The Old House In Santa Mesa (First Part)

People say that when you are about to hit 40,  your priorities change. You begin to think about your holdings, you worry about the kids (in my case, my nephews and niece), and you spend much of your energy trying to put things in order because your gut feels time is no longer by your side. 

Since the start of the second pandemic year, I have been gradually taking over the custodianship of our ancestral home in Santa Mesa. Nothing fancy. It's more like being the eyes, arms, and legs of my mother (and her sisters) who are the real patrons of the property. I have been a passive player for much of the year - so much that I even went to great lengths to avoid getting involved with tenants' payments. But since last week, I made some big moves that I have never expected myself.

The plan was to put some new electrical outlets and LED lights where my mother's room used to be. It was at the farthest corner of the house and for 20 years, it was largely abandoned. We don't even know if the receptacles out there are still functioning. Last time I checked, the room was a rat-infested bodega with moldy clothes above the aparador, dead roaches on the floor, and scraps of partially gorged paper everywhere. 

A tenant, whose room was flooded downstairs moved in recently to occupy the kitchen outside my mom's quarters. Her arrival somehow dispersed the gloomy vibe pervading in those places. More importantly, her transfer provided a convenient excuse to finally make some big renovations in case we decide to make my mom's room available for rent someday.

Once I was able to make arrangements with the electrician, reclaiming the abandoned areas of the house before nature renders it unfit for habitation immediately commenced.

- to be continued

Much Diminished

I used to write everyday on these pages.

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The hanging herb garden outside my window used to be a source of pride and a reason to journey around the metropolis for Basil and Lavender saplings. I would then attempt to grow them despite the rampage of city birds.

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I used to walk from home to my gym in Mabini, often, at dusk, when the sun was about to set. I used to have a time for contemplation as I gaze into the open sea: The days afforded me a moment to forge those unfulfilled dreams and cast away the regrets accumulated in years.

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I used to brag to inferior men that I worked out three times a week.

But now, everything seems like a distant memory. Even putting into words the life I choose to lead is a struggle, a pain that keeps catching up whenever I am being reminded of the person I used to be.

Times have changed and in so many ways, so am I.

That Thing Called Resilience

Previously on: Unbent

It took me a full hour to absorb the carnage. 

The plants under my care lay buried beneath their overturned plastic containers. The earth that held their roots were scattered all over the vinyl floor. The plastic tray that I used as the flower pots' elevated platform (with flimsy pillars to support it) had fallen over, bringing everything to the ground, including the makeshift pond underneath it. The islets of kiyapos (water cabbages) were all gone; even the small cuttings have shrunk, its fleshy branches pulped and could no longer be replanted. 

The sheer devastation could have reduced me to tears, especially after being able to make the plants thrive with very little sunlight. Had the vile creatures dropped the cylinder aquarium or clawed the turtle out of its shell, I would certainly cease bringing life unto the balcony and let the remaining plants die. 

The rats responsible for this mess have tested my patience long enough.

But instead of moping, I used the downtime at the side job to pick up the pots. I returned the soil and replanted the herbs with my bare hands. The pillars supporting the plastic tray have been reinforced, making sure it won't topple over even when the rats return and trash that corner all over again. Finally, a metal trap has been set, so that whatever critter finds itself caged would pay dearly for the destruction it did.

There is no other way but to rebuild.

*I can no longer count the years since the time I went back to pursue my hobby. Lots of plants have died, and only very few survived from the first cuttings. Over time, I've resigned to the fact that most of the herbs I would try to grow will die after a few years. Some plants would not even last a month. 

Maybe I don't have a green thumb like I thought. 

But growing herbs is not all about picking the leaves and using them to spice our food. I don't even know how to trim these plants. What I get from this pursuit is therapy; the thought that you can make some plants thrive when others won't is already a source of pride, it encourages you to acquire more herbs, with the hope that they would grow. But still, no matter what effort you give, some plants will not make it, and after seeing so many of them decay, get thrown away, and being replaced by new sprouts, you will learn that setbacks like a rat rampage can always happen. 

It is how you put back the pieces again, and letting the plants grow once more is what makes gardening a hobby worth pursuing.   

  

Persistence of Life

Previously: The Martha Stewart In Me

From a certain perspective, a person who finds himself at my mother's veranda can glean the progress I have made: The sprawling oregano plants now need to be tied up, suspended halfway between the ground and the ceiling so their stems would extend upward as desired. The purple wandering jews have grown unchecked behind the sliding glass windows which I could no longer open because of the pots leaning against them. And without the rats digging the soil of the pots lining the ledge, the plants have their roots restored and are now verdant once more. One can only assume that I have prevailed, and that my passion for gardening has turned the house into a green sanctuary. But images can be deceiving, and the cost of my money-making venture is bigger than what a single photo can tell.

On the other side of the house, the fragrant lavenders have all disappeared - whole plants wilted for reasons I could never explain. The mint plants struggle to sprout new leaves, and weeds, whose seeds were carried over by passing birds continue to steal nutrients from herbs that are still thriving. In places of the house where the sun illuminates the corners, empty pots continue to multiply. Plants are still dying, and plans to replace them get postponed as work demands less time to go about the city. The late afternoon showers and week-long monsoon rains sometimes help in watering the polymer vessels, but at times when the winds refuse to spray the windows (where the pots droop on the iron grills) with rain water, I end up with wilted plants, with lumps of soil as dry as the Sahara.

