Love full circle (A Tribute to Lola Nena)
(My Tito Nonong sent me a text message this morning reminding me that today, October 14, is the death anniversary of my maternal grandmother Magdalena Bagaforo Maridable. The following is the eulogy I delivered at her funeral.)
SOME of my most vivid recollections of Lola Nena were from a time when lazy, carefree summers were the only things I lived for. Ma-ao, Negros Occidental was the entertainment destination of my childhood, a place where space and playmates were abundant. There, fun and excitement were always within reach; so was Lola. At the end of each day we came home to her, and every time we needed her—say, to answer a petty question, or to listen as we tell on a naughty sibling or cousin—she was there.
What struck me most about Lola was her gentleness. I remember how her hands used to softly brush my hair, and how she once softly whispered to assure me that, yes, the santol tree in the front yard was mine (my brothers kept claiming it as theirs), even as she wiped the tears off my cheeks. Needless to say, she comforted me this way and I embraced the chance to be held that close because I knew I didn’t have all the time in the world to savor it. I was well aware that summer, though the most pleasurable time of the year next to Christmas, was also the quickest to end.
Eventually our trips to Ma-ao became infrequent and we saw less of Lola. The bits and pieces of information about her and Lolo Sisoy that came our way were from my aunts and uncles who went to Manila one after another for various reasons.
In 1982, soon after graduating from grade school, unavoidable circumstances required me to leave my nuclear family and stay in Bacolod City. In the two years I was away from my parents and brothers—often sad and pining for them and my bestfriend Lisa—it was Lola who filled the void.
No, she was not especially expressive in words of her love for me, but in her own special way–in the meals she cooked and in her gentle admonitions and reminders–she showed me that she felt my pain and understood my loneliness. When I was sick, she cared for me, like the time I suffered from a persistent cough. Patiently every night she rubbed a rather sticky but sweet-smelling mentholated balm on my back and chest in an effort to control my bedtime spasms.
These images of her and the memory of her hands massaging my back will be etched forever in my heart and in my mind.
I last visited Lola on September 27. She was already bedridden but still managed to keep up with me in pleasant conversation. It pained me to see her that way, but could do nothing but tenderly massage her back and softly brush her hair with my hand. It was then I realized I was doing the things she used to do to me. Life had come full circle; it was my turn.
I was beside her at the morgue the night she died. It was a surreal experience: seeing her, talking to her, but not getting any response. My rational mind told me that I was better off communing with her in some quiet corner and connecting with her in a spiritual level. But I had to be beside her. And just as the embalmer was about to close the lid of the coffin, I espied Lola’s hands and reached in to touch them one last time.
Farewell, La. We will see each other again. In the meantime I hope I and my siblings and the rest of your apos can emulate your serenity and the quiet fortitude with which you showed us how it is to give of one’s self unselfishly. Thank you, thank you so much.
Uncategorized | Comment (0)Blah-entine Day
(This was written what seems like a century ago, and I’m reminded to blog it by my really good friend gigiGurl who’s single, empowered, and happy. I hope she reads it.)
UH-OH. Here it is again: Valentine’s Day. As much anticipated as it is dreaded, this day this year holds nothing significant for me. Which is not to say that it held significance for me last year or the year before.
***
Oh, sure, three red roses were delivered to the office last February 14 with a cryptic, romantic message that seriously betrayed the sender, and I was thrilled.
***
But three red roses don’t a relationship make. The courtship was against a lot of odds and, since the sender and I were not fitted to mimic Romeo and Juliet, nipped in the bud (no pun intended) faster than someone can say “Cupid.”
***
I think I’m skipping Valentine’s Day this week and moving it to a later, more opportune month.
***
Last November, I had a reunion with select friends at Chili’s in Makati. All of us, save for one–Kitten is married to Gabby–were grumbling singles, wondering why in the world we were still unattached.
***
So there we were, three girls whose chances for spinsterhood were increasing daily, picking on our nachos and sipping our bottomless iced teas, listening to Kitten talk about her domesticity but fixing our ears toward the next table full of men for pick-up lines that just might spill by device or accident.
***
At our ages (we were all between 28 and 33), even an innocent remark such as, “We need a beer refill,” could stand for a flirty aside (don’t ask me how).
