The Post In Which I Share Exciting News

I don't know about you, but I spend inordinate amounts of time doing things and checking them off some list, mental or otherwise. I do and do and do, but nothing gets done because these things aren't really Things; they're just tasks. And tasks never end. Making lunches, running errands, grocery shopping, sending this e-mail or that e-mail, dialing the phone to make an appointment, etc. It's so hamster-on-a-wheel. Which is a necessary and even sometimes enjoyable part of life, don't get me wrong. But what often goes missing when making my countless rounds on the wheel is any true sense of accomplishment. You know, the kind of accomplishment someone must feel when they wake up one morning thinking I will climb Mt. Kilamanjaro, and then they take all the necessary steps for two years or whatever to do so, and then they finally, finally ascend, and then descend, and then they sleep for a long time. When they awaken, they will have freaking ACCOMPLISHED their goal of climbing Mt. Kilamanjaro.

All of which is to say, I finally DID something. I didn't do it alone, and I couldn't have done it alone, because the whole point was to do it together. Do what, you ask? Why, write a dugtungan novel entitled Angelica's Daughters, I answer. And before you ask what the hell that is, I'll just tell you. No wait! What I'll do is share with you Brian Ascalon Roley's blurb, which defines it nicely:

"Part of the pleasure of reading Angelica's Daughters, the engrossing new collaborative novel by five established Filipina writers, is seeing how deftly the authors deal with the challenge of writing in this resurrected literary form. A dugtungan is a genre of Tagalog novel popular early in the 20th century, in which each writer creates a chapter and hands it off to the next, who writes another chapter without direction. The result, in this case, is an ensemble performance that contains something of the exhilaration of theatrical improv. One watches these accomplished authors inventively weave a historical romance, creating gripping heroines and turns of plot, crossing decades and national boundaries, tapping into cultural roots of the Philippines, Spain and America. Reading Angelica's Daughters is a gripping experience.~ Brian Ascalon Roley, Author of American Son (W.W. Norton)

My co-authors for this project are Cecilia Brainard (Los Angeles), Erma Cuizon (Manila), Susan Evangelista (Palawan), and Nadine Sarreal (Singapore). At one point—and this is something Cecilia discusses in the introduction to the novel—the amazing Marianne Villanueva was part of our crew, but in the end if was just the five of us e-mailing files like mad, trying to make sense out of the tangle of characters we'd invented, and trying to smooth out our writing styles into a cohesive narrative. It was a long and sometimes frustrating process that took about like 350 years. Or maybe it was just six. I've blocked it out, but I believe that detail, too, is included in Cecilia's introduction. The bottom line is that the novel is being released by Anvil (Philippines) this month, and it's being mini-launched at the Manila Book Fair on the 18th, where Nadine and Susan will represent our motley crue and field questions from interviewer Ivy Mendoza.

More on all this later, as I need to hop back on that hamster wheel (hello reality). But I'm happy to leave you with a small image of the cover, at least. I love it because the woman is going absolutely batshit crazy:

Not So Stinky No More

Since I was so quick to out my 4th grade writers when they were being the Stinkiest Stinkers ever, I should be just as quick to praise them when they are the Loveliest Lovelies who ever sat writing in a little room. Since their Stinky episode, they have joyously tried their hand at writing a 12-line pantoum. In fact, most of them wrote several. One kid said, "Wow, almost no matter what you do, these turn out good." Hahahahahaha! Oh, and here's an actual exchange between the spousal unit and your Nesting Ground Mistress (NGM):

Spousal Unit: What're you doing?

NGM: Typing a pantoum.

Spousal Unit: What's a pantoum?

NGM: A...poetic form.

Spousal Unit: Oh. [pause] Tell me again: why did you marry me?

Hahahahahaha! My 4th grade writers also stepped up and did a fantastical job with my Where Are You From lesson, which I adapted from something I saw on the Teachers & Writers Collaborative site. First I asked them where they were from, and they offered up typical answers: from Stanford Hospital, from my mom, from San Mateo, etc. etc. Then I showed them this video I found on YouTube:



They were really into this video. I think I need to do this kind of thing more often, as they are, after all, the Childrens of the Internets. Afterwards, I passed out a hard copy of the poem, and we read it together. Then I asked them if they felt like Hughes' poem answers the question, "Where are you from?" Lots of chattering ensued. And then they wrote.

