I love my neighborhood.
More specifically, I love the people who inhabit all the surrounding abodes and who can count on each other throughout the day for conversation, a rolling pin, emergency babysitting, eggs, chicken broth, school pick-up and/or drop-off, playdates, contributions to good causes, meals, books, a dvd, outdoor heaters, extra tables and chairs, advice, recipes, the thing that plugs into your car lighter that charges your laptop, news, gossip, laughter, pressure washers, a swim, solicited and unsolicited opinions, tapemeasures, etc. etc.
I believe this is rare.
We've lived many places—Vancouver, B.C., Georgetown, Alexandria, Santa Barbara, San Francisco—but this is the first time we've ever been part of a community. If you offered me, say, a 2-hour massage and a plate of french fries, I couldn't name more than two other people (San Francisco acccepted) from each of those places. I used to hope I wouldn't die while the spousal unit was traveling for work because nobody would know. He'd return from a week on the road, open the door, and be greeted by my lifeless body splayed on the floor. Not so good.
So anyways, I appreciate this place and all these good folks more than I can say, and tonight when we hang out while the kids gorge on obscene amounts of candy, I will remember to be thankful.
Happy 'Weenie, all.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
Veronica Needs.
I generally do what The Wily Filipino says because, well, he's way smarter than I am. And so this is why I googled "Veronica needs." Let me present the top 10:
1. Veronica needs a diary!
2. Veronica needs to dump Duncan.
3. Veronica needs to work on the stakeout skills.
4. Veronica needs to find the crooked man who faked the sports teams' annual drug tests...
5. Veronica needs to go.
6. Veronica needs to find someway to get the boy back before her ex-husband moves several thousand miles away.
7. Veronica needs to make extra money.
8. Veronica needs a lot of help with her English, including speaking, reading, and writing.
Unfortunately, this is where the search breaks down and things like "Veronica Zwieback can fill your realtor needs," begin to appear. Bah! Never mind, I'll just finish the list myself:
9. Veronica needs to eat Whoppers:
10. Veronica needs to stop forgetting to post this:
1. Veronica needs a diary!
2. Veronica needs to dump Duncan.
3. Veronica needs to work on the stakeout skills.
4. Veronica needs to find the crooked man who faked the sports teams' annual drug tests...
5. Veronica needs to go.
6. Veronica needs to find someway to get the boy back before her ex-husband moves several thousand miles away.
7. Veronica needs to make extra money.
8. Veronica needs a lot of help with her English, including speaking, reading, and writing.
Unfortunately, this is where the search breaks down and things like "Veronica Zwieback can fill your realtor needs," begin to appear. Bah! Never mind, I'll just finish the list myself:
9. Veronica needs to eat Whoppers:
10. Veronica needs to stop forgetting to post this:
Briefly
Maybe if your child is A Very Naughty Boy, it isn't a wise choice to dress him as a ninja assassin for the Kindergarten Halloween party. I'm just...saying.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Snail Mail & Strange Male(s)
I'm feeling like quite the lucky duck, what with the snail mail treasures that continue to appear in my mailbox. Among them, a very kind postcard from Marianne Villanueva:
and a note from The Wily Filipino himself, accompanied by artwork from Izzy:
I have the same set of notecards as Sunny, by the way, and am betting that most of us do. Let's use them, people! (I'll have to add images later because Blogger is being rude and uncooperative)
An aside: why is it that two heterosexual men on an outing together will often go to great lengths to avoid any semblance of intimacy? Today, as I engaged in my Wednesday ritual of lunching solo and people-watching, I saw these two guys arrive at the restaurant in the same car, walk in with a space of four feet between them, and take seats at the counter leaving, of course, one empty stool between them. They occasionally grunted at each other while eating. I have seen these kinds of men sit in a booth, but position themselves diagonally. Cuz heaven forbid they maintain full-frontal eye contact. This reminded me of riding MUNI and watching young males sit back-to-back and talk to each other over their shoulders. Sometimes when the bus was empty, they'd sit a number of rows apart and yell at each other. Cuz heaven forbid they share a quiet conversation.
