How I keep warm during fall

“Is it your birthday?” the lady at the counter asked while we checked out our purchases. It was already 9 p.m.; the stores lining the streets of downtown Chicago were closing for the day but PJ and I hadn’t noticed the time.

“No, it isn’t,” I answered. “We’re just getting ready for fall.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, then looked at the pile of coats, hats and fall what-nots on the counter. “It just seems like it is.”

PJ and I simply smiled at each other.

That night, as I lulled myself to sleep, I pondered about my misery. Since I moved, I have had this pervasive feeling of loneliness that would visit me at unexpected moments. It comes when we’re watching TV, or when I’m cooking, or when I’m just reading the papers. The quiet nights are a given, as well as the rainy weekend mornings.

Then I remembered that lady’s question. Was it my birthday? And because I would know for sure if it was my birthday, I realized that I just looked too fortunate to be miserable.

All these months, all I could care about is how lonely I’ve been. I have spent so much energy counting the things I don’t have rather than counting the things I already have. On worse days, I torment PJ by giving him the cold shoulder and pointing out things he doesn’t do rather than give him credit for the things he does. I forgot that when we go out with my friends and family, he picks up the tab. That he picks up my clothes from the dry cleaners. That he preorders the DVDs I like without being asked. That he always makes himself available for me, which is more than anyone can ask for.

My every day life has been plagued with gripes and questions. The worst part is I blamed my life, my family, even my husband for ripping me off my roots. But in truth, I did this to myself. Yes, I allowed the whiny monster in me grow, and I have to kill it now before it gets the chance to kill my relationships.

I remember when I was getting ready to leave; I folded my dresses, wrapped my shoes, and tucked them inside my suitcases as though I was only going away for the weekend. I gave away many belongings but in my wild imagination, those things still belonged to me, and when I return, they would be in the same place where I left them. I said my goodbyes but I forgot that even when I'm gone, life would go on and the clock would kept on turning. I was—and still am—afraid that when I come back, I won't recognize the city of my childhood and my mother's childhood, the same city that visits me in my sleep at night. I should have taken more caution because now it seems this expedition is taking longer than I allowed.

I have been holding on to a life I no longer have. I am ashamed to admit that to this day, I still convert currencies before making a purchase, and compare weather, seasons, people, TV shows and, dare I say it, politicians.

I need to let my new life in my door. I belong here now; this will be my home for many good years, if not forever, so I can’t watch it wither away while I indulge myself in helplessness.

It was time for me to be pliant, to accept changes. That is not to say that I am erasing my old city from the plot of my life. After all, life is a story with chapters, characters, settings, plots, conflicts and resolutions. At the risk of sounding cliché, that chapter of my life is finished and the characters have moved on, but some will always remain largely at play. But like any book, I can always turn back the pages whenever I want to remember.

I decided to count the things I can and I have. For starters, I can cook now, do my own laundry, watch football, and call my friends and family as often as I’d like. I have coats, gloves, hats and a reliable heater that will keep me warm throughout fall and winter. On quiet nights or rainy weekend mornings, I have a hot cup of coffee, an abundant library, a great view of a spectacular city outside my window, and a husband who knows when I’m crying even when I don’t shed a tear.

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Photo credits:
Michigan Avenue:
tanmaypics13.tripod.com/michigan_avenue/
Woman in fall leaves: Missouri Baptist Foundation at:
http://www.mbfn.org/Gift%20Catalog/GiftCatalog-MissouriWMU.php

What brings you here?

Last Saturday, this thirsty soul of mine found inspiration in the final chapter of Amy Tan’s “Opposite of Fate," a collection of essays. I had been dying to finish this book so I can start reading Isabel Allende’s memoirs. But every page of Tan’s “book of musings” proved to be a message waiting to be told.

In June 1999, Tan started showing symptoms of Lyme disease, a bacterial infection acquired from the bite of an infected Ixodes or “black-legged” tick. Although Tan had the resources, it took almost four years and tens of thousands of dollars before she received a final diagnosis. By then, the bacteria had already crossed the blood-brain barrier, and had thus turned into chronic or late-stage neuroborreliosis. She described in her book and in her Web site the harrowing details of how she almost lost control of her life to Lyme disease.