This has been the concerns lately, and like the garden I have put up in sun-ward corners that used to offer nothing but a view of the neighbors' disarrayed rooms, there remains this feeling that I may have sprawled and spread out in places, but within remains stagnating. It may have been caused by pressing demands for material accomplishments, which as of late have already clawed deep into my personal time. Maybe I have lost myself in the cycle, and it reflects on how I attend to my herbs' needs these days. 

One is safe to say I am entrenched. 

Meanwhile, as new stem cuttings get planted on the ground, or old garden pots rearranged so it may hold more water for the soil to absorb, it is my hope that these feeble attempts to bring life into my shrinking paradise remind me of the feat that cannot be counted at the teller machine. 

The persistence of life, no matter how subtle, remains a reward in itself.  

The Metro Manila Shake Drill

It all began with a showing of a topographic map, distributed to the media with blue lines bisecting the metropolis' eastern fringes. These broken dashes represent the fracture in earth's crust. It runs through swathes of Quezon City, Marikina, up to Muntinlupa, and was the result of a survey of the West Valley Fault System. It was commissioned by the government in the interest of public safety, and also for risk reduction in the event of an actual temblor. Overnight, the news became a sensation, something that puts fear and panic to those living near and beneath the tectonic system. While immediate relocation of families living in the danger zone is out of the question, authorities knew that something has to be done. Before this hype was replaced by another buzz, it was decided by the MMDA to set about a metro-wide earthquake drill. The aim is not just actual coordination of government agencies, but also a chance to educate the public of what needs to be done during such disaster.  

The initiative was the first of its kind. Nothing of this magnitude has been done in recent memory, and while it is understandable that the MMDA is also unsure about the drill's execution, what matters is that the foundation for such readiness has already been in place. The original idea was to include power and water interruption, as well as telecommunication disruption. They wanted to remain faithful to a total infrastructure breakdown scenario and let the public experience it. But realizing how inconvenient this is to everyone, the revised plan focused on four sectors set up across the metropolis to simulate civil evacuation, medical relief, and disaster response. 

While public support was tepid, at best, given the lack of news build-up after the drill was announced, I have already resolved not to leave the fate of my loved ones to chance. Heavy duty plastic containers were procured to store water in case the water pipes get busted. The acquisition of transistor radios also became a priority. Finally, with the medicine cabinet replenished with new bandages and antiseptic fluids, somehow my fears were put to rest. What is missing are the go-bags should we need to stay outdoors, and instructions to everyone about what to do during an earthquake.

The metro-wide drill was the perfect excuse to educate everyone.

I would not deny being tempted to go all the way to Intramuros to watch how the fire suppression drill is being performed. There is also the command center at the LRT Santolan station for disaster relief and rescue affecting residents closest to the fault line. I could have gone to these places and write my experiences. But then, I realized, much of the preparation at home would be for naught if my family members have no idea about "drop," "cover," and "hold" which are the basics of earthquake survival.

"Ang pinakamahalaga mama, eh maprotektahan yung ulo mo." Handing over a pillow to the matriarch, I told her to use it to cover her head. A disabled person like her would have no time to hide under a table or run out of the house in case of a temblor.

This is the same instruction I told the maids, and also pointed at the objects at home that have the highest risk of falling and hitting someone in the head.

That includes my dad's man-sized sketch portrait.

Looking back, giving up the chance to be out there and joining the actual drills was nothing compared to what I can contribute at home. They say, disaster preparedness begins with loved ones, and what better way to do this by teaching the littlest ones - my nephews - who need to be protected more than anyone else.

"Lenin, tayo ka." I had ask him to take a break from his child's play to impart the lessons I've been telling everyone since that morning.

"Try mo nga magtago dito sa ilalim ng kama." Following my orders, the elder nephew tried to fit himself into the small space under my mom's hardwood bed.

"Alam mo kung ano yung lindol?"

He shook his head and smiled at me. Apparently, it wasn't properly communicated at school what the drill that morning happened. At 4 years old and with no actual experience of ground shaking, it was difficult to explain what an earthquake is.

"Ah eh ganito yun." I started shaking my mother's bookcase.

"Kapag gumalaw ito ng walang tao, kailangan mo magtago sa ilalim ng bed ha?" To make it more realistic, I shook the bookcase violently, until the books stacked on top of the shelves started falling.

"Kailangan mo magtago kasi mababagsakan ka nitong mga books."

Getting my idea, my nephew hid once more under the bed as the book shaking continued. I didn't stop, and instead, made sure everything on the shelf lay bare on top of the bed.

"Tandaan mo ito palagi ha?"


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It has been 25 years since the last big quake shook the city. Another 22 and news of the Ruby Towers collapsing, and killing more than 200 souls put fear in the hearts of high-rise dwellers. The great big one is long overdue. Should a time come the ground shakes once more, I hope that all these efforts in family preparation will not be for nothing.

Like the Metro Manila Shake Drill, knowing and actual practice are the keys to saving lives.


  

Independence

Previously: San Nicolas, Manila
               Turbulence At The Home Front

The San Nicolas walk trip was born out of curiosity, when instead of riding a jeep at the corner of Abad Santos and Recto to go home, I thought of traipsing further into the bowels of Divisoria to find what's beyond Tabora street. Lately, I've been spotted at the central flea market looking for cheap home items such as hangers with clippers and large water containers. 

