The Roomies

Along with H, our flat has always had one other occupant who quietly sat through all the cordial aperatifs, loud bingers, playstation and xbox marathons, breakups and make-ups with girlfriends past, all the ups and downs and even some middles; the one true witness of who my husband truly is when freed from the torment of company and believes himself alone, far from the madding crowd, the one who probably knows him more than friends, family, or even me.

Sadly, he never got an invitation to the wedding. It was decided he had to stay in Paris because he would be hard to care for. Honestly though, I don't think he even knows what he missed. Or that he now has to share the apartment with me too.

Lulu, le tortue. Very snappish.

Meet Lulu. There is a video feature on him and H on Youtube, and aired in some foreign cable channel. H's friends tease him about how Lulu's aquarium looks suspiciously clean in the video. Despite letting Lulu "swim in his own shit" (friend's words, not mine) until he remembers to clean the aquarium though, H really cares for Lulu. He lets him eat sausage sometimes even though it makes oily stanky turtle poo, and dreams of releasing him in some turtle's paradise sometime in the future. The very distant future, because I don't think he's ready to let go of the turtle yet :)

I floated the idea of taking Lulu with us to India, to see the world!, but I think he senses what I plan to do so he rejects all my travel arrangement suggestions. He wants to keep Lulu "in the family" by stashing the poor reptile in a pond his mother's garden.

But now the turtle is getting too big for the house. New guests are startled by the mysterious sounds coming from the kitchen, thinking we have a rat, a loose pipe, or a poltergeist - but even more fascinated when they see this big turtle. More than anything though, I would like for Lulu to have a love life before he's too old to care. I think he has the right, just like Mr. Hoppy in Esio Trot.

Today we went to the pet store to buy Lulu's food - which I revealed to him last January to be the reason for the turtle's abnormal size - they are growth pellets. Still, they are his favorite, so off we went. 

Release the Kraken!
The exotic pet store had such cute widduw reptiles! 

 It's not easy being green. But tiger stripes on a frog are badass!

Froggy spa. Mignon!

Baby turtles just waiting to be snatched up and cared for...

or thrown into the Seine by sadistic children. Maybe. Who knows.

 In Hindu mythology, the turtle Kurma carries the earth on it's back. 
In some versions this turtle is Vishnu himself. 

To the Native Americans, the world sits on the back of a turtle.

This tiny turtle is in training.

In Vietnamese legend, a sacred turtle bears on its back a carving of the story of creation.
At the ancient university of Van Mieu (picture from 2007 trip) they bear a roster of names.
In a few years Lulu could be this big. If he stays I must train him to carry me.

 This turtle is a Pokemon in training. Imagine flames coming out of that mouth!

 Some reptiles are risky to take care of.

Especially this suspicious-looking character.

But guess what attracted my husband's attention:

A list of prices for the new line of giant turtle tanks. He's never gonna give him up!

Mrs. Cookie Dumonster

Nothing much to report today, I baked cookies after school and that's it.

The hubby opened the front door just as I was pulling the cookies out of the oven. Me. Wearing a dress. Under an apron. With a tray of cookies. When did I become Lucille Ball?

Photo comes from Rachel Held Evans

If you told me last year I'd end up in a kitchen making cookies I'dve slapped yo bitch ass.

But hard as it is to admit, being a housewife can be really... fun. Even though the battle against female stereotypes has become cliche (in fact even the anti-stereotype is now cliche, just turn on the TV!) I still find it hard to openly admit I like being in the kitchen. I may not be great at cooking, but my husband can't tell because he never had Pinoy food before. Poor guy. Heh heh. 

I used to call him the "Dumonster", a playful dig on his last name. And after taking his first bite of my soft and chewy cookies he turned into the Cookie Dumonster!

Pre-oven. Taken ten minutes before H arrived.

Post-Dumonster. Some cookies disappeared before I could take a pic.

We ate more than we should've. H munched on some with coffee, me with chocolate milk, while we sat on the sofa and decided whether it was better to take a helicopter over Paris or bungee jump over a cold river. And then we finished them all off after dinner! If it helps, we only had green salad and crabsticks, and hot tea.

I am Mrs. Cookie Dumonster.

And, um, yeah, we're jumping off a bridge on Monday next. Will the elastic cord snap from our weight? Abangan.

First-Ever Post-Wedding Pre-Winter Project

At last, one IKEA table has made it out of the box!

Yesterday we worked together to make the dining table I've dreamed of for so long. Our place is very small and packed with his old stuff already so we had to find furniture that could be set aside after use. Enter frame well-known Scandanavian furniture store, purveyor of Nordic-cool dreams!

