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.)

SLIDING DOORS
An Anniversary Story
Home: Traders Hotel, Manila




"Pupunta daw si Allan sa Motions mamaya. May gusto sa 'yong ipakilala."

I was on the phone, talking to my friend, Tetet Dy. "Allan" was Allan Muhlach, the younger brother of her boyfriend at the time, Nino Muhlach.

"Cute ba?", I asked in curiosity.

"Malaki ang katawan" was her enigmatic reply, which said it all.



So it wasn't with great anticipation that I waited for Allan's arrival at Motions, the ballroom dance club I used to frequent at the Centerpoint Hotel in Manila, because my dance instructor, Boyet Hidalgo, worked there.

But in spite of it all, I was still mildly curious, glancing every now and then at the glass door entrance to watch out for the younger Muhlach's arrival. I had the perfect vantage point: the center table, raised on a dais, at the far end of the room. It was the table usually occupied by the hotel's owner, who happened to be elsewhere that night.

Suddenly, I felt Boyet stiffen. "Ayan na sila," he said.

I tried to look as nonchalant as possible, openly disinterested, but inwardly eager to find Allan's face from the crowd of patrons and matrons. I didn't have to exert much effort. All I had to do was follow the wake of craning necks to see the new arrivals.

Boyet's eyes were quicker than mine. "Ay Papa!", I heard him mutter under his breath, just as the crowd parted to let Allan and his friend through. And since I wasn't expecting someone particularly good-looking, I was practically bowled-over by the stranger's darkly handsome good looks, his Armani glasses failing to curb his unmistakeable sex appeal.

He was built like a god too, but I didn't find this out until later.

How much later I will leave you to guess...



At that particular moment however, I was trying my darnedest to look cool and casual while an inner voice screamed...

"Ang gwapooo!"
"Kamukha ni JEREMY IRONS!"
"Kiliiiig!"

On and on it trilled, in a decidedly irritating sing-song manner, voicing thoughts which grew progressively nonsensical by the second.

Believe me, it takes a lot to unleash my inner colegiala, especially since I didn't even know I had one, until it unveiled itself that evening.



But outwardly, I maintained a modicum of reserve, inviting them to join me at my table, the long-ingrained manners kicking in, as if on autopilot.

Poor Boyet was the only hapless witness to my inner distress, which had to outwardly manifest itself in some way or else I would go into meltdown. I pinched my dance instructor so many times that night. He was a good friend. He understood it was all I could do to stop myself from transforming into a simpering idiot.



But he wasn't as forgiving on the dance floor.

Boyet was an excellent instructor, grooming and polishing my ballroom skills for months until he was proud to call me his star pupil.

And indeed, on good days, we were a sight to behold. I was fairly decent at swing, I did a very mean reggae, and he was starting me on the Argentinian tango, where a misplaced kick could do effective damage to the nether regions, so it spoke volumes of his esteem for me, dance-wise.

He probably second-guessed himself that evening, and I don't blame him.

For indeed, I was so flustered, I kept messing up even our most basic steps, inconveniently at a time when he so wanted to show off. It was no secret in the club that he had a soft spot for Allan.

I could feel his mounting irritation, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought came, unbidden, that he might have been just a little bit jealous of all the attention spilling over to this newcomer.

It was a portent of things to come. Indeed. he saw less of me after that night.

And then I ceased to come altogether.



When Lorenzo first met me that evening, he told me I looked familiar.

It was something I was used to hearing, being a TV News Anchor at the time.

Little did I know it then, but there was another reason why he recognized me, and it would surface much later on in our relationship.

It was triggered by, of all things, a black outfit.

It was a casual getup, my favorite bootleg black jeans and a black v-necked sweater. But when Lorenzo saw me wearing it, he asked me a very unusual question.

"Were you in Euphoria sometime in April, and were you wearing black?"

Sure enough, I was.



I remembered that night exactly, since I don't usually go to Euphoria at all.

It was the day of my first radio broadcast in years. There I was, at the newscaster's booth, delivering the weather forecast, "brought to you by Che-Vital," for 99.5 RT.

