Don't ask me how I am

In the Philippines, you never ask a person how they are (unless you really mean it).

The Tagalog translation for "How are you?" is "Kamusta?" which literally means "how are you" but used more like "hello" or "hey" or "hi". The question is not meant to be answered. Instead, like "How do you do?" the proper response to "Kamusta?" is "Kamusta?".

Other generally accepted responses to "Kamusta" are:

"Ok, eto." [Ok, I'm here.]

"Ok naman." [Relatively ok, or ok, given the circumstances.]

"Ok." [Ok.]

For a people who speak relatively fluent English, very few Filipinos will say, "Fine." We Filipinos are not "fine" we are, as a nation, "ok".

Americans always ask you how you are. They always say, "How are you?" or "How are you doing?" after saying hello. When "kamusta" is said in English, I am almost compelled to answer,

Pretty good. I had an uninterrupted 7 hours of sleep last night.
The crick in my neck is gone, it was bugging me all of yesterday. Coming over I caught a tram right away, and when I got here, there was a fresh pot of coffee. Yeah, I'm pretty good this morning.

And well... I'm slowly getting a hang of Hong Kong and life over here in general. It's taken me some time, with the laguage barrier and all... ....actually I didnt think it would affect me that much, but it has. Anyway... well there, I'm ok, sort of. Sometimes I wish I had more friends and a support system like I do in Manila, but other times I'm just gushing in happiness over the independence and the anonimity.

So yeah... I guess I'm all right.

You?

But of course they don't want you to answer that way. They want you to stop at "Pretty good" or just "Good". And then you're supposed to show gratitude. The proper response is actually "Good, thanks."

One never responds to, "Kamusta?" with "Ok, salamat."

That's just plain silly.

Say what?

I keep forgetting that the language preferred by Cebuanos (second to Bisaya) is English. Not Tagalog. I think its great that you can ask a random secretary,

“Saan pwedeng mag pa-xerox?”

And the response you get is,

“Downstairs. Take a right, first door to your left.”

You say, “Thanks.”

They say, “No problem.”

I love Cebu.

Wigging out

I was on a plane today, and one of the flight attendants had a wig on.

I was transfixed; I found myself unable to stop staring at her. It was fascinating.

This inappropriate behavior can be traced back to my general social ineptness. I have poor impulse control so when I see something that catches my eye (a roast duck, a man with googly eyes, a strikingly beautiful woman in a sea of generic faces) I stare.

I can't help it.

The wig looked like it came straight out of a Cleopatra costume portfolio. It was shoulder length and had full bangs, chopped bluntly along the eye line.

It was obviously a wig. It had this "one piece" quality about it. Like she could tug one strand of hair and her entire head of hair would adjust accordingly. And it was stiff; like the hair of a mannequin on display at C.O.D.

It must have been a wig. I'm sure of it. Otherwise, this post has been a complete waste of my time.

And if you've read this far, of yours as well.

Alternate Endings

Over the weekend I watched two movies on DVD with an alternate ending feature. One movie (Little Miss Sun Shine) actually had four different endings.

I've always thought that life should come with an alternate ending feature. When you're about to "move on to the other side", you should be allowed to see how your life would have ended had you done things differently.

What if I didn't go to law school? What if I did but didn't join the Perm? What if I stayed in Manila? What if I went on that third date with whatshisface.

[Let me think about all that for a minite.]

Ahhh, the un-possibilities.

For what it's worth, with all the films I've seen with alternate endings, the real ending is always the best.

The male Jona

I have met many other female Jona's. Driven girls who enjoy late nights out and books by weird authors, French movies and making money. Girls with opinions they are not afraid to share. Smart girls with road rage who drive fast and like loud music.

I have not met a male equivalent.

Why is that? The guys who drink a lot are complete morons, and they don't like French movies. The guys who read a lot are pretentious and they don't drink. There are guys who like French movies and they read, but they don't make money. Those into making money are megalomaniacs who don't read, drink, or watch French movies.

What is up with that?

Recipe for a good time

3 parts* vodka
1 part water
calamansi juice syrup (the one with honey) to taste
lots of ice

*I like it when recipes use the measurement "part". An ounce is a part.

So is a cup.

Eye candy

I don't follow professional sports. Frankly, I find it boring. It's like watching Romeo and Juliet again and again. The "issues" are the same. Underdog defeats champion. Champion brings game to new level. Last second winning shot, touchdown, point. Bottom of the 9th two run homer. Someone chokes. Someone is doping or gambling or involved in a drive-by shooting.

*Yawn*

Professional sports are like soap operas. All conceivable plot lines have been exhausted.

And for the same reason I occasionally watch soap operas, I occasionally watch professional sports: to gawk at physically attractive people.

Pete Sampras, Anna Kournikova, Seve Ballesteros, Maria Sharapova, David Beckam, Rafael Nadal. I have no idea what off-side means in soccer, but I will sit through 90 minutes of football to watch Beckam run.

Now that you know where I'm coming from on this point, it was with extreme sadness for me to find out that Serena Williams is back in the game. She beat Maria Sharapova 6-2, 6-3 in the finals of the Australian Open. Serena is back.

Now this woman is a phenomenal athlete. She single-handedly revolutionized women's tennis. She's strong and smart.

But she's not easy on the eyes.

