On Lily's Dinner Table: Filipino Pork Adobo

When I first moved to my current state, it seemed that I was the first and only Filipino person many of the natives had ever seen. People had heard of Filipinos. But they’d never actually seen one. Where I live now, brown skin, black hair, and slightly odd shaped eyes didn’t translate into Asian. In fact, the most common thing I ever heard was, “What exactly are you?”

By happy consequence, my social circle’s lack of Filipino knowledge worked to my advantage. I could mumble in a foreign language when telling someone how I really felt just wasn’t tactful enough. If I didn’t really feel like going into the long explanation as to what I was, I could just smile and agree with whatever assessment a stranger made on my ethnicity. But by far, the best advantage of being wheat bread in a white bread world was the fact that I could cook.

Everyone loves food. And for those adventurous who asked me to feed them, I cooked what traditional food I could with limited supplies. At the time, Asian groceries weren’t exactly plentiful being the only Filipino-American for 20-square miles. But that didn’t stop the adoring food public from asking me to make “something Filipino-ish” for potlucks and dinner parties.

The one I keep getting asked for the most is my Pork Adobo. Now, don’t get this confused with the Spanish adobo. That, my culinary friends, is a seasoning. Filipino adobo, along with some white rice, is a meal. It’s the national comfort food of the Philippines. Anyone who’s ever been even NEAR a pot of the stuff is bound to remember the smell. In fact while researching some stuff for tonight’s entry, I came across a fabulous blog entry on “The Wily Filipino” about my people’s love affair with the stuff (http://www.thewilyfilipino.com/blog/archives/000461.html).

I get a lot of “oh” and “ah” when I make this dish. I always chuckle because from preparation to finish, it takes all of 1 hour, 15 minutes. But there is no denying that it’s pretty darn tasty.

In the interest of spreading the joy of Filipino food throughout the world, here’s my own personal recipe for Pork Adobo. You will note there are no measurements, so excuse my haphazard writing. In the grand art of traditional Filipino cooking, my Grandmothers never used a measuring utensil when they taught me. We do it all by taste. And, this would be the first time that I’ve ever committed this recipe to media. Most of them are just in my head.

So, here it is…a simple meal recipe that hopefully will have you saying masarap.

Lily’s Pork Adobo

Ingredients:
Boneless Country Style Pork Shoulder (Amount dependent on how many you wish to feed)
Low Sodium Soy Sauce
Distilled White Vinegar
Water
Cloves of garlic (Amount dependent on garlic preference)
Black Pepper (whole or powder)
Bay leaves (optional)
Onions (optional)

1. Cut pork shoulder into smaller pieces, no less than 2-inch cubes. Place cut pieces into the pot you are going to cook them in.
2. Pour into the pot equal parts of soy sauce, water, and vinegar. You can adjust the amounts for flavor. Make sure there is enough liquid to cover the pork. The brine should be a dark brown color.
3. Crush cloves of garlic and add to the mixture. Add black pepper to taste. Add bay leaves.
4. Stir the contents so that the brine is evenly distributed. Cook on the stove on medium high to high heat for 45-minutes to an hour, or until the pork is tender. Stir occasionally, keeping an eye on the level of the liquid in the pot (add more water, vinegar, or soy as needed). DON’T LET ALL THE BRINE BOIL AWAY!
5. Just as you are nearing the end of cooking time, add sliced onions to the pot and let it simmer for the rest of the time. Serve warm with white rice.

Notes: You should have a little of the brine left after the cooking time. This recipe also works with chicken (thighs, wings, and legs are best). Just adjust the cooking time. If you want to use pork, but don’t like all the fat, take the time to trim any excess fat off the pork shoulder pieces. However, make sure you leave a little on there to enhance the flavor of the brine.

Even a Broken Clock...

It was a weekend of “almost.” When my Mom had come to pick me up at Lindbergh Field on Friday morning, we were ALMOST to the cemetery to visit my Grandmother’s plot, before she asked me. In Newport Beach, I ALMOST made it an hour before realizing an answer to the same question in my head. And on Sunday, I ALMOST made it out of my sister’s Baby Shower without having to think about it again. But you know what they say…ALMOST isn’t good enough. And what exactly was chasing me all weekend?

“So, now that you’re 30, are you thinking about having children?”

I have been known to be a very competitive person. While not the athletic type, my competitive nature was bred through years of debate training and being the oldest of five siblings. For a very long time, the need to be better, smarter, and quicker was the ultimate goal. My family has no idea where it came from, it’s just always been there. Sure, it’s been toned down as I’ve grown older. I’ve learned the nature of the Win/Lose Beast. But I feel that I’m still a gamer when it comes to competing. If you’re going to compete, you might as well give it your all.

This winner mentality extends to all parts of my life except one. Talk about the “Rat Race” and I’m the first one to sign up. But if we’re talking the “Baby Race,” I’ve been more than content to idle at the start line waiting for the others to lap me.

At this present time, I don’t feel the biological clock clanging away in my head. I have a very comfortable life. I’m to the point where I feel like I have everything I could possibly want: A husband, a home, a career, and my freedom. I know I’m in the minority. Women in my age group are starting to see the future and are gunning for the things they feel like they are missing in their lives. And a big part of that is having babies.

But now, more than ever, I am confronted with the idea of having kids. Whenever asked, I refuse to say that I’m NEVER having children. Things happen. If Lenny and I are blessed with a bundle of joy, then so be it. That is what fate has determined for us. I never want to turn to my kids and say, “I had some big plans before you came along.” Ergo, if I should get pregnant, I want to approach it with a flexible and loving attitude.

At the same time, I’m soooooo not actively trying. I made an error in judgment back in July. I got off the pill after being on it for 7-plus years. Originally, I’d gotten on it simply because I had irregularities. Birth control was secondary (albeit important). Whenever I was confronted with the question of parenthood, I’d tell everyone “When I’m thirty, I’ll think about it.” I somehow had convinced myself that at age 30, I would magically be ready to be a parent. With this in mind (being a stubborn person who likes to keep her word), I stopped taking the pill during the summer. Then two things happened.

1) I missed my period in October.
2) I learned that I suck at lying to myself.

I won’t go into detail – the whole thing was overwhelming at the time. But suffice to say, there was a lot of stress, more than a few tears, and a strong reaffirmation that Lenny and I were on the same track. It turns out I wasn’t with child. However, it was a very sobering experience. It brought up so many questions in my own head.

What if I want to be known as the “Cool Aunt?”

I’m okay with not having kids now. But what if my Mom is right and I regret it when I get older?

What do I have to lose?

What do I have to gain?
How old is too old to have a baby?

And those are only MY concerns. Never far from my consciousness is the fact that I’m not the sole decision maker in this marriage. I have to take Lenny’s feelings into this equation. I know he is okay with whatever happens to us, but I worry about the consequences of a decision either way. Lenny is the only son of his father. His other male cousin and his wife have decided definitively they will have no kids. Do I want to be partly responsible for ending the line?

The external pressure is pretty tough. I come from a big family. Siblings and other relatives alike have literally told me, “You first...then we’ll decide if we’re ready.” Thank goodness my middle sister is on her second child! I think my Mom would have had my head by now!

On the flipside of things, it’s easy for people to tell me “You don’t have to have kids if you don’t want to.” But the answers are never really that simple. There are so many factors, so many things to consider. If you could take a peek into my brain, you’d be surprised at the messy corner I keep these thoughts in.

All around me, women in my age group and position are getting pregnant. The whispers of “You’re next,” are loud and clear. I so desperately want what’s right for me and my present (and future) family. But is it wrong for me to want it on my terms? Am I in some serious danger of being considered selfish for the wrong reasons?

So my admittedly defective Biological Clock keeps ticking. I guess I’ll keep cruising until I have a moment of clarity or something. I’m not so sure how this one will turn out. In fact, I don’t have the slightest clue! And it just drives me nuts.

Guest Blogger: Stage Five Clingers Need Not Apply by Elusive Orchid

I received a call from Ms. Lily tonight, her flight comes in pretty late. Due to this and the fact that she doesn't want to crank out a post not worthy of her MGF readers, she asked me to post a guest blogger for tonight. This is Elusive Orchid's take on modern dating. Hope it lends some insight to those readers who are in the same position. Enjoy ~ASilky

All right girls, we’ve all heard of a guy’s typical dream woman. Good looking, nice body, great personality etc etc oh yeah and don’t forget, only wants to have fun, no relationships or strings involved…right? Well I’m here to bust that myth wide open.

As you know if you’ve read my previous guest entries, I am in the beginning of my early thirties. Let me tell you, guys in my age group are not looking for that typical dream woman described above. Simply put they want (The dreaded word) more.

So I once again find myself having broken up with another guy, “boyfriend”, buddy, whatever you want to call it. You know I figured being single again, that if I was upfront and honest everything would be copacetic. However that wasn’t to be the case. I set out in this new “single” world armed with the belief that honesty is the best policy when hanging with a new “potential.”

So I approached the dating scene confidently and told these men what I wanted. It’s quite simple: I want to have fun, no strings attached. I want someone who will respect my independence and not bitch at me when I want to hang with my friends or I just don’t happen to want to see him at the moment. Is that too much to ask?

Now mind you when I told these men my “terms” (three of them so far) they all said they were fine with it and they weren’t looking for any kind of relationship either. I thought to myself cool….this isn’t so difficult. Boy was I ever wrong.

Now, two of the three weren’t that bad, but still too clingy for my taste. They would both tell me I was never around to see them and they were constantly asking when we were going to get together again. They just couldn’t accept the fact that they weren’t my first priority…so much for those two.

The third one, well he was and is a different story all together, let’s call him Andy. Andy and I “dated” for at most three months. He was laid back and relaxed at first. But, I found him getting progressively clingier as the weeks went by. He turned out to be a total stage five clinger.

