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.  

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?

youngblood Y2K

It takes a lot of courage to post this, but because of the 5 people in my life who held my hand, rolled their eyes and literally shook my being to enlightenment during those pitiful formative years of my adult life, I am posting this here in my little universe.... (since it has apparently been published anyway..)

To my Popie, Marc, Aloy, Liezl and Tinee... some parts were a blur but I am posting this in its original form as an homage to your support and saintly patience, so pardon the run-on sentences and minor  syntax errors.  
(I said MINOR ERRORS!!! Stop editing my work, Marc dela Cruz!!)

And without a shadow of a doubt, I can incontrovertibly say,  yes, I have moved on!! HA! :-)  

Good luck finding this blog..

I love you to pieces.

5 January 2000

This, I swear:  This is going to be my last piece about AG.  In the past 2 years we’ve been ‘together’, I have vented feelings of bliss, confusion and desolation on paper. I have been doing this as a coping mechanism, with the hope that reading it will eventually make me realize how idiotic and pathetic I've been for allowing myself to be in this predicament.

I finally decided to have the much anticipated ‘talk’ with him 2 days before the New Millennium rang.  I had to seize my opportunity, as I knew it was going to take another whole month before this break materializes.  Our meetings are always based on his terms, never mine.  I have practiced my lines for weeks- in the shower, when alone in the car, as I lay awake in the middle of a God-forsaken hour in the night- and there was no way I was going to let this opportunity pass.

AG and I met at work.  He was a tall, fetching British man and despite his mumbled and oftentimes inaudible speech, we instantly became friends.  We shared the same love for movies, travel and self-deprecating humour.

A deeper relationship eventually ensued after months of going out.  This dragged on without any ‘strings attached’ because of the convenience it brought us and the ‘secret’ aspect of it all had its exciting attributes.  We were both single, however, he was still my boss’ boss, and there were corporate ethics to be respected.

Things were going great.  The mind games we played were exhilarating.  Our repartees during business meetings were exciting and arousing.  

That, until my emotions took over.  It hit me one day that I did not have a clue how he really felt for me.  Our physical attraction to each other was incredible, but beyond that, I was clueless.  This has been going on far too long.  Where is this headed?  I was too anxious to ask.

I conjured up so many thoughts in my head – perhaps I had to give him time, because after all, he is a man, and any talks about the 'future' will scare him off.  I convinced myself that he truly cared for me and that his intentions were all pure.  I held on to these illusions and gave in every time he asked me out.  But my ‘not knowing where I stand’ was beginning to drive me off the wall.

I just had to prove to my concerned friends and more importantly to myself, that he did care.  I needed to assure myself that there's a little bit of self-respect left in me, that I can be smart enough to realize if I am being taken advantage of.  That this was more than just what it was, otherwise, I would have to end this clandestine affair.

For months I’ve attempted to talk to him about the definition of our relationship, but I was too petrified with the possible aftermath.  I just didn’t want to look uncool.  That was the plain simple truth.  BUT, having my great plan of self-reinvention in place, I went for the kill.  I had to be honest.

I assumed my position in my favorite spot in his posh pad – atop the kitchen counter – to soften the mood, lighten the atmosphere- as he opened a bottle of Chianti.  That was a comfortable place for us both, where we usually talk about work, our family lives and personal movie critiques.  Of course I knew he was expecting a night of hot wild sex.  We already had a little too much to drink prior to that moment… but I was still sober enough to say.. “We have to talk.” 

He was stunned.  Looked petrified, even.  But compare this to my 2 year agony because of this undefined set-up, it should be a walk in the park for him.

“AG, I like you…. I mean I like you “like-you” like you… but I can’t do this anymore..”

So okay, it wasn’t the best opening speech that was integral for my life’s happiness.  It was, in fact, downright pathetic.  But hey, I was being human.  And honest.  I stammered, half regretting that I shouldn’t have said what I said.  But I had a mantra in my head...“What we do in our lives echoes in eternity..” as Commander Maximus addresses his men before the gory yet beautiful battle scene in The Gladiator. The significance of that line escapes me, but I felt I was at war and there was no turning back. So I over-dramatize.

I knew what I wanted to say.  Practice makes perfect, you see.  But for some odd reason, I found myself at loss for words.  Pouring your heart out to someone you are unbelievably attracted to and in the same way very intimidated by can be too overwhelming.

But in the feat of self-love and the determination to move on, I continued my piece.  I just want to be honest with how I felt.  That was the main objective.  As for the negative outcome, well,…. I’m blessed with good health, financial means to buy good food and very supportive friends, I’ll live.

Stemming from my introduction which obviously lacked confidence, wit and by goodness grace and elan, I told him I liked him too much to continue having meaningless sex with him. But not in those words, heavens, no.  What I said was “…what I have with you, is far meaningless…to me..” (I know, I know.  Tragic, right?)  I should’ve stopped right there, headed out the door, and let the earth open up and eat me alive. Alive!

But no! I was on a roll!  That’s who I am.  When nervous, I unleash this verbal gobbledygook.  So, more words were spoken by this Joan of Arc, this goddess of unrequited love, this idiot who was eventually going to regret everything spewing out of her big mouth, causing more humiliation and pain.

I went on saying that if he just needed a fast roll in the hay, I was not the person to call.  You can get any girl you want, AG. But please, not me.  I care too much. I said like an actress reading Shakespeare.  I wanted to die immediately after I heard myself say those words.

