Broken and Stinking

Have you ever met people who torture themselves, not with whips or with ropes, but with a strange compulsion to monitor every peso that leaves their pockets? These people have a tendency to create their own accounting spreadsheets in MS Excel, and they scrutinize with painstaking detail how much they save, spend, and invest.

I have to admit that I’m one of these “spreadsheet masochists.” To be completely honest about it, I’m glad to be one since it provided me with a much needed reality check when I was close to losing control.

It all happened a few weeks ago when I reviewed the spreadsheet of the expenses that I incurred, so far, this year. Numbers don’t lie and it was increasingly obvious that my savings have been severely depleted. This is largely due to a personal decision that has provided me with much fulfillment as of late. You see, it has always been my goal to have my own place by the time I leave my twenties behind.

Sometime in June, I issued a check for the down payment of a two-bedroom apartment in Mandaluyong. For the remaining 80% balance, I applied for a housing loan with my bank. A week before my 30^th birthday in August, my loan application was approved. I was informed that I could move into my new apartment whenever I want. As you can imagine, I was extremely happy and I still consider this as the highlight of my year.

During my first few weeks as a first-time apartment owner, I embarked on a shopping frenzy where I purchased furniture and appliances to fill up my new place. Back then I hardly noticed that my checking account hemorrhaged profusely and that my credit card was getting worn out from multiple transaction swipes. When you’re in a state of extended happiness, it just becomes too easy to ignore the extravagance.

I merely needed to think that “the place is mine” and “I deserve only but the best” to convince me to buy items that I normally wouldn’t even consider. For instance, instead of a heavy-duty hemp rug, I opted for a more luxurious wooly rug with zebra prints since, in my mind, it goes very well with the metallic grey roman shades in the living room.

Since I also felt like I have spent a fortune on laundromats throughout the years, I also decided to buy my own front-load washing machine. I could have taken a typical and cheaper top-load washer, but no; it’s just not “cool enough” for me. Also the laundry room of the apartment is nothing but an oversized closet with a door, so hanging clothes there to dry would not be an option. The solution? I bought a matching front-load dryer, too.

So now it’s not hard to imagine how I spent the equivalent of a year’s worth of my salary for the first ten months of the year alone. I have always been responsible with my finances so my recent actions are really out-of-character. It is one thing feeling fulfilled in your dream home, but it’s another thing to achieve that within a reasonable budget.

Once I realized that I have gone overboard, I abandoned some purchase plans that would have added further strain to my fast-depleting resources. One of these plans was to replace my still functioning Samsung LCD TV. The unit is barely 18 months old and yet, there are two annoying vertical lines on the screen. The LCD panels are obviously damaged and much to my chagrin, I can’t get a replacement since the warranty card only covers one year.

I attempted to have the LCD panels replaced by a technician from Samsung, but I was informed that the cost would amount to buying another brand new LCD TV. Anyone with a sound mind would never go for that so I told the technician to screw it. I have since imagined myself smashing the TV with a bat or tossing it out of the window. At least that would give me some satisfaction and a convenient excuse to buy a new one, right?

But then again, this is the first TV that I bought for myself so a sentimental feeling defeats my violent illusions. And now my credit woes give me more resolve to keep the busted LCD TV on the rack until it bonks out completely by itself.

Another item in my “to replace” list is an old Timex Ironman digital watch that I had for ages. Its Velcro wrist strap can now barely fasten itself, and when it does, I get an itchy sensation. I shudder when I think of the possible microscopic fungal matter lodged into the fabric. And please don’t ask me how the Velcro strap smells like. I think that the strap can now resuscitate groupies who pass out in rock concerts by flicking it a few centimeters from their noses.

Originally I intended to dispose of my Timex and buy a new one, but with my recent spending spree, it was more sensible to just replace the stinking wrist strap since the actual watch is still in fairly good condition. I then trooped to the nearest Timex outlet and inquired about spare Velcro wrist straps.

A saleslady from the Timex branch in SM Megamall informed me that since my watch is of a very old model, they need to check with their suppliers and warehouses if they still have stock of the proper Velcro strap for my watch. Ms. Timex Saleslady also advised me to give the store a call after a month to check on their progress. Waiting time can be anytime between one to six months, she told me, and even then, there’s really no guarantee that they can provide me with the product that I need.

It almost feels like the universe is punishing me for pulling off an Imelda when I chose the fancy zebra print rug over a more functional and affordable alternative. And because I refused to save 40% of my money on a conventional top load washer and dryer, the smelly velcro wrist strap of my watch will remain stinky until the people from Timex unearth the proper model from their warehouses. That is, if they will ever find one.

