The Post Wherein I Advise You Not To Look For Sesame Seeds at the Grocery Store in the Mountains

I am freshly returned from the mountains, and I carry the extra poundage to prove it. For what else is there to do in the mountains but find a comfy place to sit and...sit there? And eat fried foods (french fries, sweet potato fries, fried shrimp, fried fish)? And eat ice cream (the supremely evil Chips Galore chocolate chip and vanilla ice cream sandwich!)? Ack, the shame. But I think the view was extraordinarily beautiful this year:


Nothing of note happens at the lake in the mountains. Absolutely nothing. Or, more accurately, the only things of note that occur are things like this:

At the grocery store, I meandered about in search of sesame seeds. Out of luck, I approached a young man—let's say he was eighteen years old, or so—and said, "Excuse me, do you have sesame seeds?"

The young man looked terrified. He stared at me as if I'd asked if they carry human flesh in the meat department. He said nothing. I repeated my question. Then he said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

It was my turn to stare at him. How does one respond to such blankness? Finally I said, "You know those little white things on the outside of hamburger buns? Those are sesame seeds."

"Oh!" he said. He led me to another aisle, stopped in front of a selection of dry beans, and pointed.

"That's okay," I said. "I'll ask someone else."

"It's my first day," he explained. At which point I raised my eyebrows and performed a crisp about-face.

What will become of this young mountain man, my friends? WHAT WILL BECOME OF HIM?!

Making Friends

I know I vowed to blog incessantly, but shit happens. It happens over and over again. It's astonishing, really. Pipes explode, children require extreme levels of parenting, children cut their feet and bleed all over the place, the top pops off the vacuum, teachers must be appreciated (for it is Teacher Appreciation Week), there are appointments to keep and to make, events to attend, and trips to the store and trips to the store and trips to the store. Just forward my mail to Target already.

If I were to blog, I would blog about who the girls ended up playing with in Boracay. There was no shortage of kids staying at our hotel, but with only one exception, Risa, Vida, and Lea gravitated towards none of them. Unlike me, they are frighteningly social and I observed that they did, in fact, try to befriend some of their fellow hotel guests. But the relationships didn't gel, and because my girls didn't really articulate beyond vague whisperings of, "They're not very nice," I don't really know why.

Their companions of choice turned out to be a sweet-as-pie Danish couple (ages 30 and 32) and fifteen or so kids (ages 3 to 12)—many related in some way—whose parents worked in various capacities at the establishments along White Sand Beach. This was fine by me, as my girls were having a more concentrated dose of fun than I can ever remember having as a child. It was a few days before I realized that they were the only ones playing with the local kids. It's not that the children of the other hotel guests were being told not to fraternize; it's that the thought of doing so didn't even occur to them.

I admit I second-guessed myself. Were the other parents—gasp!—flaring their nostrils at me (flared nostrils being, of course, the classic Filipino expression of grave disapproval)? Were they all going to start blowing their cigarette smoke at me (seriously, what's with all the smoking?! Someone needs to start a campaign)? This anxiety didn't last long, as I quickly realized I didn't give a possum's posterior, a skunk's scooty, a lamb's larynx...a...a...a turkey's tailfeather.

Here are the girls and their buddies:




On a boat ride around the island:




Every night, just before sunset, the kids carve these designs into the sand using two tools: a spoon and a broom. When they're done, they put candles in the holes and set out a can for donations:




Throughout the week, the kids exchanged several little gifts, each one treasured: barrettes, candy, bracelets, shells. They taught each other songs, they taught each other how to catch tiny fish, how to tumble, play volleyball, dance. I loved watching all of this play out; it was one of my favorite parts of our trip.

On the plane ride home, I was reading Luis Francia's (amazing) Eye of the Fish: A Personal Archipelago. He writes about leaving tokens behind for some guerillas with whom he'd just spent time:

These impromptu gifts represented more than just a practical gesture. They also spoke of a sentimental streak in the Filipino's nature, the desire to attach emotional value to friendly encounters, no matter how fleeting or brief. Objects became iconic, even talismanic, minirepositories of personalized history. At every encounter with society or with fate, the Filipino is obsessed with reducing everything to an interpersonal state. Abstractions with little relevance to a life lived, to the here and now, are routinely ignored, an attitude often thought of as hedonistic; in fact, it is the very opposite, a seemingly carefree spirit that acknowledges its shadow, mortality.

Nesting Ground: The Manila Edition

I'm lounging in bed, pillows piled high, as Makati goes about its fevered business fifteen stories below me. We did our part earlier today, dragging our overheated children all over Greenbelt for lunch and shopping and ice cream. It could be my imagination, but I feel we draw a disproportionate number of stares from passers-by; I can't tell if they are friendly stares, curious stares, or disapproving stares, so I've decided to ignore them altogether.

