Everything Old...is Sometimes Just Old

On a rainy Friday night in January, I decided to go back to my old kickboxing gym to see if I still felt the same thrill I used to feel taking classes there so many years ago. I walked in, paid the $20 fee for my “introductory” class, searched in vain for a familiar face…but didn’t find one. There would be no surprises in this class—all kickboxing classes take the same format. Three, three-minute rounds of jump rope to warm up, followed by stretches. We’d practice techniques and combinations; we’d partner up for pad work, followed by conditioning exercises. Even though I knew what to expect, I was still nervous. I wrapped my hands quietly in the corner. When I was done, I found a small open spot on the sideline and started to jump up and down to warm up. The instructor was the tallest Thai man I had ever seen. At least 6-ft tall, he was an intimidating figure. I wanted to make sure he knew I was “new” and that I hadn’t kickboxed in at least five years. I wanted every handicap I could get.

I trudged through the warm up, no music, no chatting, all business. A surly-looking petite Asian woman led us through the stretching exercises. Not a hint of brevity. We partnered up and my partner was Rory, a very fit, coordinated and experienced fighter, mostly boxing. I found myself apologizing before we event started. “Sorry, I hope I can keep in up, I haven’t done this in five years.”  Even though I had been doing a version of working out since October, I was in no way conditioned to last through even three minutes of a simple punch-kick combination. I could feel myself gassing out quickly but I was at least trying to keep up. The instructor kept a special eye out on me; I was self-conscious but it’s what good instructors do—they watch. They correct. He said I had pretty good technique for someone who hadn’t kickboxed in a few years. I silently beamed inside.

We finished off the class with some conditioning exercises; some knees to the bag. I felt myself getting anxious as the next class rolled in. Wondering if I would see the Ex at the boxing class that followed. I didn’t have long to wait before I caught a glimpse of him wrapping his hands by the tiered benches. Quickly, I thought…I need to get the hell out of here. I stuffed my gloves, my jump rope, my sweaty wraps into my tote bag and headed out. The gym was hot and steamy and I appreciated the cool night air hitting my face as I walked back to my car. I did it. I had stayed away from this gym for so long because I wanted to avoid seeing the Ex. Tonight, I had faced the fear and it felt great. It wasn’t the big revenge moment that all of us dream about post break-ups. Our eyes never locked; I hadn’t made him regret hurting me in one dramatic moment. We just…ignored each other and I slipped out of the gym as quietly as he slipped in.

I surprised myself. I discovered I wasn’t as enamored with the gym as I thought I would be. The experience had left me wanting. It lacked fun, lightness and a good soundtrack! It made the decision to go back to the Emeryville gym very easy. I knew going back to Emeryville would be the best decision for me and it was only after I visited my old kickboxing gym that I knew this to be true. The road to a healthier me is still ahead.  I am happy to continue that journey on my own, at a new gym with a renewed sense of purpose and a fresh start.

Here We Go Again

“How do you clinch?”

It took a second to understand Coach’s question before the proverbial light bulb went off. “Oh, yeah…” I nodded. I proceeded to wrap my hands around the back of his neck and dig my elbows into his shoulders. I did a light knee to the rib, for good measure. “Hmmm. I remember this…” I thought.

I had just joined a new boxing and kickboxing gym the week prior, after taking my 3 free classes, of course. In October, without fanfare and, frankly, without too much thought, I embarked on some significant lifestyle changes that in my previous 99 attempts failed the second work got too busy. I didn’t want to over-analyze or think about the long road ahead or think about how hard it would be. I was just tired of being limited by my own body. I was ready to start caring about myself again.

So in October of this year, I sheepishly decided to re-join the juggernaut of weight loss groups, yet again. The program works if you commit. There are definitely some things about it that I could live without. Like the hotly debated topic of why, when eaten whole, an apple is zero points, but when blended in a smoothie, it might jump to 1 point. But, I take from it what helps. And what helps is being accountable, tracking what you eat and community.

I like my meeting leader. And although I have a definite bias against male meeting leaders really understanding what it’s like for women, he’s amusing and well-intentioned and seems to care. I’ve been pretty consistent in attending meetings. With the exception of traveling for work, I haven’t missed a meeting since I started. I’ve turned a corner here, people. I usually give up the program once life on the road gets too exhausting. Eight hours in a middle seat? Feel better with chocolate and red wine. Expense account? I’m eating every course of every meal every day. Didn’t get chance to eat all day? I will make up for it at the end of the day by eating until I fall asleep.

Theoretically, it’s not hard. Stop eating junk. Eat whole foods, mostly plants. Don’t eat too much. So I try. And I keep trying every day. God, it ain’t easy, especially with cold weather and darkness, impending holidays, end-of-the-year madness. The environment is telling you to hibernate, watch Netflix and eat mac-and-cheese. But I trudge on and pound-by-pound, some weeks by mere fractions, I’m slowly pushing the needle left.

But this is a multi-prong approach. Feeding yourself good food is only one tactic in my plan to feel good. I had to start working out again. I couldn’t bring myself to step foot in my old gym. Too many memories, too many ghosts. Luckily, my office had a nice little gym with a cardio room that hardly ever got used. Or, as I like to call it, my own personal fitness center. Most weeknights, I would plug in my phone, blast my music and proceed to jump rope, do some conditioning exercises and shadowbox. Although my attempts to get co-workers to join me failed miserably, it didn’t discourage me. I was often out-of-breath, nursing shoulder pain, rocking sore calves...all of it, the good kind of pain. The kind that tells you, Hey, you’re still alive! Be thankful! 

After two months, I had grown a bit weary of kicking and punching air and so I started looking around for a new gym-home. Should I join my old KB gym? Judging from their website, it looked busier than ever and they had gotten some very cool-looking, new equipment. Was my Ex still a member? He got the gym, post-breakup. Should I re-join my other old KB gym, near my work? It was never really a perfect fit for me, either. The membership mostly consisted of kids and older kids half my age. The search continued...

Hercules! Hercules!

He said in order for me to change, it would be a Herculean task. 

Herculean. 

I pictured the word coming out of his mouth, hovering in the air between us, seeking me out. It bored its way through my eyeball  and dug its little tentacle body into my badly bruised heart. That word, that word. I thought, Wow, he's such a fucker. How little faith he had in me. I realized at that point, he never really knew me. Knew what I was made of, knew what I was capable of... 

Almost two years later, the memory of those words coming out of his mouth and hovering in the stillness of our darkened bedroom still sting. It would be the last night we would spend together. 

------

I saw him tonight. The thing that I had most feared--to run into him--happened. Thank God we were walking in opposite directions. Thank God I it was near dark. Thank God our glance at each other lasted, mercifully, for only a few seconds. Just long enough for me take in the entire tableaux of he and his girlfriend, holding hands, taking a walk around the lake where we used to take walks when we were happy, years ago.

A pit formed in my stomach. I immediately called L. and prayed she would pick up. Wait, wait, until she stops talking…she doesn't  stop so I blurt out, "Guess who I saw?" No need to guess, she knew instantly.

