Growing Up Filipino II: Thoughts Inspired by Rebecca

Rebecca has some sweet thoughts about being published for the first time in an actual hold-it-in-your-hands book with a front cover and a back cover and some 250 pages in between: Growing Up Filipino II. Bec and I have something in common when it comes to Cecilia Brainard. Though I had been published in a handful of small journals before, Cecilia was the first editor to accept one of my stories for publication in a book. This meant so very much to me. I still remember when I received my contributor's copies for Contemporary Fiction by Filipinos in America, with its gorgeous cover art. It's so gorgeous I'm going to show it to you:


And it was Cecilia who invited me to do my first-ever reading with her and some other contributors at the Pacific Asia Museum in Pasadena, which is in a mansion and which had an extraordinarily large stage that terrified me. "How long should we read?" she whispered before we walked onstage. This increased my panic because if Cecilia wasn't sure, I CLEARLY wasn't sure. "Just read 5 minutes from the beginning of your story, and 5 minutes from the end," she advised. And that's what I did.

Since then, Cecilia has been so supportive of my writing. Not blindly supportive, mind you. She has no qualms telling me when she thinks I've missed the mark. I'm only one among dozens who have benefitted from her attentions (though I hope I'm the only one she has ever likened to a ripening mango! Please, oh, please, oh please...), and now Bec joins our happy number.

In her post, Bec mentions that's it's time to promote Growing Up Filipino II. To that end, PAWA and Arkipelago Books are hosting a book launch at the Bayanihan Community Center on Saturday, January 16th. Rashaan Alexis Meneses, Tony Robles, Marianne Villanueva, and I—me, your Nesting Ground Mistress!—will all be reading from our stories. Click on the photo to read the fine print:


Come join us! You know you want to.

Stocking Stuffers & Funhouse Mirrors

What sort of mother forgets about stocking stuffers? THIS kind of mother. *points at self*

In fact, I forgot about a bunch of stuff, the net result of which is I will be running around tomorrow like a woman on fire. And that won't be easy to do, considering the fact that the traffic has tripled these past few days. I've spent an inordinate amount of time stuck in driver's limbo, dramatically running my hands through my hair and gnashing my teeth.

At this time I would like to communicate a cautionary retail tale, also known as (I just made this up) a "retale." I will probably never have cause to cross the threshold of a Sunglass Hut, but if I did it would never, ever be the one in my nearby mall. Do you want to know why? Because for years now, one of the store's full-length mirrors is positioned in such a way as to force passersby to catch a glimpse of themselves. In and of itself, that's not a bad thing. But if the mirror is cheap and warped in such a way as to make passersby look two feet shorter and two feet wider than they in fact ARE, the feeling engendered is not one of goodwill. You'd think by now I'd know to avert my eyes, but for some unknown, masochistic reason, I'm drawn to that mirror like every cliché moth to every cliché flame. So I guess what I'm trying to say is that if you ever become a shopkeeper, make sure your mirrors reflect the queen and/or king in all of us.

The End.

And also, happy holidays. Stay gold. Drink milk. Be nice.

Betting My Bottom Dollar

Friday, post-3:00 pm, could not be more welcome. Let us deduce why:

Monday: Tylenol PM hangover in effect for most of the day. Attempted to counteract with four aspirin and several boosts of caffeine, but to no avail. Prone to nodding off, answering questions that had not been asked, and asking questions that had no answers.

Tuesday: Worst fears realized when forced to break solemn vow to NEVER, EVER chaperone a field trip. After 45-minute bus ride, arrived at destination and was told, "You look green. Are you okay?" Muscled through the museum and the 45-minute bus ride back to campus. Ran to car, sped home, burst through door, ran down hallway, and—big surprise—threw up.

Wednesday: Do not remember anything about Wednesday except Pilates teacher saying, "What happened to your neck?" and then trying to help re-lengthen it.

Thursday: Volunteer, meeting, Staples, Target, stop by parental units' place, school pick-up, and a copious amount of time spent shepherding one daughter across the finish line of her 4th grade California mission report.