How am I supposed to watch tennis now?

I think I should just stick with The Bold and the Beautiful.

Huuuu.... scared to death by a child daw.....

Bird flu lang yan!

And to the lawyers who read this blog, isn't this a classic (although comical) case of proximate cause? The dog's owner should have been held liable.

BEIJING, China (Reuters) - Hundreds of chickens have been found dead in east China -- and a court has ruled that the cause of death was the screaming of a four-year-old boy who in turn had been scared by a barking dog, state media reported on Wednesday.

The bizarre sequence events began when the boy arrived at a village home in the eastern province of Jiangsu in the summer with his father who was delivering bottles of gas, the Nanjing Morning Post reported.

A villager was quoted as saying the little boy bent over the henhouse window, screaming for a long time, after being scared by the dog.

"One neighbor told police that he had heard the boy's crying that afternoon and another villager confirmed the boy screaming by the henhouse window," the newspaper said.

A court ruled the boy's screaming was "the only unexpected abnormal sound" and that 443 chickens trampled each other to death in fear.

The boy's father was ordered to pay 1,800 yuan ($230) in compensation to the owner of the chickens.

A loaf of bread, a container of milk and a stick-o-buttah

Some people buy real estate, I buy butter.

I bought a stick of butter today. I consider this act to be a clear sign of my wanting to settle down in HK. Since moving here more than 5 months ago, I have not signed a long-term lease. I have not purchased any household appliance or fixture. I can pack up my things and leave tomorrow.

I value this nomad/international gun for hire lifestyle. I think it's really cool I can just pack up and go and relocate to [insert bizarre location here].

But today, I let a little bit of that go. I allowed myself to settle in.

I bought a stick of butter.

[Reader: Don't worry, this post does have a point. And I will get there.]

You see, I only buy two kinds of groceries: those I can consume in 2-3 days, and beer (which I consume immediately). I don't stock up on food because from experience they go bad. And when food goes bad then I feel bad. (There's something heartbreaking about food going bad. I find the wastefulness criminal.)

So I don't buy things that will sit in the fridge for long. That's how I was, until today.

Today I decided to "commit" to a stick of butter and the lifestyle that comes with it. When you buy a stick of butter you're telling the world, "I can't finish this in one sitting. I can't prepare one dish and use it up. I will need to make this sit in the fridge for some time. And wait for those moments you want to eat something that needs butter in it."

I will need to stay put for a while.

Profound shallowness

I had this theory that you can't be truly intelligent and not be crippled (or at the very least affected) by introspection.

The thought process is cyclical. You go into extreme existentialism then jump back into the pool of meaninglessness and transience. Then back again. Like a pendulum.

Some people spend more time on one end of the spectrum; S. and I are introspection addicts. Most people spend more time living life and on occasion mentally tinker with the abstract. But the point I'm driving home here is that you can't be moderately intelligent and not need to do mental push ups now and then. It's what smart people do.

Or so I thought.

I've met (and recently have spent a lot of time with) these two guys. Let's call them B1 and B2 (like Bananas in Pajamas). B1 and B2 have resumes that will knock the socks off headhunters. These guys came in first in their class (college, law, driving school). Got scholarships from institutions with names I can't pronounce. They have great jobs. Bright futures.

They don't think.

It's amazing. They do as much introspection as a door knob. Everything is just as it seems. They do go to work, get drunk, sleep with their wives/girlfriends. They plan vacations, they buy gigantic TV sets. They eat at expensive restaurants. Wear gaudy pricey watches.

They don't think.

How can you go beyond the first year of college and not think about the metaphysical? And I'm not talking about constantly questioning your own existence. (I think we all got over this at 17.) I'm referring to occasional (maybe even seldom and rare) moments of philosophical thought. How can you accept everything at face value all the time, look at your expensive watch and not once think about the texture of time.

Apparently, you can.

Theirs is a state of shallowness so profound, they don't even know they're in it.

Homage* to chicken nuggets

When I was 8 and B. was 11, our parents took us to Disneyland.

While we were there, we ate at McDonalds and it was then that I discovered chicken nuggets. It was a life changing discovery.

Chicken nuggets are arguably on the top ten list of ALL TIME BEST FOOD EVER. It’s easy to eat, yummy and having them invariably makes you feel like a kid. It is the ultimate comfort food.

So on this C.N.A.D. (Chichken Nuggets Appreciation Day), I would like to share with you the official chicken nuggets anthem.

Sing it with me, R!

It's not easy being a nugget
You look like all nuggets do
They don't know what really counts is what's inside of you

I'm a PureFoods chicken nugget
More nugget under my shell

I'm a juicy, crispy, chicken delight
With every nugget bite!


*Pronounced oh-mahge

Reasons to Live in HK #71-74

71. Lobster bisque at McDonald's.

72. Buffalo wings at McDonald's.

73. Corn at McDonald's.

74. Potato wedges at McDonald's.

Magkano ka?

Apparently US$5,875 is the going rate for a loser's life.

SYDNEY, Australia (AP) -- An Australian man who agreed to sell his "life" on eBay for 7,500 Australian dollars (US$5,875) said Wednesday he is prepared to go through with the deal if the buyer pays cash.


Earlier this month, 24-year-old Nicael Holt posted his life for sale on the Internet auction site, saying the deal included his name, phone number and all of his belongings.


