Year in review: 2006

I will remember 2006 as the year I left the Perm, moved to Hong Kong and joined the Firm. It was the year I started a blog, got my heart broken, bought Tumi luggage (not necessarily in that order). It was the year I started going to the gym, the year I stopped.

In 2006 I went on a long vacation. I did not know how lucky I was to have that break until it was over. It was the year I watched too many movies and read too few books. It was the year I gained a whole lot of weight, lost more and gained most of it back.

2006 was a year of personal success and personal disappointment. It was the year I got all those cool stamps on my passport.

As I wrap up my 31st year, I look back at the last 12 months and smile.

It was a good year. It was a pretty damn good year.

Sgaling

MD. and M4 have created a new way to express superlatives in Tagalog.

They (and now I) add an "s" to all adjectives.

"S" stands for sakasakan.

Mayaman is smayaman.

Pogi = spogi.

And my personal favorite: spanget.

Before you dismiss this as another inane idea, give it a chance. Think about it. What is the English equivalent of spanget?

Fugly, right?

Well then, which term do you think evokes a more grotesque image?

Diba hands down spanget?!

Bow.

Certified

A good friend of mine once asked a guy who was breaking up with her if she had done everything in her power to save their fledgling relationship. Like most normal people, her future ex-boyfriend avoided such a direct question and said that he just wanted to move on.

She responded with, "But I need to certify that I've done everything I can."

Annoyed he replied, "Ok, fine. I certify that you've done everything you can. Can we get on with our lives now?"

I'm not sure if he said the second sentence, I'm embellishing, but he did say the certify part and that's the part I want to write about. (Aside: he was a bastard to say that, but it was the only way to get through to this friend of mine.)

It's funny how we girls over-analyze everything remotely related with romance and will accept nothing short of a "certification" when it comes to potential, current or former significant others. S., E., and D., have spent thousands of hours dissecting each sentence spoken by the guys they were dating. Every word. It was a treat to just listen to them.

"When he said that my top was cute, did he mean cute in a nice way, or cute in a slutty way?"

"When he said that he was thinking about marriage, did he mean a) marriage to me and b) within this year?"

"When he left the party early, does that mean that he doesn't find me interesting?"

I would respond to these questions in the most prudent, cautious way (without actually lying) but invariably, they will disagree with me, and ask the question again. And again. And then another time.

The entire exercise is very first year high school.

We're in our thirties.

I love it.

x x x

So last night (actually early this morning) I got certified. I now know something with certainty.

And it is liberating.

You can never come home

With each visit to Manila I am reminded that I don't live here anymore.

There are boxes in my room now, where there used to be small heaps of clothing, mountains of books, towers of DVDs. My car is as clean as a whistle. No four day old coffee cups, shopping bags and gas receipts carpetting the floor.

Everyday I need to do "something". Renew my license, see the derma, then the dentist, go to the spa. I like how positive emotions about Manila are reinforced by having dinner with friends and family every night, but everything seems so artificial. Like those gatherings were planned weeks before (and actually, they were).

I am annoyed at everyday, natural occurences (ie ants attacking unattended candy, cat poo stinking up the garden). I am troubled by the poverty, repelled by the filth, bothered by the lack of infrastructure.

I've been away 4 months. Imagine how removed I will feel in 4 years.

Keeping it real

I have decided to make a New Year's Resolution/To Do list. And unlike lists of other people, I'm keeping my goals to realistic, achievable targets. Here's what I've come up with.

1. I will never eat again.
2. I will work out everyday for 90 minutes.
3. I will read a book a week. (And not buy a single book until I finsh what's in my current library of unread literary works.)
4. I will watch all those movies I've bought. (And not buy a single DVD until I've watched them all.)
5. I will read the Bible from beginning to end.
6. I will never forget anything again.
7. I will travel to South America.
8. I will get so fit from my 90 minute work outs that I will run a mini marathon (20k). See, I am being very realistic. I could have said I'd run in the NY marathon in October.
9. I will invest my money wisely and know exactly where every cent goes.
10. I will be the paragon of humility and patience.

I'll keep you guys updated with my progress.

On Flaking

I am a classic flaker.

I will make plans to go on that Bora getaway, accept the invitation to that dinner party, text back, "Sure!" to the question of "Drinks later?"

Then when the time comes, I flake.

Something has come up. Can't get out of work right now. I'm not feeling too well. I'll be in Singapore that weekend. Super traffic and that place is all the way across town. I have a family dinner.

I've used up all the excuses in the book and my friends are tired of it. I am tired of it. I should just say no when I have the chance. Or use the Filipino favorite, "I'll try to follow."

But no, I keep on saying yes, then I keep on flaking.

I flake because fundamentally, I'd rather be doing something else. I choose to flake. And that's the painful honest truth about flaking. It's never circumstance (although I say it is), it's always me.

My friends have long known how to interpret my affirmative responses to invitations. Jona saying yes means she heard you, made a note of the event, but that yes is not a confirmation of attendance, it's simply an acknowledgement. Like 10-4 or Copy That.

Recently, I've had the yucky (see how articulate I am) experience of being on the receiving end of flaky behavior. Instead of being the "flaker" I was the "flakee".

Being the flakee sucks (again, note my facility with words). You look forward to seeing that someone, attending that dinner, having that drink. You get all excited then someone flakes on you. And you feel so disappointed.

Today I got flaked on by that someone again.

Maybe I should just get with the program: Flaking is a choice. And the choice is not me.

These monks can kick ass!

Really, why does anyone bother to blog? Just copy and paste the news, people. It's so much more interesting than real life.

THESSALONIKI, Greece (AP) -- Two groups of monks clashed on Wednesday at a monastery facility in Mt. Athos, resulting in at least seven injuries, police said.

Fighting broke out between a group of rebel monks occupying facilities of the 1,000-year-old monastery of Esphigmenou, and a group of legally recognized monks on the outside.

The rebel monks, unrecognized by the Orthodox Church, reacted strongly when the outsiders attempted to force their way into the monastery's representative offices in Karyes, the administrative center of the medieval community. They were trying to enter in order to begin construction of a new building.

The clashes turned violent as the occupying monks attacked the intruders with crowbars and fire extinguishers, breaking a door down.

Seven monks were reported injured. Four were taken off the peninsula by boat and hospitalized at Polygiros, including two with head wounds, while three more were being taken to hospital, according to Athos police

.

After reading this article I thought, "I bet I can say Thessaloniki ten times really fast....No, I should try Esphigmenou, it would sound funnier."

And then I thought, "There are fire extinguishers and crowbars in monastaries?"

When God opens a door, He closes a window

BEIJING, China (AP) -- China is imposing new restrictions on foreign adoptions, barring applicants who are unmarried, obese, over 50 or who take antidepressants, according to U.S. adoption agencies.

The restrictions are meant to limit adoptions to "only the most qualified families," said the Web site of one agency, Harrah's Adoption International Mission in Spring, Texas.

The agency said China has pledged to try to make more children available to those who qualify.
The move comes amid a surge in foreign applications to adopt Chinese children. The United States is the No. 1 destination for children adopted abroad, but the number going to Europe and elsewhere is rising.

An employee of the government-run China Center of Adoption Affairs, the agency that oversees foreign adoptions, said it has issued new guidelines but refused to confirm the details released by the American agencies. He wouldn't give his name.

A U.S. Embassy spokesman in Beijing said it was looking into reports of the new regulations. He spoke on condition of anonymity in line with embassy rules.

Americans adopted 7,906 children from China in 2005, raising the total since 1989 to 48,504, according to the Joint Council on International Children's Services in Alexandria, Virginia, an association of adoption agencies and parents' groups.

Another industry opens up for me

MILAN, Italy (Reuters) -- The Italian fashion capital Milan has formally barred ultra-skinny and under-age models ahead of its February catwalk shows, as the fashion world comes under pressure to promote a healthier image.

The agreement signed on Monday between the city and its powerful fashion industry bans models under 16 and those with a body mass index of less than 18.5 from Milan's shows.

The accord also includes courses on healthy eating and exercise and calls for a variety of clothing sizes in shows.

"The agreement is the result of a common effort ... to share and to communicate to our young people the importance of positive models of living," Milan mayor Letizia Moratti said in a statement.

Body mass index is the ratio of weight to the square of height -- so that a 1.73-meter (5 foot 8 inch) model who weighed less than 55.4 kg (122 lb) would be barred.

The accord is broadly in line with a manifesto issued by the national government and Italy's fashion chiefs on Saturday, and due to be signed this week.

Stalking is not a strong point

I am a very bad stalker.

First, I get caught a lot. Good stalkers are supposed to remain under the radar. They stay unnoticed until they reveal themselves in some dramatic fashion. I get caught.

Second, I'm super obvious and can't lie about it. Good stalkers are supposed to be cool, calm and collected. When my stalking activities are brought to my attention, I stammer, get shifty-eyed and sweat profusely.

Third, I don't really do anything and rate poorly in the creepy scale. So I cyber-snoop. So what? I don't do anything with the information I acquire. I don't talk to people about what I know. I keep things to myself. And if the objects of my attention get to know me, they'll discover that I'm really not creepy at all. Some people say I'm actually funny.