This experience has given me a whole new perspective about how to live within my means. It has also taught me to be resilient and not to let small obstacles like the stinky Velcro wrist strap of my watch break or defeat me. Even if it takes six months or even a year to get a replacement, then I shall wait. If it turns out there isn’t any stock left, then at least I tried. I could now face myself in front of the mirror and proclaim myself a better man.

***

And speaking of mirrors, there’s a huge (7ft x 5 ft) wood-framed mirror leaning on the wall over the dining area of my apartment. I read that mirrors give an illusion of space in small apartments, and so I bought it.

I can now see my reflection whenever I have meals in my apartment. Every bite, every chew, every crumb and every spill are like ghosts that haunt me.

Now seriously, when will hindsight be available in stores? It’s one purchase that I will probably never regret.

I Am the Leech That Sucks on My Brother’s Food

I woke up really early today, about 5:34 to be exact, which is quite a wonder since I didn’t get to hide under the covers well past midnight. My brother’s partly to blame here. He has an early morning flight to Cebu and based on the noise he made hurrying up and down the stairs, I am almost certain he’s running late.

***

I can’t really get pissed at my brother. You see, since I came home to our apartment two weeks ago, he has been essentially feeding me. To date, I have eaten three of his Fuji apples, devoured various bags of chips and cookies, finished a box of cereals, and gulped down cartons of Nestle fresh milk and Magnolia Chocolait.

Add in this growing list those cans of Purefoods corned beef and Century tuna, cups of Nissins instant noodles, and the Pampanga’s Best skinless longganisa that I fry in Spring cooking oil. Yesterday I added cold water in the almost-empty bottle of Sunquick concentrate, shook it vigorously, and got myself the last glass of orange juice.

Just this weekend, I was sprawled on the sofa as I channel surfed for cartoons. I was munching on V-cut potato chips (obviously not mine) when my brother suddenly came hauling two SM Supermarket plastic bags filled with groceries. It was at that moment that I felt some bit of shame: here I am, a leech of a couch potato, while my brother desperately replenishes his severely depleted food supply that I continue to raid with ravenous bravado.

“Promise! I’ll go to the grocery today so I can purchase my share of the food,” I told my brother, still too lazy to get out of the sofa.

He just smiled sheepishly, and somehow, I sensed that he wanted shoot back, “Dapat lang no! Kapalmuks talaga nito!”

What happened next is just plain predictable. I went to SM Megamall and got into Powerbooks since it’s the nearest entry point from the MRT. I browsed the shelves and bought myself Salman Rushdie’s “Shalimar the Clown.” I then received a text message from a friend and accepted her invite to have dinner and coffee.

It was too late when I realized that the supermarket is about to close. I cursed at myself for failing to grab some grocery items when I had all the time in the world. “Promise, bukas na talaga!” I muttered mentally. But then like cheap Chinese toys and fortune cookies, promises are meant to be broken.

***

It was a few minutes after seven when I decided to get out of bed and fix myself breakfast. My brother has long been gone, and is probably airborne to Cebu. I sluggishly trudged to the kitchen and checked the near-empty refrigerator and last few remaining canned goods in the cupboard.

Typically I would be satisfied with bread and peanut butter or a bowl of cereals. But then I wanted something different this morning. I decided to cook some rice for some old-fashioned Pinoy breakfast. I chopped two Mekeni cheesedogs and fried them. I opened a can of Hunt’s pork and beans and dumped the contents on the same frying pan. When the rice cooked, I scooped some in a bowl and poured the cheesedog-and-beans concoction on top of it.

The verdict? Well the rice was too gooey and my cheesedog-and-beans creation would definitely provoke Gordon Ramsay to spew out five F-words in one sentence. (“This f***ing idiot just cooked the worst f***king rubbish that my f***king potty mouth had the f***king unfortunate opportunity to f***ing taste!”)

Needless to say, it’s a nightmare swimming in semi-sweet tomato sauce. Rejecting to admit defeat, I persisted to chew a couple of spoonfuls of my breakfast until I couldn’t take any more of it. It was that bad. I tossed the remaining contents of my bowl in the bin and I felt guilty all over again. Not only am I siphoning all of my brother’s food, I even have to gall to waste some of it.

Images of starving children all over the world began flood my mind – Somalia, India, Payatas. Crunching and gurgling feelings started to buzz inside me. For a second, I thought it was my conscience shouting out loud. But then it was just my stomach grumbling. I promptly grabbed the last apple in the chiller, this time making good of the promise to eat it all.