Dutifully, she "talks me down" as good girlfriends trained in the arts of post-breakup protocol are wont to do. Dammit, if I only I had gotten this walk over with earlier in the day, if only I had found a parking space closer to the gym and not the park, if only I hadn't eaten that macaroni and cheese last night, if only I hadn't stopped caring for myself for so many months, if only I was the person I was supposed to be when I finally did see him again, fit, healthy and happy… if only…

I knew, in my heart of hearts, this guy was not the right person for me. He never appreciated me as a person. Really, never, ever made me feel truly, deeply loved. He didn't get my humor. And, at my most generous, I never found him to by funny. Not in the slightest. Seven years of pity laughs. He was socially awkward and was missing that empathy gene that enabled one to relate to other human beings. Didn't like his mother. He possessed an astonishing duality that caused him to feel arrogant and full of himself at times, and crippling, immobilizing insecurity at others. It was maddening. He was selfish, more often than he was generous (which was rare). And he was lazy, perfectly content to let me support him after getting summarily canned at the prison hospital where he worked. Fired for harassment, no less. The inappropriate touching of a co-worker. A real winner. The morning I tossed him out--mind you, I tossed him out. I never thought it would be me doing the tossing because, after all, I am my mother's daughter. She was the Queen of Putting Up With Shit and by virtue of staying in a craptastic relationship, I had taken my place in court as Princess of Self-Loathing and Worthlessness.  The morning I told him to get out, he asked me, Where was my dignity? Why hadn't I forced him to get a job yet? What was wrong with me, that I put up with this shitty behavior? 

I know. 

Can you believe the goddamn balls of that statement? I swear on a stack of King James' Bibles, those words really did come out of his mouth.  In the end, I told him to get the hell out, that I was utterly sick and tired of his bullshit behavior, that I had no interest in having him as a friend and that if he ever saw in me in the street, as the song goes, just walk on by…

I have carried this little furball of fear in my throat for almost two years. Scared that if he actually did see me and I wasn't in perfect, Warrior-princess condition, that in my minds' eye was my true state of being, had it not been for his inability to love and support me in a way that would make me feel loved and supported and awesome the way you feel when you're with someone who actually likes you, let alone loves you…. If I wasn't all that,  I would prove him right all along. That it really was too Herculean a task to change myself for the better. For all his failings as a boyfriend, a man, a human being, he would be right about this one thing. And, it happened tonight. Yeesh. 

I feel bad, mostly, not because I may have proved him right but mostly because I feel I have proven myself wrong. The ire, that motivating ire that I relied on, that I banked on, to get me started, to sustain my spirit when feeling down, has all but dissipated and has morphed into feelings that most resemble…what? I'm not actually sure but it probably lives somewhere in the neighborhood of shame and hopelessness. 

Power, as defined by some, is the ability to change. I have to re-discover mine. There's nothing stopping me from untapping my potential for fabulousness. I have to keep things simple and  remember to be kind and loving to myself. It doesn't have to be more complicated than that.

Baubles Make It Betta'

Nothing like a little bauble to make a girl feel betta'. Since my Mom is a fan of anything bejeweled, I sent her a pic of my latest acquisition. Here's her reply:

How beautiful, now you can work on making your nails really beautiful, so the rings will look even more beautiful. Love May, pamper yourself with everything, today is your day, don't waste your time.

Love you,

Mom

I love Moms, especially mine.

Tech Saavy Mom

My Mom emailed me this morning. She is officially the cutest Mom in the world.

Hi May,

I don't know what I touched in my computer, it never stops playing music and I am tired ot it. I already turned it off but it turned on by itself and keeps playing music.

Love you,
Mom

Blackeyes and Beer

I started this post shortly after returning from Thailand and have now just finished it.

Sorely disappointed that we missed the “real” Muay Thai fights in Bangkok, we were relegated to watch the “International Nice Fights” (as billed on the flyer) in Chiang Mai. Though Chiang Mai has a stadium devoted to Muay Thai kickboxing, the national sport of Thailand, we ended up at a bar on the canal, sitting in an audience of mostly farang.

We were escorted to our table by a lovely “ladyboy”, looking more feminine in her black halter and floral skirt than I had looked all week. Damn. We paid our 500 Baht (about $15, very pricey for Thailand) to get in and were handed the fight bill. A special “Ladyboxer” fight was on the bill and pictured was a woman in her early 20s in the requisite “hands-up-fight” pose, smiling prettily and looking more like she’s about to give you manicure rather than a right roundhouse kick to the head.

The fighters were teenagers…boys, really. They seemed eager to get in the ring and show off what they could do. I almost felt bad watching them combat each other…they took it so seriously yet the audience saw it as fluffy entertainment. Everyone who makes it in ring deserves respect. So what if the ring is in a farang bar…it still takes a fair amount of chutzpah to step inside a ring.

The “Ladyboxers” were next on the bill. I did a cartoon double-take when the fighters took center stage. They were pre-pubescent girls and couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. I asked our waitress how old they were and she said “Fifteen, sixteen,”. Uh-huh. I wondered who that older lady was that was pictured on the bill…their Mom, maybe?

One was scrappier-looking, shorter, with straight black hair. I saw her ringside, shadow-boxing, moving laterally, practicing moving in angles. The other girl was a shade taller, her long hair braided in two long pigtails. She had lip gloss on and pink shorts and red gloves. Because the world is so predictably unfair, I knew this girl would win the fight. Naturally, I rooted for the shorter girl to win and if John Hughes were ever to make a movie about little girl kick boxers, she would most certainly would win. I swear to Molly Ringwald!

I didn’t know how to feel about watching these two little girls fight. I waffled between being adamantly opposed to it but then I would find myself peeking through my fingers for fear of missing anything “good”. The short-hair girl was finished the second she started turning her back to her opponent. If I had a towel I would’ve thrown it in the ring for her…poor thing.

We left the bar after Main Event...a rather large German fellow fought and won against a Thai boxer, who looked a little bored during the first round. Not the most exciting matches I’ve ever seen, but then again I’d never been in bar where Muay Thai fights broke out.

Laptop Impressions

I woke up this morning at 5:15 am with a work hangover. My contact lenses have adhered themselves to my eyeballs, and now they have that gravel-y feeling that usually goes away with a good rubbing of the fist. I lift my head, which was resting on the corner of my laptop, and I think I probably have suffered some damage from evil electronic magnetic alpha rays. Feng shui books always tell you to sleep as far away as you can from cords, power outlets, anything emanating evil mojo. I’m probably doomed at the point.

I turn my head and see an empty wine glass and a bowl of crusted-over guacamole, evidence of last night’s lost battle with fatigue and frustration. I should’ve just gone to bed when I got home from the airport. The giant mental Post-it note to myself reminds me never to fly to Las Vegas on a late Friday night. Flights were delayed all evening including mine and the passengers on board were tired, excited, and many had already started “getting their drink on” at the Gordon Biersch brew pub next to Gate 74 at SFO.

It may be psychosomatic but the early stages Carpal Tunnel syndrome are setting in. Trying to type with my wrists bent at a 90 degree angle, with someone else’s head practically in my lap is not conducive to a healthy posture.

Finally, finally home…

On Friday night, I imagine myself waking up easy and late the next morning, stretching my arms out and yawning prettily to perk up. After a full eight hours of restful, blissful sleep, I would be ready to take on the day. But it rarely worked out this way. Most mornings I wake up with the imprint of my laptop on my forehead.

Eating Thai-style

To visit Thailand, is to eat.

The second we hit the streets, we are hungry again. It doesn’t matter if we just ate the free “ABF” (“American Breakfast”) at the hotel. We walk, we pass the vendor selling ready-to-be-squeezed-just-for-you orange juice. We walk further, we pass someone selling chicken, meatballs, and all manner of foods speared on sticks, I want a few of ‘dem hot wings. A few feet down, I want to buy a dozen of those giant, crispy prawns and start tearing the heads off right on the sidewalk.

