Hello Monday (First Monday of June 2011)

It’s officially summer.  But it is still cloudy here, in the San Francisco Bay Area.  In fact, self can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’s seen sun, the past week.  Which is fine, since she really doesn’t think she wants to be gardening that much:  she’d rather read.  And write.  And send out.  And troll the web.  And think deliciously dark thoughts about every subject under the sun.  And then be regaled by Mark Twain (late last night, almost the last episode self read from Roughing It, was about how the narrator was conned into buying a recalcitrant horse.  No matter what mood she is in, she has only to read a page or two of Twain before surrendering to the most boisterous guffaws)  Hearing these regular explosions of laughter from the bedroom, hubby must wonder if self has gone crackers.

This past weekend, self :

• Saw a movie (“X-Men:  First Class,” which was a vast improvement in terms of acting, coherence, editing — well, in terms of just about everything else —  over the previous film in the franchise.  Michael Fassbender makes a great Magneto, and self finds James McAvoy’s “I-am-so-intently-reading-your-mind” finger extensions intensely fascinating).
• Was treated to one of those ridiculously cheap but filling breakfasts at The Broiler Express in San Carlos (Would you believe two eggs, two sausages, and two thick slices of French Toast for just under $5???).
• Was given chicharon by self’s # 1 enabler (hubby) —  not the Safeway kind (Those are almost pure air), but the one sold at 7/11, in small packages that contain only about 20 pieces (Thank God, otherwise where would self’s arteries be?)
• Made desultory chit-chat about the MTV Movie Awards (Which, after last night, self almost never wants to watch again.  How many years in a row do we have to keep watching the “Twilight” movies beat out competition like “Inception” for Best Fight???  Joseph Gordon-Levitt in a suit, climbing on a ceiling, loses to R-Patz tearing Bryce Dallas Howard’s head off?  Puh-LEASE!  Although, self must say, Bryce Dallas Howard looked so lovely last night in her bright, cotton-candy pink gown and her teensy baby bump.  Kudos, too, to Blake Lively for her aqua blue dress with the fabulos-o cut-outs.  But boo to Emma Watson who, despite having a great figure, and the cutest short haircut imaginable, kept her shoulders hunched pretty much the whole time she was presenting her award).

She also sent stories out at a furious pace.  And self does mean furious.  Her “Return” key clicked so often, she thought her fingers were on fire.

Why this sudden mania for sending out?  It’s all the fault of that Submishmash!  Ever since journals have started using it, it has become all too easy for writers like self to check the progress of their submissions, every day if they feel so inclined.  A few days ago, self saw that several of her submissions were “In Progress.”  And, as she hates surprises, she figures she’ll just consider all the “In Progress” stories as Rejections already.  That will save her having to obssess over them this week.  (Unfortunately, that did mean she had to research which other journals she felt like submitting to, and that took an uncommonly long time —  in fact, hours —  because of course one has to read the Submission Guidelines and also a couple of pieces of sample writing.  Not that that wasn’t fun —  reading the sample pieces of writing, that is.  But, really, dear blog readers would be amazed how much time can be eaten up by perusing a literary web-zine!)

The Stanford Archives await, and also Rick’s ice cream, available now at a small café in the Arrillaga Alumni Center (which happens to be only a five minute walk from the Archives)

In the meantime, as she is in absolutely no hurry to get dressed, she peruses a back issue of The New Yorker (Self still hasn’t renewed:  self, when will you ever get off your high horse and DO IT?).  This is the issue of 23 May 2011.  Here are two books self is interested in reading after perusing the “Briefly Noted” section:

A Singular Woman by Janny Scott:

Here’s an image that was given wide play during the 2008 Presidential Campaign:  Obama’s mother, Stanley Ann Dunham, as “a batik-skirt-wearing hippie girl who, in an effort to fill in her son’s racial identity, daffily supplied him with Harry Belafonte records and took him to see Black Orpheus.”  Well, of course she was more than that.  Read this biography to find out more about this complex woman.

The Uncoupling, a novel by Meg Wolitzer

The only reason, frankly, self wants to read this book is because of the reviewer’s verve.  Here’s one example:   Stellar Plains, the setting of Wolitzer’s latest novel, is an unremarkable New Jersey suburb, where wives rave about a grocery store as if it were a sex club and a night out means dinner at Peppercorns, with “its long, looming salad bar that made you remember that there were choices in life.”  Isn’t that just the most fab sentence, dear blog readers?

Stay tuned.

Country Kitchen, Vierra Canyon Road, Salinas, California

Today was the day self had been dreading for weeks and weeks:  Gracie’s cremation and the interment of her bones.

Hubby really really wanted to have a ceremony, and self was Oh all right whatever.

Self was afraid she’d be crying all the way to the place (Monterey Bay Loved Pet in Royal Oaks), but the sun was shining, it was a gorgeous day, and that reverend in Oakland said today was the last day for All Mankind (Is his name really “Camping”?  And what happens if we are all still alive tomorrow?).  In addition, self was very distracted by hubby’s constant assertions that his car had “engine knock” and we’d be stranded on 101 and have to catch a bus back home.  Self had asked him for weeks and weeks whether we shouldn’t just rent a car, and he said No, he’d much prefer taking his car and seeing if it really broke down on the freeway.  And self wondered why she had to put up with all the stress of wondering if we would make it to Gracie’s cremation, when the event itself was already so stressful, but apparently hubby enjoys the drama and excitement of not knowing whether we will get to our destination in one piece.  So self decided to go along and see whether we would:  a) die in the Rapture today, like the Oakland minister said we are all supposed to; or b) get stranded on 101.  And NEITHER OF THOSE THINGS HAPPENED.  So self considers herself lucky to be:  a) alive, and b) home safe, with Gracie’s ashes.  (Now self knows why son decided to major in Social Psychology.  But that is a long story which self must reserve for another post.)