This little girl has moved around a lot, and she became visibly upset while writing. Her classmates were supportive, though, and she ended up with this:

I am from the hot dogs of New Jersey
I am from the colorful, spotted peacocks of Arcadia
I am from the fresh air of North Carolina
I am from the humid temperature of Simi Valley
I am from my friends and family
I am not from the crowds of San Francisco

This girl is obsessed with fighting with her brother. She writes about it almost every week, and I was afraid she was going to turn out yet another piece entirely devoted to how "lame" he is, but she managed to restrain herself:

I am from chocolate that my mom makes me. I am from the fights I have with my brother. I am from the books I read; they change me. I am from my loving family. I am from the ice skating we do in Lake Tahoe, I am from Tom and Jerry, I am from the bright city that I live in. I am from lots of colorful ice cream. I am not from jail, where the bad people are.

And this is from my own Risa, who almost finishes writing things before I even give direction. She's so fast. The bad part is she has no interest in editing her work. But her first drafts are usually pretty good:

I am from the letters in my name
I am from the colors I wear
the lines on my skin
and the words that come from my mouth
I am from the people before me and
The people before them
I am from the numbers in my age, which you do not know
I am from the words my teacher speaks
And from the lines my pencil makes
I am a Filipina princess
I am from the world

Here are a few lines from a girl who is reluctant to write when things get too serious. She's from a broken family, and it's so easy to see the different ways it affects her. Her short piece ends with a stab to the heart, pretty much:

I am from the stories that my mom tells. I am from the recipes my family writes. I am from the fierce animals that are inside me. I am from Utopia. It’s perfect there.

And this is from our only boy. He's kind of all over the place when he writes, and this is a good snapshot of his work in general:

I am from the tall grass of England
The buttery smell of lobster
From my dog Brandy
I am from the tall redwoods
The flying football and baseballs
A huge mountain
A lasting friendship
A cookie factory
I am the Christmas spirit.

So I am happy for now. But they are like a dam fixing to burst. Sooner or later we're headed back to fart-talking, crush-revealing, test anxiety, and who knows what else. I must hunker down and plan my offensive NOW...

Revenge of the Prawn Taco

Yesterday, I ate a prawn taco. Yes, a PRAWN taco. I'm sure you agree that such a memorable moment deserved to be shared with others. It was in this spirit of giving, that I reported my "status" on Facebook. "I just ate a prawn taco," typed I. "You are so jealous."

I then walked the half-block to my loft to continue what I was doing before partaking in the prawn taco. Which is to say, I sat at my desk and willed my fingers to type words. After 90 minutes of this effort, I drove to San Carlos to pick up my children from their art camp. They regaled me with tales relating to the difficulty of executing the proper brushstroke to create realistic palm tree leaves.

Hmmm. I've digressed.

Later, I discovered that two of my relatives, namely Evil Luj and Also Evil Paqui, had left messages on my Facebook wall. "Prawn Taco? What the hec is a prawn taco?" said Evil Luj. "Or maybe you meant, shrimp taco. You know...shrimp. (Prawn Taco? Really?)"

As if this slap in the face of my prawn taco dignity were not enough, Also Evil Paqui chimed in. "Maybe it was served with a side of aioli and basted with a white wine butter sauce? Those are yummy with a good Pinot Grigio," said Also Evil Paqui. "But what do I know, I only eat SHRIMP TACOS...lol."

The sordid story continues. Not content with cyberbullying me via Facebook, Evil Luj pursued his anti-prawn taco campaign on Twitter. "There's no such thing as a prawn taco," he taunted.

Well, my friends, I submit that there is.

*dramatically pulls something from pocket and holds it up*

Oh, what is this I see? It looks like a menu from La Corneta!


What happens if we open the menu? Oh, look! There's a list of their tacos right at the top!


Hey, if the photographer zooms in a little, you can just make out where it says "Prawn Taco." They even offer a "Super Prawn Taco."