As always, the customer service here is superlative and sometimes even sweet. Our lunch waiter today—named, quite memorably, "Edz"—has been the best so far. After the initial setting-down of our meals, Edz took his leave, but reassured with the following: "I'd like to inform you, Ma'am," he said, "that you can simply call my name, and I will be here." Lea thought that was the most hilarious thing ever. She kept saying, "Call him, Mom. Call him." Later, he addressed the spousal unit as "Sir Andrew," which is something I think I may do from now on.

The kids are not having the easiest time adjusting to the clock, that's for sure. Each night, at least one person's eyelids begin to flutter and she flat-out falls asleep at the dinner table. No combination of strategic napping or swimming pool time has provided much in the way of relief; in fact, an afternoon nap seems to make things worse. We'll see what happens tonight. "We'll be fine, Mom," Vida has just said. But I think we'll stick close to the apartment tonight, as we have an outing to Tagaytay tomorrow.

***

The first time I visited the Philippines was with my dear childhood friend Jodi, when we were both fourteen years old. Back then we stayed in Greenhills at the beautiful, stately home of her grandparents, where many of her relatives also lived. Many of the family live in Alabang now, and they kindly invited us to Easter lunch yesterday. I was grateful for the opportunity to show the girls...what? How a Filipino family lives, I guess? How a Filipino family lives in the Philippines? It sounds so stupid, but I really did want them to see this one simple thing. There were plenty of kids on hand (about a dozen, I think), and while I sat and ate lunch I kept an ear bent towards their table so I might catch scraps of their conversation. Vida, as usual, was talking non-stop, and later one of Jodi's aunts told me she heard Vida pause mid-sentence to say, "Wait. I don't even know your names." Hahahahaha!

later...

Sure enough, the kids were asleep at 7:30, and Sir Andrew and I were forced to order room service. Such an absurd thing to do in Manila, but there you go.

The Post In Which I List Foreseeable Difficulties

I know that visiting the Philippines isn't a big deal in general, but it will be the first time for my kids and spousal unit, and I haven't been in about ten years. So in the SPECIFIC, it's a very big deal. To me. To us. Foreseeable difficulties:

1) We are traveling in April, by all accounts the hottest, most miserable, most horrific month of the year. Yay!

2) Interminable flight time, made more so by our 3 junior-size traveling companions.

3) I have very few relatives still living in Manila, and if I remember correctly, I have never met the ones who remain. The exception is my dad's cousin, Uncle P., who has kindly made sure that he will be back from his trip to Japan in time to squire us about a little.

4) The 2-hour Carlos Celdran walking tour. We're doing this for sure, but will my children wither? Like literally WITHER?

5) The possibility that it will be too hot to walk on the sand when we get to Boracay. I'm kidding. No, I'm not kidding.

6) Boracay itself. Is it too much the tourist trap? Should I have chosen Palawan instead? I just didn't want to venture too far out of the kids' comfort zone this first time around.

With these and other thoughts floating around in my head, I will now proceed to Firestone because if my powers of observation are as astute as I believe...I have a flat tire. Frickin' frackin' frickledy doo.

Useless Advice + Peter Pan Is A Wee God

The one thing you should make sure to bring along to Disneyland/California Adventure is...a personal massage therapist. Barring that, wear the right shoes. Also wear your Obama '08 pin, as the visibility factor is excellent (expect to be hissed at by one guy who...how shall I put it?...has eaten a few too many foot-long hot dogs in his day).

Now, for your possible viewing pleasure, I offer the girls' exchange with everyone's favorite sprite: Mr. Peter Pan.

First comes the detailed conversation about various hat-wearing techniques:


Next, the girls strike P.P.'s signature pose:


When they request a hands-on-hips one, he takes grievous offense, screams a bratty, "No!," and turns his back:


But then gamely relents:



And now the countdown to back-to-school begins in earnest. Nine days to go...

Which Way to Neverland?

Summer is winding down, but those of us who reside here at Nesting Ground HQ are rousing ourselves for one last hurrah. In other words, my friends, we're heading to Disneyland. It's been about four years since we were last in the belly of the beast, and I trust that this time we will not spend every minute searching for the next princess photo op. This time, I daresay we'll be saying hello to Mr. Toad instead. And Mr. Space Mountain. And Mr. Matterhorn. And Mr. Peter Pan's Flight. And Mr. Mad Teacup.

You know what I enjoy about Disneyland? You either have to own the (admittedly ridiculous) experience or get the hell out. There's no room for attitude at Disneyland, people. You don't roll your eyes at Mickey; you smile. You don't pretend you think Pirates of the Caribbean is stupid; you happily wait in line for 30 minutes. You don't turn your nose up at Nemo; you board the submarine. You don't...well, you get it.

Now I'm all a-twitter. Be back soon.

Vacation, Defined.