I constantly asked him not to push me with regards to the relationship crap, as I like call it. He ignored my requests time and time again. I was on my death bed (joking, though I was pretty damned sick) when I’d finally had enough…I was lying down when he popped up in my IM window.

The conversation went like this (these are the actual posts…gotta love archive features):

Andy: Hey there, beautiful

Me: Hi

Andy: How are you feeling?

Me: Better, not 100% yet.

Andy: Glad to hear you're better. I was worried, go figure. Tried to give you an "Andy Free" day yesterday, don't know if that was a good thing, or a bad thing.

Me: It was a good thing.

Andy: Finally tired of me? *laughing*

Me: *sighs* Tired of feeling like I am being pushed to give you more. (There’s the word)

Andy: I am sorry you feel that way. It is not my intent. Apparently I don't know when to say when...

Me: Well it's not like I didn't tell you I felt like you were pushing, I have been honest with you and I feel like it isn't something you want to or will accept.

Andy: I agree you have always been honest, I can't help that I really enjoy your company, and I believe that you enjoy mine as well.

Me: Enjoying your company isn't the issue here...the issue is that you push for more. (See, that dreaded word again)

Andy: Which I know will never happen.

Me: Then why do it?

Andy: Probably because I am lonely, and for the first time in a long time, I have found someone who is truly fun to be with, and makes me feel good about myself. I know there is no long term future for us, other than as friends, but sometimes you just hope, even though you know your hope will be unfulfilled…

So *rolling my eyes* this conversation goes on this way for about another hour. The whole while I am telling him I don’t think this is a good thing anymore as he keeps pushing for closer ties. If I could have physically knocked him out of my IM window I would have. But being the nice woman I am, I repeatedly told him I didn’t think we should continue and I actually (naively) thought he finally understood by the time I signed off.

Need I say that was soooo not the end of it? I found out a few days later that he actually had the balls to email one of my best friends (whom he’d never met in person) to thank her for taking his side. We had once been arguing about the same type of thing and she knew all about it. I pushed aside my instincts and stupidly took the advice she freely doled out, giving Andy another chance.

The actual thank you section of the email wasn’t the issue. The problem was that he asked her not to tell me about it!!!!! The nerve, I swear. But that isn’t the worst part. I confronted him and he admitted that he knew full well she was going to tell me. That was exactly why he sent the email.

A portion of that conversation is next (again from IM).

Andy: No matter what I say, it won't matter. I was and am shocked and hurt by what happened. Do you honestly believe that I thought she wouldn't tell you?

Me: Then why even ask her not to? What do you think this is...a fucking game? (can you tell I am completely fed up at this point?)

Andy: I don't play games, my hope, to be honest was that she would tell you, and hopefully after some thought, you might reconsider opening the lines of communication with me.

Me: Reread what you just said…how the fuck is that not a game? I discussed this with her...she sees my point. Bottom line...DON'T ever go through my friends to get to me.

Andy: I wanted you back...fuck!!!

Me: Well that was definitely not the way to go about it. Don't expect to talk to me anymore. Game over...checkmate.

Okay, given this scenario most people would think to leave well enough alone...right? Unfortunately this wasn’t and isn’t the case even now. He actually came by my house (which is an hour’s drive by the way) and dropped off presents while I was on vacation (which he knew about). He texted me at exactly 12:00am on New Year’s Eve, while I was out with friends. Then proceeded to call me about a week or two later (No, I didn't answer the phone)...leaving a long, detailed voicemail, sounding like he was about to cry. I now find myself wondering what in the hell he’s going to do next.

Seriously I’m at my wit’s end, I’m tempted to have my lawyer write to him, telling him to leave me alone. I don’t really know what else to do…should I have to change my cell phone number or get a guard dog in case he decides to “stop” by again? Needless to say I have been quite wary of “dating” anyone lately. I’m not so sure it’s worth the trouble.

Apparently being up front and honest doesn’t work. I may have to rethink my approach…nah…I am who I am. I shouldn’t have to change for anyone. If a man can’t accept me for me then he’s not worth it. So…I may be single for the rest of my life…I can definitely live with that. If it means I can look in the mirror everyday and smile, knowing I am being true to myself, then life is great. I suppose though that I will eventually suck it up and start testing the waters again, but this time I’ll definitely be more careful. Stage five clingers need not apply.

*Dipping in a singular toe...very gingerly*

Guest Blogger: Kind of Like Eating Fish Eggs by BrownSuga

So as you all know Lily is on a mini-vacation, but never fear MGF's, ever aware of her readers, she has arranged for me to post a guest blogger in her place. For your reading perusal, here is BrownSuga's take on adventure. Enjoy ~ASilky

I am a new fan of sushi. Yes, there are many people who think “sushi: raw fish? YUCK” but I’m here to tell you there is so much more to sushi than we stupid (I say that with lots of affection) Americans think.

A few weeks ago I went to a sushi bar with my best friend. Our plan was simple, to try something new. So after sitting down and perusing the menu we decided we knew NOTHING about sushi and should really get some help. So we flagged our waitress and asked her opinion. We explained that this would be our second time trying sushi (our first was on my birthday last month) but we needed some suggestions on what to try as novices. She was very nice and extremely helpful, she explained that there was “American” sushi and “Japanese” sushi (basically that means we stupid, again said with affection, Americans took something that wasn’t ours and made it ours).

There are ‘sushi rolls’ or Norimaki which are more common outside of Japan than in Japan. Then there are Nigiri, small balls of rice with fish placed on top. I really enjoyed those. Some of the other options are Sake (salmon), Toro (tuna), Ebi (shrimp) and Ikura (salmon eggs). Now when I try something new, I really want to try something new. So my suggestion was to try Ikura. And I was so close to convincing my best friend to try it also, but she said not this time.

Now, you may be wondering why I didn’t just try it myself. If I’m so adventurous I should be able to do these things on my own. Had I gone out alone, I would have, but I brought my friend along because I specifically wanted to try this new thing with her. And because she said no to trying the fish eggs, I didn’t try them either. We did promise each other that we would try it together one day.

So that is where my new phrase comes from, ‘kind of like eating fish eggs’. It refers to trying something new specifically with a companion. And it doesn’t just refer to food; it refers to extreme sports, traveling even sexual activities.

So far I’ve gone sky diving (twice), snorkeling, street racing, bungee jumping and let my hair blow through the wind as I rode the coast on a motorcycle. There are so many more things I’d like to try and learn. I want to see Greece, Italy, Fiji, Australia, Ireland, Africa,
South America, the list goes on and on. The things I’ve done, the places I’ve seen, most of them I’ve done with a friend, family member or lover. Sharing these experiences made great memories, excellent stories and bonds that can never be severed.

Since I was a little girl, my mom raised me to be independent. At the age of 6 she sent me away to camp for a whole summer. Her friends and family thought she was crazy for sending such a little girl away from home for so long. I LOVED that summer. To this day I remember things I did, things I learned and places I saw. Little things like that helped shape me into the independent woman I am today. Because of this, I have no problems doing things alone. In fact sometimes I prefer to be alone when doing some things. I’m the first person to take myself out to dinner at a nice restaurant. I go to the movies alone, I’ve traveled across the U.S. alone, I love my own company (I’m incredibly funny). My gregarious personality (and gorgeous looks *winks*) makes it easy for me to meet new people. And that is one of the best things about going out by yourself; you never know who you will meet.

After talking to a friend (who is basically me a few years older and a couple of inches shorter *smiles*) we agreed the second best reason to do things alone, especially traveling, is you don’t have to deal with anyone else’s schedule. If you want to sleep in late and change your itinerary then it’s ok. If you want to wake up at 4am just to see the sunrise then you don’t have to drag anyone else out of bed. If you want to try a new restaurant you don’t have to think about another person’s allergies.

The freedom to do things by yourself is wonderful. But there are some things that are better with a friend. Someone you can joke with, act stupid with, depend on, discover new things with. It’s kind of like eating fish eggs, just a little bit more fun when you do it with someone.
So before you try something new, think ‘is this kind of like eating fish eggs’ or will I have more fun by myself? I think the sanest people in the world are those who can balance the two, they aren’t too needy, clingy or dependent AND they work well with others.

So go ahead and try the “fish eggs” you just might love them.

So Tell Me What You Really Think

Greetings and salutations, MGF Readers! I'm starting my weekend early and hope you have a good one! But no fears, Elusive Orchid and BrownSuga are running the show tomorrow. - Lily

To pass the time while waiting for my flight to board this morning, I purchased a copy of one of my favorite fashion rags, Glamour. Flanked on the left by the OPI nail polish advertisement and on the right by Oil of Olay, this month’s article contributors were highlighted. Normally, the people who are contributors are usually interesting. And Glamour does a really good job making this section different. They ask their contributors to tell the readers “3 Things Women Need to Know.” My eyes fell on the page and landed on the lone male in the layout. Photographer Patric Shaw put in his three cents:

1. “Independence is the sexiest quality woman can have.”
2. “Most men secretly believe women are all-around better than us.”
3. “We love you anyway.”

I reread the information twice and sat back. Here was a man who photographs and works with beautiful women for a living. So, compared to the average guy…he’d know right? But I kept mulling over it. Maybe all guys really did know these three things. The more I thought about conversations I’ve had with Lenny, Ian, Sam and my other guy friends, the more I became convinced of this thought.

In each subsequent generation of women, since the days of the Sexual Revolution, the march towards balance has become the goal. Females want it all: career, family, autonomy and love. We teach girls to be independent and to believe in themselves. But lost in all the “Girl Power” hoopla are the thoughts of the opposite sex.

“I want a woman with a sense of humor.”

“She has to have something between the ears, you know? Otherwise it’s going to be short conversation.”

“No, looks aren’t everything. But a woman being confident in their own skin is a turn on.”

“I love a woman who knows what she wants.”