Boys are weird.
and a note from The Wily Filipino himself, accompanied by artwork from Izzy:
I have the same set of notecards as Sunny, by the way, and am betting that most of us do. Let's use them, people! (I'll have to add images later because Blogger is being rude and uncooperative)
An aside: why is it that two heterosexual men on an outing together will often go to great lengths to avoid any semblance of intimacy? Today, as I engaged in my Wednesday ritual of lunching solo and people-watching, I saw these two guys arrive at the restaurant in the same car, walk in with a space of four feet between them, and take seats at the counter leaving, of course, one empty stool between them. They occasionally grunted at each other while eating. I have seen these kinds of men sit in a booth, but position themselves diagonally. Cuz heaven forbid they maintain full-frontal eye contact. This reminded me of riding MUNI and watching young males sit back-to-back and talk to each other over their shoulders. Sometimes when the bus was empty, they'd sit a number of rows apart and yell at each other. Cuz heaven forbid they share a quiet conversation.
Boys are weird.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Beasts Beneath My Window
At 2:00 this morning, the spousal unit and I were awakened by the horror-movie sounds of two animals (type unknown) either
1) making mad, passionate, beastly love
or
2) attempting to rip each other's hearts out for the purpose of a) nourishment; b) kicks; or c) sating their mutual beastly hatred.
Really, it was gross. The sounds were guttural, yet melodic. A cross between a newborn's cries, a gurgling brook of blood, and the stifled scream of a C movie actress about to be slain by a masked fiend with mommy issues.
"WTF? WTF is that?"
"Raccoons or something."
"Jesus."
And then for some reason, I proceeded to have the world's longest cough attack. Not wanting to disturb the SU's sleep any further, I took my pillow, dug hopelessly for blankets in the linen closet (I produced three infant ones that the girls now use for their dolls), and lay down in the den. I placed blanket #1 over my feet and knees, blanket #2 over my center, and blanket #3 over my top, where it rested just under my chin. Then I tried not to move, for moving would upset the delicate balance of blanket coverage. Needless to say, not much sleep. At 3:25, Lea awoke screaming "Mom! Mom!" I stumbled down the hall and into her room, actually quite thankful for at least being in a bed with actual blankets. She threw a leg over me, kissed my forehead, and promptly fell back asleep. I, however, did not.
I woke up forty minutes late. Forty minutes! And yet, and yet...I made it out the door on time looking quite put together and with the children properly fed, dressed, coiffed, and jacket-ed.
This is dangerous.
Do you know why this is dangerous? Because it proves that I can actually sleep in for an extra 40 minutes and still meet our time obligations.
If there were a way to circle this back around to the Beasts Beneath My Window, I would. But it turns out...I'm not that good.
(Damn)
1) making mad, passionate, beastly love
or
2) attempting to rip each other's hearts out for the purpose of a) nourishment; b) kicks; or c) sating their mutual beastly hatred.
Really, it was gross. The sounds were guttural, yet melodic. A cross between a newborn's cries, a gurgling brook of blood, and the stifled scream of a C movie actress about to be slain by a masked fiend with mommy issues.
"WTF? WTF is that?"
"Raccoons or something."
"Jesus."
And then for some reason, I proceeded to have the world's longest cough attack. Not wanting to disturb the SU's sleep any further, I took my pillow, dug hopelessly for blankets in the linen closet (I produced three infant ones that the girls now use for their dolls), and lay down in the den. I placed blanket #1 over my feet and knees, blanket #2 over my center, and blanket #3 over my top, where it rested just under my chin. Then I tried not to move, for moving would upset the delicate balance of blanket coverage. Needless to say, not much sleep. At 3:25, Lea awoke screaming "Mom! Mom!" I stumbled down the hall and into her room, actually quite thankful for at least being in a bed with actual blankets. She threw a leg over me, kissed my forehead, and promptly fell back asleep. I, however, did not.
I woke up forty minutes late. Forty minutes! And yet, and yet...I made it out the door on time looking quite put together and with the children properly fed, dressed, coiffed, and jacket-ed.
This is dangerous.
Do you know why this is dangerous? Because it proves that I can actually sleep in for an extra 40 minutes and still meet our time obligations.
If there were a way to circle this back around to the Beasts Beneath My Window, I would. But it turns out...I'm not that good.
