my friend, Jose

“Capooool!!!”

Jose greets me with his beaming braces-filled toothy smile and glistening chinky eyes as I walk in the HSBC Recovery and Fraud department, plopping my purse and lunch bag on my desk, directly across from his.  It’s a Monday and I’m dreading another week of drudge and angry negligent clients.

“The hell are you happy about, asshole?” I growl at him.

His grin widens.  “Oooh.  Somebody did not get cock this weekend!” saying it like a whispered song and simultaneously points both his index fingers at me. 

This encapsulates my friendship with Jose.  It was the mid-90's.  We were both hired by the bank at the same time and assigned to the same post, which we both hated but valued it as an essential foot in the door.  We immediately realized we had the same penchant for dark, perverted humor and instantly became buddies.

In an organization that had stiff, conservative culture, we acted like kindergarten playmates, talking to each other with obscene language like fraternity brothers.  We were relentless with our banter.  As he endlessly teased me about my weight and my breasts, I repeatedly made racist comments about his Chinese heritage.   These vulgarities never fazed us though.  It was for comic effect, for our own demented kind of amusement.

Over lunch, we would openly talk about sex and unsuspecting co-workers we would gladly do it with.  It was a vile and immature game that never grew old with us.  Whatever disgusting topic we talked about, we always ended up bursting in uncontrollable laughter.  Our friends were privy to this crude behavior that was the ironic basis of our respect and fondness for each other.

“We should get drunk and get stoned at my house this weekend.”  He suggested one Friday. 

Neither of us had weed nor alcohol when I got to his place.  We both weren't potheads nor big drinkers, and I just assumed that he had the goods since he did the invite. Bastard. We ended up ordering pizza with Diet Coke, watching Pretty Woman on his laser disc player (!!). Some rock 'n roll night.

As we discussed Vivian’s black leatherette boots in the opening scene of the movie, our conversation somehow segued to countries Jose said he wanted to visit as a single man.  He began talking about his family, career plans he intended to pursue and a girl at work that he secretly liked but he was too shy to make the first move.  It was a great opening for a solid insult, but I kept my mouth shut and listened. 

I confided to him boyfriend problems I was embarrassed to tell my girlfriends.  We talked about marriage, our parents and our opposing views on religion.  We acted like co-dependent friends comforting each other as we revealed our fears and life concerns minus our usual profanities and put downs.  Oddly enough, without being drunk nor high, we let each other see our human side.

We were our usual crass selves as soon as we got back to work. Within months, we eventually moved to different departments, but we remained very good friends and kept out-smarting each other with our lewd jokes and insults when we saw each other at social events or even business meetings.

Jose eventually found the courage to ask the girl out and after a few years of dating, they were engaged.  And he and I found time to get together again and talk over dinner.

Bebsy:  You honestly think I’ll ever be married?

Jose:    I don't think I want to see you settled down. The world needs to 
experience you. If you do, tho, it has to be someone who makes you laugh, Bebs.  Make sure he has your sense of humor. Because his penis will eventually wilt and die.  And in the end, all you’ll have is humor.

Bebsy:  Well your penis is already wilted and dead.  And you're not funny.  You have to let Lyn go.

Jose:    You know what I really want to see?  You with children.  Oh God.  Those poor kids... I wonder how you'll be when you're 40?  You'll probably be all crafty and shit.

Bebsy:  Ugh.  I don’t want to reach 40.  That’s seriously old.  And I don’t think I’ll have kids. I'll be a God awful mother!

Jose:    Yah. Motherhood? Not for you, man.  And yes. I’d hate to be friggin' 40. 

I flew back to Manila for my birthday last March, 14 years after that conversation with Jose.  I had not been in touch with him since because of his refusal to join the Facebook bandwagon, but we knew how each other was doing through common friends. He would always say that he was happy to know I'm alive and well.

He missed my birthday celebration because of an out of town business trip but vowed that we would see each other this year as he was very keen on meeting the kind of children I’ve raised and needed to verify that my husband, is in fact, not a figment of my imagination. 

Jose died last week.  While driving home, he was shot in the chest by a business rival. Chinese mafia related.  He would’ve been 40 next year. 

I received the news through a friend 2 days ago.  I stared at my phone in shock and struggled to process her text message. As I write this, I still find it difficult to accept that I will no longer see him, waste time with crude, immature talk and prove to him that I actually turned out to be a not-so-bad mother.

Our friend Dax sent a message bearing the same news. It began with a greeting that was achingly familiar. “Capoool!!!”

rest in peace, my sweet.

I turned off my phone and wept.  

the true meaning of christmas, ya'll

Lucas (6) receives a $100 cheque from his Godfather for Christmas and shows it off to his sister Sofia (8).