"New life for sale!!" Holt's entry on eBay read.


He said he would also introduce the buyer to all his friends and "potential lovers (around eight which I have been flirting with)." The buyer would also "have access to a cruisy job in March delivering fruit."


Also part of the sale was a repertoire of six jokes, a fractured relationship with an ex-girlfriend and a four-week training course in becoming Holt, including surfing, doing handstands and fire-twirling skills.


Bidding for Holt's life started at A$5 (US$3.90) and ended late Tuesday at A$7,500 (US$5,875). The winning bidder was identified as "ridderstrade."


The auction site did not comment on the sale, but allowed it to run its course.

5 Reasons

The other day Hillary Clinton formally announced her intentions to run in the 2008 Elections.

Here are 5 reasons why I am a Hillary Clinton fan:

1. She's smart.
2. She has a charming husband who is very smart, but not as smart as her.
3. She knows what she wants and she goes after it.
4. She is phenomenally articulate and thinks at amazing speeds.
5. She does not care what you think of her, as long as you vote for her.

The perfect drink

When I was a teenager, the male parental unit told me that when I grew up, I would stick to one drink and one drink only. That my tastes would be fine tuned with age. That I would stop mixing drinks and settle down on one drink I really enjoy.

I'm 32. It hasn't happened.

I still look through a menu each time I settle down for a cocktail during happy hour. I still chat up the bartend on how he prepares his Zombies. It takes me about 10 minutes to pick out a drink. And after I've consumed it, I will invariably order something else. Then after that, something else again.

I find imbibing only one type of drink to be boring, and in case that one drink is beer, a distended tummy waiting to happen. You really need to "mix it up" for variety. Imagine having 4 gin and tonics throughout the course of an evening. Just thinking about it makes me sleepy.

Or maybe I just haven't found the perfect drink.

A reliable drink (the primary reason for switching drinks is that they taste flat), but one that will engage my taste buds each time. A drink that won't get me slobberingly drunk, but one that will keep me in that happy lightheaded state for the entire evening. A drink that won't give me hangovers or make me fat.

Or maybe the perfect drink just does not exist.

And I doomed to looking through menus and not seeing anything I want.

The Wonder Spot

[Prevailing thought while composing this 200th post: Oh God I better not mess up this post. This is like the title track of an album. I mean, imagine Michael Jackson screwing up Thriller....]

I named this blog after a short story written by Melissa Bank. She wrote The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing and the novel, The Wonder Spot, a book borne from the story.

TWS is not a fantastic story. It is not a story that you will see on an English 101 reading list or even one for a Creative Writing class. But I like TWS because it is one of those stories that leaves with you with a mood.

A sense, a tone, a thickness in the air, a smell.

It did not stir any particular emotion or leave me crying or moved in a dramatic fashion like some other stories do. Instead, TWS has a wistful sentimental tone to it, and after you put the story down, you had it too.

That unique mood, that special tone, that’s what I look for when I read. I expect a certain type of writing when I read the New York Times, a short fiction feature in Esquire, the weather report in a worn newspaper in an airport lounge, a misallete at church. I have certain distinct expectations on how words should flow, and depending on my mood, I need to read different things.

Now call me crazy, but words to me are like food. I can taste them. And when I read something written in the precise style I was craving for, well then, it just hits the spot.

The wonder spot.

W.O.W. (Work on Weekends)

When I was working at the Perm there were these long stretches of time I would come in on Saturdays, sometimes even Sundays. When you start your professional life working on weekends, you (a) assume everyone else does and (b) get used to it. This will in turn make you (1) resentful and spiteful of people who don't come in on weekends, BUT (2) a really good worker.

This sounds crazy, but there really is something to be said about developing good work habits. But you need to start young. When you don't know any better. Apparently most people don't come in one weekends, and putting in the extra the hours is unheard of in most establishments. At the Perm it was expected. The norm. So we came in almost every weekend in shorts, turned on the radio, and worked on contracts while eating take-out from McDonald's.

This went on for a few years. But when I was in my third year at the Perm, when I started working closely with many different clients, it was only then that I realized that people generally don't come in on weekends (which explains the light traffic to Makati, Jona). But by then it was too late. I had established a pretty good work ethic (and thereby turned into a dolt). I plodded away until the job got done. Weekends and holidays notwithstanding.

I still work that way. And that's why I'm typing this out from work.

On a Sunday.

Ignorance is bliss

I went to see Sophia Copolla's Marie Antoinette a couple of nights ago.

It was literally beautiful. Every camera shot was thought of: from where the actors stood, to how the camera moved, to where the light was coming from. And it was as if she wanted you to know that. The movie was purposefully beautiful. That was part of the whole theme. Everything was deliberate. Nothing was in its natural state.

Props to Milena Canonero for costume design. The gowns were exquisite though doubtfully historically accurate.

The writing was uneven, and so was the plot, but the direction and the costume design more than made up for it.

But this post isn't really about the movie. It's more about my complete ignorance about Marie Antoinette. Sure I knew she was Queen of France. She got married off from somewhere (Austria, I was to find out). That she was known for her excesses and that while the starving citizens of France were rioting in the streets, she supposedly said that they should all go eat mamon.

Oh, and she was beheaded. I knew that too.