Maybe being a bad stalker means I'm a good person. Who knows.

Blind Spots

"How can someone so smart be so stupid!" S. yelled into the phone this afternoon. I had to move the receiver away from my ear.

Ok, fine. I admit it. I have a blind spot. On something. And as the formula of my posts go, it doesn't matter what. I want to dissect the phenomenon of having a blind spot.

If you observe any outwardly intelligent and rational person, you will find, almost invariably, a blind spot. I'm talking about a peculiarity of character -- it could be an interest, a hobby, an obsession, a belief -- that does not quite gel with the outward stability and maturity one exhibits.

Take my sister for example. Super smart doctor; people have called her a genius (and she is). She likes dancing Santa Clauses. At my last count, she owned 3.

TC., good friend of my mothers, is a shrewd businesswoman. Built her own business from scratch. She believes dwarfs exist and that they have mystical powers.

R., a partner at my old firm and C., a partner at my new firm are both highly regarded and widely respected in their respective areas of expertise. Both cannot go 30 seconds in a conversation without talking about themselves.

A. is a 37 year old attorney. A. likes collecting action figures and puts them up on display at home.

I'm sure you get it.

Now the difference between me and the rest of the world is that I recognize my blind spot. So in a sense, I am not blind to my blind spot. I know it exists. But still I can't help myself. Like an 8 year old with a hang nail, I pick on it until it bleeds or like today, until it gets me into trouble. Well, not real trouble. Comical fustian trouble. The trouble I like the best. And that's why S. was yelling at me.

I've asked myself countless of times why I keep indulging in my blind spot. I know it's stupid. And without any shred of meaning or purpose (much like pornography: it is without any redeeming artistic or social quality) but I keep at it.

I keep at it because it makes my heart beat a little faster for a little while. It makes me lightheaded. It makes me smile, think of funny things. It makes me remember who I am.

A really smart person, but with a blind spot.

Food association

Whenever I eat anything, I remember something.

When I prepare and eat a pan fried steak, I think of my sister. She loves making those for herself.

When I have cotton candy or kropek, I think of the pathetic (but oh so much fun) street fairs (perya) my Dad would bring me and my sister to when we were young.

When I eat oysters on a half shell, I think of summers in Iloilo.

When I have a hotdog, I think of those early days of fall in NY when I just got there and kept converting everything into Pesos and didn't want to spend more than a dollar fifty a meal.

When I have foie gras I think of Chum and her crazy idea to raise a goose, fatten it, and send it to the slaughterhouse.

When I eat sisig, I think of Patrick's. The seedy bar me and my friends used to go in college. Then I start thinking of Esperanto, the bar we frequented (i.e. lived in) during law school. Sisig was good there too.

Ham makes me think of Christmas. Galantina my father's birthday. Corn dogs my birthday. Pancit means good news. Somehow we always have pancit to celebrate.

Red wine makes me think of Cheese and Cheers at the Perm. San Mig light reminds me of those random evenings N. and I would hit JG for dinner and drinks. He never refused.

Pancit palabok from Red Ribbon makes me think of my Grandmother. And sometimes I'd go and have some just to think of her.

Sobrang Sad

I have a playlist in my iPod called Sobrang Sad.

It has among other depressing songs, George Michaels's version of "I Can't Make You Love Me" as well as "Love Will Come to You" by the Indigo Girls.

I don't know what it is about sad songs. But they seem to hit you harder than the sweetest of love songs. They stir sharp memories. Sometimes, when you listen to them at just the right moment, you feel a distinct pain in your chest or you cry. Not to sound like I'm stating the obvious, but sad songs make us sad. And that's why we love them.

We love sad movies too. Tell me you didn't like "Dying Young", "Empire of the Sun" "Awekenings", or "Glory". All these movies made me cry, and I enjoyed every one of them. Oh my God, remember "Sommersby"?! Tragic. Loved it.

And sad books. "Waiting" by Ha Jin and Arundhati Roy's "The God of All Things" made me want to flail my arms like a widow in mourning. I felt my heart was pulled out by some force, then when I felt the pit in my chest, it was shoved back in. Ow. But each time I read a book or a story with a melancholic tone, I want to feel that hollow sadness again. [Aside: I read "Interpreter of Maladies" again over lunch today. It was gut (not heart) wrenching. So good.]

Maybe liking sad songs or sad movies is a good thing. It enables us to experience the emotion of sadness, without having to go through something traumatic.

Like a rollercoaster is to fear.

Best Movie of the Year

Watch Paris Je'taime.

It is brilliant.

I won't say much apart from it's a collection of 18 shorts all set in Paris.

It works.

It is un-f*cking-believable.

Watch Paris Je'taime; thank me later.

I therefore conclude....

Look into any window shop of any clothing retailer in HK and you will see the same thing: winter garb, and the hordes of HK residents buying them.

This scares the bejeezus out of me. Apart from the biker jacket (that can only be worn on weekends) I have no winter clothes. Sure I brought the random sweater and my trusty pack of sandos (layering is key), but I don't have Monster's wardrobe of outerwear.

So what do I do when faced with the possiblity of freezing my ass off the next month or so? Well, first I panicked slightly. Then, when the shortness of breath and sweaty palms went away, I decided to conduct an experiment. A test to see (a) how cold it really gets in HK and (b) if there is any basis for all the fuss about winter clothing.

My experiment was both research and trial based. First, research. I went on-line and found historical weather patterns for the last 5 years in HK. According to the material I found, the average temperature in December and January is anywhere between 8-12 centigrage. Ok, not so bad. That's in the high 40's - low 50's for you Americans.

Next, trial. Each trial involved three parts. First I checked the weather before going out. Then I doned what I believed was appropriate outerwear for such temperature and weather condition. And then finally, I observed what the other locals wore to see if they were wearing more or less the same type of apparel. I planned trials to last for a week. It's Day 3 and I have my answer.

The short answer: malamigin ang mga Intsik (Use of the term not meant to be pejorative, but merely descriptive of the mongoloid race.)

First, it's not that cold. It's suit jacket weather. You can actually walk around in a long sleeved shirt (with sando). And if it gets colder (it's 12c now, and the lowest it can go is around 8c) a scarf will do just fine.

Second, you should take a look at what the good people of HK are wearing: knee high boots, mufflers, down jackets, layers upon layers of outerwear. All at 12c! Imagine what they'll be wearing at 8c.

I wouldn't be surprised if they hauled around igloos and went around in dog sleds.

I hate you, Mr. Yates

I read "Oh Joseph, I'm So Tired" over lunch today. After I put the story down I cursed Richard Yates. I cursed him because he showed me, in less than half an hour how a short story should be written. How words should flow efforlessly but deliberately, how a story arc should be developed, how charcters should be revealed, how to show off by criss crossing through time to keep the reader engaged.

He showed me what a complete and utter putz I am.

I think reading a well written piece of anything is like engaging in a sport I am moderately proficient at with an Olympic champion. Sure I play badminton, I think I'm pretty good actually, better than the next guy. Most guys, even. Then I play with someone who's a genius. Someone who understands the game so well, it's like he's dancing.

To watch someone do that, to be able to read something that good, will make you simultaenously want to cry, tear your hair out, embrace the author, and then burn everything you've ever written. Hay. (In moments like this, I lose the facility of speech.)

I've asked myself why I bother writing anything out if won't read like something Mr. Yates has done. I know this is being highly presumptive of me, but read his work. It's so simple, so heartbreakingly uncomplicated, it's as if an imaginative 12 year old (with a good vocabulary) wrote it. The images are so clear. Hay.

Which is absolutely not the case, I know. To be able to write like that, in clear crisp sentences, you need to be more than good, you need a gift. You need this intagible, indescribable natural facility with words. To know precisely what to say and when and how. What I would do to be able to do that.

I'm just an imaginative 31 year old with a good vocabulary.

Nobody knows

Grey's Anatomy opens with Psapp's "Nobody knows". The chorus goes, "Nobody knows where they might end up."

If someone told me this time last year that I'd be out of the The Perm, based in Hong Kong and working for The Firm, I'd tell that someone that he or she was a fool.

The Firm doesn't hire from Manila. They hire from New York. I had my chance at BigLaw after the LL.M. but the market was bad; there were no jobs so I went back home. No problem. Life is like that. You roll with the punches.

But as it turned out, they did hire from Manila. They hired the kid with the 3 year old LL.M. and a dusty framed certificate from the NY bar tucked in her closet.

So now I sit in an over-priced apartment watching DVDs and eating ice cream.

Nobody knows.

Some people have kids...

Google "involuntary retching" and see what you get.

OMG. I have left a permanent ink blot on the world wide web.

OMG.

OMG!

I am SO happy.

Conversations with Dad

An exerpt from yesterday's chat with Dad. Text from the exerpt has not been edited.

Dad: the other day at the Pana party i was saying hello and merry christmas to a lot of faces whose names i cant remember and whose name tags i couldnt read

Dad: masaya

Jona: that's sort of how i felt last night. didn't know half the people there.

