The Post In Which I Describe My Bummer of a Dream

I'm in the madly spinning vortex of life change. Also, I appear to be a fan of hyperbole. But if you've been with me this long, you already knew that.

I'm at turns bewildered, empowered, super tired, and vaguely elated. Because it takes me longer than the average person (I think) to process this type of life adjustment, it's a challenge to blog about it. But guess what? It's March Madness, and I'm willing to give it the old college try. Though I risk turning you immediately away from this post, I am forced to begin with a line that instantly kills any interest I might have in a conversation: So...I had this dream.

Still with me?

Said dream occurred about two years ago, and it's the only one in my life from which I awoke in a fit of uncontrollable weeping. Simply put, I was in a number of scenarios in which I believed I was fully participating. There was a ride in a horse carriage, a party at which much photograph-taking occurred, dinners at restaurants, etc. A jolly good time, if you will. But eventually I realized, a la Bruce Willis in that whatever-it-was-called-movie, that I was not at all participating in these scenarios because I was...cue spooky music...dead. Then suddenly I was standing in a windy spot somewhere with my father, who was able to see the barely-there me, the bit of me still left. I gave him a hug. "I have to go," I said. And he said, "I know."

And then I woke up, as noted, weeping and attempting to recount the dream to my spousal unit (I'm sure I was fairly incoherent). I am not one to invest an inordinate amount of time deciphering dreams, but this one was a clear call-to-arms. A year later, I finally understood that my childhood, which had lasted 41 years (41 years! how lucky am I?), had come to an end.

So now here I am a grown-ass woman with grown-ass responsibilities that I'm doing my very best to meet. I won't go into details because I want to protect the privacy of others, but I will say that I think I'm doing good. I was a good kid, after all. And good kids turn into good grown-ups.

At the Dialysis Center

I have a new routine. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning I roll myself out of bed quietly at 5:45, tip-toe into the den where I get dressed in the sweats I have left warming near the heater, cross the hall into the kitchen (avoiding the squeaky spot on the floor), retrieve a tin that I have packed with a little fruit and some graham crackers the night before, grab my purse and my keys, and drive five minutes down El Camino to pick up my Dad. Then I take him to the dialysis center, hand him his tin of fruit and graham crackers, drive back home, and crawl back into bed for an hour.

At 9:30, I go back to pick him up. The majority of dialysis technicians at the center are Filipino, and they are unfailingly pleasant and efficient. They call my dad "Tatay" or just "Tay," and they tug his ponytail and say, "You're so Jeproks, Tay!" They tell him to "listen to your daughter," which cracks both of us up.

There are so many stories waiting in that center. The stoic older gentleman in the khakis and the alpine sweater, who never says anything (I helped him once open his can of Ensure, though, and he said, "Oh, thank you very much."); the thin young man from Mexico, whose ride is never on time to pick him up; the wizened guy in the woolen cap who I swear to god cruises me every time I'm there; the young woman who I hope is on the waiting list for a transplant; the man without legs, the woman with no teeth and the one in the blonde wig, the guy who goes on and on about politics even though no one is listening.

So many stories. Maybe I'll tell them one day.

Adventures in Zen Gardening

Not that I'm doing any Zen gardening, mind you. I refer simply to the fact that last week I taught some 4th graders an art lesson about Japanese Zen gardens. This required much rooting around for supplies. First on the list: shoebox tops to serve as garden containers. Where the heck, thought I, am I going to find 30 shoebox tops? I considered emailing the parents and asking them each to send their child to school with one. I thought about randomly raiding my friends' homes. I thought wistfully of all the box tops we had broken down and sent out with the recycling right after the holiday. And, finally (my brilliance takes time, you see), I thought: a shoe store!

So I headed over to a shoe store that shall not be named. At the door I was greeted by a young woman with one of those Madonna headset things (evidently, selling shoes today requires more...communication?...than it used to). "Hello," she said. "Do you need help?"