I was pinch-hitting for Lily, who was on vacation in the U.S.. Later that evening, the on-air staff would go to Euphoria for a remote broadcast, coinciding with the launch of some vodka or another, I don't particularly remember which brand since I don't drink.

I went home after my last newscast to change from my TV clothes to something more casual. I also invited my dance instructor, Boyet, to come along. It was hard to forget the color-combination he was wearing that night: chocolate brown slacks and a purple polo shirt, way before Albus Dumbledore made the palette fashionable.

We entered Euphoria, quickly heading for the RT table, trailed by my bodyguard, Ed. Everyone was there, friends and former colleagues from my radio days: Dicky Aracama and Eric Eloriaga, Dada Carlos and Thelma Bowlen, and the remote jock on board, Boo Mayuga.

Boyet and I hit the dance floor, not knowing a familiar pair of eyes were already sizing me up.

Of course, they were still stranger's eyes back then, but incredibly, Lorenzo also happened to be at Euphoria on the very same night!



How do I know?

Because months later, he would recognize my black outfit and tell me exactly who else was with me the last time he saw me wearing it, down to my bodyguard in the navy-blue safari suit, my flamboyantly dressed dance partner, and the tall, bearded fellow I was talking to (Dicky A). He even remembered the exact spot where I stood to greet Dada and Thelma.

Obviously, my future husband was much more familiar with Euphoria's interior than I was.

I was flattered that he had noticed me back then. More flattered still when he told me that he wanted to ask me to dance with him that night, more than three months before.

But somehow he didn't.

Perhaps it wasn't the right time for us to meet just yet?



Indeed, I was still married to my ex-husband at the time, with no inkling whatsoever of our impending divorce, which would ironically come less than a year hence.

And now I ask myself: what would I have done if this incredibly handsome stranger (who, by some funny twist of fate, was also dressed all in black) would've approached me and asked me to dance?

I would've probably said yes, danced awkwardly to a song or two (I don't do disco well), and then properly said goodbye.

It would've been the polite thing to do.



I sometimes wonder how different our lives would be now if we would've met back then, in Euphoria. Certainly, the right ingredients were there: him and me. Heck, he even saw me and actually took notice, enough to recognize me and remember pertinent details, many months down the road.

And yet, I guess conditions weren't really conducive for a first meeting back then. Indeed, things would've certainly been a lot more complicated.

But somehow, I have a feeling that, convoluted or not, our paths would've still met at some point in time, whether past or future. Just like that Gwyneth Paltrow movie.

Because I believe that we were meant to be. And I take comfort in that knowledge, looking no further than my three beautiful children for The Lord's undeniable stamp of approval.



And on Sunday, July 31st, we will be celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary, which means it's been five years since we last saw our good friend Allan Muhlach...

...who also happened to be our Best Man.


(PLUGGING: "School Daze", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)

MANG BEN
Home: 87 Gentle Street

His name was Ben.

He always smelled of cigarettes and wintergreen.

And Green Cross Rubbing Alcohol.

He was a former boxer, I was told, and a good one too. But all that was left when I met him was a man who walked with a slight limp and looked too old for his age. He was also poor, but he carried his poverty with a certain dignity which commanded my respect.

I always referred to him as Mang Ben, even though my younger sisters and the maids sometimes called him "Ben-tot".

This was because he had a speech impediment. Mang Ben was what was known as "ngo-ngo" in Filipino parlance. It was very difficult to understand what he was saying, so most of the time we would just let him talk and pretend to understand.

He also developed the habit of laughing at his own jokes, probably because he was the only one who could understand the punch lines.

Mang Ben was way into his forties when I first met him as a little girl in my grandparents' house. He was my Lolo Maning's masseur, or masahista as we called it back home. He came regularly at a certain day of the week, I now forget which, but I always knew when he was there from the unmistakeable odor of alcohol and wintergreen emanating from upstairs.

And then I knew my Lolo would be laying in the massage cot in his room and I would make myself scarce, knowing he was just in his karsonsilyo, as boxer shorts were known in his generation.