Friday: Locked out of house in rain. Ineffective at guiding 4th graders through art lesson inspired by Picasso's Weeping Woman. Found the irony hilarious. Wondered why the concept of facial profile is difficult to grasp. Hands stained with charcoal. Ponytail far too tight.

Tomorrow is another day! The sun'll come uuuuuuuuup...

The Post Where I Start Off One Way and End Another

Why does everyone have their lights and trees up already? I do not understand. I'm still adjusting to daylight savings, for crickets' sake. I'm still getting into awesome boots mode. I'm still shocked to hear the furnace clicking on. I'm still wondering where back-to-school went. What's the rush?

Moving along...though my days of early motherhood are but a distant and fatigue-causing memory, I've been reading—for other purposes—a lot about that time in a woman's life. There's some odd stuff going on out there. I had no idea, for example, about the vitriole inspired in some quarters by the stroller brigade of Park Slope (as in mothers, New York, white, moneyed). This article in Salon, "Everybody Hates Mommy," was so disturbing to me, as were the several pages of reader comments. In the end, I don't think mothers (in general) have a sense of entitlement; I think they are tired and overwhelmed relative to their fortunate or not-so-fortunate circumstances. I think certain individuals have a sense of entitlement, and the fact that they may or may not be mothers has nothing to do with it. Everybody needs to play nice on the playground of life, people.

Speaking of playing nice—or in this case, not playing nice—someone stole my iPhone on Friday night. The texts and calls we made to the perpetrator were not enough to inspire the phone's return, so the wonderful spousal unit picked another one up for me yesterday. It's so sparkly and has all sorts of new gadgetry (voice memos, anyone?) and whatnot, but I sort of miss my vintage iPhone in all its clunky slowness. Plus, it creeps me out that someone probably looked through all the photos that were on it. Ewwwww. I repeat: play nice.

And in writing news: yesterday I received my contributor's copies of Growing Up Filipino II: More Stories for Young Adults, which you can purchase here.


Now, I know I started this post off complaining that everyone was making a mad rush for December when November isn't even over, but one must make allowances for holiday book shopping! This beauty would make an excellent gift, would it not?

Flipping The Bird

I have to flip my turkey now. It's not a simple task, you know, to flip a 17.29 lb. turkey on its side after it's been roasting for 45 minutes, but that's what I'm supposed to do. I've flipped it one wing-side up already, where it's been roasting for 20 minutes, and now I need to flip it the other wing-side up. After 20 minutes, I flip it one last time: breast up. I'm using wads of paper towel to keep from burning my delicate Nesting Ground Mistress skin.

{pause}

Well, that was fun. It took me several minutes to wrangle a firm grip, and then just as my flip was almost executed, the V-rack collapsed. So then I placed the turkey rather awkwardly on top of the collapsed rack, pulled out a large pan, moved the turkey onto it, then proceeded to fix the V-rack. One of the supporting bars had become unhinged (much as I have in the last few hours), and I couldn't use my bare hands to fix it, so I made do with some tongs and brief touches with my fingers. Success! Then I finally flipped the bird (hahahahaha!!), shoved it back into the oven with a satisfied grunt, and shut the door. I have to admit, it's getting a lovely all-over tan. The final flip will be another adventure, I'm sure, but I'll spare you.

As for the rest of the early evening menu, I have relied heavily on the holiday cookie issue of Sunset Magazine. I have Gratin of cauliflower with gruyere, Yukon Gold mashed potatoes with buttermilk and roasted garlic, Italian sausage and chard stuffing, and Green beans with a citrus vinaigrette. And I'm making some pumpkin soup, using a recipe from my sister-in-law that has served me well lo these past many years. And pies! But we got those from Heidi's Pies, so they don't count.

I am thankful for many things. But I am also sleepy.

Dishwasher, Story, Smelly Shoes

All I've been doing since last I blogged is emptying the dishwasher, filling it, emptying it, filling it, etc. etc. Or at least that's what it feels like I've been doing since last I blogged. But the thing about being one with my dishwasher is that performing an empty or fill task provides the optimal amount of time needed to mull something over: a problem, an idea, a solution. I often stop midway through the process to write something down, and I'm wondering now if that's why I put my desk in the kitchen in the first place. Which leads me to...