"Yes. My daughter's class is working on a project, and they need shoebox tops."

She stared at me with nary a glint of oh-I-get-it in her eyes. I explained further: "So I thought I'd come here and ask. Because this is a shoe store. Do you have any shoebox tops?"

"Oh...no," she said, not quite sure of herself. "We don't have any of those."

"Really? 'Cuz this is a 2-story shoe store, so I'm thinking you probably have some shoebox tops."

She looked around. "Well, let me ask someone..."

I left her without saying farewell. I found a manager, who told me to come back at closing time, and she'd give me everything they had. Thank you, manager lady!

Next on the supply list: river stones. Easy.

And then: moss. No problem.

Moving on: twigs, acorns, pebbles. Done!

And, finally: sand. Sand which would be placed in a nice layer at the bottom of the shoebox top, and then raked with a fork into pleasing lines and curves and whatnot. I went to the craft store. They were selling 3/4 lb. bags of sand for $3.49. I figured I needed about 10 lbs. I left the craft store and walked into...KMart. I've never been to KMart before; I will never go to KMart again. And, besides, they did not have sand.

I went to Home Depot. Smallest bag of sand: 60 pounds. They sent me on a semi-goose chase to the lumber department, where a nice man named Jamar whispered, "Have you tried Orchard Supply Hardware?"

I called Orchard Supply Hardware. "Do you have small bags of sand?" I asked. "A ten pound bag, let's say?"

"Yes, we do."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm sure."

Great! I drove to Orchard Supply Hardware, where I accosted the first salesperson I saw. "I need a ten pound bag of sand, please."

Again with the blank stare. "I don't think we have anything that small."

"I just called. The lady on the phone said you definitely have 10 pound bags of sand."

We walked over to some sort of display with various tickets depicting various bags of sand. "You just want, what, regular sand?"

"I guess. Like the kind of sand that goes in a sandbox."

He stared at the display. "Smallest bag is 50 pounds."

I sighed. "Okay. Can I buy the 50 pound bag, take what I need, and leave the rest here?"

"No. We wouldn't be able to do anything with that."

I looked dramatically around the store. "You mean there's absolutely nothing you can do with some sand in this HOME AND GARDEN store?"

His loathing was thinly disguised. "No. We would just throw it away."

"You would throw the sand away?"

"Yes. Uh-huh."

It was at this moment that I thought of the headset-wearing young woman at the 2-story shoe store. I hoped with all my heart that these two people would never meet, never fall in love, and never procreate.

So, anyways: I bought a 50 pound bag of sand. And do you know how much it cost? $4.99! I was grateful for one thing only: that I hadn't purchased 10 bags at $3.49/each at the craft store.

Here's what the kids made:

***

In other news...just yesterday I received a text from the taxi driver who took me back and forth from the airport in New York sixteen months ago. Here's what it said:

Hello Veronica! Happy New Year from crazy New York. May Almighty God Bless u and ur families with Health, Peace, Happiness and lot of money. Tarek, ur Egyptian Taxi Driver.

Happy new year, Tarek! And happy new year to all of you, too!

Oh, Hello.

Are you good at maintaining your car? Rotating your tires, making sure your windshield wiper fluid thing is filled up, and whatnot? I am horrible at this. However, I can only go so long—let's say 6 weeks—before the fire-engine red "CHECK ENGINE OIL LEVEL" light wears me down. Which is how I ended up at Jiffy Lube today with a $450 bill. But that's not the point! The point is that in the Jiffy Lube waiting room they have hot coffee, hot tea, a selection of magazines, and a blaring television.

The television was tuned to The Maury Povich Show (I assume, anyway, that that's what it was called), which I have never before had the pleasure of watching. I have been missing a lot. Today, Maury's distinguished guests agreed to take various tests—lie detector tests, paternity tests, etc.—to prove to the love of their lives that they have been true. There was much weeping and yelling and doubling over in emotional pain. There were uncomfortable and unnecessarily lengthy make-up/make-out sessions. There were several I-told-you-so moments, I-told-you moments, and I-told-you moments. It was riveting.

