#fuckyeahEUROTRIP, A Synopsis

It has recently been brought to my attention that I have yet to blog about the #fuckyeahEUROTRIP properly. I would LOVE to, really. I am just going through the MASSIVE amount of photos (mostly blurry) that I took during the trip and finally uploading them to Facebook. THAT takes a lot out me since I like to caption EACH AND EVERY PHOTO like the obsessive-compulsive maniac that I am.

But I can’t leave an entry like The Night Before The Day After Christmas and not have anything to show for it months later, now can I?

I think it was in Schipol Airport when I finally let myself go and get giddy and supremely excited about the trip. I mean, fuck the fact that I forgot to bring my only and beloved leather jacket to combat the cold. I was finally on that side of the world where all the awesome things are! Schipol was to be my first taste of what it was like to be in Europe and all I can say is IT IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN HERE.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my country because it’s in my blood to pledge allegiance to it. But you gotta admit, there are some things that are su-weet over on that continent. I was so thoroughly engrossed with all the airport that I almost ran into a pillar while I was trying to get to my gate. Smooth moves, Ferguson.

But after taking the LONGEST FLIGHT OF MY LIFE, I finally landed a little after midnight at Madrid Barajas International Airport. Damned by the weather, damned be the state of my disheveled hair, damned be jetlag, I’M IN SPAIN, MOTHAFOCKAS!

And then I properly calmed down as the welcoming party consisted of Mother G, Father G, Brother G, Wife of Brother G, and The Boyfriend. Oh Christ. I briefly forgot that I was here to make an impression on all these doctors. Yes, they’re a family of doctors.

I tried to be in my best behavior and everyone tried to be as warm as sunshine – Father G always making an effort to converse in his adorably formal English, Mother G who kept showing me around (eventhough I spoke no Spanish and she spoke no English), Brother G and Wifey G always trying to feed me too much that by the third day, my pants no longer fit. SWEAR. And there was The Boyfriend who was as excited as I was to be in his beloved city. His friends were also the epitome of wonderful hosts, taking us to Granada and hosting us for the annual New Year party trip.

Here’s to eating, drinking, and being merry!
SALUD!

Not only did I see amazing things in Spain (Madrid, Segovia, Toledo, Barcelona), but we also took a tiny side trip to Paris. Paris, France. My heart gets all a-flutter just thinking about it. I thought it would never be, but there I was. Under the Eiffel Tower, walking inside Notre Dame, strolling by the River Seine, dining at cute French bistros. The city of love! The city of lights! The city of so-damn-expensive-everything! But I couldn’t care anymore because stepping out of our hotel led you to the Pantheon or Notre Dame, depending on your mood. That idea is just SO FUCKING COOL.

And so I departed from Europe, 10 pounds heavier and eleventeenthousandbillionzes happier.

#fuckyeahEUROTRIP2 anyone?

‘Sup?

I’ve been ‘away’ for months, I know, but that’s what happens when things change. Don’t worry though. Things haven’t changed for the very best or the very worst. Sakto lang.

Fuck bitches…
Relationship-wise, The Boyfriend and I are doing well. We (ie. me) still have the occasional screaming match every 20 something days or so but he’s trying to get a handle on things (ie. his sanity). It was touch and go there for a bit when he went back home for Holy Week and came back to find himself almost without a job as LatAk Client can get PMS-y as well.

Scene: Inside Mah HoMY, late for work, on the phone.

Me: OMG I’m so late for work fuck fuck fuck fuck FUUUUUUUCK!!!

The BF: It’s fine, you can be  late a little bit.

Me: No! NO! This is all YOUR FAULT!

The BF: My fault?? How is a traffic jam MY fault?

Me: I don’t know! IT JUST IS!!

The BF: Okaaay ..

Me: (more profanity) That’s it! Maybe we should just break up then!

The BF: What?? We’re breaking up because you’re stuck in traffic?

Me: YES!!!

The BF: Okay. I think this is the point where I tell you that we’re going to talk again when you’re not like this and you’re thinking clearly.

Me: NO! YOU *WILL* KEEP TALKING TO ME!!! *starts crying, throwing shit in the car, denting dashboard, deforming steering wheel*

The BF: (internally) WHAT. THE. FUCK??

Other than this ^^ occasional scene, we do fine. The Boyfriend is STILL trying to get used to the night shift. He’s been at it for a couple of months and it’s still a trying time. We try to do the usual workaround when I’m on day shift: I wake up at 6, so does he, he makes me coffee, I get ready, spend 5 minutes with him, high-five, and I’m out the door. I come back from work, wake *him* up, make him coffee, he gets ready, we spend 5 minutes, high-five, and he’s out the door. Romantic, I know.