***
Personally, had I heard, “Pare, ang sarap ng chicken!” I’d have sworn the guy was hitting on me.
***
It’s funny how creeping mid-age makes you hear voices in your head. A psychiatrist would term it as “auditory psychosis,” and the voice in mine says, “Grab the next guy who comes along. Grab him!”
***
I try not to disagree with my split personality; at my age, I can’t afford to.
***
But it’s really tough playing the dating game when you’re a single mom. I not only have to tick a substantial number of boxes in my long list of Ideal Qualities for a Significant Other or IQ-SO, I also have to satisfy my son’s requirements that include being able to answer the question: “What is the fourth state of matter?”
***
If a suitor does not know the answer, I will reacquaint him to my rabid dog and show him the door.
***
My son and I have made plans to eat out on Valentine’s Day. We’re stuck with each other because, plain and simple, he’s too young to date while I’m too picky.
***
At least I have no doubt that my son loves me.
***
Before conducting a journalism workshop in New Lucena once, I was introduced to the audience by the host who mistakenly said I was 29. Hearing this, my son, who was seated at the back of the small conference room, piped up for everyone to hear, “Twenty-nine? I thought you were 19, Mom!”
***
He was right, of course. 
Threading a needle at almost 40
A woman has the age she deserves.
~ Coco Chanel
I’m not interested in age. People who tell me their age are silly. You’re as old as you feel.
~ Elizabeth Arden
For everyone’s information, I am already 37. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but I’m not ashamed of it either. It just is. It’s an age, a number that means I was born in 1971, which makes me 3 years younger than my eldest brother Mark and 2 years my second brother Jon’s junior. This also means that when our youngest brother Jay was born, I was well into my 10th year of being.
***
I can’t stop growing old. Fundamental mathematical processes are at work to change me even as I write.
***
1. Add silver hair.
2. Subtract vision efficiency.
3. Multiply spider veins.
4. Split decisions: Should I or should I not go out on a Friday night?
***
These days, the answer is a comfortable and confident “no” most of the time. I’d really rather stay home and watch TV then put myself right smack in the middle of second-hand smoke and drunken discourse.
***
As I always say: Been there, done that.
***
People still mistake me for a woman in her mid- to late-20s. I’m flattered, of course, but I have to draw the line somewhere! My son Miguel is 15—need I say more?
***
You do the math: 28-15=13. Ang aga ko namang lumandi! (For the record, I gave birth three weeks before turning 22.)
***
Last week, a sales attendant was visibly flabbergasted when I told her my age. She thought, and brace yourself for this, I was only 15. That’s the youngest estimate I’ve received!
***
The jury’s still out on how I should feel about it.
***
But it explains why a friend who saw me with Miguel from afar initially thought I was with my boyfriend. Upon closer look, he added, para kayong magkapatid.
***
That’s amusing. The following is not.
***
Almost two years ago, I met a good-looking man. I knew he was younger than me, but when he asked for my mobile number, I gave it anyway.
***
The first question he asked when he texted was “Where do you go to school?”
***
Did he mean graduate school? I didn’t bother to find out. Either way was not agreeable.
***
My age is not that big a deal, really. But I’ve lately turned to asking people to guess it out of curiosity and for that momentary delight of knowing that my looks have fooled yet another person. Even so, the routine is quickly getting stale. It’s time for an alternative approach.
***
I used to laugh at doble-vista glasses. Didn’t understand why old people needed them. But I’ve recently been finding myself removing my glasses to look at something up close, or, say, thread a needle because it’s much clearer that way. The science of doble-vista glasses explained.
***
Because I look juvenile for my age, I don’t get taken seriously sometimes. That’s another irritant to looking young. However, as soon as I speak my mind, people get jerked back to reality. Medically, they experience whiplash or, as I prefer to phrase it, get a huge TOINK on the head!
***
Sometime ago, I took a picture of myself in my bikini and marveled (yes, marveled!) at how my stomach’s still flat and how my arms are un-flabby. Sure, I could use a routine gym workout, but, overall, I must say I’ve got a good body for a 37-year old. A lot of my friends my age—and even those younger–probably silently envy my form and secretly wish they have the same “physical” fortune.
***
It’s no sweat for me to keep my waistline at 24”.
