Next to my all-time favorite Italian cuisine, I've to say Chinese food finishes a close second in my
chowlist.I think it's the combination of the scent, grease and exotic names that gets me. Not to mention
that it's light on the pocket and is fairly easy to find wherever one is situated. I'll bet my newly discarded
ring that there is a Chinatown in the Antarctic. (There was a sprinkling of Chinese restaurants in Khartoum,
Sudan. Ha!) Our very own Binondo, Manila is thriving since time immemorial. I'm a bit regretful that I wasn't
able to acquaint myself with the place considering I studied at the nearby San Beda Law for almost four years.
I had to fly 10,000 miles to finally get a feel of downtown Chinatown and stroll around it regularly.

Mom does her fish and veggies shopping at Mott St, three blocks away from the infamous Canal Street---
the heart of Manhattan's Chinatown. We also frequent a dimsum joint in this area called Mandarin
Restaurant where I feast on sumptious siomai and chicken legs.Yum. Over the weekend, however,
the folks craved for some Pinoy-tasting Chinese food so we wound up at the doorstep of Hop Kee Restaurant,
just a few stalls deeper into Mott Street. Mom claimed that our very own Filipino
kababayans flock here for its crablets sauteed in garlic and pan -fried noodles. She didn't say
that the chinky-eyed waiter also spoke Tagalog! Anyhow, we ordered the crablets, noodles,
wanton soup, fried chicken and sauteed broccolli.

Lo mein aka "pansit canton" crablets aka "alimasag" down the basement Hop Kee Judging from the silence that pervaded our table, I'm convinced everyone coudn't get enough of the tasty crablets ( I personally thought they were a little skinny, that's all) and the taste-like-home pansit. The chinky waiter hovered around us and kept asking, "tubig?" (water?). He probably thought someone would need a Hemlich any second soon. We finished he dishes in one fell swoop. I was amazed we had space for the customary fortune cookies. I cracked mine open and read my fortune.Trust the Chinese to offer more than just good cooking. Anyhow, I resolved to keep my poise and bet on those numbers in the NYlotto (currently carrying a 350 Million dollar pot). As we were walking to the bus stop in Bowery, Mom, as usual, had to butterfly to a few stores in the sidewalk and browse through the goodies. One Chinese store-owner, angling to pitch a sale, approached her and initiated some small talk. Vendor: where are you from? Mom: Philippines! Vendor: Aahhhh! Marcos? Mom: Marcos no more. Dead! Vendor. Aquino? Mom: Aquino? Finish! I let out a chuckle and pulled her away from the poor man with a baffled look on his face. Who's Chinese now?

 

Let me begin by saying that yes, I believe in marriage. No underlying sarcasm or condescension here, really. (Lest I'd be in the ranks of a Malu Fernandez!) I believe in its sanctity and the commitment that it entails. I admire friends who have perfected the art of being wives. Some stayed home and and chose it as their profession. Some juggle between blossoming careers and looking after the family. This is the reason I read blogs of wives and their charmed lives (shout-out to Ibyang!). It fascinates me how they find bliss in a husband's mid-day text message or planning for his weekly haircut. Things like that. You never really worried about his haircut when you were still dating, did you?

I'm enthralled at stories of romantic, candle-lit dates taken on a 20th anniversary or how one husband refused to have a night out with friends because wifey was pregnant. It's not as if someone stuck a gun on his head to stay home, it was a choice easily made by him. I've read of couples who haven't spent a night apart and I honestly feel they deserve an award.

I embrace these stories because they are stories of triumph. Triumph of two people who decide on forever and try their darndest best to make it happen. I'm especially proud of the wives. Next to motherhood, this is a woman's greatest achievement because she takes another person's name and makes his life her own.

When a woman becomes a wife she automatically assumes responsibility over another person in a way she is responsible for herself. She cooks for two, shops for two, books a spa visit for two, plans a life for two. Granted that it is not always chipper, the ups usually overtake the downs and the wife essentially remains content. She does this everyday and promises to do it again the very next morning. This way, she becomes a better version of herself, a happier one, too. Kudos to all you who are coasting along this road. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.

I believe that marriage makes most women better persons, makes their lives fuller. It precedes a happy home, a normal environment for the children.