Jona: and no one really says merry christmas

Jona: it's all really awkward. since you're having a christmas party with buddhists and jews

Dad: what do they say kung hei fat choy

Jona: haha. they would if it were new year's

Dad: the safe greeting is joy to the world

Jona: i will keep that in mind

Dad: except people will think you are really weird

Jona: that is one downside, yes

Who gives a sh*t about the Russian spy?

Is it just me or are all you sick and tired of the Russian spy story?

I really don't care if he was poisoned, if he was poisoned with radioactive material, if he had ties to the mob, if he was a blackmailer, or if he was trying to take down Putin.

It is so annoying that he gets so much airtime on CNN. What about Britney Spears going arround town with no undies on? What about Paris going after Lindsay's man? What about these more pressing, more interesting issues?

Someone hand me a real newspaper. Someone hand me a People magazine. And if you don't have it, an US Weekly will just have to do.

The Office Christmas Party

Call me crazy, but I actually like office Christmas parties. (How can anyone not like free booze?)

My first office Christmas party was in December 1999. I had just started working for the Perm and my law school buddy BY (then a third year Associate) invited me for pre-dinner drinks at the hotel bar before the party.

I met Chum that night, so maybe that's why I think of office holiday parties fondly. (Nah, it's the free booze.)

Last night was The Firm's Christmas party. Remember that until September I had worked only for the Perm. That my only concept of Xmas parties was that of the Perm's annual loriat dinners at the Shang Makati.

Dig this: The Firm's Christmas party is not much different. There's not as much food (limited amounts of Thai/Vietnamese cuisine), you're not at a hotel (you're at a rinky dink restaurant at Lan Kwai Fong), and the staff actually mingle, sit and eat with the lawyers (instead of those two groups sitting on opposite sides of a huge hall). Ok so far I am not making the case for the identical Chirstmas party theory.

There was a lot of booze. A lot of people got hammered. And I stood there watching the whole thing like it was a science project. "How do Chinese people get drunk? A comprehensive examination of Asian drinking patterns and behavior." (Trivia: They play this game similar to rock paper scissors. But with head movements. Loser takes a shot. How novel.)

You wouldn't have guessed, but I don't like drinking parties (particularly those with lots of people I hardly know). These parties are loud, people don't make sense, everyone is making passes at everyone else. I like intimate gatherings where the 5 of you drink 9 bottles of wine (I actually did this with friends in law school). I also enjoy a drink with a total stranger where you can just bullshit each other to kingdom come, but please, only one total stranger at a time. Not 24 rip roaring drunk Chinese people.

At the stroke of midnight my colleagues decided to go someplace else. I did too. They went to Wan Chai for karaoke and I went home.

In the 2.5 minute cab ride back to my flat I thought, "That wasn't too bad. Libre toma."

Waiting for something

I saw Godot, asan ka? back in college.

[Aside: my spoken Tagalog sucks, but I can read and understand the deepest Tagalog as well as any Iglesia ni Kristo preacher. I know what the words mean; I just can't remember (or pronounce) them.]

I'm thinking about the play because I'm waiting. I'm waiting for something to happen (and/or for something not to happen) in 13 weeks. Two months and a week. Approximately 65 days.

Sometime in February. There. I did the math for you.

No, I'm not pregnant with a puppy. And no, I'm not waiting for someone to give me a Valentine's Day card. It doesn't matter what I'm waiting for; if you haven't figured it out by now, I want to dissect the act of waiting.

Anyone who's watched Godot has done just this (this and question the meaning of everything). What is it with waiting? The expectation, the hope, the frustration, the excitement, the ultimate let down all rolled into one.

It is excrutiating, it is exhilirating. And for those few moments when you cannot breathe in anticipation, it is in a way, exquisite.

Being a little bit more (ok, a lot more) obsessive than the next guy, when I wait I start making up story lines. I visualize what I think will happen and then I play the scene out in my head. What he's going to say, how she responds, how I stand there and say nothing. I can go on like this for hours. I will fall into a dream-like state I will actually write the screen play out of an event I know will happen. Complete with blocking. Then I change my mind, something else will happen. He won't show up, she'll get upset, I start to yell. It's like a second ending on a DVD special edition. But for a part of my life that is yet to be lived.

Tonight I'm getting fixated over this thing again. Whatever it is. I actually got out of bed to write this post out. When I get this way I need to talk things out. Analyze everything to the last painful detail. Usually, S. indulges me and actually listens as I go through my list of what-can-happen.

But last time I looked, I moved to Hong Kong, S. is in Sampaloc and I'm too cheap to call long distance.

So I write.

And it's working; I'm getting sleepy.

Taking care of me

I hated it in New York, I hate it now.

I hate taking care of me.

Jona needs to be fed twice a day, needs a daily dose of caffeine, needs to be brought to the office, brought back home. Someone needs to get her that French shampoo she likes. The Chinese beer she will want at the most random of hours. She needs someone to balance the checkbook, someone to talk to building administration. She needs someone to buy her groceries, pick up her laundry, buy her rice from that place down the street. She needs someone to plan her vacations, make dentist appointments, spa reservations. Someone needs to constantly (and I mean constantly) engage her mind.

In Manila, L. cooked, MA. did the laundry, E. drove me around. Mom handled the money, the groceries. R. got me dinner and spa reservations. I had dozens of friends to keep me entertained (M4 and MD alone could keep me on my toes for hours.)

Now it's all up to me. It is exhausting.

I hate taking care of Jona.

No heat

My apartment has no heat.

With what I pay in rent, I can get a 4 bedroom 3 bath brownstone on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

My apartment has no heat.

I can buy a small plot of land in Cavite every month with what I pay in rent.

My apartment has no heat.

I brought this unfortunate fact up with Ate M. (the font of all Hong Kong related information) and she responded in her usual cool and collected manner, "Oh, there's really no heating in Hong Kong. None of the buildings are heated. You need to buy space heaters."

My apartment has no heat, so I need to buy space heaters.

(Not so) Trivial Pursuits

Some time ago, A. suggested something similar to Googgling yourself: IMDB yourself. You'll be surpised how many movies and TV producers you share your name with. Sounds geeky (and really, it is, but it's cool way to waste a couple of minutes.)

Well, here's another one: Google Image yourself. Here's just a sample of what I got:




Saya, diba?

The one thing I miss the most

I miss my car. I really really miss my car.

I miss the mobility. I never really went anywhere, but just knowing I could, at any time, just pack up and drive to Davao by ro-ro, that made me feel free.

Also, the damn car was SO COOL. I drove a Ford Escape and while it was rarely the best car on the lot, it was almost always the coolest one. There's a lot of pride (read: teenage self-satisfaction) about having the coolest car in the lot (at 30). Even if the lot is just the tiny basement of your office building.

I miss the sound the doors makes when I hit the lock button 18 times before I leave it. I miss the 14 built-in cupholders (how many cupholders does one need? A lot, apparently). I miss looking at the rear view mirror and seeing the CU sticker which always makes me think of New York for a second.

God I miss my car.

The cure for hangovers

I haven’t had a hangover in a long time. I have one now. It is a mild hangover, but it is nonetheless annoying. It’s like there’s an invisible hand putting pressure on the upper portion of my brain. It’s not painful, but it is irritating. I can’t function. (Well, actually I can. I’m just uncomfortable. And cranky.)

I’ve had more than my share of hangovers. In law school, Sunday was hangover day. I could tell what day it was by recalling the involuntary retching I experienced on the Lord’s day of rest and summoning up the smell of vomit. If I could hardly remember the muscle spasms and the bathroom smelled like pine dew, it was probably a Thursday or a Friday.

I don’t know why people keep drinking after they’ve gone through a really bad hangover. I’m talking about the hangover you get when you fall asleep with the ceiling spinning. Waking up in the middle of the night to throw up (some times not making it to the bathroom). You feel a little better, but now you have headache. Finally, you fall asleep, but only after you give in to the headache, the dizziness, the dryness in your mouth.

You wake up four hours later (it’s always four hours for me, I don’t know why) and then things really start to get rough. The retching starts. The involuntary-is-there-an-alien-in my-gut retching. Your whole body heaves. There is nothing to vomit though (except for the bitter tasting yellow bile you seem to have an endless supply of). It’s all gone. Remember the pre-dawn hurl? Apparently your body does not.

The spasms stop. You take a sip of water, the dehydration is awful. Your mouth is chalky, your head is throbbing. Everything is too bright and too loud. You sit on the cold bathroom floor with your eyes closed and think, “I will never drink again. I will never drink again. It’s not worth it. Kalokohan.”

Generations have tried to tout hangover solutions. I’ve heard of the take two aspirin before you sleep method. This works, but it might kill you if you get an allergic reaction to the aspirin or the paracetamol or whatever it is you mix with the alcohol. You pass out from the booze, then you stop breathing. Saya.

Then there’s the “dog’s hair” approach. Have a drink in the morning. It will take the edge off. And it does. And then you turn into an alcoholic. Masaya rin ito.

There’s the bloody mary (or insert some other bizarre concoction here) in the morning. All these potions have two things in common. All taste like crap. And none of them work.

