Friends and Family
A Moving Post
Finally, the day Mother has been waiting for many months now has finally arrived: moving day. I was kind of waiting for it too, until I found out that we won’t have cable TV and internet on our new house, which is just a short walk away, for three weeks. That means I’ll still be staying in our old house at night. Nevertheless, I’m happy that we have a new house and that we have moved, mostly. But I’m a little bit sad and nostalgic as well.
We moved into our now former house on February 10, 2007. It is where I came home to after long days in college and work. It is where I first brought friends over during my birthday. It is where I first brought a girl – my first girlfriend – home. It is where I came home late at night – or early morning – from happenings I shouldn’t be telling my parents about. And lastly and most importantly, it’s where I began to have a grasp of who I am and who I want to be. Now you can’t blame me for being a bit sappy over our leaving of our once-official not-so-humble abode.
It’s not bragging if it’s true; this house would be a head-turner if it were a woman. European bungalow style, beige stone brick exterior, red roofing, bay windows, double doors on the front, a wide red brick front , seven rooms, and ample garden, floor, and yard space – it’s more than enough to make me feel upper-upper class even though we’re just lower-upper; it’s more than enough to make me not feel the need to move to a better house. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy with the new house, it’s just that I’m already content with this old one, and the new one seems like an excess.
As we moved our possessions from this old one to the new one, I rediscovered some of them, which have either become long-forgotten or ignored. Upon laying eyes on them and dusting some of them, the memories linked with them were unearthed. Old toys, Ragnarok Online prepaid cards, father’s typewriter, obsolete devices like components, cassette tapes, and typewriters – save the first, their purpose has been effectively reduced to elicit nostalgia. Mother, the most practical among us, suggests that we get rid of them, but we simply could not. Even us children, who do not and cannot use these outdated tech, went against Mother’s wishes; it’s as if we were protecting our folks’ fond recollections on their behalf from one of them. We clung and continued to cling onto those things as if they were the very memories they represent, as if throwing them would cause us to forget. Thankfully for us and unfortunately for Mother, our thingamabobs were spared, disregarding practicality for sentimentality, which is so us – so me.
I will not retract my previous statement; the new house is an excess. However, I will not deny that it’s also more practical than our old one. It has two stories, more space if you do the math, and it doesn’t have a school that plays pop music on disruptively loud levels for PE class for a neighbor – a total violation of building code. Now we have real neighbors – the ones we used to have in our chilodhood, as our new house is in the same street where our first house is, and completely new ones who replaced our old ones. And the disturbance they make, which is their bickering over parking space, is a lot more appropriate and more entertaining to listen to as compared to Anaconda being played during the PE time of kindergarteners.
The move is almost complete – almost. Aside from the internet and TV cable, my PC, a few guitars of Father’s guitars and his drumset, and a few utilities – electric fans, my PC, a mattress, an AC unit, some food, utensils, our old fridge – remained in the old house. Because these things got left behind, Father stayed to make sure they don’t get stolen, while I to be able to browse the internet or play video games after work. Brother and Sister, on the other hand, go back to our old home to connect and then return to our new home to eat, sleep, and bathe. Father and I, being more attached to the things we have left behind, only move to the new house whenever we need to get something or eat, leaving the old house for an hour at most.
He – and in extension, us – has always been like that, even before we officially moved, as Father had developed a fear of robbers thanks to multiple past experiences with them. It’s the same fear that made him install multiple lock mechanisms, steel gates, and ugly brown spiked fences to protect from robbers the very objects Father is watching over. Soon everything will be moved to the new house, leaving the excessive defenses in our old house purposeless and the same excessive defenses that are also installed in our new house to work – if Father gives them a chance. However, even if we have completely vacated our old home and have had it rented, we won’t be able to leave behind the inconvenience of these hassling security measures, the root behind them – Father’s fears – and our (over)reliance on the internet. I don’t think we want to; these things make home what it is.
We didn’t have to move, but in the end we decided to. Why? Maybe we just don’t know it yet, but the reason is not ours; but Fate’s. This move, which probably is our last, is the last few years of living under one roof, as it’s probably going to be the last house we’re going to live in together, considering that in seven years – the same number of years we spent in our old house – we’d probably have our own lives, our own houses. This old house, on the other hand, is a recently ended chapter. It is where I and my siblings, with nineteen being the youngest became adults. It is where the three of us were shaped into who we are most likely to become in the near-future. It is where all of us grew older, grew apart at times, and grew closer for good. And most importantly, it is where I had many meaningful memories that I will cherish, many painful experiences I have learned from, and unremarkable everydays that I owe my current breathing to with the most important people in my life – my family and our non-blood related visitors. After all, only the most important people in my life can set foot in my home.
