i'm having a blogger's fatigue, if ever there is such a thing. Some kind of an uninspired funk where there is nothing worth anything to care about. Or caring about stuff that only inspires negativity. So I figure it is oddly serendipitous that I picked up a book from the public library about four people who are attempting to jump off a London rooftop on New Year's day and me actually thinking they would have done their sorry selves a favor. I'm halfway through it and still basically unmoved. They should have topped themselves right in page one, if you ask me.

I mean sometimes there is really no light in the end of a tunnel you know. There is no secret meaning or a blessing in freaking disguise. Some people do live unbelievably shitty lives. Or crappy things end up happening to them all the time. Like my client Mr James who is married to a crackhead wife for whom he was busted with her coke in his house. Or those Minnesota Twins fans driving to a baseball game on the same day the stupid bridge decides to crash down the stupid river. Where is the message in that?

So either way we should give credit when it is due.When they claim that theirs is out of whack, then we got to take their damn word for it. They should know their stuff better than we do, it's their life, right?

And trying to make it better by spewing out the above mentioned fortune cookie regulars, gets old and is lame. What do you expect them to say? "Gee, this is a pretty long tunnel." ?

The next time someone says he's got it bad, just please nod in total agreement and say, you got it, kid.

P.S. Louise, there is no pun intended here. Though I am convinced yours is creeping the "topper" charts, you're not the type. Otherwise, wanna bes like me woudn't be crowding your house of pain and be blown away.

Currently reading: The Long Way down
Minz is: blank

It's fascinating how you're simply watching a movie and suddenly see your apartment building pops out of the screen. It's exhilirating!

Such is the beauty and power of the Big Apple. Everybody just wants to have a piece of it.



Jason Bourne lives another day. Move over, Jack Bauer. The New Yorker does it better

3 pounds.

After thirty three 7-dollar salad days, riding the treadmill even in my sleep, walking 50 useless blocks every week-end.

I lost 3 lousy pounds.

To whoever the hell took it,

I want my metabolism back!!!!

Currently listening to: "Stolen" --dashboard Confessional

I'm a staunch believer of signs. Staunch bordering on corny and senseless is more like it. Traffic lights turning green on the way to a job interview is a GOOD sign. Results of my bar exams coming out on my Mom's birthday is another. That sort of thing. I loved Fools Rush In(Matthew Perry, remember him?). That should pretty much explain what I'm saying.

So when Barry Bonds hit his 756th homer last night and became baseball's newest homerun king, I thought it was an auspicious sign that today would be a good one or at the very least, normal. I didn't pay too much attention to the wind that rapped at my bedroom window all night or the steady drizzle that came with it. Besides it's always windy when you live right next to the East River. (Same river Bourne dove into, can't get over that! ha!)

As I was saying, nothing seemed afoot so I left the apartment in my regular gear, suit and heels. As soon as the bus stopped at the Penn Station , I knew I was in trouble. It had started to rain hard and I didn't have an umbrella, not even a jacket. People were gathered outside the train station and by then I knew our worst nightmare has come true. The subway was down. Either the trains were not running or worse, they were stuck underground. When train service is disrupted in a city of 8 million people, you can expect all hell to break loose. And it did.

I called the boss to say I would be late, made a sign of the cross and braved my way to the PATH trains, hoping service to New Jersey was not totally put out. Drenched from the rain, I managed to shove myself through the crowd and into the tracks where a single train to New Jersey is trying to ferret out hundreds of royally late and pissed-off commuters from Manhattan.

Without any idea to which part of Jersey the train was heading to, I hopped on it anyway, thinking I'd figure it out during the ride. I stood sandwiched between a nice, old lady who was attempting to make small talk which I didn't have the energy for and a Wall Streetsy looking Asian guy with a cute tie, which I also did not have my usual cheer to commend him with. To make a long, sad story short, I stood smacked like that for the next two hours until the loneliest train I've ever ridden found its way to my stop. By the time the doors opened, I seriously thought I left my armpits clinging at the straphanger.

The day ended pretty much the way it started. I left my cellphone at the unlocked office, ran out of money in my subway card and the M16 bus going home was 25 minutes late due to the weather.

I've made several notes to self in memory of my lost armpits namely,
for every sign, there is a counter-sign. Take a dash of prudence along everyday. And finally, Barry Bonds' record breaking homer, in my daily life, does not mean jackshit.

Currently watching: The Sopranos' rerun

I'd like to take this time out to dedicate this entry to a friend of mine who has finally seen the light and left her "feeling single-but-oh-so-married" boyfriend of 4 years. After getting her pregnant and refusing to claim and/or support his child, I say it's about time she moved on and realize her worth.Kudos to you sister! I'm overdosed with the happiest hormones that would put Barry Bonds to shame. Ha!

