Planet Panic
Page 1
Planet Panic
Notes
from the
Queen of Procrastination
Notes
from the
Queen of Procrastination
Pam
Pastor
Planet Panic: Notes from the Queen of Procrastination
by Pam Pastor
Copyright to this digital edition © 2015 by Pam Pastor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any
form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior
written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles and reviews.
Published and exclusively distributed by
ANVIL PUBLISHING, INC.
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1550 Philippines
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www.anvilpublishing.com
Cover design by Michelle Garcia
Cover calligraphy by Fozzy Castro-Dayrit
Book design by Ani V. Habúlan
ISBN 9789712732041 (e-book)
Version 1.0.1
For Powie,
the Chandler to my Joey.
For Jill, still.
And for Tyrion,
who will never read this.
Contents
IT RUNS IN THE BLOOD
Baby takes a bath
Facebook is not father-friendly
Remember when I said you were adopted? That was a lie.
The Great Troll Inferno
My father, the Hulk
She grooms like she’s espasol
My favorite hobby is annoying my brother
My grandmas put the LOL in “lola”
Love-Your-Brother Week
Pong Pagong is a career killer
BETWEEN DEADLINES
Melanie Maraquez and the Book of Mormon
The Hungry Club
Waiting for Gaga
Things you learn when you and your grandma eat twelve cronuts in two days
Stress test, part one
Stress test, part two
My life as a Paris correspondent
Queen of Procrastination, part one
Queen of Procrastination, part two
This isn’t really about shorts
The woman who hated everything
HOSPITALS AND HEARTBREAK
Lessons
Room 741
Fuck you, tumor
Dear Amy
Laughing at a bunny funeral
Shrapnel
Diary of a dengue kid
CARBS AND CALORIES
Donuts
Vocabulary lessons from Potato Corner
How to make Garlic Parmesan Chicken Wings
Chasing cronuts
Breadsticks
This is a love letter to Katz’s Deli
Not everyone deserves fried chicken
I ate my way through Brooklyn Flea
Winning the bill tug-of-war
Operation Pork Buns
How to recover from a disturbing nightmare in four easy steps
STRANGE TALES
The White Lady of Balete Drive
The Tabo Chronicles
Manang Rose won the Spelling Bee
Hoarder
How I started my career as a doll killer
Mirror monster
Fake money
Wrong number, part one
Wrong number, part two
Gone (terrarium) girl
World’s Most Delinquent Bridesmaid (and Oldest Flower Girl)
FANGIRLING
Confessions of a New Kids On The Block stalker
Friday with Gillian Flynn
Crashing the Red Carpet
Surviving Bear Grylls
Ruth Reichl and the Random House open house
Mad about Moonpools
FASTEN YOUR SEATBELT
Flights and funny smells
Bonamine is my best friend
A tale of two Pulags
Terrified in Toronto
Easter eggs and cheeseburgers
The jumper
Ramen for foreplay
The potential kidnapper had the face of Natasha Richardson and the bob of Anna Wintour
Google Maps can be a real jerk
Packers
Is this a visa center or is this heaven?
A dollar a day
Still chasing Amy
Will Thacker’s door
Roald Dahl, Champion of the World
Belgo, the bar that could turn me alcoholic
Detour
Postcards from New Orleans
Notes from an accidental translator
ANVIL Plus
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
It runs
in the
blood
Baby takes a bath
My grandpa calls me “Baby” even though I am now thirty years old. I don’t mind; I actually like it, and I know that no matter how old I get, I will always be a baby in my grandparents’ eyes.
This is a lesson I first learned in Hong Kong when my grandma decided to give me a bath when I was fifteen years old. Yes, fifteen.
We used to take big family vacations in Hong Kong with usually more than fifteen of us running around Tsim Sha Tsui, Central and Mongkok.
We’d squeeze into hotel rooms, head out to the malls and amusement parks and eat roast duck and roast pork before crashing in our rooms.
On one of these trips, I roomed with my grandparents, brother and cousin. Some time between a visit to Ocean Park and yet another Wellcome stop, I walked into the hotel bathroom for a shower and, to my surprise, my grandma followed me.
I was a high school junior. I was growing hair in places that never had hair before, my chest was somewhere between “Cute, you need a training bra” and “YOWZA!” but my grandma still wanted to give me a bath. And she did.
And when I say my grandma gave me a bath, I mean we soaped and rinsed, and we thanked God for all my body parts as we scrubbed.
“Thank you Lord for my hair, my face. Thank you Lord for my healthy arms and my healthy breasts …”
I could have said no, you’re probably thinking. I should have said no. That only means that you haven’t met my grandma.