We went to the cavernous outlet just outside Paris two weeks ago. H's friend, Olivier M, told us IKEA may be the ultimate test of a marriage. If you get out without going into a fight then you're a lucky couple indeed, and if you do fight and patch up after you get out then you have a good thing going. I bet if you look up reasons for divorce, you'd see IKEA up there with cheating and hogging the remote.

Amazing

Well, I'm not going to lie to you. We bickered through the whole maze. It's amazing how individual tastes and the idea of seeing furniture that "just isn't you" in your house forever could really start some friction, and how simple suggestions about where the TV could go could escalate into frustration, tears and physical exhaustion. If they have a kid's play area, they should offer couple's counseling too. And because of all that time we spent in the upper floors psychoanalyzing each other, we had to run through the lower floors that had all the cute knicknacks so we could get to the counter before the store closed. If you like pretty stuff and you've been to IKEA, you would know how much that hurts. All I got was an apron and a wok.

But we survived the IKEA test, and it made us stronger.

And now, the second test. Assembly.

The smart, retro-chic of the store's philosophy extends to their manual, on the left. Being a global brand, they've done away with words and returned to man's first language: the pictograph. Never since Babel has man spoken so universally. Even aliens will have no problem assembling our table. Notice also the second and third panels. H had fun explaining this to me.

1 person: NO!
2 persons: Yeees (with a nodding grin)

On the floor: NO!
On the carpet: Ouiiii (with a nodding grin)

Screwed

As anyone who's ever assembled any D-I-Y project would attest, it is best to start by making an inventory and, like the old Batibot song goes, "pagsama-samahin ang pare-pareho" or "put that shit next to that shit because they look alike."

This was easy.

Then we followed the pictures.

That was fun.

But then on step 3, I put in one metal peg the wrong way, and I mean no screwdriver or jedi mind trick could ever have gotten it back. I knew H would have fun with this (and he was about to!) so I immediately pulled the peg out with the Totoro magnet from the fridge... THAT he didn't expect.

And then H had an asthma situation.

It didn't last long. We were both sick anyway, so I made him sit down and I did the hammering on the drawers.

That was really really fun.

I imagined every dickwad who ever screwed me over.

And tah-daaah! Drawers!

That look like coffins.

H finished off the table top and had a shower because we were hungry and we wanted to eat a bit of something before going to a friend's house at the 15th Arrondisement (very near the Seine and the Eiffel Tower, you could see their neighbor's windows sparkle every start of the hour).

And we were REALLY hungry. We had some bread for breakfast and then rid the closet of his old stuff (some for charity, the rest for recycling), threw out the junk that had been collecting next to the door for a decade, and assembled the table without having lunch.

Now, pre-IKEA we would have hemmed and hawed for hours about what to eat. Post-IKEA, we threw ideas around but immediately decided on chicken nuggets at the McDonald's across the street.

Did IKEA save this young couple?

We still argue a lot, sometimes I'm surprised because he seems to freak out about the most simple things and I'm the one with the tissue hanging off her nose wondering where it all went south. It all boils down to communication and understanding. As a mixed couple, we have to navigate cultural differences on top of gender and personality differences.

When the building custodian saw my husband carrying the IKEA boxes up he said: "Just got married, huh?" Like it was THE THING newlyweds just do. In a way, it is. You come from two different worlds and then you merge, and you want it to be the world you want to live in because what you see outside just makes no sense. That's all there is to it: You want to create a world with your partner that makes sense. But then you realize your husband wants different things, he has different ideas, and then you are afraid of abandoning who you were, the aesthetic that defined you, your process of doing things. It's the scariest thing in the world, losing yourself.

We saw this on the way to the 15th Arr. that night. Ironically, I saw a similar poster on a truck while we were at McDo (a fridge in the forest)... Apparently, Parisians like putting their unwanted furniture, appliances and now bathroom fixtures out on the street for anyone who's interested.

Anyway, when he saw it he said I could use the toilet in the street if I wanted to. I said I didn't feel like going yet, but I said it so innocently that he didn't catch the sarcasm... and he had to ask, if I was really serious, like really really serious that I would pee in the toilet if I felt like it.

We have a long way to go, baby.

Bored Housewife Terroir Terror

I am crossing bored housewife territory.

The changing weather and the cold drinks I insist on having have conspired to make me sick, and now I'm too weak to go outside.