These are the things men tell me when I ask them what they seek in a woman. But more often than not, I always feel like they’re giving these answers under duress. Why is that?

I think it’s because most media out there today doesn’t provide enough about the male point of view. Look in the magazine rack at the store next time you’re there. Even on the male-oriented magazines, covers scream about how to satisfy women, buy gifts to keep guys out of the doghouse, and how to catch a woman’s attention.

Since MGF Blog is dedicated to making the imbalanced balanced, I pose this challenge to our male readership. We want to hear from you guys! Comment or write an e-mail and let us know what you really think about the gender that many of you adore and cherish. And don’t just tell us the good stuff…we want to hear the bad stuff too!

MGF Gals, don’t think you can’t help this project! Many of you have written to me saying you pass on some of the posts to guys. Don’t stop now!

We want answers fellas! Send your thoughts to moderngirlfriday@yahoo.com. The Modern Girl Friday Staff and readers are eagerly waiting to see your responses.

So, now’s your chance guys. Tell us what you really think!

Hometown Homer

“I got the tunes in my pocketin an old ass walkman
walking to the beach with a bottle of black and tan
keys in the Velcro where it always should be
times tickin' by but it doesn't concern me

I'm killin' time with nothin' to do
that's all I seem to think about or do
my soul is soundwhen I'm in my hometown
no place I'd rather be

My town, my street
gives me piece of mind
that can't be beat…”
- Buck-o-Nine “My Town”

I really enjoy going back to my hometown. The familiar comes rushing back to me whenever I get there and I can’t help but smile when I think about it. For me, distance does make the heart grow fonder. Even though I moved away, I always love the fact that I’m just a hop, skip, and a jump from where I came from. I can get there within a day by car or plane…a mere fraction of a day to get where I am comfortable.

My friends tell me I can be the biggest sap when it comes to my hometown. But I just can’t help it. I know where to get the best Filipino food (Conching’s Café), the best beach to walk around (Mission Beach and the Boardwalk), where to see the best sunset (Pt. Loma’s Sunset Cliffs), and where to shop if I want to act like the rich (downtown’s Horton Plaza).

I’m in love with my hometown of San Diego, California. For me growing up, it was truly America’s Finest City. The weather always seemed perfect whether it was raining or sunny. The people have always been friendly. And of course, the biggest allure for going home, it’s where my family is.

When I go home, I’m kind of OCD about what I do. My first (and usually last stop) when I get to town is my grandparent’s house. I spent the first six years of my life at this house and I enjoy the fact that not a lot of it has changed. Though the pea green carpet has been replaced with white tile, it still amazes me that our old oak bunk bed is still in one of the guest rooms. The simple garden that my Grandfather tends is still filled with the trinkets and toys he built to amuse me and my brother when we were growing up. My Grandmother always insists that I eat merienda (a small snack) when I get there. It would be suicide to refuse.

At my parent’s house, my youngest sister dutifully gives up her bed so that I can sleep in my old room. This was the room that my maternal Grandmother and I shared until I was about fourteen. We were crowded in a three bedroom house with eight people, so sharing a room was the only option. This is the room where I spent hours and pages journaling on my bed next to the window while my Grandmother silently prayed in the bed next to me. Even though she passed away in this room, I always find comfort in it. Stupid as it may sound, I know she’s still in there sharing the room with me.

I go home in spurts of 3-5 days. Family is always my priority, but I do make time to run around the city. I always make it a point to take my youngest siblings out for lunch or a movie. As an adult, I earn enough to indulge them like my parents tried to do for us. This usually involves a fieldtrip to a local attraction, like Seaport Village. And since we very rarely get to spend time together, my siblings are more than happy to tagalong wherever I want to drag them.

Tomorrow morning, I’m getting on a plane and winging it back to my hometown for a little rest and relaxation. And I’m very excited. I can’t wait descend from the clouds into the hustle and bustle of downtown San Diego. When I clear the jet way, a transformation will start to occur. I’ll pick up my pace a little faster and dodge my way around the terminal foot traffic. My goal is to hit the pavement of Terminal One at Lindbergh Field as quickly as possible. There, my Mom will be waiting to pick me up and I can start to sink back into the well worn comfort that is my hometown.

There are a lot of clichés about home. Home is where the heart is. Home sweet home. Home is where you hang your hat. North, East, South, or West…home is still best. We hear them all the time and we say them with ease. But isn’t it funny how they’re all true?

Think about your hometown and tell me I’m wrong.

On Lily's Destination List: Boston, MA

One of the oldest cities in the United States, Boston is a vibrant mix of historical and modern. Walking around the city, you tend to forget you’re in a 21st century town with all the historical sights within spitting distance of the Starbucks that line the streets.

First incorporated as a town in 1630 and a city in 1822, Boston sits on the east coast and is home to nearly 590,000 residents. Not bad for a city in a state the size of a postage stamp. Known mostly for its baseball team and wicked cool local accents (“Let’s have some chowdah.”), what people don’t know about Boston is that it is a center for good eats, good sights, and good shopping.

Being one of Modern Girl Friday’s favorite places to travel, Orchid, BrownSuga, and myself thought it’d be a great idea to give a few tourist tips to wet your appetite for a trip to the northeast. Whether you travel during the winter (as I am apt to do), the spring (as BrownSuga will be), or the summer (as is Orchid’s favorite time) Boston provides a variety of fun activities, educational discovery, and culinary experiences.

So, if you’ve never been to Boston, here’s a little starter information from the girls at MGF.

Where to stay: When looking for someplace to stay, finding a hotel near a T-stop (the T is Boston’s efficient subway system) is vital. The last thing you want to do is drive. On a meager budget? Boston has a number of hostels that you can stay at for minimal prices (http://www.bostonhostel.org/). Lily has always favored Cambridge for its collegiate atmosphere. The Commander (http://www.sheratoncommander.com/) is located in the heart of Harvard Square and is within walking distance of the famous Harvard Yard. Want to really go upscale? Try XV Beacon in the Beacon Hill neighborhood (www.xvbeacon.com). This posh boutique hotel will make you believe that you’re part of Boston’s high society.

Where to eat: There is no shortage of places to eat when you’re in Boston. Being a port town, many cultures converge on the restaurant scene. And being surrounded by water (the Charles River also cuts through the city), seafood is in abundance. Want a large variety of choices without breaking your bank? Check out Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall (http://www.faneuilhallmarketplace.com). The shopping complex located in downtown Boston has an entire hall dedicated to eating. There you can get anything from pizzas, to gyros, to Boston’s famous chowder. The vendors there are super nice and the food can’t be beat.

Want to get ethnic? The Café Polonia (http://www.cafepolonia.com/) was an excellent find for Polish food. Located down the street from Southie’s Andrew T-stop, the little café serves authentic Polish meals at reasonable prices. Try the Polish plate for a little of everything.

Want to release the seafood lover in you? Then The Union Oyster House (http://www.unionoysterhouse.com) is the place for you. The oldest restaurant on record in the United States (open in 1826); the Oyster House still serves quality seafood to this day. Our resident seafood maven, BrownSuga recommends the scallops, clams, flounder, or lobster when you order. Enjoy the atmosphere and maybe a beer or two!

Where to Shop: The first place for a shopaholic in Boston is Filene’s Basement (http://www.filenesbasement.com/master.html). The last stop for merchandise from the vaunted Filene’s Department Store, there are bargains to be had everyday of the week. With discounts on designer clothes and shoes up to 60% off, Filene’s Basement is definitely a must see.

If you’re a hipster and into “the scene,” go to Cambridge and visit The Garage. The small, weatherproof shopping center is a hodge-podge of record stores, clothing boutiques, and even a tattoo parlor. But don’t take my word for it; check out what some of the locals say (http://www.yelp.com/biz/5lxquLg9C0l_jFsqbpFXRg).

Finally, if you’re part of the retro revolution, go to Buckaroo’s Mercantile. This blast from the past has everything from Elvis kitsch to poodle skirts. And the best part? They’re all decent prices. That should warm up the collector in any of us. How good is this place? It’s worthy enough for a mention on the venerable Travel Channel website (http://travel.discovery.com/destinations/fodors/boston/shopping_20367_1.html).

In between the shopping, the eating, and the hotel lounging, don’t forget to check out the historical sights. It’s not that hard to do, they’re everywhere. Walk the Freedom Trail, see Paul Revere’s grave, check out the USS Constitution and maybe make a re-enactment of the Boston Tea Party (note: We are not responsible if you get arrested…we’re all adults here!).

Boston…its wicked cool.

Today I Am Jewish

In memory of an in-law Uncle passed away. I found out today that yes, your were as quirky as I thought you were…but a funnier and deeper man than I ever realized. Rest in peace, kind sir. And try not to give God the Queen...he hates when that happens.

I consider myself and my family a pretty progressive Catholic family. Especially for a culture that embraces Catholicism as tightly as it does. In the Philippines, there is no separation of Church and State. Our religion is pretty much a part of our culture. However, we have an openly gay relative who’s been living with his life partner for over thirty years. This may be no big shakes now, but back in the seventies and eighties, our family was taking some big risks here in the U.S.

As accepting as my family is about other religions and beliefs, one of the first questions I ever asked Lenny was what faith did he practice? It probably wouldn’t have made a difference what he was, in my mind, it would have just made everything easier. Yes, he was Roman Catholic (whew!). But how it came to be was the interesting part.

Lenny’s parents met on the East Coast when they were young. My mother-in-law was the second of three kids from Scranton, PA. Blue collar, Catholic stock. My father-in-law is the third of four kids from Albany, NY. An accounting family, tightly knit by the Jewish faith. You can imagine the waves that caused. It was rough, but the Whites made it work. They had Lenny and his sister after moving from the east coast to the southwest. When Lenny was younger, his father made the decision to convert from Judaism to Catholicism. Lenny once said, “Dad just felt more accepted by our Church.”

