SCROOGED

I received this short and sweet Christmas greeting from "cleng", a.k.a. Cleo Barawid of Sapporo, Japan on Christmas Day, no less:

"...i wonder what your motive is for posting this here, after all it happened to you long time ago. are you still bitter about it? and there are two sides to every story, right? i just think that it's kinda superficial to attack a person's physical appearance. are you pretty? 'coz from your pix i could see that you are on the heavy side. merry xmas."

I guess my previous post, "NEMESIS", touched a nerve. I am now sharing my response to her comment with all of you, in true Christmas spirit. After all, "'Tis the season for sharing!"


"Dear "cleng", a.k.a. Cleo Barawid of Sapporo, Japan:

Obviously, you chose to ignore the WARNING disclaimer I posted at the beginning of my article, where I clearly stated my motive for writing this piece.

Nevertheless, catharsis has already taken place, and all is well in my world again, so I won't even bother to waste my time asking you where I "attacked" anyone's physical appearance.

I hardly think the words "female", "short", "dusky", "flat-chested", "buck-toothed", and "administrative assistant" are offensive. Descriptive, maybe, but not derogatory. If you happen to think otherwise, then I think you're the one who has issues here, not me.

You obviously think that one cannot be considered "pretty" if one is "on the heavy side". Don't you think THAT reeks of superficiality as well? Shame on you.

I can only guess that you took it upon yourself to attack MY personal appearance, on behalf of all the beleaguered short, dusky, flat-chested, buck-toothed, female administrative assistants out there. How very noble of you to champion their cause.

But just so you know, I also have a lot of friends who happen to be female, short, dusky, flat-chested, buck-toothed, AND administrative assistants. The only difference here is that none of them has ever tried to steal my husband.

Which brings me back to the whole point of the article, which you quite obviously missed. Self-righteous indignation sometimes does this to people.

Assuming you meant it, Merry Belated Christmas to you too."

NEMESIS

(WARNING: With this article, I am exorcising demons (demonesses?) from my past. If you happen to be an administrative assistant, female, short, dusky, flat-chested, buck-toothed, or any combination of the above, please do NOT take offense. I had some very definite people in mind when I wrote this, and chances are, they do not include you.)


Beware the short, dusky, flat-chested Administrative Assistant. And if she happens to have bucked teeth, run for the hills with your boyfriend in tow.

Twice in my life, I have been cheated upon, with older women sporting prominent overbites, straight from the Nora Aunor cookie-cutter, playing the much-despised role of The Other Woman.

The first time it happened to me, I didn't know what was coming. A single phone call in the middle of the night and I was broadsided with information overload that made me regret taking the call in the first place.

I knew her voice right away. She with the trying-hard English. This woman was the sort of receptionist who said "Hold on please", the "please" here pronounced "plehs". It made me shudder to hear her butcher this common phrase.

I honestly wondered what my boyfriend saw in her, although I had no doubt what she saw in HIM. After all, he was this Spanish-speaking cono-kid from La Salle who lived in SanLo, his family owning two more homes, in Dasma and Ayala Alabang no less, which they rented out to foreign diplomats. Yes, they had money.

She proceeded to tell me to "let go of A. because his girlfriend was pregnant". I thought she was out of her mind. After all, to the best of my knowledge, I was still A.'s girlfriend, and I sure as heck wasn't pregnant!

And then the sordid reality of her message hit home and my world crashed all around me.

I called up my boyfriend and broke up with him. And then I called my best friend, Coco Quisumbing, who came straight from her late-evening newscast to pick me up, ferry me over to her nearby flat, make me tea, ply me with tissues, and let me cry all over her designer jacket sponsored by ShoeMart.

Of course, when I broke up with "A.", he quickly ended his relationship with her, and proceeded to ask me back.

As for the baby? Well, Ms. Receptionist mysteriously had a "miscarriage" after that was over. I honestly doubt there was a baby in the first place. Yes, some women will stoop this low to get what they want.

Unfortunately, this pattern was repeated in subsequent relationships of mine, with Caucasian men who had dalliances behind my back with the La Aunor type. I guess, just like my former tisoy boyfriend, they also equated "short, dark and homely" with "exotic".