...get money.
I’m clocking in three months at the new job (#YeMA for all my Twitter (twitter.com/uneditedmara) followers out there) that has a STRICT punctuality policy (that I’ve been able to somewhat adhere to). Thank you, thank you. Hold the applause, please. Other than my occassional tardiness, things have been going well. I’m slowly adjusting to new people and new operations and haven’t fucked up too much for anyone to notice. Yet.

This week, a big boss from the US is coming to visit and hear about the first and second quarter operations. We’re shitting bricks as we speak. It’s a big deal for the Manila Studio but I’d like to think it’s not because when I do, that usually gets the best of me and I start to feel faint and throw-uppy.

GPOY
(When I haven’t shaved in a few days)

Over the weekend, I’ve had to try to switch from night shift to day shift mode and IT. IS. KILLING. ME. I have to take a handful of vitamins for fear of just dying in the middle of the Studio and being hauled into the garbage chute. I’m disposable so I need to get my guard up. I also had to do a little sum’in sum’in on the sideline for a friend, so it’s kinda stepped on the toes of readjusting my body clock. But money’s money so I can’t complain much.

Life or something like it
Now that I’m going back to normal working people hours, I expect to see a lot less of The Boyfriend and a lot more of my friends. I have to go back to #QuizNight and show my face, my intelligence not so much. Also, attend to other things such as ENROLING THE IZ, which I still haven’t done. #PHOTOFINISHER Speaking of The Iz, she’s away on a 2-week vacation at the province. I figured she should at least know what dirt looked like. She’ll be back in time for the first day of classes and I assume things will go back to (next to) normal status.

But as for me, I stink like a bag of dead turtles so I gotta go shower now. So … smell ya later?

PS. I’ve missed you, guys.

Mother G in the hizzle

[PROLOGUE aka The part where I freak out about meeting The Boyfriend's mother]

The plan was to drop off the ladies at their hotel to freshen up before going about the city. Since their flight arrived too early, they had to wait for a couple more hours til their room was ready. We drove couple of blocks down to The Boyfriend’s apartment and gave Mother G and her friend (Amiga) the grand tour. The Boyfriend and I were scrambling to get the place as clean as we could and, a day before Mother G arrived, The Boyfriend managed to find and hire a couple of people to thoroughly clean every inch of that linty apartment. This is the living room (giant couch, missing entertainment center) .. the bedroom with a good view but bad walls and carpeting .. the tiny, tiny kitchen .. want a drink? We have water, soda, and beer.
After, we had a lovely brunch at Apartment 1B, devouring my bagel and cream cheese as ladylike as I possibly could. The Spaniards carried on talking and I did my best impression of not looking bored. I had to seem as if this was a perfectly normal situation to be in. I smiled and feigned little interest in the conversation. We walked across the café to the Salcedo Saturday Market and had a post-brunch stroll through fish, flowers, lechon, kakanin, and sausages. Mother G and Amiga pointed to some things, The Boyfriend would turn to me, I’d tell him what it was, and he’d translate. This would be the protocol to conversing with the ladies all throughout their stay. The best I could do was smile politely and try to be funny and hope to God it wasn’t lost in translation.

After everyone got a chance to freshen up and rest up a bit, we drove towards the American Memorial at The Fort and walked around with a delicious breeze whipping about us. A walk amongst the dead left us feeling peck-ish so we scooted on over to Serendra for a yummy lunch at Sentro. Sentro’s always a good choice of Filipino restaurant and they’ve always had good service. On the table: Catfish Adobo Flakes, Rated GG (Galunggong), green mango salad, and Sweet & Sour Shrimp. After lunch, the ladies saw a little bit of Bonifacio High Street.
After the afternoon at Fort Bonifacio, I was SPENT. I didn’t know how much toll it would take on me but I was SO not prepared to have dinner that night. I needed to regroup. I begged off dinner and promised to join them next time.

I went home to TV and chocolate. After the day I had, I SO deserved it.

Mother, may I?

Meeting the parents is always a nerve-wracking thing. There are all sorts of expectations from both sides and just an overall feeling of FAINT. The first time I had to introduce a boyfriend to my parent (The Lolo) was out of necessity; I was carrying his unborn child and my parents needed to know. The second time I got the chance to introduce someone to my parents, I did it more casually and just threw him into the lion’s den. I was more worried how I’d behave leading up to the great introduction that I just leap off the cliff without thinking. If he was a worth enough guy, I thought, he’d survive the wrecking balls that are my parents.