It's difficult to harp on your friends' lives especially in that area where reason does not quite figure significantly, if at all. Moreso, if the one doing the harping has made less than stellar decisions herself in the past or even in the present. Yet it doesn't take away the "harper's" rights to congratulate and be extremely pleased by positive steps taken by the "harpee" because those point to the fact that yes, there is hope. We are capable of making right decisions afterall. Forget that it took us a while to finally be awakened and boinked in the head by that right thing. The moment that it happens deserves the warmest congratulations and the lengthiest sigh of relief.

If only the cause of the murky past would be minded enough to stay away and refrain from sending forwarded e-mails (really now what were they thinking, it doesn't count?) and checking on friendster accounts, all will continue to be well for that one who has seen the light.

P.S. I call for the friendster moderator to disable the "Who's viewed me?" account setting. Knowing your "visitors" can prove to be very...unsettling.

Currently listening to: "Finally it has happened to me"

11 weeks and I'm out of here.There's a tinge of a heart crushing there, having fallen crazy inlove with this city. But then home is truly sweet home. So I guess, I just can't wait.

I'm almost done with my shopping. A few more pairs of shoes and of course, a trip to COACH, and I'm set.

I thought it's best to prepare a list of things I've got to do when I get back to Manila. It's unnerving for "must-dos" to pop up in the middle of a jog when you haven't got a pen, then go nuts wracking your brains for it later. Now, I will attempt to clear my head and organize my thoughts here....

1. Enroll Sofia at Toddlers Unlimited. The squirt is turning two and I've always felt I can't gamble on my child's education. It's not a hit-and-miss thing. I speak only for myself when I say kids are never too young to start learning. Especially mine--a precocious little girl whose version of a refusal is an emphatic "no way!". While her grandparents do not think too much of it, I 'm a little pinched. Sending her to a toddler school is my version of "my way or the highway!".

2. Spend a day in the parlor. By the time I fly home, I will have gone 8 months without a haircut, manicure, pedicure, hot oil, name it and I haven't had it! My Mom went to get a haircut one time in Queens, thinking it would be cheaper there. She ended up with a bad after-haircut remorse and 25 bucks poorer. I've decided to save myself 25 bucks and the gnashing of teeth . So to all you peeps who actually visit my corner here, I'd appreciate a name of a nice, reasonable parlor. Seriously.

3. A trip to the dentist chair. Yep I could use a good-old prophylaxis. I'm thinking of bleaching my pearly whites because err, they're not exactly white anymore due to years of smoking. Since I've quit that, maybe it's time to go all the way. Again, shoot me a name, i'll be ready!

4. See a derma. I've been saving for diamonds-peels and all that for as long as I can remember. I'm happy to say I probably can afford a few of those now. I'd get body scrubs every week if I can get away with it! i still believe, amidst all the cosmetic operations in the market lately, all a woman really needs is beautiful skin.Whatever they say, face-lifts still end up looking as if you had your face lifted period. I'm so sticking to the old-school facials

5. Visit Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Baclaran. If there is a place I fell the closest to Him, this would be it. Like many other bar exam hopefuls, I started going to Baclaran a year before I took the Bar. I just kept going ever since. I tried to stop by and attend the Novena every Wednesday ( I wasn't always successful though) and it's something I sorely missed living here.

6. Comply with MCLE credits. On the career end, I've to take up 14 units of Mandatory Continuing Legal Education ordered by the Supreme Court. This is something attorneys have to do every so often to keep our license. Not much of a choice here. Five days of sleep inducing lectures (let's call on the ibong adarna, why don't we?). I'll be back to wanting to cut myself to stay awake. Wish me luck!

7. Find a Job? Oops, I almost forgot that. I'm looking at starting on January since I doubt anybody would want to hire in November. Plus, I intend to spend time with Sofia before I get back to the grind again.

8. Spa. Massage. 'Nuff said.

9. Fly To Gen San and hit the beach. Apart from the virgin beaches Gen San is known for, I have a couple of close friends who live there that I haven't seen in years. I've been meaning to catch up with them and never had the time. So I'll be hitting two birds with one stone here and I'm just excited.

10. Scour for a house/kubo/barong-barong. Before my savings disappear into memory, I have to get my parlor-hunting ass out there and find a place to move into. I'm thankful that my parents are helping me out with this one, or else I won't come close to affording even a small, rickety apartment. We are still, however, arguing as to the venue because they want to have Sofia near them. And they live all the way down south of Manila. Traffic. Toll-gates. Arrg. I'm leaning towards one in Quezon City, where I'll probably find work anyway. That is the catch of accepting aid from your parents. There is always some sort of payback. Conditions. Clauses. And it always comes down to the grand kid. Ha!

