I was, to a good extent, speechless.

I watched Manny Pacquiao live for the first time. And there was my mother, who had always watched the fights only after she had known of the result, kicking and screaming: "Hit him! Hit him! Hurt him! Don't stop! Don't STOP!" But to see how amusing this is is to know my mother. She's that cranky old lady that lives down the road -- who will travel three hours on a plane to hand-carry for you her homemade pecan pie.

From her, I always thought, I learned how to differentiate between good and bad. She was always very good at identifying what was bad, and what little else was left, I figured, was what was good. Like The Beatles, for example, which she was spot on. And a very healthy fascination for all sorts of crime, especially murders. Serial murders are most savory.

I learned, also, to be very organized with my material possessions. As she is a career librarian (one of very few people I know who still understand the Dewey Decimal System), her zeal for putting things in their right place is, I guess, at the core of what makes me a believable designer. One needs only look at the impeccable condition of her vinyl records (and how she keeps all her CDs in cabinets close to her bed) to realize that she has it in for order.

Still, I have a lifetime of stories about my mother, and her long fingernails, and yes more to come. She has recently unveiled her Christmas Village (which features an additional 20 new buildings and structures, bringing the total to about 140) and, dubbed Christmas Village 3.0, will bring me back to Los Banos this weekend. I shall dutifully take photographs and chat up my mom, waiting to take in all that keeps me reeling -- and speechless.