When they were done, Lolo Maning would invite Mang Ben to stay for some "cafe", and the two would proceed to my grandmother's cozy kitchen and make themselves a cup of Blend 45 and sandwiches out of "tasty" bread and a jar of Lady's Choice Sandwich Spread, talking about the latest gossip from the radio or Johnny Midnight's "toning" session the night before.

And then Mang Ben would leave, catching a tricycle to take him to Philcoa, where he would catch a jeepney to his next massage appointment, or to his humble home.

During these weekly sessions Mang Ben would sometimes service my grandmother too, and even my Mom, I think, but he was devoted to my Lolo, whom he called "Atoni", his own version of the word "Attorney".

And when my Lolo died, he walked all the way from our house in Quezon City to the funeral parlor in Araneta Avenue, because he didn't have money for transportation.

I still remember him, in the elegant confines of Arlington Funeral Homes, tired and dirty from his long walk under early March's scorching sun, his sad face a sorry sight amidst the well-dressed guests during the wake.

I greeted him at the door, touched at this final gesture. His humble tribute to a man he had known and respected for over a decade, and who treated him with the same fondness and respect.

And then he was gone.

I never saw him again after that.

I don't know if Mang Ben is still alive today. In all probability, he has already succumbed to the hard life fate had chosen for him to live. But even if he hasn't, I have no doubt that when the time comes, he will be reunited with his old friend and mentor, his old "Atoni", my Lolo Maning, who will welcome him through the Pearly Gates with open arms...

This time as equals.


(PLUGGING: "Funtastic Four", an account of Troy's fourth birthday party, in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)

THE LIZARD OF OZ
Home: Marbella 2, MALATE


(photo courtesy of delish, taken from
Mec's Long and Windang Road.)


"Ay butiki..."
"Ay lizard..."
"Ay Lacoste!"

So goes the famous punchline of a TV spiel from the "Champoy" of my High School days. It featured a lizard suddenly falling from the ceiling, and the varied reactions of three girls: one masa, one edukada, and one sosyal.

I found it quite funny when I saw it on TV, yet if the same thing ever happened to me, I wouldn't be quite as stoic. In fact, I would've probably bolted straight to the stratosphere the minute that wretched thing landed.

Yes, I'm terrified of lizards. I don't like the way they look, I shudder at the way they feel and I startle at the sight of their wriggly, jerky movements. Even their trademark clicking noises raise a primal fear within me, a fear borne out of countless encounters during my childhood.

Indeed, how many times have I been roused from slumber by a dull thud on my blanket, only to find a panicked little gecko trying to battle its way out of the covers? And how many times have I been trapped in our bathroom because a lizard was stuck on the door, refusing to leave?

And my most terrifying memory of all...the day I came home from school hungry, spying a paper sack of pan de sal on the kitchen table. Somebody else had been eating before I arrived because there was still a jar of Cheez Whiz beside it with a butter knife perched on the lid. I was just about to put my hand in the sack when a flesh colored butiki jumped out and headed straight for me, its soft, rubbery body just grazing the tips of my fingers.

By the time my heart rate went back to normal, there were sinister shards of glass, a big, lonely lump of Cheez Whiz, scattered pieces of pan de sal and a lone butter knife on the floor.

With such unfortunate experiences, it's no wonder I avoid encounters with the little beasts. Oh, I can hold pet iguanas with no problem, but my tolerance level of other members of the lizard family corresponds with their size.

In other words, the smaller they are, the higher the fear factor.

But I was born and bred in a tropical country, where lizards are a necessary evil. In fact, when I moved to Florida, I discovered to my dismay that they had a thriving population there too, except here in the United States, geckos are considered cute enough to act as mascots and spokeslizards for large insurance companies.

But, from Miami, we moved to Cincinnati, then to Toronto, then to the Netherlands, which was the farthest from the tropics I'd ever been. And even when we moved back to the Philippines, we lived in five-star hotels, where the closest encounter you got with the lizard kind was sharing the same room with men wearing crocodile leather belts and women bearing Hermes alligator handbags.