“I saw people walking into my room, two girls jumping rope, numbers spinning on an odometer, a fat poodle hanging from the ceiling. I also had strange episodes in which I behaved strangely but had no recollection of what I had done as reported to me by others. I apparently rang people up at midnight and talked in a wispy voice. I had flung laundry around the living room. My husband said I acted at times as if I were in a trance, eyes wide open but unresponsive to his and a friend’s questions. I now had nightly nightmares and acted them out, punching at lamps or my husband, and once landing on my head in a dive toward my dream assailant.”

Thanks to her stubborn streak, she refused to throw in the towel. She exhausted whatever energy and imagination left of her to do her own research and insist that her doctor perform tests that would confirm the diagnosis. When she knew what kind of “terrorist” she had in her body, she fought to capture it.

Tan now joins thousands of Lyme disease patients in promoting awareness and prevention. Her campaign against Lyme is just one of the many ways she uses her talents and influence to reach out to her readers. Through her works as a writer and an advocate, she reminds me that we all serve a purpose for one another; that our existence and our innate skills did not happen by chance.

We may or may not find the things we lost, need or wish for. The answer is in God's time, but whatever it is, it is not as important as who we are now. I, for one, am not Oprah, the Crown Princess of Denmark, a rocket scientist or the person who discovered Lyme disease . But I am a wife, friend, daughter, sister, mentor, writer, and a champion of many beliefs. I take each of my roles with aplomb and appreciation. I am something to somebody, and so are you.

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For more information about Amy Tan, her life, works and campaign against Lyme, visit: www.amytan.net

For information about Lyme Disease, visit: www.LymeDiseaseAssociation.org

Wild, wild sushi

Something my husband and I share passionately is … our love for sushi. (What were you thinking?) Before he introduced me to sushi, the only Japanese I know is that white rectangular sheet with a red dot in the center. (Alright, that may be an exaggeration but you get my point).


Unknown to many, the Japanese term sushi refers to rice—and only rice. But due to Western influence, majority of the world now refers to sushi as rice topped or filled with seafood, meat, vegetables and sometimes, fruits. Even more revolutionary are the many ways the “sushi rice” and its ingredients are put together. Some are rolled in dried sheets of seaweed (“maki”), some are prepared with hand-formed rice topped with a small sheet of your meat of choice (“nigiri”). Whatever form it comes, sushi is a testament to Japan’s mantra of innovation: put as many good things in as little space as possible.

At times, my and my husband’s passion for sushi becomes an obsession. Sometimes it is unhealthy (because of the amount of rice we eat), bothersome (because of the distance we have to drive to try different sushi joints), and expensive (no explanation necessary).

Still, my husband, bless his heart, continues to spoil me. He never tires of satisfying my insatiable craving for everything Japanese. Now, we not only frequent sushi places in the metro, but we order sushi to take home with us. Oh, if I could only prepare sushi on my own …

Last Saturday, in our quest to champion sushi throughout mankind, we went on a 50-mile drive (again) to try out Agami, a contemporary sushi bar along Broadway. Situated along a mile of traditional oriental restaurants (they call this area “Little Thailand”), Agami’s façade could have passed as a Michigan Avenue staple. Tall ceilings, bright, well-coordinated lights and shapes will shock you as soon as you put your foot in the door. So contemporary was Agami that instead of the usual Niponggo music, they play trance music in the background. Add Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson, and you would be lost in translation.

The sushi did not disappoint either. We ordered “Ocean Drive,” which was a concoction of fish meats showered with citrus flavors and a hint of mint; “Agami Maki,” the house special; and “White Dragon.” Yes, you read it right, here at Agami, there are at least four types of dragon maki—and all of them come with a very, very fresh bite of seafood.

All in all, Agami is a place worth driving 50 miles to. We plan to come back, but in the meantime, let me list down some of my favorite sushi variants. (Pardon the incomplete descriptions. I just eat them, that’s all I really do.)

1. Volcano – maki filled with smoked salmon topped with thinly sliced scallops wrapped in “melted” mayonnaise and cheese. In other words, Japanese au gratin.