This is it for now. My brain cells hurt. This is nowhere near done but I gotta park.

Til round two!

Just when you think you're on the right track towards a silver lining, light at the end of the whatever, the cave crashes. a landslide strikes. You're back in the dark and all your work amounts to nothing.

All because someone decided to have the right to take a peek at how you're doing, if you're still breathing, what you're feeling. And that person also decided for you to know it.

Then you start asking, why? Does the peeker care, still? Ever? why? why? why?why? why?why?why?

I reiterate my petition for doing away with the whos' viewed me? setting in friendster. It's just not fair.

Watching the Yankees lose their third game in a row, I come across an epiphany.

When a batter does not hit a perfect pitch, that counts as a strike. It is as if he hit the same pitch and missed. The effects are the same. Strike.
Isn't that..odd? Shoudn't that be a no-call? Batter wasn't ready as oppose to the other who missed--that showed inability.

I think this rule stinks.

Currently watching: Yankees vs. Tigers

I must be having a serious case of "the pits" or battling with schizophrenia because I can't explain why I have been frequenting malls lately. I've never been much of a shopper--I do it when I have to. It's not instinctive or addictive for me like it usually is for other women. But shopping is a "must-do" here in America. On top of the variety of brand names carried by most malls, there is a constant barrage of the most important four-letter word in a shopper's vocabulary: S-A-L-E. Stores, factory outlets or regular ones, come up with every excuse to justify mark-downs. There is the quarterly end-of-season- sale, holiday sales, christmas sale, semi-annual sale, closing out sale. Even outlets, whose prices are marked down as it is, still declare year-round sales. What's a girl to do?

If you can't beat them, join 'em! A few friends of Dad's invited us to an outlet trip in Philadelphia last Saturday. It was a good hour and a half drive from Manhattan and I can honestly say I missed riding in a car, not the subway, for a change. The route was scenic and lovely which I liked. It seems like I haven't seen a tree for the longest time!

We arrived at the Franklin Mills around lunch time and grabbed a quick bite at the food court before launching an attack at what the outlet store had to offer. I liked that the place was airconditioned and had an ample supply of carts. Shoppers did not have to carry their bags around. Almost every store was on sale. Old Navy gave away 50 percent discounts on jeans and shirts. Fossil watches were had for twenty bucks. Alas, there was no Coach store in sight. (sadness)

I got so carried away with the bargains that I almost forgot to snap some pictures. I was striking a pose in front of the Nine West stall when security suddenly approached from nowhere and reminded us that photos were not allowed to be taken inside the mall. I swore I didn't know. ( I mean, can anybody think of a good reason why?!) Mom had already taken it so we mumbled an apology and scurried away in embarssment. But then again, I couldn't resist! So I slipped Madison to Mom and she took pictures from angles only a mother can come up with (read: behind bathrooms, escalators etc)


After a day of devouring every nook and cranny of the outlet, I ended up with a couple of Gap shirts and a pair of Nike running shoes. Everything else I purchased was labeled as "pasalubong" or presents for the mob. As Mom usually says, this is how you bring a piece of here back home. Amen to that.

We are engineering another outlet mission to Atlantic City in a few weeks. Got to save up for that and hopefully succeed in scoring some stuff pour moi. Big Bunch of Amens. Hallelujahs to that.

 

 Here are the fruits of her (hidden) labor:

 

This morning I discovered, by way of a phone call, that my boss' ad for a paralegal placed four months ago is still running in a couple of Filipino newspapers. The person on the other line, who introduced herself as an attorney from Manila, asked if the position was still available and I replied rather shyly that, "No, I'm afraid it has been filled by me". Before ending the conversation she asked, "Are you Filipino?". To which I answered, yes I am. She said I spoke good English that she was convinced I must have been born here. I assured her I'm as Filipino as banana-q and that I just grew up all over the place, hence, the slight American twang.

In my 6 months living here, I've been asked many times if I was born here, studied here, attended speech classes, married to an American. All imaginable reasons why I speak English the way I do. Everytime I replied, in my spotless Tagalog, that nope, this one here is proud to be Pinoy. I forget to add, however, that not because someone speaks with an American accent, he/she is a likely candidate for the Pulitzer Prize. On the contrary, many English speakers from this part of the world can use a lesson or two in basic grammar and syntax--myself included. Who hasn't been guilty of letting "aint's","fuglys" or "I bought me some!" fly at one time or the other?