Food is everywhere and available almost anytime. And portable. Although lobster-flavored potato chips and poxi sticks are accessible at any nearby 7-11, fresh, ripe fruit is always close at hand from a street vendor. You can easily score pineapples, watermelon, and strawberries from any street vendor. Getting your 5 a day in Thailand is not an issue. Oh, sure, you can get plenty of fruit in the States but will there be someone there to peel, cut, put in a plastic baggy for you and send you on your way? C’mon, pineapple? It’s just too much dang work. And for less than what you’d probably dig out from the bottom of your purse (15 cents), you can walk away happily spearing pineapple chunks out of a plastic bag. Bags of unripe mango are sliced up and accompanied by even tinier bags of a sweet-salty pink mixture. What makes it pink, I’m not so sure, but it’s probably a safe bet to guess it’s some sort of shrimp product. And despite the stomach aches I got every single time I ate unripe mango, its combination of crunchy-sweet-sour-y goodness, made it impossible for me to resist, especially knowing I would not be able to duplicate the flavors back in the States.

Meanwhile, the S.O. is like a bloodhound sniffing out vendors selling the holy triad of chicken, papaya salad and sticky rice. He doesn’t have to look far. Entrepreneurship is strong in Thailand. If you’ve got some floor space and a wok, you’re pretty much ready to set up shop. Motorbikes rigged with side carts outfitted with propane tanks and tiny charcoal grills roam the streets, stopping anywhere hungry-looking people congregate. Walking around the city streets, amidst the smoke and exhaust, you can occasionally get a welcome whiff of grilling meats and fish. So good. Glass cases of rotisserie chicken popped up everywhere, crispy, golden skin covering meat infused with lemongrass and galanga. Almost every street corner has makeshift eateries with plastic tables, little plastic stools and what looks like rolls of toilet paper on each table serving as napkins. Thais must be a nation of neat eaters, dabbers. Napkins there are the wispiest, tiniest rectangles of paper. How one is supposed to keep dribbles of noodle soup off one’s lap with these napkins was a skill I failed to master the short time I was there.

The most interesting things in Thailand happens down low. I’m not referring to clandestine occurrences that happen on the downlow or DL. But, if you keep your line of sight close to the ground, you’ll see life happening. Naked toddlers drinking water out of a bucket. Mothers taking a break from the heat lounging on cool, tiled floors. Tiny old ladies, comfortably squatting next to large woks, gently stirring simmering green curry. Mmm…just in time for my next meal.

Getting Our Motor Running in Thailand

Speed up. Don’t slow down. Go to the left. Squeeze between.

Everyday, millions of Thai men, women and children of all shapes and sizes, babies to octogenarians, defy death with an easy-breezy non-chalance that would make most Americans crap their pants.

Everywhere the S.O. and I went in Thailand, the primary mode of conveyance was the motorbike. Everyone had one. Motorbikes seemed to outnumber, cars, buses, taxis, túk-túks and săwngthăews. School kids, delivery people, food vendors, and people getting from A to B, jumped on and off motor bikes like they were stepping on and off a curb.

Bangkok was dizzying in its traffic craziness. The lane markings were faded and were only suggestions, really. Túk-túk drivers tooled around farang (foreigners) and locals alike, in tricked out motorbikes with seats for two tourists and probably up to four Thai people, tiny as they are.

The narrow streets that snake through and connect major thoroughfares in Bangkok are so complex and confusing that even taxi drivers occasionally have to stop and ask directions. Túk-túks are made to zip up, down and around the backstreet sois, going at breakneck speeds where cars are too wide to fit.

But it’s the motorbikes that have the all-access pass. They go where cars, túk-túks and săwngthăews cannot. I often saw them driving the wrong direction, I suspect because the next turnaround was a little too far away to bother. (By the way, Thais drive on the left side of the road, the driver’s wheel is on the right side of the car. It’s like landing in Bizarro world for the uninitiated.) Motorbikes drove on sidewalks, on piers…places in the West where pedestrians ruled and where you’d be slapped with a ticket faster than Zsa Zsa slaps a police officer if you were caught driving down the Santa Monica pier. The S.O. didn’t need much convincing from me not to rent a motorbike in Bangkok. I guess his primitive urge for self-preservation kicked in. I threw him a bone—“We’ll rent one in Chiang Mai!”

We went up and down the Chao Phraya in riverboats, a much less crazy and hectic way to travel, stopping at various piers and footing it to different sites.

In Chiang Mai, the S.O. rented a sweet little Honda motorbike. It was a “Jaguar”, grr. I had a blue helmet with a “UFO” sticker on it. Almost brand new, just a few thousand miles on it, I felt okay about riding it as long as I didn’t have to drive it. Less populated, less “urban”, Chiang Mai was a bit safer, but only by the few inches more clearance we had between the bus to the left of us and the car to the right of us.

In the streets, riders protected themselves from the waves of soot and exhaust with surgical face masks and ski masks, their bikes weighed down with the day’s groceries or deliveries at their feet. Passengers were never passive, so comfortable in their spots, they easily gave up their hands to carry boxes, crates, packages and sacks. My hands were always clutching my S.O.’s torso for dear life.

I saw Thai mothers clutching their babies—infants—close to their chests with one arm, driving with the other, trios of schoolgirls riding side saddle, and a family of four out for a stroll. Dad, kid, Mom and kid all sandwiched together on single motorbike. I wondered how kids with their too-tiny hands fully grasped the bike handles as they stood in front of their motoring grandmothers, and dusted me and Vila, who putt-putted behind them at a comfortable 40 mph.

We had worked up enough confidence in Chiang Mai that by the time the boy and I got to Koh Chang, we had abandoned our helmets altogether. It didn’t help that my helmet was pink and made for a 12-twelve year old’s cranium; my S.O. claimed that his helmet messed up his hair. I had to agree. I will only say that the vacation m indset does tend to displace reason. Me and the S.O. raced around hairpin curves, navigated the two lane roads, drove in pitch black darkness and struggled (at times) to climb the steep hills around the island. I tried not to take it too personally that I had to get off the motorbike and walk up a few hills. Our Koh Chang motorbike was not as powerful as our bike in Chiang Mai. For reals. Or maybe it was because it was used to hauling tiny Thai booty rather than my big-American booty, the owner of which had no choice but to start eating carbs again in Thailand, which really didn’t help the drag coefficient of the bike. Oh well.

We felt completely exposed on the motorbike but for the most part, completely safe. Thai drivers looked out for each other. There’s no such thing as road rage there. No one is chucking any dogs out car windows there. No one gives each other dirty looks and pantomimes expletives at each other. That’s just how they roll. The way Americans drive, I would never elect to abandon my ten-year old Jeep Cherokee with its bumper hanging on by a thread, reminding me of a cigarette dangling from corner of someone’s mouth. In America, I seek the protection of my car from other drivers. And it just wasn’t that way in Thailand.

Creeping into Bangkok

We crept into Bangkok in the middle of the night, when the streets were nearly empty, save for a few stray dogs and a smattering of folks hanging out on street corners, sitting on plastic stools and slurping up bowlfuls of noodles.

The next morning, we were eager to hit the streets, undeterred by fatigue and jet lag, despite traveling for over 15 hours, the night before. After our “American” buffet breakfast at our hotel, (I am not normally a fan of food coloring but I could not bring myself to eat a white, breakfast hot dog. But that’s a topic for a different blog.), the S.O. and I venture out of our hotel, walk around the corner and are immediately assaulted by a wave of noise, pollution, people, cars and motor bikes. It was like taking a few drags off an exhaust pipe. Welcome to Bangkok!

