Bedbugs Bite

As we walked through Times Square on the way to watch a matinee of Carrie Fisher's one-woman show Wishful Drinking, this billboard caught my eye:



And it's true, NYC is in the midst of a little-talked about bedbug invasion. And once they infiltrate, they are very difficult to get rid of. Victims have resorted to discarding closets-full of clothes and bedding. The critters always find a way to stay.

My apartment has a bedbug too:



It is impossible to get him out of bed before noon on the weekends. And there is just so much to do I start feeling antsy waiting for His Highness to stir. I have so many projects to work on! Change is in the air, again!

The Carrie Fisher show was entertaining--Blake had actually seen it once before in DC. The average age of the audience was twice ours. Carrie seemed to be having a great time, and they lapped up all her corny jokes and tabloid headline references. She also did her, Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi soliloquy, much to Blake's delight, since he is, horrifyingly enough, a die-hard Star Wars fan.

A Glamorous Life

My line of work can be tough, I kid you not. The business of beauty can be brutal. But sometimes a ray of light shines through the barrage of anxiety attacks and I think, My job is actually pretty cool.



I took a snapshot of the mess beside my keyboard; my desk is pristine in the morning and before I leave at night, but for the ten hours in between, Hello paper explosions! There are of course product samples (Revitalift anti-aging serum, and a night cream in a little blue jar, a tube of Ceralip), and hair swatches, artificial, in a plastic sachet. And then there's the gold lipstick tube that is actually... a jumpdrive! And a tile with the Hollywood walk of fame star with my name, as my company just got a Star in the real Hollywood walk of fame. It was a PR luncheon giveaway, when I sat between beauty editors of Teen Vogue and People En Espanol. The tile is a cute coaster for my water bottle. And then a ticket, to Glamour's 2009 Women of the Year awards ceremony and dinner.

That evening in Carnegie Hall, President Clinton introduced Maya Angelou, who sang a poem. The Beatle widow Yoko Ono and two Beatle wives introduced Stella McCartney, Tyra Banks praised Serena Williams, Iman set the stage for Rihanna. Michael Douglas had a face of plastic, and Catherine Zeta-Jones was chunky, but not as chunky as Christiane Amanpour, but then again she's a journalist.

Goodness gracious!



The after-event dinner was even better, and I entered the restaurant right after the gorgeous Iman who was in a dress made of ostrich feathers, and right before Alek Wek, who was in a dress made of sequins. I met Amy Poehler, ogled Maria Shriver, and introduced myself of Susan Rice (perhaps a bold-faced name only in Washington DC. I tried to secure Blake a job at the UN by telling her, Madame Ambassador, my boyfriend is at the State Department. She asked, What's his name and where does he work? I barely remembered the name, and my mind blanked at the department. So I guess Blake will have to wait longer for his UN posting...).

Champagne and steak, a wink at Tyra from across the room. Then later that Monday night, walking down 5th Avenue with my swag bag heavy with goodies, thinking, I need to do laundry!

Emerging From The Depths

The DC metro system always amazes me, to get to the tracks one often has to get on escalators that feel endless. The lighting is indirect and dramatic, and everything seems muffled.



I had to hide my coffee in a brown paper bag, as food and drink are forbidden. I'm shocked at how tired I look in this photo, although it is noon on a Saturday, and my eyes are hidden.

Filipino Days

Last week I had a craving for adobo and cooked it from scratch, in the process infusing my apartment with the distinctive scent of boiling vinegar and soy sauce with a touch of bay leaf. And I was also thrilled to find out that Time Warner cable now carries the Filipino Channel (#594 on my cable box) for $9.99 a month, which means that when I get home late at night I can still watch inane and grimace-inducing Filipino noontime gameshows like Wowowee (and early in the morning, there are telenovelas... it's a miracle I make it to work at all).

And even better, my brother who is visiting the US came to sleep over for a night, and my cute cousin Bea, also visiting NYC from Manila, joined us for a bottle of wine.