And so, by the time we moved into our Roxas Boulevard condo, my harrowing memories of gecko encounters were shadowy things of the past. Oh, I was still terrified of them, but I was living in a building with a snooty clientele who didn't mind paying for security, hot running water, and monthly fumigation, which effectively rendered the building pest and vermin-free.

And there, warmly enveloped in First World comforts, I lived happily under the delusion that I was safely cocooned from terrifying monsters such as lizards and frogs. After all, our condo was on the second highest floor, just one floor below penthouse level. Marauding frogs and lizards would have to battle their way through the ground floor guards, figure out a way to operate the elevator, and make it all the way up sixteen floors in order to attack me.


But one such lizard did.

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a Sunday afternoon. Belen, Sam and Regan had the day off, and Lorenzo and I were enjoying the langorous weekend together. I was lounging on the bed, already pregnant with Lance, when I saw a quick movement by the bedroom door.

I didn't know what to make of it, since we were never really plagued by insects and pests in that building. It was hard to see what the thing was against the dark parquet flooring. I immediately assumed it was an ipis and told Lorenzo about it, unalarmed. Cockroaches don't bother me. Even the huge, fat, flying ones don't send me into a panic. I just wait for them to alight somewhere and squash the living daylights out of them with my trusty slipper.

And so I confidently got out of bed to go to the bathroom. It was when I was halfway there that I saw it on the floor. A scrawny little lizard with dark bands around its tiny body.

I screamed and ran back to the bed, half-hysterical in fright. Lorenzo calmly tried to soothe me, but I was pregnant, hormonal, and needed to go to the bathroom FAST. I was also terrified half out of my wits, refusing to leave the bed until I knew the lizard was at a safe distance away from me.

Lorenzo threw a slipper at it so it would go away. The scrappy little thing disappeared under my shoe closet. When I had finally reassured myself that the coast was clear. I set foot on the floor only to scream once more. For indeed, there it was again, in the same spot, this time with its mouth wide open, as if to scare us into submission.

It was a feisty little creature all right, and this show of defiance was quite admirable coming from such a diminutive animal, but my partner had had enough. Lorenzo was already concerned about my pregnant bladder, and was getting quite impatient, both with me and at the lizard. He grabbed a broom and was about to swing at it when he heard my voice behind him:

"Don't kill it..."

Despite the fact that I was dead scared of the little thing, I didn't want its life on my hands.

By then, I was already crying, my pregnant hormones pushing me on the verge of hysteria. I could feel my fiance's exasperation, but I couldn't help myself. I could not, for the life of me, stop the tears from falling. The situation would've been comical if I didn't have a painfully engorged bladder to empty.

When he saw the tears, Lorenzo's look became murderous. I could see he wanted to chop that lizard into little pieces already, but he demonstrated great restraint, calmly sweeping the lizard out through our bedroom door and into the hallway.

I fairly jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, finally emptying my bladder with a great sigh of relief.

Lorenzo was gone for quite a long time. i was wondering if he had somehow lost sight of the butiki. For a single panicked moment I imagined it, hiding outside my bedroom door, waiting to ambush me. And then the door opened, and my future husband walked into the room, tired but victorious.

He had swept the luckless little thing down the stairwell, where it was safely esconced more than two floors down.

He must've been a sight to the two people who got off the elevator on the fourteenth floor. Imagine this handsome, hunky model-actor, wearing a tank top, wielding a broom like a golf club, swatting at a hapless little lizard, blocking its progress hither and thither in order to check its course, making sure it was headed the opposite way from his unborn child.

Sure, it was harder going about it this way, but it was the humane thing to do.

And I appreciated him all the more for it.


Ironically, to this day, I still scour the perfume places I visit for a hard-to-find scent, my favorite of all the fragrances I've smelled on Lorenzo so far.

It's name? Booster by Lacoste.

Whose trademark logo is a crocodile the size of a common house lizard.

With its mouth wide open.


(PLUGGING: "The Forgotten Five" in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)