Since then, I have sworn off relationships with men whose skin was fairer than my own. There were simply far too many women out there who were shorter, darker, had flatter chests and no orthodontists, and who could therefore be considered more "exotic" than me.

It was my present husband who broke the mold. Lorenzo happens to be darkly handsome, sporting a rosy moreno hue which I find so sexy. And the best part of it all? He loves the fact that I am maputi.


We all have our nemeses. Mine is the short, dusky, flat chested older woman from Administration.

Bucked teeth optional.

SUNSHINE

Sunshine
in my eyes
can make me cry...
--John Denver

It was supposed to be a happy day.

After all, it was Lorenzo's first day of work for a multinational company recognized the world over.

But on that morning, I received an ominous call from my mother-in-law. Her older sister, whom we fondly called "T'ya 'Wanag" was in the hospital, and Nanay feared she wouldn't linger on for much longer.

I had always been fond of T'ya Liwanag. She and her younger sister, my husband's Mom, Ginhawa, shared nationalistic names with the rest of their siblings, Bayani, Maghirang, Ligaya and Mahinhin.

But her daughter's mother-in-law, who lives in Oregon, had such a hard time pronouncing her name that she decided to call her "Sunshine".



I received the news with surprise and sadness. I didn't even know that Lorenzo's aunt was in the hospital. Her health had been failing for the last couple of years but she always managed to bounce back. In fact, she had become such a fixture in my in-law's home that I couldn't imagine going there without seeing her familiar figure seated around the dining table.

I told my mother-in-law that we would try to get there as soon as we could, but I knew it would be difficult. With the kids off to school and Lorenzo at work, I knew it would be hours before we could even make it to San Jose, a two-hour drive from Modesto. Judging from Nanay's tone of voice, I honestly didn't think we would be able to reach the hospital in time to say goodbye.

Sure enough, we got the call at around two-thirty that afternoon. T'ya Liwanag had passed on.

I was genuinely saddened to hear this. She was a lovely person with a big, kind heart. I could still remember her, still bald from chemotherapy, fussing over us during a visit to their household, serving us food and making sure my family was comfortable when she should've been resting. We were just there to drop off an invitation but she insisted on feeding us, and wouldn't take "no" for an answer. This was quintessentially T'ya 'Wanag.



I will miss hearing her play the piano. I will miss sitting on her left at the mahjong table. I will miss her sweet, savory spaghetti with the carrots and pickle relish which I have tried duplicating but could never succeed at, no matter how many times she'd given me the recipe. But most of all, I will miss seeing her smile indulgently at my children, whom she always lavished with praise. Too bad I never got to tell her how much her kind words warmed my heart.




Last weekend, we stayed over at the Bay Area for the viewing. It's been a while since I'd seen the whole family together. The last time we had a comparable turnout was for my nephew's wedding a year ago.

It was good to see everyone again, rallying around each other as we sent off one of our own to that place beyond, where she could wait for us at the other end of the divide, free of disease and pain.


During the memorial service, I watched the kids while Lorenzo and other family members took their turns in front, sharing special memories they had of their Aunt and Mother. And after all was said, everyone congregated around her, as if drawn together by invisible arms, surrounding her in a tight semi-circle for one last cry.

As we surrendered to our emotions, feeding off everyone's collective grief, it was both cathartic and uplifting at the same time. You could literally feel the air clear as emotions were slowly spent, like the sun shining tentatively after the storm clouds have dissipated.


And then the people retreated to their own little groups, hugging and comforting each other, forgiving past mistakes, forgetting petty squabbles...



...and rebuilding bridges.




Just as she would've wanted it to be.


(NOTE: Just a few days after T'ya Liwanag passed away, T'yong Boy, her last surviving brother, also succumbed to a lengthy illness in the Philippines.

I would also like to remember my Daddy, who celebrated his sixth death anniversary on October 18th. I had been reminding myself about the date a few days before the 18th, but when the day actually came, I totally forgot about it.

Perhaps this was the way he wanted it.

I love you, Daddy, and I still miss you so much. R.)


(PLUGGING: "Color My World", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)

PAYING IT FORWARD

He was very dear to me, and he was sick.

Nobody knew what it was. Even the doctors at the U.P. Infirmary were baffled.

He thought it might've been an insect bite. Whatever it was, the skin on his leg was getting worse. The doctors suggested it might be cellulitis, and sent him to St. Luke's Medical Center for further tests.