I’m willing to bet that if it had been you and my grandma in that hotel bathroom, it wouldn’t have mattered if you were fifteen or fifty-one, growing hair in places that never had hair before and that your chest was somewhere between “Cute, you need a training bra” and “YOWZA!”—you would have soaped and rinsed and scrubbed and thanked God for your healthy body parts.
January 2, 2011
Facebook is not father-friendly
My father works outside of Manila, and I rarely get to see him. In an attempt to connect with him more, I kept telling him to create a Facebook account.
It took months of badgering before he finally did.
When I clicked on his name, my jaw dropped. My father can construct houses and buildings but he has no idea how to use Facebook.
His status read: “chat with pam pastor”
And he replied to his own status with, “hello, are you there?”
Another status read: “chat with patrick”
And he replied to that with: “hello? patrick?”
It wasn’t clear if he thought the status bar was a search bar or a genie that would grant his Internet wishes.
I scrolled down a little more to look at his older posts and was horrified to discover that I wasn’t the first person my father looked for on Facebook.
Sorry, dear daughter, that honor goes to Anne Curtis. Let me be specific: that honor goes to a scantily clad, wardrobe-malfunctioning Anne Curtis.
But Facebook isn’t a fairy godmother that would make your noontime show nip-slip dreams come true if you don’t know how to work it.
I tried to explain to my father that his Facebook wall was to be used for posting his status and not for chatting and looking for celebrity scandals.
He said: “Ano’ng wall?”
My father quit Facebook soon after. I can’t say I’m surprised.
August 14, 2010
Remember when I said you were adopted? That was a lie.
Once upon a time, when we still had that house in Manila, my brother and I went to Quiapo.
We rode the jeep, got off in front of the church and hit building after building.
We emerged after a while and, while standing in front of a fishball vendor, we realized in horror that we only had about six pesos left in our collective pockets.
We had a tough choice to make.
Fishballs or the jeepney ride home?
Naturally, the fishballs won.
It was the right choice—after all, if we picked the jeepney ride, one of us would ride and the other would have to walk home.
After stuffing our faces with street food, we cabbed it. We had a brilliant plan—we’d just pay the driver when we got home.
On our way home, our broke asses spotted a rainbow. We got a huge kick out of that.
This story is just one of the many reasons I wouldn’t sell my brother on eBay.
March 14, 2010
The Great Troll Inferno
I don’t know how it started but when I was in sixth grade, I developed a big obsession with trolls.
Russ trolls, if you were to be specific about it, the kind that you can buy from Gift Gate.
I saved up for them and, when asked what gifts I wanted during birthdays and other special occasions, they were always my answer: trolls. Okay, trolls and books. Soon I had amassed a pretty impressive collection—over thirty of them. I had trolls in different sizes, costumes and levels of nakedness, big plush dolls, rings, earrings, pencil toppers and pins.
I loved those trolls deeply.
And I wasn’t the only one. In sixth grade, because I sucked at crochet, I paid a friend with trolls to finish my projects for me. If it was a small project, she got a small troll. If it was a big project, she got a big troll.
Yes, Russ trolls were a currency for my generation.
I loved those trolls so much that I made sure they surrounded me when I slept. It was like I was a murder victim, and they were my chalk outline. Every night, there was a circle of trolls on my bed, with me happily snoozing in the middle. My cozy sleeping arrangement with my trolls didn’t sit well with my grandma, the same one who used to pray for my virginity back when she was sure it was still in my possession.
Trolls were evil, she believed, and must not be allowed in our house. She felt the same way about Beetle Juice.
One day, my grandma decided to take action. She grabbed all my trolls, dumped them into a metal drum and set them on fire while I bawled.
It was a very lonely night for me without my trolls.
I never let go of my love for Russ trolls. Just some years back, when I found a couple of them in a store in Ho Chi Minh, I snatched them up.
My friend Nida also sent me her magic wizard troll when she found out about all those trolls I lost.
The troll-burning was extreme but it wasn’t enough to chase the evil away. Because when I grew up, I ended up dating my fair share of trolls, a collection that sadly my grandma couldn’t stuff into a drum and burn.
January 2, 2011
My father, the Hulk
When I was a kid, my parents had to watch my bedtime closely because, if I could get away with it, I would spend the entire night reading. I always had a bunch of books under my pillow and I’d plow through them while my parents snoozed away on their bed. One night, determined to make me sleep early, my parents sent me to the wash area in one corner of their room to brush my teeth. Maybe thirty minutes later, my father got up to check on me because I was taking so long. He found me, standing over the sink, toothbrush in one hand and book in the other, reading while lazily brushing my teeth.
He was so furious he punched the wall. And then he howled in pain.
I was terrified then but I find it hilarious now. And also kind of sweet. Because he punched the wall instead of hitting me. And really, really stupid. Because he punched the wall instead of hitting me.
This is my favorite story about my crazy father, Charles Bronson’s twin, who fathered two and a half children, who looks like The Incredible Hulk even when he’s not angry, who always makes me laugh and who once punched a wall because his daughter wouldn’t stop reading.
June 15, 2014
She grooms like she’s espasol
Entering the bathroom after my mother’s been in the shower is like going to Pampanga after Mt. Pinatubo erupted. She calls it powdering herself; I call it major ash fall. I almost choked. Death by baby powder.
June 23, 2009
My favorite hobby is annoying my brother
Powie often asks me to help him when he’s buying birthday or Christmas presents. This year, I told him to get MAC lipstick for our mother.
When he was done shopping, he sent me a triumphant message on Facebook.
Powie: binili ko kay mama mac twig
Pam: yuuuuck
Powie: Huh!??? Yun kaya sinabi mo! Ano ba??
Pam: sabi ko twix
Pam: mac twix
Powie: Seryoso ba yan??? Fucking A!!!
Pam: hahahaha kidding
Powie: Haaaay naaaaakooooo!
But I’m not the only prankster in the family.
We had dinner at Hole in the Wall for my mom’s birthday and when we were done eating, Powie gave her his gift. It was crudely wrapped in a Mercury Drug plastic bag and on it, he had written, in hastily scribbled red letters:
“happy birthday ina ko!”
At first she was afraid to touch it but eventually, she picked up the gift and carefully opened it, saying, “Ano kaya ’to?”
She smiled, trying to be appreciative, and lifted the bottle for everyone to see. It was feminine wash.
Powie and I started laughing.
“It’s a joke,” he said, handing her the real present which was inside a Rustan’s bag. On the card he had written, “Ma, Tulad ng peke kong regalo, minsan huwag nating masyadong seryosohin ang buhay. Mahal kita! From, Ang anak mong mas masakit sa ulo.”
His real gift was sweet but his fake gift got more attention.
“Saan mo nakuha ’to?” my mom asked, holding the bottle of feminine wash again.
“Kinuha ko lang sa banyo …” he said.
Before he could finish his sentence, Tita Arlene said, “Huy! Akin ’yan ah!”
We couldn’t stop laughing.
Sometimes, my brother gets to be the prankster but most of the time, I’m the one trying to annoy him. It’s a lot of fun.
One day, I was trying to call him but he wouldn’t pick up.
The following text exchange happened.
Powie: Nasa class ako. Why
Pam: Wtf what class
Powie: Training
Pam: Training for what? Being a nice brother?
Powie: Training for life at sea
Pam: Lesson 1. What to do when you see a mermaid
Pam: Lesson 2. What to do when the mermaid thinks you’re Sebastian
Pam: Lesson 3. How to find Nemo
Powie: Hahaha leche!
A few days later, he sent me a message on Facebook.
Powie: Sis, may kilala kang nagcocustomize ng cake?
Pam: Meron. Si Goldilocks
Pam: Gusto mo number nya?
And finally, a text exchange that led someone on Facebook to call me the Queen of Trolling.
Powie: Ano contact number?
Pa
m: 1
Powie: Anong 1???
Pam: 7
Powie: 0917?
Pam: 5
Powie: Dali na sis :-(
Pam: 4
Powie: 091754
Pam: 22
Powie: 09175422???
Pam: 67763266788999321467
Powie: Oh my god! Serious mode muna kasi kelangan asikasuhin yung party eh :-(
Pam: 9111111
I gave him the real number after that.
I love him, he’s one of my favorite people in the world, but I will never get tired of annoying my brother, even when I turn ninety-seven years old.
June 29, 2015
My grandmas put the LOL in “lola”
Lola Charit writes the most beautiful letters. She still exchanges snail mail with her niece Marie who lives in Seattle, often waiting weeks for a reply.
Tita Marie and I email all the time. I never have to wait a week for her reply. I figured it was time to teach Lola how to email.
We had a nice lunch out and after, I whipped out my laptop to start our lesson. I had high hopes. Lola Charit spent a huge chunk of my childhood clattering away on her typewriter. She’s a really fast typer. And she’s an excellent texter too. This should be a breeze.
Lola stared at my MacBook. “’Yung keyboard ba niyan kapareho ng typewriter?”
“Yup,” I replied.
“Eh paano ’pag nagkamali ako?”
My hopes were dashed when Lola started typing. She didn’t really type. She searched for each letter carefully, as if picking stones from rice.
It took her forty minutes to type this:
hi,marie
guess where I am? am sure you’d never guess… we’d just had a late late,late lunch pam and I. i sure am glad to hear from you,i thought you never got my ten page letter.i am having a hell of a time with this whatever you call it,maybe i do belong to the jurassic age! pam just asked me my age, marie,can you imagine i am now 82, i really am jurassic! pam will have to go on with this piece otherwise i might go nuts! I prefer using my pen and ink.