There's a lesson to be learned here. And I think the lesson is...

...that I did not have to while away precious moments taking pictures of the La Corneta menu when I could have just directed interested parties (of which I can only imagine there are dozens upon dozens) to this page.

*Wipes Sweat From Brow*

I spent seven hours at the San Francisco passport agency today (five of them with Vida and Lea in tow), but every miserable moment was worth it because when I finally left, I was clutching their passports in my grubby hands. Better yet, when I arrived at home, my passport was sitting on the front step in its FedEx envelope. And so we leave tomorrow, as planned.

Five people + five passports = one long-awaited family vacation

I Love a Happy Ending

Since I'm sure you're [sarcasm] waiting with bated breath [/sarcasm] to learn the outcome of the Missing Passports Saga, I will now issue forth:

Went to Belmont post office at 9:15 am, but was told that passport services were not available until 10:00 and that I should make an appointment. The first available was 10:30. Drove from Belmont to Ranch 99 in Foster City to purchase 20 lbs. of red rice (don't ask). Drove back to Belmont and read a story from Words Without Borders (I am loving this anthology; pick up a copy!) until 10:25. Emerged from my car and entered a now packed post office. Two guys ahead of me in the passport services line. In a smiling and friendly manner I say to the one in front of me, "Do you have an appointment?"

"There are no appointments."

"Yes there are. I have one for 10:30," I say. The man looks at me like I'm trying to steal his baby. "Do you mind if I just ask the clerk if I'm supposed to go back into the office?"

"This is the only line where they are accepting passports."

"So that's a 'no'?" I ask. Whatever.

When it's the man's turn, karma rears its head. He has come to apply for a passport for his daughter, but he is alone, and both parents and the child must be present in order to apply. He slinks away, and I approach the counter. "Hello Gracie!" I say. I try to jog her memory. I say remember I came in a few months ago and you figured out some way we're related blah blah blah, but Gracie also looks at me like I'm trying to steal her baby.

Since the family card appears to be getting me nowhere, I explain my circumstances. Gracie nods sagely. "You have to wake up at 4:00 in the morning because that will be 7:00 in the East Coast, and that's right when the call center opens. If that doesn't work, you have to go to the San Francisco Passport Agency and just elbow your way in."

"But they don't have any appointments until April 5th," I say. Panic rises, folks. Because this is the house we have already rented and paid for. And you can't see him, but there is also a chef we have paid for, and a housekeeper. And we did this because it is our long-awaited family vacation.

"Doesn't matter," says Gracie. She shrugs her shoulders. "Even if they give you an appointment, all it does is ensure that you can enter the building. There's never any guarantee that you'll be seen. I know a bunch of people who waited from opening 'til closing and never saw anyone."

And so I leave the Belmont post office quite disheartened. I head to my Pilates session to release the tension, but there I grow briefly worried because my trainer's increasingly bizarre directives are beginning to make perfect sense to me. Diamond on my back. Shoulders gliding. A tattoo that starts at the base of my spine and grows. Shorten the space between 6 and 12. Heavy sternum.

I leave there with determination in my step and my eyes on the prize. Pick up Lea at preschool, stop at Mollie Stone's for fresh fish, leeks, etc. Head directly home, put the stuff in the fridge, and guiltily inform Lea that she can watch tv because Mommy really has to make an important call and cannot be interrupted. She happily complies.

And then it begins. For two solid hours I work the phone trying to find a path of glory through the maze that is the passport call center's menu. I visualize speaking to an actual person. I whisper prayers. I make promises to the universe that I cannot possibly keep. And finally, finally, I hear a real voice.

"Hello? Hello?!" I say.

"Hello, ma'am. Are you calling to check on the status of your passports?"

"Yes! Yes! Five of them, actually!" I scream in delight. "I have the locator numbers! Shall I read them to you?"

I don't understand why the man is not as excited to speak to me as I am to speak to him; this makes no sense to me. But I forget all about that when he says the magic words. He says, "Okay, let's take care of this for you. When are you traveling?"