I wish was one of those women, though. While I'm a sucker for for romantic dates, I wake up in my bed happier to find an empty space beside me. I like the space. No, I need it. Similarly, I 'm content with the name I have. In fact, I take offense at having to change it in anyway. Lastly, I don't mind sharing my life with another but I can't plan for more than mine. I can't meet marriage halfway and I'm done trying.

I've struggled so hard to figure out why I am the way I am as a wife and I'm just tired. I know that it's not the lack of love. I've stared at love in the eye and somehow I'm sure it's not enough reason for me to be married. It's high time to raise my arms and say, it's alright being this way, too. Not everyone ends up being triumphant. Not every woman is fit to be a wife.

I'm in the outside looking in. This is my forever and it's just fine.

For two weeks now, I've been waiting for Roger Federer to be eliminated from the U.S. Open. Every single match he played, I rooted for his opponent including those whose last names I can't pronounce. Dad has been wondering what my beef is with the guy. I said nothing. He's actually quite a likeable man, cool and well-mannered. A little robotic for my tastes though. You won't catch him pumping a fist after a winner or a service ace. Still, he is friendly with fans and reporters in the sport he has dominated for 3 1/2 years to date. No earth-shaking scandals or hidden drug use hound him. He is legitimately the No.1 ranked tennis player today.

Sports fans like me have no concrete reason not to like him so we come up with lame excuses that he has won too many times or that we simply favor the underdogs. But do we really? I know being a fan of anything is usually a matter of taste. Even then, we usually can explain our preferences however strange or eccentric they may be. It's the dislike for the top man that we have trouble rationalizing. Is it his smirk? Or his swagger? Maybe it's his shoe!

When we can't pinpoint the cause of our discontent, we speculate. It's like we're waiting for the next, big controversy to erupt that will topple him from the pedestal then gloat about it. Tsk, tsk. Poor underdogs, all of these we commmit in their name. I personally think only the underdogs' families have the right to claim that they are TRULY rooting for them.

I say come on people ( c'mon minz!). Admit that we sometimes resent winners for being the best. We dislike them for being on top of their game. So what if they've won for the nth time if the victories were hard earned? No shame in that. There is on us who refuse to accept them for trying to fill and linger in that spacious room at the top.

P.S. Back to Mr. Federer. Albeit the above-mentioned post, I'm still not quite a fan but I'm dead sure he'll win his 12th grandslam tomorrow. Underdog fans unite. And weep.

Soon the Freedom Tower will rise where once the Twin Towers stood tall and strong in the Manhattan Skyline.
Six years since, the dust has settled, three thousand nine hundred souls all but etched in stone. A nation has moved on but will this city ever will?
Here where life is divided into two phases, before and after that fateful day.
There is nowhere to go but forward. It gets better but never the same.
As for me, it used to be just missing a spot in a postcard. Now it is the last two lines of a song.


Land of the Free. Home of the Brave.

Waiting for a friend at Starbucks in Macy's, my tummy grumbled, reminding me that I've subsisted on an apple the whole day. I wasn't so flustered. It is a conscious effort on my part to shed some weight. That wasn't what had me thinking though. Isn't it fantastic that some part of the brain tells us with such clarity that our gut is hungry?

After a full hour of waiting and starving like that, I gave up and walked to the bus stop to catch the M-16 home. My feet felt heavy and arms weary from lugging the work bag. I've been walking a lot lately. A little too much, I reckon. No doubt that it does wonders for my health but I'm simply petered out. Again,in times like these, the grey cells shoot that message so we could take a break.

If only the the same brain would be so accurate in giving off bulletins on our emotions as it does on our body's physiology. Tell us we are undecided when we can't choose, not stupid or shallow or some other below-average emoticon available.

Better yet not mistake one for the other. Anger for disappointment. Expecting the worst for hoping for the best. Sadness for numbness.

Love for guilt.

Could have saved us a whole lot of trouble.

Minz is: tired

My best bud, Coeli, woke me up with a frenzied long distance phone call this beautiful Saturday morning. Dispensing with the hi's and hello's, she asked me excitedly if I wanted to be partner in a firm she's putting up soon. She said that she's already signed in a colleague from her previous job and that she needs another one to complete the billing. The letter head will read, "Fiel, Villoria, Prado Law Offices". I felt a rush of eagerness and pride at the prospect especially knowing that I can actually afford to put up my share of the capital this time. That and the desire to go back to sleep poked me to say yes. So I did and drifted back to China.