Next, came Family Feud! I haven't watched this since I was a child! Much has changed. The host is no longer Richard Dawson, aka the Creepy Kissing Bandit, but is instead the personable comedian Steve Harvey. The feuding families were, on one hand, members of a zany roller derby team and, on the other, a cheerful African-American family. The roller derby team was really, really...not very smart. The African-American family was hilarious. When asked the puzzling question, "How do you know when a man's pants are too tight?" one of the females on the team paused dramatically before revealing her answer. And then: "His balls is showing, Mr. Harvey. His balls is showing." And the survey revealed that that was the #1 answer.

As I said, much has changed.

Entertaining as all that was, I'd had my fill. I grabbed a copy of Men's Journal (why do I carry books in my purse when I have no hope of being able to read them, but never when I have 90 minutes available? I do not think ahead! I do not!) and read articles about 1) Daniel Craig and 2) the three NHL enforcers who have recently committed suicide (lesson: it's not good to be an NHL enforcer) and 3) the crazy, cranky, fabulously silver-haired Anthony Bourdain.

I have had several interesting situations occur in my life since I last blogged here, so I'm not entirely sure why this is the one that bubbled up from the depths, but there you have it. Also, I've been wanting to show these disgusting mushrooms to someone. Much to my horror, they popped up in my backyard and grew to almost ten inches before collapsing on themselves and disappearing. Some people have nightmares about knife-wielding masked men; I have nightmares about these mushrooms:

*shiver* Now that I've shared them with you, I don't feel so...alone. Merry Christmas!

The Final Days of November Post

Today Lea was singing along to Adele's Chasing Pavements, her voice as rich as her 9-year-old body could muster. Full of emotion, she crooned, "Should I give up/or should I just keep chasing cavemen..."

Oh, the hilarity.

Also today: my husband pulled up to our house in a cab, jumped out, opened the front door, and kissed me hello. Then he tilted his head to the side. "You look beautiful," he said. And then he ran back outside, jumped into the cab, and was gone again.

Oh, the hilarity. But also: why did he tilt his head like that?

I saw two movies over the weekend, both adapted from graphic novels. We attempted a go at The Descendants, but it was sold out, and so we ended up at...Immortals. It was filled with eye candy in the enviable shapes of Henry Cavill (yay The Tudors!) and the glorious Frieda Pinto; gasp-worthy violence (oh, the poor faux virgin oracles!); a campy Mickey Rourke; and sets that looked like they were straight out of a Hellenic-themed Vegas spa. In other words: so excellent.

On Sunday I took the girls to Hugo, a book much beloved by all three of them. So dreamy, this movie, what with the steam and the snow and the enormous clocks. And the automaton! Anyways, go see it. Make it a holiday gift to yourself.

Let's Just Start Typing

Let's see what happens.

Maybe I'll write about how I hate my printer because regardless of the fact that all ink is fully loaded, it will only print in blue.

Maybe I'll write about how I rue the day we gave the twins their phones because now all they ever do is text and download free apps. I've attempted all sorts of remedies including taking the phones for large blocks of time, normal conversation, heated conversation, yelling, and freaking out. Nothing really works. I'm hoping the novelty will wear off soon.

Lea's "noisemaker," i.e. the little machine that has played white noise in her room all night long since she was born, has up and died. The ensuing drama was not unexpected. "Oh, Mama! Oh noooooo..."

I recently found the blog Letters of Note, which contains all sorts of letters from all sorts of people. The one below is from Roald Dahl, written to a girl who was inspired by The BFG to send him one of her dreams in a bottle. Isn't this so beautiful?:

And that will have to do for now because I'm off to...somewhere...to find a new noisemaker for Lea.

