by Pam Pastor
regards to your mom and dad and that super nice hubby of yours,
tita charito
I don’t know how long it would have taken if she capitalized some of her letters and used proper spacing.
While Lola Charit tried to recover from her first email experience, I decided to introduce her to the wonders of Google.
“You can find anything you want using Google. Absolutely anything.”
She looked at me with skepticism. “Ows?”
“Yup. What do you want to search for?”
“Bed bugs,” she said, without missing a beat.
I was a little disturbed. I just gave my grandma the key to the entire universe and her first choice is to find disgusting little critters?
“Bed bugs? Really?” I asked her.
“Why not? I’ve always wanted to see what they look like.”
So I let her see them, resisting the urge to shudder. Suddenly, I felt like taking a long shower.
Lola Charit’s Internet tutorial was not a success. She has decided instead to turn me into her own personal Google, texting me whenever she needs to find something.
“Can you look up accord powder?”
“Can you check where I can buy bacalao?”
She also asked me to look for a college friend she lost touch with. They were classmates in UP, she said, but her friend moved to the States and just stopped replying to her letters.
I gave her the sad news that her friend passed away in 1996. I found her death certificate online.
She called Lola Lourdes, her college best friend, to tell her. “She’s gone.”
Then, speaking with pride, as if I was a spy who just pulled off a CIA-type mission, she said, “Ewan ko ba dito kay Pamela, ang bilis. Hinanap lang sa phone niya tapos nakita niya. Ewan ko paano niya ginawa.”
Later, she asked me, “’Yung Internet na nakikita mo, ’yun din ’yung Internet na nakikita ng ibang tao?”
Lola Lydia’s foray into the online world has been a lot more successful.
Tito Jojo gave her an iPad one Christmas and soon, she was on Facebook. Correction. Soon, she was all over Facebook.
Lola Lyd is an incredibly spiritual person, which shouldn’t be a surprise because her husband, Lolo Bojie, is a church pastor (this gets confusing for people but no, my grandpa who is a pastor isn’t the one who has the surname Pastor).
The first time a boy went to our house to pick me up for a date, I walked out of my room to see him sitting on our couch, reading the Bible. Lola Lyd had given it to him.
When my college friends visited to surprise me on my birthday, I ran to my room to grab a few CDs so we could listen to music. When I returned, they were standing in a prayer circle, eyes closed and hands raised to the heavens.
When I was thirteen, Lola Lyd and I were on the same Manila to Singapore flight as the band Southern Sons.
“Lola! The band I just saw on TV is here!” I whispered to her.
After we landed, when she saw that the men of Southern Sons were standing right next to us in the tram, she said to them, “My granddaughter would like your autographs.”
They were nice, really nice. They signed my notebook.
When they were done, Lola turned to them again and said, “Did you know that Jesus Christ is your Lord and Savior?”
She evangelized all the way to the airport terminal. I thought I was going to faint.
These days, my grandma continues to spread the Gospel through her Facebook comments. My friends have started to look forward to her replies to my posts. I cannot count the number of times people have asked, “What does ‘covered in the blood of Jesus’ mean? I keep reading it on Facebook.”
When I posted a photo from inside a car in Boston, she wrote: “Drive? What do u mean? Are you driving na? Good aral ka drive dyan. The Spirit of the Lord go before you to make your way easy and successful in the Name of JESUS!”
When I posted a photo of a bottle of nail polish in my palm, she replied: “Pam you are engraved in the palm of the Lord Jesus! Blessed are the works of your hands! Always ask the Lord for wisdom for He said ‘ask for wisdom and I Will Give It to you Generously!’ James 1:5”
I made the mistake of sleeping under a coconut tree at noon in Calaguas and got horribly sunburned. It was so bad that I looked like Freddy Krueger. I posted a photo and Lola posted this comment: “Psalm 121:5 ‘The Lord watches over u—the Lord is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.’ You are blessed no evil shall befall you in the name of Jesus!”