2. Godzilla – soft shell crab, shrimp with spicy mayonnaise and tempura; usually has asparagus.

3. Dragon –freshwater and sea eel, cucumber, and seaweed all wrapped in thin avocado slices. The rolls are arranged like dragon on your plate, hence the name dragon.







4. Dynamite – tuna and yellowtail with hot spicy sauce and masago (caviar or roe). Top it with shreds of lobster meat ("Lobster Dynamite") and your life will change forever.

5. Spider roll – yummy soft shell crab, that's all you need to know.

6. Rainbow roll (shown in the first photo above) - seaweed salad, cucumber, avocado covered in different-colored meats of tuna, salmon, crab and shrimp, then covered with masago or sesame seeds. In other words, colorful (shown in the first photo above).

7. Tiger roll - fresh crabmeat, avocado, cucumber sprinkled with teriyaki sauce in a zigzag manner

8. Nigiri sushi - rice and meat, usually seafood. For the purist at heart.

9. Alaska roll - smoked salmon, cucumber, avocado and masago

10. Philadelphia roll – salmon with cream cheese, a perfect ending to a round of spicy sushi

11. Mai Tai – Oh wait, that’s not sushi. I’m totally busted.

Freedom in Your Marriage

Marriage is bittersweet. Sometimes, you feel as though you are going to implode because of too much love, sometimes you just want to explode because of anguish, guilt, annoyance, confusion … name it. There are just many things that come with marriage that make you want to pack your bags and run crying to mommy.

Many of you know that my husband and I are practically newly married. The fact that I am writing this makes it obvious that we have a lot to learn. As we enter the first years of cohabiting as a married couple, we discover a whole slew of things that we would have otherwise ignored.

I notice that I fret over small matters that merit no attention from other people. For example, I consider dinnertime as sacred, almost equal to going to church on Sunday mornings. The dinner table and the kitchen are a temple to me, and when they are violated, I hear voices in my head telling me to knock over bottles, pots and pans. My eleventh commandment is plain and simple: "Thou shall only bring food to the dinner table. No remote controls, newspapers, magazines, books or laptops."

As I quell my unrest, I realize that’s just the way it is in marriage. Trivial things become a matter of sanity and derailment. To be fair, I am sure that my husband has his own “things,” too. And I wouldn’t be surprise if I found out he also hears voices telling him to run his car over the garage. He is a good man, husband and friend.

As individuals, we are all allowed to have autonomy over things that we consider sacred. For some, it is going to church, or watching Sunday night football, or visiting the bookstore on a Saturday afternoon. But as a “better” half of a whole, we are expected to give up a certain amount of the autonomy we knew when we were single.

So I ask you, women, this question: How much of this autonomy are you willing to give? And when you do give up something, do you always have to sell yourself short? In marriage, when is it right to be bitter over small things rather than sweet?

An answer

In my long, long hiatus from blogging, I had been reading the epistolary works of Rainer Maria Rilke, "Letters to a young poet." I had also been stepping in and out of Amy Tan's realm, "Opposite of Fate," and Yasunari Kawabata's dark and tangible, "Beauty and Sadness." On some days, when I know I need a jab of cynicism, I read one of J.D. Salinger's "Nine Stories."

All the time, I was writing notes, short and long, between pages, wherever my thoughts belonged. Sometimes, it felt I was creating a story or a mini-world in small pieces of post-it notes, which I deliberately positioned to protrude from the edges of the books. All I have to do is pull up that small portion of the paper and I am back in a world of memories and imagination. There, I hide for portions of time until the present becomes a past.

I hope one day I can grow the courage to write about the present.

Blog will lead me back

Let me take a bold leap to write again. Like many of you out there, I am afraid to reveal my thoughts. But last week, I spoke with my friend M, who asked me what happened to this blog page. I told her I had been writing but I hadn’t posted anything in fear that I will be judged, measured, dissected until I am nothing but a paragraph in numerous quotes.

But we all judge each other, don’t we? Who am I to except myself from that way of life?

So, here’s to you M, for asking the same question I ask every day: Whatever happened to my blog site?

I'll tell you tomorrow.