(Xavy P. on a religious mission, Bea R. on a shopping expedition. NYC has something for everyone!)

They are both very plugged in, and updated their Facebook status as we talked about things worthy of updating on Facebook. My brother also has his own blog, wherein he rails against population control, contraceptives, abortion, and yes, gay marriage. Well, doesn't every family have their yin and their yang?

Odd Odds and Ends

The PaceWildenstein gallery had a Maya Lin installation, a hill made of wooden blocks. But even stranger, when we entered the gallery there were people clambering up the artwork.



Of course we stepped onto the piece and tried to climb up too, before the gallery manager finally (!) noticed what was happening and shooed everyone off it. It was so much better when it was interactive.

And another strange large thing crossed my path today:



A giant popover. A tour of the Good Housekeeping testing facility at the Hearst building culminated in a luncheon. An interior room on the 29th floor of the modern building was made to look like a Federalist era dining room, complete with faux sunlight streaming into faux windows. And the popover apparently is a Good Housekeeping hospitality signature.

I saw anti-aging creams, umbrellas, gingerbread house recipes, and vacuum cleaners being tested. It was a little odd that this 100-year-old institution that made me think of Little House on the Prairie existed in a high-rise in midtown Manhattan, and one of the most modern ones too.


(The Hearst Building on 57th and 8th, home of Cosmopolitan, Esquire, Town & Country)

Lost Weekends

Where do weekends go? One moment is Friday night and then I blink and it's Sunday late afternoon.


(On Orchard Street, with Blake's head exploding in light, a shocking mutation. Photo credit: Mali L. And yes, I'm wearing a something like a riding costume. My pocketsquare is a napkin, left on a table after last night's dinner party.)

Days and nights have been going too quickly. I feel they've been unobserved, not made special, not fully mine. I used to have time to take each one and turn it around in my head, holding each occassion to the light and peruse. Then suddenly everything went too fast, the summer disappeared and with it perhaps my perspective. Suddenly, it's always Monday and never Friday.

And tomorrow it really is Monday, inexorable.

Yesterday and Today

My cousin emailed pages from a magazine dated June 7, 1959. It's the Sunday issue of the Times (Philippines, that is). My lola, looking beautiful as always, is on the cover, wearing quite a showstopper of a dress.



The blue seems to be embroidered with a white floral pattern, and of course the shoes and bag match. I think it takes a lot of confidence to pull of a yellow evening gown with butterfly sleeves, confidence she certainly had in prodigious amounts.



The copy in part reads, " All year round she has a long list of social engagements that she dutifully and graciously fuliflls. Whether it be a merienda-cena, a formal ball where she dances the rigodon, a wedding where she plays the role of sponsor, at a diplomatic ball, or at a charity tea, she is always welcomed with admiring eyes and sincere warmth."

How far have I fallen, just two generations removed!

If an article were written about her grandson today it would probably read: "All year round he has a long list of "engagements", like laundry and checking facebook, that he grudgingly or addictively fulfills. Whether it be happy hour at G, dinner with tawdry friends where he dances Walk Like An Egyptian, a wedding where he plays the role of +1, or at a tea-dance, he is always welcomed with a rolling of eyes."

Interestingly enough, I think I'm the same age now as she was when this picture was taken. No magazine articles today, just eating take-out while watching Project Runway on Thursday nights, and sorting recycling, oh and working at my 12-hour-a-day heart-attack job that keeps me away from all those diplomatic balls!

Mewage

Everyone's getting married but me!



On Saturday it was Raj and Christine at the Hotel Monaco in DC. The location was a gorgeous backdrop--a converted post office, even the hallways had tall ceilings lined with moldings and decorated the quirky Hotel Monaco way, all modern stripes and little tassels.

And then the couple danced to Jai Ho from Slumdog Millionaire.



It was a fairly long and intricate routine too, but everyone was riveted, at how Christine was able to dance so fluidly in her gown, and at how staid diplomat Raj was convinced to execute the choreography. It certainly must be love!