From my extensive experience in dealing with hangovers, I have concluded that there is only one cure for hangovers. A cure that is 100% effective. That cure is time. If you wait long enough, the hangover will go away. It always does.

The hand on my brain will let go, and with it, the curtain of sluggish thinking and hand eye coordination will lift. I will feel great.

So great I will want to celebrate by having a beer.

DVD Marathon Mania

What is it with these DVD compilations of TV series? Why are they so addictive? To paraphrase that ad for potato chips in the 90's, you can't watch just one episode. You need to watch 3-4 at a time, even if it costs you half a night's sleep.

My first run-in with these box sets was with Sopranos, then Sex In the City. Now you see I'm a hardcore Sopranos and SITC fan, so buying the sets (in the original) made sense. I would watch my favorite episodes over and over (There's this episode in Season 2 of SITC when Carrie breaks up with Mr. Big. I cry everytime I see it. Everytime.)

With the technology of piracy advancing, "box sets" aren't in boxes anymore. And neither are they "sets". I watched the first two seasons of Entourage from a single disc. These compilations are getting so cheap (Entourage cost me PhP65) and so good (not a single episode skipped), it feels like such a waste not to have the complete second season of Magnum P.I.

And you end up watching things you were originally only mildly interested in (i.e. Entourage). That's 10 hours of my life I'm not getting back, but last weekend I felt I would just die I didn't know if Vince would get to play Aquaman. (He does!)

Amazing how media develops to suit our ever increasing demands for immediate and accelerated entertainment.

Remember when we actually had to wait for every Tuesday to watch episodes of the A-Team?

Statistician's Wet Dream

I have a site meter embedded in this blog. It not only tracks site traffic, it predicts site traffic and generates all sorts of charts and graphs for me to better know my audience. I know how long the average visit is to my site are (38 seconds). And the days with the highest traffic (Sundays).

Every week the guys who run the site meter send me detailed reports: entry pages, exit pages, reference pages, number of pages viewed per visit. To think I've only told exactly 5 people about this site. And of the 5, only 3 read it regularly. (Thank you Monster, g-r, and A!)

I have regular anonymous readers. There's someone in Canada, another in Benguet who click in every couple of days. Hello person from Canada and person from Benguet. You are readers 6 and 7.

According to my trusty site meter, given the traffic over the last week, I will get over 350 hits next month. About 100 of them will be my own.

Google gets tens of millions of hits a day.

God I can feel the money from the ads pouring in.

It's official: my Happiness is Authentic

Ewan ko na sa 'yo, pero ako masaya.

I took the Authentic Happiness test and I scored a 3.58 out of a possible 5.

Beat that.

(I cannot believe I am being competitive about my personal state of happiness.)

Now take the test yourself and see how you score.

The Posts I Never Posted

I write out stuff that goes through my head. Sometimes they become posts, most times they remain drafts; unfinished ideas that just hang there. Here are a few of those that ended up on the cutting room floor....

My second name is Paz

My aunt Paz died not two months before I was born. My parents say she had a great sense of humour, dark curly hair and a distinct laugh; pig-headed and funny.


WARNING: This is a highly INANE post.

As I tossed the empty cardboard egg container into the bin, I made a mental note to go to the grocery and pick up more eggs. And beer. We're down to one Tsing Tao and the free Heineken which came in the gift basket. And I need OJ. And frozen siomai.

15 minutes later I leave the apartment for the 20 step walk to the grocery, dreading every step. I've always wondered why people like going grocery shopping. I hate grocery shopping. It is just like any errand, it's an obligation. Something someone else can do for you (not unlike paying a credit card bill.) Unfortunately, I am in HK and my groceries are paltry so I don't qualify for home delivery. (And then there's the fact that I live two buildings away from the grocery.)


Sige na nga...

Have you ever wanted to do something so bad you were compelled to do it? I'm talking about physically-moved-by-an-external-force compelled.

That third beer, that cigarette, those really expensive shoes, that call to someone in the middle of night, going back to and re-reading for the 7th time the two-paragraph e-mail you've wasted an hour drafting. Okay, so maybe only I get that last reference.


Constant Discontent

An old wise man once told me that to succeed in anything I had to have constant discontent. You need to improve, develop, progress, advance. All the time.

I was glad Old Wise One told me about constant discontent when I was young and impressionable. I believed him, and have sort of led my so-called life accordingly. I honestly believe that I can always do better, achieve more. Why content yourself with something, anything you can improve?

To be happy, that's why.

I am on a diet

It is called, for-the-love-of-Christ-Jona-stop-eating-too-much diet. You wouldn't guess it, but I named it myself.

I've been on an eating spree the last month. There were those two weeks in Manila, and then when I got back, more eating with visitors: first Joe, then Kuz, then L. and V. If the actual food intake doesn't get me (i.e. Kuz does not eat), the imbibement of coupious amount of alcoholic beverages will.

This madness has to stop.

I decided to start on Monday which is a good mental starting point. I considered holding off until December 1 (Thursday) since the start of the month would be a more distinct mental starting point than the start of a mere work week, but I kept my focus and started yesterday. Because that's just the kind of disciplined, all about business chick that I am.

They say that writing out what you eat helps you stay honest and keep to your diet. So these are (some of) the things I ate yesterday (Day 1 of FTLOCJSETM Diet):

Breakfast:

2 cups of black coffee (Calories: 0)

Lunch:

Chicken pocket from mix (Calories: 400, that's what it said on the packaging)
Coke Light (Calories: 1; carcinogenic properties: countless)

Dinner No. 1:

isang bandehadong kanin (I exaggerate: it was just one side order of white rice, but in HK, the portions for rice are enormous. In Manila the menu would read, "Good for two") (Calories: 10,867)
two scrambled eggs (Calories: 150, I'm guessing)
5 small pieces of bottled tuyo (Calories: not too many, I hope)
1 Tsing Tao beer

Dinner No. 2: (another cousin in town, "dragged" me to Pacific Place for free dinner)

one piece fancy dimsum
12 pieces tiny sauteed shrimp (I swear, they were tiny)
1 piece (small) meat filled bun
1 sweet (small) bun for dessert
2 (large) glasses of wine

Hmmm.... maybe I should start on December 1. Just so it's a clean start.

I'll be home for Christmas

Today I booked my flight to Manila to spend the holidays with the Parental Units. Another perk about living in HK is that you're only 90 minutes away from home. Even counting the time you wait at the airport, HK is still closer than Baguio.

Aside: The cost of going home at this time though is prohibitive. HK may be closer than Baguio, but a ticket home costs just about the same as a ticket to San Francisco. Business class, but still.

I'm looking forward to seeing friends and family. To attend nightly Christmas parties where you stuff yourself silly with with ham and relleno, drink too much and pretend you actually like your relatives or the people you work(ed) with.

I'm excited to see the lit parols along Granada, the unbelievably tacky Christmas display in Greenhills, the Christmas lights in Makati.

I want to go to midnight mass and smell the incense I am allergic to. (According to my sister I., this is proof positive that I am the Evil One.)

The ticket costs too much, I won't be staying that long, and I'll probably be spending half my time in traffic, but the energy during Christmas time in Manila is definitely worth the effort and the expense.

Ugly Children

Monster had a post a couple of days ago on a spanget (saksakan ng panget) baby she and Trog had the pleasure of sharing a train (or it could have been a bus) with up in Oslo. That post, and the various pictures of severly ugly children on my friends' sites on Friendster got me thinking: bakit dumadami ang panget na bata?

Seriously. Or is it just that my friends' children are really ugly? (Except C and K, of course. C and K are gorgeous children. And P does not count because he is a nephew and is a young Tom Cruise) Feel free to roam my Friendster site if you don't believe me.

When we were kids, we were cute. Well, I dunno about you but I was cute. I wasn't a Gerber baby or a model for a cherubin poster, no. But I was a sturdy sucker, had the apple hair cut and the mischievious grin. Kids now have adult hair cuts are really really thin. What's up with that? When did 4 four year olds start looking like adults? It's not just ugly, it's creepy.

I don't have kids, but I have dozens of nieces and nephews and a handful of godchildren, so I have had some exposure to children. And from my experience with children all I can say is that until they turn 23, there's really not much to talk about. What's your favorite color? Which Pokemon (now Thomas train) character is that? Who do you love more, Mommy or Daddy? All these questions get old really fast.

Kids are meant to be looked at. To be enjoyed visually. They should look healthy, coo (or when they're old enough, smile and laugh that silly laugh kids have). They are meant to symbolize health, growth, development and hapiness. I don't sense that with my friends' kids.

Now go look at those pictures and tell me I'm wrong.

So what'll it be, Hon?

Hardly anyone speaks in English in Hong Kong. No one tells you this when you move here. But it's the sad honest truth. My assistant, S. doubles as my Cantonese coach. She actually just writes stuff out for me (my address, "One order of white rice, please."). I don't understand the logic involved in the inflections of spoken Cantonese, so I've given up trying to learn.

Got home a bit early today, so I walked around the area. Saw a tiny place selling roast goose and duck and my heart broke. Yet another place I can't walk into (without a yellow sticky from S.). But I was hungry and thought, what the hell. The worst thing that can happen is that they won't understand me or I walk out of there with roasted pig's entrails instead of duck (which is not necessarily a bad thing).