***
The bottomline? Threading a needle at almost 40 gets a tad more difficult each time, but at least I can still do it in relative sexiness. *wink*
***
Here’s to looking 30 even when you’re 40!
Uncategorized | Comment (1)Yard Sale!!!
“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”
- Aristotle
Three weeks ago, my good friend Luna and I came up with the idea of hosting a yard sale at our village here in Lapaz. We had three reasons for it:
1. To earn a little money from selling our stuff and those of our neighbors
2. To encourage good feng shui by unloading our homes of “junk” and
3. To meet and greet neighbors we rarely see.
Immediately after our initial brainstorming, Moon (that’s what I call Luna) and I set to work. I started designing the posters and fliers (see above) for distribution throughout the neighborhood, while Moon began contacting all her friends to ask if they would be interested to consign their items at our yard sale. She got few responses, and we learned that, for most people, the lack of time or energy to sift through drawers and closets hinders (their) participation. That was my biggest obstacle, too, aside from my allergy to dust. Thankfully, my trusted helper took on the task of bringing out my long-forgotten “memorabilia” into the light of day and dusting them clean before I sorted them out.
The fun part was when Moon and I went around our village to post our posters at sari-sari stores, distribute our fliers, and do a bit of PR to advertise our sale. I’ve lived in the subdivision almost 2 years now, but I hardly ever mingle with my neighbors. In fact, I rarely leave the confines of my house; Miguel and I keep to ourselves most of the time. Meeting friendly neighbors (and one cute med rep!) and chit-chatting with them was well worth my time and energy. I must say, I debunked some of my previous assumptions about my neighbors, including thinking that all were either too snobbish or too jologs for my taste. Most we spoke to fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum by my estimation, which is exactly how I like it.
We had occasional funny moments during our stroll round the village. We laughed at the way some people looked at us; they were so wary about our request to borrow a couple of minutes of their time! We supposed they thought we were soliciting donations for some non-existent religious organization or charity or peddling toilet cleaner (!). Then there were the dogs that seemed to come out of nowhere and scared the bejeebers out of us. At least a couple of homeowners asked if we could sell their houses. Moon supplied me with tidbits of whispered gossip as we went from one block to another–who was doing what, what was done by whom. It was pretty interesting stuff, but none too salacious. If it’s scandal you’re looking for, then this ain’t the place for you, baby.
Our walk ended at Moon’s doorstep. Tired but upbeat because of the positive feedback we got, we called it a night and went our separate ways.
***
Rain held us up the night before the yard sale. Moon and I had planned to set up my yard for the activity but couldn’t get a move on because of the intermittent rain. Instead, I taught her how to make paper bags from scrap gift wrappers, and she said we were channeling sales clerks by doing it. I agreed, wryly and with much hesitation. Unwittingly, I had become my own enemy! *Deep sigh* Talk about walking in someone else’s shoes…!
We were up at 4 the following morning, but didn’t start hauling tables and arranging the venue till an hour or so later. The wind was blowing hard, and the sky was still dark–portents of foul weather that threatened to ruin our designs. But we continued on with prayers and crossed fingers. In fact, the first haggle of the day was between God and us. We told Him we were more than willing to shelve our wishes for boyfriends in the meantime if He would grant us a pleasant day, which He did, but not for long. This means God owes me 3/4 of a strapping man with work that pays a sizable income. (Oh, yes, He does!)
The first hour after opening was great! People came in small groups and in succession and bought a lot of items. My stuff proved to be bestsellers, due mainly to my prices. Because they were pretty old and I didn’t plan to wear them anytime soon or ever again, I priced most between P30 and P50, which most buyers found appealing. If there’s one thing I learned from my own forays in ukay-ukays, it is that people really look for bargains and are turned off by anything over P50 (at least I am).
We didn’t declare the yard sale open until around 9, but as early as 730 some eager beavers were already combing through the collection of bags. Somehow, people got wind of our yard sale and were as excited as Moon and I. You guys must understand that I consider this my first official crack at entrepreneurship, and the adrenalin rush was nothing short of incredible! By 10, Moon was giving me a P1000 bill to break down to two P500s. That meant only one thing: sales were brisk and we were off to an excellent start…
…that is, until the rain came pouring down again. And this time around, it seemed it wasn’t planning on letting up any time soon. Moon and I scrambled to rearrange everything and cram three tables and my day bed, which served as the central display platform, under the makeshift tent that later leaked. Meanwhile, the shoes by the main door were getting wet. So, too, the accessories and “high-end” bags just outside my front window. I hustled to keep them dry by propping golf umbrellas on the table and the ground (for the shoes) but the wind kept blowing the covers away. In the end, I decided to just bring the bags into the house and stand over the shoes with an umbrella in my hand.