The last time I was there, I searched the side streets for a rain poncho.

Now the rain poncho is not for me, but for Kuya O, who is my mother's personal assistant. Since the monsoon season is beginning to bring cloudy skies and late afternoon showers, a complete rain gear is needed by family members who often needed to go outdoors no matter what the weather be. With him having to hold a large umbrella while pushing a wheelchair from the State University going to our house a few blocks away, there is a likely chance that my mom will get wet, so he asked for a rain coat the last time heavy thunderstorms inundated the city. 

And my response came swift.

Kuya O's request was a fitting excuse to return and explore my favorite marketplace. He had asked for a rain protection gear with a transparent membrane, one that is hard to find that not even department stores might carry such types in their stocks. I already looked for one in Quiapo but didn't find any. 

Thus, my only hope is Divisoria.

Even in Divisoria, looking for a raincoat proved quite difficult. None is being sold at the malls, and outside, while cheap varieties exist, even an uninstructed buyer can easily glean how the edges can tear up with one slight pull. An industrial-strength coat should exist somewhere. One that is used by fishermen who is working in rough seas.

And so I walked further, beyond the row of department stores with names inspired by numbers, until I came across a street where tarpaulin sheets are being sold. Here, raincoats are displayed outside the shops for pedestrians to see. There was this one brand the vendors often spoke, and while it was slightly pricier than the first ones offered to me, the vendors I met at the tarpaulin shops vouched for the coat's quality simply by speaking its name.

Spartan.

It was expensive indeed - by Divisoria standards. The raincoats fetch a price twice the generic varieties, whose hem appears to be made by the same material as the plastic pouches one uses when collecting trash. The cost did turn me off at first, so I made rounds again until I found myself at the same street where the rain gears are being sold. As a first-time buyer, there was no one to consult, until the second vendor who spoke of Spartan's near-rubbery texture being proof of its durability said one detail that made me seal the deal.

"Gawa po dito ito."

The vendor's words were drawn from the gut, not because he was desperate to make a sale, or because of his faith in the product, but because he knew many buyers would choose the cheaper ones dumped by the mainland Chinese. I'm sure, Spartan's quality has already swayed me to get the rain poncho. But on that inconspicuous day, a week before the nation celebrates its Independence, something profound had struck me, like a long lost love has been rekindled: In a time when cheap imported goods flood the market, and the local brands need to rely on a good name or cheap labor to keep the industry afloat, there is a tinge of pride and comfort knowing I'd still be willing to shell more for an item that is Philippine made. We may speak of nationhood in the face of adversity in our waters, in beauty pageants, or in sports, but what purpose does our sovereignty serve without collective patronage for things that truly make us stand on our feet?

Perks

Previously: The Buff Daddy Slips Ipanema

"Para kang nagsuot ng tsinelas na gawa sa White Rabbit." 

That is how I would describe the feeling of slipping a pair of Ipanemas; like stepping foot on a pad made of the locally-made chewy candy. 

"Sa sobrang lambot niya sa paa, parang ayaw mo na magsapatos."

The impression would stay, six years past the time I got my flops for free. It was the height of the blogging fever, and after letting my online portal become a vehicle for some fancy promotions, of marketing a brand of footwear that sets aside part of its earnings to help restore the environment, the organizers of the event gifted me with a complementary card, a slip of paper that I could use to purchase my own slippers.

Never in my wildest dreams would I see the flops endure the passing of time. The Ipanemas had seen many places, and witnessed so many events, some, would even trickle down to these very pages, in published entries too many to mention. As a testament to its durability, a selling point I didn't say when I wrote about the pair, the slippers have never been replaced. They were my only flops. I was confident the footwear would endure, that I forgot, 

Rubber, like all natural materials, breaks down with time. Mine did, when tiny cracks gave way to large fissures at the base of the slippers, where the plastic strap meets the thick foot pad. 

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So I have seen the last of the Ipanemas, and may this be my parting entry for a commissioned work that began with a product launch invitation. Let this also be a time for remembering, of the glory days when blog writers were treated like royalties, and get perks for publishing stories that would populate the search engines with copies of consumer products. To this day, I would not deny yearning to return to that time, and write stories about food and travel, like many bloggers did. Forget earning from penning press releases. With perks such as the pair of footwear I got for doing what I loved the most, I would never tire of writing.

This has, after all, been my calling. The published entries, and how they weave narratives that jump from one life to another are my rewards.

Laundry Day

In all my thirty-three lives, one of the few activities I am privileged not to do was laundry. There were many reasons I could get away with the chore. For one, we always had helpers. Even when one of them had to return to the province to visit her loved ones, another maid does the clothes washing for us. Another reason is because I never had a taste of living solo. While I rented an apartment in Quezon City in the past, seldom did I spend my time living there. And when I needed my clothes washed, there was a nearby laundry shop to accomplish the task.

It is safe to say that I lead a comfortable life. But at the back of my head, I always knew, a day would come when I would have to wash my own clothes.

Such as when the present helper went home to visit her family, which she had not seen in years.

The nanny of course, was available to do the laundry. But times have changed and we have kids now, who needed undivided attention. So instead of waiting for the other maid to come back and wash the items I wear, I took this opportunity to learn a new chore.