It takes 30 minutes more (by this time Lea's brain has turned to mush, an unfortunate side effect that I will spend the rest of the day correcting), but he finds all the passports, discovers that they were not scheduled to be sent out until April 12th (far, far too late for our long-awaited family vacation), and expedites the process to ensure they will arrive by the end of this week.

I guess it won't be a true happy ending until I'm holding the passports in my hand, but I'm going to hedge my bets and proclaim...trumpets blare...a small victory.

Ver vs. Ice

I'm sure the Weather Gods were pointing and laughing at us this morning when we scooted out the door 5 minutes behind schedule, only to find the car completely encased in ice. They were probably in full-on guffaw mode when I acted on the bordering-on-mentally-incapacitated assumption that turning on the windshield wipers would de-ice the windshield. Or perhaps they waited until I got out of the car and hopped from foot-to-foot blowing on my hands and saying, "Okay, okay, okay, let's see..." while the girls screamed "We're gonna be late! We're gonna be late! Mom! Mom! Come on, we're gonna be laaaaaaate..."

I was not to be defeated.

Like a primate discovering that a tree branch makes a decent backscratcher, I, too, fashioned a tool from what was on hand. And what was on hand was a CD case (The Best of Hall & Oates, if you must know. The girls love "Maneater," and I really don't want to discuss the matter further, so please stop pressing me. I will add, however, that "One on One" is completely underrated. Laugh if you must, but history will bear me out). I scraped away the ice, raised my arms in victory, and yelled "Ha! You see that?! Ha!"

Oh, but how does it end, Ver? How does it all end?

Reader, we made it to school on time.

Am I Blue?

Hell yes.

House and Senate?

Nancy Pelosi?

Now I just hope my not-so-secret wish for 2008 comes to pass.

*simultaneously screaming, dancing, and grinning*

Iffy.

We will shortly trek up the street for a Neighborhood Breakfast with ten or twelve other families. This is the fourth or fifth such breakfast, and I have always played it safe. I believe I brought lemon muffins (from scratch, ya naysayers) to the last one. But this time, I'm breaking free.

Yes.

This time I'm bringing Spam fried rice.

I feel so vulnerable.

The Emancipation of ViVi

(Not to be confused with the Emancipation of Mimi, which clearly involves an addiction to the inflating of various body parts, extending of hair, erasing of fine lines, and all manner of skullduggery...)

My particular mini-emancipation simply refers to a certain large fundraising event being nicely wrapped up late Saturday evening, and Lea heading back to preschool today. Not that I'm all loose-goosey-miss-throw-your-cares-to-the-wind-let's-go-to-the-spa person now or anything. It just means there's some time for those simple but essential pleasures (or pains, depending on my outlook on life at any given moment) that transform me from harpy to human: reading, writing, excercising. And so I am a few pages into Neil Gaiman's Stardust (at last, at last, I know the curious thing that occurs every nine years in the Village of Wall); I have cardio'ed (Pilates I've stayed with lo these past 2 months; cardio not so much); and I'm readying a story to be sent far, far away in the hopes that it will not return until set between a front and back cover.

And there's time for general anxieties, too, which is quite a luxury. I have time to be anxious, for example, about the little bit of talking I'm required to do at Back-to-School night on Thursday. It's likely that it won't amount to more than five minutes, but I have to tell you that five minutes spent up front and center before a group of 100 or so tired, rushed-for-time, blank-faced, and sorta squirming parents can be its own sort of hell. I know, I know: just imagine they are attired only in their underwear. Thanks.

Just heard from that most wandering of poets, Señor Pat Rosal, who is ensconced just 20 minutes away but whom I will have to miss this time around. And to this I proclaim: Bah! In honor of his visit and our mutual appreciation of shoes, I was about to post a picture of my most recent acquisition. However, due to technical difficulties here at Nesting Ground, a picture of the first tomato ever grown in our garden will have to...oh, shoot! I can't do that one either. Let's see...in honor of Pat's visit, here is a picture of sweet Vida at her first soccer game (which I had to miss), where she was apparently injected with a full vial of testosterone and encouraged to skedaddle about like a feral beast. The title of this blog post now makes much more sense:

Winging It

It is hot. It is put-the-back-of-your-hand-to-your-forehead-and-faint-on-the-divan-hot. But this is not news. I have no news. This, of course, has never prevented me from hittin' the old blog.