Report from FilBook Fest 2011

Let us begin at the beginning: last Thursday evening at Eastwind Books of Berkeley for a FilBook Fest pre-event, "The Places We Call Home." Because birthday girl Rashaan has such a nice recap at her blog, I'll just add some of my personal highlights:

A few weeks back, Dean Alfar was kind enough to send me several copies of Philippine Speculative Fiction 5 (I'm sending a care package of books in return!), which includes my story, "The Left-Behind Girl." I never thought I'd have the opportunity to read that piece to an audience, so I'm truly grateful to Dean for the books, and to Bea & Harvey for giving us the time and space to share our work at Eastwind.

I was super excited to read with everyone, but especially with Oscar Bermeo and Sunny Vergara because it's the first time I've ever read with them. Here we all are, post-reading, quite happy to be together.

Afterwards, some of us headed over to Burger Meister to eat greasy things and solve all the problems of the world. Of course, much of the conversation revolved around the upcoming weekend's FilBook Fest, which we were all participating in in one way or another.

For my part, I had worked with Cecilia Brainard to put together readings for both days of the festival (I emceed one day, and read on the other; same for Cecilia). They were dubbed, "Hot Off the Press," and a total of 20 writers were featured, each reading and/or presenting for no more than 8 minutes. If you think wrangling 20 authors is easy, well then, Sir, you would be mistaken. Nevertheless, the effort went off nearly hitch-less, and we had a good-size audience both days. Here I am with two readers from the first day, Pacific Rims author Rafe Bartholomew (have you not read Pacific Rims yet? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? I'm serious: FIX WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU) whose pleasant expression here belies the discomfort he no doubt felt by my insisting every ten minutes that HE IS MY NEW BEST FRIEND. Also pictured is my pal Sunny Vergara, aka The Wily Filipino, who read from his sure-to-knock-everyone-on-their-ass novel-in-progress:


By the way, here is Sunny's excellent review of Pacific Rims.

I spent much of my time in Cecilia's Philippine American Literary House booth, where bookselling was brisk. The crowd wasn't as enormous as it should have been, but those in attendance were eager to chat and buy, so you'll hear no complaints here. Want to see what it looked like from my seat? I bet you do:


The first day of the festival ended with Barbara Jane Reyes and R. Zamora Linmark's reading and, as per their standard operating procedure, they killed it. How can it be that the "Tourist Tips" from Leche get funnier every time I hear them? And I thrill to the first lines of Barbara Jane's "Aswang" (from her book Diwata) no matter how many times I hear them: I am the dark-hued bitch; see how wide my maw, my bloodmoon eyes / And by daylight, see the tangles and knots of my riverine hair. Here they are after their reading. Here, too, are everyone's shoes (you know I love shoe photos):



Afterwards, we set off for Tasty Bear to drink sangria (or, you know, Diet Coke) and eat tapas. There is no proper way to capture in words the hilarity that ensued; it requires a sort of loopy silent film-type treatment, complete with slipping on banana peels, close-ups of women mouthing, "Oh, MY!" and a seance scene where auras and past lives take center stage. Here is a picture of some of my fellow diners—Barbara Jane Reyes, Zack Linmark, Oscar Bermeo, Sunny Vergara, and Kiko Benitez:


For me, day 2 of the festival began with the Hot Off the Press reading, where I was happy to present Angelica's Daughters. I was in the good company of several other women, including (l to r) Cecilia Brainard (Vigan & Other Stories), Sam Sotto (Before Ever After) Tilay Angbetic (Love & Other Firsts), Dr. Lilia Rahman (For the Sake of Louise), and Aileen Ibardaloza-Cassinetto (Traje de Boda). Angela Narciso Torres (Associate Editor, RHINO: The Poetry Forum) is in the back row with me, your Nesting Ground Mistress. Not pictured is the lovely Karen Llagas, who read so beautifully from her book of poetry, Archipelago Dust:


And now I'm suddenly remembering the woman who said to me, "You're married to an American, correct?"