But there was beauty here…we just had to seek it out.

Dip Your Fork

“Nothing tastes as good as thin feels” Ahh…one of the many mantras doled out so easily-breasily by my “group leader”. I’m sitting in a small group of women (there are three of us this the present a week before Thanksgiving) listening to Sally, smartly dressed, in a tasteful but boring brown skirt, beige blouse and ethnic jewelry, you know, to “punch” it up.

I’ve been here before, too many times. Listening to the same tips and tricks to weight loss, as if hearing the dipping-your-fork-in-salad-dressing for the hundredth time will be magic key that unlocks the secret joyous world of happy, thin people. I am so sick of it.

This line, Nothing tastes as good as thin feels, makes me cringe. It makes me want to throw up the three-egg white omelet and two soy patties I had for breakfast. As much as I disdain these attempts to fuse these sayings into our psyches, I had to re-join the fold as I found it more and more difficult to keep avoiding all reflective surfaces and mirrors.

I had to commit to returning because being accountable to me just didn’t hold the same threat as it once did. I’ve put myself (intentionally) back in the OCD world of counting points, calories, glasses of water consumed, ounces, portions and trips to the bathroom. I’m glad, though. Really. It feels good to dip my big toe dipped into the pool again. The best part is feeling like I have a schmidgeon of control over my life while living in a place where I have no idea how I ended up. I feel like I just grabbed onto something comfortable and familiar amidst a swirling mass of confusion and it feels good.

It will be a few weeks yet for my body’s creakiness subsides…why this 36-year-old even has creakiness drives me nuts but it’s a truth that slaps me around every morning when I get out of bed. I feel like an old lady walking around but in the interest of keeping things positive, I’ll think of them as baby steps.

Yes, I Am. What's Your Point?

What is so bad about being Filipino? People are always cloaking their “Filipino-ness” with other asian stylings. I was watching the premiere of Medium the other night. As a side note, isn’t there something so endearing about big stars with bad teeth? I love it! It’s so humanizing. For those who are not fans of the show, Patricia Arquette plays a medium who has prophetic dreams and can see dead people. She’s also the Phoenix Police Department’s ace-in-the-hole for solving crimes. Oh, and she’s got crooked teeth.

The show opened with a naked Filipina girl, lounging in a bed talking to an unseen person. How do I know she was Filipino? Not only did she look Filipino with her almond-shaped eyes, brown skin and black hair, her speaking Tagalog pretty much gave it away. I know my knowledge of Tagalog is waning, but I do know it when I hear it. And this girl was speaking it. Yet—she was referring to being Indonesian, being in Indonesia, loving Indonesia. Okay, I got it…you’re Indonesian.

If you look Filipino, speak Tagalog, and quack like a duck…aren’t you a Filipino duck? I wonder if I am taking this too personally. On most days, my self-esteem already lingers on the basement level of Loehman’s. What are the producers of Medium trying to tell me? Is being Filipino something to be ashamed of? Would it be so horrible to set the scene in the Philippines rather than Indonesia? What is the big deal?

Squinty-Eyed and Ready

I feel squinty-eyed right now…like a rescued coal mining worker emerging from a tiny opening in the earth, after being trapped in a collapsed tunnel for 17 days. My body is sore, not from being cramped in a tiny, dark space but more from the inactivity of being chained to a desk (resulting in the dreaded “secretary spread”—those with desk jobs know what I mean). At this moment, I am bathed in the so-called “light at the end of tunnel” and although it blinds me a bit, I welcome the feeling with open arms. For the first time since I moved to Las Vegas in June, it’s not quite as hellish as it used to be.

“Hellish” is probably too strong a word—it seems insulting to those whose lives actually warrant that characterization. Nevertheless, I am still reeling from the move from Oakland, California to Las Vegas, away from my comfortable life, my good friends, my cheap rent—shouldn’t I be over it by now? As I write, inklings of my exit strategy are taking shape although it’ll be a few more months until I have solid action plan.

Not helping in my transition, my work life was swallowing me up whole. Do you remember Lily Tomlin in “The Incredible Shrinking Woman”? The image of tiny Lily trying to keep herself from being washed down the drain, swimming against the swirling current that wants to suck her into oblivion. I’m not sure if this was an actual scene in the movie or something I fabricated in my mind but I could relate to Lily on a visceral level. Work has not been the joy it used to be. I’ve been feeling exploited, like a sweat shop worker with a dental plan. I exaggerate again—I don’t mean to liken my work situation to that a third world garment worker, slumped over a sewing machine for 12 hours a day. My sewing machine was a Dell laptop and although I was slumped over it for literally days at a time, in the back of my mind I know I could walk away from the job and still be able to survive. Not so true for the millions who toil in sweat shops all around the world, I suspect.

Today, I did very little actual work work and I do not feel guilty at all. In my mind, it’s still not a fair trade for the life I sacrificed. Not to be melodramatic but life maintenance—my maintenance—took a backseat to work. I can’t help but wonder, Would my managers expect as much of a commitment from their married-with-kids workers? The single, female, no kids, no mortgage worker is my company’s favorite demographic. At sixteen months on the job, I am the second most senior employee in my department. The most senior employee started 2 months ahead of me. Do the words “burn out” mean anything?

I need to use this short respite to figure out what to do next, about me, about my life, about my future. Everything that was on hold has now been released from its stasis…and now I’m left to deal with the business of my life. I no longer have the distraction of work to keep me busy…from me. Yikes.

That New House Smell

I have a running sleep deficit that is surely taking its toll on me. So much so I now look eastward toward Las Vegas with a tempted eye. Not by the trappings you would expect. I am not lured by Vegas’ glamorous promise of excitement and cheap well drinks. I do, however, have a growing familiarity with the concept of getting something for nothing. And it is a doozy!

Real estate in the Bay Area has become the stuff of urban legend. My S.O. has a co-worker who has a friend who just bought an 800 square foot house in San Francisco for nearly six-hundred thousand dollars. Or maybe it was a 600 square foot house for eight-hundred thousand dollars. The truth of it hardly matters when the point is painfully clear. My dream of owning a house in the Bay Area is not just slightly out of my grasp—it is a mirage, a quivering, distant picture made only slightly clearer by squinting my eyes. It lasts for mere seconds before I shut my eyes tight, look away then look back with my eyes wide open, only to see my dream home completely missing from my sun-stroked gaze.

Through a series of events, completely engineered by someone other than myself, I have come to find myself the owner of a very large, newly built, beautifully, appointed house. In Las Vegas. For anyone who knows me, they know that this predicament is the ironic hell of my own creation. I’m an Alanis Morrisette song, a Far Side cartoon, a beautiful girl in a snout-faced, Twilight Zone world. Such a pickle.

I saw the house for the first time last weekend with my Mom, my S.O. and my sister. Walking up to the house, I am accosted by my new neighbor “Ron.” Hand outstretched, Ron introduces himself and his brooding teenage son and tells me he’s just bought the house next to umm…mine. I look around anxiously, waiting for lightning to strike.