I walk up to the lady at the counter. She looks at me and yells, "Hong ching long a ling ding" (or something like that). I guess that was Cantonese for , "So what'll it be, Hon?"

I meekly say, "Hello."

She responds with quizzical look. I get this all the time. Everyone thinks I'm Chinese.

After a couple of seconds she figures out I'm a gweilo and responds with, "Yes? What you order?"

I walked out with a quarter duck (plum sauce on the side, please), and white rice, all with no help from S.

Reasons to live in HK nos. 41-44

Walang lamok.

Walang langgam.

Walang langaw.

Walang unidentifiable random insects.

More youghurt please

I thought these words would never leave my lips, but they did. Today. At lunch.

I gained so much weight during the last two weeks in Manila. For fourteen almost consecutive days I would have a buffet breakfast, an oily lunch, heavy meal-like merienda, dinner and another heavy and oily meal-like midnight snack. It was amazing! It was awful.

Thank God I didn't get my clothes altered!

And what makes matters worse is that a new food store opened in my building. I call it "food store" because it has everything: groceries, meat, seafood, cooked food. Sort of like Unimart but with osso buco you can take away. It is awesome. It will surely make me fat(ter).

So now I try to compensate by eating healthy lunches. Let's see where this goes... (more importantly, let's see how long this lasts)

We'll always have the giant Buddha

After ice cream and live fusion music at the HK Cultural Center, Joe and I recalled our day.

Jona: I thought today was pretty good.
Joe: Orange juice is a diuretic.
Jona: Huh?
Joe: I need to go the bathroom again.

[Runs to the john. Back in 3 minutes.]

Joe: I thought today was great. We'll always have the giant Buddha we didn't see.

x x x

The Buddha at Lantau Island is 40 meters high. It is touted as the biggest outdoor Buddha in the world. It sits atop a steep hill that believers and tourists can access by climbing a long staircase. On a clear day, this is what you are supposed to see:

Like I mentioned in the last post, when we got to the foot of the hill, the smog was so thick, Joe almost got an asthma attack. You could see nothing beyond 5 feet.

Yes, it was that bad.

You don't believe me? Here is a picture of Joe climbing the staicase. That white spot of sky above his head is where big Buddha should be.

When we got to the top, we still could not see a thing. I was really frustated, (not to mention exhausted from the climb) but Joe the optimist would not give up. He insisted on taking my picture "with the Buddha". This is what we came up with:

This picture is actually one of those really creepy pics for two reasons: when this photo was taken, you could not see the Buddha at all; and there was no random guy in the background..... ooohhhh. Seriously, you couldn't see the Buddha. My camera is amazing. It can see through things. Hmmm.....

After the failed Buddha expedition, we took the cable cars back. Jona to Joe, "Under no circumstances are we taking that bus back."

This is what we saw:

We went back to Central and feasted in a Persian restaurant. Thinking we had the energy of the 18 year olds we once were, we hopped on the ferry to go see the Art Musuem. Instead we crashed at Haagen Dazs and pigged out again, walked around the Cultural Center and listened to free live fusion. Exhaustion crept up as we made our way back to Central.

Three hours later we were hungry again and so continued our discussion on politics, movies and ISDA Repurchase Agreements over borscht and pelminis at a Ukranian restaurant near the escalators.

My Weekend With Joe

As I waved Joe off this morning I remembered the dozens of times I'd said goodbye to him in the past. The smug grin was permanent, but I'd seen that with an inverted baseball cap, long hair, a shaved head, a Giordano t-shirt (frog and crest), a business suit.

Joe flew in and landed on my couch a few days ago. He was in dire need of a break and I was in dire need of a housitter. So while I was in Manila finishing off my deal (we closed Friday, yipee!) Joe came by and cleared his head and looked after my flat.

I was back in HK Saturday afternoon and rang the bell to my own apartment. Joe looked great. He'd filled out since the last time I saw him. He's usually skin and bones so filling out is actually a good thing.

I plopped on the couch next to him and we spent the next two and half hours catching up. I told him about the new job, the big move, he told me about the latest fire at work he needed to put out and now wanted to stay away from for a couple of days.

Joe and I go way back. We met as freshmen in college and have stayed in touch since graduation. I went to law school he went to B school. He's a quasi investment banker now (quasi since even he's not impressed with the amount of capital flowing in Manila).

He wanted to go to an Irish bar so I took him to an Irish bar. He had fish and chips, I had bangers and mash. As we watched Fedderer whip Nadal's ass, we talked about college and the people we both knew.

Sample conversation:

Joe: ....what about Eric B? Remember him?
Jona: You mean Batangas Beef B?
Joe: Yep, that's the one.
Jona: Didn't he get married and doesn't he have two kids na? Have you heard from him?
Joe: I heard he's been married twice; no kids.

We went to my favorite bar at Lan Kwai Fong and drank s'more. Joe and I enjoy our beer (he drinks pale ale, I drink cloudy weiss), and enjoy each other's company (partly) for that reason. Over our 7th beer he told me that it had been 8 months since he last spoke to his father. He didn't mention it again. I didn't ask.

Sunday we had breakfast at this 24 hour diner that serves breakfast all day. From behind a newspaper Joe told me that one of his favorite football players got traded. I asked for whom. Without a pause and without moving the paper Joe replied, "he was traded in for a car."

We decided that we'd go see the giant Buddha on Lantau Island. We both agreed it was satisfactorily campy. On the train we noted the "exquisite shipping containers that spotted the HK countryside" and the "hidden Mickey" signs along the freeway.

After half an hour on the train we get on a bus and go through one of the bumpiest rides of our lives. Joe and I get vertigo so at the end of the 50 minute ride we were both in foul moods. Then the fog came in and visibility was zero. We couldn't see a thing. An hour of hairpin curves and bumpy roads all to breathe in toxic fumes and see nothing. To say we were both pissed was an understatement.

More to follow....

While at the random (but nice) Subic resort.....

I took pictures.

Life Lessons from Dad

Pag may ahas, lokohan.

Work smart, don't work hard.

There is no such thing as too much ass kissing.

Do not forget anything. Right before you leave anywhere, have a moment of reflection.

Pray.

Hwag kang mag-aasawa ng may tattoo. (pronounced tato)

Save. Save. Save.

No matter what you do, you cannot sustain that pleasurable light headedness after the third or fourth drink. You will get very drunk and you will feel bad in the morning.

Check that your car doors are locked 18 times before you leave it.

Nap.

Count your change.

Check your boarding pass.

Read constantly.

Take care of your eyesight.

Don't work too hard.

Why I Don't Like Clubs

I don't like clubs or other forms of social aggrupations because they're artificial. In real life there's family, friends and people you know from work. Period. There is no real life equivalent to a fellow Rotarian or a fraternity "brother". That's just made up.

And people make it up (I think) because they lack the social interaction other people have in real life. Which is really sad (no judgement), but I guess you can't blame them for wanting to reach out to others. Sniff. Sniff.

I'm not dissing hobbyists. These guys group together because they all like one thing. Comic books, drama, porcelain dolls that freak me out, etc. Whatever floats your boat I say. You're a 38 year old male and like collecting toys and wanna reach out to fellow 38 year old men who enjoy sniffing new plastic dolls as well... well, um.... as N. likes to say, "Congrats".

Then there are the civic minded do-gooders. We all love the poor. Yeah right. You all want to network and expand your social circles. Please. Spare me.

Why can't people live standard social lives (like me). There's family. Some you hate, some you love. There are your friends. Most you love. Then there are people from work. Most you hate. Isn't that enough? Where do you Lion guys find the time? There are only 24 hours in a day. And if you have the 4 hours it takes to drive and go to one of these meetings, well...

I envy you.

Ahhh... SGV!

When I used to work for the Perm, people always thought I worked for SGV, the accounting firm. That was very frustrating for me because 1) I was very proud to be working for the Perm (really, I was) 2) I am a lawyer and to be mistaken for an accountant is not a good thing and 3) SGV's hiring policies were not as strict as the Perm's, if you know what I mean.

Now I work for the firm that is arguably the best in the WORLD. And again I feel very special to be a part of a highly skilled group of people. Heck, we are the friggin' BOMB! But noooo... no one knows about The Firm, and each time I tell people where I work, they look at me with a blind awful stare (when I'm going for shock and awe).

I may have a completely different life now, but some things never change.

Sent from Jona's Blackberry

This is sobrang galing 2000! I can blog while on the go! Passing thoughts will no longer just pass. They'll pitch a tent and camp out.

Mabuhay ang advances in technology! Mabuhay!

Meanwhile, back at the Shang...

Thursday night at the Edsa Shang. Friday night at some random (but nice) Subic resort. Saturday night at the Parentals. Sunday and Monday night at my flat in Central. Tuesday night back at the Shang.

If I didn't write that out, I would not have remembered.

To say that things have been going very fast is.... well, putting it mildly.