Yesterday we had dinner with H's childhood friend who lives in LA and the guy's adopted uncle from Hawaii. The older guy's a very smart and practical man, he calls himself a "champagne whore" and is half of a duo dubbed "The Bubbly Twins" whose occupation is to eat and drink well (no kidding, they have a calling card). He spoke candidly about work and life choices as a guy who's been through it all. It was so refreshing to speak to other people in English again so, yeah, I talked a lot and strained my tonsils and now I miss Bactidol. H made me try his tonsil spray but nothing beats old school gargling.

Earlier today, I put the laundry in the machine. So now I'm looking at the apartment, there's chips on the carpet, my body aches. I want to go out but if I get off the couch my body will collapse into the chips. There's 2 big boxes from IKEA that want to be set free. The glasses on the kitchen sink are collecting dust...

But here's what I decided to do:

I gave my new coat a fashion spread.
Here it is on the beach in the Galapagos.

 

I love these stockings! They are replacing
the green knit stockings I got from St. Francis Square.

H has been on my case for a month about getting me a new coat. He took me to Decathlon  four weeks ago so we could get his-and-hers winter jackets because he's sick of seeing me in my ski suit. He's embarrassed for me, the sweet thing. But I kept on refusing because I think it's a waste of money. But here comes autumn and I realize not all my clothes match the green coat I bought on sale two years ago. Hello downside of being a girl!

Calling a friend, enjoying the breeze.
When you're the Invisible Girl, the wind
blows through you and it tickles. Wooosh.

So I went looking for a coat yesterday and found a nice one with a thick collar and the price was reasonable so I went ahead and paid for it. I don't have a lot of money because my paycheck's still stuck in bureaucratic muck back at my old job, so I couldn't get a longer, luxurious coat like the fancy ladies at the Marais... not that I want one. 

My brother gave me this pin from Firenze. I gave him a green fleur-de-lys from Florence three years ago.

So I wore the coat last night. We had Asian food at Lao Lanxang at Ave de Choisy. The waitress couldn't understand what I was asking for (it was Com Bo Cuong, by the way) but got it when H said "R7," the menu code. What the h. 

After dinner we said goodbye to H's friends in front of the apartment. I told Mr. Champagne Whore he could be a good life coach then he said, pointing at me and H: "Okay, if you really believe in what I say, here's what you should always remember: always give the other person the bigger piece of the porkchop."

I won't give you the whole 3 minutes. All I'm going to say is it's the smartest thing I've ever heard.

Strike While My Iron is Hot

October 12th, Tuesday, marks my first Paris strike.

Are we having fun yet? 

This picture was taken a few minutes after I stepped out of class. I saw the rally from Rue de Rennes crossing Blvd Raspail and I ran towards the music (Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit"). My classmate saw me running and asked what the matter was and I shouted back "It's my first strike!" He ran after me and we started snapping pictures. My husband called while I was recording a video and I just had to ask: "Is this a strike or a street party?"

Sorry! I'm too lazy to edit today so I picked just one clip.

Le patron a besoin de toi, tu n'as pas besoin de lui. (The boss needs you, you don't need him.)

I left the house for school 30 minutes before class. I'd forgotten about the nationwide strike until I was inside the Metro. I had to wait for 6 minutes (gasp!) for my first train, while in some stations the crowd was so thick, commuters would wait for more than ten minutes (double gasp!) to get a ride. But the people stranded in the station with me didn't seem to mind, or if they were, they did a good job of hiding it. The strikers marched inside the underground tunnels of the Metro and rode in the cabins with the rest of us sheep, chanting slogans and posting La CGT (a worker's union) stickers on travel ads but here's the strangest thing - they seemed happy. It was cheerful rebellion, very orderly, unlike the ones in the Philippines that flirt a little too much with anarchy. These people were angry at Sarkozy, but they were having fun at the same time. The Abba song playing in the background when I took this picture was proof. (Read about the strike here.)

"This concerns everyone." - allegedly from a May 1968 graffiti

The French are French because they protest. From the storming of Bastille in 1789 until now, they continue to refine the art of street demonstration. My husband said the rallies continue because their unions don't have the bargaining power enjoyed by the Germans. Which means you can invent something, but it doesn't mean you can get rich off it. Not that it's always been about money for the French. (See a timeline of French protest riots here.)

The Montparnasse Tower, which reminds me of
the monolith on "2001 Space Odyssey," looks over
the protesters traversing Rue de Rennes (street of reindeers)

Ironically, they are protesting the opposite of what workers in the Philippines would rally for - pushing the retirement age from 60 to 62. My mother, a public servant hoping to work until early next year to collect her yearend bonus, was forced to pack her stuff after going back to Manila this September because the new Aquino administration said no way to retirement extensions; which smacks of discrimination because ordinary senior citizens should be given the option to work and receive higher pensions should they want to. And while my mother fries, bigger fish are out there swimming.