***




Above: In my defense, the bowl was brimming full of rice and the culinary masterpiece that is my "cheesedog-and-beans" before this photo was taken. There's really no excuse for it, but at least I only wasted a little. :p

The Dogs Demanded A Public Apology

Amid barks of protest accompanied by incessant panting and copious amounts of drool, thousands of dogs – from the dimunitive Pedro, a chocolate brown chihuahua, to Beethoven, a shaggy St. Bernard with a bell on his collar – gathered for a hasty press conference assembled by Amando Rouchot, lawyer for an embattled jerk known as Dennis Jerome Aquino.

Speaking before an audience of angry canines, Atty. Rouchot mentioned that public doggy outcry started about two months ago when Mr. Aquino made an entry in “Turbulent Swells,” his little known and near-anonymous blog, where he likened himself to – what else? – dogs.

In the entry posted on 30 January 2009, Mr. Aquino lamented on the declining popularity of Friendster, his once favorite social interactive website. Faced with incessant invites from friends to create a profile in the more popular rival Facebook, Mr. Aquino emphatically declared his loyalty to Friendster and even went as far as claiming that he doesn’t have plans to join Facebook.

“If I have to choose to be another animal, I would most definitely pick a dog. Maybe this is the reason why I have this blind sense of loyalty,” Mr. Aquino wrote in his blog.

About a week ago, reports were leaked by the Association for the Protection of Canine Dignity (ASSOPROCADI) that Mr. Aquino has caved in and joined the bandwagon that is Facebook.

“We have been monitoring his internet activities for the past week,” Fifi, a bespectacled French poodle and officer-in-charge for ASSOPROCADI, yelped through a human-doggie interpreter.

“Mr. Aquino would spend, on average, about an hour per day surfing Facebook. He hardly ever goes to Friendster anymore, and he calls himself loyal? Well, loyal my ahh…,” Fifi angrily added before becoming distracted by an orange tabby meowing nearby.

The media watchdog ASSOPROCADI (no pun intended) also reported that Mr. Aquino has gained more than 50 friends during his first week alone with Facebook. Asked by this sudden change of heart, Atty. Rouchot spoke for his client.

“Mr. Aquino was finally enticed to join Facebook when he wanted to know which Pinoy Bold Actor he is. It sounds rather strange but there’s a quiz within the website where one merely answers a couple of multiple choice questions and the choices made actually determines which Pinoy Bold Actor the user most resembles and identifies with. The quiz was created using the most complex algorithms with inputs from world renowned psychologists and human behavior scientists… And if you’re interested, Mr. Aquino’s result generated Jay Manalo,” Atty. Rouchot filibustered in one single breath.

When a reporter from the broadsheet daily “Philippine Daily Kink-Why-Where” asked if Atty. Rouchot was going to read an apology letter from Mr. Aquino, the former responded that he has something better. Atty. Rouchot dismissed apology letters as “so yesterday” and would instead use a projector screen so all the disgruntled canines can view and hear Mr. Aquino’s apology for themselves. However there was one problem.

“Mr. Aquino would have wanted to make his own apology video but he’s in the middle of the Tasman Sea right now working on an offshore seismic project so there’s really no way for him to do it,” Atty. Rouchot said. “And so to truly extend his sincere apologies to all canines he inadvertently offended, we shall use President GMA’s apology video for the “Hello Garci” scandal in his place.”

Pandemonium broke afterwards even as Atty. Rouchot attempted to play a YouTube clip of a glazed-looking PGMA blurting, “I’m sorry.” It took more than 100 SWAT men to restore order in the press con venue, and the commotion left Atty. Rouchot with exactly 69 dog bites in various parts of his body.

“I thought it all made perfect sense. Mr. Aquino is a self-proclaimed rightist, and he happens to be the cabalen of PGMA. Contrary to what Elton John thinks, sorry does not seem to be the hardest word…” a delirious Atty. Rouchot mumbled as he was whisked to the Anti-Rabies Unit of the San Lazaro Hospital.

As of press time. Mr. Aquino has yet to issue his own statement on all this hullabaloo. Brando, an American pitbull, meanwhile has this final message: “You can only claim you’re a dog if you’re able to lick your own genit…”

A Scoobie snack was tossed in his direction before Brando finished his statement.

Son Of A Beach

It was a Friday. The late afternoon sun slowly descended on the horizon, casting a golden glow on sailboats dotting the line of view. While almost everybody else was beating the rush hour traffic from work or from school, I sat on the sugary white sand of Boracay, reading Mark Haddon’s “a spot of bother.” As the salty sea breeze ruffled my hair, I thought of the mere PhP 1,100 that Cebu Pacific charged for round-trip airfare for Manila to Caticlan. I then flashed a silly grin and mumbled “Suh-weet!” under my breath.