"Yes," I said.

"So what's that like?"

"Um...what part?"

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

And I'm also remembering the delightful young volunteer, an MFA student somewhere in Southern California, who helped me procure my swag bag. "What's your name?" she said.

"Veronica Montes."

"Angelica's Daughters!" she said. "I'm reading it right now!" Later, she said I reminded her of Evelina, and I don't know if she meant celebrated writer Evelina Galang or not, but I'm going to pretend she did.

Finally, here is one of my favorite photos, snapped by Cecilia Brainard. I love talking to everyone, really, but maybe especially to the younger ones. Here I am with some college students who are holding, kindly note, a copy of Growing Up Filipino II:

Wow. That was long.

And Also..Hot Off the Press @ FilBook Fest!

WHAT: Hot Off the Press: 10 Readers @ 8 Minutes Each

WHERE: Koret Auditorium / Lower Level SF Main Library / 100 Larkin St.

WHEN: Saturday and Sunday from 12:00 - 1:30

Saturday's Lineup

(in order of appearance)

• Moderator: Veronica Montes
• Tony Robles - Lakas and the Manilatown Fish, Lakas and the Makibaka Hotel (will be reading poetry)
• Almia de los Santos - Journey to the Beginning - A True Story
• Peter Jamero - Vanishing Filipino Americans: The Bridge Generation
• Cecilia Brainard - Vigan & Other Stories
• Rafe Bartholomew - Pacific Rims
• Sunny Vergara - Pinoy Capital: The Filipino Nation in Daly City (will be reading fiction)
• Gloria Ramos - The Whippoorwill, Mirabella's White Boots, Mango Memories
• Romy Honorio - Open Visa: A Novel
• Bob Flor - Daniel's Mood - Mestizos, The FAYTS (Filipino American Young Turks)
• Geraldine Solon - Love Letters, Chocolicious

Sunday's Lineup:

(in order of appearance)

• Moderator: Cecilia Brainard
• Angela Narciso Torres - contributor, Hanggang sa Muli: Homecoming Stories for the Filipino Soul
• Sarita See - The Decolonized Eye: Filipino American Art and Performance
• Karen Llagas - Archipelago Dust
• Veronica Montes - co-author, Angelica's Daughters: A Dugtungan Novel
• Aileen Ibardaloza-Cassinetto - Traje de Boda
• Lilia Rahman - For the Sake of Louise
• Tilay Angbetic - Love & Other Firsts
• Emmie Velarde - Show Biz, Seriously--Entertainment as Life, Life as Entertainment
• Myles Garcia - Secrets of the Olympic Ceremonies
• Samantha Sotto - Before Ever After

Hope to see you there!

Eastwind Books, September 29th, 7:00

You know what's coming up? Events are coming up! You should totally come because I haven't seen you in FOREVER (whoever you are)! Plus, I love this line-up; it's going to be a beautiful evening.

The Places We Call Home

September 29th, 7:00 pm

Eastwind Books of Berkeley

2066 University Ave.

A literary event in celebration of the upcoming

Filipino American International Book Festival

Oscar Bermeo was born in Ecuador and raised in the Bronx. He is the author of the poetry chapbooks Anywhere Avenue, Palimpset, Heaven Below, and To the Break of Dawn.

Cecilia Manguerra Brainard is the award-winning author of eight books, including the internationally-acclaimed novel When the Rainbow Goddess Wept, Magdalena, and Vigan and Other Stories.

Rashaan Alexis Meneses earned her MFA from Saint Mary's College of California's Creative Writing Program, where she was named a 2005-2006 Jacob K. Javits Fellow and awarded the Sor Juana Ines de La Cruz Scholarship for Excellence in Fiction.

Veronica Montes is the co-author of Angelica's Daughters, as well as a short story writer whose work has appeared in Bamboo Ridge, Growing Up Filipino I & II, and Philippine Speculative Fiction 5.