Fact is the proliferation of the American slang has relegated formal English to the background and rendered it "un-kewl" and therefore commercially wrong. What constitutes as perfect English nowadays is 50 Cent's slanguage accompanied by its "famular" twang--as in longer a's and diminishing r's (e.g. fo' sho', back do' please!).

This phenomenon is even more pronounced in the Filipino-American community where the elusive twang continous to be a "sought after". Migrant Filipinos believe that if they get the American pronounciation down pat, they are a step closer to being one. Nevermind that their English is horribly askew as long as it sounds "Americanized", then everything is alright.

It is a shame that it is, oftentimes, the parents who try to talk like their "born-here" counterparts and fail miserably. The children fare a little better in the twang department but still end up acquiring the corrupted version of the language. Ten years, a green card and a naturalization oath later, they lose sight (or hearing?) of the obvious truth that their accent remains thick and unmistakeably Filipino.

I speak with a twang picked up from years studying in International Schools. I did not have to work on it, it is just there. But I still think in Filipino and speak it better than any other language I've learned. I cannot imagine grumbling a crisp "bwiset" or marvelling an awesome "hanep" in any other lingo. I'm glad I don't have to. I sleep soundly at night knowing I'm comfortable with how I sound, pramis

For someone whose cellphone hardly ever rings in this city, imagine my bewilderment when it buzzed unexpectedly and a familiar voice boomed from the other end. It took me a few seconds to match a name to the voice and when it did, I erupted to a thunderous shriek (with a handful of expletives!) MAAAAANUUUEEEEL!!!!!

The voice burst into playful laughter and sassily answered, "Yep its me, I'm here!". One of my closest guy friends has landed at the Big Apple and I'm so thrilled!

Doc, as he is fondly called by the gang, decided to apply some guerrilla tactics on me and arrived here incognito. No forshadowing of a visit, not the littlest hint. Nada. He just showed up and declared a three-week vacation. I told him that while I am elated to see his handsome face, I could have used the "padalas" (packages) waiting to be shipped here from Manila (probably still sitting their ass in my husband's cartrunk somewhere.) As usual, he came up with a lousy excuse that the trip happened in the speed of light ergo he wasn't able to inform anyone.

Anyhow, I shoudn't be too amazed that it went down like that because that's one of the things I love about Doc. He makes things that he wants HAPPEN. No unneccessary flaunting of plans, no wasting of time---he just does it. Parang Nike. Unlike many of us who get into a longwinded dissection of the simplest action plan, my friend chooses to finger it and go! And off he went straight here to New York--and made an uber-homesick friend chipper for the day! (In short, nagtsismisan kme!, We caught up with latest happenings and mishaps back home, ha!)

Downtown catching some breeze

At Macy's foraging for food

In the world of baseball, where sluggers like Babe Ruth and Barry Bonds are memorialized, it is sometimes taken aside that is the pitchers who win games. If they perform as well as they should, no hits are scored, no homers are given away. Million dollar contracts wangled by the team's top batters shrivel into a nickel's worth in face of a break-out pitcher on the mound.You can't hit what you can't catch rings true in this situation.

In support of this baseball mantra, major league teams put up pitchers' farms where young recruits are trained, harnessed and polished before they eventually enter the team's active roster. Even then, the team still comes up with a rotation of pitchers they use in a given season. Once a rotation is finalized, the team manager decides to which category a pitcher falls into.

A starter is one who pitches for most of the innings. As such, if he is able to stave off runs or deliver a shut-out, then he has played his role to a tee. A good start almost always translates to a win. On the same token, a horrific start is a foreboding indication of a loss. As soon as pitcher shows signs of fatigue, injury or just can't catch a break, he is immediately replaced by the relief pitcher--the closer.

The closer pitches for the rest of the innings. At his point, there is not much he can do---the starter has paved the way to a blessed or a screwed-up night at the ballpark. The closer can't do worse or better than the starter. Even his most solid pitching can't win a game lost in the first innings. Nor can his lackluster performance lose one already won by the starter. He makes no difference. He is there to simply finish it off. Whatever the outcome is, the starter gets the glory or takes the blame. The closer merely ends the game.

I don't know why but I want the closer to matter. I want him to be accountable for the results of the game he pitched in. He should take credit for a win and flak for a loss. Besides, he is playing for a team and not only for himself. Either way, he just can't walk quietly down to the bullpen and disappear in it. To my mind, this is the way it should be.

Or maybe it's me talking about a different ballgame altogether where the starter is the reluctant, unprepared wife and the closer is the ambivalent, cold-footed husband. The ballpark is an institution called marriage where teams jockey for the eternity pennant. This team is knocked off the race and again the starter is beleaguered while the closer gets away unscathed. Unremembered. Ultimately, still, blameless.