by Pam Pastor
She laughed. “I know! When I saw you, I thought, ‘Oh no, she has boobs!’”
They found a replacement outfit for me—sarong pants and a matching sleeveless top that thankfully did not look like head gear.
I spent the lovely day bonding with the other women, listening to inspiring words, meditating, talking about womanhood and trying to squelch my inner klutz so I could be the picture of grace and poise. There were massages and bathing rituals, butterfly wishes and an exercise that invited us to release the person we hate to the universe. Surprisingly, I did not have one.
There was dinner too. And, in keeping with the theme of elegance and femininity, the servings were very light and, I guess, “ladylike.” We were served soup, salad and a beautifully cooked morsel of fish.
Our meal was delicious but the getaway that had promised to “awaken the woman within” had also succeeded in awakening the hungry python hiding inside me. A couple of hours after I returned to my room, I realized I was starving.
I spotted the room service menu and sighed in relief. I grabbed the phone and dialed quickly. “Hi, can I please order a cheeseburger?”
“Ma’am, are you a member?”
A member of the hungry club, yes. But no, that’s not what she meant. I wasn’t a member of the country club therefore I could not order a cheeseburger.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, you need a membership card.”
“But I’m going to pay in cash.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
I wondered if I had enough money in my wallet to bribe her into getting me that damn cheeseburger. Or more of that fish. Or anything, really. I was about to lose the grace and poise I had worked so hard on all day. I put the phone down and cried myself to sleep.
I’m kidding. I did not cry myself to sleep. I calmed myself and my rumbling stomach with visions of the many things I would eat once we returned to Manila. Pizza. Pasta. Steak. All the beautiful calories I could buy without a membership card.
The next day, I got off the bus, grabbed a cab and headed straight to Glorietta where I shed my sarong and any semblance of grace and poise and stuffed my face with Buffalo wings.
June 28, 2015
Waiting for Gaga
We had been warned: asking Lady Gaga for autographs was not allowed.
We spent more time waiting than actually speaking with her. After two hours of watching her music videos on loop, she appeared for a press conference that lasted for only seven minutes.
She disappeared to change clothes again and those of us who had snagged slots for the lengthier roundtable interview went back to waiting. “I look different every twenty minutes,” she explained later.
Just before we started, we were again given the warning: no autographs.
But Lady Gaga wanted to sign our CDs.
“People write nicer things about you when you sign CDs,” she said, poker-faced.
At her concert that night, she talked about the rumors that she was a hermaphrodite. “You know someone asked me recently a very strange question. They said, ‘Lady Gaga, do you have a dick?’ And I said, ‘Yes, I do, and it’s much bigger than yours.’”
The audience went wild.
August 12, 2009
Things you learn when you and your grandma eat twelve cronuts in two days
Cronutmania hit Manila hard, and my boss urged me to find the best knockoff of Dominique Ansel’s donut-croissant hybrid, you know, for the sake of journalism.
I recruited my Lola Charit to be my cronut sidekick. Here are things I learned after we ate twelve cronuts in two days:
Your grandma may be resistant to your plan, even saying, “Ayoko niyan, hindi ’yan masarap.” But work hard on convincing her because she will drop gems you can use in your article like when she said that one cronut tasted like “glorified bicho-bicho.”
Fried is often better than baked. Better but not healthier.
Do not judge a cronut by its cover. Or its price. More expensive does not always mean better.
Stand your ground. If you asked for Chocolate Caramel and they give you a Chocolate Macaroon, wait until they make the necessary swap.
There is such a thing as too much sprinkles.
There is no such thing as too much chocolate.
If you cut it in half and turn it into a sandwich, it is no longer a cronut. It’s just a sweet sandwich.
Most popular doesn’t always mean most delicious.
Buko pandan cronut does not taste good.
Water is your best friend.
If you eat enough oily pastry, you will start to feel dizzy.
You will realize where you got your healthy appetite from, when, after eating ten cronuts, your grandma asks, “Aren’t we going to have dinner?” And she actually eats pizza and pasta while you watch.
After twelve cronuts, you will not want to see another cronut for a very, very long time.
August 5, 2013
Stress test, part one
You know it’s really time to sleep when you get frustrated that your phone’s clock isn’t working … until you realize that you’ve been trying to set the alarm using your calculator.
November 26, 2013
Stress test, part two
Bangag is waking up in a panic because you forgot to set your alarm, setting your alarm, texting the driver to remind him to pick you up, going back to sleep, waking up in a panic again because you thought you slept through the alarm, seeing confused texts from the driver asking if he really was supposed to pick you up and then realizing that it’s only Sunday, not Monday, you stupid, stupid fool.
December 8, 2013
My life as a Paris correspondent
It’s true, I’ve become my newspaper’s Paris correspondent. I don’t mean the city, I mean Paris Hilton.