Moon and I were wet, cold, and worried, but neither of us said anything. This was our brainchild and no amount of rain could deflate our enthusiasm! Moon continued to man the counter, while I puttered around doing whatever I could to keep things under control. Sales were no longer as zippy as during the first hour, sure, but we thought it would pick up once more after lunch.
Well, it did not. Disappointingly, the rain just went on and on, and people arrived less and less. Even those who said they would return in the afternoon failed to. We still had sales though, just not as much as we expected. Early on we realized one of our faux pas: We should have scheduled the yard sale on a day nearest a pay day, so people would have money to spend.
We unofficially declared the yard sale finished at 630 by closing the gate. Right away, Moon and I started the clearing up operations: taking clothes off hangers, folding shirts, dresses, and jeans, and stacking them according to consignee. It was backbreaking work, or perhaps because of our slight disappointment at the turnout, every little ache felt a bit more intense than normal. We fitted dinner and chatter in-between inventory and calculations. Moon and I certainly have enough things in common to have fun no matter the circumstance.
In the end, we earned little from commissions, but–and I’m sure Moon would agree–profited a lot from the experience. We’re actually both willing to do another yard sale when time, energy, and money permits. For sure, it will be much better, perhaps even bigger. You haven’t heard the last from us!
Uncategorized | Comment (0)Poetry (kuno!)
Sweet catharsis!
Once again I am in control,
Empowered
You were nothing but
An intoxicating distraction—
Delish like vodka
And just as easily purged
Next time, boy,
I’m drinking fine wine.
***
“I love you”
Was never something
You meant
Or cared to show
In meaningful ways
You set me aside
In some dusty corner
Of your mind
And I sat there
Spinning fairytales
Out of cobwebs
My nightmare was that
You’d leave me
But you had left long ago;
I was too busy
Weaving dreams to see.
***
For a numerical friend
You walk in so casually
Like a cat coming in
From leisure outside
Unmindful that your presence
Upsets me
Or that the words
You said earlier
Stung
I realize that while
I build you up
You reduce me
To nothing more than a whore
It was better before
So much better before.
***
To Aiko
I chastise you
For going back to the man
Who hurt you
You are bruised,
Crying
In anguish
Because of him
But you still squeeze his hand
Gently,
Cradle his neck
Sweetly,
Kiss his lips
Tenderly
How much more of this
Can you bear
Before you turn your back
And with conviction say
Enough!
Uncategorized | Comments (2)Pan de Smile
(I wrote this a few years ago, kept it somewhere dark, and forgot all about it. Thanks to the yard sale a friend and I are organizing for Sunday, September 21, I had the chance to rummage through my personal stuff and, to my absolute delight, found my notebook of clippings that includes this ode to the iconic Filipino staple pan de sal. Travel back with me to a time when life was elemental and unfettered; I’m sure you can relate to my memories.)
A news report on the ubiquitous yet humble pan de sal brought back memories of my childhood in Manila and of a time when a pan de sal definitely weighed more than 25 grams and provided morning nourishment that could last straight to lunch.
I remember waking up at 6:00 a.m. to prepare for school and waiting for the melodic tinkling of the bell that announced the arrival of Manong Pandesal and his warm bread that melted butter or softened cheese straight away. Three pan de sals filled with my choice spread and orange juice or hot cocoa and I was good to go.
There came a time, however, when Manong Pandesal no longer frequented the barangay and was replaced by the corner store that sold the staple bread every morning and afternoon. Thus, buying pan de sal for merienda became a habit as well. With a glass of cold cola and a tin of liver spread, the fare was muy delicioso! Back then, who knew that bromate was carcinogenic? Back then, who cared?