I'm working on a project with my friend W., but the scope of it doesn't really have a place here at Nesting Ground, so I will just say that it's taken up much of my allotted daily brain function. I muse on this project throughout the day. I fall asleep thinking about it, wake up thinking about it, and trip on my words when I'm talking about it because there is so much to say. I'm looney excited about said project, and I can't wait to see if we can pull it off.

Speaking of pulling something off, I'm pleased (and relieved) that my story "The Left-Behind Girl" was just accepted for publication in Philippine Speculative Fiction V, forthcoming in February 2010, and edited by Nikki Alfar and Vin Simbulan. Thank you so very much, Nikki and Vin. This turn of events makes me happy. Happy like...little kid happy. Bag full of candy happy. Jeans fitting perfectly happy. House nice-and-clean happy. Hot biscuit happy. All socks accounted for happy.

Now, though, I must balance the happy with the not-so-happy. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Vida's super-stinky shoes. They were purchased the week before school began, and they were the kind of adorable that makes me sigh. Now they are so smelly and disgusting, that just knowing they are visible if I care to peek out of the corner of my eye is making me queasy. I'm going to go and throw those shoes away now, and I have no doubt that I will spend the rest of the afternoon facing the wrath of my tiger-like 9-year-old daughter, but so be it. I cannot abide them.

Stuff I'm Doing

I am eager for soccer season to end, for I can take it no more. Much to my surprise and horror, I am far too attached to outcomes, when what I should really be concerned about is whether or not my girls are enjoying themselves. My idiot-ness is compounded by the fact that R & V's team has only lost one game this season, while I think L's team has only WON one. I need off the emotional rollercoaster, thanks. I need to get my own damn life.

I exaggerate, of course. I have my own damn life. For example, I am quite enjoying my tutoring work with Reading Partners. My little gap-toothed tu-tee to-ta-lly loves me. "We gonna do this every day, right?" he said. And I said, "Just twice a week." He then nodded sagely and said, "I love Reading Partners. It's so fun." At first I found this a little hard to believe, but then I recalled that we start every session lounging on beanbags while I read to him from whatever books he chooses. Once he chose a book about reptiles, and we just screamed the whole time. So maybe it is fun for him.

This year I once again have in my possession a group of five strong 4th grade writers, and this time I have them for a whole hour every week. I've decided to start every session with a 5-minute freewrite, and this one kid totally cracked me up because his freewrite sounded just like mine when I was his age (for some reason they all wanted to share their freewrites, and I'm not one to balk at such enthusiasm): "My hand hurts. Why do we have to do this? I wish it was over. When will it be over? Seriously, my hand is going to fall off..." etc. etc. I told them that if they ran out of things to write, to just keep writing, "I am, I am, I am" over and over again until something showed up. All four girls at some point wrote, "I am awesome." Isn't that hilarious?!

Also, I'm teaching art in two separate 4th grade classroom, and three combined 2nd grade classrooms. Um, a little bit of art overload, I'll admit. But there are plenty of other parents helping out this year, so while I am responsible for lecture, discussion, project demo, and prep, I don't have to do as much during the actual project time. So, yay for not having my face smudged with charcoal or whatever every Friday!

I'm fully back in the swing with Latino/Community Outreach work, as well. I hit a wall with our previous administration, the end result of which was me running full force into said wall, and then collapsing into an unattractive heap on the floor. However, the new power-that-is truly gets it (gee, could it be because he is a personne de couleur? Mais oui!), and we have tons of momentum going at the moment. I plan to wrangle all the good energy into bringing adult English and literacy classes directly onto our campus. It'll be a pretty sweet trick, what with everyone's budget disappearing, but you just watch. Watch me and my own damn life.

So, while all this is going on, I try to remember that I am a writer, and that a writer should, you know, write. I think the fact that I have two manuscripts out there at the same time (I don't even remember the last time that happened) shows that I'm doing okay with this. When they return to me, rejected, I will wear the rejections as a badge of honor. I'll attach them to a flagpole and salute them. I'll frame them for the mantle. Tattoo the text on my bicep. Quote them verbatim at every opportunity. I'll even use them as an ingredient in an energy drink which I will then consume in three gulps.