The male Parental Unit said I would grow tired of this schedule in 2 years. It's been 2 months. I am tired; that's accurate, but I don't consider my new life flat or humdrum. Quite the opposite, in fact. It's literally a thrill a minute.

Now, if can just stay awake to enjoy it.

Eugenio Montale

I've been thinking about the transience of everything. Not just the big things like a person's lifetime or fortune or fame. I'm talking about the little things, like a bad mood, a headache, a broken nail. Everything passes and people move on. Or they forget.

I've been working on a deal that has taken my life, along with my sleeping hours with it. I am consumed by this transaction. At night, I dream about the papers I need to draft. While at a dinner party, I will remember something and scribble a note on a piece of paper to remind myself later. I am all about the deal right now.

But then I think this deal will close at the end of the week and that will be the end of it. I will move on and work on something else. This week will just be another busy week in what has quickly become a very busy life. In a couple of years I might forget what the whole fuss was about. That week I slept 10 hours in 5 days. What was I working on then again?

After a brief moment of reflection, I slip into the eveloping demands of the job again. I vacillate between giving a kidney for this deal to close and going all existential about the entire exercise.

According to S., this constant mental push and pull contributes to my heightened "wakefulness". I don't really know what she means, but it sounds pretty good.

...

Eugenio Montale won the Nobel prize for literature the year I was born. He must have led a life dedicated to his craft. Spent years agonizing over his work. No one remembers.

Literally matigas ang ulo

SAO PAULO, Brazil (AP) -- A Brazilian woman who was shot six times in the head after an altercation with her ex-husband was out of the hospital and talking to the media on Saturday.

"I know this was a miracle," 21-year-old housewife Patricia Goncalves Pereira told Globo TV.

"Now I just want to extract the bullets and live my life."

Pereira was shot Friday in the small city of Monte Claros, about 900 kilometers (560 miles) north of Sao Paulo, after quarreling with her former husband, who was reportedly upset because she refused to get back together with him. She was also shot once in the hand.

Doctors could not explain why the .32-caliber bullets did not penetrate Pereira's skull and didn't even need to be extracted immediately.

"I can't explain how something like this happened," surgeon Adriano Teixeira said, adding that the bullets were lodged under the woman's scalp.

The ex-husband was still at large.

G means Go

I spent the better part of a minute standing in a stationary elevator today. Actually, I participate in this form of stupidity almost everyday: I get in the elevator and just stand there. I forget that I need to push the button for the floor where I'm headed.

To my credit, this happens only when I'm headed down (I am not a complete idiot). Going up is easy. The elevator is not God, it cannot tell where you're headed when you walk in an elevator of a building with 44 floors. So I always hit the floor button on my way up. (And it works every time!)

But going down is a different story. You walk in from the 42nd floor and where else are you supposed to go but down? As in down to the ground floor. Isn't that obvious? Where else would you go? The 23rd floor? What's there? Another office, that's what. Someone else's office. Why you you want to go there?

And that's why I don't hit G when I'm going down. Because I expect the elevator to be as smart as I am.

But I realize that might be unfair to the elevator. So now when I walk into an elevator I hit G. Since it stands for "Go".

And I stand in a stationary elevator each time I'm on my way up.

Moving Out, Moving In, Moving Up

Today is moving day. I actually only move about 600 meters to the right, but believe me, the shortness of the distance is inversely proportional to the degree of luxury I am moving into.

We've all seen those movies where the lead character (or as my grandmother used to say "ang guapo" and in my case, ang guapa) lives in a huge loft that takes up the whole floor? Well, my apartment is not that big, and no, it's not a loft (windows are floor to ceiling though) but dig this: it takes up the whole floor.

No shit.

When you get off the elevator on my floor, there is only one door. My door.

I cannot get over this. There is is no hallway, no noisy neighbors. No children, no pets.

(Thank you, God. Not just for the absence of noise, but for the beautiful apartment.)

So Many Keys

I used to carry only my car keys. (Actually just car key. Come to think of it, why do people say car keys, when all they mean is car key, singular. Ah well, fodder for another post.) And when I got driven around, I carried no keys.

Now though, I'm like friggin' Mr. Quickie with all these keys I need to carry around. There's the key (well, access card) to the apartment. And then the key (well, access card) to the office. Then there's the key to... wait... it will come to me....

.... (Jona still thinking)

Aha!The executive bathroom! (But no, I don't carry this one around.)

Ok, so, fine. So I still don't carry keys. And this post is kalokohan.

Give me a break, I'm at work on a sunny Saturday, and I can't find my keys to the friggin executive bathroom.

Samalamig! Samalamig!

It's getting cold.

I've lived through one of New York's worst winters. I've spent Christmas in the middle of Ohio. You'd think a little Hong Kong chill wouldn't faze me. And it doesn't. Well, not really.

It's just that I don't have this mental image of Hong Kong being cold. It's crowded, dirty, full of bright lights, energy (and Chinese people), but it's never cold.

But it does get pretty chilly here. During the last two weeks of December, and for several weeks into the new year, temperatures are in the single digits. Centrigrade, but still. That's still colder than a really really cold day in Baguio. Forgive the parochial metaphor, like most Pinoys, when I think cold, I think Baguio.

I brought this biker jacket I used to wear in New York. It's really cool, but I haven't worn it in years because it's been too hot to wear anywhere.

I think at least 3 of the 5 people who read this blog will agree: the upshot of cold weather is that you can have a completely different wardrobe for a couple of months.

It will never be November 2, 2006 again

Just like the day you turned 30, your wedding day, that Christmas you stopped believing in Santa Claus, the day you passed the bar, the day your grandmother died. They happened once, they will never happen again.

Just like today, November 2, 2006.

Those days are just as important or as inconsequential as today.

[All this while I was checking my receipt for the boneless chicken and rice I had for lunch today.]

Fast Forward

When I feel like writing and have nothing to say about my current state of affairs, I blog about future events. I imagine what a certain day will be like (today it was moving day) and then I draft (God that sounds geeky) a few paragraphs about it. I don't publish these posts immediately. I actually wait for the day to occur, tweak the language for accuracy, then publish (God I am such a geek).

I wouldn't call it cheating, no. It's more like preparing. Preparing for what I'm not too sure.

Advance posting is cool, but somewhat bizarre. You get to write about an event that has not actually occurred, so you don't have strong emotions about it; you can be "objective", in a really weird and twisted way. It also feels like fiction, since you're making stuff up as you go along, but not, since you eventually do the things you write about, so it's very deja vu-ish when you actually heave that heavy suitcase down the hall.

You also get to tell yourself how you hope/wish/think/anticipate things will turn out. Sometimes you get what you want, most times things are not as interesting or exciting. Then you go back and re-write or revise, depending how your day went. You tell yourself what you want out of life by writing about it, live life, then write about again, this time after going through an experience. It's like being your own therapist.

Bizarre, diba?

What's on your shampoo bottle?

When I didn't know how to read, my shampoo bottle read, "No more tears."

When I started running around my violet plastic shampoo bottle had, "Gee, your hair smells terrific." plastered all over it.

Then I got a little older and went for "That fresh clean feeling."

I moved on to, "For shiny and more beautiful hair." and "All organic, all natural." (but I was allergic so had to pick something else).

I tried, "For tangle-free hair" for a little while. I dabbled into "Dandruff free hair in 3 days" and "For softer, silkier shine."

Now my shampoo bottle reads, "Shampooing detente cheveux secs et tres rebelles." (Roughly translated into English as "smoothing shampoo for dry and rebellious hair.")

You gotta admit I've come along way.

Those round thingys that hold your cuffs together

"Silk knots. They're called silk knots, Jona."

I've known about silk knots since I started wearing shirts with french cuffs, but I haven't actually known what they were called until last week.

My tailored shirts from Manila always came with two buttons that were joined together by a string. Like a really really poor man's cufflinks. (Here's a thought: would a really really poor person have cufflinks? Ooohhh.....)

When I got to Hong Kong, each time I had my shirts dry cleaned, those buttons would disappear. And after about a week, I'd gone through all my shirts and all my buttons were gone.

I needed to buy those round thingys that hold your cuffs together.

I walked in the office right next to mine, W's, and described in a very articulate fashion what I needed to buy. It did not help that I was wearing a blouse that day.

"I need those round thingys that hold your cuffs together," gesturing to my non-existent cuffs.

Hong Kong being what it is, I had a pack by day's end.

(And if you think this post is inane, wait till you read the next one.)

The Trouble With Pre-Nups

I spent most of the day in the middle of negotiations concerning the "unwinding" provisions of a financial transaction. For you mortals, unwinding provisions are those parts of the contract that relate to how the parties amicably undo a deal after something goes wrong and both parties don't want to go through with it anymore.

Sounds familiar? Well, it's something like a pre-nup. But for a corporate deal worth hundreds of millions of dollars. So like Donald Trump's pre-nups.

There are many delicate issues related to the negotiation of unwinding provisions. First, you have to think of all the bad bad things that can go wrong. Whose fault it will be, and then you figure out how both parties can come out unscathed, or well, at least as close to when before they got into the whole mess. As you can imagine, it is a touchy subject.