Of course, now the Whites were split into “the Catholic side” and “the Jewish side.” Many life lessons were learned and struggles were had. But I suspect that would have been the same regardless of the religion. When I came into the picture, the line between the two sides wasn’t so deep anymore. Happily, I think, everyone had finally overcome the issues of the dual faiths. In fact, we’d make jokes about it.

A few years ago, I went to my first Bris (Right of Circumcision) for the youngest son of one of Lenny’s cousins. I’m always eager for a cultural experience, but imagine my surprise when I found Lenny and I front and center witnesses to the action. I always tell Lenny’s cousin, “I always wondered how the heck the Catholics got the front row!” But no matter however accepting everyone was, I always felt that the line was still there.

A line that I still felt existed until we laid Uncle Myron to rest today.

We had gotten the call on Thursday that Uncle Myron, who had been ailing since December, was being taken off of life support. The funeral was scheduled for the following Monday. Lenny and I drove the two hours down to his hometown. Uncle Myron was the husband of my father-in-law’s oldest sister. Having been with Lenny for quite a few years now, I’d gotten used to taking a backseat view whenever we went to a Jewish religious ceremony. This wasn’t my show…I was there as an observer.

However, today was different. We were asked to arrive an hour before the ceremony. After greeting family members and extending our condolences to Lenny’s Aunt, all of the family was ushered into the Temple Chapel. I have experienced Catholic funeral rights before, but never a Jewish one. So I pretty much decided that I would just follow everyone else. Once in the chapel, I looked around at the various family members. They seemed to be taking the grief in stride.

The young Rabbi in charge of the ceremony then began. He explained that we were performing the right of K’riah, or the rendering of the garments. In the ancient times, the mourners showed their grief by tearing their garments. In today’s faith, this is symbolized by a black ribbon, which is torn and then pinned to the mourner. Ribbons were passed out to Uncle Myron’s wife and children as the Rabbi said a prayer in Hebrew. I held onto Lenny’s hand as the prayer was said, trying to decipher anything from it. While I didn’t get anything literal, this feeling came over me. Like I was part of something bigger than faith. At some point during the prayer, I was no longer her to observe the funeral; I was there to celebrate a man’s life.

The Rabbi then turned to the remaining family and invited anyone who wished to wear a ribbon to take one and perform K’riah. I let go of Lenny’s hand, but stopped myself from moving forward. Lenny’s father had taken a ribbon, but Lenny and his sister had not made a move to do so. I felt a bit pigeon-holed by it, but I regrettably let the moment pass. After the distribution, we walked into the main area of the Temple and the funeral began.

Honestly, there wasn’t anything much different about a Jewish funeral than a Catholic funeral. The basic premise was there. A casket, covered by a blue cloth embroidered with a Hebrew scripture was the omnipresent reminder of loss and life. People came up to eulogize Uncle Myron. The cantor sang beautifully in a language that is older than some civilizations. I didn’t understand a single word she said, but I felt what she meant. And I was moved.

We got to the burial site after a long and winding car procession through the streets. When we got to the cemetery, Lenny and I stood near the family under the canopy. While waiting for the Rabbi to begin, Lenny whispered, “Lisa and Joe (his sister and brother-in-law) are hanging in the back of the crowd.” I didn’t know if that meant Lenny wanted to move back, but I wasn’t budging. After the whole ribbon thing, I felt like I owed his family the respect of being close by.

The prayers were short, but heartfelt. The one thing I did recognize was the recitation of Psalm 23 (“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”). After that, came the K’vurah. K’vurah is the tradition of placing a shovelful/handful of dirt on the lowered casket as a sign of respect. The family once again lined up. Without a cue forthcoming, I stood where I was next to my husband. It wasn’t until Lenny’s Uncle David came up and said, “You know, you can go up there too. You’re family as well.”

That’s all I needed to hear. I took two steps forward and Lenny followed. I was compelled to participate knowing that we were family. The lines between Catholic and Jewish were erased. Even if it was for one moment, the line was gone. As I turned over a small amount of soil, I silently said goodbye to Uncle Myron and thanked him for the experience.

I did not understand 75% of what was said. But I felt and understood it that way. I was moved by emotion. I think anyone who was there probably would have felt the same way. It didn’t matter if you didn’t believe. It didn’t matter that you called your deity God, Adoni, Buddha, Allah, or what not. Today, death was a unifier. It brought together a family to celebrate a life that was heartily lived.

I wasn’t a Catholic for that moment in time. Today, I was Jewish.

Guest Blogger: Check One (Optional) by Elusive Orchid

I know, I know...GUEST BLOGGER ON A SUNDAY?!?!?! Hey, it was a busy week! I had parties to attend! Besides, variety is the spice of life, no? Well, MGF Readers, I hope you all had a fabulous weekend! I'm going to kick back and relax today...so take it away, Orchid! - Lily

The other day I was filling out yet more paperwork for some certification bullshit I need. One of the statements on that form was “Check one box (and only one) that best describes your ethnicity (optional).” All I could think was “christ…yet another one of these damned things!” It took all my willpower not to check them all…seriously what a joke.

In this day and age where very few people can claim to be “pure blood” should ethnicity really matter? Shouldn’t people be judged on their abilities, their credentials and not their heritage?

I have a unique perspective on this whole “ethnicity” thing. See I’m Asian by birth. But I was adopted and raised in the United States since the age of three. My parents are not in any way, shape, or form Asian. My mom was Italian and Irish and my dad is German with a smattering of pretty much everything else. He’s the generic mutt for lack of a better description.

Until I was eight, I grew up in a predominately blue collar Italian neighborhood. Now being the only Asian around, growing up was quite a trip. Everywhere I turned I saw white skin and Caucasian features. When I looked in the mirror I realized I didn’t fit in. Yet surveying my family, they fit in perfectly. If this wasn’t a huge identity crisis waiting to explode, I don’t know what was!

As if this mixed family wasn’t enough for my impending crisis, after my mother died when I was eight, my dad remarried a Filipino/French woman. Now my stepmother looks Asian, hence the fact that everybody assumed I was her natural daughter. (Damn does everybody who isn’t Asian think we all look alike? That’s like saying all Caucasians are interchangeable.) So now my “true” identity was even more confused to say the least.

After the marriage, my family moved to a ritzy Irish neighborhood. Not only was I the only Asian, now I was completely out of my element. I was used to the blue collar roughness and suddenly here I am, thrown into this upper class world that is still populated by Caucasians. My reflection in the mirror told me once again that I didn’t fit in.

Moving through the rest of my elementary years, teendom and even early womanhood, my reflection always told me I wasn’t the ideal for beautiful. The ideal in my world was red hair, green eyes or the dark Irish look, porcelain skin and eyes ranging from shades of green to blues. Dark hair and dark eyes with an almond shape just weren’t the “in” thing.

As I got older and saw more of the world, through both travels and expanded consciousness, I realized the world really is a mixed bag. I became more comfortable in my skin and my looks. Today I will never say I’m ugly. However, this was a common statement when I was younger. Though, I will admit, there are still days I have difficulty accepting compliments such as you’re gorgeous or beautiful or something along those lines. I simply see myself as normal, just another splash of color in this tossed salad of our society.

Now, in the very beginnings of my thirties, I can truthfully say I accept myself for who I am. I also don’t really give a rat’s ass what people think of me. I’ve come to the point in my life where I can be who I want to be, say what I want to say and if people don’t like that, the solution is simple: Don’t hang around me. I am not out to impress anyone or make more friends (I have enough of those and great ones at that).

There are those days though when I am assaulted with that “check one” statement and I always do a double take. In all honesty I could probably check most of those boxes and it wouldn’t be a lie. The “optional” section of that statement always makes me roll my eyes. I never really thought it was an option. When I was younger I would always fill it in…almost like I was compelled to do it.

If that statement is optional why do they even put it on applications and tests? Is it really that important for the corporations and government to know the ethnicity of the person filling out the paperwork? For someone like me, that statement isn’t even applicable. There is no answer. How can I choose between my “original” ethnicity and the one that I grew up with? Inevitably when I look at the choices with the little check boxes I want to mark “other.” But really what the hell does that “other” box mean? Is it alien, non-human…what?

So back to my dilemma at hand. I pondered that statement on the certification application for quite a while. I proceeded to take a deep breath and did what I probably always should have done. I left it blank. Now for those of you who know me, you know that was quite a hard thing for me to do. I don’t like to leave any portion of anything unfinished (I’m totally OCD with regards to those types of things). That unmarked area was screaming at me, my pen trembled, trying to take on a life all its own. Sighing, I just couldn’t bring myself to fill it in.

I hurriedly scribbled in the remainder of the application and before I could change my mind, I strode over to the secretary and handed it to her. I practically ran out of the office. But, after all was said and done, I walked off the university campus with a grin on my face, lightness in my heart and a new found sense of freedom. I finally felt I had done my heritage justice.

In closing I simply state…don’t make me choose, I am just me. I cannot and will not be pigeonholed by a silly check box anymore. It does say optional after all.

A Dish With Onions Revisited

I’d been saying I was going to do it for weeks. And just to make sure that I would actually try it, I went around telling enough people to commit myself to it. And why not? I’d never tried it before and I felt that my birthday was the time to stretch my legs a bit. My friends and co-workers were happy to hear it. Of course they would…they did it all the time! Lenny, on the other hand, was quite the skeptic.

“What is your obsession with getting drunk on your birthday?”

I thought about it for a moment. “I don’t want to get plastered. I just want to push that whole 2-3 drink limit I force on myself.” He looked at me skeptically. “Look, I don’t want to drink until I puke, I just want to see what it’s like!”