He ended up staying for about a week. I visited him as often as I could.

His wife was at his side for the duration of his confinement, missing work at the U.P. Islamic Center. This didn't come as a surprise. She was particularly devoted to him.

I could see that she loved him very much. I honestly thought she was one of the best things that ever happened to him. She was kind and gentle and very patient. And she took very good care of him.

I visited him on his last day at the hospital. He was in good spirits, happy to be going home again. I could see the relief in his wife's face as well.

I secretly wondered how much this hospital stay was costing them. I knew it must have been a considerable sum. St. Luke's was one of the best and most modern hospitals in the Philippines, and it certainly didn't come cheap.

Yet they weren't rich. Both of them worked for a living because they had to.

I knew they must be scrambling for any means to help pay the bill, but they never once brought up the subject of money to me. I also knew that of all the people in their inner circle, I was in a better position than most to be of any help.

I gently asked how much money was owed. She gave me a nervous smile, almost reluctantly admitting they were fifty thousand short.

I went out of the room to make a phone call. And then I wrote St. Luke's Medical Center a check for fifty thousand pesos. It wasn't a debt, it was a gift.

She smiled her shy smile and held me close, her voice breaking as she thanked me.

I could see he was touched too, and that was enough for me.



Six years later, I was the one in dire straits.

My husband had just lost his job. We were relying on our savings to tide us over, and they were dangerously getting depleted.

But despite our financial worries, we were still rich in love and blessings. Indeed, during our darkest moments, The Lord would always help us clear the hurdles somehow.

And then two people very dear to us came to visit. We sorely missed the presence of another to make us complete, but she was unable to make it from the Philippines.

Nevertheless, she sent some money over, not just to my kids (who were her godchildren), but to me as well.

And when the others told her of my financial situation, she went ahead and sent me a thousand dollars more. Just like that. I was touched at her kindness.



I never asked her for money. I don't even remember mentioning any of my problems to her when we spoke on the phone.

The irony of it all didn't escape me. While most of my kababayans sent money back to their families in the Philippines, here I was, one of the few exceptions where the opposite was true.

I could only see it as a gift from The Lord. And she was the vessel He used to deliver it.

Just like He chose to use me on that day, more than six years back.


(To YOU...you know who you are...thank you so much for your kind and selfless gesture, which meant so much to me and my family. And to YOU, who helped, using your own money to send it via Western Union, our sincerest thanks as well.

I love you guys so much. R.)

A.S. STEPS
Home: 87 Gentle Street

(Note: "A.S." refers to the U.P. College of Arts and Sciences in Diliman, which used to be housed in Palma Hall alone until it was split into three different colleges, the College of Science, The College of Fine Arts, and the College of Social Sciences and Philosophy, which Palma Hall came to be known as.)


You all know her.

The Girl We Love To Hate. Not because she's skinny and gorgeous and her Daddy's rich, but because she was everything we ever hated when we were in school: sinungaling, chismosa, intriguera, sumbungera (later known as chu-chu) and iyakin.

To those of you who don't understand Tagalog, those words roughly meant "liar", "malicious gossip", "tattletale" and "crybaby". Not a charming combination any way you look at it.

I have had the misfortune of knowing a few of these girls. I'm even related to some of them by affinity. Believe me, they don't get better with age.

These girls are always crying for attention. And if you don't give it to them, they try tugging at your heartstrings by feigning illness. I once had a neighbor who mysteriously turned epileptic overnight. What was more mysterious about it was the fact that she would only get her "seizures" when the neighborhood girls were around. We were all alarmed at first, but it didn't take long for the savvier ones to see through the act.

One day, she decided to put on a show again, pretending to have convulsions. All of us who were around were used to the display by now, and no one batted an eyelash. She decided to up the ante and began to cry and drool at the same time. It was really getting to be quite annoying, but we just rolled our eyes behind her back and continued to ignore her.

Finally, she couldn't stand it much longer. She jerked and shuddered her way to one of our friends, gasping a tearful request: "Ging, sampalin mo ako!"

My friend gladly obliged. More than once.


I don't know if hypochondria is a feature of this personality disorder, better known as "KSP", or "Kulang Sa Pansin", but it certainly fits the profile.