But for now, it's late and I'm sleepy. Sea of Poppies, here I come.

Good Reading

I was just speeding blissfully through the pages of Amitav Ghosh's Sea of Poppies when I realized that if I didn't slow down, it would be over too soon. But then I remembered that it's only the first of the Ibis trilogy, and I worked back up to a regular reading pace. It's one of those novels that truly creates an entire world, one that's populated with the most unlikely but believable characters, and that takes you from elation to tears with nothing but a section break to let you catch your breath. A woman was just snatched from her dead, opium-addicted husband's funeral pyre, made love to by a rescuer (from a lower caste!) whom she promptly marries in a do-it-yourself ceremony and, in an attempt to escape her family (who will not rest! will not rest! will not rest until she and her true love are DEAD!), has boarded a boat headed to Calcutta (and indentured servitude) with her strapping new husband. And that's just one strand of the story! Smack in the middle of it all is the human and environmental wreckage created by colonialism. And coming soon: the Opium Wars. It's just killing me, this novel. It's only 10:58, but I'm headed to bed so I can read some more...

Hallowhiny

I'm officially exhausted by Halloween and all its attendant duties. Shame on the soccer powers-that-be who decided that it would be a good idea for the under 10 girls to play TWO games on the day-of! Risa and Vida play at 9:00 and 4:45, which will leave them exhausted by the time they don, respectively, their pirate and harlequin costumes. They will be a Miss Pissed Pirate and Miss Holy Hell Harlequin.

We have 1,000 pumpkins, but none of them are carved.

I am making pumpkin soup tomorrow, which is something of a solace.

Also, I think I will melt peanut butter cups into the caramel. Apple, meet your new dip.

I don't remember the last time I was so excited about daylight savings time. Oh blessed extra hour of sleep.

Lea wears glasses now, same as I did when I was her age. I found it vaguely traumatizing when it happened to me, but today the glasses are so cute. On her first day at school, her friends came running. "Wow, Lea, you got GLASSES! You look COOOOOOL!"

We ate at a Brazilian Meat Palace (not the official name, silly) last night, and I have yet to recover. 'Twas a festival of beefiness, a parade of protein. But they also had pork encrusted with parmesan cheese. And chicken wrapped in bacon. And endlessly filled little plates of crispy polenta. So sick. So wrong. So very right.

Messy Nest

I could, if it were my nature, spend the entire day picking up after my children: shoes under the table, cardboard bits from class project, library book on the mantle, party favors, backpacks, lip balms, change purses, socks, shin guards, ponytail holders, hats, colored pencils, gluestick, homework folder. But it is not my nature. I do, however, shuffle the most offending items (backpack under the dining room table, for example) to their proper place. Why do I do this? Because sometimes I can't bear to order them around for the 276th time in 24 hours. Some would scoff, I suppose. Yes, children should learn to pick up after themselves. But also, children should not only be spoken to in an unbroken string of do-this and do-that and don't-do-this and don't-do-that. Sometimes I just need to let them be.

The Day that Came Out of Left Field

Yesterday was weird. First of all, I actually submitted a story, an occurrence which happens about as often as a solar eclipse. Here's my modus operandi: I get ready to submit, and then I read over the piece, and then—for a variety of reasons, some ridiculous and some not so ridiculous—I demur. I repeat this many times as the deadline looms ever and ever closer. And then nine times out of ten I decide I'm a horrible writer, and I don't send the piece. Today, though, I was in an inexplicable throw-caution-to-the-wind mood, a start-living-or-start-dying mood, a get-over-it-you-dork mood, a what's-the-worse-that-could-happen mood. Like that. So, almost without thinking, I sent a little story out into the mean, mean world.

Also yesterday, while meeting with a non-profit group to discuss (yet again) ways to engage our Spanish-speaking parents more fully with our school culture, I was offered a job. This gave me great pause. "Your kids are older now," said the job-offerer, a lovely woman whose personality can convince an entire room filled with less-than-inspired people that their greatness is yet to be revealed. She knows this about my kids because she also offered me a job four years ago. "You gotta move on, girl," she added, one eyebrow raised.