And that’s all it really was. I was curious. I, Lily White, had never been remotely CLOSE to being drunk in my entire life. I’ve been buzzed a few times, but it was fleeting. I can count the total number of drinks I have annually on one hand. As stated in a previous post, I am the Mild Child. I didn’t sneak alcohol when I was a teenager and I did it only very occasionally (read: ONCE…maybe twice) when I was in college. Drinking (or any vice for that matter) just never really appealed to me.

As my birthday came nearer, I began to wonder. Why hadn’t I tried it? I don’t think it was so much that I was afraid of what was going to happen (because frankly, I had nothing to compare it to). It was the fact that I hadn’t even attempted it. So, in the spirit of “Try Everything,” I set out to push my drinking limit on my birthday.

I was smart about it. I had chosen a bar close to work and home for Happy Hour yesterday. I let all my co-workers who were going understand what I was attempting. Of course, they were up for the challenge. Lenny was meeting us there and was my DD. Worst case scenario, we’d stagger home the block back to the house. I ate a hearty lunch and I had a few snacks between meetings.

I know, I know…I am THAT anal retentive.

I started off with a Malibu and pineapple juice (my signature drink) a little bit after 4:30 in the afternoon. I then WON my second one about 30 minutes later when a co-worker bet me about what my boss would be ordering to drink (He said Corona, I said Bud Light). I also started on a plate of hot wings. About 20 minutes after that, I had a Southern Comfort and cranberry juice that another friend bought me. By this time, I was floating a bit. I told my boss I needed something in my stomach…so we started on some onion rings too. Add to that another two M & P's. I closed out the two hour period with something called an Electric Smurf…which was really tasty.

I started to notice some things as each drink was completed. I am normally a chatty person; however I could hear myself raise my voice a pitch higher. And the speed at which I was speaking was definitely faster than normal. I thought the chair was wobbly; however I realized that it was actually me swaying from side to side involuntarily thanks to the music.

Lenny had cruised onto the scene on my third drink and smirked at me (Later, he said that he knew I was already far gone). Everyone started to leave for the evening and so I told Lenny that I thought we should eat dinner…pronto. We decided on Italian and I hopped off the barstool.

That was a mistake! I felt the ground move under me. After a few seconds, I knew. I knew from my head to my feet, “I am drunk. I’m not plowed. But I am definitely drunk.” My head started to swim with the oddest feeling. I was really laboring to get into the car with Lenny. I sat down and my head began to spin. Lenny had to go back inside and retrieve something we had forgotten at the table. In the few moments I had alone, I had a moment of clarity.

I was not made for boozing.

Constantly, people tell me that they have more fun when their drinking. I hated it! I’m all for a couple drinks so you can relax, but getting to the point where I was last night? I’ll pass the next time. Go ahead, you can make fun of me and call me a lightweight (Because frankly, I think I am), but I think I’m more fun sober.

After the Electric Smurf, I wasn’t participating in conversation. I couldn’t follow some of it either! My usual habit of throwing down some sharp wit was diminished. I laughed a lot, but I felt like I was laughing at nothing. After drinking up, I didn’t feel like me at all. And it kind of sucked.

“The Great Lily Drinking Experiment” is over. Once again, I’ve proven to myself that I am the Mild Child. But dammit, that’s just fine by me! I’m going back to my meager drinking totals during social events. I know there are a few people out there chuckling at me right now, but I really don’t care. I can say I’ve done it and I didn’t much like it. I personally don’t need more than a couple drinks to have fun.

I prefer to dance on tables sober, thank you very much.

3-OH!!!

I am turning thirty tomorrow.

There. I said it. Now you can let it out of your system. Go ahead, get all the jokes out. I’ve heard them all the last couple of days.

“Wow. You’re old.”

“You know, this means you can’t get any older. You’ll be celebrating your 30th for 30 years.”

“I guess it’s time to age ‘gracefully.’”

“It’s all downhill from here.”

Well, I suppose thirty is old. It would be considered old if we lived in the Renaissance when the life expectancy of most women was their mid-thirties. And that’s if I was rich. If I was one of the poor serfs…I would be screwed at 21.

But the fact is thirty is not old. You would be hard pressed to find any Modern Girl Friday who considers any age old. However, thirty seems to be quite an exciting time in our lives. You could say it’s the start of real life for women in my age group.

Gone are the awkward, gangly days of being a teenager. Boys were a mystery, our bodies were going haywire, and we thought we were ugly. Long gone by are the reckless decisions we made as co-eds experiencing independence for the first time. Boys were less of a mystery, but we figured out they really liked our bodies and (sometimes) our minds, and we didn’t think we were so ugly. And we are just now saying goodbye to the lean years right after college in which we started to create the careers and lives we would live as full grown adults. Men are the new mystery, but they still love us for our minds and bodies, and they thought we looked great.

Why is it this way? I think it’s because as women, we’ve finally learned enough to realize who exactly we are as people. We’re unfettered, free, and love who we are at this age. We don’t have to think if we’re doing the right thing…we’ve gone through all the little crap that makes life hard. And the hard stuff? That defines our character. That’s what makes females the tough creatures we are. We are born innately knowing that we are responsible for carrying ourselves and our loved ones on our backs through life.

And right now…it’s a sweet place to be as a woman.

I’ve learned so much in the last twenty-nine years. I have so many people to thank for making me the person that I am today. So, on the eve of my 30th birthday, I want to give a few gifts to everyone before midnight.

I want to thank my parents and grandparents. You struggled so that we could live. I admire the guts and determination of my grandparents for surviving World War II and the Japanese occupation. Your stories and experiences are always close to my heart. I appreciate the bravery of my parents in leaving everything they knew behind so that my siblings and I could have a better life here in the U.S. Parenting doesn’t come with a manual, but I want to let you know you did the best you could.

Lenny…you, loveable rascal you. Thank you for loving me, thank you for finding me. Keep making me laugh and I’ll follow you anywhere! Mahal kita.

To my siblings, cousins, and my friends: You guys are my support group. You’re some of my biggest fans, and I appreciate it. Thanks for giving me the confidence to make stupid jokes and creative decisions. I probably couldn’t survive the hard times without you.

And finally…a little something for the women that come after me. The women in my family always impressed upon me the idea that we should help each other learn. So here are a few lessons I’ve learned in my life so far:

1. You are the heart and soul of your families – No matter how crazy they drive you, they depend on you. Sometimes they don’t even realize it.
2. Give, give, give, and give some more – I don’t care if it’s time, knowledge, love, a smile, or material…just give whole heartedly.
3. Don’t be afraid to make an ass of yourself – Confidence is everything in this world.
4. Keep thirsting to learn – The day we stop learning is the day we die.
5. It’s okay to be a little selfish – If we don’t take care of ourselves, we can’t take care of the ones we love.
6. Grow a sack and move on – Life is too short for petty fights and vain arguments. Swallow your pride every once in awhile.
7. Someone always has it worse off than you – When you’re wallowing in your own self pity, remember this important lesson.
8. You are your own best friend – If you can’t believe in yourself, who is going to?
9. Try everything – You never have the right to complain unless you’ve done it once for yourself.
10. Laugh…and laugh some more – The toughest situations, the darkest moments, and the awkward times can ALWAYS be made better by laughing.

Okay MGF readers…this Birthday Girl is outta this piece for the week. I’ve got some partying to do and a fresh new start to make. You all have a fabulous weekend, and if you’re so inclined, have a drink in honor of my birthday! I know I’ll be having several.

No Skin Off My Back

It was a distinctive hiss. My ears, after years of cultural breeding, picked up the sound out of the din that was the street side traffic. My mother used to use the same hiss to get our attention from wherever she was in the house. Depending on the pitch and tone, the hiss had different messages. A staccato-like one was “Get over here. Now.” An elongated, elegant one said “I’m trying to get your attention.” The one you never wanted to hear was the low, menacing hiss that meant “You have done something wrong.”

That was the hiss I heard as Lenny and I walked down the street on a Saturday night many moons ago. As the sound hit my eardrum and registered in my brain, I instinctively turned towards the source. My eyes were met by the hard face of a young Asian man. I don’t recall exactly which variety of Asian, because the moment his eyes met mine, I knew exactly why he had hissed at me. I glared right back, tugged on Lenny’s hand, and picked up my pace. The change in demeanor did not go unnoticed by Lenny who was puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” I didn’t answer him. “Hey, what was THAT about?”

Glancing over my shoulder, I gave one more fleeting look at the boy on the corner. “He hissed at me.” Before he could ask again, I gave him the answer, “Because of you. Because you’re white.”

In the ten plus years we’ve been together, that incident was the one and only incident I can ever recall where being a bi-racial couple was ever a problem. I’m sure there were many other glances, stares, and unkind words…but we’ve never heard them. Being a mixed coupled has NEVER been a problem for either of us. Why? We’ve never made it an issue.

The statistics are rising. According to the Census Bureau, 3% of the American population (that’s 7 million people) consider themselves multi-racial. The March 14, 2005 UPI article entitled, “Interracial Marriage Gender Gap Grows,” touts that 18% of Asian wives have white husbands and 6% of African-American husbands are in an interracial marriage. With the numbers growing and the presence of interracial couples increasing in society, I constantly get asked the question, “How do you and Lenny do it?”

My response is usually, “What is there to do? We’re married. We’re together. We’re happy.”

I hate to disappoint people out there who were hoping for some worldly and exotic answer, but The Whites are just your average married couple. Instead of making race an issue, we’ve simply incorporated it into our lives much like we incorporated each other’s stuff into our first apartment. Lenny loves eating Filipino cuisine; I enjoy the Polish food we get every Christmas. My family is constantly teaching new Tagalog words to Lenny and his family told me “dupa” means “ass” in the little Polish they know (I know how to say “The grandmother has no underwear” too!).