There was of course, the washing machine, to lend aid and keep the activity a breeze. I bought it a few years ago after the vintage one could no longer run. The appliance, which I have never seen do its work, cut the laundry time in half. All that's needed was to separate the white items from the colored ones. The white ones go in first, so as not to smudge them with faint hues of other colors. Then, I took a few scoops of Tide with Downy, (more like calculated coursing from the packaging, since we don't have a plastic scooper at home) and set the timer to five minutes, which, I had to repeat twice just to make sure the sweat, grime, and dead cells part from the fabric. As I watch the tub spin in a clockwise motion, I recall the days when my elders warned not to put my hand inside the swirling pool of greywater. I didn't pay attention, of course, even when they said that I might get electrocuted. To this day, the temptation is there, despite the persistence of the urban legend, and when I did wrap my fingers around a piece of clothing, I didn't get a jolt. Instead, the swirling maelstrom bound my appendages to the point that I had to lift my arm just to free my fingers from being compressed further.

The backbreaking work came when I had to soak the items on a tub of clear water: The repeated rinsing until the soap suds disappear; the full arm twisting while squeezing the remaining water absorbed by the bed sheet covers; and the squatting I am forced to do for faster "banlawan." It was unglamorous, and when I think of the large amounts of water I had thrown away after each rinsing cycle, the pangs of guilt nearly drove me to let others finish the job. There must be an easier way of doing this part of the laundry, but it didn't come across that I could have looked for it on the Internet before embarking on this task.  

On that sunny day, not only was I able to wash my clothes, the provider I have grown to be had learned to apply detergent and fabric softener, which I get every grocery shopping day. Amusing, how you never pay attention to the items you gather at Puregold, until it's your turn to use them for the first time. This, and the stories of improvisation (for we are running out of hangers and clips to air dry the wet clothes) are what makes this activity worth telling, and even if it will take some time before I do my own laundry again, unlocking this achievement inches me closer to living my life the way I want it,

Someday in the future.

Unbent

Previously: Dandelion Fluff

It has been a year and a month since the migration began, and the green revolution on my mother's veranda has been a resounding success. The flimsy and delicate stalks of Basil and Mint have grown roots and stems, and new plant saplings were added, to make the evergreen dream inch closer to reality. Some of the herbs don't make it, and they are replaced by new ones to have a semblance of continuity. No longer do I lament their loss, but instead, see their unceremonious uprooting as a chance to start over. It may not have been as verdant like in my imagination, but the plants thrive, and life sprouts in that forgotten corner of the house.

The veranda's seaward location allows it to receive generous doses of sunshine in the late afternoon. Oreganos filter much of the sunlight with their unusually large leaves, as well as the Lavenders and Rosemaries that occupy larger plastic boxes that are the envy of those herbs growing on my side of the window. But lately, destructive acts performed by sinister creatures at the middle of the night lead to some setbacks. 

It all started one morning when I found a garden planter dug out and its once flourishing occupant lying wilted on the ground. It would die a few days later, never to be replaced again.

At first, I thought the nocturnal digging was some random occurrence that would cease in a few weeks. I would let it pass, until another garden planter was dug weeks later, leaving a deep crater that would scare even a seasoned urban gardener. I immediately asked a helper to place a rat trap on the floor, and to our horror, the device caught a very large rodent the next day. 

I would never forget how the balding creature squealed when I made an attempt to approach it. Larger than an average kitten, I imagine it to be an alpha female, or male, in the hierarchy where it belongs. The rat was exterminated, and a retaliation was forthcoming. Much like how the mice nibbled on my clothes after I started culling them in my room, rats of all sizes made passes in my mother's veranda just to dig the pots and leave the plants scattered on the ground.

It was heartbreaking.

I did everything to make the raids stop. With the assistance of the same helper, we tried to look for holes where the pests are coming from. The searching ended in vain. Next, I tried raising some planters on top of canisters just so the rats won't reach them. The clever rodents simply used their size to topple them down, leaving more plants overturned on the ground - together with their pots. I would have placed sticky paper everywhere, just to annoy the critters. But it appears this desperation won't be necessary. The last, and perhaps the most effective among my ideas was to block all access to my little garden. For a week now, I have never seen lumps of soil on the ground, or pot marks dug out of the plastic containers.

The plants that have been uprooted sprout new leaves again.

For once, it appears that I succeeded holding the rodents back, but never can I claim victory until some new herbs are added.

Room Improvements (Little Stories Pt. 2)

I.  Mirror

Once there was a mirror, hanging on the wall behind the door of my room. It has been there for ages, and I no longer recall how, and where the vanity item was acquired. All I know is that it served as my last stop every time I had to leave the house, or when I had to examine my nasal orifices to trim some wiry hairs protruding out my nostrils.

The mirror was a source of pride, not because of its plain and functional design, but because it was made of wood. Something I value when everything mass-produced is made of plastic. To me, the mirror reflects a bygone era, a time when ornately carved furniture adorned homes of ancient families and people with tastes. So imagine the sense of loss when my brother-in-law slammed the door of their room adjacent to mine, and the mirror came crashing to the floor.

His wife, my sister, shouted at him for being careless. But the error has already been made, microscopic shards have punctured a wound under my toe.