Apparently smiling while you’re all alone on the beach does have its drawbacks. A sunbathing blonde woman sprawled a few meters to my left noticed and took it as a signal to start an awkward conversation. For simplicity’s sake, let’s call her Miss Blondie from hereon.

“You’re all alone?” Miss Blondie asked quite rhetorically. In my mind, she sounded Aussie.

“I came here with friends. They took a boat tour but I didn’t join them… did that last year.”

“You’re having fun?” Her accent confused me. I’m starting to wonder if she’s probably French, or German.

“I’m reading a nice book and I’m sipping banana-mango shake while I wait for the sunset. I can’t complain.” She stared at me blankly and it occurred to me that she didn’t understand a word I just said.

I continued, “Yes; so much fun out here!” This time slower and with more emphasis on each syllable.

She smiled and nodded her head to probably indicate that she was also having fun. While I equated fun with banana-mango milkshakes, Miss Blondie’s version involved scorching herself all day under the sun until she’s beet red with sunburn.

While I tried to concentrate on my reading despite the evident distraction, my peripheral vision witnessed Miss Blondie undoing her bikini top. A few seconds later, her enormous mammaries exposed themselves to the whole wide world and soaked in the remaining rays of the sinking sun.

My jaw must have dropped for a split-second, or maybe I stared longer than what is considered polite even through dark sunglasses. Miss Blondie’s sharp eye caught me red-handed and asked, “Do you mind?” so casually as if flashing one’s boobs in the beach is as natural as breathing oxygen.

“No; not at all,” I lied. “Knock yourself out.” It was then that I decided that she’s Swedish.

“Knock?” Miss Blondie was perplexed. Surely I wasn’t implying that she’s flat as a door, right?

I would’ve lectured Miss Blondie about the conservative sensibilities of Filipinos but I didn’t bother. I figured that soon enough, she’ll know for herself. Kids who passed her by openly giggled at the sight of her melons. Strolling women showed a mixture of shock, envy, and dismay at the sight of her pale, pink-tipped lady lumps that were in sharp contrast to her overly tanned skin. Teenaged and grown males ogled discreetly, while some eyed her lustfully.

Of the latter type of males, a middle aged man who reminds me of Leo Martinez stood near Miss Blondie and started a conversation with her. With a glaring “Boracay” logo on his ill-fitted white tank top, Leo Martinez proudly feigned some questions that reeked of bull. All this time, his eyes were evidently fixed on Miss Blondie’s chest.

Miss Blondie thankfully felt uncomfortable with all the unwanted attention that she imposed on herself. She grabbed her bikini top and secured her once pendulous breasts into their proper cups. Leo Martinez sensed that the flashy show is about to end, and just like that, he left her alone. As he walked away, his shadow kind of looked sad and dejected.

“That man is strange,” she told me, half complaining and half scared.

“Definitely a son of a bitch,” I consoled her.

“Beach?” she misunderstood me again. Somehow I am starting to believe the stereotype about blondes. Either that or my accent comes from Mars. Or Uranus.

A mongrel soon appeared on the beach running with its master. I pointed at the dog and smiled, this time intentionally, at Miss Blondie. She smiled back but there was absolutely no way for me to know if she finally got my point.

A Cantonese Holiday with my Parents

Let’s face it. Our parents, no matter how fond we are of them, have the uncanny ability to embarrass us kids. It can be a hilarious anecdote about your childhood that they tend to over share with your friends, or that time when they’re asking for too much discount (tawad) from a bewildered woman hawking trinkets and scarves in the marketplace.

After living independently for the past nine years, I have pretty much gotten used to living on my own terms and on my own rules. That’s why I feel quite unsettled whenever I stay at my parents’ house. This only happens during holidays and special occasions but I still feel awkward whenever I have to stay in a room with my parents on extended periods of time.

This past weekend, I guess I have spent more time with my parents than I ever had over the past few years. The three of us spent a holiday in Hong Kong and Macau, and I have to say that this has been the most exhausting trip that I had so far. For four days and three nights, I acted as a tour guide, a navigator, a photographer, and an all-around go-to guy but I am not one bit complaining. In fact I feel really fulfilled since my parents had so much fun in these parts of China.

This holiday was also somewhat special since it’s my mom’s first time to get out of the country. It was also her first time to ride a plane (Manila to Hong Kong) and a ferry (Hong Kong to Macau). My dad, on the other hand, spent most of his adult life working in the Middle East so he’s had a couple of plane trips already. However it’s his first time to fly out for pleasure rather than for work, and I’m pretty sure he’s pleased to see tourist spots other than those involving desert sand.