The difference in culture isn’t a struggle. In Amanda Moras’ thesis entitled, “When Other Isn’t Enough: Challenging Hegemonic Racial Discourse on Interracial Intimacy and Multiracial Identities,” she adequately sums up one of the bigger problems I have with the attitude some bi-racial couples have about their relationship. While reading, it struck me how many times the couples told stories about how they felt uncomfortable with their partner when in the vicinity of people of their same culture. One guy even mentions that while it was okay to be with his girlfriend around friends his own age, when he was with the elders in his group, his normal affectionate self would disappear.

Now wait a minute. Isn’t a long term relationship, marriage, or life partnership about love? If you are that much in love with a person, the perception of others (regardless of their heritage) is negligible! Bad things happen in this world to everyone. But how you handle these things is key. In my own marriage, I don’t shy away from the fact that Lenny is Caucasian, nor do I show it off. I show off my husband to everyone because he’s a funny and fantastic guy. Never has it crossed my mind to let go of his hand or not kiss him in public.

But this is not to say that I downplay interracial couples who actually do have roadblocks in their relationship. Old habits die really hard. There are people out there who are willing break you down and hurt you because you’re in a bi-racial relationship. Old stereotypes and cultural walls are still strong influences in today’s society.

In the end though, like in other arenas of life, the color of your skin shouldn’t matter. If you make an issue about your own interracial coupledom, you’re feeding the problem that you so desperately rail against. Perhaps because we never even thought that being two different cultures was a problem, Lenny and I have had it easy. If you don’t invite danger into your house…it might never show up. When it does, we can’t pick at it like a skin irritation. If we chose to ignore, it will more than likely go away.

On Lily's DVD Shelf: The Princess Bride

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! Whether or not you are out with a date or with your friends, take the time to have fun today. Sure it’s a merchandised, corporate, made-up holiday…but the most important thing to remember is that it’s held in honor of love. Love all you can now, because you can’t take it with you at the end.

In honor of the holiday, I’ve decided to review what is probably one of the most romantic, funny, and exciting movies of all time. Everyone I talk to always has “The Princess Bride” on their personal Top 10 List. I always chuckle whenever we talk about “The Princess Bride” because it actually took me 4 viewings (over the course of some years) before I could actually make it through the entire movie without falling asleep! I couldn’t explain it. I always enjoyed what I saw, but for whatever reason, I just never made it to the end.

Thankfully, I have remedied that issue and can honestly say that I really enjoy this movie. The Special Edition DVD came out in 2001. Anyone who is worth their salt as a fan probably already owns it. But as INCONCEIVABLE as it might seem, there are those who have never seen the movie. So, really…this review is for them.

Long story short: A grandfather (Peter Falk) tells a bedtime story to his less than thrilled grandson (Fred Savage). The story is about Buttercup (a very young Robin Wright), who hates Westley (a very hot Cary Ewles). Westley adores Buttercup. He goes away to make his riches. When he comes back, it is found out that Buttercup has been kidnapped by the evil Prince Humperdink (very good baddie, Chris Sarandon). Here comes Westley to save the day! Add to the mix a six-fingered man (Christopher Guest), a vengeful swordsman (Mandy Patinkin), a loveable giant (Andre the Giant), and a slew of cute cameos, “The Princess Bride” is easily more than a memorable film.

It’s got everything you want. Romance for the ladies (Tell me hearing “As you wish,” doesn’t make you melt and I’d say you were LYING!), action for the guys (You know you want to be in the Westley v. Inigo sword fight!), quotable lines (Say it with me: “My name is Inigo Montoyo. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”). And, probably one of the most unbelievable features considering today’s films, ANYONE can watch it. It’s such a great story, told in such a manner that no one ever feels embarrassed showing it to their kids, their grandparents, and ultra-conservative relatives.

The special edition DVD touts a documentary entitled, “As You Wish.” The original cast shares their thoughts on the making of the movie and the fun of the story. If you’re a commentary geek like me and Lenny, Rob Reiner’s commentary is one of the better ones I’ve listened to. Another bonus, the author of the book, William Goldman is also given his own commentary (If you’ve never read the book version, please pick it up…it’s a riot!).

I consider “The Princess Bride” the perfect movie. I could watch it any time and any where. If you need a quick pick-me-up or a great date movie, it never gets old! As far as I’m concerned, “The Princess Bride” is a timeless piece of work that (much like the grandfather’s story) will be passed on from generation to generation.

Going Somewhere While Walking in Place

I tied up the shoelace to my tennis shoes. Turning the key on my locker and securing my belongings, I grabbed my iPod off the bench and walked out into the hallway. After stretching my quads, calves, and ankles, I pass through one more doorway and enter the exercise room. Since I get in around the same time everyday, my favorite machine (back row, second to last on the left) is usually open. Hitting the Quick Start button, I program the machine and begin easing my body back into the sweet torture that is exercise.

The music starts. I smile. The next 45-60 minutes are mine and mine alone.

It’s been three weeks since the first time I went back on the treadmill. I started going back to my local YMCA at the end of January when I found out that we were going to London in March. I wanted to work on my stamina before the big trip. I’d been trying to go back to the gym for months. But you know how it goes…work, social commitments, volunteer work, etc. just kept getting in the way.

Of course that’s a lie. I was getting in the way. Thankfully, my mindset has changed. I’m not sure when or how it changed, but hitting the treadmill 3-4 times a week wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. In fact, at the end of my first week, I made a startling discovery: I couldn’t wait to get back the next week. When the clock on the office wall hits 5 p.m., I’m bolting out the door for my car!

I can understand why people despise the gym. We’re a society that revolves around perfection. And that Bally’s commercial does nothing to blow that theory away. I remember my first day back in the gym. It was very intimidating. As I assembled and completed my own stretching routine, my mind was racing with negative thoughts.

Am I going to be able to do this? My god, I look huge in that mirror! Am I going to look like a complete ass on that treadmill? Holy mackerel, that old guy is going to do laps around me! I am so going to fall on my face!

I wanted to turn around and just leave. However, I had made a promise to myself at the beginning of the year that this was year, that I wanted to get healthier. Please note I didn’t say THINNER, I said HEALTHIER. There is a difference. Thinner means counting pounds and calories. Healthier means improving who you are physically, and subsequently, mentally. The weight comes off when it’s supposed to. I’d put this off for years. I couldn’t let it happen this time. This year is going to be different from all the other times. This time, I was doing it for me.

A lot of my friends are puzzled by my affection for the treadmill. They find it tormenting and unending. For many reasons, my 45-60 minute jaunt on the treadmill is cathartic. You know how some people zone out while washing dishes? That’s me on the repetitive pace of the machine. Glasses off, iPod blasting, arms swinging, I’m free to either empty my head or concentrate on one topic. It’s the one piece of real estate on the clock that I own for myself. It’s a time of introspection. There’s no phone ringing at my desk. I don’t have to worry about what we’re going to eat for dinner. I’m not rushing off to a meeting with a client; I’m rushing towards a personal goal. I can think and I am allowed to think clearly.

Now don’t get the wrong impression. My time on the treadmill is what I will term a very brisk walk. I can do a little over 2 miles in 45-minutes. My average speed is just under 3 MPH. And so far, I’ve worked the incline button to level 4 on the machine (trust me; it’s below a 45-degree angle). A champion race walker I ain’t.

Mentally, I feel like I’m changing too. I find that I’m willing to gut things out a bit more. Pain? I view pain as weakness leaving my body (thanks Nike ad on the wall). The answer to the question “Can I do better than yesterday?” is “Hell, yes!” I feel like I’ve actually accomplished something when I hop off the machine. I’m getting stronger with each session. Sure, its baby steps in comparison to hardcore gym goers…but I’m not doing this for them! After day two, I decided that the 10 other people on the treadmills surrounding me didn’t matter. I am in my own world, doing my own thing. I even don’t sweat eating better! My mind tells me not to waste the work I put in, ergo my menu choices (while not restricted) is reduced in portions.

These mental changes have now crept into my physicality. My stamina has boosted enough that I noticed I was actually springing down the hall at work today. In two-inch heels nonetheless. I walk with better posture and I feel more confident about my body. One of my co-workers actually commented that my normally smiling visage has actually been brighter the last week or so.

All this because I’ve finally allowed myself to go somewhere I’ve never gone before. I now fully believe in myself and my body. I’ve got the want and the need to keep going. I’m feeling so good…I’m looking for a Yoga class! Being healthier will definitely have its advantages. If and when the weight comes off, that’ll be cool too (For those of you who really want to know, I’ve lost 8 lbs.). But for now, I’m content just walking in place, knowing eventually I’ll get there.

You Gotta Get a Gimmick

“Do something special,
Anything special,
And you'll get better because,
You’re more than just a mimic,
When you gotta gimmick,
Take a look how different we are!”

The 1964 movie version of the musical “Gypsy” has always been one of my favorites. There’s just something about demanding stage mothers and daughters forced into burlesque that I found both charming and amusing at the same time (but I am a sick individual…and you all knew that).

But the number “You Gotta Have a Gimmick,” has a special place in my heart. Three veteran dancers school the soon-to-be-anointed Gypsy Rose Lee on how to make it in this here Burlesque Game (take that hip-hop). Mazeppa, Electra, and Tessie Tura shake and shimmy their way through the number touting their specific “gimmick.” I love this number because 1) They sing off key…so I can sing along too; 2) It has the line “You can sacrifice your sachro, working in a back row.” (What, pray tell, is a ‘sachro?’); and 3) The song resonates really well in real life.

WHAT?! “Okay, Lily…how much have you had to drink today?”

Ease up. I’m not drunk. But truly, the song does have its own application to everyday life. Think about the people you meet and work with on a daily basis. Now think really hard about the ones you thought were memorable. Now think about what exactly made them memorable. Was it the way they talked? Was it their confidence? Was it their knowledge?