But back to my own marriage situation, or lack thereof--what to do when one can't even say I Do?


(me, Court S, and Eddie S. channeling Jane Fonda, the morning of the Equality March on Washington)

Well, there is always joining a hundred thousand other people on a Sunday afternoon, in a walking rainbow that made its way past the White House.


(Dressed warmly in pink cashmere and brown pedal-pushers, to march for equality dammit! The White House in the distance.)

I was amazed to see that so many in the crowd were so young--so many queer teens with a fabulous spirit of activism. They have a voice and were ecstatic expressing themselves. It was inspiring and made me happy.

Of course marriage is important to me. Perhaps it is borne out of a desire to have what has been denied me (and will its eventual availability translate to loss of attractiveness? Maybe, or not). And by the way, equal rights are a good start, but I want the word and the wedding too. Who doesn't want a hot mess of friends, family, cake, crazy DJ, and fabulous giftses, someone to ask Will You... and of course that other person to say I Do. (And then there's truly no escape--after all, what God has put together and all that.) It doesn't change the love, but how beautiful to celebrate it, and recognize it, and call it for what it is, and take some nice pictures too.

In any case, I Want, I Want, I Want. I mean, I Do, I Do, I Do!

Umbrella-ella-e-e

Instead of a demure veil, the bride opted to make an entrance with a parasol encrusted with feathers, raising it up and down to the music as she danced her way to get married.



And not to be outdone, the groom had one too. Although the smaller black umbrella with the fringe was certainly outdone by the bride's more elaborate accessory!



Clearly, Melissa and Chris do things their own way. And in the Garden District of New Orleans we all twirled puple kerchiefs around to celebrate, before attacking a buffet that had the most delicious greatest hits of New Orleans cuisine.

Apparently Blake's burps were offensive to the bride, rightfully so!



Celebrations of love always make my eyes moist.



I've always thought that it was bad luck to open an umbrella indoors. I was told that to do so would mean it would most certainly rain on your special day (whatever that day would be). And what a wonderful way to negate the old wives tale: open umbrellas indoors during your wedding, and keep everyone in climate-controlled comfort. The sun shone anyway.

New Orleans In A Nutshell

We were in New Orleans the weekend before last to attend Melissa and Chris' wedding.

I keep forgetting how different New Orleans comes across versus the rest of America. Even before Katrina, it felt as if it was decaying in front of ones very eyes, but in a very elegant and self-aware way.

The Bourbon Street area is truly detestable, with the masses of tourists clutching to-go cups, intent on having a drink-fueled good time (OK, we joined the crowds). But some other tourist areas like the Place d'Armes are beautiful, especially in between downpours.



And of course it is difficult to find a bad meal. On Sunday morning we had lunch at a diner-type restaurant called Mother's. There was a line in front of tourists, but if it was a trap then I didn't mind.

Blake was in a little bit of a bad mood because of the heat, and ate most of my gumbo.



I must admit that I was also a little tired around the eyes.



Boo, in a nearby park, Louise Bourgeois eye benches like the ones we saw in Seoul! These ones even had spotlights built into them.



We also had dinner at the famous Commander's Palace in the Garden District. Some have called it the best restaurant in the US. I might have ordered the wrong thing (rilettes du cochon, pecan-encrusted gulf shrimp swimming in a cheesy corn sauce) because I wasn't licking my plate clean or clamoring to kiss the chef. And I did miss out on their famous turtle soup.


(Me and everyone else: Yael B., Justin M., Sy D., Dawn, and Blake.)

I thought it was really funny that the proprietors insisted that the word "restaurant" be sized and lit up the same way as "Commander's Palace". I saw old pictures of the place (but not that old--it was opened in 1880!), and back in the day "Restaurant" was sized twice as big as "Commander's Palace". Anyway, Sy ordered us a couple of elegant bottles of white burgundy and we had a fabulous time.