I once had a classmate in High School who claimed she had rheumatic heart disease. She mysteriously forgot about her serious malady whenever it was time to play volleyball, but since this was the same person who boasted she had a swimming pool inside her house, nobody really took her seriously.

I didn't let her bother me, even when she stole my former best friend away from me. I honestly wondered what my friend, who was pretty and popular, saw in her, but I just rationalized it as taking a less fortunate soul under one's wing. much like Jane Austen's "Emma", or her modern version, Alicia Silverstone's Cher in "Clueless".

But when this same person had the effrontery to suggest to my friends that my boyfriend at the time was courting her, it was the final insult. I never spoke to her again.


Fast forward two years. I was now a college freshman at U.P. Diliman, with new friends and a brand new boyfriend who happened to be picking me up after my last class for the week. As I waited for him patiently at the A.S. Steps, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find my former best friend, whom I will refer to as "Emma". I was delighted to see her. The roots of our close friendship hailed back to elementary school, and I honestly missed her company.

After a few minutes of catching up, I invited her to sit down with me, telling her I'd introduce her to my cute LaSallista boyfriend when he came. To my dismay, she declined, telling me "Miss Smith" was waiting for her, motioning to a now-familiar figure, sitting a few steps in front of me.

Oh well. It wasn't long before my boyfriend drove up anyway. I can still remember my heart quickening when I saw the familiar Toyota Starlet parking in front of us. He climbed out of the driver's seat, scanning the steps, wearing the Goggle T-shirt I had just given him for our monthly anniversary. When he saw me, a smile lit up his face and he ran up the steps to meet me, greeting me with a huge kiss before leading me back to the car.

I fairly floated down those steps, catching a glimpse of the faces of my friend and Miss Rheumatic Heart, their looks of surprise barely registering in the kilig-induced haze before my knight drove me away into the sunset.


After the weekend, I saw my friend again and she had this story to tell:

Apparently, she and Miss RH were talking on the steps when they noticed this cute Toyota Starlet pull up with an even cuter mestizo driving it. Miss RH nudged her when he alighted, muttering "uy, cute" under her breath. They kept their eyes on him as he walked past, following his progress as he climbed the A.S. Steps, all the way up to...

me!

Miss RH quickly turned away as he planted his lips on mine. But I knew she saw it, and that was enough for me. I had my pound of flesh.


I'd like to see her allege this boyfriend was secretly courting her too!


Ahhh...revenge is sweet.


(PLUGGING: "Baby Steps", the latest in "The Prada Mama Chronicles".)

WHISTLE STOP
A Birthday Story
Home: Marbella 2, MALATE




It was going to be a surprise.

For the past few days, I had been calling our friends, all of whom were in cahoots with me, enlisting their help so I could pull it off without a hitch. I was also in touch with Whistle Stop, choosing our favorite items from their faxed menu and finalizing arrangements for Lorenzo's surprise 29th birthday party.

Venue was at the Thai Room, the glassed-off function room off the entryway at the Whistle Stop in Makati. Whistle Stop was a favorite haunt of ours after hours. I would only order one thing from the menu, their Chicken in Hot Pepper Sauce. Lorenzo, on the other hand, was more adventurous with his main courses, but he was a staunch loyalist when it came to dessert. It had to be halu-halo. Nothing else would do.

The concept was that of salubong, literally welcoming his birthday as it arrived. This meant that I had to assemble our nearest and dearest at an unforsaken hour so they could wait for us to arrive, just before midnight, and spring their surprise at my unsuspecting boyfriend. Good thing most of our friends were also night-owls like us.

On the day of the event, I rushed to Kink Cakes after my six o'clock newscast to pick up the bodybuilder cake I ordered specially for the occasion. Then we headed to Makati so I could check on the venue. Dal Lagdameo-Pedero, wife of my former boss, Mike Pedero, was already there, stringing balloons all over the Thai Room. Another friend, Hazel Serrano, would take care of the decor and the party hats, so that was two less things to worry about.

I also brought the souvenirs we finished earlier, tiny cork-stoppered glass vials filled with multi-colored tic-tacs, covered in tulle, and tied in place with satin ribbons. We were working furtively on those that morning, telling Lorenzo it was for someone's wedding, when he offered to help. I quickly told him we were done, hiding the bottles, sporting LARGE Robee stickers announcing his nickname, "Jojo", from view.

