Kitty Litter

They say the best part of traveling is going home, and I'm inclined to agree, except for the turbulence.

I would've kissed the ground as soon as the plane landed except 1) I'm not the late beloved Pope John Paul, who made a habit of kissing soil wherever he went; 2) PAL is smart enough to make sure passengers like me can never touch the tarmac; and 3) I'm not sure I want my lips to make contact with ground trodden on by god-knows-who. And what was the reason for such enthusiasm? Turbulence. Air pockets. Call it what you like; I say goddamnit, I hate them.

Wynn roused himself at the ungodly hour of 3 am just to get me from the airport some time later. The sad part is that the only time I ever got discriminated against was when I came home; an officious customs clerk yelled at me, then in the next breath was honey-sweet with a Caucasian foreigner who came after me. And to think I came from the South in the US!

Every time I go abroad (twice, and never again, I hope), I lose weight because I pine for the silliest things: tapsilog, stray cats, Tagalog curses, kare-kare (wait, I pine for that even at home...). You never think of yourself as a foreigner in another land; you think of everyone else as being a tourist, and you do things you would never do back home for fear of having what's left of your good name ruined.

But I think what matters most about journeys is when you discover things about yourself. I thought I was fairly open-minded; that is, until I was thrown into the lap of a male dancer on Castro Street in San Francisco and discovered the meaning of "want a taste?" It was not as pleasant as they make it out to be in the movies; I like handsome men as much as the next woman, but coming face to face with the "goods" made me miss Wynn even more.

We made up for lost time on our first drive out. Prior to leaving for the US, my car had been struck by the driver of a Hyundai van who reasoned that, between a new Innova and my old but faithful Mazda, it would be cheaper to hit me. (He has fled; any information leading to the owner or driver of a Hyundai with plate number REF 890 will be much appreciated.)

Driving down E Rodriguez, we were crossing with the green light on our side when we encountered an arrogant teen pedestrian, palm held out in the disdainful "HOLD IT!" gesture all drivers are familiar with (and would love to run over), crossing against the light in a "WALANG TAWIRAN NAKAMAMAMATAY" (don't you just love that?) zone. I honked to warn the ugly boy when he flashed us the finger.

In a flash, Wynn was out of the car. To say he was a frightening sight, with his long hair unbound, an arnis stick in one hand and a menacing expression on his face, is an understatement but it will suffice for now. On his way to chase the ugly teen down, Wynn zoomed past a pushcart team, the members of which clutched at their hearts and plastered themselves against the wall to avoid him.

I followed, and was just in time to hear the leader of the pushcart team say, "Uy, may away. Nood tayo!"

There's no place like home indeed.

Labels: funny fights, Wynn

With apologies to Pol Medina.

Last Sunday I was coerced into going to Baclaran to hunt for a Filipiniana outfit for the bridal fair I'm supposed to attend in San Francisco. (Whoopee; I don't have a visa yet and the flight's booked for August 8, 7 days from now. I have no idea how this will play out.)

People sneer at Divisoria because it's supposed to be the armpit of Metro Manila. Oh really? If so then Baclaran is the anus of Metro Manila. People are rude, everything is filthy, and even the McDonald's there is dirtier than the MMDA public toilets, I swear.

It was raining, and thanks to a miscommunication helped along by Stupid, er, Smart's stupid service, Wynn and I were lost. We were supposed to meet my mom at the church, and we slogged our way through the traffic and the pushy pedestrians, vendors, animals, and what have you.

In front of the Baclaran church is a small sidewalk with a steel awning. 90% of it was taken up by vendors, and so to get to the church, you had a choice of walking on the street, where a delightful array of flood water, urine, reckless pedicab drivers and feckless jeepney drivers awaited you...or you could try to balance yourself on the 10% of the sidewalk the vendors had left for pedestrian traffic. Wynn and I chose the latter.

It wasn't easy weaving our way through people going in all directions and trying not to get wet, but we managed. We walked single file (because we both detest morons who walk on crowded streets two, three, one million abreast), with Wynn taking point.