Lucas:  (waves the cheque)I got a 100 dollars!  I got a 100 dollars! I got a 100 dollars!

Sofia:  (looks up from her book) Ahh Lucas, for your information, Christmas is about the love of your family and the love you share.  It's about being together during this season. Not the money you get from people.

Me:     (rolls eyes)

Lucas:  (looks at me and mouths..) What a loser!


She did not get that from me.  His reaction, however, is a totally different story.

mind your own christmas beeswax

Ahhh, Christmas.  It really is a wonderful concept – peace on earth, goodwill to men – but sadly ruined in the execution.  Spreading joy to the world is all fine and dandy, but it is the season when traffic is at its most horrendous, shoppers are at their rudest, and you feign all these cheers and wishes to people you’d rather push off a cliff.  I am a Grinch this year.  

Mrs. McCluskey, who lives across from me, puts up her bright red and green lights with this massive peek-a-booing Santa on her front lawn while I still have giant spiders and skeletons hanging from my balcony.  It’s not that I have procrastinated putting down my Halloween decor.  The woman is way too eager to start her Yuletide season! It’s a bizarre sight to witness when you drive down my street. 

I look at Mrs. McCluskey’s decked out house as a warning of what’s to come. Christmas, I find, has become a holiday of obligation.  It is run by guilt and duty.  Expectations are high, tempers run hot, and budgets get thin.  You have to give to people and children you have not been in contact with for years just because eons ago you were baselessly anointed godmother to their offspring. 

And while everyone insists it’s the thought that counts, the sad fact is nobody wants to receive another bloody re-gifted box of chocolates from the drug store. 

It has become ridiculous, really, this business of gift giving.  Last year, a family member gave us back a $150 coat we gave her for Christmas.  She asked for us to write her a cheque instead for the exact amount to purchase a $350 coat that she would rather have.  I do not care how close her blood ties are to my own family. That’s just fucking rude.

See? My issues are not groundless.

I do not discount those with the truest of intentions, though.  They are usually the ones who give handwritten cards with personalized wishes, or small inexpensive gifts that make you feel like you were a great friend the whole year.  (Not to be pompous, but I am the best when it comes to friendship, and I demand no gifts from anybody.)

So, if you will excuse me, I need to put up my fake tree and hang my fake garlands all over my porch and front door while I simulate cheer and joy for the sake of my 2 children. They just started to count down the days until they receive their gifts from the biggest hoax this season has to offer (however benevolent it may be) that is Santa Claus.

Ho ho friggin’ ho.

Death by Gingerbread House

Today I decide to be the quintessential patient, crafty and involved apron-clad mother.  The kids and I are doing crafts on this beautiful snowy Sunday afternoon. 

A tv commercial for a cleaning product depicts a woman whose grungy children and wet dog running amuck all over her immaculate white carpet, covering it in slimy black grime and mud. The commotion startles her, but instead of going ballistic, she sighs, shakes her head and smiles.

It’s a load of crap, if you ask me. Unless they're selling LSD-laced anti-depressants, it's a big fat lie.  Think about it.  Who smiles at a sight like that? Stoned mothers, most likely.   

But today, I embrace it. I choose to be THAT mother. Not stoned, but I embrace a messy kitchen, that will be filled with happiness and joy.

Girl, 8 and Boy, 6 want to build a ginger bread house. I take pleasure in saying NO to them most of the time, but I am the fun mommy this afternoon, so ginger bread house it is.  They are ecstatic.  They are filled with excitement and happily discuss their plans for this edible house. 

Ahh.. the Ginger bread house: a wholesome fun activity for the whole family! This allows them to develop their creativity and encourage them to work together on a project.  Art, education and entertainment, all for a low price of $9.99! Everyone wins.

I get my camera ready.  I give myself a pat on the back and feel proud for creating this sweet memory for my children. Photos will be taken and shared with family members and close friends.  Even better, I decide I will capture a beautiful moment between the 2 kids and make that our Christmas card cover this year. Perfect.

I bring out the ginger bread house kit.  An argument ensues about who gets the coveted role of opening the box. I give them my ‘look’.  Warning #1 is declared.  I open the box.

Type A personality Girl neatly lays all the ingredients on the kitchen counter. Devil-may-care Boy picks up a bag of candy from the neat pile, feasts on it.  Fight no. 2.  I threaten to confiscate the entire kit if any argument strikes again. 