A few hours laters, I woke up and recalled the conversation. I texted her saying that while I am stoked at the idea, I can't possibly be a full time partner. Despite being uncertain about what kind of set-up I'd get into when I return to Manila, I know for sure that I've still much to learn. I'd still need supervision and a lot more court hours to even be in the level of a pretty solid junior associate. Right now I've only been a lawyer for 18 months. Notwithstanding my stint with my former employment, I am nowhere near the ballpark of an experienced attorney. Having that in mind, how can I fathom being a managing partner? And be full time at that?

With a heavy heart, I begged off the agreement. I know Coeli would understand perfectly my reasons for reneging. But I can't help feeling wistful about the whole thing. Am I honestly unprepared for the post or simply copping out of a tougher responsibility? We have friends our age who ventured into partnerships and are doing fine. On the other hand, there are those who have made a gigantic mess of their clients' cases.

I can't seem to throw the dice on this one. It's far too risky to take a chance on. For now, I'll wait it out. Maybe when I'm forty and jaded.

So much for the letterhead. I'm sending the daredevil in me back to China.

Currently watching: Batman

The air is chilly now and the leaves golden. It caught me by surprise or maybe I just wasn't looking. I purposely left my coat this morning and paid dearly for it. Shivering a little from the morning mist, I caught the bus and looked out the window. Going through the four seasons is novel to a two-season me. It's amazing how people here divide the year into chunks of three months. One season is so different from the next that it, literally, turns over a new leaf. It's like having new year's eve four times a year. Four chances to be a better self. Four shots at redemption. A few of us can use that.

Santi and I are talking again. In a sense that words are spoken but not those we mean to say. After a month of silence on his part and anger on mine, I don't know where we are exactly or if either of us even care. In the meantime, there are bills to be paid, parents who meddle and a birthday party for a baby turning two.

Autumn is my favorite season, I think. Yeah, I think it is.

Minz is: melancholy

There is an appointed time for everything, and a time for every affair under the heavens.

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to tear down, and a time to build.

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them; a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embraces.

A time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away.

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to be silent, and a time to speak.

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

Thank you, dear Jesus, for time.

Today is a dream-come-true one for me. After months of wishing to catch the Yankees live at the Yankee Stadium, I finally made that trip to the Bronx. I will be eternally grateful to Auntie Racquel who, despite not knowing who I was a month ago, bought tickets to today's game against the Toronto Blue Jays after finding out that I was a desperate fan.

We took the 4 train to 161st Street, the mecca of all 4.5 million Yankee fans. (who, I must say, are the rowdiest fans in the world). Just the sight of the greenest manicured field I've ever seen and the fifty-six thousand strong cheering in their pinstripes were enough to send chills down my back. I was staring at a place that is home to the most storied ballclub in the history of sports. Twenty-six World Series titles. Thirty-nine American League pennants. And at the rate they are going, the twenty seventh title is not far from reach.

We were seated at the second tier right field. I wasn't a flying kiss away from Derek Jeter (that's another dream in the making) but it wasn't the bleachers either. Hell, who' complaining? I would've sat on the roof of the damn 4 train just to watch my Yanks live on a Sunday afternoon.

It is, likewise, an extra special day as the Yanks set out to honor baseball's greatest commentator and Yankees' shortstop, Phil Rizutto, who passed away last month. He was 89 and the staunchest Yankee fan up until his last breath. He left us with one of sports' oft-used one liners: "Holy Cow!" The Yankees wore a #10 arm band as a salute to Phil.

Before my stubborn stomach grumbled for some chow and wanting to beat Auntie to the punch, I bought hot dogs and sodas from the refreshment stand. I just have to get this out of my chest. $4.75 for a 'dog is a bit much. Scrach that. It's a crime! I kept the rant to myself as the game began. Nothing can ruin my day, especially not an overpriced hot dog.