Paris Hilton has visited the Philippines twice and each time, I have written about her every move.
I wrote about her arrival before she even got here. And when she finally did, my article about her Manila landing came out on the front page of the newspaper.
I first met Paris inside her bag store in Megamall while thousands of fans screamed for attention one floor below. There were only a handful of us inside and the door had been shut. Outside the store were frenzied photographers, pushing and shoving to get a good shot of Paris. We were scared that they would break the glass. It trembled from the pressure.
I have seen so many celebrities arrive in the country but I’ve never seen photographers and cameramen respond to them in that way.
Paris, meanwhile, wasn’t fazed. “I’m pretty used to it,” she said, nonchalantly, as she stared at the pandemonium outside. Then she talked about how crazy things got in Mexico with a crowd four times the size of the one in Megamall.
I saw her again at the press conference about her real estate project. I watched her meet her fans, including one who wanted Paris to sign her forehead and Isha Dinio, who people call her number one Filipino fan.
I wrote about the Filipino fashion designers she liked, the t-shirt Manny Pacquiao gave her, her plans to design her beach club.
And when Paris returned three years later for its opening, I was again given the assignment to follow her every move. You know it’s Paris season when her Filipino fans keep trying to add me on Facebook.
I attended her press conference and then went up to the lounge to sit down with her for a one-on-one interview. She didn’t have a publicist with her so she spoke more freely.
A party had been scheduled that evening, and Paris had a surprise for guests: she would be spinning. “I put together a really fun set of cool songs, I’m playing a fun remix by Bruno Mars … and then some Michael Jackson and Calvin Harris and some Tiesto,” she told me.
Yes, Paris has become a DJ, a choice that has been mocked again and again by people online.
But is Paris a good DJ? I wouldn’t know.
As guests started arriving for the party, dressed in sarongs and Hawaiian prints and various interpretations of beachwear
, I made a quick exit, heading back to my office to file my story.
For this Paris correspondent, the work continues when everyone else starts to party.
March 20, 2014
Queen of Procrastination, part one
You know you’re procrastinating when, instead of writing, you’re googling “why Lay’s sour cream & onion potato chips taste better than Ruffles.”
And no, the Internet has not given me a satisfactory answer.
January 27, 2015
Queen of Procrastination, part two
I was in the middle of a writing marathon when my brain commanded me to stop.
Brain: “Yes, I know you’re doing something important but this is really, really urgent. Can you name twenty kinds of cheese?”
And it turns out that I can.
A few days later, my stubborn brain was at it again.
“Okay, fine, you know twenty kinds of cheese but … can you name ten kinds of dinosaurs?”
Tyrannosaurus rex, brontosaurus, stegosaurus, triceratops, velociraptor, brachiosaurus, pterodactyl … damn it.
June 10, 2015
This isn’t really about shorts
When your shorts are threatening to fall, you abandon everything you learned about propriety: you adjust them in public.
You pull on your waistband as if you were pulling on parachute cords, as if your life depended on it. And maybe it did. Because if your shorts dropped and your panties were exposed in a mall, wouldn’t you feel like dying?
You keep walking, grateful that, for the moment at least, your shorts seemed determined to stay on.
You have bigger things to worry about, things more important than exposed underwear. Your list of things to do is longer than your hedgehog’s nails and that’s pretty fucking long. (Item #17: Stop being a wuss and trim Bruno’s nails.)
You finish Items #1 to #6 and it’s time for #7: Transcribe interview.
You transcribe the first third in the car and decide to do the rest over lunch.
But there’s a guy seated ten feet from you and he’s so loud you could hear his phone conversation.
“Nakita mo ba ’yung lumabas sa dyaryo? Mga media talaga… masakit na nga sa pamilya…”
He’s a PR person, you deduce. And your assumption is confirmed when he starts talking to the person who arrived to eat with him.
“Ganito kasi ako mag-press con … Tapos ’yung mga media na ’yan late dadating, minsan two hours! ’Di ka naman pwede magalit…”
You tune out and start typing while waiting for your food.
You look up to see the waiter leading a mom and her two teenage boys to the table next to yours. They talk about caramel cake, their grandparents, their teachers, what they had for breakfast and how hungry they are.
You struggle with your transcription because their voices are drowning out your interview. You sigh, remove your earphones and start eating.
Minutes later, you are glad you stopped.
Because the mother, who looked so prim and proper and who ordered nothing but soup, offered a real gem to her boys who were attacking their pizzas: “Anyone who announces that they’re stoned is not.”
May 26, 2014
The woman who hated everything
“Are you based here?” a journalist I had just spent three hours with asked.
“No, I’m just visiting. I’m on vacation,” I said.
“You work while you’re on vacation? Are you loco?!”
“Yes, yes I am,” I said, laughing.