Barbara Jane Reyes is a recipient of the James Laughlin Award of the Academy of American Poets and the author of Diwata, which was recently noted as a finalist for the California Book Award.

Benito M. Vergara, Jr. was born and raised in the Philippines. He is the author of Displaying Filipinos: Photography and Colonialism in the Early 20th-Century Philippines and Pinoy Capital: The Filipino Nation in Daly City.

***

The next event is the Filipino American International Book Festival itself, coming up on October 1 & 2. I'll be hanging out in Cecilia Brainard's PALH booth, as well as facilitating an event on day 2. But more on that later! I'm in the middle of much personal upheaval, as Risa and Vida are currently finishing up their first week of middle school which, I'm relieved to report, is not even remotely close to The Place of Terror and Pain and Rejection and Sadness that I was fretting about earlier in the year. Nevertheless, you can expect an angst-ridden post on this latest milestone. Until then, I remain...

Your True and Occasional Blogger

#IShouldBeWritingForReal

A newsletter came through my e-mail inbox the other day, and because the newsletter was pleasing to my eye, I read it (though I cannot remember what it was called or who sent it). It contained a single article which took as its premise the fact that expressing ourselves via Facebook status updates or 140-character Tweets has a benumbing effect on our attempts at longer, more circumspect writing.

I remember reading recently about a songwriter who became addicted (his word) to Twitter and the lure of what amounts to a sound bite. He had legions of followers, all awaiting his pithy, clever little tweets and thus fueling his desire to send out even more zingers. The only problem was that thinking and writing in microbits began to affect his work to such an extent that he could no longer write songs. I can't recall how it all ended, but I believe he went cold-turkey on the tweeting. Good for him, I say.

Some counter this argument by pointing out that it is, indeed, mundane facts (what we ate for lunch is the classic example) that help us forge connections with each other. To this I want to say, "Really?"

Anyways, The Actual Truth, as usual, probably lies somewhere between. I will admit, though, that when I was recently working on a short story, the feeling I had was one of extreme luxury. It felt like I'd been sleeping on a tiny cot for two weeks, and then suddenly someone delivered me unto a king-size featherbed. Except the feathers were letters and I was rolling all over them and laughing. I don't know if the story works, but it felt good to write it. Better, even, than offering up a droll tweet or an amusing status update.

I do have a thing for the Facebook "Like" button, though.

Camp Makes Me Sad

My older girls are about to start their second consecutive week of sleepaway camp at a working organic farm. Just typing that makes me laugh; the list of things they can do that I've never done and will likely never do, grows more lengthy by the day. I'm talking about:

• mudding a pig

• milking a cow

• grabbing chickens

• archery

• feeding goats

• real gardening

And while I'm at it:

• base stealing

• base sliding

• homerun hitting

• bunting

• pitching

• scoring the winning goal

• presenting in front of the School Board

• making & launching a rocket

• performing in a talent show

• being Student Body President

• being Student Body Environmental Leader

These things are, admittedly, not extraordinary. They are the stuff of a privileged childhood, but they blow my mind because at their age I was far too shy/too self-conscious/too willing to sit on the sidelines. Simply put, my kids are way cooler than I am.

My original point, though, is that they've been away exactly seven days, but it feels exactly like one year. I miss them; it's distracting. Parents have access to one-way email communication, of which I take extreme advantage, furiously typing stream-of-consciousness messages at one o'clock in the morning (in my defense, stream-of-consciousness is really the only way to go when the communication is one-way).

My younger daughter attended the one-week version of this camp, and when I picked her up on Friday, she was busy exchanging phone numbers with her new friends. I experienced a mild feeling of, "Oh, shit," because I'm sure that Ri & Vi will be performing the tween/teen version (the kids in their camp are ages 11 - 15) of this ritual, which is likely to include email addresses and cell phone numbers. But...they have neither. Why? Because our plan all along has been to give them these things at the end of summer, just before they start middle school. Having to inform their new friends of the deprivation that they must endure at the hands of their despotic mother will no doubt cause them embarrassment, so yay: I've managed to embarrass them without being present.