This time around, it was my turn to face the firing squad. The Boyfriend’s mother was coming over to visit her youngest son and I was to make an appearance. I would not have fretted so much had The Boyfriend not started telling me HOW to dress and BE APPROPRIATE. Ohshitohshitohshit. Mother G was on the conservative side and The Boyfriend gave a few “gentle” reminders that my chosen wardrobe should not reflect a woman without breeding. WHERE ARE MY BLOUSES AND PANTSUITS?? And just to make things even more difficult, Mother G didn’t speak English.

Not actually Mother G. Just a visual representation of her instilling pee-my-pants fear in me.

I was a giant ball of terrified days leading up to Mother G’s arrival. Is she going to like me? Is my hair too long? Does it make me look like an incestuous Mormon? Do my clothes look poor? Is my skin too dark? Will my voice irritate her? Will my laugh deafen her? Does my swagger say ‘fuck off’ or ‘independent woman’? Will she say unkind words about me? About how I carry myself? About my country? How will I talk to her? In terrible broken Spanish? With sign language? With body language? Will she scan me from head to toe and declare that I am not worthy of her precious son? Will she bring her own dogs who will tear me to pieces at her command? *breathes rapidly into a brown paper bag*

The day finally arrived. The Boyfriend and I drove to the airport to pick up Mother G and her friend. I can’t even remember what I wore that day. I was just panicked that we already late. We had finally found them at the airport and loaded baggage into the car. I double beso’d and hola’d. Piling into the car, The Boyfriend, Mother G, and her friend animatedly starting speaking in Spanish, presumably about the trip, the weather, and how everyone back home was doing. Little did I know, it was going to be like this for THREE DAYS.

[To be continued...]

A Brief History In Time

Two years ago I fell in love with a man who left me. Two years later, after much denial and repression and tears, The Spaniard quit his job, packed his things, and moved halfway around the world for me; after much anger and bitterness and overthinking, I broke up with The Viking to start anew with The Spaniard. We’re finally ready to take the chance we didn’t give ourselves two years ago.

As The Spaniard and I counted to zero, we both knew that it would be a life-changing number. But we were willing to go all in on something that felt right for the both of us. The Spaniard’s first month here (and also, first month of assuming The Boyfriend role) has been not without much drama (we love drama) and good times (we love this even more). The first week in, we already hit the ground running – finding an apartment for him, receiving packages with a lot of red tape (politically, not packaging-wise), having fights, making up, meeting friends, going to Quiz Nights – basically adjusting to the life we want to share with each other.

Honestly speaking, it has not been the fairytale that all my girl friends envisioned it to be. Of course we’ve had our cute moments and exaggerated grins of happiness but we’ve also ventured down the other side of the spectrum a bit more than expected. They say I should just enjoy the moment and remember how it was two years ago and how it was easy and fun and exciting. They forget that there is a huge difference from now and two years ago. They forget that two years ago, The Spaniard and I didn’t look at each other and say, “Hey, I like you and you like me. A LOT. So we should be together and be a couple and work things out.” Two years ago, The Spaniard said, “Let’s just enjoy and make each other the happiest we can in the time we have together.” And I didn’t protest for fear of being the girl who was stupid enough to ask for something more when she signed up for something less.

There was less (or no) pressure then. I wasn’t his girlfriend (since he’s never introduced me as such) and he wasn’t my boyfriend (as I didn’t assume him to be). I could do whatever I wanted to do for him, but couldn’t expect him to do the same in return. I didn’t expect him to coddle me during the bad days of PMS or fully confide the details of how craptacular my day was or spend time with me and The Iz or see how insane it can get inside my head. And I had conditioned myself to not want for the privileges girlfriends had like being jealous or demanding more time together or being exclusive with each other.

But now, it’s changed.

It’s no longer just about the labels, but the commitment that comes with it. I can no longer walk out and say, “I don’t care. He can do whatever the hell he wants with his life.” I could, but I don’t want to. Because I *do* care and though it may be his life, I KNOW that I am now part of it. And to question his commitment to us is only to realize he’s heads above the crowd, shades paler than the rest, and is not quite comfortable with the island humidity. He’s already left everything that was convenient for a chance at us. How can one question that?

The Big Bang that had started two years ago (expanded from an extremely hot and dense state) has now cooled and continued to expand into this universe that holds Nemeses and all their life force on a speck of a rock called here and in a forgettable time called now.

Facebook and Exes .. AGAIN.

The boy *does* know how to crack me up.

The Days are Filled with Him

I picked him up at the airport. “I have arrived. *kisses*,” he texted. “I am waiting,” I replied. An hour later, he emerged out of the doors and down the ramp, slowly scanning the sea of faces. I let his eyes linger and wander. I take pleasure in watching without him knowing. Even with sunglasses on, he’s picked me out of the crowd, hurries towards the exit to where I’ve been waiting all morning long.