(Damn)
Friday, October 21, 2005
More on Beauty
Thoughts on beauty are hurling through cyberspace faster than you can say "Imelda." Joanne's even started a whole blog on the subject. Gladys is putting together a panel which turned into a conference which will likely morph into God only knows what. She of the rhinestone barette and sparkly pink lip gloss is talking anthology. And Bino? Bino's not only looking for his Pinoy Holiday Blogger Party invitation, he's ready to throw his dollar's worth of centavos on the table and points out—quite accurately—that the "Miss Unibers" chapter (and, hell, the whole novel!) from Umbrella Country more than entitles him to deliver his treatise on beauty. To which I can only say...bring it, Bino!
Meanwhile, I was reading an interview with Nigerian writer Chris Abani, who has this to say about African writing:
African art must exist in an appreciative context that is outside of the power of Westernization to reduce or empower. We allow access to the Western reader but also say we don't care about what you think. This is what we are trying to show you. If you get it, fine. If you don't get it, we don't care.
And while this has all sorts of obvious applications to our writing, all the recent discussion made me think about his words in terms of...you guessed it...beauty. I'm so annoyed with how I continue to choose to feel angry about being fetishized, objectified, made invisible/inconsequential, thought of as "less than," etc. etc. I want to pull a Chris Abani, at last. I want to say—and truly feel—If you get me, fine. If you don't, I don't care.
Meanwhile, I was reading an interview with Nigerian writer Chris Abani, who has this to say about African writing:
African art must exist in an appreciative context that is outside of the power of Westernization to reduce or empower. We allow access to the Western reader but also say we don't care about what you think. This is what we are trying to show you. If you get it, fine. If you don't get it, we don't care.
And while this has all sorts of obvious applications to our writing, all the recent discussion made me think about his words in terms of...you guessed it...beauty. I'm so annoyed with how I continue to choose to feel angry about being fetishized, objectified, made invisible/inconsequential, thought of as "less than," etc. etc. I want to pull a Chris Abani, at last. I want to say—and truly feel—If you get me, fine. If you don't, I don't care.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Free Falling
Seriously, I could watch this for hours. I wonder if there's a way to make it into a screensaver?
Fund Free Mammograms
Only 12 days left for the Breast Cancer Site's "fund free mammograms" campaign. All you have to do is click. Ah, so free and easy...
See how easy?
See how easy?
Overheard @ Safeway
One line over at Safeway, a young brown man wrote a check for a few items and handed it to the (also) brown checker-ess. Unfortunate timing being what it is, there appeared to be some malfunction in the cash register's check verification function. These things are generally cleared up in a few minutes, a person's groceries are bagged, and they make their way out to their car, navigate their way home, and consume their beer and potato chips in peace.
Not so for this guy.
For this guy, minute after minute passed until everyone within listening distance grew uncomfortable. I was genuinely feeling for him until...until...until he said this to the checker-ess: "This isn't happening 'cuz I'm brown is it?"
Fifteen seconds of silence.
The checker-ess, who looked for all the world like she could have actually birthed the young customer, then assumed a voice so frosty I will never forget it. She said, "I'm brown, too."
At this point, I was almost overwhelmed by my maternal instinct, which was directing me to walk firmly over to this boy-man, take him by the shoulders, and say, "Look at me. Look at me, right here in my eyes. Okay, this is unacceptable behavior. What's the right thing to do now?"
And he would say, "I dunno."
And I would say, "Yes, you do. Think about it for a minute."
And he would mumble a pouty, "Sorry," to the checker.
But I didn't do that. I left with my bags, and have been thinking about it ever since.
Not so for this guy.
For this guy, minute after minute passed until everyone within listening distance grew uncomfortable. I was genuinely feeling for him until...until...until he said this to the checker-ess: "This isn't happening 'cuz I'm brown is it?"
Fifteen seconds of silence.
The checker-ess, who looked for all the world like she could have actually birthed the young customer, then assumed a voice so frosty I will never forget it. She said, "I'm brown, too."
At this point, I was almost overwhelmed by my maternal instinct, which was directing me to walk firmly over to this boy-man, take him by the shoulders, and say, "Look at me. Look at me, right here in my eyes. Okay, this is unacceptable behavior. What's the right thing to do now?"
And he would say, "I dunno."
And I would say, "Yes, you do. Think about it for a minute."
And he would mumble a pouty, "Sorry," to the checker.
