Going Home

#61: Remembering Lolo Fred

Michael Buble’s song, “Home” is addictive. I can listen to it over and over again for hours. “I wanna go home,” he sadly sings. I love the song, but I can’t relate to it. I am home. It just makes me wonder if this is already home for good. Knowing no other home but Manila either comforts or presents a hopeless prospect.

My parents were from a province north of the Philippines. They set out for Manila and carved for themselves a better life than their contemporaries back in Pangasinan had been able to. We used to go back to their “home” every quarter. I saw my lolo and lola around 4 times a year. Their house in the province was a place teeming with people, buzzing with activity and overflowing with material for good memories. When my lola died in 1999, the spirit of the house died with her. My lolo soon died a year or two after. That was the last time I set foot inside that house. There was no longer any reason for me to return.

That was until I received news last week that lolo Fred had died. He wasn’t a real grandparent. He’s not even a real relative. He had wandered into my grandparents’ house as an orphan from another town. He had offered his services as an all-around houseboy and had grown to be part of my maternal clan.

My first memory of him was back when I was around 3 years old. He was a strange sight. He had curly hair and his skin was dark as coal. Only his eyes and teeth could be seen emerging from the stairs behind our basement where his room was. He had a gold crown on one of his teeth which he was so proud of. I think at some point before his death, he either lost that tooth or had to sell it for a meal.

His name was Rafael and we only found that out reading the name on his coffin. I remember him bringing me to pre-school in his blue-green tricycle. The following year, another driver took his place. He had to go back to the province for one reason or another. I never asked. As a kid, it never mattered. I still don’t know why he left Manila to go back to Pangasinan. At this point, it matters no more.

My last memory of him was after we buried my grandfather. The last link to the new generation had passed away and for him and the rest of the people who were left in Urdaneta, there was no longer any need for any of the children to go back to that place and extend extra kindness to those their parents knew. I took his picture while he was standing by the jeep that had ferried people from the cemetery back to the house after the funeral.

“Hindi na kayo babalik dito, no?” I gave him a sad smile and proceeded to peer into my camera’s viewfinder. I knew the answer and wondered inside if the picture I was going to take of him was going to be the last. I would save it for his funeral, I told myself as I froze the image of his now-stringy white hair and leathery face. His eyes had lost not only their naughty glint; they had lost all glimmer of hope.

He died in the hospital. They said it was a heart attack that killed him. We knew he had drunk too much again and this time he drank one too many of the vile things I had always overheard my mom scolding him about. That’s what hopeless people do, right? They drown themselves in gin and look forward to death.

I went home to Pangasinan for his funeral and cried not because he had lived a full life but because he fell so short from it and I felt guilty about not being able to give him something – anything to hold on to in this life and in the next. He died with nary a shred of hope. And I live with that on my conscience. I went home. But far too late.

Forgettable VDay

#60: A Load of Croc

I just finished singing my best rendition so far of Natalie Cole's "Unforgettable." Our Magic Mic system didn't seem to agree and so it gave me a score below 90. How evil.

In a minute or so, Valentine's Day would be over. No flowers for me this year. 1st time in 10 years. Last year, our janitor gave roses to all the girls in the office so at least I got something. (I don't like red roses but I must admit that that was mighty sweet of him.)

I remember the first bouquet of flowers I got on Valentine's day. I was in 6th grade. It was a bunch of pink roses. 6 pink ones that confused me more than they pleased me. What did 6 mean? Twice the love, half the adoration? The poor guy even drew my portrait. He was extremely good in art but I was extremely freaked out. Unforgettably freaked out.

There was also this unforgettable Valentine's Day a few lifetimes ago wherein I got 12 lovely white roses and a jar of home-made white chocolate chip cookies in a furry Cookie Monster bag. I had dinner with an old friend recently and he recounted how that particular gift turned their kitchen into some nuclear wasteland. Apparently, his friend decided to abuse him and his family's hospitality by choosing to bake my cookies there. Seems like that VDay was unforgettable for his kitchen too.

My last real Valentine's gift came 5 years ago. It was this perfume I loved. Romance by Ralph Lauren. How I loved that fragrance. I couldn't imagine myself smelling any other way. Now it sits on my dresser still half-full. The alcohol has overpowered its original scent. Time has changed it as time has changed me. Now I wear Glamourous.

And I decided to wear all black today with that scent. Black always conveys a higher degree of professionalism and so I chose this outfit for today's string of meetings. The ad agency thought I was making a statement against today's sugar-laced celebration. I was merely making a statement to the Sales Director of a partner that I'm meeting for the first time. The meeting went well. My seemingly Anti-Valentine get-up delivered.

I got back to my office after a long day and saw a little gift on my desk. It was from one of our business partners. Nothing Godiva. Nothing impressive. Nothing which I couldn't attribute to the only Valentine-friendly thing I wore today. Cheers to my Red faux croc shoes!

And Happy VDay to all you lovestruck people out there!

Turning Pink

#59: Pomelo-Flavored Hair

I look back at the week and smugly smile. For the first time in my 30 days in this new company, I felt confident to show the stuff I'm made of. I finally felt free. It all boils down to how much I feel trusted by my boss. The newbie phase is over. I am ready to step on the gas.

And for that, I need good hair. Hah. Miss Sydney (from post # 35) looked at me and decided to give me a new color.

"A pomelo shade," she said with conviction. "The summer will lighten your hair color so I'm going to darken it a bit and give it a pomelo glaze."

I knew what a Pomelo was. (I manage a juice brand, remember?) A pomelo glaze, I didn't know. It gave me images of my head giving out a pink radioactive glow. But I trusted her. And, as a I said earlier, granting someone trust is granting someone the freedom to do her best.

She gave me flirty waves this time. Hardly the things you envision needing to go full throttle with your career but I loved them anyway. And she was so pleased with her handiwork that before I left, she just had to pull me and give my eyes a bit of a touch-up. Smoky eyes. Diva hair. A bit over-the-top for a casual shirt-and-jeans dinner with friends. But they loved it anyway.

Let's see if I'll still love it when people start calling me Pink.

Return of The Jedi

#58: Gym on!


Prodigal Daughter of Pilates (April 2003) 

And so the prodigal daughter returns to the gym. I haven't been feeling well the past two days. The back of my throat tastes like blood. And my nose actually bled yesterday. But today is Tuesday - the official gym day. And it's been a full year since I last set foot inside Fitness First. I just had to end the madness of mindlessly donating money to the temple of sweat. TODAY. And I kicked that off by heading to the reception area and buying yoga pants that make one feel like a Jedi when she walks.

A year away from the gym has turned me into mush. 2 minutes into the cardio workout and I was ready to faint. Keeping up with the Pilates instructor was not fun either. (That's an understatement. It was hell.) To think that Pilates was something I used to really enjoy. (Yeah, back in 2002-03 before Clearasil happened.) I'm really not that happy with how my workout worked out... but I'm glad that I was finally able to drum up enough willpower to return.

I'm anticipating excruciating pain tomorrow morning when I wake up. (That should take my mind off my sore throat.) "Bittersweet" is the word that comes to mind. I guess "bittersweet" is much better than "bloody."

Gym on!