Dang. Pangs of attachment start to form in the pit of my stomach. My sister slips the key in the front hole. It doesn’t work. Is it a sign? We’re able to open the garage door. Paint cans and equipment are staged in the corner. My sister leaves to get the right key and my S.O., Mom and I wander to the backyard. It’s a large lot, the third largest in the subdivision. Right now, it’s just a raw, open space. Behind the backyard, is a large trench. I hear they plan to transform it into green, lush walking trails. I see three amigos heads right outside the fence. They look like they’re cracking open pipes in the dirt. “What are you guys doing?” I ask. They look at me and say nothing. My S.O. breaks out in his limited Spanish and asks, “Tubas de agua?” “Si,” they answer back.

My sister returns with the right key and we make our way inside the house. At three thousand square feet, it is six times larger than my one-bedroom apartment in Oakland. It’s got that new house smell. I walk tentatively across the living room and into the enormous kitchen and family room. I feel like a surrogate mom, touring the nursery of the baby I’ll give up to some, other happy couple.

Overwhelmed and anxious, I’m a bundle of conflicting feelings. I want to magically transport it to back to Northern California, a place where you won’t find slot machines at grocery stores and where you still need your PIN code for the ATM machine. I wander into each empty room, reacting at first with an excited, “Ooooh!” but then quickly doing my Larry David-best to curb my enthusiasm at each turn.

I’m in a picture-taking frenzy. I need evidence, proof, of this house. The house I can’t believe I suddenly own. I secretly send telepathic messages to my S.O., Mom and sister, “Please, please don’t ask me if I want to pack up my life in Oakland, leave my friends and family and live in a casino-infested desert away from everything I know and love...don't ask me right now, not in this house…I might agree to anything at this moment…”

Before we pile back in the car, I take a few last pictures of the outside of house, unsure of how this will all turn out.

I'll Have Beef with a Side Order of Chicken & a Garnish of Pork

It’s the week before Thanksgiving and it’s a beautiful, warm November night in Oakland. I’m making my way down the hill to meet the girls (and their boys) for dinner at a Thai place I’ve never been to before—Bangkok Palace. I laugh out loud when I think of my S.O.’s never-ending quest for “The Perfect Thai Sausage” and wonder if this place will be a contender. With the exception of Margaret, who I see a few times at week at kickboxing class, my visits with these ladies have regrettably been less frequent in the last few months. Our regularly scheduled girls’ night out has, for at least this night, morphed into a girls, Significant Others and kids’ night out.

We order a slew of food—papaya salad, spring rolls, scallops with chilis, pad thai, a few vegetable and tofu dishes. Grilled chicken for the meat eaters (okay…for me) and brown rice. Brown rice? Man, I miss eating clean and healthy. Last night, my S.O. and I went out for Chinese and had two dishes that were that were so battered, deep-fried and sauced up, they were beyond identification. Cod nuggets and chicken were my guess but my S.O. thought he tasted bits of pork and catfish chunks. Lordy.

But tonight, I was in the company of ovo-lacto vegetarians, lacto vegetarians and a few who’ve even experimented with veganism. And then there was me...a life-long lover of swine and all manner of hooved and cloven creatures. If left to my own devices, I could survive in a cave, very happily, on a diet of low-fat cottage, strawberries and walnuts, provided you throw in an occasional pork rib or chicken leg, for good measure. I’m a carnivore to the bone, albeit a carnivore with ovo-lacto vegetarian tendencies. On one occasion, while speaking to my S.O. on subject of favorite foods, I discovered that his favorite food was meat.

“Meat?”
“Yes, meat.”
“What, you mean, like filet mignon or new york strip? Or a nice pork roast or barbecued ribs?”
“Uh…yes, yes, yes…and aawww yes.” Sheesh...I thought. He must have the hardest working colon in the business. The James Brown of the colon world.

As I was reaching for the last half of the tofu spring roll and spearing another perfectly sautéed forkful of green beans and cabbage, I suddenly realized how much I’ve missed the once prevalent presence of vegetables from my diet. Despite the fact that eggplant is utterly devoid of any nutritional value, I still loved its soft texture and smoky flavor, especially in tonight’s incarnation, accompanied with tofu and basil. Though the fish sauce and Thais chilis, in fact, everything that makes it Thai, was virtually nonexistent, the papaya salad, sweet and tangy and peanutty, actually woke up my mouth from its freshness! I am not lying.

No, there’ll be no Thai sausage on the dinner menu tonight…but I—and my colon—thank you.

A Warm Bottle and a Clean Diaper

The child hasn’t even been arrived yet and she has everything a baby girl could possibly want. Actually, don’t all newborns just want to be fed, warm, and poop-and-gas free? My friends Celeste and Ajit are having their first baby in a matter or months—a girl, Madeline. The nursery in their house is brimming with baby books, toys, stuffed animals, and clothes…tons of clothes. The entire inventory, acquired from the generosity of friends and friends of friends, freed from attics and boxes marked “Kids’ Clothes”, will enjoy a second life in the Monnette De Silva household. Celeste won’t have to buy clothes for Madeline until she’s eight.

Tomorrow is Madeline’s shower and I am 100 percent stumped as to what I am getting her. If I’m having this much trouble thinking of a gift for her in her pre-natal state, what’s it going to be like for the next twenty-or-so years of gift-giving? Oy gevalt, this Madeline is hard to shop for!

I should have taken that dog-eared issue of Parenting Magazine home with me from the gym. I know next-to-nothing about the latest in baby-gear innovation. Diaper Genie? That is so 2002.

If I had Sleeping Beauty fairy powers, I’d give Madeline the gift of being a sound sleeper. A new parent’s lament often involves sleep deprivation and colicky babies. May your child find bliss in a full night’s sleep! Now that would be something!

It’s Saturday afternoon, an hour before the shower. I’m at Babies “R” Us.

“Excuse me, can you show me where the Diaper Genie 3000 is located?”

Baby You Can Ride In My Car

I’m not sure if it’s a Bay Are thing or not but every weekday morning, I take my place in a queue of commuters under the I580 overpass at MacArthur Avenue in Oakland in what’s known ‘round these parts as the “casual carpool” line. I’m not sure if other urban communities have adopted this style of carpooling but in my opinion, every community should. Basically, certain centrally located points in surrounding suburban cities have been dedicated as casual carpool pickup points. Folks get in line and two at a time, hop into cars heading to San Francisco. The relationship, albeit fleeting, is a win-win for everybody. The driver avoids the $3 bridge toll (soon to jump another dollar) and the often thirty-minute approach to the City and the two passengers get a free, quick ride to downtown San Francisco via the carpool lane. It’s a simply brilliant way to get to work in the morning and it gives me chance to ride in cars I would never get a chance to ride in otherwise.

Don’t get me wrong, I have grown to love and treasure my 1988 red Acura with its “Bad Girl” decal my mother so generously “lent” me when I totaled my beloved ’95 Honda Civic not too long ago. It has served me well and faithfully. But what tickles me even more and what I tend to brag about to complete strangers is the fact that I don’t really even need to drive my car during the week. Between casual carpooling into the City every morning and taking the P line bus home every evening, I’m saving buckets of money, wear-and-tear on my car, and every now and again, get to hop into a Jaguar.

People often ask, “Aren’t you scared you’ll be getting into a car with an ax murderer?” or “Do you sign up for it ahead of time?” No and no. I have never encountered any ax murderer-types in my hundreds of times as a passenger into the City. And signing up ahead of time? Well, then, we wouldn’t be able to call it “casual” carpool at that point, now would we?