But I didn't do that. I left with my bags, and have been thinking about it ever since.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Here She Comes...Miss Whatever
Lots of interesting discussion over at Gladys' about the phenomenon of beauty queendom as it applies to Pinays. Oh so luckily, this was never a "thing" in my family, at least not amongst my generation. Our mothers and lolas, of course, held various and sundry titles. So while I find the modern concept simultaneously vomit-inducing, embarrassing, and hilarious, I confess to being awash with a nostalgic feeling of "Oh, look!" when I see, for example, 
this photo of my Mom at a fashion show/beauty parade of some sort.
I don't know how to account for this.
Maybe it's simply because it's touching to see pictures of your parents when they were so young. Or maybe it's because I harbor the mistaken belief that it was a more innocent time, and that the vintage cult of beauty has nothing whatsoever to do with today's bizarre abomination of what used to be a little bit of lipstick and some powder.
I guess I'm just in denial because of course objectification is objectification, and the old-school pageants surely built the shoddy runway (heh heh) for what happens in our community these days.
Anyways, this topic has always fascinated me and often makes its way into my fiction. In one of my stories, "Beauty Queens," two young girls schlep around their Lola's wake, supremely annoyed that the woman they remember as fierce, brave, and loving is, after her death, being recalled most memorably as a beauty queen.
So I'm counting on Gladys to arrive at the blogger party with her tiara slightly skewed. And her scepter? Her scepter should be used to impale...something. Suggestions?
this photo of my Mom at a fashion show/beauty parade of some sort.I don't know how to account for this.
Maybe it's simply because it's touching to see pictures of your parents when they were so young. Or maybe it's because I harbor the mistaken belief that it was a more innocent time, and that the vintage cult of beauty has nothing whatsoever to do with today's bizarre abomination of what used to be a little bit of lipstick and some powder.
I guess I'm just in denial because of course objectification is objectification, and the old-school pageants surely built the shoddy runway (heh heh) for what happens in our community these days.
Anyways, this topic has always fascinated me and often makes its way into my fiction. In one of my stories, "Beauty Queens," two young girls schlep around their Lola's wake, supremely annoyed that the woman they remember as fierce, brave, and loving is, after her death, being recalled most memorably as a beauty queen.
So I'm counting on Gladys to arrive at the blogger party with her tiara slightly skewed. And her scepter? Her scepter should be used to impale...something. Suggestions?
Monday, October 17, 2005
Return of the V.
Tentatively re-entering the blogosphere, here. I've decided to take Jean's advice and not try to force things. All I get for it, after all, is a page of the world's clunkiest prose. And I'm sure you've figured out by now that I care nothing for clunky prose, clunky shoes, clunky jewelry, or clunky anything, really.
I shall now focus on the many bright moments that have happened on the premises in the last few days:
1) Playdate with Izzy and The Wily Filipino! (aka Sunny). I have to give it up for Izzy, who held her own while in the company of three extremely loud and unsubtle children. Izzy is very Zen. Here, she is a superb influence on Lea, who would normally be sitting atop the table trying to decorate cookies using only her toes:
When Sunny & Izzy first arrived, Vida said, "So, how do you and Sunny know each other?" And I said, "Actually, we don't!" We had, in fact, never met. Unless, of course, you count Sunny walking out on an event at which I was reading (something about my piercing voice and unholy delivery of material, methinks). Anyways, we became fast friends and are now hatching a master plan for...hold on to your Ashton Kutcher wedding fedoras for this one...a possible Pinoy Holiday Blogger Party. We shall see.
Now, for your viewing pleasure,one pan of the girls' Halloween cookies right before they were put in the oven (prizes, I think, for anyone who can identify what shapes, exactly, these are supposed to be):
And here are the remains, along with sugared-up smiles from 3 out of 4 playdaters:
Thanks for the pictures, Sunny!
2) A postcard from an albino monkey in Nashville! Yay!:
3) And a big 'ol fat letter from a certain poet whose certain 2nd book has just been accepted for publication by a certain publisher. Yay again!:
I was so ridiculously excited to receive a letter that I tore it open as I walked back to the house, promptly sat down on the porch to read it, and ignored all screams and pleas for help from my kids until I was finished. The sun shone through the leaves on the birch trees, and I was happy.