Last week, when we and our band of merry friends took in the view from our house, we saw this:


And when we took in the opposite view, we saw this:


Now we are home and seeing neither. But I suppose that's why it's called "vacation." Another reason why it's called "vacation" is because inside the house there is a full-time chef making chicken mole. Or shrimp with chunks of mango. Or his favorite dessert from his hometown of Guadalajara. Or whatnot.

Other possible reasons:

a) uninterrupted reading time
b) disinterest in Internet (with exception of election news)
c) meditative quality of staring at ocean
d) children who begin to look like mermaids:


e) crazy morning fruit platters:


f) no shoes required
g) appearance of freckles

I must now continue the arduous process of re-entry, dear ones. Unfortunately, this re-entry requires stops at Kinko's, Trader Joe's, Target, and Safeway. Wish me buena suerte.

Best of, Lake Edition

Best sign visible from the road on the way to the lake: "Poot's House of Cactus"

Best Speedos (and headgear) in show:


Best Reading Material: Charlotte Bronte's JANE EYRE, illustrated by Dame Darcy:


Best ice cream treat that is NOT a Choco Taco: "Chips Galore," which is a bastard cousin of the remarkable It's It. Lea's vote goes to the classic soft serve twirl. Here we are partaking in our individual favorites:


Best fried item at snack bar that is NOT onion rings: shrimp

Best sighting of a lake animal: an albino deer *SCREAM*

Best lake song performed on sister-in-law's deck: this is a tough one, but I think it was nephew Charlie singing "My Angel" with Mike G. on drums. Click here (track 2) for a listen.

Only in Mexico

Re-entry is a bitch, really. Because only in Mexico can Lea truly rock her Sinatra fedora:


Only in Mexico can I feel 100% comfortable wearing these slightly ridiculous gold hoops (super Shuboy brother, though, can get away with his hat just about anywhere):


Only in the golden light of Mexico can my daughters sport sequined bathing suit cover-ups and battle each other only once (miracle!) in seven days :


And only in Mexico can my adorable godchild play with her toes on a made-for-real-lounging couch like the one in the crazy fantastic villa we shared with her parents, her sister, my brother, and Mr. Mike:


Okay, well maybe the toe thing could happen in other places.

But still.

*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.

The Saga of the Missing Passports

No doubt the following statement will inspire the FBI (or is it CIA?) to begin a file on my nefarious behavior:

I hate government bureaucracy.

Or, to be more specific, I hate sweating over whether or not our passports will arrive in time to take our long-awaited family vacation. I have attempted several times to avert the sweating by dialing the telephone number at which one is—in theory—able to check on the status of their passport application(s). Applications which, by the by, were completed within the correct timeframe to—in theory—receive the passports in time for (as I believe I've already mentioned) our long-awaited family vacation. But, of course, no one except an automated voice ever, ever, ever answers the phone at that god-forsaken number.

When all else fails, turn to the Internet, right? Right! Except that every time I click on the link which—again, in theory—leads to the page on which one is able to check on the status of passport applications, the page is blank. After giving this the ol' college try about twenty times, I decided to try it on the spousal unit's computer. This worked, but led me to believe that the government is not a strong supporter of the Macintosh operating system. Anyways, after typing information into several little boxes, I did indeed retrieve the "status" of our passport applications.

The "status" is that the applications have been received.

That's it.

Well, that is not my definition of "status."

"Status" should reveal—should it not?!—when the freaking things are going to be mailed and if I will receive them in time for (and once again I believe I've already mentioned this) our long-awaited family vacation.

Next I called the San Francisco passport agency which, I learned, would not see me unless I had an appointment. Great! Appointments are terrific. There's nothing like standing face-to-face with someone and handling your business. Except. Except that the next available appointment is on April 5th. Not surprisingly, our long-awaited family vacation is supposed to begin a few days before that.

Next stop: friendly Filipina passport clerk at post office, who accepted applications and who also, via a complicated twisting of family trees, was able to claim some sort of kinship with me. Stay tuned.

My Speeding Bullet

Our neighborhood ski trip is the sparkling highlight of Winter's end. This year, a record 18 couples—each with 2 or 3 kids—invaded what I assume was once (before our disquieting en masse arrival) a peaceful destination: Bear Valley, California.

Now under regular circumstances, I would eschew any vacation that involved as much of a hassle element as the snow. Between the anxiety of locating and packing items used only once a year, the actual physical bulk of the outerwear and footwear, the scheduling of ski lessons, my issues with hats (well documented here on Nesting Ground) and a thousand other whatnots, it seems on paper to be not quite worth the bother. And yet, and yet...it always turns out to be completely worth the bother. Especially when it's filled with moments like the following. Watch as Lea attacks the mountain! She is a panther on skis! A sight to behold! Don't blink or you might miss her! Faster than...than...well, just see for yourself:



Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha! The sad thing is that she's already a much better skier than I am.