August 20, 2008 at 5:37 pm (Conversations, Movies, Quotes, Son)
Tags: The New Yorker, Filipino movies, summer movies, Anthony Lane, Meryl Streep
After the Olympics are over, self can catch up on her sleep. But last night was another night of staying up until 2 a.m. and then waking (with noise of Gracie’s piteous whining) at 6:30 a.m.
This morning, hubby left for work two hours later than he normally does, Read the rest of this entry »
August 19, 2008 at 10:49 pm (Books, Son)
Tags: transitions
Son has just driven off, his little 92 Honda Civic crammed to the absolute gills with his stuff (Self kept telling him not to block his rear-view mirror, but anyhoo).
He will have a new abode. He will finally, for the first time in his college career, be living off-campus. He does not have a bed or a desk yet, but he assures self that his first stop (after a “paella party” at 6 p.m.) will be Linens’n Things or Best Buy, for a futon.
Self surrendered her brand-new Read the rest of this entry »
August 17, 2008 at 3:20 pm (Home, Son)
Tags: summer
How did this happen? First it was the third week in July (which was the last time, apparently, that self perused The Economist, because that is what is at the bottom of her stack of unread magazines), and now it is more than halfway through August.
There is only one week of the Olympics left, and after that there will be nothing, absolutely nothing to watch on TV. How is she going to get through the start of fall? With no Dara, no Michael, no Nastia to cheer on? (Self is suddenly reminded that there is the final season of Battlestar Galactica). Son will go back to Cal Poly, school will start, self will discover that her obsessive summer watering has killed off more plants, and she will still have that ratty pink sofa with the fraying arms in her living room.
But, not to fret too much, darlings, for summer 2008 was absolutely packed with activity, and self learned something new (almost) every day.
There was a reunion mass at son’s old school, St. Raymond, yesterday. And at that Read the rest of this entry »
August 16, 2008 at 6:30 am (Quotes, Son, Surprises)
Tags: exhibits, photography, San Francisco
Weather in San Francisco was bee-yoo-ti-ful.
Self finished her review for the Women’s Review of Books and managed to send it off before she and son left for the City.
Self had never seen a Frida Kahlo painting in the flesh before today. Their colors so luminous, glowing like jewels against the white walls. Some of her favorites:
“Henry Ford Hospital” (1932)
“Self-Portrait: Very Ugly/ Muy Feo“ (1933)
“Self-Portrait with Necklace” (1933)
Read the rest of this entry »
August 13, 2008 at 4:02 pm (Books, Insomnia, Son, Surprises)
Tags: summer, The New York Times
The week after Morgan Freeman and mystery female companion flipped their car, Bernie Mac died. Then Isaac Hayes died.
Last night, self and hubby argued about what time to be at the airport: self thought they should be there to welcome son when he appeared at the gate; hubby thought we should wait until son was actually out on the curb and gave us a call. Self said she had never heard of anyone being made to wait on the curb after returning home from a long trip, and she wasn’t about to start now. Then self pretended she didn’t care one way or another. Then hubby said we should leave immediately (@@!!##)
Which was all water under the bridge because:
Meantime, it was very surprising to self that the people standing around were speaking French, Spanish, and German. Son confirmed that his flight had been full of European tourists. A woman on the plane left a book behind on her seat and son, ever curious (like his mother — ha ha ha ha!) picked it up and brought it home: Virgilio’s ENEIDE.
Son was starving, so hubby cooked up a big steak. Then we watched the Olympics (gymnastics). Then self fell asleep at 2. Then self awoke at 5 with an aching tummy. Then she could not fall asleep again. So here we are!
Self perusing obituary pages of July 25 New York Times. (Perhaps one knows one is truly old when one starts reading obituaries). Here are some of the people whose obits self read with more than the usual interest:
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
August 11, 2008 at 9:23 pm (Books, Places, Pleasures of Travel, Relatives, Son, Surprises, Tel Aviv)
Tags: reading, The NYTBR
As loyal blog readers well know, self has greatly enjoyed living vicariously through son’s peregrinations across Spain, France, and Italy this summer, and today is his last day in Rome. When self woke up, she looked at her watch and thought, “He is finishing up his Vatican tour,” the one self paid for and arranged on the internet (oh, how self loves the internet!), the one that included the Sistine Chapel, the Pieta, and St. Peter’s Basilica.