I saw A-Rod stepped up the plate. His entrance music was Mims' This is why I'm hot. This is one of the reasons that makes baseball a beautiful game. It has humor. Million dollar players like Alex Rodriquez know how to have fun or make fun of themselves everyday. The baseball culture allows them to do so. One instance is their choice of entrance music played every time they are about to bat. A-Rod's choice last year was Linkin park's Numb -- a dig at his own lackluster season. He is riding high this year with fifty home runs hence the song change. I had a blast hearing the others' entrance music. Johnny Damon's was "Johnny Be Goode". I am not joking.

After a couple of innings the score was tied at 3-3. The Yanks broke away at the 7th inning primarily due to the pitcher's, Mike Mussina, solid throws. Affectionately called "Moose" by the fans, they would egg him to strike the batters out by a bullying chant of "Muuuuuuuussssssssss". They erupted into a wild celebration as soon as the umpire signaled the strike out.

At the top of the 7th, the game took a break for the customary rendition of "God Bless America". The Yankees is the only ball club left that still observes this moment. After a solemn few minutes, the stadium broke into an enthusiastic performance of "Take me out to the ball game" with matching choreography. It was simply hilarious.

The 8th inning found the Blue Jays trying to mount a run at the Yanks' two-run lead. With the score standing at 7-5, the crowd started to scream, "We want Joba!. That is Joba Chamberlain, the Yankees hottest new pitcher who, at 21, has his competition eating dust with his 100 mile-an-hour pitches. As if acceding to the fans' latest demand, skipper Joe Torre called his rookie out from the bullpen. Pandemonium filled the jam packed stadium. The scoreboard lit up announcing, "it's Joba time!".

True enough, within the next hour, Joba had his job done. Two shut out innings. Yankees won!

As the crowd filtered out of the famed stadium, old blue eyes Frank crooned from the background, These little town blues are melting away, I'll make a brand new start of it in ol' New York!"

This is by far my best New York moment. King of the hill! Top of the heap!

Vamos Yankees!

Minz is: ecstatic

This morning I went to work with my blouse on backwards. I would have never noticed if not for an early client who pointed it to me. Embarrassed is putting it mildly. I wanted earth to swallow me whole along with my pink blouse. I couldn't believe I rode the bus, subway and walked through a mall looking like that. This wardrobe malfunction serves as icing on my "harassed week" cake.

Since Mom left for Manila three weeks ago, I've morphed into a less glamorous version of J. Lo in Maid in Manhattan. It seems like there are not enough plates to wash, bathrooms to clean, floors to wipe and clothes to iron. Aside from the regular house chores, I've to remember to brew coffee for Dad who takes it every other hour (just because he likes the smell of it) and water Mom's plants. The latter hasn't been successful as they are wilting before my very eyes. I know I haven't been remiss in the plant duty so it's either these little things are over-watered or Mom is right. I've got to say hello to them. C'mon now. This is getting too far off my alley here. Plant watering yes. Plant talking no.

As if I did not need any more house work, one of dad's colleagues from Bhutan flew in for a seminar and asked to stay in our place for five days. If we have help in whatever form, shape or size, I wouldn't have minded. But no, it's just me in Manhattan, remember? So currently, I've cleaned the bathroom thrice this week, washed mountains of plates, threw kilos of trash and slept out in the sofa. Bring it on, why don't we?

Tonight the guest needs to buy some archery stuff which, I found out, are not sold in the city. ( Of all the things you'd want to buy in New York, why the hell mess with arrows?) After googling for archery shops near the apartment and coming up with none, one sales lady from the Orvis explained that a few years ago some archery fanatic took the hobby to the streets and shot arrows smack in Central Park. So there. Manhattan bans archer stores. The nearest such place is in Flushing, Queens.

Guess who's straphanging to Flushing tonight? You got it. C'est moi. La di da. I deserve an award.

Like I said, I've patience as my middle name. But there are four Thursdays in September. I could have gladly gone to Flushing any of the past three. But no, it has to be tonight. Grey's Anatomy Season premiere night. Hooray. I will be sitting in the subway wishing it was like one of those bullet trains they got going in Japan. Chop Chop!

It's one thing to have a tough week and another to be deprived of little things that help take the stress out. I mean when you've got your clothes on backwards, that is seriously saying something. An hour of soap is not too much to ask for. Otherwise, this girl here is taking "stress" into a whole new level. Plant-talking.