And there is something to what she says. Really, how much longer do I remain in the rabid school-volunteer phase of my life? Soon the kids will be off to scary Middle School, where parent services are not so in-demand, and then what will I do with myself? The obvious answer is: write, stupid. But the truth is that I write more when my schedule is constricted. Leave me free and easy, and I will loll about doing very little. Fill up my calendar, and I grow determined to squeeze in writing time. Frankly, a job would help—not hinder—my output (it would do little for the state of my house, but that's another subject altogether).

Later, I broached the subject of Mothers Who Work Somewhere Besides Home with my children. The two older ones thought it would be "cool" for me to work. "Mom," said Vida, "I want you to be excellent."

I almost asked, "What do you mean? Am I not now excellent?" But then I decided that was a can of worms best left unopened. I turned to my youngest, and she squeezed her face up as if someone had pinched her really hard, began to cry, and said, "No, mama, no..."

Then one of the twins berated her, and she ran off weeping to her room. The other twin then berated the berating twin, and went to comfort her crying sister.

I ate some potato chips.

It was all too much for me, really.

And then later in the evening, I attended a PTA meeting at which much of the Latino outreach work we've done so far this year bore fruit. Big, fat, delicious, low-hanging fruit. I went to sleep very happy.

Still, weird day.

I Want to Eat a Tootie in My Tootooooon

Today, in support of Jumpstart's "Read for the Record" campaign, a bunch of parents invaded the Preschool and Kindergarten classes to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to small groups of kids. In the opinion of your Nesting Ground Mistress, there are few activities more joyous. Plus, courtesy of one of our mom's generous employers, every kid received a brand new, shiny copy of the book.

I'm sure most of you know the story and are familiar with the stunning collages: there's a hungry caterpillar, and he eats a ton of fruit and snacks and gets, of course, a terrible stomachache. Then he eats through a big leaf and feels better. He builds himself a cocoon, goes to sleep for two weeks, and emerges a beautiful, gorge-a-mous butterfly.


While reading to my first group, I turned to the page with the large illustration of the cocoon, and this little girl started screaming and pointing. "A tootoooon! A tootooooon! It's...a... tootooooon!" And it was just so remarkably cute that I didn't even bother to correct her, and now there are five little kids skipping through their lives thinking a cocoon is a tootooooon. Somehow, I don't think it will ruin their lives.

Of course, I had to e-mail my little cousin (who is an educator), and she responded that there is a little girl in her Kindergarten that says "tootie" instead of "cookie."

So now all I want to do is eat a chocolate chip tootie in my tiny tootooooon. I'd invite you, but there's only room for one.

The Post In Which I Reveal the Reason Why I'm Once Again Engaged In a Scorching Love Affair with Writing

It's hard to believe that I've never taken a class at Kearny Street Workshop, but there you go: I've never taken a class at Kearny Street Workshop. Until this weekend, that is. And it is SO good. Which leaves me to wonder, of course, if it's ALWAYS so good. I already know that the answer, though, is no. Because there are too many variables at play. First, the instructor must be wonderful (generous, brilliant, accessible, truly present), the space must be conducive to creativity (clean, pleasant, generally distraction-free, with natural light, and let's see, what else...white walls), and—this is the trickiest thing of all—the group must be a pitch-perfect mix of writers.

All three of those heady requirements have been met by the workshop I'm attending (today was day 1), and this despite the fact that the other half of the space at PariSoMa was taken over by something called the Arse Elektronika festival. "You might walk out of this room and see, I don't know, robots fucking or something," said our teacher. See why I so enjoy her? Her name, by the way, is Minal Hajratwala.

I won't continue, as one of our group agreements is "confidentiality." (Do you think this post breaches it? I hope not) I will just add, though, that it helps so very much that your Nesting Ground Mistress is an old lady now, as this workshop would have been wasted on the young version of me. And whaddayaknow: that confession works well with the theme of the workshop, which is—of course it is—"Lost & Found."