Self has also been living in Tel Aviv — yes, longer than the three weeks she was actually in Tel Aviv, through phone calls and e-mails to Ying and Dear Bro. Now, that too is coming to an end. For the doctors were ecstatic at the results of Ying’s bone marrow transplant. She may soon be allowed to go home.
Then, self finds herself reflecting on the highlights of the summer (or of the year thus far). She’s having fun watching the Olympics, which is in a whole other hemisphere. She’s also been writing a lot of stories about explorers, stories that take place not only in another hemisphere, but in a whole other era. When Dearest Mum comes and leaves, there is always a day or two when self feels at a loss. The energy seems to have left with Dearest Mum, and all that self has to fill the vacuum is a foot-high stack of books by her bed. And self realized (a long, long time ago) that here, in California, her most intensely lived moments are inside her head. And the realization scared her exceedingly, for she then had the follow-up thought: This is not normal.
For in Manila, where she lived until she was 21 years old, there was no question that she was in her life. The smells, the people around her, the experiences were so vivid.
In California, self moves with a — let’s call it a certain detachment. For two decades, though she studied at Stanford and later worked there as a program administrator, she didn’t know what those huge palms were called, the ones that line University Avenue. She didn’t even know that the gumamelas that grew all over her backyard in the Philippines were here, too, though called by another name (hibiscus), and that the flower she knew as santan back home flourished here, but as lantana.
When she started to write stories, she found that the events in the stories were far more colorful than her daily life. And, and — WHERE are you going with this line of inquiry, self? Self has no idea.
You see, it all started when, about an hour ago, self realized that she was going to let her New York Times Book Review subscription lapse. It probably lapsed some months ago, but last night she was still thinking of calling, making complaints (Why was she not given notice that her subscription was about to expire? Would that not be the courteous thing to do, to a customer who had subscribed without interruption for 10 years?), and setting the account to rights. But now she thinks, no. Even though the reading lists self drew up from perusing the New York Times Book Review were the first posts that lured readers to her blog (that and the weekly updates to last year’s HBO smash, “Rome”!!)
There are simply too many things to read in this world! Things such as:
You see how much reading material there is, lying around in self’s house? This doesn’t even include the literary journals (self must have subscriptions to about 10). Self’s life is all about reading. Yesterday self read a Vanity Fair interview with Bette Midler who, when asked what “her idea of perfect happiness” was, replied: “an empty house and a good book.” How self loved that answer. For that is self. Self’s feelings exactly.
August 7, 2008 at 8:04 pm (Quotes, Son, Surprises)
Tags: shopping, Paris
Self doesn’t know why hubby is such a card. She gets back from Mendocino, and he can’t stop talking about gypsies. Oh, pretty soon son is going to be beset by a gang of gypsies. They’ll get him, for sure.
Yesterday, he switched to calling them “Roma.” But they’re still gypsies. A rose by any other name, etc etc
This morning, self finally having straightened out the monastery fiasco — now she has found son and Sean a nice two-star hotel (without airconditioning, in August heat, good luck!) and can finally begin to relax. Yes, in fact, she has just come back from picking up some fancy magenta blouses (huge as tents) that Dearest Mum sent with a friend. And self picks up a catalogue (Did self ever mention that hubby has really taken to catalogue shopping, in the past year?) that hubby showed her, a catalogue of “classical garden art with timeless appeal.”
And here is what she finds therein:
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
August 6, 2008 at 6:03 pm (Calls, Conversations, Movies, Relatives, Son)
Tags: summer movies
Self has spoken to Ying. She sounds so much herself that it is a little hard to take in when she says she is “very dizzy” and running a fever. Still, we are able to conduct a normal conversation, about books and Dearest Mum and what-not, and in the end it’s self who has to cut the call short, for fear she’s overtaxing her sister-in-law.
Then, self finds herself filled with anxiety that she has not heard back from monastery (even though website through which she made the reservation says to give them “three days”, and it’s only been one day). Oops, there she goes again, dialing poor Sean’s cell. And Sean is by himself “in a supermarket,” no son in sight, so OK, so sorry . . .