Everyone has a gimmick. A shtick. A thing. A move. It is commonly known as having an “angle.” But this isn’t the gimmick I’m talking about. I’m talking about the attributes that set you apart from the next guy. The world is a heck of a lot smaller thanks to communication, technology, and buying power. We have access to just about everything. This has led to a lot of “sameness.” Everyone wants to be everyone else.

We tend to forget one thing: Unique people stand out of the crowd. And it’s those unique people that tend to be successful.

I’ve worked with a lot of talented people in my short life. But it constantly amazes me that they refuse to use their talents to further themselves. Here they have this great gimmick, but they sell themselves short by either wasting it or, worse yet, denying that they have it.

Are people afraid to succeed? Is that why they want to blend into the crowd? Has our society evolved to the point where being a lemming is easier than being a starfish?

But why be afraid of success? It’s the differences between people that make life interesting and make our world go. Think of how many companies that wouldn’t exist if their CEOs didn’t step up out of the crowd with their gimmick? We wouldn’t have Google, we wouldn’t have Mrs. Fields, and we wouldn’t have Pixar. Our world would be reduced to floating around the internet without a map, jonesing for cookies, and stuck with sub-par animation.

What is worse than not wanting to stand out, are the complaints that come when the unique people succeed. Work is the perfect example of this. Once, I was in a position to receive a promotion. I had put in some long hours and hard work. I made myself visible to the people responsible for the position. I did everything I could to show them that I was the right person for this job. When I did get the position, no less than three of the other candidates complained to the gossip mongers that I was kissing a little too much ass and that was the reason I got the job.

Don’t hate me because I’m willing to sell my gimmick. Some people call it grand standing, I call it natural. It should be natural for people to want to put their best foot forward. We should never hide behind a crowd…hell, there really should never be a crowd. We’re all wired differently enough that we should stand on our own.

In this day and age of potential sameness, I encourage everyone to find their gimmick. No one wants to be a fleeting memory. Deep down inside, everyone wants to be a headliner. So, step out of the crowd and don’t be afraid to show-off a little. Trust me, there’s a lot more to lose if you blend in. And if someone gives you any flack, just remember the words of our three friendly Burlesque Queens from “Gypsy:”

“If you wanna make it,
Twinkle while you shake it.
If you wanna grind it,
Wait till you refined it.
If you wanna stump it,
Bump it with a trumpet!
Get yourself a gimmick and you too,
Can be a star!”

Guest Blogger: You're Like a Sister to Me by FudgesicleJunkie

Another weekend has come! Woo hoo! It's Friday...that means Guest Blogger Day! Tonight, we break two barriers here on MGF Blog. Not only do we have our first MALE contributor, but it's our first INTERNATIONAL contribution. Who better to bring the male perspective than one of my favorite guy friends, FudgesicleJunkie? Hope you enjoy FJ's contribution. Have a good one, gang! - Lily

I’ll start by saying what an honour it is to be the first male contributor to this site. As I recently said to its founding author: “good site, but it could use more testosterone”. Which I don’t mean in any defensive way, but simply because variety is always good. Back when I worked in an office – full of annoying alpha male oafs who prowled around like sexual predators with a flip chart – I used to say the opposite: “this place needs more oestrogen”.

It is a preference for hormonal balance that probably comes from growing up in a large, combative family that was evenly split between males and females. As a child, I was inseparable from my two older sisters who, in turn, were inseparable from each other – so much so that in my under-developed toddler brain, I thought of them as a single person in two bodies. They weren’t Martha and Lara to me, but Martalara. I never called for one or the other. It was always both and always by their collective name. Martalara! Martalara! Bless them – they always came.

I remember none of this, of course, so I am going simply on the lies my mother told me. She also told me that, like many children, I had a minor freak-out the first few times she dropped me off at baby-jail (otherwise known as pre-school). Fortunately, by day three the warden had figured out that I immediately calmed down if she sat me between two girls, who I instinctively called Marta and Lara, irrespective of what their actual names were. I wasn’t a bright kid. But as far I was concerned, I had Martalara back. All was right with the world again. The monsters couldn’t get me anymore.

It’s a pattern that’s repeated my whole life, not least because I’ve moved around a lot and have had many new schools, new jobs, and many first days in a strange new town. Every time – without exception – I have stumbled by accident rather than design into a relationship with female friends. Never one or three female friends, mind you. Always two. And always strictly platonic.

That said, Martalara has taken different forms over the years. When I was in the navy, Martalara was a set of identical twins who were posted to the same ship. It’s difficult enough to tell identical twins apart under normal circumstances – when they wear the same uniform it’s almost impossible. The first couple of times that I spoke to them, I managed to embarrass myself by getting them mixed up. Never one to persevere when giving up is an option, I just wrote them off. “Well, that’s it,” I said. “I guess I won’t be friends with them.” But Martalara is too charming to ignore. Too sharp, too kind, too witty, too much fun to be around. We eventually became so close that I could tell them apart at ten paces by tip-offs as subtle as the different way they smiled.

At university, Martalara was a pair of Italian friends who were so appalled by my diet that they took it in turns to have me over for a proper feed. I went home with Tupperware containers full of leftovers. When I developed an interest in another girl, they were more obsessed with the courtship than I was. They virtually stalked her on my behalf. They gathered intelligence, coached me on what to say, they interpreted the “signals” for me. And thank God for that, because she was sending out so many confusing signals that small aeroplanes were landing around her. Honestly, what does it mean when the girl you like offers you a bite of her carrot? Is she just being polite? Is it a gesture of intimacy? I didn’t know! To be fair, neither did Martalara, but at least they were willing to spend two hours discussing it.

I had a girlfriend who called all this a “surrogate-sister complex”. She should have been a psychologist. She also had me pegged as a schizophrenic. One of my personalities was called the Young Cool Elvis (fun, sociable, outgoing and quick to take the guitar out of the closet to jam with friends). She called the other personality Old Fat Elvis (grumpy, reclusive, prematurely senile and comfortable chatting on-line, watching TV and eating cheese whiz and crackers). She would call me at the office on Friday afternoons and ask, “Who are you gonna be this weekend?" Young Cool Elvis or Old Fat Elvis?”

So I am grateful to the current Martalara – a former roommate and her cousin – for saving me from myself. Recently single again and working from home, I could easily lapse into a hermitic existence. But for Martalara dragging me out and frogmarching me through the great outdoors now and then, the Old Fat Elvis would probably kill the Young Cool Elvis once and for all.

And such it was with cyberspace, where I peeked in out of pure curiosity and didn’t much like what I saw. Were it not for a virtual Marta and a virtual Lara that I found there, I probably wouldn’t have stuck around.

All of which is a long-winded and brazenly self-indulgent way of saying that I don’t much see the sense of “lad” or “ladette” websites, just like I don’t read Maxim or FHM and I don’t watch Sex and the City. I have more fun at weddings than I do at stag parties. I don’t see the point of “guy’s night out”. Why should we exclude the only women who will give us the time of day just to spend the whole night talking about other women who won’t? Without a good balance of both oestrogen and testosterone we are prone to unhealthy extremes. Witless male-bashing on one hand or gormless chauvinism on the other. It’s a slippery slope in both directions.

I’m not saying that sexism doesn’t exist or that sexual politics isn’t important. I’m not a gender war “denier”. I’m just not all that interested in it. To the extent that war can entertain, I find the Battle of the Sexes about as compelling as the Falkland Islands. At least World War I gave us some great poetry. World War II gave us Slaughterhouse 5 and Catch-22, the Great Escape and Hogan’s Heroes. Even Vietnam gave us Apocalypse Now and Fortunate Son. What has the Gender War ever contributed besides the same facile jokes about women going to the bathroom in pairs and men leaving the toilet seat up? Men won’t ask for directions and women can’t parallel park. I’m less offended by it all than I am bored to tears.

I’m probably in the minority, mind you, because Maxim and FHM sell like hotcakes and Sex and the City is a hit show and that guy who wrote about Women from Venus and Men from Mars is rich and doing book tours and I’m not. And there is certainly no shortage of male-bashing feminist websites or women-hating chauvinist ones.

So I tip my hat to a site that welcomes contributions from both sides of the front. This leaves me, however, in a bit of a jam. What on earth does a 32 year-old guy have to say that could be of any interest to the readers of a site called Modern Girl Friday, which – according to its founding post – “seeks to redefine who this woman can be”? Who this woman can be!? I’m not touching that question until I’ve figured out what it means when a woman offers you a bite of her carrot. So for now, I guess I’ll just read, because it’s well-written and funny. I’ll comment when appropriate and contribute when invited. But I won’t be the “he said” in a “He said/She said” argument. I’ve got nothing to debate. You call her a Modern Girl Friday, I call her Martalara. Either way, I just like having her around. It keeps the monsters away.

MGF Conference: Guys We Love to Like

Everyone knows that when girls get together…they LOVE to talk. Tonight, I wasn’t feeling too hot (it’s been a long week mentally MGF Fans). So, I hopped onto my messenger and ran into my girls BrownSuga and Elusive Orchid. They sympathized with my plight and agreed to help me out since I didn’t want to puss out and put two guest blogs, two days in a row. We have decided to do something fun and flirty. Hey, that’s what Modern Girl Friday’s do when they’re bored!

So tonight…a little peek into our crazy minds. We pose the following question: Who are the hottest six guys out in the world today?

According to these MGFs…these are the men you should be looking out for!

THE TOP SIX (No particular order):

Dave Lieberman (Celebrity Chef/TV Personality): This is one of Elusive Orchid’s picks. This Food Network personality, first caught our eyes during the summer with his show “Good Deal with Dave Lieberman.” The Center City Philadelphia native attended Yale University where he honed his culinary skills. His love of cooking led him to create a local access show called “Campus Cuisine.” In his senior year of college, Amanda Hesser, of New York Times fame, was so impressed at his talent, she put the rising chef on the cover of the dining section of the revered newspaper. Take a look at his website (www.davecooks.net) and it’s not hard to see his appeal. In Orchid’s words, “Hellloooo….he’s tall, dark, and handsome. Smart AND he cooks. What more could you want in a guy?”