I'm sure this will continue for many years.

Keeping Myself Company

The other day, at 11:00 in the morning, I went and saw a movie all by myself. It's possibly the first time I've done any type of solo spur-of-the-moment activity in years, and it produced a giddiness not at all commensurate with the actual deed. I'm going to the movies by myself I said to no one. Oh my GOD, I'm going to the movies by myself!!

Seriously. What a dork.

Anyways, my movie of choice was Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris. I procured a small popcorn and a diet soda. I put my feet up on the chair in front of me. I stole furtive glances at the other people in the audience and made up stories of how each of them had orchestrated their lives to be present in the theatre. Then the lights went way, way down and I slunk (is that a word?) way, way down into my chair.

I was easily charmed by the time travel element in the film, while being simultaneously annoyed that Rachel McAdams' character was of one dimension: the bitch dimension. I was fascinated not only by the ethereal beauty of Marion Cotillard, but by the singular nose of Owen Wilson. I thought casting Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein was an inspired choice. I thought the whole thing was so clever and fun, even though I will forever be squeebed (is that a word?) out by Woody Allen.

Afterwards, I admit to a twinge of regret at not having someone to eat and chat with post-movie. But I went ahead and took myself to lunch, and for entertainment I eavesdropped on a couple of men, advanced in age, discussing a business idea that I did not understand and that I nevertheless felt sure would never materialize. One of the men was a conversation hog, I noted. His companion's plate was clean, while his remained full.

Maybe I will see a photograph of these two men one day, accompanied by an article that describes them as "famed venture capitalists," or "Silicon Valley kingmakers." And I will remember that they were the two men I saw that one summer when I went to see a movie all by myself.

Getting To Yes

My default answer is, "No." It doesn't matter, really, what the question might be.

"Mom, can we ride our bikes around the block?"

"No."

"Mom, it's super hot. Can we get a frozen yogurt?"

"No.

"Mom, my Van's have a hole. Can I get a new pair?"

"No."

"Mom, I'm done with my homework. Can I go online for awhile?"

"No."

"Mom, can I wear your t-shirt? You know, that one with the thing?"

"No."

No, no, no, no, no.

I don't even know why I do it. I'm not adverse to bike riding, frozen yogurt, Van's, or any of the other one thousand things I say "no" to on a daily basis.

I didn't start feeling bad about it, though, until after the twins' 5th grade graduation on Wednesday. Between them they garnered something like 10 medals for academics and community service, 12 certificates for various things, and 2 academic scholarships. Vida led the pledge, and Risa gave a speech. And then the next day, Vida gave a presentation on her school's 5th grade rocketry program in front of the school board and a full boardroom. Basically, in their 6 years at their little elementary school, they could not reasonably have accomplished more than they accomplished.

I am so proud of them.

Suddenly all of my no-ing, all of my absolutely not-ing, all of my you can't be serious-ing, made no sense. So I'm happy to report that on Thursday, I became The Mother Who Says Yes. It was yes to two hours at the Redwood City Library, yes to new shoes for everyone, yes to eclairs and cream puffs and fish 'n' chips, yes, yes, yes to all of it.

I'm sure it won't last long. They're headed to middle school, after all...

In the Mornings

This morning I returned home from dropping the girls off at school. On the dining room table, I found the following:

• 1 furry pink bunny slipper, existence inexplicable

• 1 copy, Pippi Longstocking, illustrations by Lauren Child

• 7 elastic headbands, black

• 6 ponytail elastics, black

• 1 ponytail elastic, fuschia, origin unknown

• 1 sillyband, rainbow colors, shape indeterminate

In front of the hallway closet, I found the following:

• 1 metal hanger, twisted

• 2 flip flops, silver

• 1 ballet flat, silver

On the bathroom counter, I found the following:

• 2 hairbrushes

• 1 lipgloss, Kiel's, hint of pink, top missing

• 1 lipgloss, Burt's Bee's, pale pink, top missing

• 2 drops Cetaphil face cleanser, spilled

• 1 pair earrings, cupcake-shaped

• 1 pair earrings, peace sign-shaped

• 1 pair earrings, flower-shaped

• 1 necklace, initial "V"

There are days when I return home to this and I am super annoyed. I harumph my way around the house returning things to their proper place and mumbling to myself in exasperation. But today I felt all sentimental and tender about these objects. They are the odd and ends of girlhood, the talismans of mothering, the good stuff.

At the LA Times Festival of Books

A few weekends ago, I had one of those experiences that re-energizes the writer in me. Books—the kind you can touch—are supposed to be on life support, but you'd never know it from the crowds at the LA Times Festival of Books. "It's like Disneyland for books!" said Zack Linmark, author of the new and fantastic novel Leche (this is a link to an interview about how Leche came to be. Cheeeek it out!).

I mean, look at this college student who purchased something like six books at the Philippine Expressions booth! I have no doubt she picked up many more at other spots:

Here's a shot of the booth itself. There was a strong and steady (and therefore heartening) stream of customers, many declaring their Filipino or partially Filipino heritage. People were looking for books to comfort their ailing grandfathers; books for their mothers (Cecilia's classic When the Rainbow Goddess Wept was snapped up by a man whose mother lived in the Philippines during WWII); books to shore up a curriculum or a dissertation; books for kids; and, of course, books for personal enjoyment. Cecilia, Zack, and I sat side-by-side chatting with browsers, making suggestions, and signing books.

Here are Zack and Cecilia Brainard. I basked all weekend in the glow of their literary starpower, I tell you.

Around lunchtime, Zack and I snuck off for a quick lunch, first hightailing it over to—where else?—the food area. Unfortunately, it was packed and lines of people were snaking haphazardly all over the place. Bringing all our resources to bear, and working up quite the sweat now, we headed off-campus where our eyes alighted on a bright yellow Denny's sign. "Hmmmm," Zack deliberated. "They're racist." True enough. Our search ended at last when a Burger King came into view. "YES!" we screamed.

And guess what? No lines! Except for in the ladies room. So you know what I did for the first time ever in my whole entire life? I used the men's room. It was disgusting; I will never do it again.

Finally, Whoppers and fries in hand, we sat down to wolf down our joyfully unhealthy lunches. And it was so effing fantastic because I got to hear all about the long and winding road Zack took towards the publication of Leche. And we talked about our mutual love of Daly City, and about life in Hawaii and Manila. On our way back to campus, he impressed me with his uncanny ability to recall exact lines from the classic 80s movie offerings St. Elmo's Fire and Pretty in Pink ("You break my heart," he rasped, just like Demi Moore. "But then again...you break everyone's heart."). We objectified Andrew McCarthy, after which Zack performed a spot-on impression of Andrew's character being thrown up against a school locker. He screwed his face up sideways and went all cockeyed, and I pretty much died laughing right there on the USC Campus ("Ally Sheedy is an alum," he pointed out in yet another dazzling display of pop culture knowledge). As we got closer to our end destination, we passed a booth whose awning announced "Self-Realization Books." "I'm going to write a self-realization book," proclaimed Zack. "It's going to be called I am I. Get it?" Hahahahahaha!

I would totally buy that book. And of course I bought a copy of Leche. I suggest you do the same, immediately. I started reading it on the plane home, and I felt sorry for the woman sitting next to me because I was laughing so uncontrollably that I think I scared her: she kept a tight grip on her pretty Prada bag and didn't dare fall asleep.

Our day at the LA Times Festival of Books was preceded by a very fun Authors Night, also hosted by Linda Nietes and Philippine Expressions Bookshop. You can read all about it (and see more pix!) here at the Re: Angelica's Daughters blog.