They keep each other amused

My grandmother sent me a text message, telling me about an aunt's friend's itinerary. That he's coming to Manila tonight, though leaving for Cebu early tomorrow morning, then back to Manila on the 17th. My lola adds that he's an eighteen-year-old American.

I can practically see her picking out china patterns and flower arrangements. That, and the more obvious, "Get your skinny butt down here and flirt, for heaven's sake. Didn't I and my bevy of four daughters teach you anything?"

I can just imagine me reading Murakami under the covers, while an overly loud discussion of Mr. Chase Person's finer attributes goes on all over the Belen house.

Okay, okay, okay. So my lola isn't the malevolently giddy matchmaker I've attempted to make her out to be here. She's a sweet lady, a former beauty queen (hehe), with a hankering for mah jong and 5-peso bottles of Coke. My mind's just frolicking in La-La Land, as usual.

But this isn't the only time this has happened -- both my grandmother's behavior and my mind hauled off to La-La Land. A couple of years ago, on her trip back from the States, she took out a thick photo album and pointed to some blurry pictures of a blond boy bent over a newspaper. Resisting the urge to say, "Bigfoot is blurry!" or some other inanity, I asked who Blurry Blond Boy was.

"That's (I forget his name now)."

I nodded what I hope was an interested nod.

"Mabait na bata. Magalang pa 'yan. And really helpful," my lola went on.

"Hmmm."

"I showed him a picture of you."

At this point, my eyes had popped out of my skull. The only recent picture I'd sent her was my high school grad pic. Iridescent blue toga, red-red lipstick the make-up artist sloshed on me, and a fake bookshelf for a background.

And then my lola handed me a blue comforter and some striped bedsheets. And then she said: "Siya naglaba niyan!"

Hm. At the time, I thought it was cute, if not odd. Now, I'm leaning more toward the odd factor.

(Oddly enough, tonight I'm on my bed, covered with the striped bedsheet some guy whose name I can't remember laundered some years ago.)

All this, of course, gets me thinking: Why is it that in family gatherings, the first question ever asked about me (right before asking what the hell Creative Writing is) is whether I have a boyfriend or not? Or the more presumptuous, Balita ko may boyfriend ka na daw, ha from aunts and uncles and the occasional second cousin (who's seven going on forty).

My token answer is, "Wala po," while edging not-so-surreptitiously towards the nearest exit. Whether I lie or, in most cases, tell the gospel truth, all of them never believe me. Jeesh.

"May boyfriend ka na daw."

"Wala po."

"Sus."

Gah.

On my eighteenth birthday, the usual questions came by the bucket. By the seventy-eighth question, which was asked by my tipsy father, I pointed to Sarj, who was sitting beside me (gazing at her San Mig Light with what looked like horror, no doubt caused by the witnessing of my dysfunctional family) and said: "Dy, girlfriend ko po, si April."

True to form, my father never missed a beat. "Pareho pala tayo ng type, anak."

At which point April slugged her beer, and I tried to steer my father away from doing The Spanish Inquisition Act on the few men I've invited.

And then, fairly recently, my mother asked me, as I bought mouthwatering open-toe high heels, "Bakit? May boyfriend ka na ba?" Maybe because I mentioned I could use the shoes to stomp on a few choice pair of balls.

After a split-second decision, I decided to go for the different track. And so I said, "Yes."

Guess who just shrugged and went off to another display rack? I don't know what's kookier: me getting harassed with questions I can never answer correctly, or not being believed when I give them the answer they want. Kahit magsabi ng totoo, o magsinungaling, or make up a whopper that Sarj is my long-time girl-lover and muse extraordinaire, no one freaking believes me. There's an insult in that disbelief somewhere. I just don't want to think about it right now.

Basta. Tonight, I'm going to bed with the men(?) I love most: my orange-antlered Moosebert and a whored-out book by Palahniuk. Oh, and those hot shoes.

Whether you believe me or not.

PS
Oh, and, hello to Tita Bong, the (hopefully) only person in my family to ever read this blog. :)