Of course, it’s not completely casual. You ride long enough and you’ll begin to see the same riders, the same drivers. There’s the burgundy Nova that shows up around 8:15 am. At all costs, I try and avoid this car. A youngish, Asian woman driver, she’s got a pair of magnetic-nosed teddy bears hanging from her rear-view mirror and Hello Kitty cozies for her headrests. She also listens to an all-talk Christian radio show that features old-school evangelists that have the peculiar speech affection that causes them to end all their words with “—aah” as in “Sin-aah no more-aah! Jesus-aah loves ya-aah!”

I love getting first-time drivers. I often take it upon myself to school them in the etiquette of casual carpooling. I got in to a car with a young woman, lured to Oakland from the City by the cheaper rents and plentiful parking. As I climbed up into her Toyota SUV, I could tell immediately she was a first-timer due to her proclivity to chat. She explained how she couldn’t find the pick up point and that she had driven up and down Grand Avenue for quite some time. I told her the Grand Avenue spot was popular as well as the Oakland Avenue and 41st Street by the Korean church. After a quick exchange of “Good mornings" most drivers and passengers remain silent, usually letting the all-talk chatter of NPR fill up the airspace on the fifteen-minute ride into the City. Not so with this lady. I learned all about her life, where she worked, where she and her husband lived. How she was lousy with car directions because all she ever used to do was ride her bike in the City and street signs and one-way roads be damned as she zipped in and out of traffic on her trusty ten-speed. So of course, I gave the inside scoop on carpool etiquette, lest some unscrupulous passenger tried to pass on mis-information in hopes of avoiding her twelve-block hike to work in the morning.

“Yes, most drivers take a left on Howard Street and let passengers out on the corner of Fremont and Howard, unless you’re crossing Market Street. In that case, most people will jump out on Market Street and walk to work from there.” She nodded her head, mentally taking notes for tomorrow’s carpool adventure. “You work at North Beach? Gosh, I work a block below Broadway. You’re going that way? You mind if you ride with you to there? That’s awfully nice of you. Just so you know, most drivers don’t offer door-to-door rides to their passengers…” I love it when the morning ride over works out that way.

Casual carpool is my favorite way to get to work. At cocktail parties (not that I go to many), it always paints a sheen of mystery about me. “Uh-huh…I do it everyday. Yes, strangers, every one…no, I’m never scared, really, it’s perfectly safe.” In reality, I’m just a cheap bastard, short on time and always ready to hop into a Mini, a Prius, a Lexus, a Jag…”

Memories of Me

I’m having one of those days where I’m walking around fully functional yet my eyes don’t quite feel completely awake. My body is craving sleep but when I try to nap, my eyes refuse to close. Do you remember those dolls when you were a kid, whose eyes shut when you laid her down horizontally, then popped open again when you stood her up? I feel like one of those dolls, but all fucked up. Lay me down and my eyes refuse to shut…stand me up and all I want to do is shut them.

It was another beautiful, sunny Saturday in Oakland today. This morning, my S.O. and I hit our usual coffee and muffin spot, Arizmendi, a co-op owned bakery a few blocks from where we live. It’s a little ritual we’ve developed over the course of our relationship and although I’m a highly ritualistic person by nature, I’m not quite sure I will ever get used to the rituals of my S.O.

It’s not quite August yet, but I already sense in him a mood swing that happens at the beginning of every month. Mr. Crankypants is coming for yet another visit. Oh, yay. Feelings of dissatisfaction, boredom, and regret envelop my S.O. every month like clockwork. And although he tells me he’s had mild depression his whole life, and even though he insists it’s him and not me…not us…there’s an annoying nudging in my side that won’t go away despite his reassurances.

The coffee thing at Arizmendi is our ritual, yes, but our weekends now mostly consist of his rituals. Hitting balls at the range, soccer games on Sunday, eating at his Vietnamese deli, playing 18 holes during Twilight hours on Sundays and me, always his trusty golf cart driver.

I used to have rituals of my own. Every Saturday, I enjoyed long solitary workouts at my gym, then ran to Peets for super-strong coffee and a fat-free vegan scone. I’d sit across the street, plant myself on a window ledge, usually next to a trio of Ethiopians enjoying their smokes, and people-watch. I used to make up stories as to why that middle-aged lady with the pink yoga mat had such a big grin on her face. Maybe her daughter who never called her, suddenly called her just to say hi. Or maybe her neighbor, whom she had her eye on, finally made the first move and now she’s meeting him for a latte after yoga. After a good hour or so, I’d go back to the gym and catch up with my friends in kickboxing class, which was always, always, my favorite Saturday activity.

But that was months ago. And this morning, as my S.O. and I were walking back to the car from our usual Saturday breakfast, I ran into Simin, who was standing behind the green newspaper racks, sipping a cup of coffee and enjoying the sunshine. Simin was a yoga instructor that I knew from my gym. Tall, thin and soft-spoken, she was the quintessential yoga instructor. I’d often run into her around the Lake or shopping at Whole Foods, but mostly at the gym. Her Saturday yoga class was from 12 to 1:30 pm. Our kickboxing class was the class right after hers. Every now and again, she and I would chat. As the yoga people rolled up their mats and put away their blocks and the kickboxers would begin quickly wrapping their hands, Simin and I would exchange compliments and tips on staying healthy and feeling good. She would comment on how tough she thought I looked in all my kickboxing gear and I would go on about how flexible and strong she seemed doing her yoga postures. It was a mutual admiration club for two.

She said she hadn’t seen me at the gym in a while and suddenly my already-sleepy eyes became heavier for different reasons. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t been to the gym in quite some time and all at once I felt sadness, shame, nostalgic and resentment. And anger. Anger mostly at myself for becoming the subject of countless magazine articles about women who “lose themselves” in their relationships. Oh brother. When did this happen? And how? And am I really one of those stupid, stupid women with whom I’m always getting angry?

The subject needs further investigation. All I know is, for now, I need to reinstitute some of my own rituals. Like bad habits, rituals never go away, they just get replaced by new ones.

A Minute in the Ring

I really need to start wearing a watch again. I got out of the habit after 2001, right around the time Paperloop.com laid me off. As an event planner, a watch is part of the uniform. But after 9/11, I and so many of my fellow planners across the country took off our watches, as we stuffed our pink slips in card board boxes and headed out the door.

It’s been four years and although I’ve been gainfully employed for most of that time, I never took to wearing a watch again. There was always the computer clock, the clock on my cell phone, the VCR clock. It was a great way to practice talking to strangers, Hi, do you have the time?

All day at work, I was painfully mindful of the time. At my last job, I had left my $2.99 Target wall clock in my cube as a reminder to my office mates that “May Was Here.” I had yet to put a clock up in my new cube. As I exchanged short conversations with people throughout the day, I mentally logged minutes spent chatting and counted them down until the 5 o’clock hour hit.

I had to be at Fairtex gym by 5:20 pm. I had made an appointment for my $10 introductory session with Ken earlier in the week and I had been looking forward to it all day long. The trek from North Beach to Fairtex, in the SoMa district of the City, was about 15 blocks but if I sped-walked at an energetic clip, I would just make it. Fairtex was a muay thai kickboxing gym that had recently moved to its new location, at Hawthorne Lane and Harrison. A few months earlier, I visited my old office at 2nd and Harrison, in a futile attempt to become re-employed there. After a miserable interview and needing a caffeine, fat and sugar fix—coffee and a chocolate chip cookie—I walked around corner to what used to be Boudin Bakery. Serendipitously, what I found instead was Fairtex gym.