II. Rechargeable Flashlight

In a house resided by hoarders, it is easy to acquire stuff with questionable uses. One example is a wall calendar given by my aunt. The calendar was said to feature photos shot by my cousin. It would have been easy to perch the item at some unoccupied corner downstairs. But with space becoming scarce, the bunch of rolled calendars ended up squeezed behind the huge portrait of my long-dead father. They have been there for months, hidden from plain sight, until I pulled out the unused days planner only to dispatch them straight to the garbage can.

Same can be said with flashlights. We had pen-sized ones, as well as mini rechargeable lamps for sudden power interruptions. They were all over the place, until one by one, the electric torches disappeared. Some got broken, with batteries oozing with toxic substance still lodged inside their sockets. The flashlights were replaced by candles, but with matches as flame source, igniting a stick in pitch-black darkness might turn the lightbringer into a sorry firestarter.  

III. Herb Pot

The time of replanting meant returning to the Circle to shop for herbs I will grow on plastic pots. I had two unused ones, canisters, whose previous occupants had to be ditched as they were invasive weeds whose seeds piggy-backed on birds' feathers. The pots were immediately put to use, with cuttings clinging to life as new roots refuse to sprout. Meanwhile, a mature Purple Basil, a variety I haven't cultivated in ages remain confined within its plastic wrap. Had I obsessed less with symmetry, I wouldn't mind keeping it there until I get to buy a sturdy polymer in my own leisure. But with the plants around it already kept in plastic and aluminum containers, it felt that my work is not yet done had I let it remain without a bowl to establish its domain. 

Hence the original idea of embarking on a canvassing trip at Wilcon's for my carpet replacement summer project, ended with me paying for the acquisitions that were the subject of need in this blog entry.

  

Paper Dolls

As kids, we were forbidden to touch playthings, the opposite sex claims as their own, as this might turn us into effeminate boys when we grow older. Such is the rule for most households where gender roles were pronounced and any display of girly behavior was frowned. This was strictly enforced, except in our house, for I sometimes had to spend time with my sister to strengthen the sibling bonds, and maybe, to learn the rudiments of sensitivity so I may never have the impression that females are weaker and different from men.

While suspicion lingers that I was merely left to do as I please, the liberty allowed me to acquire those colorful dolls sold at some corner store in school. The two-dimensional cut-outs are made from thin sheets of cardboard paper. Its sundry outfits and accessories are separated so that it could be worn by securing the folding tabs over the female figure. I recall dressing the dolls when no one is looking. At a young age, I was certain of getting into trouble when my father finds out I've been playing with girls' stuff.

But still, I pursued such pastime, alone, for reasons I no longer recall.

It was a fleeting fancy, much like the plastic water guns and Styrofoam planes that took out a chunk of my allowance. While the dressing up part didn't transform me into a couture expert or a fashion designer, it is with much appreciation that I cherish this memory while playing Covet Fashion app on my Android phone. 

Olaf Strackynzky Design

Though it might have been a deviation from my character to indulge in such time-waster, (knowing I only played it to impress upon my gay friends my prowess in clothing digital dolls with branded shoes, jewelry and dresses) there is immense joy in knowing that on my twelfth year of gay hood, I was able to connect with that obscure childhood memory, whose juvenile curiosity lead him to venture into the world of fabrics and colors.

And write his story.

The Cat With No Name

Previously on: The Infestation

She was dropped, rather unceremoniously, in front of me one morning and rather than cower under the table, the cat approached my stretched hands to rub her head against my knuckles.

It was our first encounter.

She was dispatched from our ancestral house to counter the growing rat population at home. Droppings were everywhere and even the food on the table wasn't spared when nobody's looking. My sister already sounded the alarm. She was even willing to hire the services of a specialist to see the pests demise from our sight. Only after these creatures appeared in my room, squeaking, and gnawing on wood did I act with urgency. The fly paper counter assault did little to stop their advance. Not even the peanut butter coated bait drew them into the sticky trap.

It must be the feline's brutal attacks that finally drove the critters away. Overnight, the mice no longer dash behind the furniture. The bins were even left open, certain that nothing will jump out when we put spoiled food items in. Except for the stink that wafted from the toilet when the cat decides to take a dump, the guest didn't pose much of a problem. She even eats the leftover dog food once the house companion had her fill. It was, the most convenient of arrangements.

I thought we could keep her for good. But the house is shared with residents who might pose a threat to the cat. While my sister doesn't want her because of the poop, it is the children that worries us more. It didn't help that the nephew who has asthma was her tormentor. I was told he was caught pulling the cat's tail when the nanny wasn't looking. Also, the frequent snarling, when the cat walks close just as the dog is eating might happen when the tykes are nearby.

There are many ways to get scratched by a cat's claw. It is just a matter of timing.

The animal was never given a name for reasons of impermanence. It was a temporal arrangement whose end was to remove the mice from the house. Nothing more. Resigned to this reality, the cat was given courtesies the dog never enjoyed. She was carried around like an infant, hugged, like a ragdoll, gets to check the rooms without being shooed. She even gets to climb my bed and sleep beside the pillows. 

She was more of a house pet to me. And maybe, I was more to her than a reluctant host.

In her days of stay, and nights of mouse hunting, the cat afforded an aspiration, a wishful thinking should a time come when I would have to live my days in hermitage:

Mugen, in his advanced age gets up from the bed to start his daily rituals. Lumbering with a cane towards the terrace, to tend to his basil and lavender plants he has nurtured from days past, a short-haired, tri-colored cat much like the one he lets into his room many, many years ago trailed behind. With her tail stiff and pointing at the ceiling, she rubs her body against any hard surface when she catches up. The inseparable companions lived their days, like life finally completes its cycle.

For the old man, I think of at this moment, he asks nothing more.

Our Maximo Oliveros

When my younger nephew's nanny decided to leave one day, the house was thrown in disarray as we cannot run as a .holding with just a single maid.

There was no time to assess the situation, and within days, a new maid was dispatched from Iloilo care of my sister's mother-in-law.

The house breathed a sigh of relief.

But the new maid is no ordinary housekeeper. She's a he, and puts on makeup, and wears skimpy short pants that attract attention. Had it not for the fact that he was my brother-in-law's distant relative, he would never set foot inside the house.

And there was reason to be weary sharing spaces with the effeminate man.

--

We have two young boys in the family, and mean stereotypes tell that men wearing ladies' accessories "corrupt" young children. They are not to be trusted with valuables and information too as they are masters of deception. The latter statement came from my mom's beautician, a female hairstylist, who has probably a lot of gay friends of her own.

These doubts were brushed aside when I reminded the Left-leaning members of the family of their socialist agenda. 

How can we achieve labor equality if we can't even give this man a chance.

"Malay natin," I said. "Okay naman siya."

"Who knows" I told myself. "He might lead the way for me to finally leave the confines of my closet."

He was generally met with ambivalence in the first weeks after his arrival. Arielle, as we call him, can cook well, (his vegetable dishes are divine) and ever since he took charge of the laundry, never did my clothes leave a foul smell again.

But the nonchalant attitude didn't last long. The head maid, who calls him "bakla" eventually lost patience. His refusal to finish household chores earned him the ire of my sister. I would describe him as someone who needs to be winded, like a machine, to do his job. For when he does nothing, and receives no tasks, he was out of the house, in the company of other men who are tambays in the neighborhood. 

Twice, I spotted him talking to them and this too I shared with urgency with the matriarch during one of our late night conversations.

The small offenses piled up until it became clear that he is bound to be replaced. My sister, his direct employer dislikes him. The matriarch worries about the kids getting confused of his gender. Soon, instructions were sent to my relatives' helpers to look for a new nanny, a female, who can actually be relied on to look after the kids.

--

The search ends weeks later, and a new maid was found. It was the Favorite Aunt who arranged for her travel. I woke up one afternoon to find her in the kitchen. And I knew, with one glance, that someone has to go.

Just when he had finally stopped talking to the tambays who did nothing but ask favors.

We could have looked for a replacement job for him. A relative who lives a street away has a beauty parlor. There might be a job opening for a new stylist. I could have asked friends too on Facebook and Twitter if they needed a helper. While both ideas were plausible, they didn't convince the women of the house to set forth and initiate the search. They simply wanted him back in the province for reasons of safety. 

Given Arielle's curiosity of urban folks and his mediocre work habits, we cannot guarantee he would be treated well by other employers. 

He simply has to do it on his own.

And so he left a day before my birthday, a week after he helped my mom de-clutter the Master's bedroom, and after receiving a simple "Thank you card" from me. Had he been someone else, someone who would tirelessly work day and night to put the house in order; someone, who would not court trouble by associating with people we naturally distrust; and had he won the Alpha females' favor by becoming one himself, like I did, to prove I am no pushover, he would have stayed, and his wages will directly come from me.

After all, it has been my fantasy to have a flamboyant guy dressed in French maid costume serve my needs. That, of course, belongs to my future.

Only What Is Needed

There is no limit to the spending as Christmas Day approaches. There are still a lot of people in the list - colleagues, neighbors, and helpers, the kindred who needs to be remembered. The shopping rush gets trickier as the Raketship demands attention.

Tradition stays, time has to bend.

It was one of those pleasant discoveries of last year: The Japan Home Center warehouse outlet. Who needs 168 at the bosom of Divisoria, when you can find gift items at P88 pesos at the fringes of Timog Avenue. As the materialist lust takes over, cultural leanings follow. This year, the deep pockets offer nearly limitless choices. Only the habit of diversifying held me from completing the list.

Now you ask, what to find at this thrift store: home items of great variety, fancy dining implements the Japanese use everyday, stateside beauty products - generic in packaging, yet classy by pedestrian standards, and so on. These and other goodies, one can give away without breaking the wallet. Without guilt, I bought them all at a price a quarter of what I spent at the Toy Kingdom sale last week.

But there is the setback. A trick I learned long after the acquisition was secured.

As the local government ordinance mandates stores to replace plastic with paper bags, I was caught unprepared when the bought items were returned. A spending oversight left me with two gigantic recycled pulp bags without handles. The loot had to be carried in such a manner that would limit my movement. And because I left the store at the middle of the rush hour, no cab driver would dare travel the streets of Manila and return sane after enduring the gridlock.

Had I known, never would I resort to hoarding.

I was able to get home through means that no longer matter in this story. What is essential is the lesson: of the fact why the Japanese are always seen carrying paper bags in anime and not with our Polyethylene pouches.

"Acquire what is only needed." The voice of reason comforts. "Or suffer the consequences of greed, like what your unready arms have to bear now."

Kibit Balikat

Perhaps, there is a grain of truth in the saying that when you are swamped with domestic concerns, affairs outside your immediate interests offer little value to draw out an opinion.

Like the National Artist snub done by the President to Nora Aunor after the former thoughtfully weighed the latter's past drug abuses as reasons for not including her name in the roster of artists to receive the prestigious award.

Or the carnival-esque witch hunt and imprisonment of legislators accused of plunder. It doesn't surprise me that even a former Senate President and nonagenarian is now under detention in a police hospital at Camp Crame.   

Or the apparently motivated deaths of neophytes after undergoing initiation rites. Much as you wish to understand the reasons for college Freshmen to join fraternities, there's this strong urge to dismiss their feelings and just accept the cause of their untimely passing.

There are other national concerns argued, analyzed and dissected in online forums like the price of garlic hitting past P300 a kilo at supermarkets, the never-ending Chinese boats incursions in the Spratly's, the unconstitutionality of DAP - and the calls of the Leftist for Pnoy's impeachment, the dreams of a former First Lady for her son to run for President in 2016, and so much more. But after some discernment, (which I thought of writing so that one day, I'd able to look back at the events of the day) you'd learn to keep your thoughts to yourself and spend more time pursuing activities that offer tangible returns:

Like finding ways to make money.

And spending that money for material happiness, which has now breached my everyday consciousness.

The Joy Offensive

Previously on The Infestation

A fortnight ago, I was in the kitchen giving the maid some instructions. The infestation is getting out of hand, and I was on the verge of giving up and just let the pest control service do the costly pest extermination.

"Ate, pag alis ko mamaya, pakilagyan ng padikit yung kuwarto ko." The padikit was the flypaper - that cheap pesticide coated with sticky substance, which we use to catch mice and sometimes even cockroaches.

"Tingnan ko kung meron pa tayo ha?" She sounded unsure if the task can be accomplished. I was certain she will.

The discovery of a mouse poop on my bed had changed my outlook of the problem. Not only are the gnawers assaulting my inner and private space, they've begun to press the fight where it causes the most indignation.

Retaliation is my quick answer, including the complete lockdown of my quarters, which my mom strongly disapproves. In the meantime, I saw to it that whatever creature was responsible for that fecal matter must be caught in a sticky fly trap. At this point, I already knew that no mice can resist the strong appetizing smell of peanut butter. So I told the maid to dab the bait with generous spread of that aromatic cream for efficacy.

We laid the trap and let it stay overnight.

The next morning, a medium-sized mouse - a mother - I presume tried to paddle her foot to show resistance: to tell her captors that she is alive and could still barrel herself to freedom. Unfortunately, half of her entire body already got stuck on the flypaper making all attempts at escaping rather futile. The only way she could be liberated is through means that will hasten her death.

After gleefully showing the maid the mouse our flypaper had caught, I creased the sticky parchment into smaller folds. Dumping it (with the mouse still breathing), not in a garbage bin but in a container half-filled with water made our offensive a cruel act, but a rewarding pursuit.

The result was an overwhelming desire to drive these critters out of the house - by all means necessary. 

The Infestation

Previously on Hoarder


An SMS Message:

Kuya, patawagan na uli yung pest control. Nagwawala yung mga daga. Nginatngat yung cooking oil, toyo at lalagyan ng asin. Puro tae yung lamesa. Pakipalinisan ng Domex yung lamesa.

My mom used to tell the maids not to call these rodents by their household name, lest they get back at us by gnawing our belongings. So we created fancy sobriquets like "kumare" and "bubwit" to make references to these pests. The past months, they used to enjoy foraging around the kitchen with leftovers carelessly dumped at the trashcan with a broken lid. Their numbers multiplied, even with the sheets of flypaper laid on the floor to nip the life out of the pesky critters.   

Measures were taken to drive them from their hiding places. Old clothes and other stuff were given away to make room around their stomping grounds. Food items were stored in hard to reach places, and in storage containers that can withstand the most persistent attempts at breaching. The most serious blow to their unchecked population growth happened two weeks ago, when, in my desire to deny these critters sources of food, I bought a new trashcan with a lid that closes every time trash gets in. I was thrilled at the prospects of driving them away, but if there was something nature wanted to teach us about co-habitation, it is that mammals of the lower order learn to adapt to situations humans have forced them into.

With their five-fingered feet, they have started to scale posts they have never ventured before, and in their desire to call our attention, gnawed at plastic containers housing the condiments we used for cooking.

So begins the internecine war of the kitchen.

Their audacity to carry out lightning raids even when the lights are switched on still baffle me. Just this afternoon, I spotted one of the fat ones scampering across the dining table an hour past lunchtime. A few nights ago, a mousy even tried to force open a sealed plastic with snacks I was supposed to eat. And, if I am not mistaken, the tiny granules I saw in my closet were droppings from these critters. As to how they found their way into the tidiest corner of the house, which is my room, is a deliberate taunting. After all, it was me who sparked this insurgency when the mice suddenly found their breadbasket replaced.

It was a full scale retaliation, where an overnight solution may not work. Rat poison is out of the question as there are children who might mistake the pellets for cereal bits. A steady and strategic placements of fly papers could be used to catch some of them, but I was told they no longer work as the gnawers learned not to step foot on these sticky pesticides. The long term solution, which I believe will be rejected by the matriarch and my sister is the distribution of personal effects we no longer needed.

Or maybe, adopting stray cats to let them do the hunting.

These alone, will turn the tide in our favor. Unfortunately, only the maids - and pest control inspectors would support such proposals.

The Artwork

Previously on Phobos and Deimos

"Hi Ai," 

I began tapping the keys of my laptop to send a message on Facebook. It was for my college buddy's wife. 

"Pakitanong naman kay Darrell kung naging prof namin si Galan nung third year college kami."

A few minutes later, she sent a reply from her husband telling me that Ralph Galan was indeed a teacher in one of our subjects that year.

Solving the question with my buddy's assistance was a relief. After all, the inquiry stems from the utter lack of memory of the teacher, save for an oil pastel drawing I did for his Humanities class. 

The topic came up because I took out the paperboard from my wardrobe. It was pinned there for decoration. Its colors have faded, and the exposure of its surface to the elements made it look old and worn out.

Someone might even suggest that I should throw it away.

But with extra cash comes the chance to breathe new life into the oil drawing - to keep it preserved for the years to come. With the Gundam Pilot as my companion, I followed my mother's suggestion and brought the trinket at Central Market. There, an artisan wanted to frame the board in plastic, but I refused her offer. 

I told her to frame it in wood. 

"Mahal na po magpa-frame ngayon sa kahoy." She said. Her caution fell on deaf ears.

"Magkano ba?"

"500 po para sa wooden frame at glass."

"Kasama na ang labor?" I asked. Still, I was ready to go. I would indulge my sentimentality and spend for posterity.  

She nodded.

To this day, I only have vague thoughts of the floral drawing, of its creation and even the grade I was given for that piece of work. What urged me to put it in a wooden frame - aside from having those seasonal Brini Maxwell episodes, is that for all the written works under my name,

I've got only a single oil pastel portrait to call my own.

.    

Wardrobe Upgrade: First Wave

Previously: The Wardrobe Crisis

News about the Markdown Madness Sale had reached me only a day before the event marks its end. The venue was at the Tektite Towers in Ortigas, and even if I was down with a flu on the morning of the last day of the sale, I forced myself out of the house and into the sun-scorched streets of the city just to get there and have my loot.

The brand names of the items on sale are of no importance, if one searches for great finds. No Fear, Keds, Sketchers - just to name of few - pooled their import overruns to make this bargain insanity possible. But then, what are these when compared with the likes of Nike, Onizuka Tiger, or even Cotton On? Someone who is into signature brands would pass up the bargain. Especially, if they got lots to wear, or they climb the social ladder by showing off their expensive tastes.

For me, it is the style and fit that matter. Sophistication must be drawn from within, with creativity and refusal to embrace the trend as solid merits. Brands are there for distinction. They belong to those who follow the whims of the fashion tyrants.

Given that I've got very few articles of clothing to wear, the Sale came at a most opportune time. I may not have the funds for it but using the credit card, (and some secret stash of cash hidden somewhere for emergencies like this) I was able to mount a spending offensive to add new clothes into my closet.

At a quarter of their original price. 

No Fear Jeans - 450.00 Php

No Fear Plaid Shorts - 300 Php

Creative Recreations - 1,200 Php

The Wardrobe Crisis

The last time I made a wardrobe inventory, my dresser counts two walking shorts, three denims, two slacks dating back from college, and a pair of khaki pants that reminds me of how fat I once was. One of the baggy pants I wear features a torn slit running below the fly, and the older of the walking shorts has a missing button that is also its lock. It would require me to tighten my belt just so it won't slide down my waist.

These articles of clothing are all hand-me-downs. Except for the plaid shorts I bought last December, and the pair of black pants that for some reasons, still fit perfectly despite being in my possession for more than a decade. A pity sight, given the resources at my disposal. A Fashionista who earns less, and who buys clothes from an Ukay-ukay shop may have a wardrobe collection far more respectable than mine.

The problem lies, not with the absence of cash. I can spend a fortune for loved ones or hobbies - like video games and herbal plants - but for reasons of habit, parting money for clothing has always been a difficult undertaking. Maybe because I haven't gotten over the fact that it used to be my mother who makes garments acquisition on my behalf. I remember, when she used to spend for me and not for her grandchildren, the matriarch would go to Central Market in Dimasalang and buy clothes I barely needed.

Now anymore.

Pride may get in the way, but the message is becoming clearer. Like last Christmas, when I made a subtle plea for relatives to gift me pants instead of shirts. Still I received tops as presents. Even the Favorite Aunt didn't get the subtext. A major closet overhaul was my next move, but it was for naught. I was able to acquire walking shorts at a discount, but thinking the prices would drop before summer, I stalled and waited for malls to announce a sale. By the time the announcement came, I had set my sights on spending my money for other needs.

And the trousers shortage went unnoticed.

Until a corduroy walking shorts was torn to shreds when I was forced to wear it for my weightlifting activity. I forgot to put in my bag the gym gear I left on my bed.

Its destruction serves as a wake-up call for me to revive my plans for a wardrobe upgrade. After all, not only did I lose a piece of history (the corduroy was a Christmas gift from an ex). More importantly, the walking shorts was something I wore every week.

It used to be a favorite.

The other pants are already showing signs of wear and tear. It's just a matter of time before a ripping sound leaves a gaping slit running across the fabric. Much as I would like to stall buying new clothes for replacement once again, the horror of going through another wardrobe malfunction justifies the need to face the crisis squarely and go on a splurge.

Before I wake up with nothing left, but the jerseys to wear.