When I posted a wedding group shot, she wrote: “Ganda! Apo ko yan! Pam payat ka?”
I wrote back: “Lola you’re too funny! And no, di pa rin payat, hahaha!”
She answered: “PAYAT na even by Faith! You can have what u say! Psalm 37:4 ‘Take delight in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart! AMEN AMEN!’”
Amen.
March 21, 2015
Love-Your-Brother Week
I swear, my intentions were pure.
Maybe it was because he had just celebrated his birthday. Maybe I was bored. But one day, I thought, “Wouldn’t it be nice if I dug up old photos of my brother and posted them on Facebook and wrote nice things about him?”
That’s how Love-Your-Brother Week started.
I thought it was sweet. My brother thought it was an act of terrorism.
On day one of Love-Your-Brother Week, I posted a photo of Powie wearing a Cyclops costume. He had a yellow mask on, his legs were wide apart, his feet planted firmly on his bed and his hands were clenched, as if ready for battle.
It wasn’t a great Cyclops costume, I will admit. It looked nothing like the ones James Marsden wore in the X-Men films. Powie’s baby blue and yellow Cyclops costume looked more like an ill-fitting PE uniform. He seemed to like it though, he was smiling brightly in the picture. On the wall behind him were Batman posters and decals.
I added this very appropriate caption: “My Love-Your-Brother Week starts now. And I love my brother because he is a superhero.”
Then I tagged Powie.
An officemate posted a comment: “He sooo loves Batman and what character is this?”
“Lame Cyclops,” I replied.
Another friend posted, “Wow Powie … X-Men pala ha.”
Powie seemed unperturbed by his Cyclops cameo. He posted, “Um, ganun mo ako kamahal? Hindi enough ang Love Your Brother Day? So 1 down, 6 to go? Sige okay lang…”
But in a span of several hours, he progressed from nonchalant to threatening (“May mga litrato mo ako na mas embarrassing pa …”) to beseeching (“Pam, maawa ka.”).
On day two, I posted another picture, sending Powie the message, “It’s up!”
“It’s up, and I’m going down,” he replied.
The second picture was a lot cuter than the first. A younger, chubbier, serious-looking Powie was wearing a fake fifteenth-century helmet and in his arms was a plastic machine gun that he was pointing at the camera.
“I love my brother because he’s tough,” I wrote.
When my friend Ruth urged him to post my clown picture in retaliation, Powie responded, “Ruth, may nagawa ba ako kay Pam na ’di ko alam? ’Di ko alam san galing ’tong pinaggagagawa niya eh …”
To me, he wrote, “Kung ano man ’yun, sorry na. Peace, sis, please?”
More friends joined the conversation, freaking him out.
“Pamela, bakit meron akong mga friends dito na hindi mo naman kaibigan sa FB na nakikita ’to? Naka-public ba ’to?”
“Bigla kong namimiss ’yung panahon na lagi tayo nag-aaaway at nag-iiwasan tayo. Kasi ngayon kahit magkahiwalay tayo ng bahay nagagawa mo pa rin akong bwisitin na parang katabi lang kita eh!”
I had to respond to that. “Kelan tayo nag-aaway!? ’Di ko na maalala, those days seem so far away …”
Powie tried turning tables. “Hmmm. Ikaw ba ang may nagawa sa akin na hindi ko alam kaya nagiging obvious na bolera ka? Napaisip ako bigla dun ah … Nawala
mo na naman ba yung Cross pen ko?”
His comments kept coming.
Powie: “I still don’t know what you’re up to, pero alam kong may something. Hmmm.”
Pam: “:D Remember my evil smile? This is it.”
Powie: “Kasabay ng gleeful rubbing of your hands na kahit gleeful, disturbing pa rin ang image? Pakshet eto na nga!”
On day three, I gave him a break. Because I am a kind and loving sister, I posted a photo of us in clown costumes. We even had clown makeup on our faces. “I love my brother because he’s a clown. I love laughing my head off with him.”