Halfway to the church a short, fat man shoved me almost to the pavement then stepped on my shoes--hard--for good measure. I cried out, and angrily remonstrated. Despite the fact that he was a good, what, ten inches shorter than me, he whirled around and yelled at me threateningly. I readied myself for combat, drawing my umbrella in and preparing to jab. I estimated that I was at least fifty pounds heavier, and though I wasn't wearing my preferred weapon of choice (high heels), I was ready to make do with my cat claws, er, nails. People drew back in alarm upon seeing my expression.

Not that it fazed the asshole. "Ano, papalag ka? Ang bagal mo kumilos, nakita mo na wala akong payong ano?" he shouted.

Wynn turned around to ascertain that I was all right. He saw the short fat bastard accosting me, and that's when Wynn grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, then shoved him in the chest. Wynn, incidentally, is four inches taller than me, and with his (messy) long hair unfurled, he is a rather intimidating sight. "What's your problem?" he yelled at the moron. "Ano, ha?" And trust me when I say his volume was infinitely louder.

The moron suddenly went limp, and nearly crawled on the pavement to apologize...to Wynn. He profusely said "Sorry, sorry talaga pare, sorry"...to Wynn.

Not to me.

He couldn't flee fast enough.

Later, Wynn sadly turned to me and remarked, "So if I hadn't been there he'd have made it your fault?"

I thought for a while, then said, "It's because I'm female. Even though he's wrong, he thinks that the tiny things swinging between his legs makes what he does right."

Wynn asked, "Do you want to leave this country?"

I said, "It's more like this country is throwing me out."

Labels: funny fights, Wynn

Since this entry was first destroyed by some inconsiderate blogger some time ago (see previous entry), I've had some trouble reconstructing it. It does bring home something important about writing, though: that one should always save a copy of whatever one writes in order to avoid the sinking feeling of "not getting it right" when one tries to reconstruct what has been lost.

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Someone emailed me to ask whether I wrote about Polar Bearball (EDIT: Also known as "Wynn" )in almost all my entries (never noticed, really) in order to "...rub [our]perfect relationship in the faces of those who don't have significant others."

Did I ever say the relationship was perfect?

Good God, woman, go out and click the "Next Blog" links and see how many people write about their partners. I even stumbled on one blog that called itself something like "my boyfriend is sexy" which chronicled this couple's activities. (I don't dare post the link here!) Compared to that, I've been oh-so-discreet.

When I blog, I tend to put Polar Bearball (Wynn) in because he is that much a part of my life. I take his presence for granted, the same way that he does mine. Friends tell me that it's hard to determine which one of us mentions the other more often. He's picked up my lingo ("Hello?!? As if. Asa pa you,") and now dresses in something other than Urban Sloppy Fashion, while I've learned to walk fast and cross-examine people who talk to me.

Someone once told me that breaking up with someone who's been with you for more than five years (I think we're going on seven roundabout December, on-and-off time included) is like cutting off a limb: you suffer from phantom pains when you refer to something, only to remember that the only person who will understand what you mean is gone. I think that would be true for us. Or, at least, for me.

I would argue that the reason why we've stayed together so long is precisely because we haven't had an easy time of it. We never went through a phase in which we "billed and cooed" at each other; we just sort of fell into it. If you ask us when our anniversary is, we will both pull a blank. I do know I've outlasted both his exes combined, and I think that counts for something.

Nothing is easy in this relationship, and I think that's why it matters so much to me. Ask my best friend Goldie Gold, on whose shoulder I've cried so many times, I think I owe her a couple of new blouses. (Happy birthday dear!)

I hate the way he hangs up on a cellphone call when he's irritated or in a hurry; sometimes, I'm left talking to dead air. He hates the way I shift back to topics we've already agreed to bury the hatchet over when I'm losing an argument. I wound him when I don't notice the little ways in which he shows how he cares...or worse, when I make fun of them. He hurts me whenever he walks out instead of finishing an argument or explaining why he's reacted the way he has. He bullies me with clenched teeth or a raised voice if he doesn't get his way. I whine and bring up unrelated topics to get my way.

So why do we stay together?

Our mutual friend Buddy Bear (and I'm sure he'll kill me for using this alias for him) once said, during a terrible moment in my relationship with Polar Bearball, "Ask yourself whether the bad times outweigh the good. If they do, then it's time to bail."

What do I consider the good times?

Polar Bearball standing up for me in a hostile room.

His never mentioning my past sins, not even to rub it in my face.

His getting along with all my relatives, big and small...sometimes better than I do.