Thank you Old House. May your next family give you the same importance, respect, and love as we did. And may they give the same importance, respect, and love to each other as well.
Family At The Hospital
The hospital – a place where great health interventions happen. But to me, despite being a nurse and therefore used to the hospital ambiance and setup, it will always have th at suffocating air of infirmity; I hate it. However, if there’s something that can curb that abhorrence, it’s my family.
After two days, I finally saw Mother and Father again. It’s just been two days, but I miss them already, especially Father, who I’ve been worried sick about. I’ve seen Father in worse shape before, but seeing him in a hospital bed afflicted with infirmity will always be an unwelcome sight. The surgery to put a nail in place to aid in the repair and strengthening of the fractured femur may have been a complete success, but he is still in pain because of the trauma inside his thigh and the incisions. Mother, on the other hand, is very much fine, and just like always, is doing a commendable job in taking care of Father as well as Sister.
For the whole day yesterday, I ate uraro and pili nuts, read Tokyo Ghoul, and help out in whatever things Father needs, which wasn’t much because the nurses are closely monitoring him. Despite being with Mother and Father, it still didn’t feel the same; looking at either Father helplessly lying down or the Makati skyline ridden with gray clouds and looming towers just made the feeling worse. Of course, I’m thankful because it could’ve gotten worse but it didn’t, though I wish this whole thing could’ve been entirely not happened altogether. Mother told me there’s a reason, both natural and divine, why all of this happened, but I wish I knew.
Later that night, after Georgina returned to the room and Sister Minnie, one of our churchmates, visited Father, I was ordered to check the bill. Holy God. I won’t say how much it was, but it’s enough to send a shiver up my spine. Of course, Father’s insurance will cover most of it, but upon computation, the amount we’ll pay is still going to be staggering. Well yeah, we can pay, but that’s still boatloads of money. Still, it’s better to spend such an amount because it’s all for Father’s sake.
My dinner last night was the closest thing I got to a family dinner for an entire week. Father had his hospital food, while me, my sister, and I had Jollibee. I miss real family dinners. When we were done, it was bedtime. For the past weeks, it was the earliest time I went to sleep – 11PM. When I woke up, we had a breakfast of dinner rolls and sandwich spread. I haven’t eaten breakfast in a long time, and it was quite appropriate to have one in a hospital, a place where health practices are observed. And before I left, I had a very small fight with Sister and Mother – very small, but nonetheless a fight. It’s about the games and my realistic-pessimistic minimally optimistic point of view, again. Maybe I do need to be a bit more optimistic, and maybe I need to follow Mother and play less games, but Sister, telling me to completely stop was way out of line. She’s not a gamer, so she won’t understand, and yet she has the audacity to claim that it’s no good. Yeah, maybe I should cut her some slack, treat her like the plebeian who knows nothing about geek culture but speaks like a damn expert that she is, and pretend like she’s not even there, but she’s just too loud and bossy I can’t take it. If there’s something I didn’t miss, it’s this.
I don’t know if Father will be discharged later or tomorrow, but when he does, things will go back to normal. Actually, because of his condition, not really, but it will be. Soon enough.
Country of Jamaica
When you hear the word Jamaica, what comes into your mind? A Caribbean paradise with white-sand beaches and crystal blue seas full of sexy ladies? Black people with dreadlocks, wearing red, blue, and green apparel? Weed? Bob Marley? Well, yah man. But something else comes to mind too. Someone else, rather. A girl. She’s not someone who I’m hitting on though. While I hardly write about a girl that I have not taken a romantic interest on, I’m going to have to make an exception this once and just this once. It’s my friend Jamaica. Ja-mai-ca ♪♫ I-sa-bel ♪♫ Bu-guis (pronounced as Bu-gwa)♪♫.
I admit, I only made this post because I felt guilty when I failed to include her name among those who I chill out with in Starbucks in this post. However, while that may be the case, it doesn’t lessen the sincerity of our friendship, as I only failed to do so because I thought I already had included her name. See? That’s how much of a friend I am to her.