"If you fail to fund on closing date, you'll need to pay for all my breakage costs."

"Well, if you fail to deliver on closing date, I can revoke the L/C and draw on the escrow account."

Which is the corporate equivalent of "If you cheat on me, I take the house and the kids."

The trouble with pre-nups (and unwinding provisions) is that you have to look into the future and predict the worst possible scenario. Then you have to discuss the effects of those ruinous circumstances to the deal, este, marriage, and what each party is willing to take. Then you agree on what to do. And the way out may just be be as ruinous as the mess you're in.

It's bad chi all around, but as the time tested baduy saying goes: you need to prepare for the worst. The difficulty is that when the shit does hit the fan, you can't expect yourself to act rationally. But this is precisely what you're assuming when you negotiate pre-nups. You assume that both parties will do the reasonable thing.

Hmmm, as the not so time tested and not baduy saying goes, "Sige, good luck na lang."

I don't see how you can realistically agree on expected behavior during a meltdown. Circumstances like that are impossible to predict, let alone you're reaction to them.

Libreng Tawag

I have theories about almost anything. So it's not surprising that I have a theory about freebies and Pinoys. Filipinos loooove free things. Even "free" things that are not free.

To illustrate:

1. Christmas give-aways from your insurance provider. You know that umbrella you got last Christmas? Or it could have been a calendar or a notepad or day planner. Whatever. Those corporate give-aways. Here's a startling revelation: they're not really free. You get them from people you pay an annual fee to, like an insurance company or service provider.

2. Hotel membership perks. You know that "free night" at the Mandarin you got when you became a member of their VIP club? You paid for that with the PhP10,000 joining fee you paid, you idiot.

3. "Free" internet, "free" calls, etc. I'm writing this from the Shang Edsa where I'm staying for a couple of days. When I checked in, the guy at the front desk said that if I paid for a room upgrage (an extra US$50) I get stuff like "free" internet, "free" local calls and "free" dry cleaning. So OF COURSE, I just had to bite.

4. "Free" samples, "free" tastes. Of course you'll buy the pasta sauce after you taste it. Because really, that small cracker with a smudge of red paste on it was "super yummy"! (People actually talk this way in these bazaars, like people get stupid when they walk in the NBC Tent or some random hotel ballroom.)

5. "Free" love. Hmmm.... I think we all agree that you pay a really high price for this. Ok, so this may not be Pinoy specific. But it's cheesy, and I pretty good ending to this post and truthfully, I've just ran out of other "free" stuff ideas.

Work with me, people. Work with me.

10 Things I Hate About Me

I’m short.

I can’t speak French.

I’ve never been to Spain.

I'm impatient.

I am not charming.

I can’t play a musical instrument with proficiency.

I’m messy.

I get really angry.

I forget things.

I have a poor sense of direction.

Finally

My boss T. uses a red pen to review and mark-up the drafts of letters, contracts, notices, forms, heck, all written material I prepare. And when he's done, my drafts looks like they had a bad day in Bahgdad. They're bloddy all over; with red ink all over the margins, sometimes even spilling to the back side of the page. Everyday, dozens of literary massacres occur within my 20 square meter office.

Everyday until yesterday, that is.

Until yesterday, T. would come into my room with a draft he just butchered, sit down, make himeslf comfortable and begin to tell me in a very calm and methodical manner why my work is crap. Well, he doesn't use the word "crap" he says things like, "I would have done it this way..." "This is what I would do..."

Eh di ikaw na nga lang ang gumawa?!

But of course I don't say that. I just think that and send angry telepathic messages. Good thing T. is American and does not understand Tagalog.

Yesterday he comes in as usual with a draft of a loan agreement I handed him 10 minutes before. A draft that took me 3 hours to prepare and he says, "I added a "the" on page 4."

I look at the white pristine pages of the contract and look back up at him.

"That's it?"

That's it.

Touch down.

Why I Love American Politics

This is an actual news item from CNN.com today.

LOS ANGELES, California (Reuters) -- Porn star Mary Carey said Monday she was dropping out of the California governor's race to be with her ailing mother, who has been hospitalized in Florida since jumping off a four-story building last month.

Carey, who shot to worldwide fame with her quixotic gubernatorial campaign against Arnold Schwarzenegger in 2003, said her mother was in critical condition at a Ft. Lauderdale hospital and facing surgery.

"As much as I want to help the state of California be a better place, I think it is more important to be with my mom and help her," Carey said in a written statement. Carey said her mentally handicapped mother jumped off the building in September.

"I am only 26 and have many more years to be involved in politics, but right now I must be in Florida with my mom," Carey said. "For now I would just like to ask everyone to pray for a healthy recovery."

The star of such adult film titles as "Boobsville Sorority Girls" is running as a write-in candidate in 2006 because she failed to gather enough signatures to be on the November ballot.

Cost of Living in Hong Kong

Go to Google and type "cost of living" and the name of any city and you will be brought to a list of dozens of sites claiming to have the most accurate description of how much things cost in that city.

Let's take Hong Kong. Lists will tell you how much you will spend in Hong Kong for a nanny, kindergarten, international school, a plasma tv, a boat.

Ang tanong: do we really care? It's as if these price indices were prepared by losers who simply guess what items foreigners would be insterested in.

So as a service to my fellow man, here is a basket of goods I have compiled. I trust this wil be useful to you (all amounts in HK Dollar):

1 order of plain rice - 7-10
1 bottle of Russian vodka - 115-130
dinner at a French restaurant for two with wine - 1,200
6 pieces chicken nuggets at McDonald's - 12
taxi ride - 15 (flag down); a 20 minute ride would cost about 40
DVD (original) - 100-250 (depending how new the title is)
movie ticket - 80
medium sized container of popcorn at the movies - 25

The Mathematics of Friendster

I have 120 friends on Friendster. I've always thought this was a pathetic number, with other people's lists breaking the 200 level easily and frequently.

But then I noticed the number of my "second degree" Friendsters: 4,348.

Assuming each of my 120 friends had their own 120 Friends (even counting overlap), I'd be looking at 14,400 second degree friends. Instead I have 4,348 (and only God know how many of those are fictional, diffrent profiles of the same person, etc.).

Divide 4,348 by 120 and you get 36.2; the average number of friends my friends have. I therefore have 330% more friends than my friends do.

Look who's Ms. Popular all of a sudden.

Can't Complain

I worked the whole day today (Sunday). Most people would be up in arms for having to toil on God's day of rest.

My take: ok, lang.

Pay's good and I get to fly home 2-3 times a month on business.

Beat that.

Cook for a Day

I'm not sure what freaks people out more about me. The fact that I wear skirts (because this freaks me out too) or the fact that I can cook. And I mean I know more than how to fry an egg. I'm talking sinigang cook.

I know, freaky.

So between buying the god-damned Tumi carry-on and working my tail off yet again, I cooked. Pan fried garlic tenderloin tips with soy sauce. Fresh shrimps sauteed in tomatoes, onions and my special secret ingredients (it involves chili).

Hmmmm..... let's recap. I earn enough money to put 4 children through college and I cook.

Putang ina, I would marry me.

On Not Acquiring

As a general rule, I don't like buying things.

I tell myself I do, so I research and comparison shop and ask people where they bought their laptop or watch or car or make-up (ok maybe not this last one) and then I reasearch and comparison shop again. I am one focused and driven comparison shopper.

Then I don't buy anything.

There was the mountain bike, the Omega Seamaster, dozens of shoes I can't remember, the bags (I don't even know why I look at them, I don't carry them.)

I know a lot about the things I never buy. It's not the money (we all know that). And it's not the spending either. I can drop US$200 on an evening of expensive cocktails, but I can't buy myself a US$25 purse.

It's this whole concept of acquiring. I'm not really into it. I buy things I need (like toothpaste) and I buy things I want (like a book or a DVD). But I don't buy things that other people consider necessary, like new shoes or bags or shirts. I buy these things when I need them. I don't really care for them.

I guess that not having a desire to shop is actually a good thing since I now live in shopping central. But I feel left out when my friends talk about this new skirt they just really needed to have. My thinking is, unless you're on some desert island naked, you will never really "need" a skirt. (And come to think of it, if you're on that desert island, wouldn't you need drinking water first before that Gucci knock-off skirt?)

I actually have the day off today. I'll be going to the mall to get a big juicy steak for dinner, and that Tumi cabin bag I've been looking at for months.

The Mother of All Assholes

Let's get one thing straight first: I'm a lawyer; I AM an asshole. So if you're thinking of leaving a smart ass comment like, "It takes one to know one"; too bad. I've beaten you to it.

People have called me arrogant, mayabang, ma-angas, ma-hangin, and a couple of times: saksakan ng mayabang. No biggie. I know I come off strong sometimes; that's how I am. But speak to me for two minutes and you will realize: "Oo nga, ang yabang nito."

But last night. My God. I've met him. The most arrogant and self-centered man in the universe. Ang galing. (Like when you see a growth in a man's neck the size of a fist, "galing".) And I thought I was bad. This guy made me look like Anna Lisa or Flor de Luna, or one those really meek chick types.