From Helpless to Helpful

Well, September '09 has ended in a disconcerting flurry of island disasters, and they are all heartbreaking. It's easy to fall into despair, what with all the videos, photographs, ostensible government indifference and/or ineptitude, and individual stories of devastation. But why loll about in the quicksand Pit of Despair when you are perfectly capable of doing something? Send money? Sure! Send a little more? Why not! And then, of course, you can fill up a box with your used clothing and shoes and blankets and whatnot, and bring it to one of these drop-off spots. It will then be delivered—in most cases FREE—to the victims of Typhoon Ondoy in the Philippines.

Here's a list of drop-off points especially for all you Filipino and Filipino-friendly Californians. I pulled this directly from Moongirl, whose extensive list includes several ways for those of us who are not Philippine-based to help. You can check here whole list out here, but this is the California section:

California (Burlingame): MANILA BOX USA is now accepting donations in kind & will provide FREE shipping to Manila. Items will be sent by Sea Cargo and will delivered to the Whitespace Relief Center/Mar Roxas Headquarters in Cubao. Please drop them off at their warehouse: 361 Beach Road Burlingame , CA 94010 or call (650)342-2858. Please pack them in boxes for easier handling. Business hours Mon-Fri 9am-6pm

California (Carson/Hermosa Beach): We are collecting donations to send to flood victims in Manila. Our goal is to fill up a 40ft container in one week with new or used clothing,shoes, blankets,medicines,canned food items, etc. Dropoff Location : 205 West Torrance Blvd, Carson, CA 90745. We will be setting up a booth on Oct 3, 2009 at the Substance event in Hermosa Beach CA.

California (Cerritos): Our house is temp drop off point while we find a bigger venue. We’ll facilitate immediate shipment to Manila. Thank you in advance for your help. Pls pass. Dino & Jan Home:16622 Amberwood Way Cerritos, CA 90703; (562)404-0625

California (Hayward): Fil-Am Invitational BasketballLeague(FIBL) will send out relief goods in the philippines for the victims of the floods cause by typhoon ondoy…. if you want to make a donation clothing,canned goods or money please bring it on sunday 10/04/09 @ el rancho gym 541 blanche st. hayward ca. from 2:00 – 6:00pm please visit our website for direction

California (Daly City): Please contact Ryan Leano (626)534-4971. Liwanag Cultural Center, Hillside Park Clubhouse, 222 Lausanne Ave., Daly City‎, CA‎ 94014.

California (LA): Relief goods accepted in LA! ANSWER ofc, 137 Virgil St, Rm 203, Los Angeles, CA

California (LA): TULONG SA PILIPINAS (STP): Accepting donations cash or check. Send to People’s CORE, 1610 Beverly Blvd. Suite No 2, Los Angeles, Ca 90026. Donations more than $50 is tax deductible. Material donations drop off ( donations; shoes, clothes, canned goods. medicines etc. ) at ANSWER LA office at 137 Virgil St. Room 203 , Los Angeles, CA 900042.

California (LA): Manila Forwarder will provide free balikbayan box shipment to Philippine National Red Cross, churches, and other government agencies directly responsible with relief operations. Please drop off the relief goods at: Manila Forwarder Headquarters, 4249 Eagle Rock Blvd Los Angeles, CA 90065, 1.800.210.1019323.478.1599

California (Oakland): Please contact Ryan Leano (626)534-4971. Asian Pacific Islander Youth Promoting Advocacy & Leadership. Attn: Armael Malinis, AnakBayan-East Bay. 310 8th Street, Suite 215. Oakland, CA 94710

California (San Diego): Alas Cargo 3126 E Plaza Blvd National City, CA 91950 (619) 470-1023; Eastern Express 8965 Mira Mesa Blvd (858) 578-8567

California (San Francisco): Stanford’s Pilipino American Student Union (PASU) is also collecting donations to be sent to the Philippines to help victims of Typhoon Ondoy (international name Ketsana). If you would like to make a donation, please contact AV David at avhdavid@stanford.edu or (650) 491-4561.

California (San Francisco): Click here.

California (San Francisco): Manila Forwarder will provide free balikbayan box shipment to Philippine National Red Cross, churches, and other government agencies directly responsible with relief operations. Please drop off the relief goods at: Manila Forwarder Northern California, 5750 Mission Street, San Francisco, CA 94112. Tel: 510-750-3036 / Tel: 209-3499576 / Tel: 415-239-9576

California (West Covina): Bamboo Bistro, 1559 E Amar Rd, West Covina, CA 91792. (626) 810-6131

***

I eagerly await tonight's episode of Glee because Glee makes me impossibly gleeful. A tonic for the times, as it were. If only it weren't on FOX...

