wife. Watch, she will cook good food.” He told me that he was very offended, that they might have thought he wanted a servant. He emphatically proclaimed, “She lives in the United States. She went to the University of the Philippines. She works at the US Congress.” End of discussion. No more cooking, no more cleaning, to hell with the beautiful children.


I warned him about his trip to Nueva Ecija. There might not be running water, there might not be electricity, and that the mosquitoes will eat him alive. Nueva Ecija is located in the central plains of Luzon. I also told him that they might call him “Joe”(for GI Joe). I was wrong on three things and right on one thing. He said my family had running water and electricity, and the mosquitoes were smaller than what he remembered of mosquitoes in Maine when he was a child. He did say however that when he shaved in the morning, chickens roamed around him and pecked his feet. And he said the children looked at him, did not say anything but a few minutes later, they called out to him, “Hi Joe!” He told me that a huge painting of myself hung on the wall of my Mom’s house. They told him I was a beauty queen. They told him that painting used to hang in the City Hall. He was pleased, he landed a beauty queen! Yey, me!!

Then it was my turn to go to HK. We were going to Bangkok and Bali afterwards and together, we would go back to the USA.

I landed in HK late in the afternoon. It was hot and humid and Kai Tak airport was crowded. I saw a lot of Filipino women queued up to enter HK. They work as contract workers, as nannies and housekeepers (referred to as amah). He asked how I got through customs fast, there were too many amahs coming in that day. I told him that I am a US Passport holder. He smiled, embarrassed by his blunder. He should be.


The BF lived in Parkview, a very upscale and exclusive apartment complex that looked like a resort. Lawyer types and investment banker types live there. It seemed like there was one amah for every child in that complex. It has swimming pools and waterfalls, beautifully kept gardens all over. Amahs wait for their charges at the lobby. His flat cost $10,000 USD a month. That was my rent for a year back in the States. He has an amah coming in to clean the place. It had a beautiful view of the hills by the reservoir. I can get used to this! The view, not the flat.
I got lost the next day. I was supposed to take a cab and meet BF for lunch at 2 Pacific Place. He told me that every cab driver in HK knew about #2 Pacific Place. Let me tell you, I found that one driver who did not know where. The cabbie did not speak English. He kept saying “I dono. I dono. Mebee, I dono, I dono.” By some divine intervention, despite my terror from the driving on the left side of the road, I recognized the building and asked the cabbie to STOP when I saw it.


BF was relieved to see me but said he got worried. He could not believe the cabbie did not know 2 Pacific Place. I was traumatized by the whole fiasco. Later, I asked if I could use his PC to email my friend in the States. He saw what I was typing, "You will not believe this but I got lost on my first day here in Hong Kong. I asked the cab driver, 'please take me to 2 Pacific..." WG exclaimed, "Oh my goodness, no wonder you got lost. The poor cab driver could not figure out "please take me..." I told you to just say “2 Pacific Place!"

I tried, however, the cabbie only spoke Cantonese. I kept pointing to buildings and talking, “I don’t know…I don’t know. Maybe that one… I don’t know. The poor guy, O-M-G, I just realized was repeating after me, helping me find “I dono I dono. May Be. I dono.” I started to bleat, totally, like a freaked out zebra. Have you heard a zebra bleat? Youtube it, reader! Then BF laughed and then said, “Next time just say ‘2 Pacific Place!’” "No take me, no please."

I told him saying “2 Pacific Place!” is just rude. He said,"But it gets you where you want to go. Trust me." That night, when we got into a cab, and he showed me. He barked, "Pakview!" in a deliberate Boston accent. It sounded "Puck view!" So rude! I will probably end up saying, “Puck you! “ Rude! The cabbie dropped us off at the front door without a problem.

The next day, he took me to his tailor. I brought with me an almost 15-year old coat that I thought could be fixed. The tailor looked at the coat, the faded lining, the missing buttons, the pocket with holes, looked at me, and pronounced, "Sorry madam, there is nothing we can do to repair your coat." That was my best coat! I puckered my lips, you know the “poor baby” expression of hopelessness. BF looked at me and then the coat. I cradled it in my arms like a baby. He said, “I guess that’s it. We have to dispose of it.” He was in complicity with the tailor in euthanizing my coat. I Kevorkianed my best coat in HK. We buried it unceremoniously in a street trashcan in Kowloon. Then he led me back into the shop and asked the tailor to make some clothes for me.

A day or so later, BF came home to find me in tears. I was inconsolable. BF warned me against doing it but I did not listen. I called home to speak to my little boy. I asked how he was doing and he started crying. He said, “I’m fine mommy, but I miss you.” That's all I needed to hear. I cried with him and I told him, “I miss you too and I love you and of all the little boys in the whole wide world I love you the most." The mostest. The bestest. "Listen, I will go first to Thailand and then to Indonesia and mommy needs a few days to do that then I will be back with you.” “But why do you have to go to Timeland and Indo-asia?” “Because that’s the only way for the airplane to go back to America. Just be good to Ate Connie and then I will be back. Can you promise to wait for me?” “Okay, it will take like seven more ‘sleeps’ then I will be back.” “Okay, I love you, Mommy.” After I hung up the phone, I cried and cried and cried. It was the first time I had to leave my son for a number of days. My sleepover was too long for him. This was the first time I had to leave Kris this long and I missed him oh so terribly. My live-in babysitter, a wonderful and caring young woman who I trusted his life with told me not to worry. She said, “My job is to take care of him. Yours is to go find him a Dad!”

The next few days in HK was spent having dinners with friends, going for a double-decker bus trip to Stanley Market, checking out the Filipino crowd at Chater Park. Seeing my paisanos using every inch of space in that park to socialize on their day off reduced me to tears. I felt bad for them. I hated the Marcoses all over again. My future husband told me, “They are not enslaved. They are getting paid. They chose to come here.” ” They gave me a look that seemed congratulatory- I was walking with GI Joe. When I start to talk to them, they tell me, “You are so nice to talk to us.” I respond with, “Why should I not be talking to you Manang, I am Filipino.” “You are so lucky,your husband is American.” I did not object to the “husband” to save face, but I objected to the “lucky because he is American.” I said, “You know, he is lucky too, and he just happens to be American. Marrying an American should not be the dream. It just happened that way. “ And I said this in Tagalog, so as not to alarm my American.

In the meantime, I became fluent. I learned to take a taxi to go into the city. I yell “Two Pacific Place! To go home, I yell “Puck you!” Cabbie drops me at the gate. I smile, pay him, and then yell even louder, “Take you!” It worked like a fortune cookie charm:-).

The next serious thing we did as a couple was to buy china. We bought at least three dozens of rice-pattern blue and white china. He haggled, I nervously paced back and forth outside the stores. I hated haggling. He treated it as a game. We worked a signal, if I see something I like, I would hold his arm and press it hard. This meant I will not leave Hong Kong without it. BF was a natural. He made haggling an art form.

Ms. Chen, the ice Empress shipped three big boxes of china to BF's address in the US. By the way, she more or less looked like I imagined her. And she was a tad warmer in person. No,microwave "30seconds" warm. She was borderline room temperature. I returned the favor; I avoided having to speak to her and whenever I did, I took her lead. Hi. Hi. How you? How you? Bi. Bi.

We started to pack for our trip to Timeland and Indo-Asia!