We hugged. He picked me up. I have never felt lighter or giddier in my entire life. I couldn’t even look at him for fear of having a silly grin plastered on my face the whole day. We drove to breakfast and caught up with each others’ lives. How does this reunion seem so effortless? How can all that time have passed by and yet it’s like we’ve been talking our whole lives?

He settled in his hotel room and unpacked his things. I left him for work but promised to see him again at dinner. Turns out, my friends were just as excited as I was to see him again. Dinner came and went without much incident. But then Bakla finally arrived for coffee and that’s when we jumped right into the thick of things. I may not have looked like I paid attention, but I listened (or have heard) everything that he was reassuring my friend of. If he couldn’t have reassured her, he was at least honest enough to say that he didn’t know.

I could hear concern in hers and sincerity in his. Without my brain, I would have just drowned my heart in his words and my skin in his kisses. Later that night we talked. And then talked some more. I only fell asleep only to hurry the night along and start a new day with him.

Was it really THIS easy?

Now the hard part begins

There were no more words left to be said. I no longer had any energy left to cry. The room was filled with nothing but the humming of the airconditioner, broken only by his footsteps walking across the floor, and the occasional thud of things being thrown around. This wasn’t our first rodeo, we KNEW that this moment would eventually fall upon us. I silently gathered my things, glancing at his figure that was either packing or in a state of emotional distress. He would slump over the desk, over his computer or pause on the way to the bathroom and regain breaths as if the air was speckled with courage and the more he took into his lungs, the braver he was going to get.

I slowly fixed my hair, toying with unimportant things as if doing them with utmost care was going to make this sinking feeling go away. That maybe, if I just focus of doing something tiny, my heart would not burst out of my chest. We crossed paths, both grabbing things and throwing them into our own bags. Sometimes we could not help the emotions welling up that we connect for a few seconds, savor the last minutes we had together in what little time we had. We held onto each other hard, and then let go.

Meaningless small talk was the most we could muster. “Have you got everything?”, “Are we going to make it in time?”, “Are you taking this with you?”, “I’ll just have to pass by the front desk.”, or “I’m fine.” We exchanged painful glances knowing that anything could trigger waterworks any minute. I had never wished for traffic so badly, or for Spain to suddenly break out into war; anything beyond our control to make this last. But we both knew that if this was to last, then it would be by our choice, not some crazy, random happenstance.

The silence in those last moments before we set out to the world was a foreshadowing of what is going to be a month-long sabbatical from everyone else’s opinion. *Now that I don’t *have* anyone, please excuse me as I meet with more important people, me, myself, and I.

*is on The Thinking Chair*

I’ve finally told The Viking.

During the night-day-night-day-long sob session, it might have not been my winningest moment but I need to acknowledge that I am so lucky for The Viking be logical about the whole situation. I might not agree with what The Viking says all of the time and some of it may hurt me just a liiiiiitle too much, but he’s never said anything that wasn’t true or based on facts. I need to appreciate that even though he might punch a little below the belt sometimes. We’re all entitled to a few illegal jabs, especially at this turning point.

The Viking has given me two weeks. Pretty generous if you consider that those fists could have landed on my face and not the wall or he could have just said, “Fuck this shit and fuck you.” To have been in an eerily reminiscent situation affords me the knowledge that, 1) it’s on, 2) it’s going to get worse before it gets better, and 3) it doesn’t get better immediately after you decide. “Better” is going to take a while.

What’s it gonna take?

1. From the warring countries, time and space.

2. From you, shitloads of advice and understanding.

3. From the bartender, MANY bottles of beer and his friends, Jack, Jim, Johnny, and Jose.

“Some choices we live not only once but a thousand times over, remembering them for the rest of our lives.” – Richard Bach

3 weeks is less than 333 years

The short of it all: The Spaniard is back in town.

A week ago: He broke silence and messaged me, wanting to catch up when he got here. I am not such a cold-hearted bitch and said, “Sure, something-something one of these days sounds nice.” A tad bored, but polite enough.

Fast forward to yesterday: I was walking along Valero, on my way to work, a couple of feet away from me was The Spaniard walking along with the controversial friend. I didn’t know what to do as I was caught off guard not having seen him in so long, I feigned a phone call. Instead of acknowledging me or saying, “Hey! Hi!”, he kept on walking, COMPLETELY IGNORING ME for fear that the friend might feel uncomfortable with the encounter.

Today: Not even as someone he used to be with, not even as a friend, but just as someone he knew, it was insulting to have been ignored just like that. I can (sort of) understand not having the spine to stand up for me when we were together, but not saying anything when HE made first contact and said, “I don’t want to pretend we never knew each other” is a DICK MOVE.  And somewhere along a conversation, he actually thought that I would leave my wonderful boyfriend just because he’s here.

WHAT AN ASSHOLE.