The Post In Which I Use A Bad Word. Twice.

You know which day I have enjoyed most in the past few days? Saturday. We had to wake up early for Lea's 8:00 soccer game, but never mind! The child scored three goals—three! her first ever!—an occurrence we probably could have predicted, considering she is a whole head taller than most of the other players. But never mind! Why must I place caveats everywhere?

The big girls' game wasn't until much later, leaving me plenty of time for the PAWA/Arkipelago Reading at the Bayanihan Community Center. The afternoon's stellar lineup included poets Oliver de la Paz, Mari L'Esperance, and Joseph O. Legaspi, and musician Theresa Calpotura. You can see video and pictures here at the PAWA blog. I've been waving to Oliver from cyberspace for years now, so it was especially nice to meet The Actual Him. And the same goes for Joseph, who is blindingly charming, and who read a poem about watermelon that made me happy. As usual, I was deprived of the chance to mingle, as I had to skedaddle back home to catch the second soccer game. But I was able to purchase copies of Oliver's Furious Lullaby, and Joseph's Imago, and so should you.

So, this was really weird: Risa and Vida's team went up 4 to 0 before the half, at which point their coach would no longer let anybody cross midfield. The girls would run, run, run, and then stop at the line as if there were some sort of invisible fence (just like in LOST!). We soon realized it was because he didn't want to run up the score and thus dishearten the opposing players. It was the right thing to do, but I don't think the other side was particularly happy when it became clear that R & V's team had basically stopped playing. Of course, this couldn't last for long, and both Risa and Vida and another girl ended up scoring, after which they were called to the sidelines and gently admonished by their coach. The other team never did score and, yes, some of their players were in tears at the end, but I don't know. The whole thing was a little icky.

The NOT icky thing was that my adored little cousin and her hubbbband came to cheer the girls on, and then we went to eat at Rave Burger. Yes to sweeeeeeet potato fries! Yes to garlic fries! Yes to my "Chicken on Grass" sandwich, which was just a chicken breast topped with sauteed spinach and garlic! Yes! Yes!

And then we all went home and watched the Mayweather/Marquez bout, and I STILL do not care for Mr. Floyd. Mr. Floyd is distinctly unpleasant, entitled, and rude. When he fights Manny Pacquiao, I will be curled up in a ball peeking at the screen through my fingers, and I will be screaming and carrying on and making all sorts of bargains with the powers-that-be ("I promise if Manny Pacquiao wins, I will never think badly of anyone's shoes ever again. I promise if Manny Pacquiao wins, I will never secretly smirk at women who have landscapes painted on their nails. I promise, I promise."). Mark me well, for I do not lie.

After Mayweather's win, we turned our attention to what is surely one of the worst Jason Statham movies ever, and CERTAINLY the worst Joan Allen film ever: Death Race. Just when I thought it couldn't get any more unintentionally hilarious, Jason would...I don't know...do a bunch of shirtless pull-ups FOR NO REASON AT ALL. Or Joan would call Jason a "cocksucker," and I would think, "My God, Joan Allen, you once acted alongside Daniel Day Lewis, and now you're standing in front of Jason Statham and calling him a cocksucker."

And then I went to sleep.

***

MISCELLANEOUS 1: You want to know what I loved about Trader Joe's today? They played the Hawaii 5-0 theme song, and for some reason it filled me with a sense of purpose, and I sped all over the store, menu-planning as I went, and now I do not have to go to the store for the rest of the week. Maybe. And also, there was a lovely senior citizen lady working there, and really she was such a senior citizen that she moved very, very, very slowly while straightening out the bags of tortilla chips, but it was obviously her birthday because she was wearing a birthday crown (like with candles sticking up and everything), and it made me want to cry. And also, because of Joseph O. Legaspi, I bought a watermelon.

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MISCELLANEOUS 2: Don't hate my new shoes because they're beautiful: