January 19, 2008
The tale of the little black dress
The husband and I will get all glammed...er, dressed up come Saturday night for a company party. And so in the interest of meeting the minimum requirement of looking presentable, I shopped around for that proverbial little black dress. (Fashion gurus say every woman should have one in her closet.) Out here, where there is a dizzying, almost unlimited array of choices, finding a dress should be relatively pain-free, right? Not! I am small - in the vertical and horizontal sense of the word - but I am smaller than small by US standards. The hunt for the perfect dress is a test of patience. First there's excitement (Oh my God! That's just so cute!), then frustration (No size 0?), and finally desperation (Maybe I could fit into a 1). Four hours later, I was still wandering aimlessly at the mall.
Now, I like nice things but I'm also a cheapo. I credit my being stingy to a childhood removed from a lot of life's luxuries. (That would be the subject of another blog in the future.) My two-way spending test involves these questions: Is it necessary? Is it practical? That being said, I set mental cost limits and stay away from designer clothing stores. If I could find a $20 dress that looks like it just got off the runway, I'm a happy woman.
That night, however, I found myself walking into this certain upscale store. And found the right dress. At a price I wasn't willing to pay. It didn't help that the salesgirl was pitching the purchase as "worth the investment." She even hatched a plan for me - "Cook a real good meal for your husband, shower him with compliments and then put on this dress. You will look so stunning he will forget about the price." And with an important addendum - "Don't fight with him this week." Part of me was in love with the dress, yet another part was outraged at the price (which was equivalent to one month's pay for a mid-level editor in the Philippines). I needed someone to sway me over to one side, thus, I called up the husband. He said yes, so I walked out of the store with a new dress and a lot of guilt.
With that, I had no intentions of splurging on shoes to go with the dress. Heck, if I could find a pair of sexy heels at $30, I'll go for it. Last night, I redeemed myself from all the guilt associated with the dress when I snagged an elegant Nicole Miller pair for - you ready? - $16. So sweet! Of course, I do have to mention that I had to walk up and down aisles and aisles of shoes for two hours with my patient little assistant, Re'Sean. His mission that night was to find my size and every few minutes he would come running to me bringing a shoe which he thought was cool. (Hmm... I feel he deserves a reward tonight.)
So that is the back story of my little black dress. We'll see if the outfit will get rave reviews from the husband!
In the meantime, I am posting pictures taken during a dinner date this past weekend with some friends in the area. We kicked off the evening with a sumptous dinner at Asian Bistro (although we were irritated by the feeling of being rushed by the waiter) and capped it with some drinks at Whitlow's on Wilson, which is supposed to be one of the happening (and very crowded) bars in Clarendon. A Vietnamese-American guy approached our table asking about our nationality, wondering if we were Vietnamese, too. After some hi's and hellos, he told us he likes adobo. Interesting, eh?
January 17, 2008
Chick magnet in the making
"He got what?!!" I yelled over the phone in one of those long distance calls where you have to, well, yell to be heard on the other end of the line. My 10-year-old nephew is apparently being pursued by two lovestruck classmates who have no qualms showing their affections. My sister discovered two love letters in his book bag last week, dripping with uninhibited declarations of young love. I was laughing so hard when my sister read over the phone some lines from one letter. Upon further inquiry, my nephew confessed he'd been getting flowers "and other stuff" from these girls, too.
What the heck? During my time, 10-year-old kids were running around in their underwear vaguely aware of the opposite sex. I didn't have a real crush until I was 12. So, okay I was a late bloomer when it comes to matters of the heart, but since when did our kids start growing up so fast? At 10, they should be painting their faces with mud, pulling at girls' pigtails, or talking crazy about cartoon characters, not writing love letters. I guess my generation had a longer run with innocence.
When I was telling the husband this, he said at least Kirshan knows how to pick the good ones. The two girls occupy the 1st and 2nd places in the honor roll, respectively; Kirshan comes in 3rd. It's cute that he's getting all this attention, but that boy better be hitting the books, not chasing skirts!
Calling in sick or why cats should not be allowed to breed!
I never liked cats. Call me heartless, but I've kicked some, sprayed water on others and tested the law of gravity on a few. On the other hand, my family in the Philippines is always trying to adopt some furry animal which happens to wander around the house. When I left in 2006, my father had officially baptized a white cat with blue and green eyes (yes, you read that right - different color for each eye) as part of the family. He was convinced the cat could peacefully co-exist with our dog. Last I heard he wasn't very successful at his mediation efforts.
While we are on the subject of cats, I have decided to post here an email I received from the husband about a couple of days back. I didn't know cats have this weird fixation on the male private parts. Ouch! Now whether this is a true story or not, it sure is darn funny. Women, keep your kittens away from your men!
We've all had trouble with our animals, but I don't think anyone can top this one:
Calling in sick to work makes me uncomfortable. No matter how legitimate my excuse, I always get the feeling that my boss thinks I'm lying.
On one recent occasion, I had a valid reason but lied anyway, because the truth was just too darned humiliating. I simply mentioned that I had sustained a head injury, and I hoped I would feel up to coming in the next day. By then, I reasoned, I could think up a doozy to explain the bandage on the top of my head. The accident occurred mainly because I had given in to my wife's wishes to adopt a cute little kitty. Initially, the new acquisition was no problem.
Then one morning, I was taking my shower after breakfast when I heard my wife, Deb, call out to me from the kitchen.
"Honey! The garbage disposal is dead again. Please come reset it."
"You know where the button is," I protested through the shower pitter-patter and steam. "Reset it yourself!"
"But I'm scared!" she persisted. "What if it starts going and sucks me in?"
There was a meaningful pause and then, "C'mon, it'll only take you a second."
So out I came, dripping wet and butt naked, hoping that my silent outraged nudity would make a statement about how I perceived her behavior as extremely cowardly.
Sighing loudly, I squatted down and stuck my head under the sink to find the button. It is the last action I remember performing.
It struck without warning, and without any respect to my circumstances. No, it wasn't the hexed disposal, drawing me into its gnashing metal teeth. It was our new kitty, who discovered the fascinating dangling objects she spied hanging between my legs. She had been poised around the corner and stalked me as I reached under the sink. And, at the precise moment when I was most vulnerable, she leapt at the toys I unwittingly offered and snagged them with her needle-like claws. I lost all rational thought to control orderly bodily movements, blindly rising at a violent rate of speed, with the full weight of a kitten hanging from my masculine region.
Wild animals are sometimes faced with a "fight or flight" syndrome. Men, in this predicament, choose only the "flight" option. I know this from experience. I was fleeing straight up into the air when the sink and cabinet bluntly and forcefully impeded my ascent. The impact knocked me out cold.
When I awoke, my wife and the paramedics stood over me. Now there are not many things in this life worse than finding oneself lying on the kitchen floor butt naked in front of a group of "been-there, done-that" paramedics. Even worse, having been fully briefed by my wife, the paramedics were all snorting loudly as they tried to conduct their work, all the while trying to suppress their hysterical laughter......and not succeeding.
Somehow I lived through it all. A few days later I finally made it back in to the office, where colleagues tried to coax an explanation out of me about my head injury. I kept silent, claiming it was too painful to talk about, which it was.
"What's the matter?" They all asked, "Cat got your tongue?"
If they only knew!