After arranging the souvenirs on the tables and entrusting my cake to the staff, I went over the final details before rushing back home, trying to slow down my heart rate so my appearance would take on a semblance of normalcy by the time I arrived. Lorenzo was waiting for me, wondering why I took so long. I muttered something about traffic and hoped my acting was convincing enough to fool him.

All throughout dinner I was racking my brain, trying to figure out how to get him out of the house at 11:30 PM on a week night. I had my job cut out for me. He seemed to be perfectly happy to just stay at home, ready to turn in after dinner, expecting me to follow suit. When he started giving me a foot massage, I had to resort to desperate measures, literally jumping out of the bed and asking him if he wanted to go out.

It took some convincing on my part, but he finally agreed, albeit reluctantly. We dressed up in similar outfits while I purportedly sent Belen, our alalay home. In truth, she was the advance party being ferried to Whistle Stop in great haste, warning the guests of our impending arrival.

When we went down the elevator to meet our driver, I nonchalantly asked him where he wanted to go. Ironically, his answer was "Whistle Stop". Of course by then, there weren't too many places that were open anymore, but I was nevertheless relieved that I didn't have to work too hard on that one!

When we got to Whistle Stop, I saw that the lights at the Thai Room were off. So far so good.

We ventured into the restaurant, where I noticed my friend, Sonny Antonio, drinking coffee in one of the tables. Sonny was one of the people I had invited to Lorenzo's party. I started questioning myself if I remembered to tell him it was a surprise.

I headed for the nearest table, hoping Lorenzo wouldn't see Sonny. No such luck. As soon as we were seated, he said, "Isn't that..." and before he could even finish, Sonny saw us and headed for our table. I motioned a warning with my eyes, hoping he wouldn't blow our cover. Sonny, the old pro, didn't.

Next I pretended to cough from all the cigarette smoke, calling a waiter and asking him if he could transfer us to the empty room by the entrance. He was my contact waiter, whom I had already met earlier, so of course he said yes. He led us to the dark, seemingly empty room and paused before opening the door for us...


"Surprise!", yelled all our friends.

The look on Lorenzo's face was priceless. At first, he was startled, taking a half-step back. But when he recognized all of the people there, the realization finally hit him and all he could say was "Oh, Baby...", flashing me the biggest smile ever before he was mobbed by everyone in the room.

After his cheeks were showered with birthday kisses by the women and his hands were squeezed in birthday handshakes by the men, we all sang "Happy Birthday". Then it was time for a speech from the celebrant, who hadn't quite gotten over his surprise yet.

I was touched at the large number of friends I was able to assemble on such short notice. There were over thirty people in the room with us, including his showbiz friends, Nino and Allan Muhlach and Michael Vera-Perez. They even brought Richard Merck with them. Scattered amongst the other tables were Lorenzo's bodybuilding buddies, his modeling contacts, and our other personal friends including Marcy Malonzo, whom I assigned the task of making his birthday board. She did a wonderful job.




I will always be grateful to those people who made it there late that night, many of whom had regular jobs to report to the following morning. Even after the yummy buffet was decimated, they still lingered on, taking pictures and socializing among themselves. It was a lovely evening, and nobody was ready to break the spell just yet.

And then the girls saw Joey Generoso of Side A eating at a table, and they flocked to his side, one by one, chatting him up and asking for autographs. This was the cue for the guys in the party to look slightly revolted and say their goodbyes. By the time our girls left poor Joey alone to his food again, he had heard about the surprise party so many times, he actually greeted Lorenzo "Happy Birthday" when he came to round up the giggling groupies.

After that, it was a matter of paying the bill and making transportation arrangements for everyone in the party. And then we headed home, comforted in the knowledge that we had the best friends in the whole world, still basking in the warm embers of their friendship.




This is dedicated to my husband, Lorenzo, who is turning 36 today. We may be thousands of miles away from Whistle Stop, or the Tivoli Grill and Ratsky (where we celebrated the next day), but, seven years down the road, we aren't thousands of miles away from each other, as people have predicted. And that's the important thing.

Happy Birthday, my love. Here's to many more for us to celebrate, together.


(PLUGGING: "Super Kulit", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)