When we got to the pet cemetery, Gracie was all laid out in a viewing parlor, but self could not bring herself to look at her dearly beloved.  She stayed outside the viewing parlor, and hubby and son (who had driven up from San Luis Obispo) discussed Gracie’s remarkable preservation, in spite  of having been in the freezer for so many weeks.  Self stood just outside the door and heard every word.  Then she heard much movement and “Oh!” this and “Oh!” that, and surmised hubby was posing son next to Gracie’s body, for pictures.

The actual cremation was going to take 1 1/2 hours, so hubby asked the pet cemetery guy if there was a restaurant in the area he could recommend.  And without any hesitation whatsoever, he said “Country Kitchen.”  So we trooped there, and —  self knows this is gross, posting about food on the day of Beloved Gracie’s interment, not to mention while self was worrying whether she would be stranded on the 101, or killed by the Rapture —  but this place

HAS THE MOST HEAVENLY CORNED BEEF HASH SELF HAS EVER TASTED.

This is a rather nondescript-looking restaurant, right across the street from a shopping center, but heck, with that kind of recommendation from Monterey Bay Loved Pet, it was full steam ahead.  The first thing self saw upon entering was a cartoon moose stuffed toy-thingie affixed to a wall of the dining room.  In another room, further in, self could see a rooster on some hay affixed to a wall.

All the patrons were a) white (with the exception, that is, of self, hubby, and son —  we are quite easily identifiable as Asian, not only because of the black hair but also because of —  Self!  Will you stop with the digressions already?!) and b) local, but no one glanced up when we entered, thank goodness.

The hash browns came on a foot-wide plate.  Self is not exaggerating:  the plate was actually A FOOT WIDE.  And it came with two eggs over easy, and a smaller plate containing white toast slathered with butter.  And even though self hates the fact that as soon as she returns to California, she instantly gains 10 lbs., she could not desist from eating.  And eating.  And eating.  Until there was nothing left on her plate.  Not even a scrap of egg.

AAARRRGH!

And then we returned to the Pet Cemetery, and by this time self could hardly walk, her pants were so tight.  And the Monterey Bay Loved Pet man handed self a small wooden box that had Gracie’s name engraved on it, and the dates 2000 – 2011, and self hugged the box and thought Oh Gracie, oh Gracie, oh Gracie.  But she did not cry.

And then we headed back home.  And even though hubby kept reminding self that we would probably break down any minute, we made it home in one piece.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

Intrepid Travelers

Self is groggy:  the jet lag is really kicking in.  But, already, self has accompanied Dearest Cuz to Tagaytay, for a totally fab breakfast at Antonio’s.

Talk about pushing it:  Cuz served self a repast as soon as she got in from the airport, just before midnight last night:  siopao, Majestic ham, queso de bola, bite-sized tuna sandwiches.  This morning, Cuz awakened self at 7:30 and said we were going to Tagaytay for brunch.  First, though, we had to have breakfast:  Mary Grace’s ensaimada and slices of sweet papaya.  Definitely, self felt she had died and gone to heaven (Counting today’s brunch in Tagaytay, self realizes that she’s consumed three full meals in a span of less than 12 hours —  aargh)

Dear Cuz’s place in Dasma is like a spa:  there’s a pond stocked with the fattest koi self has ever seen and, in the garden, the loud chirpings of maya birds.  This quite vigorous animal life is in marked contrast to doors that slide open with nary a sound, and maids slipping unobtrusively in and out of rooms.

At some point last night, as self’s plane was circling in preparation to landing, self looked out the plane window and saw the lights of Manila.  It was a beautiful night.  The weather was 84 degrees, the skies were clear.  The first thing that hit her when she stepped out of the plane was the smell, a damp and humid smell —  it’s a familiar smell:  the smell of Manila, the smell of home.

Wednesday morning, Delta sent an extra plane to take the Manila-bound passengers who were stranded by the cancellation of Tuesday’s flight.  We all flew out together on Wednesday, on a plane that was mostly empty.  Here are some of self’s fellow travelers:

Fellow travelers, waiting in Narita for last leg of flight to Manila

Larry, cook of a Filipino turo-turo restaurant in Sunnyvale. He says Thursday nights are kaldereta nights. He's visiting new-born twins in his home province of Pangasinan, will be back to cook on Feb. 9. Self promised to eat there.

Midnight repast at Dear Cuz's place in Dasmariñas

Dear Cuz took this picture of self (over self's strenuous protests). She said she had never seen anyone apparently so excited to be home.

Tonight, dinner at Greenbelt 5.

Tomorrow morning, Salcedo Farmers Market.

Tomorrow night, Bacolod and L’Fisher.  Self told her Bacolod cousins she could just get a taxi from the airport, but they were adamant she would be met.  “This is not the States!” they texted.  “A woman traveling alone here is just not safe!”

Oh, really?  Then why didn’t they blink last month, when she had Joel drive her to Dumaguete and all over southern Negros?  Oh, guess that was because Joel was her “protection.”

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

I Want This For My Breakfast

Dulcinea, somewhere on Tomas Morato, Quezon City