I shall now focus on the many bright moments that have happened on the premises in the last few days:
1) Playdate with Izzy and The Wily Filipino! (aka Sunny). I have to give it up for Izzy, who held her own while in the company of three extremely loud and unsubtle children. Izzy is very Zen. Here, she is a superb influence on Lea, who would normally be sitting atop the table trying to decorate cookies using only her toes:
When Sunny & Izzy first arrived, Vida said, "So, how do you and Sunny know each other?" And I said, "Actually, we don't!" We had, in fact, never met. Unless, of course, you count Sunny walking out on an event at which I was reading (something about my piercing voice and unholy delivery of material, methinks). Anyways, we became fast friends and are now hatching a master plan for...hold on to your Ashton Kutcher wedding fedoras for this one...a possible Pinoy Holiday Blogger Party. We shall see. Now, for your viewing pleasure,one pan of the girls' Halloween cookies right before they were put in the oven (prizes, I think, for anyone who can identify what shapes, exactly, these are supposed to be):
And here are the remains, along with sugared-up smiles from 3 out of 4 playdaters:
Thanks for the pictures, Sunny!
2) A postcard from an albino monkey in Nashville! Yay!:
3) And a big 'ol fat letter from a certain poet whose certain 2nd book has just been accepted for publication by a certain publisher. Yay again!:
I was so ridiculously excited to receive a letter that I tore it open as I walked back to the house, promptly sat down on the porch to read it, and ignored all screams and pleas for help from my kids until I was finished. The sun shone through the leaves on the birch trees, and I was happy.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Requesting Permission To...
...oh, wait.
I don't have to request permission.
It's my blog.
And so: I'm taking a breather, my lovelies.
To patch the holes in my bucket.
And whatnot.
I don't have to request permission.
It's my blog.
And so: I'm taking a breather, my lovelies.
To patch the holes in my bucket.
And whatnot.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Hole In the Bucket
Have you ever gone to the well, dipped your bucket, and—with complete faith—hauled it up only to find it...empty? Believing it's some kind of mistake, did you dip it again? And get the same results? It's like that with my writing now.
I'll admit I haven't quite found my rhythm with this whole Kindergarten and preschool thing. There were supposed to be these pockets of time in the week for writing (that was the idea, anyway), but hell if I know where they are. At night, I'm like anyone else: my body and mind call for rest. But maybe night is my missed opportunity? I don't know, but something's gotta give.
I'm gonna go bang my head against the wall for a bit now. And tomorrow? Tomorrow is another chance.
I'll admit I haven't quite found my rhythm with this whole Kindergarten and preschool thing. There were supposed to be these pockets of time in the week for writing (that was the idea, anyway), but hell if I know where they are. At night, I'm like anyone else: my body and mind call for rest. But maybe night is my missed opportunity? I don't know, but something's gotta give.
I'm gonna go bang my head against the wall for a bit now. And tomorrow? Tomorrow is another chance.
Monday, October 10, 2005
The I-Can't-Focus-On-One-Thing Post
So much fun to read all about Michelle & Rhett's Super Gigantic Big Day right here, here, here. And look! The gorgeous bride and handsome groom found some time to get in on the blog action. I love all the pictures.
***
Yay! Kepler's—finest bookstore around these parts—has survived a brush with death.
***
Candy corn is so...1975? I believe it's time for Pumpkin Heads to ascend to their rightful place in the Halloween candy hierarchy. But you must pronounce the name of this candy thus: pun • kin • hayeds.
***
Lorna Dee's new book is ready, willing, and able to satisfy your every poetic desire. Special deal for blog buddies!
***
The "Call to Pens" circle is on the mend, people! Weez is soon to send a letter to Nick and receive one from Eileen. Phew.
Meanwhile, Bec celebrates penpal-ism.
***
And, finally, a picture of the little ones as they sauntered into the Big Fresno Fair:
This was, of course, well before the cotton candy.
***
Yay! Kepler's—finest bookstore around these parts—has survived a brush with death.
***
Candy corn is so...1975? I believe it's time for Pumpkin Heads to ascend to their rightful place in the Halloween candy hierarchy. But you must pronounce the name of this candy thus: pun • kin • hayeds.
***
Lorna Dee's new book is ready, willing, and able to satisfy your every poetic desire. Special deal for blog buddies!
***
The "Call to Pens" circle is on the mend, people! Weez is soon to send a letter to Nick and receive one from Eileen. Phew.
Meanwhile, Bec celebrates penpal-ism.
***
And, finally, a picture of the little ones as they sauntered into the Big Fresno Fair:
This was, of course, well before the cotton candy.
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