Powie seemed to like having me in the picture with him. He did not protest at all and seemed to relish how sinister we looked as child clowns. “Tingnan mo naman ang itsura natin dito. These are not funny clowns!”
He even tagged El, our cousin who has clown phobia.
It wasn’t Powie but my mother who freaked out on day three. “Pamela, where are you getting all these photos?????!!!!!!??????”
She’s always worried that I’m stealing photos from her precious albums.
Day four is my favorite. “I love my brother because he can rock red shoes. P.S. He’s wearing an outfit I’d totally wear now.”
In the picture, a joyful-looking Powie, probably around three years old, was wearing an oversized striped shirt (so oversized it was practically off-shoulder), a rainbow belt and the cutest red loafers.
People say we look so alike in this photo that some of them refuse to believe that it isn’t my picture.
“’Di ako ’yan,” Powie insisted.
On day five, I posted another picture of us. “I love my brother because we have the same hair. Incredibly thick, has a mind of its own and often makes us look like monsters from Super Mario World.”
He didn’t look like a Mario monster in the photo, his hair was so massive that he looked like Toad.
Five days in, Powie continued to question my motive. “Either may nagawa ka o may kailangan ka…”
Day 6: “I love my brother because … how can you not love this face?”
I posted a closeup of two-year-old Powie staring into the camera with an adorable little pout and Puss-In-Boots eyes.
He did not reply but my mother did. “Why does my son look like a duck here???”
On the last day of Love-Your-Brother Week, I posted a photo of us with our arms around each other. I’m smiling, showing that I was missing my two front teeth. Powie was grimacing.
Powie replied, “Tingnan mo ’yung expression ng mukha ko. Discomfort o disgust?”
I wrote, “I love my brother because we’ve been through all kinds of crap and one thing remains constant—we’ll always be allies.”
Powie was relieved but I was sad that Love-Your-Brother Week had come to an end. And I wasn’t the only one. Powie’s friend Gudo tried to convince me to extend and make it Love-Your-Brother Month.
Powie did not like that idea at all.
February 19, 2012
Pong Pagong is a career killer
I am totally convinced that if YouTube had existed in the eighties, my mother would have put up a channel and uploaded video after video of me singing Whitney Houston songs before I even knew what they were about. (Seriously, mom, I was eight or nine and you were making me sing “Saving All My Love for You,” a song I later realized was about being a mistress.)
But we didn’t have YouTube in the eighties. Instead, my mother had minus one tapes that she would carry around in her bag, ready to be whipped out at any party for me to sing along to.
“Kakanta siya,” she would tell anyone willing to listen, and she would prod me and widen her eyes at me until I got up reluctantly to sing.
It was also because of my mother that I found myself singing at weddings of relatives and her friends. My uncle’s bride walked down the aisle while I sang “Ngayon at Kailanman.” At their reception, I sang Whitney’s “I Believe in You and Me.” At my mom’s friend’s wedding, I sang “How Do I Live” and “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” It took me years to realize how inappropriate that second song choice was. In my defense, I didn’t pick it, it was the bride who wanted me to sing it.
Before my years as a wedding singer, I failed at my one real shot at stardom.
And no, it wasn’t the Neozep commercial that never pushed through because, according to my mother, “a coup d’etat happened.”
I was five, and I had been asked to join the children’s show Batibot. I was so excited. I loved Batibot, I watched it all the time. I was going to meet Ate Sienna! And Kuya Bodjie!
We had rehearsals where we were asked to march in a circle, chanting “Hala bira!” I did it awkwardly, wondering where Ate Sienna and Kuya Bodjie were the whole time.
When they were happy with our rehearsals, they led us to the studio where we would shoot the scene. They switched the flood lights on and I saw a hulking figure in front of me. It was Pong Pagong. I started screaming in terror.