But that's about all I knew about Queen Toni coming into the movie. I did not know that it took her 7 years to conceive, that there was much ado about the late pregnancy, that she lost a child, that she took lovers, that she has this little "private village" Louis the XVI built her.

Now I hate not knowing things, but being ignorant actually makes watching movies with historical plotlines more enjoyable. You don't know how it ends, so you literally are glued to the screen and want to know what happens next. Even if what happened next has actually been recorded by countless historians since 1750.

Imagine watching Titanic and not knowing the ending ("But I thought they said it was unsinkable!"). Or the 7 Last Words ("I can't wait to find out what he says next!")

Frozen dimsum on my mind

Since moving to Hong Kong, I've eaten a lot of frozen dimsum. And I mean a lot. The variety available in even the smallest of grocery stores in HK is fascinating. Frozen dimsum is to Hongkers like canned sardines are to Pinoys. Or instant noodles.

My hands down favorite is Japaneze gyoza by Doll Dimsum. Doll Dimsum also makes great shrimp wonton and hargow (shrimp dumplings). Amoy makes a good sharks fin dumpling.

[Aside: Only in HK did I appreciate the difference between wonton and dumplings. Dumplings are meant to be eaten "dry" while wontons should be served with broth.]

The gyoza needs to be heated in water then fried, which makes it a little harder to prepare than your regular frozen dimsum (which you just nuke for about 3 minutes), but it tastes exactly like it would in a Japanese restaurant. Serve with soy sauce and red vinegar.

But what's really cool about frozen dumplings is that they're cheap. Like crazy PhP2 a siomai cheap. You can literally eat all the siomai you want.

x x x

When I left New York I really missed the crispy fried shrimp at the "Chinese" restaurant near the building where I lived. They were 1 part shrimp popcorn, 1 part cameron rebusado. I still remember the styro foam container it would come in. And the grease stains it would make on the faux wood coffee table.

One day, long after I have left Hong Kong, I will write about lox or spring rolls or peirogi, and I will recall with much fondness, the 47 kinds of frozen dim sum.

Thursday Group

My life is a production number.

Like a Thursday group presentation during the Saturday edition of That's Entertainment.

What I mean is that I have to think of everything and then execute. From what to eat, laundry, bills, to how to get funds released from a client's Restricted Payment Account. I need to think these things through.

Plan. Rehearse. Perform.

Leave it to me to compare adulthood with Joed Serrano, Benedict Aquino, Mags Bonin and Michael Locsin lip synching.

I Hate Gmail

Since the Taiwan earthquake on Boxing Day, GMail has been incredibly slow. This has been causing me severe distress and frustration. I don't use my office e-mail for non-work related matters (i.e. the stuff that matter) so I am dependent on GMail for keeping in touch with the outside world.

If Gmail is slow and unavailable, so is my virtual social life (which since moving here is more active than my real life social cirle).

Lousy Gmail reminds me of the early days of the Internet. Remember when Hotmail was the only provider of free e-mail and with dial-up surfing was soo s..l..o..w. But we lived with it. We lived with no Google (only Alta Vista and Excite). We didn't have You Tube (we actually did not have any concept of streaming video). Skype was unheard of, we kept in touch with Yahoo messenger and.... IRC! Remember that?!

God it seems like long ago.

And actually, it has been some time. More than 10 years. In college, only the geeks at Faura were on this thing called the "Internet". In law school, there were six (count them, six) computers for surfing in the library. And those got installed only in my second or third year. Today you turn on your laptop inside the Rockwell Library and voila! you're on-line. Back then we had to line up.

We had to line up.

Funny. Lining up for internet now sounds like having to line up for gas or bread.

Personalized ring tones

Over lunch yesterday the HK associates were showing off their new Sony Walkman phones. Super neat gadgets. Cool screen resolution and fantastic sound quality. They were making the group listen to their different ring tones. Just like the Nokia phones, you can assign a different ring tone for different groups, even for individual people in your address book.

There was a time when I too was very concerned about ring tones, and the manner in which I partitioned them out. That's the period I'll call my early twenties. Apparently after you hit a certain age you (1) stop caring about the phone you carry around; (2) stop wanting to learn how to work new phones and (3) want the phone to just stop ringing.

This whole ring tone show and tell got me thinking about the time I actually made myself personalized ring tones. Remember when you could actually type out the notes? And the guys in Greenhills were actually selling the "codes"? God that was sad. And then when the technology improved, you could actually record sounds.

And so I did.

On a quiet morning in my office at the Perm, I spoke clearly into the mic of my cellphone and recorded the following message/ringtone :

"Pick up your phone, Jona. Pick up. Jona, someone is trying to call you. Ring. Ring."

"Pick up the goddamn phone, will you!"

I remember thinking that I was sooo smart to think of something like that.

Ah, to be young and foolish.

Home for a day

I went to the Philippine consulate again today. Again because each time an OCW travels to Manila, he/she has to secure an Overseas Employment Certificate (OEC). In English that means a piece of paper that confirms your OCW status so that when you travel back out of Manila (1) you don't get hassled and (2) you don't pay terminal fee.

As you can imagine, this is a complete waste of time, energy and money. But I go nonetheless because going to the consulate feels better than going to mass. I feel like I belong. Seriously. In the middle of the madness and the throngs of young women getting their domestic helper contracts renewed, I feel comfortable, secure. I feel at home. Seriously.