"They'll all go away! Quick, the citizen's revolution"

If you look closely, there's a post-it on the banner. I think I understand what it means, but I'm not smart enough to translate it.

When I got home I talked to mommy and bro on Skype, and they had the pleasure of watching me iron clothes. (Really, I did the ironing today. This is not just some excuse to have a witty title.) I'd been meaning to do it since yesterday but I was too tired from making spring rolls, plus I did the laundry and the dishes and my assignment too. I haven't done this much manual labor since... my last attempt at cooking. (I think I burned a shirt. Please don't tell.) 

I wonder if there's a housewives' union in Paris...

Shoes Ko Day (as promised)

It's 3 am. My husband and I are are lucky enough to have a view of the skyline and by the looks of it, some people are still up and about in the City of Lights.

Yes, the deed is done, the papers have been signed, rings were exchanged, we are married and I am way behind on my blogging duties, but I must not skip ahead because before anything, I've got to tell this cinderella story.

There was a time in my life when I was most known for my colorful, striped socks. Pulling open my sock drawer was like opening a box of crayons. An officemate called me "Rainbow Brite," in Barcelona a Portuguese photographer called me "Rainbow Girl," and when I decided to grow my hair and wear florals, an acquaintance saw me on the train but couldn't decide if it was me so she looked at my feet to look for identifying marks. She wasn't disappointed.

You see, I used to be a total boy, and while now and then I would try wearing skirts and shorts, I could never let go of the socks.  I was Linus, and the socks, my security blanket. But something happened to me a few years ago, something that gave me so much confidence I hardly noticed I had stopped wearing socks every day. I had finally embraced womanhood. Oh man, it was epic. Shopping-wise.

I retired my old clothes, my credit card finally saw the inside of trendy fashion showrooms, and I started wearing ballet flats and sandals --- without socks. I felt naked at first, feeling the heat of the sun on my toes was a novelty. Friends were shocked to see my feet, not to mention my legs which were whiter than the rest of me. But there was one challenge I couldn't stand up to - HEELS.

I am a total disaster on pumps, wedges, kitten heels and of course stilettos. Every few months I would give it a go at the department store, but I couldn't manage to walk like I was sober. Not that I was very slick in sneakers either, a lot of people have witnessed me stumble on my own toes. No kidding.

Fast forward to May 2010, I had four months until the wedding and I couldn't find the right kind of blue, with the right kind of fabric, with the right kind of height. So I searched every shelf in every department store, shoe store, hardware store and drug store in Manila.

There were the too-high-pairs from Stella Luna, and a super sexy pair from Janylin that wanted to murder me the first two seconds I tried standing on my puppies. Some more brands followed, but it seemed the only shoes they make for women these days have heels 4 inches or higher.

 These were really blue, I forgot to white balance.

There was an almost perfect pair I found in a dusty, forsaken part of Landmark Makati that could have ended all my frutiless searches, if only their last size wasn’t 5. My feet are an undecided eight or nine, unfortunately. And that was the only nice shoe they had!

These were almost perfect, and cheap!!! 

Plus, the heels were only half an inch high.

I was tempted to do a wicked stepsister and cut my toes off.

These ballroom dancing shoes were about 3 inches high, 

but they had rhinestone clasps and were a bit Wicked Witch of the West-y. 

Which would be great for walking around in, just not very wedding-y... I think.

The way things were going, I was afraid I would march in the only blue footwear I had:

It's so Yagit 2.0!

It seemed hopeless until I met Project Runway Philippines designer/stylist who gave me the idea of having my shoes custom made. Luckily, I found a shoemaker in Marikina who said she could make a replica of the Loubotin shoes I like in the same color but with much shorter heels.

Look at the swatches! They can make anything! 

And sadly, the CAN make anything.

I went to their shop once for measurements and instructions about heel height and thickness, a second time for fitting and a third for pickup and to request some cleaning. It wasn't a Loubotin, for sure. There were some things about it that could have been done better but at least it fit and with a two-and-a half inch heel, I could stand in it. 

P1,500

On our wedding day we marched from his parents' house to the ceremony. One thirds of the way was rocky like above, another third was on concrete, and another third was on a traditional carpet of leaves called buis. We had lovely weather, a beautiful ceremony, and stunning pictures that relatives from back home said looked like a fairy tale. And that's how I feel about marrying H, it feels like happily ever after. The wedding party lasted 'til morning, and I was glad I didn't have to walk on glass slippers.

Still, it might have been funny to wear striped socks with the shoes, for old times' sake.