The creature in front of me wasn’t the funny pink guy I enjoyed watching on TV. He was enormous, with a massive shell and big crazy eyes. I was so scared that I couldn’t stop crying. My mother carried me and rushed me out of the studio while I continued to bawl my head off. We headed home and said goodbye to any illusions of stardom.
Months later, Pong Pagong the career killer showed up at my kindergarten. I was no longer scared, I even posed for a photograph with him.
I bore no grudge. I can only blame myself. I could have been a child star but I was terrified of a giant turtle wearing a sideways cap.
March 30, 2015
Between
deadlines
Melanie Maraquez and the Book of Mormon
In the middle of a busy week in 2006, my editor asked me to interview the head of a relief society.
Sure, I said. No problem. An article about a charitable organization? I can do that with one hand tied behind my back. Maybe even with my eyes closed.
In my world, last-minute assignments aren’t unusual. Sometimes they’re a breeze, sometimes they feel like I’m being thrown into a pit of snakes.
I was sure this one was going to be easy. In fact, I knew exactly how it would go: I’d ask the lady about her organization, get her to talk about their projects, transcribe the interview, and finish the piece in record time so I could focus on my other deadlines.
But I was wrong.
I was given the name of the contact person: Melanie Maraquez.
That’s funny, I thought. If you omit that extra “a,” she’d have the same name as the grammatically challenged former model and beauty queen.
Melanie and I exchanged a few texts, confirming the schedule. She’d meet me at the lobby of the hotel, she said, and she would escort me to the interview room.
The next day, as the taxi was pulling up in front of the hotel, my phone started ringing. It was Melanie and her extra “a.”
“Miss Pam, where are you na?”
Holy crap. She sounded exactly like Melanie Marquez.
There was no time to process that information. Because by the time our phone call ended, I was walking into the hotel lobby and there she was, waiting for me.
Melanie Marquez. Model, beauty queen, butt of grammar jokes, no extra “a.”
Melanie walked me to the interview room where more people were waiting. Introductions were made and someone mentioned the words “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Wait a minute. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints? Mormons? For the second time in ten minutes, my brain threatened to explode.
I soon realized that I wasn’t there to interview the leader of a relief society. The American woman in front of me was the president of the Relief Society, the organization of Mormon women that has around 6 million members in the world.
Jesus Christ.
I started to panic. Because when it came to the Church of the Latter-day Saints, I was as knowledgeable as a caveman in outer space. My brain scrambled for information on Mormons.
And then I panicked even more. Because everything I knew about the Mormon church came from only two sources: South Park and Dooce.com, the blog of Heather Armstrong, a woman who was raised as a Mormon and who got in trouble with her family when she made fun of her religion on her website.
I was screwed.
I tried to get Eric Cartman’s voice out of my head as we proceeded with the interview. Surprisingly, it went quite well.
The president of the Relief Society was a gracious interviewee. I learned a lot about their faith, their organization, and I learned never to go to an interview unarmed with research, no matter how easy I think the subject is.
For weeks after that, Mormon missionaries kept dropping by my house. But I was never around.
I was always out doing other interviews, interviews I really prepared for, so no other former beauty queens with extra vowels can spring a surprise on me and make me panic like Melanie Marquez did.
February 26, 2012
The Hungry Club
We traveled to Tagaytay in a big bus, a group of lifestyle journalists and beauty editors off for a weekend of wellness.
We arrived at the fancy lodge to find that its floor had been strewn with rose petals for us to walk on. We were sent off to our rooms so we could freshen up. “We have prepared outfits for you,” we were told.
I walked into the beautiful room and stared longingly at the pillow-covered bay window seat and the hot tub. They will have to wait. On the bed were two garments—sarong pants and what looked like a big headband, only slightly wider than the ones Donna Cruz wore in the nineties.
I picked it up, stretching it, before realizing what it really was: a tube top. And they expected me to wear it. I was mortified.
I picked up the hotel phone and called the publicist in her room. “Um, the tube top won’t fit me.”