And then self gets e-mail from her brother-in-law in New York: seems some of Dearest Mum’s unpaid bills are piling up and brother-in-law doesn’t know what to do.
And then, and then . . .
But what more is there? Self simply has to screw her brain on tight and hope for the best. Perhaps self should just go and see a movie, to take her mind off things. While self was tooling around Mendocino, she heard a local commentator give a really enthusiastic review of “Mamma Mia!” If only self were still into ABBA. And Netflix just sent over “Stop-Loss,” so if self doesn’t feel like paying for downtown parking she can just stay home and watch Ryan Phillipe and Abbie Cornish play out their (at the time presumably subliminal) desires.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
August 6, 2008 at 2:23 pm (Places, Pleasures of Travel, Son)
Tags: Gardening, Rome
The plants self brought back with her from Mendocino seem to be surviving, if looking a little “peaked.” One of them even turns out to be a shade plant, oh happy happy joy joy.
The gardenia “First Love” which was starting to show some yellow leaves is now fully green again — yesterday self decided to pull all the budding yellow leaves off, for she knows herself too well: They make her nervous, and when she is nervous, she waters. And, because of watering in such a state of high anxiety, self has killed many a plant. So, this morning, 7 a.m., when self takes a peek at her front yard, the gardenia is all green. Self can relax.
In the wee hours of the morning, self had a dream about vampires. Attacking Martha’s Vineyard. During a garden party. Where all the women wore white lace.
Could this have anything to do with the fact that yesterday afternoon, self was frantically trying to find son and his friend accommodations for three nights in Rome? Self found a site where you could book convent and monastery stays. The rooms were austere but had private baths and doubles were going for 60 euros a night. Imagine her chagrin when son e-mailed back: His budget was 20 euros a night.
He also gave self a website to check out: hostelworld. So, self dutifully followed son’s instructions and began going down the list of hostels for Rome. And there she found that more than half of the listings were full (since son needs a place to stay on the 9th, only three days from now). And the only places left were places one hour from the city center, in campgrounds, where you could rent a “tent” (Only 11 euros a night). And when self told this to hubby (who fortunately was over the BWAH-HA-HA phase), he immediately conjured up the most awful spectacle of drug-smoking gypsies. (What is with hubby’s obssession with gypsies? Ever since son set foot on European soil, this is all she hears from him, day after day: the gypsies! The gypsies!)
And the other places that had space available had mean and surly staff, like the hostel next to the Termini train station where everyone said that the proprietress answered all queries with an angry snarl.
And the one with the awful shared bathrooms.
And the one where the neighborhood was “snatch-y” (yet another word to add to self’s already out-of-joint vocabulary) — this from a reviewer who had achieved status “Globetrotter” for posting over 30 reviews to the site.
And at that point, self decided to go with “monasteries.com” and found a monastery right by the Vatican, and this one was run by the Minime Suore del Sacro Cuore, and was only “500 meters Northeast of the Vatican.” The website required a deposit of 45 euro, which self gladly put on a card. And then, oh no, the message came back that the deposit did not mean the reservation was confirmed. For that, self would have to wait as long as three days, for the convents (many of them) had no internet and all the reservations had to be made by phone, and sometimes the monks were praying and did not answer the phone, but, after all, as the website explained, hosting tourists was not their primary purpose. Which self thought made sense. But now she has just awoken from a dream about vampires, she will not call her Paris friend today, and she wonders if in fact the monastery next to the Vatican exists or is just a figment of her imagination.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
August 5, 2008 at 5:10 pm (Calls, Conversations, Pleasures of Travel, Son, Surprises)
Self did not get to sleep until the wee hours of the morning for hubby, after spending a risible day saying BWAH-HA-HA-HA to self’s face every time she called him at work, arrived home and was suddenly overwhelmed by a premonition that son was being mugged. Yes, just as self and spouse were about to partake (at 9 p.m.) of dinner of cold roast pork, hubby declared emphatically that son was in all probability being set upon by a band of gypsies.
“Gypsies?” Self responded. “But they’re in France!”
“Doesn’t matter!” hubby said. “There are gypsies all over the place!” Read the rest of this entry »
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