Oh he got the drift.  He was not daft.

He did not say much after my Oscar-winning, boner-destroying speech, although I was too lost in my own thoughts to remember how he reacted to my soliloquy.

He did say he liked me too (being nice, of course) although it wasn’t necessary for us to be thinking of our future.  It’s amazing how he can present to me his feelings in one straight concise sentence, whilst I had to depend on hours of preparation and the use of hand gestures to convey a single thought.

He said that he was being unfair and he was sorry.  I got it the first time.  It was loud and clear.  I was being rejected.

The night ended with an agreement that we really should start hanging out the way real friends should.  Dinner, movie and coffee, ending with a peck on the cheek and an affectionate hug. (Riiiiight, like that will happen.)

I do not remember the feeling of bitterness when I left.  I was hurt and sad, of course, but I did not feel empty and angry.  Remarkably, I knew the difference.  I didn’t care if I looked like a love pariah to him.  Initially my intention to break our ties was to consequently earn his respect.  Even that didn’t matter to me anymore.  My friend Aloy was right.  One can never go wrong by being honest with how you feel.  I put myself out there, showed unbelievable courage. I stuck with my objective, and that I achieved.  I went through the ‘talk’ for myself.  I was honest, and it felt damn good.  Liberating, even.

The weekend went on and I felt surprisingly okay.  I welcomed the New Year in my family’s farm in Cebu, as he partied with his friends in a secluded island South of where I was.  Despite my vow to seriously cut linkage, we exchanged text messages the second the clock struck 12.

He called me a few days after, we shared each other’s New Years resolutions, our own views about the bombings in Manila, and a promise to keep in touch.  I honestly did not think of it as a sweet gesture.  I knew in my heart that it was his mindless effort to prove that he was not, in fact, an asshole.  I just need to write this down to remind myself: HE WAS JUST BEING NICE.  Nothing more to it.

The AG saga ends here.  I’m ending it here.

I saw him in Giraffe with his British friends last weekend.  I did not make an effort to say hello.  I actually made sure he did not see me.  I did spend a few minutes watching him enjoy the night.  I was not crazy stalking, no.  I just watched him in awe and wonder.

This was the man I wanted.  He had me wrapped around his little finger the past 2 years of my life, despite my best friends’ unabashed collective disapproval. 

I cannot say if I was ever in love with AG.  Surprising as it may seem, despite the experiences I’ve had with men I was allegedly “in love” with, I honestly still don’t know how that feels.

That night in Giraffe I was silently taking in my loss. 

He truly meant the world to me.  A very corny thing to write but it’s simple and true.  But I meant nothing to him.  I was simply a sideline in his life.  A convenient body when he needed someone to boost his ego and morale.  He was just being nice.  I finally accepted my defeat.

I left Giraffe with my bestfriend Popie’s arm around me, silently hoping the new century will bring me the happiness I deserve.




Strength and honour! -Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, The Gladiator

nyc with love

Ours is a common story everyone has heard of.  We met at a time when his first marriage had run its course, and I was psyching myself out of a toxic relationship that was not meant to be.  I was heart broken, confused and unhappy. 

After a casual encounter, we inadvertently got ourselves involved in a series of texts and emails that gradually turned into expensive overseas phone calls (he lived in Toronto and I was just starting a business in Manila), virtual chats and hand-written, stamps & postman-involving letter exchanges.  For some reason I got smitten in the process.

Six months after our first meeting, I took a leap of faith and agreed to see him again, this time in New York City.  A commitment about our future together was never discussed, but we promised each other it will be the best weekend of our lives.

In retrospect, I do not recall every single detail of that weekend, which is very surprising to me and those who know me well.  I believe that it’s the small details that make or break me. 

I do however recall the long wait at JFK.  It was hurricane season and flights were cancelled and delayed.  I remember the smell of Room 1602 at the Helmsley in Manhattan, and how the bathroom window had the view of the top of the Chrysler building.  I remember the Brazilian festival on 5th Avenue, packed with shiny and sweaty olive skinned Portuguese boys.  I remember walking the streets of New York, feeling so genuinely happy being with this man.  In my mind I knew that his presence in my life was temporary given the different worlds we lived in, but I savoured every second of bliss I felt. 

That weekend in New York, in one of our walks on 5th Avenue, he professed his love for me in front of a Bank of America branch. I don’t recall if I took him seriously since we barely knew each other and have not spent that much time together.

I do not remember the number 1 song that weekend.  Nor the top 3 movies in the box office that summer - these I have immediate answers for if the dates in question are that of my children’s birth days.  It frustrates me that all those small details are now lost on me.

A day after our beautiful weekend, the World Trade Center in Manhattan was attacked.  I was at a hotel in Minneapolis having breakfast, watching Aaron Brown on CNN with the rest of the world, as the second tower was hit. 

I stared at the television and saw the streets where I was literally dancing on a few days before with complete strangers.  Those were the same streets of New York where my husband and I spent the best weekend of our lives.  That’s where I found myself being happy again.  Minutes later the whole of Manhattan was covered in a cloud of darkness and horror. 

It may have been at that moment when all the small details got lost on me.  Everything seemed insignificant. More than 3,000 people died that day, and for millions of others a huge piece of themselves died too.

The world was never the same since that week in September of 2001.  And neither was mine.