I'll come up with something. Just give me a minute, give me a minute...

The girls can't play outside for long before wilting; they are sweaty little things, all flushed cheeks and exasperation, dirty feet, and weird songs. You can't overlook your underwear! I guess it's the "over" & "under" that makes them laugh. They eat their lunch while lolling on the porch, make flower crowns while moving in slow motion, and then shriek to life when they hear the bells on the ice cream man's cart. He's making a decent wage off of us this week. They order those neon-colored Powerpuff Girls popsicles with the bubblegum eyes. Afterwards, their mouths are blue. If you're keeping track, that makes them: sweaty, flushed, dirty-footed, and blue-mouthed. Oh, and there's the matted hair.

Late afternoon, when they are tired and snippy, is the most challenging part of the day. This is always true, but the heat makes it impossible for them to untangle their own emotional mess, which is something they routinely do themselves. In fact, today was the first day in I can't remember how long that I had to distract them with an activity in order to save them from themselves.

Here's a good way to keep kids interested: tell them that you're doing something, but don't tell them what it is. The not telling them part wasn't difficult today. Why? Because I had no idea what I was doing. I just grabbed some paper from my printer and started taping it together. This was enough to drive them nuts. "What are you doing? What are you doing? Can I tape it? Can I help?"

"Be right back!" I said, after we'd taped six pieces together. I ran into the den and grabbed the first thing(s) I saw lined up (well, really sort of squashed into the books) in front of the bookcase. These fancy Filipinas in doll-form:


I brought them back to the table. The girls looked at me, doubt clouding their little brows. I placed them down on the paper with dramatic force. I still wasn't clear about what to do. But I asked—again with dramatic force—for a crayon.

"What color, Mom?"

"Everybody close their eyes! Close your eyes! Tight!" Suckers! "Now pick a color."

"Who?"

"Oh. I don't know. Vida. Vida, pick a color."

To make a long and boring (I've faced it; so should you) story short, I ended up drawing a three-pronged path along which the fancy Filipinas might amble, take in a bit of scenery, and plot a way to ditch the ternos and shimmy into some shorts. The scenery aspect being the responsibility of the girls, of course. They quickly divided the paper into "Risaland," "Vidaland," and "Lealand," and went to town with their crayons and stickers and whatnot:




And what, exactly, did this buy me? Well, let's see. They busied themselves with the project for about 25 minutes, after which time they were fast friends again and disappeared for more than an hour.

That's right.

Give it up, ladies and caballeros. Give it up for Desperate Mom.

It Grows Like This

Sure, Gura's title question was rhetorical, but I thought I'd answer anyway. Our garden was re-designed a few months back, and everything is finally filling in. I'm surprised at how much pleasure I'm taking in it; every day new things pop open. A gifted photographer could make so much more of this than I'm able to, but I thought I'd share some of my fave flora anyways.

Here's one of the espaliered apple trees. It will bear many a fuji apple at some point. This is good, since the girls are more than capable of eating, collectively, a dozen apples a day. The next picture is one of the flowers in the butterfly garden. How much would Mariah like that? She's so jealous right now:



There are a bunch of these whateverbells (I made that name up. If that's not what they're called, it should be) in the front yard. The other picture doesn't do justice to this weird flowering plant. It's so interesting, what with the extra-glossy leaves, white blossoms and then the clusters of little blue ones, too:



Here's my favorite. My only formal request for the garden was a magnolia tree. And here's the first chunky ol' flower. Can't wait 'til it opens up:



My parsley and basil are out of control. The basil is almost waist-high at the moment, which means I need to make...bruschetta? Rosemary, two kinds of sage, thyme, and some other herbs are also a-growing:



I love this spiky, reddish plant. There are a couple of these; they look like they'd kill you if you fell on them. And, finally, one of the new tomato plants:



This concludes the Nesting Ground Garden Tour. Which, I'm fully aware, was just as exciting as my homemade paper wallet.