I know it takes all kinds for the world to turn. Yada, yada, yada. But this individual should be put down.

But stop. Wait.

I could be this prick in a couple of years. The money, the lifestyle. You get sucked in and when they spit you out you're a soulless excuse for a person.

Thank God for mother asshole. Now I know what I don't want to be when I grow up.

Alala Mo Nung Sikat Yung...

I have this theory about Pinoys: we always need something to obsess about that is uso. I don't know why that is, but Filipinos tend to really enjoy trends (alliteration intended... and there it is again!). Trends in anything: food, fashion, political uncertainty, religion. You name it, we got it.

Lechon manok, shawarma, Zagu and just recently, Go Nuts Donuts. What's goes on during these "food frenzies" I don't really know, but they occur every couple of years and it always (as in always) involves some sort of consumable as a hyper popular business venture. Someone makes a lot of money making sago drinks and before you know it, BOOM! Every corner has an annoying yellow Zagu sign.

Tretorns, Reeboks, Espadrilles. Ok, so this was a while back. But remember when they were super uso? As in if you didn't wear them, you were out (play on words intended). Did you know that Tretorn is a Sweedish brand? Reebok English and Esparille Spanish? Pati yung progeny ng uso, uso din. No wonder sikat din yung K-Swiss noon.

Singles, Couples, Bakers, and Candlestickmakers for Christ. This I don't get at all. Why do you need to form a group to honor God? I have no idea. But Filipinos lurv creating "prayer groups" and "bible circles" and "charismatic organizations". Like praying in solitude is something for losers. [As you may note, I have serious issues with oraganized worship of any sort. But that is for another post. Basta, the point here is that uso ang Bible study sa 'Pinas.]

Coups, Scandals, White Elephants. In a country whose government is as corrupt as it is ineffective, it is not surprising that there is always one form of political malfeasance going on. When I was in high school, coup attempts were almost as frequent as Menudo concerts. Every politician and his mother gets implicated in scandals (none of whom ever get prosecuted). And you're not a President unless you leave a big hunk of crap the country pays billions of Pesos for (i.e. the Bataan nuclear power plant, that Expo center in Clark and the mega dike).

Someone Hand Me a Can Opener

When I moved here, my Dad instructed me to bring an assortment of canned goods. Yes, you read that right: nag dala ako ng de lata. Parang akong typhoon evacuee in a provincial high school gym in the middle of rainy season.

I brought the following food items with me:

6 cans of Campbell soup (various flavors)
10 little cans of Purefoods corned beef (this I actually wanted to bring)
3 cans of Spam Lite
3 bottles of Spanish sardines

Now I'm down to 3 cans of soup, 1 Spam, the Spanish sardines and 8 tins of corned beef. I've been here over a month and cannot seem to make a real dent on these groceries.

Tonight though, I am staying in and intend to tick off another can of soup from my To Eat List.

I Hate Seinfeld

I hate the TV show Seinfeld. It's not just not funny. It is downright annoying.

And no, it's not like I don't get the ridiculous humour. I understand what they are trying to do. Unrelated although intertwined plot lines that cause incongruity is theoretically funny. But that's as far as Seinfeld goes. It's funny in theory.

But I think I should just come clean and not over-think things. I don't like Seinfeld because there are no physically attractive people in it. Friends was shallow and dumb, but I tolerated it because you had skinny girls with long straight hair in it.

Look who's being shallow and dumb.

Finding God

I'm in a slump. I think the move has lost it's novelty and now I just have to accept the stark realities about moving to a foreign country. As always, I've made a list. And here's what I have so far:

1. No friends.
2. No roots.
3. No car.
4. Language barrier.
5. An entire 2-bedroom apartment (with a kitchen and a bathroom) as big as my bedroom back home.
6. No car.

Have I mentioned no car? This lack of mobility is unnerving. But that's for another post.

So here I am, slaving away and thinking what a sad and lonely life I lead (gotta hype the drama so the punch line has more golpe.)

I work about 12-15 hours a day, everyday, even weekends. And believe me, I am a very efficient worker. It is the volume of work that is tremendous. The volume would make an average person go into a fetal position and rock slowly. I drink lots of coffee and sleep very little. I am a manic worker. I am a machine, baby.

But as I toil away on yet another late night I think... what is missing in my life? And how do I fill this void? Do I need to join a Bible group and find God?

[Aside: I have two former colleagues (lawyers!) who actually did this when they moved to Singapore. In my opinion, the only valid reason to join a Bible group is to meet men/women. It's called Singles for Christ for a reason.]

I mull over this thought for a moment and come to a revelation (Biblical pun intended).

And here it is:

I don't need God; I need to buy something very expensive. (I am so twisted. This is actually how my brain works.)

I'll let you know what I pick out on my next post.

Employee of the Month

I think I am the perfect employee.

No, not because of skill or talent or experience. I have none of that. (Ok, maybe a little.)

What I do have a lot though is time. Time to spend at my job.

In Hong Kong, I have no family, no friends and strictly speaking, no home. So I can work 100% of the time I am not asleep or attending to personal hygiene. Which in my time

Toil and Strife

is about 17-18 hours a day. (And which is how much I've clocked the last a couple of days.)

The perfect employee is someone who has no priorities other than work, and the only types who can do that are single people from out of town. This dawned on me while I was typing away at the office about half an hour ago. Employers can dramatically increase productivity and efficiency at the workplace by hiring only the unattached foreigners. This is an amazing discovery! I cannot wait to tout this theory to People Support or some other call center. I will make millions!

I will also tell them that they should hire people who don't need to sleep much and those who like coffee or caffeine laced drinks. And when they've finally found that insomniac foreigner with no love life, I'd tell them to ask her if she has control issues.

If she says yes, hire her. They've found a hardworking sucker they can bleed.

Reason #8

I like living in Hong Kong for a number of reasons. First there's the job, and the lifestyle that it affords me. Then there's the city itself. And the things I have access to here that I didn't in Manila....

...like the library of foreign (i.e. non-American) films I have at my fingertips. Over the last four weeks I've seen the following movies:


The Sea Inside (Spain). Sobrang sad 2000. Not weepy sad, but tragic-hand-me-that-butter-knife-and-watch-me-perform-harakiri sad. The Sea Inside is based on the life of Ramon Samperdro, a quadraplegic who wants to be euthenized. Plot summary pa lang, gusto mo nang mag-laslas. Watch this movie. It won the Academy Award for Best Foreign Film (2004) for a reason.




The Banquet (China). Hero meets House of Flying Daggers meets Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon meets Greek tragedy (complete with chorus). You get the idea. It's formulaic, but still oh so beautiful. Cinematography will make you salivate. Fight sequences are entrancing.




First Love (Japan) [apparently, hindi uso ang movie poster sa Japan]. Yet another movie to remind me how bad Filipino cinema is. This movie was so simple, but so well executed. Set in the 1960's, the film follows the story of a young girl who gets involved in the biggest bank robbery in Japanese history. As this movie will show, making a good film is not rocket science. I don't understand why we just can't connect the dots.

Happily Ever After (France). Yvann Attal is my boyfriend. He's short, average looking, but oh so funny. Like Kevin Spacey (my other boyfriend). He teams up with his real-life wife Charlotte Gainsbourgh in this story about the innate intricacies of romantic relationships. Definitely not his best work (I actually enjoyed the pop-corn flick Athony Zimmer more than this one) but he's still cute, and he's still my boyfriend.



I look forward to the other movies I'll get to see. There's an HMV on the first floor of my office building with a wall of movies dedicated to "World Cinema". Now I know where all my money will go.

Libreng Kape

I drink a lot of coffee. Which is why it was great that at my old firm, it was coffee all you can. They had Cafe Puro sponsored percolators on each floor. It was swill. But the human condition being what it is, I got used to the swill.

Now I work at a Wall Street firm and of course, they have coffee all you can as well. Kaya nga lang Starbucks. No kidding. They have a special machine they bought/leased from Starbucks and beans from Starbucks, and paper cups with the Starbucks logo, and the green swizzle sticks. All for free at the pantry.

Ang saya.

Clothes Don't Fit

Since gaining 10 pounds during my period of inactivity between jobs, I think I've lost 20. So I'm thinner now then when I started gaining all that weight in June.

I am very happy about this. But the thing is now, my clothes don't fit. Remember those suits I had made? They all hang loosely on me, like I bought them off the rack.

I don't want to buy new stuff (since I am cheap and might gain all the weight back) nor do I have the time to get my clothes altered.

So in the meantime, I walk around in loose clothing, like a rapper, but in a business suit.

Today is Payday

I told myself I would never blog about it, but I just can't get over it.

The truth is, I make a ridiculous amount of money.

I now make in 15 days more than what I made the first year out of law school.

It boggles the mind.

Be Careful Of What You Wish For

I'm back from a 48 hour trip to Manila. More meetings, more drafting, more mark-ups, more coffee, more posturing, more work, less sleep.

Actually no sleep Tuesday night.

I know, I know. I asked for this. I've been craving to keep busy. Only 6 weeks ago, I blogged about the brain numbing idleness of doing nothing.

But after this grueling month, I gotta say: the grass is always greener.