You go there and you're magically transported to the chaos of Manila. The long lines, the uneducated masses, the poverty, the fun. The classicism is there as well. I get special treatment for the sole reason that I am an ATTORNEY.

What's brilliant is that after I've had my fill of home cooked bureaucracy and inefficiency, I leave, walk to the train station, swipe my electronic card through the turnstile, and get whisked back to my hyper efficient, anonymous life.

On being a southpaw

I read somewhere that the world is "updside down" if you're left handed. I mean no disrespect to the guy that wrote that, but I have to disagree. I've just never felt that way.

Sure golf clubs are made funny, and those writing desks in college are the other way around, but apart from a few things like that, the world is pretty much the same for a lefty.

I guess it helps that I am sort of ambidextrous. I write with my left hand, but twirl pens on my right. I play darts and bowl with my right arm. Throw balls with my right hand. I eat with a fork on my right as well (or on the left if I need a knife). I stir food while cooking with my right hand. I also favor my right arm when I go boxing. I serve volleyballs and food with my right. Deal cards with my right. I text with my left, but use my right hand when using a calculator.

Ok fine, so maybe I'm not left-handed at all. I'm a right handed person that just happens to write with my left hand.

The Accidental Expat

Say the word "expat" and immediately I think of a tall white guy in a suit.

I'm a short squat Asian girl. You never think of a short squat Asian girl as an expat.

But I am one.

Bizarre, I know.

I shop at those really expensive groceries. The ones the locals ignore for being over-priced and stocked with impractical imported items like frozen dinners. I read those pocket sized dictionaries in my free time. I'm learning to say Thank You and to count to 10 in the local dialect.

I don't get paid in local currency and have a ridiculous housing allowance that allows me to live in a really swanky building where people change my towels everyday. I go to expat bars with other expats and have lunch at hotel coffee shops.

I watch special screenings of art films and go to the ballet. I actually look up and read websites publicizing events in town. Everything local is cool and unique, and I just gotta try it. Even everyday things like rose tea and pork dumplings. I really like the local beer everyone else dismisses as pedestrian.

My secretary doubles as my translator. She introduces me to people in Chinese and they smile shyly. I wonder what she says. In fact, I wonder what everyone says about me.

I don't eat at local restaurants by myself. Mainly because of the language barrier. I only stay in some parts of town, again because if you don't speak the language, you really can't get around. So you stay in your little social and geographical circle, not because you want to, but because you have to.

You never really think about the flip side of being an expat, until you are one.

The Perfect Egg

Today I fried myself the perfect egg.

My perfect egg is prepared once over easy, medium. And for those unacquiated with egg speak, that means the egg is flipped after frying it on one side, with a focus on cooking the yolk, but not cooking it through that it dries out.

The edges of the egg white should be crispy (but not burnt!), so it it crunches when you chew. There should be just the right amount of salt and pepper. Not too much oil, not too little.

And for God's sake, use an extra large egg. There's no point in going through this painful process for a teeny weeny regular sized one.

x x x

I've found that there are generally only 3 ways of eating a fried egg with sinangag and [insert your favorite processed food here]:

1. Mashing up the egg on your rice - my mother does this. I'm not a fan of this technique. First you slowly put the egg on a mound of rice and then mash it up (or as my mother does it, make methodicial criss cross cuts along the egg). The effect is the same, you mix up the egg and the rice. Ugh.

2. Eating only the yolk or only the egg white - If I had a choice, I'd eat only the yolk and the male parental unit eats only egg whites. We're a team.

3. Eating the entire egg, but consuming the yolk or the egg white first - My sister does this. She's one of those people who saves the best part of anything for last. She'll eat the belly of the fish last, save the quail eggs in Chinese vegetable dishes till the end of the meal.

I understand the benefit of delayed gratification, but I think this one goes a bit too far, don't you think?

New tricks, old dog

I hope you guys like the new template. It was a bitch to get it to work. I've been trying for ages to change Wonder Spot's template, but have been faced with one technical difficulty after another. Then, when I almost had it, Blogger decided to shift to Beta. But finally, after months and months of trial and error, I finally found a code for a good looking template that wasn't too hard to manipulate.

I gotta say, it's pretty neat.

Unfortunately, a new tone does not come with the new look. It's still the same old blog with the same old focus on inanity and absurd profundity.

(Now say that really fast 10 times.)

Mr. Wonderful

So Justin and Cameron broke up. Who could have seen that coming?

This got me thinking about my ultimate plan to have a S.O. that's 20 years younger than me. Ala Ashton and Demi.

Just daydreaming about it makes me giddy:

Somewhere, right now Mr. Wonderful is in sixth grade, learning science and social studies. He's still 4'11 and a half since his growth spurt hasn't kicked in yet. His parents are hoping it's only because he hasn't been circumcised yet. Not to worry, that's been scheduled for the summer already.

Mr. Wonderful is not really into sports, he's more into games. Tag, agawan base, kickball, tumbang preso. He prefers comics to those really dull books with small print, no pictures or thought bubbles.

He's a family guy: he enjoys accompanying his mother to the grocery, his father to the gas station. His favorite superhero is Batman. (Duh.) When asked what his favorite cuisine is, he responds with, "What's cuisine?" You say food, he says, "ice cream."

How can you not fall in love?

Monkey very much

One of the first things I set out to do after moving to Hong Kong was to learn the Cantonese translation of "thank you." My thinking was then, even if I never learn Cantonese (and I doubt if I ever will), it's important to show gratitude in the local tounge. It just seems more sincere.

So I looked it up and the word is m-goy. Pronounced uhm-goy.

Like unggoy, but with an "m".

Now, as you can imagine, this causes me utmost distress. A complete stranger does something nice for you like give up his seat on the tram since you're carrying groceries and then the right thing to do is to call him a monkey?

My secretary gets me copies of documents and I'm expected to call her an ape?

People say that the Chinese are generally not the most refined bunch, pero sobra naman yata yun.

What really made my head spin was to find out that uhm-goy is also the Cantonese word for "excuse me". So if you're trying to get off the crowded tram with your groceries, you're supposed to approach the person in front of you and say softly, "Baboon."

Then to the next guy, "Orangutan"

And until you get off the platform, calling complete strangers, "Primate. Early man."

I'm sorry, I just can't. To hell with gratitude.

Lunch Time

One of the perks I miss most about the Perm was the free lunch we got at work everyday. At around 11:30 every morning of practically every week day, I'd get a call from any one of the Perm's young, brilliant, but hungry before noon associates. The call would invariably go like this:

Associate: Lunch? (there really is no need for Hello or any formal greeting)
Jona: Sure. See you upstairs.

Upstairs was the 8th floor cafeteria, where all the Associates would gather between 11:25 and 1:25 for a lunch buffet that most of the time wasn't so bad. The same people would sit together everyday. The young ones try to avoid the eyes of the older ones. As the years passed in the Perm, I went from the kiddie table to the Senior Ass table. From avoiding eyes, to trying to catch them.

And every Friday we'd have monggo and bangus belly.

Lunch at the Firm is markedly different. Most times I have lunch by myself in my room with a book. Since I am a certified nerd, I actually enjoy this. I get to eat what I want and read in peace. Sometimes the HK associates will offer to have lunch at a dimsum or noodles place. Fun, but I need to make conversation and we need to hurry. Somehow, these noodle houses are always in far flung corners of Central.

So today I'm off to get some lunch. And hopefully to finish the Sedaris holiday book I've been re-reading since Christmas.

Prevailing Thoughts

I've been busy worrying about bird flu. Today I read on CNN that China reported its first (yeah right, and our junior softball players are under 12) human case of avian flu in months.

Shit. Does this mean I can't eat duck?

Does this mean that HK will be the way it was when SARS hit? Because if that's the case, I will (a) die BUT (b) get a huge discount off my rent.

If I eat only beef, doesn't that increase my chances of mad cow? Only fish, mercury poisoning? Only vegetables, e-colai and amoebeasis? And why am I still eating anyway? I thought that was my new year's resolution.

Why do people say "cull" when they mean slaughter animals?

What does "free range" chicken really mean?

Why do they call the virus "H5N1"? Really, where's your imagination, people? The guys in 14th century Europe thought up "The Black Death". We've put a man on the moon and all we can come up with is H5N1?!

As E. would say, "Anobuh."

Yesterday's Inane SMS Conversation with S.

I routinely send S. bizarre text messages. Random messages with absolutely no context. This is how yesterday's set went:

Jona: I wish I had D.'s vanity. T.'s hold on P. (T's husband). E.'s confidence in love stuff. Carlson.

[Note to reader: Carlson is S.'s 2 year old son.]

S.: Stop. All you want from me is Carlson?
J: Um, yes.
S. Grrr....
J: Ok, I will bite. What other things should I want from you?

[Phone ringing]

J: Hello?
S: I cannot believe that all you want from me is Carlson?! What if I were single? You'd want nothing from me?
J: [Silence]
S: I hate you! Now go think of 5 things you want from me. Ok, goodbye.
J: Ok, goodbye. (See August 16, 2006 post re usage of "Ok, goodbye.")

I've thought about it, and here are the five things I want from S.:

1. I wish I had S.'s desire to improve herself. And improve by getting rid of bad behavior, not just by acquiring new skills.
2. I wish I had S.'s sensibility.
3. I wish I had S.'s patience with Photoshop and new things in general.
4. I wish I had S.'s capacity to read really fast.
5. I wish I had S.'s dreams.

I Heart Sappy Movies

So I like Pretty Woman. I have the DVD (originals, mind you) of Bed of Roses, The Cutting Edge and Serendipity. I have a thing for sappy, feel-good, they-end-up-together movies.

Last night I went to see The Holiday. I gotta admit I was skeptical. It had Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet in it. Two of my least favorite actresses. But hey, what the heck. Dinner and a movie's always good. Especially when you hang out with HK associates who take you to the best Chinese restaurants. ....Damn those dumplings were good!

Again, I digress.

Anyway, I was skeptical. And the critics panned it. But hey, the critics hated Kenneth Branagh's Dead Again, one of my all time favorite films. So I went.

And I loved it.

Cool soundtrack, Jude Law gorgeous, plot developed quickly (though it was kinda long) and it had gut wrenching, I-totally-understand-what-you-mean lines such as this:

I understand feeling as small and as insignificant as humanly possible. And how it can actually ache in places you didn't know you had inside you. And it doesn't matter how many new haircuts you get, or gyms you join, or how many glasses of Chardonnay you drink with your girlfriends... you still go to bed every night going over every detail and wonder what you did wrong or how you could have misunderstood. And how in the hell for that brief moment you could think that you were that happy. And sometimes you can even convince yourself that he'll see the light and show up at your door. And after all that, however long all that may be, you'll go somewhere new. And you'll meet people who make you feel worthwhile again. And little pieces of your soul will finally come back. And all that fuzzy stuff, those years of your life that you wasted, that will eventually begin to fade.

And this:

Because you're hoping you're wrong. And every time she does something that tells you she's no good, you ignore it. And every time she comes through and surprises you, she wins you over, and you lose that argument with yourself, that she's not for you.

Can someone please hand me a dull butter knife? I need to plunge it through my chest now....

Happy Birthday Nanay!

We call my mother's mother Nanay.

Nanay was cool. She smoke, drank, and gambled.

When I was six, she taught me how to smoke a cigar. She showed me how it is to be kind.

I miss Nanay, but in a good way.

Like the way you'd miss the sun on your face on a cloudy day.

The Obligatory Birthday Post

I've always thought that it was cool to have January 8 as a birthday. It is exactly two weeks from Christmas, a week from New Year's Day; you get to start a new calendar year with a new personal year. I was born on the same day as Elvis. Really, how much cooler can a birthday be?

I stopped getting presents a long time ago, but I still throw parties. The one on Friday was cool. There was a lot of beer and parma ham. How can someone not have a good time?

At 32 I have a full set of parents, a handsome but incorrigible nephew, dozens of friends who after 4 months still refuse to use my Hong Kong mobile and instead call my Globe phone to sing Happy Birthday (thereby costing me a fortune in roaming bills). I have an apartment that can be photographed for a magazine (and I believe it has). A job that if I stick to can allow me to retire a little earlier than most. How can someone not be grateful?

At 32 I still have about two thirds of my life ahead of me. Imagine the trips I will take, the people I will meet, the meals to digest, the stories to listen to, the jokes to tell. How can someone not be excited about the future?

Mass in Cantonese

...is weird.

It's like you're watching a DVD of Star Wars and you mistakenly press Audio 2, so the movie is now in Chinese. You know the film by heart, heck you've memorized the dialogue, but hearing it in a different language somehow still throws you off big time.

But despite the bizarre audio, you know when to kneel, sit and stand. You also know when it's time to say the Creed, the Our Father. And you instinctively say "And also with you" at the appropriate times. It's second nature, almost mechanical. It's creepy. I didn't know that I was that Catholic.

I'm not big on masses or any form of organized religion for that matter, but apparently it's written somewhere that you should go to mass on Sundays, so I went. It had been so long since I'd gone to communion, when the priest handed me the host, I said, "Thank you."

As I sat through the priest's unintelligble homily (and this time, it really was unintelligible) I thought, "This Good News of the Lord thing really got a lot people behind it, huh? I mean, imagine being a Chinese Catholic: believing in a God that does not look like you (heck even the saints don't look like you), a church whose foundations are from a country and culture so different from yours. Where the church leaders speak a foreign language and have nothing in common with you (actually they have nothing to do with you, ethnically or culturally). You have nothing in common except faith."

It's a lot like being a Catholic from the Philippines, we just don't think about it. So maybe they don't either.

Jona the Domestic Goddess

With the 16th anniversary of my 16th birthday coming up, I've decided to throw a party.

And for all you mathematically impaired, I am NOT turning 256.

Theme is "see and gawk at my flat" while you sip cheap wine and eat chips, salami, brie and whatever else I feel like buying. With the guest list it could also be Chinese Filipino friendship day.

A long time ago, I would throw these really good parties. Well, they really weren't all that good. I was just younger, and when you're 18, good party means free beer.

My definition of a good party is still lots of good booze, but now I also need passable music, conversation, an endless supply of pica pica, and a pristine bathroom.

Last night I schlepped over to the deli for good old fashioned overpriced salami, to go with the grocery bought wine. I am exceedingly confident in my skills as host: I invited a dozen people to come over.

God I hope they come.

Bank Issues Credit Card to Cat

This was on Cnn.com yesterday:

SYDNEY, Australia (Reuters) -- An Australian bank has apologized for issuing a
credit card to a cat after its owner decided to test the bank's identity security system.

The Bank of Queensland issued a credit card to Messiah the cat when his owner Katherine Campbell applied for a secondary card on her account under its name.

"I just couldn't believe it. People need to be aware of this and banks need to have better security," Campbell told local media on Thursday.

The bank said the cat's card had been canceled. "We apologize as this should not have happened," it said in a statement.

As a former banking attorney (who used to draft and review bank forms, including credit card applications), the cat owner obviously lied on the application form. As the primary holder of the credit card (and whose identity and existence I am certain the bank rigorously checked) it was up to her to nominate the secondary holder. It's like deciding how to spend your money. The level of diligence required from the bank in verifying the existence and/or identity of the secondary holder is much less than when it initially issues the card.

She could have indicated Santa Claus as a secondary holder. The bank would not (and should not) care. The primary holder pays the bills, and by applying for a secondary card, authorizes the bank to charge her for expenses made by the secondary holder, even if the expenses are made by Santa. It really is none of the bank's business. KYC (know your customer) standards cannot extend to secondary card holders.

Now why am I getting riled up over a cat getting a credit card?

What's bothersome is that people will read this story and automatically assume the bank was at fault. This will cost the bank bad PR and additional administrative and legal expenses. Lawyers and consultants will be hired to find out what the problem is and how to fix it. But I maintain there is no problem. The bank was not at fault. Katherine Campbell asked for a credit card for her cat (which she nominated as a secondary holder) and she got it. How can that be a lapse of security?

It's excellent customer service if you ask me.

Big on condiments

The first article I purchased as a poor struggling LL.M. student in New York was a bottle of ketchup. Why I remember this inane tidbit, I don't know. But I do remember standing in line in a grocery store along 125th Street (together with the other poor and struggling citizens of Harlem) with a bottle of ketchup. I couldn't wait to get home and make hotdog sandwhiches (which I ate almost exclusively for one month and accounted for severe weight loss).

As on overpaid attorney in Hong Kong, one of the first things I did was stock up on my favorite condiments (ketchup (of course), garlic chili sauce, hoi sin sauce, and the all time favorite toyo).

Why I am writing about condiments? (Apart from indulging in my preoccupation with the inane,) I'm writing about condiments because once again I've discovered something about myself. You get these random moments of clarity more frequently if you live alone in a foreign country where you don't speak the language.

Since moving to HK, I've spent inordinate amounts of time by myself. Sure I'm probably working or reading or watching a movie, but the key thing here is that I'm by myself. I'd like to think I'm not lonely since well, I'm not lonesome.

And during these solitary moments, you recognize certain traits you've always had, but never really notice. For instance, I only realized yesterday that I am big on condiments.

Being the only sibling

I was reading Monster’s blog last night and her latest post was a birthday greeting to her youngest sibling, Rockstar. Monster has four siblings. While that is not in any sense extraordinary (well, unless we all lived in China… so maybe in a sense it is…), I have no concept of a multi-sibling existence. I only have one sibling. There’s Banina, and that’s it.

I have very sharp, very precious memories of one sibling. The fights, the secrets we shared, the fights. We have a way of being together, a strange comfortable dynamic. Then there’s the uber cool fact that we grew up together and share the same crazy parental units. We share really corny inside jokes (Wright Brothers) and strange references (I can have ginger sauce anytime I please!).

I share this affluence of history, trivia and inanity with only one person. It is an amazing relationship, more so now that we are grown, and I can’t imagine having that same kind of intimacy with someone else. And Monster has it with four other people.

Unfathomable.

Everyone else on this planet with multiple siblings has a unique relationship with each sibling. The time you tried to smother me with a pillow. The time you ate my portion of the fried chicken. The time you borrowed my sweater without telling me, stained it, then lied about it. I can think of a million little stories, a thousand memories, hundreds of conversations, dozens of arguments.

One sibling.

I work in Hong Kong, live in Manila

After spending a week back home, I realized that while I work in Hong Kong, I live in Manila.

I have this theory that you can’t really live in a country where you don’t speak the language. Where you walk around the streets like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation. You’re this self-contained unit, observing everything from your own alien perspective. You can’t read the signs, you don’t know what the newspaper says, you don’t know where the streets lead to.

You are an island.

How can you live in a place where you don’t know what’s going on apart from what’s going on inside your head? Sure you can work there, earn a good a living, exist there, but you don’t really belong. The relationships you establish are artificial, your presence unnatural, assumed to be temporary.

I read somewhere that Muslim tort law is highly unfavorable to foreigners. It’s scandalously unfair but the logic is fairly simple: if the foreigner wasn’t around, there would be no tortious event. A foreigner is by definition an aberrant entity. So it must be his fault.

I like living in Asia more than North America because I don’t stand out. In Hong Kong, I gel into a crowd like a skilled assassin, but I open my mouth and I’m done for. Maybe I should learn how to sign.

Wait, I seem to have lost my point. What was I mulling over during lunch? The isolation… ok, found it.

When you’re a foreigner, you don’t just not understand anything, you don’t “get” anything. And “not getting” anything is worse. Nuance and usage is lost. You’re walking around like a badly translated Chinese movie.

Good comedy, a detached existence.

2007: Day 1

365 days ago I walked into my office at The Perm and worked non stop for 10 hours. Days later when asked what I did on the first day of 2006 I replied simply, "Worked." People were aghast. Apparently, there's this old wives's tale that says whatever you do on the first day of the year, you can expect to do for the whole year.

Just to show you how accurate that old wives's tale is, I spent 3.5 months on vacation last year. A result of quitting The Perm too early and starting with The Firm too late. But that's another story.

Got on a plane today to head back to my so called life in HK. That trip was fast, fun and much needed. That trip was good. I got to see most of my friends, and all the relatives that count. I got to stay in Manila for more than 2 nights for a business trip. I got to sleep in my old bed and wear my old loafers and ratty t-shirts. I woke up to birdsong.

Now I'm back in my flat in Central. Tomorrow I go back to work and start the next 365 days in HK. I get a little giddy just thinking about it.

I expect to do a lot of travelling this year for work. God I hope I didn't just jinx that.