They start building.  The icing fails to completely glue the four panels of the house, and as soon as the roofs are placed, the whole structure collapses.  Girl gets frustrated. She tries again, this time crying for help.  I put more icing, and instruct her to wait a few minutes for it to dry.  She follows my instructions.  She pipes a beautiful pattern of icing on the roof, squeezing more than she should have.  The weight causes the house to flop again.  She gets on the ground in a dramatic fashion claiming she has caused the destruction of this edifice. 

The Boy, with mouth full of sugar balls, mimics and mocks her and this triggers an all out war.  One is high on emotions, the other jumping up and down, high on sugar. Candies and plastic knives are thrown in defiance. 

Boy drops 2 bags of colored icing on the floor.  He gets off the kitchen stool and accidentally steps on both bags squirting red and green icing all over.  He walks on the goo, slips and lands on the Girl who is still in the middle of her emotional outburst on the floor. They scream at each other, both turn to me and simultaneously argue their case, expecting that I reprimand whoever started this whole debacle. 

I blankly stare at them in surrender. 

The phone rings.  It’s my friend Abigail who is now a welcome distraction to the ongoing chaos.  I tell her to not mind the noise, as it is the sound of my reality that I want to block for a few minutes.  Abigail, who is not a stranger to crazy fighting children, offers an unsolicited advice: 

“You know, what you should do, get them to make a gingerbread house.”

Bones

The wonder car I learned how to drive stick with.  The beetle that carried wonderful memories from my highschool and university years. My joy. My life. My youth.  

Rest in peace, Bones.




     

Danke!

A 22 pound dead bird covered in cheesecloth sitting atop a bed of Yukon gold potatoes lay still inside the oven.  Poor bird.  He lived a full life only to be murdered so a party of 17 can be fed as they celebrate what they are most thankful for. 

On this day, I run on a time and tested schedule.  In an hour I need to take the cheese cloth off the bird and switch the pan around. In 2 hours the potato gratin and sweet potato casserole will share oven space, while I concoct my special gravy, which every year seems to be the first to go. 

Close friends and family members will start arriving in 5 hours.  At this time I am ready to hit the bed, change into my jammies, and have the sweetest sleep of the year after being up at the crack of dawn.  But I don’t.

I manage my exhaustion with a nice hot shower, fresh clothes and a red lipstick.  I put on a smile and allow the women take over the kitchen as I consume my first cold bottle of Corona.

This is my Thanksgiving.  It started one year when the combined powers of Martha Stewart and Katie Brown came over me and I decided to host dinner and give thanks for my countless blessings.  My daughter’s godfather in his drunken state and happiness volunteered my house and my dishes to everyone and declared it an annual Thanksgiving tradition.  It has been 8 years.

I am exhausted.  Every year I vow that it is the last Thanksgiving dinner I am throwing.  I stare at the dead bird, and feel sorry for its demise. I silently thank the bird for allowing me to celebrate this tradition I have come to both detest and embrace. 

A dead bird is what I am grateful for this year.  And I contemplate on other unexpected things I give thanks for:

1.       My son’s uncanny ability to comprehend sarcastic humour and his perfectly round buttocks.  I am also amused at how at age 6 he can casually talk about my death and his plans thereafter. He makes me laugh, my son.

a year old

2.       My daughter’s dry wit, her brilliance and beautiful curly hair.  Most days she assumes the role of mother in my household.  When stressed, she vacuums the living room. And at 8, she still proudly shouts ‘I love you’ at school drop off in the presence of her peers.  I still rule.

3 years old here

3.       My unforgettable birthday party at Attivo this year.  People who matter in my life back in Manila all gathered one night and partied with me as I turned technically old.  I sang “The Warrior” backed with a punk band I adore.  Best night of the year.  Hands down.

Shooting at the walls of heartache.. bang bang!

4.       My MacBook Pro, iPhone and Google.  The biggest life lesson I face nowadays. Brought on by these.  I love it.  I abhor it.  But am very thankful.

5.       Three Little Birds by Bob Marley. Who needs a joint when 10 seconds into this song, I'm in my happy place.  Panic attacks be gone.

6.       New and returning bebsycakes clients.  I am still amazed I make people happy with how I do my cakes.  Cakes!

7.       Maria and from-the-gut laughs we share because of random stupid conversations only she and I can understand and appreciate.  Best girlfriend someone like me can have.

8.       Jon Stewart and his gifted writers. Why I LOL at 11 at night.

9.       My kick ass artisan Kitchen Aid mixer.  It deserves a thank you.

The oven dings.  It’s time for me to pour a bottle of Guinness on the dead bird.  This is my secret ingredient.  Makes for a killer gravy too.

I hope the next year brings forth more blessings that will make a 20 pound bird worth killing for.

Bye bye, birdie.

He's not amused, is he?