So what do I write about Jamaica? What do I write about you, Jamaica? I know you’ll be reading this because I asked you to. Do I say the things we already know, like the fact that you’re a pretty morena type with long ebony hair? That you think you’re fat even though you’re not (although you do eat a lot)? That you don’t see how I find Karmela beautiful even though she truly is a beautiful chinita with a slim semi-tall frame and silky shoulder-length hair? That you don’t like her cute blunt nose? That other girls beside her would get your approval for becoming my prospect? That she’s “plain as paper” and you’re a notch above because you read books, although I’d still choose her over you? That I shouldn’t compare? And what about the storm? Do you miss him or what he does for you? What about chinitos 1 and 2? Why did you turn down chinito 1, he’s pretty handsome, y’know (I’m not gay)? Chinito 2 sucks, y’know? Wait, what about The Devil? I haven’t heard about him from you anymore. Is it because of The Angel? Have you been riding the dump truck because of him? Is he the reason why Thomas is no longer a train and now a gun? Is he the reason why the show I think you’re already making moves on each other. Good job. Tell him to get his ass off playing DoTA and just come drink with us. With you. You’d like that, right? Remember when we were at the beach and you had a flat belly? Wait, let me get some shumai (that’s the English romanization for siomai). Or are we having pork adobo? Or is it chicken adobo? Or maybe it’s just you because you’re an angel? Or do you prefer meat buns? Hahaha. Only you would get this awfully incoherent flight of ideas, Ja-mai-ca ♪♫ I-sa-bel ♪♫ Bu-guis (pronounced as Bu-gwa)♪♫.
I don’t have anything to say anymore, except for the fact that you remind me of my lady friend Gillian. We’re really close, but we don’t get to hang out or talk anymore because she’s always busy with work on weekdays and with her family on the weekends. I hope that won’t be the case with you. I hope that I can always seek asylum in the country of Jamaica. That’s all I guess.
P.S.: Don’t even think for a second that you’re special and irreplaceable, even though you truly are.
P.P.S.: I now no longer owe you. It’s good that I paid because it’s an additional post in this blog.
Mama’s Man? (A Mother’s Day Special)
“And be a simple, kind of man.
Oh be something, you love and understand.
Baby be a simple, kind of man.
Oh, won’t you do this for me son,
If you can?”-Lynyrd Skynyrd, Simple Man
I was a mama’s boy when I was a kid. How can I not be one? As a child, she woke me up for school, serves me breakfast, heats up my bathwater, and cooks my lunch. By the time I get home, be it just in time for dinner or even if it’s way past that, there’s always food on the table to make sure I’m not hungry. Whenever there’s a sale at our local mall, she takes us out to buy clothes, watch a movie, and eat. And if ever I get sick, she would always cook me food appropriate for my condition, give me medicine, and takes me to a doctor if it seems as if it’s going to be really bad. This went on up until college…oh alright I admit, it still goes on up until now (except for the wake up part because I’m currently on a PM shift). I’m a mama’s boy. Except that I’m no longer a boy. I’m twenty-two, a young adult – a man. I’m a mama’s man.
It’s embarrassing really. Well, not really, because it’s actually convenient. Not that I’m feeding off mother’s kindness, but why should I be ashamed if she still takes care of me? I mean, I can take care of myself, it’s just that mother actually takes care of me better. And not only does she takes care of me, she also listens to my never-ending and redundant rantings, gives me advice, and tries to understand my idiosyncrasies even though there’s that oh-so-problematic generation gap. However, there seems to be one problem…
Even if I choose to never get married and live with my folks instead, the time will come when mother will be entering heaven. No more of her cooking. No more of her advices. Well, I’d probably have a wife who’d take care of me, cook me food, wake me in the morning, and give me advice – but there’s just something in the way mother does things, that tender-loving care only she could deliver. Wait, maybe I shouldn’t be thinking of something quite morbid on Mother’s Day. Then again, it’s not morbid – it’s realistic. It’s not a question of if, but a question of when.
It’s going to happen, so I should learn to show much I love mother while she’s here with us. I should stop doing stupid stuff that isn’t helping me. I’ll take care of myself better because she won’t be always there to look out for me, plus it’d leave her sacrifices in vain if I abuse myself. I’ll do chores again so that she could have more rest time, after all she’s turning fifty-four this year, it’s high time she took a backseat from all the housework. I’ll try to learn to cook so that I wouldn’t have to depend on her always for food and make her proud, not to mention that girls like boys who can cook. I’ll get a better job or go back to school and pursue what I actually want. I’ll get a decent wife and raise my children well. I’ll be the man I have always wanted to be, a man that would make mother proud, a man that would make the people around him think that his mother raised him well – mama’s man. Damn, I hope I’d actually make good on these promises…
Dear Mama,
It’s 12:24AM already, so Belated Happy Mother’s Day. I could not thank God enough for giving me you, and I could not thank you enough for loving, caring, and sacrificing for me so much up until now, even though you can practically kick me out of the house and fend for myself. Thanks to you, I am what I am today. I know that you’re proud of me, but I’ll make you even prouder. I’ll make you more thankful to God for helping you in raising me. For you I’ll be the best me I can ever be. For you I’ll be a man full of virtues and love for God and His people. I love you, Mama. :’)
I put the I in the UNIVERSE. I hope I can put U too. 