She was a big woman with an even bigger personality. In the small room we had been in, she dominated the conversation.
She said things like “piece of shit” and “what the fuck” and “I want to gouge my eyes out.” It was funny. At first.
But it soon became evident that she hated everything. And the hatefest continued in the cab I had to share with her and a journalist from Mexico.
“The worst thing ever” and “such a dick” and “so douchey” and “terrible” and “fucked up” and “so stupid.” It didn’t matter what the topic was—her litany of discontent went on and on.
She was jaded about the things she knew and dismissive about things she didn’t.
The negativity was easy to deflect in a hotel room with six other people. But in a cramped taxi with her face just inches from mine? It was suffocating. We couldn’t get to Soho fast enough. I should have taken the subway, I thought.
The Mexican guy and I did the only thing we can do—we laughed and shook our heads, resisting the urge to grab her by the shoulders and say, “Stop. Just stop talking.”
The cab lurched to a stop. We had reached our destination.
Inside the hotel, she took a left to grab food and I took a right to find an empty seat. I sank into one, grateful to be rid of her and her jadedness.
I hit the red button on my recorder, my notebook in my lap and a pen in my hand. It was time to work again.
May 6, 2014
Hospitals
and
heartbreak
Lessons
There was no greeting, no introduction to cushion the blow. Just six words in your Facebook inbox that announced a tragedy.
You spent eleven years of your life studying in a strict all-girls Catholic school. It is a place that shaped the person you have become, a place that taught you a lot of things.
You were taught the different parts of a sentence, with the importance of subject-verb agreement being drilled into your head again and again and again. But you weren’t taught how to react when you hear that someone you went to school with for over a decade passed away suddenly, leaving two very young children behind.
You were taught how to set up the Bunsen burner for evaporation. But you weren’t taught how to reach out to her mother who you’ve also known for many years, who used to check the many excuses you had for not making it to school on time and for not making it to school at all, who must be heartbroken right now.
You were taught the importance of dressing modestly, of choosing cheap socks over expensive ones, of making sure your skirt’s hem was always two inches below the knee. But you weren’t taught what you can do to make things a little easier for her daughters who will now have to grow up without their mother.
You were taught how to fold the flag properly, how to be careful not to let it touch the ground. But you weren’t taught how to deal with the helplessness that you feel as you wonder if there’s something you could have done to help before it was too late.
You were taught to dance with three clay pots balanced on your head. But you weren’t told what to do if you have countless questions and no way of getting real answers.
You were taught the cross stitch, the back stitch, the blanket stitch, even the dreaded spider web stitch, every single stitch imaginable. But you weren’t prepared for how strange it would feel that the world continues to move, despite the horrible tragedy, despite the big loss, despite the fact that you want it to stop even for just a little bit because you want to grieve.
You were taught the importance of reaching out to the less fortunate, of leaving your comfort zone and heading out to where you’re needed so you can make a difference. But you weren’t taught how to cope with feeling guilty over not making a bigger effort to reconnect with her when she was just a few clicks away, when she was still alive.
You were taught how to transpose notes—heck, you cried over that stupid lesson—but you weren’t taught how to deal with losing one of you. Yes, she was one of you. She was a friend. She was a sister.
There is no class, no exam, no Catholic school that could have prepared you for the big gaping hole that this death has left in your heart.
There are many things your school didn’t teach you, things that you desperately need now. But your beloved Catholic school did teach you other things.
It taught you to be strong. It taught you to be courageous. It taught you to be compassionate and to be loving. It taught you to embrace life with passion. It tau
ght you to find lessons in everything. It threw surprises your way and watched proudly as you bravely faced each one of them. It taught you the importance of pushing your boundaries, of letting go of your limits, of doing things you didn’t think you could do. It taught you to be selfless. It taught you to make the most out of every single day. It taught you to use time wisely. It taught you not to waste a single second. It taught you about goodbyes.
And all these things will carry you through as time attempts to heal the hole in your heart. And all these things will carry you through as you honor her memory, as you focus on her life well lived instead of her tragic end, as you make sure you never forget.
And you will never forget.
May 17, 2010
Room 741
We were supposed to have coffee. What were you doing in the hospital?
But you were there and I found out at five in the morning and I almost fell apart.
I texted you, you didn’t reply.
Hours later, I texted you again and told you how much I loved you and you texted me and told me you loved me, too. I cried when I saw your name in my phone.
The next day, as I got ready to visit you, I kept trying to think of what food I should bring. Not fruits, that’s lame. Not sushi, your doctors will kick my ass. I couldn’t think of anything. And it hit me that while I knew a lot of things about you—from the music you love to some of your heartbreaks—I didn’t know what you liked to eat. Which is strange because we’ve eaten together a lot of times. And I found that very disconcerting.