Ah! The bones of the front room were strikingly familiar. The mechanized platform for wheelchairs was still there. Thank you, ADA! The counter that used to sit above displays of cookies, sourdough and sweet baguettes and cheese Danish, now sat above handwraps, boxing gloves and an assortment of differently-sized shin guards. The poster-size prints of old San Francisco were replaced by pictures of muay thai champions in the requisite “fists up” pose. I stepped to the back of the café, half-expecting to see the same table my friend Jodie and I would eat our chowder-in-a-bread-bowl but there was no “corner” anymore. The room had been become a hallway that lead to a huge, cavernous warehouse, the center of which stood a regulation-size boxing ring. It was beautiful. To the left of the ring, the floor was a patchwork of blue mats, the squishy, soft kind that was more forgiving to bare feet that the hardwood my feet were used to. Large, black kicking and heavy bags lined the perimeter of the blue mats. In my mind, I could already picture my leg thwacking into that bag and making a dent right there…just below the Fairtex logo. To the right of ring were the jiu jitsu mats. The floor was red and smooth and just a little tacky. I wondered what it’d be like to grapple on that surface. I imagined some wicked floorburns.

My introductory session consisted of me training one-on-one with a Fairtex trainer. A private session for $10! Not a bad deal! I used to pay $40 a session with my old trainer every other week. A trainer named Pongsansan wrapped my hands. I recognized him from the picture on the T-shirts they were selling at the front desk. Yikes! This guy is a bad-ass! I told him I was a beginner. He guessed that I had been training two years. I lied and said yes even though it was probably more like four years. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of a Fairtex trainer and not be as good as a person should be who had been training for four years straight.

But it was Armand, not Pongsansan, who would train with me that evening. He was wiry, around 5’8” I guessed, and personable. We introduced ourselves and after I warmed up with a few minutes of skipping rope, he took me into the center ring to begin.

I had never stepped foot into a ring before. There was a time when I had considered training for a smoker, a series of matches put on by gyms every now and again. Lack of nerve and a desire not to be weighed publicly always kept me from making the commitment. I was shy to step inside. There’s no doubt, that at least for a few seconds, everyone’s eyes will glance your way and judge you. I know, because I give everyone I see in the ring the same once-over, as I would be subject to now.

The floor was surprisingly slippery, slightly powdery-feeling. I felt I could be knocked on my ass at the slightest misstep. Armand started to show me the basics, the boxer’s stance, how to throw a jab and a cross. My new job in the City and the growing difficulty I had in stealing time away, had prevented me from going to a regular kickboxing class in over a month. My conditioning had deteriorated. And muscle memory? Mine were suffering from amnesia. I prayed I wouldn’t re-injure my groin muscles again, as I winced trying to throw double-roundhouses in succession.

Armand sprinkled water on the mat to prevent me getting knocked on my butt. He held the pads from me and called out different combinations. Jab-cross-kick-kick. Cross-hook-step-knee. Sixty seconds later and my eyes started stinging from the sweat running down my forehead. Unbelievable! How do boxers go fifteen rounds?

After a few rounds in the ring, I felt fatigued but Armand wasn’t done with me yet. We stepped out of the ring and walked toward the kicking bags. The conditioning drills consisted of forty kicks with each leg then one hundred “knees”. (Kneeing your opponent’s torso is allowed and encouraged in muay thai.) After that, fifty pushups and fifty crunches. Exhausted, I thanked God Armand “cut it short” after forty minutes. I was tired, but wanted more. Kicking bags, the blue mats, the ring…I had never before complete access to this kind of equipment. I decided to observe the next kickboxing class and partake in a little cheap therapy of the kicking kind with that hanging black bag in the corner, the one with my name on it.

I haven’t been back since my introductory lesson. If my work schedule continues to eat up my free time, I doubt I’ll be able to kickbox regularly. But at least I would have had my time in the ring, even though it was just for forty minutes.

Expired Drugs Still Work

After three weeks on the new job, I had to call in sick yesterday. Not to worry, it was legit. I’m not surprised I caught a nasty head cold. All that exposure to new germs, my hands on strange doorknobs and bathroom stall doors, breathing in foreign air and the commingling of my familiar family of dust mites with theirs. It was just a matter of time before my body reacted.

I drifted in and out of sleep on the couch, the clear, cool beauty of the day wasted on me. Earlier, I woke up with my S.O. and promptly told him I felt sick. I had the feeling he thought I was faking it but my pounding head, scratchy throat and post-nasal drip made me the wiser.

The prospect of calling in sick for the first time made me a bit nervous. There was a procedure for calling in sick. Section 1, Subsection 3 of our beast of an Operations Manual detailed such proper procedure. Our department maintained and actually followed, a manual that each employee was issued upon their first day of work. It’s kept in a large, 5-in. ring binder and it detailed everything from what exactly to say on your outgoing voice mail message to how to negotiate contracts, from indemnification to force majeure. I would imagine, for the layman, a monster document like this would invoke fear and scorn. But for me and my control-freak sisters, it’s a thing of beauty; a guide for order, balance and uniformity in the small, chaotic universe, we often are forced to navigate.

But yesterday morning, I couldn’t remember exactly what Section 1, Subsection 3 described as the proper procedure for calling in sick. So I decided to play the new employee trump card and just left a voice mail for my manager. I wondered to myself how many times I could get away with playing that card.

Every time she visited, my college roommate, C, now a pharmacist, made it a point to rifle through my medicine cabinet and toss expired meds and anything else she didn’t deem fit to swallow. I silently thanked God she hadn’t visited in a while because Hallelujah! There, between the expired Claritin and the expired Cloraseptic, was some expired Walgreen’s cold medicine. Given the choice between taking old antihistamines and breathing like an asthmatic smoker, I took the former.

I started to see stars, the kind you see when you shut your eyes tight, then opened them again. I succumbed to the lovely, lightedheadedness from the meds and took my place on the couch. I felt…globby. The prospect of going back to work and tackling the Operations Manual and all that it represented—the meticulousness, the extreme attention to detail required to be successful—made me think of trying to stuff a globby, oozy mass into a clear, plastic cube, clearly too small for its contents. I knew in my gut that in order to earn the respect at work I secretly craved, I would have to step up, increase my game, and goddamnit, make my oozy, globby self fit in that plastic cube. But for now, I just enjoyed my foggy haze, rolled over to avoid couch sores and decided it’d be best to worry about it tomorrow.

I Am Woman, See Me Work

I’m not working for the Man anymore. Well, not literally, anyway. I started a brand new job today in the City. It’s a small company, founded and owned by a woman. A youngish-woman, at that. The receptionist-slash-office administrator lead me and another newbie on the obligatory office tour, stopping at each cube. I met many people, whose names, I’m sorry to say, were completely forgettable. With the exception of “Jennifer”. There seems to be an inordinate amount of Jennifers at my new job.

Among the many introductions, the receptionist introduced me to Sarah, a pleasant woman in her early 40s. She wasn’t trendily dressed like most of the young women in the office, but nonetheless very stylish, with a black and grey crepe skirt, pieced together in loose strips. I gave her the same smile and handshake I gave to the fifty or so people I had met this morning. I wanted to kick myself when the receptionist said later, ”Oh, and Sarah’s the president of the company.” If I would have known that, I would have turned the internal wattage up and given her my extra-special smile and handshake. Sheesh.