Our trip had its share of hits and misses. It was drizzling for the most part and the sky was a shade of gloomy gray. When we arrived in Victoria’s Peak on the night of Day 1, it was impossible to take snapshots of the Hong Kong skyline because of the thick fog. Fortunately there is a mall in the peak with a Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. We consoled ourselves from the foggy weather by posing with wax figures of various celebrities.

Day 2 saw us taking a cable car ride in Ngong Ping Skyrail and a day tour of Disneyland Hong Kong. We paid extra in Ngong Ping to watch a supposedly fascinating monkey show. It turns out that the monkey show is nothing but a crappy 15-minute cartoon about three simian friends who learn the golden virtues of sharing from a statue of a monkey god.

Disneyland Hong Kong would have been a truly memorable experience for me if I were two decades younger, but the sights alone made the HK$ 350 entrance fee worth every penny. The highlight of our Disneyland visit has to be the rollercoaster ride that I dared my parents to join me. My mom screamed; my dad was stiff quiet; while I laughed for the whole duration of the ride. In the end, we purchased a souvenir photo of the three of us in the contorted coaster. It was funny since my mom looked like she’s sobbing in the picture when in fact, she swears she enjoyed it.

On Day 3 we took a single day excursion of Macau. We booked the tour from the internet for about HK$ 750 per person. It was a good deal actually. The cost of the tour package covers for round-trip ferry rides from Hong Kong to Macau, a guided tour van, and buffet lunch. As an added perk, a bus picked us up in the morning and took us back to our hotel at the end of the day.

Maybe I’m not much of a gambler but Macau was just unimpressive for me. It baffles me how people can be enthralled by 26 casinos cramped in into the 29 sq km of the territory. For me the place just reeks of vice and excess. My parents did try their luck in the slot machines of the Babylon Casino, though. They ended up losing HK$ 99.25 but then the experience was probably priceless for them.

And then there’s our tour guide in Macau, a feisty little lady who calls herself Flo, who’s just a bundle of energy. She cracked us up with stories about how Macau’s richest person, casino magnate Stanley Ho, is able to sire his fourteenth child well within his 80’s. Our tour guide also made it a point to explain that Macau has no real industries and merely relies on tourism and casino revenues to get by.

Flo also mentioned that the majority of tourists and casino spenders in Macau are actually Mandarin speakers of mainland China. Macau and Hong Kong are both former European colonies (by Portugal and the United Kingdom, respectively) that mainly use Cantonese, another major Chinese language. And while we’re on the topic of languages, Flo and I had this interesting conversation at some point–

Me: So you conduct your tours mainly in English and Cantonese?

Flo: Yes, and also in Mandarin. Do you speak Mandarin?

Me: No, I don’t understand a word of Mandarin. Did you think I’m Chinese?

Flo: (nods)

Me: I’m Filipino and see the couple behind us? They are my parents.

Flo: (takes a quick glance at my old folks – seems baffled)

Me: So do you think I’m adopted?

Flo: You better ask them.

When I mentioned my conversation with Flo, my parents had an amused laugh. It’s funny now because we’re used to it. Yes it’s true; I don’t really look like either one of my parents. Growing up, I was often teased that I’m adopted. Honestly there were times that I really thought that some lady just left me in a basket at my parents’ doorstep. But then my mom is absolutely sure that I came out of her, and I guess that’s all the reassurance that I would ever need.

On the last day of our trip, we were walking briskly at the Hong Kong International Airport (HKIA) towards our departure gate. All around us were mostly Chinese people passing about, and it felt rather strange that I could easily blend with the crowd. I have unmistakable Oriental looks and when people approached me, they spoke in Cantonese. Or maybe in Mandarin; I really have no way of telling.

But then I glanced back and saw my “strange-looking” parents strolling behind me. I am suddenly reminded why I took this trip with them in the first place. My parents are not perfect people but they managed to responsibly raise six children in their more than 31-year union. Life wasn’t always easy for them and yet, they don’t seem to have the cynicism and sometimes bitterness that I developed through time despite the many blessings that I continue to receive.

Most of all, I feel like the luckiest person in the world for having parents who love me just the same even if I look like some regular Chinese guy on the ground escalators of the HKIA, eagerly approaching the departure gate that will take him home.


********

The nice pictures of Hong Kong and Macau are not from my digicam but were cheekily taken from travel websites. The third photo of this article shows my parents with tour guide Flo.