His calling me "Pompom."

His never being able to say the magic words, but showing me in so many small ways how much I mean to him.

His patiently putting up with my ideas for making him over, including a disastrous nose strip incident (in which I injured him!).

His texting me little messages of encouragement when I'm tense or nervous.

His going to various bookstores and asking for my book in order to make salespeople remember that I exist.

His spending as much of his free time with me as he can, literally forsaking all others.

His never giving me flowers, but giving me emergency flashlights, first aid kits, a cell phone and line, and other practical things.

His putting up with Divisoria soot and traffic when I wanted to get cheap plus-size clothes.

His never telling me that I am fat or ugly. His belief that I am beautiful, talented, and smart, despite occasional evidence to the contrary.

His telling me of his plans in the future, and always including me in what he sees of tomorrow.

His reading of my blog, and pointing out little errors so that I can correct them and not look silly.

Him calling up our friends one by one the night before I was to appear on TV to ask them to watch.

Him texting people to greet me on the eve of my birthday.

Him playing with my hair idly.

Him looking at me and smiling for no reason other than seeing me.

Him accompanying me even to the OB-Gyne for checkups.

So many small things. They do add up, you know. And though the point of a relationship is not to weigh the scales of good and bad times, I feel that the good times do outweigh the bad...and I hope he feels the same way.

It is true that sometimes, the small things can matter much more than the others. Even though there are times when, to borrow a line off Stephen King, I could vote the death penalty on him for no good reason, I find myself thinking of him even when I'm alone. Not because I miss him, but rather, because I want to know what he'll think of what I'm eating, seeing, saying, or doing. I see the evidence of how he feels about me in the little things; I even drink my daily tea out of a teapot and cups he gave me after observing that I liked tea.

I don't think this relationship would have been as important to either of us if it were something that came easy. "Easy come, easy go," after all. I've heard about and seen a lot of fairy tale relationships, and I always wonder whether the couple is trying too hard to make the relationship look good. I'd imagine that kind of effort takes a lot out of you.

Is there a conclusion to this? Words of wisdom from my experience? Certainly not. I'm sure that Polar Bearball and I will have many more sullen, silent drives to take together, yet I hope they will continue to be that way. Together, that is.

Labels: relationships, Wynn

Last Sunday I accompanied my dad to this big bingo thingie at the World Trade Center. I had apprehensions about going because I've always feared bingo socials. My friend Kitty Kat (obviously not her name but to avoid getting sued someday, names shall be changed) once told me, seriously, of little old ladies in their province who would stretch their crutches out in the aisle to trip up winners of bingo prizes. Shudder.

But I had fun, and I even came close to winning a Honda City. We were cracking jokes; my boyfriend, Polar Bearball (you just gotta meet him) was making fun of the gigantic keys on the stage while he ran errands for us (taking my sister to her car, buying food and drinks, etc.)

When I was one number away from winning the Honda City, our tablemates got pretty excited, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited too. But G 56 simply wasn't to be. I decided to keep the non-winning card as a souvenir--which I promptly lost the next day. But I knew I would remember the day as being one I had a lot of silly fun in. I like silly days. They make good memories.

When I'd gotten over the disappointment of my loss, I headed off to buy ice cream. Ice cream cures all sorrows, after all, and sugar allotment be damned.

On my way to the ice cream stand, I noticed a guy at the other table, pounding his fists and bellowing and generally drawing attention to himself. Turns out he was also waiting for one more number, just like me; and like me, he'd missed it.

Kat Kit, my sister (not to be confused with Kitty Kat), lightened the mood by joking that we were destined for greater things: the lottery, Laban o Bawi, or Powerball (dollars!). And I had a good laugh as I played the remaining games. My dad had a few moments of excitement as he came four numbers close to a blackout for a million bucks.

Polar Bearball observed that every other table had to have someone with a similar sob story, and I found that thought funny.

I practically dragged Polar Bearball out of the place when the last game played out about two hours later. I wanted to eat, to murder some more student papers, and maybe catch the replay of CSI Miami (I have an unfortunate crush on David Caruso. I have no idea why.).

At the table near us, the same guy I'd noticed earlier was still looking pissed. He was still staring at his game card, and stabbing a finger in the direction of the number that was never called.

Labels: funny observations, Wynn