Matt Czuchry (Logan Huntzburger on “The Gilmore Girls”): This 27-year old actor is the new face of Gilmore Girls. Raised in Tennessee, Matt takes the southern gentlemen personae and adds a sexy flair. He graduated with honors from the College of Charleston with a degree in History/Political Science. Matt got into acting because he won the “Mr. College of Charleston Pageant” in 1999. Also athletic, he was the captain of his college tennis team as a nationally ranked player. BrownSuga is ready to leave everything and everyone behind for this one. “All he is has to do is call my name! Matt, if you need me…call me! Anywhere, anytime.” Check Matt out at his website http://www.matt-czuchry.com.

Michael Buble (Vocalist): In the tradition of the classic crooners like Frank and Dean, as talented vocally as his contemporaries such as Harry Connick, Jr., Michael Buble has landed with a splash onto the music scene. Ever since seeing and hearing him on a Starbuck’s commercial, Lily can’t get enough of this Vancouver native. “I could fall asleep listening to him sing ‘You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine’ every single night! His voice is just so smooth and rich. It feels like a warm blanket being wrapped around me.” Influenced by music from his early childhood, among Buble’s inspirations are Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald, Keely Smith, Rosemary Clooney, Bobby Darin, and (of course) Frank Sinatra. And according to Lily, he takes a good picture. “I love going to his website (www.michaelbuble.com) and looking at the pics. He’s always in a suit and tie!”

Lenny Kravitz (Rock God): Born in 1964, Lenny Kravitz falls into Orchid’s exception list. “I’m not usually into older guys…but for Lenny, I’ll do it.” Kravitz also lists Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald as his influences. But, ever the musical chameleon, he also lists Prince as well. Raised in Los Angeles, his mother, Roxy Roker (of The Jeffersons fame) also played a major role in encouraging Kravitz love of music. Some of her famous pals were Miles Davis and Count Basie. While Dave Lieberman appeals to her preppy side, Elusive Orchid says, “Lenny appeals to my wild child side…BIG TIME! He’s a damn good looking man for his age, but his voice is enough to make me melt! He tends to be my music of choice when I’m in the bedroom.” Catch Lenny at www.lennykravitz.com.

Hines Ward (Wide Receiver, Pittsburgh Steelers): #86 has shot up to one of the top searched jerseys in the past year. This 8 year veteran of the Pittsburgh Steelers has "gone to Disney World"'. The 2006 MVP of Super Bowl XL is one of the top receivers in the NFL. A former Georgia bulldog, Hines Ward is the only receiver in Steelers history to surpass 1,000 receiving yards for 4 straight seasons. When sent to Disney World for being the MVP, he chose to bring along his teammate the great Jerome "the Bus" Bettis. This team player can be on BrownSuga's team any day! Of course, we can’t leave Mr. Ward alone, until you’ve seen BrownSuga’s favorite picture: http://sports.yahoo.com/nfl/photo?slug=56685883cc272_super_bowl_xl&prov=getty

Luke Wilson (Actor): Lily is simply ga-ga over the younger of the two Wilson brothers (http://wilson-brothers.com). “He’s just so sweet looking! It looks like he’d be the type of guy who’d hang out with me on the couch on a Sunday reading a book and cuddling with me!” Primarily known as in independent film actor, this Dallas native has been quietly breaking hearts for years. A talented actor, he shows off his skills in a variety of roles. But to the head MGF, his roles in “Old School” and “The Royal Tenenbaums” is what did it for her. “Luke’s got that quirky, but quiet nature to him. He’s not boisterous and outrageous like Owen. There’s a sincerity to him that just draws you to him. I guess I’m a sucker for the quiet intelligent types!”

HONORABLE MENTION

Dane Cook (Comedian): This comedic bad boy cracks up Lily and Orchid. With comedy bits revolving around the Kool-Aid Man and Slip n’ Slide, there’s no doubt you’d end up rolling on the ground laughing. But if you look into that intense brown-eyed stare and mischievous smile, you will probably want to be rolling on the ground with him. Take a look and listen for yourself at www.danecook.com.

John Legend (Singer/Songwriter): BrownSuga has one thing to say about John Legend, “What am I supposed to say about a man who can sing your panties off?” www.johnlegend.com

Avoid the Valentine's Day Massacre

Okay, I know the arguments against it.

“Valentine’s Day is a manufactured holiday.”

“Valentine’s Day is just a reminder that single people are ALONE.”

“Valentine’s Day is for suckers.”

I get it. I understand. Valentine’s Day has about as many cynics as Christmas does. Card and candy companies make millions off of haggard and nagged-to-death men. Normally bright and intelligent woman blow hard earned money on outrageous gifts to prove they love their spouses and significant others (even though that’s really hypocritical). Fine. Valentine’s Day sucks.

But the fact remains: It’s still here and there’s not much you can do to stop it.

Everyone falls into one of the following groups: Coupled, Uncoupled, and Looking. But you all have to get through that day. The couples will have their dates (Lenny…fondu?), the Uncoupled will celebrate their independence (I picture cleansing bonfires filled with bad relationship memorabilia), and the Looking will still look.

So, it’s less than a week away. If you haven’t made your plans, you’re in a bit of a bind. Unless you have some special machine that stops time, some of you are in trouble. Despite the fact that numerous friends (and you know who you are) say that it doesn’t matter to them…no one wants to NOT do anything on Valentine’s Day while everyone else is. In the spirit of public service, The Modern Girl Friday Blog would like to provide some ideas on how to celebrate (or deprecate) the Holiday of Love.

For the Coupled: Despite what the retail world would like for you to believe, the brunt of the Valentine’s Day work SHOULD NOT fall upon the guy’s shoulders (Men: You so owe me right now). I’m not saying guys get a free ride, I’m just saying women should remember that the holiday is about BOTH of you. Your man has probably spent quite an amount of their living budget on candy, flowers, tickets, cars, or whatever the heck you demand of them to make you happy. What does he get in return? Ladies, please take care of your men. He’ll appreciate it and won’t expect a small gift from you. So, look like Super Woman and pick up a little something for the guy.

Now, fellas…don’t slack off. If you haven’t gotten a gift yet for your lady, times ticking. And don’t freak out. Unless she’s high maintenance, she’s not looking for the huge, glitzy gift (if she’s an MGF, you really have nothing to worry about!). Do something out of the norm. Make something! The best Valentine’s gift I ever got from Lenny was something he made. For about a month, we were passing back and forth funny little haikus via e-mail due to some stress at work. On Valentine’s Day I received a little book of those poems with my card. I laughed my ass off at the poetry. It was so Kindergarten arts and crafts precious that I almost cried.

I didn’t forget the “Not so Coupled Couple.” You long distance, star-crossed people. Valentine’s Day doesn’t have to be a downer for you either! Start making plans for a phone date. I know a couple who are attending law school on opposite ends of the country. They get together and have a movie date. They rent the same movie and watch it while on the phone with each other! If your cell/long distance service plan sucks – make it an internet date! There are a variety of messengers you can use. You have to love technology. The point is…don’t let distance stop you. You can still be together!

For the Uncoupled: Okay grizzled relationship veterans. It’s time to flip Cupid the proverbial bird. I can understand your situation. You like being alone and unfettered. It works for you. SO CELEBRATE IT! Grab a bunch of single friends and party like its Saturday night! And don’t shack up with the first person that you see. Dance with as many people as you can! Who knows…you might find somebody interesting enough to say Happy Valentine’s Day to.

If partying isn’t your scene, stay home and have the friends over. I know a few people who are having an anti-Valentine’s Day party. In fact, someone is having a “Love Sucks Movie Fest.” Instead of romantic comedies and drama, the host will be showing horror flicks.

And if you want the Valentine’s Day gifts? Flaunt your independence and get them yourself. Who needs a significant other to buy you Godiva when you have your own two legs to carry you in there and pick the pieces YOU want? Send yourself flowers. There’s no shame in it. Why feel like a pariah amongst the love birds? You love yourself don’t you? Go ahead…splurge. You deserve it!

For the Looking: Alright, Unlucky in Love. Don’t dwell on the fact that you don’t have anyone. Don’t burden your friends with the sob story how you have no one to have dinner with. Instead of whining, use Valentine’s Day to build your profile. That’s right…networking has its place on the Day of Love.

Guys, buy a little something for your platonic female friends. Easy there. Don’t go out and spend a ton of money on them! Buy a dozen roses. Give one out to each of your gal pals. Or take a few of the single girls out for lunch or dessert. Why spend your time with women you know you won’t date? Because those women know OTHER single women. Your sincere act of kindness will stick out in their heads. Think about them meeting their single friends and saying, “Oh, John did the sweetest thing for us on Valentine’s Day…”

Girls…it’s time to get your flirt on. Go to your local Walgreen’s, CVS, Osco, etc. Pick up a box of Valentines. DO NOT get them out of the Hallmark section. Pick up the kind that you would have given out during grade school! Get a bunch of your friends (if you have Uncoupled friends…this would work best as they are audacious as can be), fill them out and seal them up. While you’re out on the town on Valentine’s Day (that’s right NO STAYING HOME FOR YOU!), hand them out to any guy you think might need, want, or deserves one. Cheesy? Yeah, it is. But you’ll be remembered!

Even if you think Valentine’s Day sucks…there are ways to have fun during it. It doesn’t have to be insufferable. Besides, anything can happen! You just never know what might be waiting for you out there in that big, wide world!

To the Coupled: Happy Valentine’s Day! Have fun you crazy kids, you!

To the Uncoupled: Happy Singles Awareness Day! Show them how partying is done!

To the Looking: Happy Seeking Out Opportunities Day! Don’t let a dateless V-Day stop you!