I have returned to my industry of choice—the events business. I have been planning, coordinating and handling the operation of trade shows, conferences, meetings and special events since 1993. The ripple effect of 9/11 had done me in and consequently I was in and out of the events biz, well, right up until today. I haven’t felt this optimistic about work in a very long time and dagummit, I finally feel like I have something I can dig my heels into.

The building I work at looks like a holdover from the dotcom bust of the early ‘90s. Exposed brick walls and vents, extra high ceilings, black bean bags and space. Lots and lots of space. I imagined, in its hey-day, its halls were filled with artsy-trendy looking young people with tattoos, black plastic bracelets and unnaturally red hair, coasting down the aisles on those little scooters.

The events business, in general, is run by women; the executives, however, almost always are male. Not so at this company, the owner and most of the VPs are female. In fact, of about seventy or so employees, I only met around five men. And while some may see working with mostly women something akin to sorority life or being backstage at a beauty pageant, right now, this minute, I choose to see it as a positive. I will do my darndest not to have any “meetings in the ladies room”—unless provoked, that is.

Downtown Walnut Creek, a suburb of the City, was not the hippest, most happening place to work. Walking around downtown San Francisco, walking down my aisle to get to my cube, I was struck by the sheer number of beautiful people wandering around. I thought, Who are these people? And what are they doing without their entourages? I almost got stabbed several times by the pointy-shoes of A-line-floral-skirt-wearing-women in the office. I’m a healthy, straight, Filipino-American woman but I felt like the butchiest of bulldykes among the women in my office. I thought the embroidered flowers on my black shirt would be enough of a feminine touch, but I was way off base. I can’t compete with faux-fur trimmed jackets and open-toed pumps. Oh well...

It was only my first day…

Mother Inabsentia

I just recently decided it would be okay to start listening to my mother again. She had given me pretty good advice up until 1988 but after that it all went downhill. Since I was an irritatingly boring and well-behaved child, I have to say she had it easy. I didn’t hang out with a rough crowd, practiced the piano, suffered no unexpected pregnancies...

She wasn’t your stereotypical Asian mother. She didn’t really pressure me to do well in school (I already did, thank you very much). Curfews? ‘Eh...never broke them because I never stayed out late. Drug problem? Please! The hardest drug I did came dipped in hard-candy shell. She wasn’t the strict, oppressive Asian immigrant mother who felt her children’s success reflected her own success as a parent. Her own mother died when she was a young girl and she was raised by her aunt. Despite her aunt's best efforts, (and by my mother's own account) she was one baaad little kid. I saw a snapshot of her and my uncle once when they were young. My mom looked to be about twelve or thirteen and skinny as a Lucky Strike. Nine out of ten people polled would agree that she wore an afro. She stared stone-faced, her eyes looking straight into the camera and smiled the same no-teeth smile she uses today. She’s not giving anything away, that one.

As I saw it, my mother’s main child-rearing objectives were to feed, house and educate us. And keep us relatively happy. In 1979, we made the move from San Francisco to Vallejo, a suburb thirty miles north of the City. Since my sister AD was just too damn smart, she moved up a year, ending up in the same grade as my sister, AM. They were about to enter the eigth grade and rather than have them miss the chance to "graduate" with their class, my mother let them live on their own in small room, in a converted garage in someone’s house. Those kinds of studio conversions or "in-laws" were very popular in houses in the Sunset. My sisters, ages thirteen and fourteen, were living by themselves in the City, with nothing but the threat of my mother’s wrath to keep them in check.

So what if Social Services may have called that neglect? The Sunset neighborhood in 1979 was a different world back them and lucky for all of us, my sisters were big fish in their little pond, remarkably trustworthy and responsible kids. The sisters of the Holy Name of Jesus Elementary school stayed blissfully ignorant.

Over the years, she did the best she could, making decisions that would make today's parents mouths drop open. Oh, we suffered as we discovered Ponds cold cream had no sun-protective protective properties whatsoever and probably encouraged extra-wicked sunburns. And a prune or two would have helped things along, rather than ingesting those deceptively chocolaty-Ex-lax candies, my mother would feed us after a particularly heavy meal. When it came to my mother’s advice, I quickly developed a filter to sift away the sludge from the gold bits.

I suspect the hardest part my mother had to do was live apart from us, often finding work that took her to neighboring cities for weeks at a time. I stopped living with my mother at around fourteen. She was my "mother inabsentia". There, but not there.

She’s got her own way of doing things and while her methodology may seem crazy to some, the proof is in the proverbial pudding. My sisters and I didn’t grow up completely damage-free; between the five of us, we have a rack full of issues just waiting for us to leaf through. But, we grew up well-fed, with a roof over our heads, and college under our belts. And at the end of the day, I’d say that’s a job well-done.

Girl-About-Town Needs a Dayjob

Somebody please rip out my ovaries. Go on...I'll bite down on this wooden spoon while you do it. While folding my socks into tight little balls, and despite the "no-reality-shows" TV rule I've instituted in my household, I inadvertently happened upon a show called, Nanny 911. Playing on the Mary Poppins myth that British women make the best nannies, the show featured a nanny (complete with hat and carpet bag) who observed a family with four unruly children and the parents whose fault it was.

The kids were spitting, swearing, hitting, running and generally being bratty and disrespectful. Oy gevalt! The worst of the lot was the six-year-old who had never had a "time out" (though he surely deserved them) and his four-year old little sister who could string expletives together better than a truck driver who had just stubbed his toe.

By 8:55 pm, everybody had learned how to respect each other and the parents figured out how everything was their fault, but really, they knew better now. Mom, Dad and the kids waved and cried as the Nanny slipped out the front door, another family saved from themselves.

Until today, I was enjoying my time off between jobs. Playing house, doing domestic things like grocery shoppping and laundry, picking up drycleaning, watching reruns of Buffy and Angel on the WB. It's been kind of fun, I have to say; it's been so easy to let my mind wander and wonder what'd it be like to pop out a few kids and call myself a "stay-at-home" mom.

Well, that little domestic fantasy of mine just went the way of Tab and Fen-Fen. I was suddenly reminded of how miserably predictable I am when I got angry at my S.O. for coming home after 9 pm from the driving range. I had a big pot of resentment simmering on the stove and it was about to boil over if I didn't watch it. I had spent the entire day doing homey things. Foodtv.com, Epicurious.com, the "Beef. It's What's for Dinner" people--I searched online in vain for a simple recipe for a top round roast that HE bought last Sunday (with no intention of cooking it himself). I separated lights, darks and delicates and laundered sheets and towels. I fought the masses at an unusually-crowded-for-a-Monday Berkeley Bowl (buying his cooking papaya) and spent twenty-minutes convincing myself that no one will die if don't buy the low-carb pasta at Trader Joe's.

Then He comes home, eats his leftover Chinese and bolts to the driving range. I spent the evening whacked out, more angry at myself than at him. How did this happen? I used to be independent..a girl-about-town, coming and going as I please and you can go to hell if you didn't like it. Resentment, anger, feelings of being underappreciated and taken for granted...guess you don't have to actually BE married to feel like you're married. With kids in the picture, I imagine those feelings would only increase exponentially. I've seen the future--and I'm backing the truck out slowly.

Oh, I have no intention of breaking up with the S.O. anytime soon. I have a wedding to go to in a month, for Chrissakes. I will, however, remember that as much as I love not punching that clock every morning for the Man, working for the Wo-Man, namely me, means more than watching Starting Over and Ellen everyday. I'll have to keep challenged, keep writing and learn how to keep a dayjob.