Eventually, as my taste buds matured and became more “sophisticated,” the pan de sal was exchanged for French toast and no longer patronized–not even for sentimentality’s sake. Besides, its quality had deteriorated over the years; the lowly pan de sal had, literally, put on airs. And though it had become light as a feather, its price weighed down the average consumer. People started grumbling. This is not the same pan de sal we love, they said. Still, in most households, it remained essential on the breakfast table.
As for me, well, I outgrew my fondness for pan de sal–fell out of love even–and for a long time, inadvertently excluded it in my list of things to buy. I was content to just take in its wonderfully tempting aroma while in line at the baker’s to buy something else. It had become an afterthought, a postscript to my childhood.
But all isn’t forgotten. In recent years, I have rediscovered the pleasures of eating pan de sal, thanks to one nippy afternoon when melting butter on hot-off-the-toaster bread was a no-brainer. That day, spreader in hand, I recalled the years when bread was the stuff good mornings were made of and realized that pan de sal could still make me smile…there was no love lost after all.
Uncategorized | Comment (0)Life is what happened to me…
…on my way out the door.
So I said my goodbyes without being melodramatic about it. Well, maybe just a little. But you gotta give that to me. I did feel like I should shed a tear or two in honor of our yet-to-be-categorized relationship.
I’m no heartless bitch, no matter what people think.
You cried, and I wondered why. I thought maybe you were sad to see me go. Then again, you managed to make it all about you. Funny how you stole my thunder, rained on my parade. Towards the end, I felt sorry for YOU because I realized I’m the one leaving and you’ll be LEFT.
I would really rather get a move on than stagnate.
For the record, I didn’t find much meaning in our connection. The thread that bound us was thin and brittle. Your personality didn’t help either; you neither impressed nor inspired me. I hate to say this, but you seemed out of sync most of the time. Did you act like “fringe” because you felt like one?
But I did try to make it work. I swear! I tried to overlook the fact that you were hopelessly un-funny and bland. (I’m big on humor because humor helps feed my soul.) I tried not to make condescending remarks out of respect for you. Tried to support you, agree with you, defend you. But…it was way too much effort for such insignificant returns. At some point, I decided to just let it slide. Why bother? It was easier to believe we were two very different people with no chance of ever getting it right together.
Peanut butter and jelly have greater harmony than we ever will.
So I said my goodbyes without being melodramatic about it. Well, maybe just a little. But they were tears of joy. You see, I knew Life was waiting for me at the door when I decided to leave you and I couldn’t help but be happy.
And now, as I reach for another peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich, I imagine the look on your face as you’re reading this, wondering, “Could it be me???”
Uncategorized | Comment (1)Murphy’s Law redefined
You do know Murphy’s Law, right? If anything can go wrong, it will. Well, let me twist that a bit and call it Terri’s Take on Murphy’s Law: If there’s lousy customer service, I’m the customer.
I swear I’ve lost count of the times I’ve argued with a person behind a counter in an effort to uphold customer’s rights. More and more now I feel it’s a losing battle. Everyday, it seems, sales clerks and food staff elevate The Art of Losing Clients to a higher level, and I just can’t keep up anymore!
At Gaisano City Mall Wednesday evening, I was unlucky enough to meet another dumb sales clerk who probably thought that, just because I was dressed so casually, I wasn’t the type who would mind being taken for a ride. Boy, she could not have been more wrong!
My single item purchase cost P71.50, so I gave a hundred. I was due change of P28.50, and she gave me P8.50 in coins and one P20 bill, which would not have been a problem if only the bill looked clean enough for commerce. It wasn’t! It was so tattered, I thought the only things holding it together were scotch tape and a prayer!
So I politely asked her to change the bill, but she said she didn’t have any other. I persisted and said coins would do. However, even her coins were not enough to cover what I needed. I said I’d wait and continued to stand in line. Shortly, another customer arrived to pay for her purchase, and I was pleased to note that she was paying entirely in coins! The whole time this was happening, I could see that the register was open, and that the cashier wasn’t moving her left hand away from it. Hmm…suspicious. I bent over the counter top to a degree where I could have a better view of what was inside and saw what looked like another P20 bill! But since I couldn’t be sure, I made a couple more squints and ducks till I confirmed that there was indeed at least one more of the paper currency I needed.
This made me go ballistic! How dare this woman lie to me and make me wait for something that was there all along! There was no way I was going to ignore this incident without a fuss!
So I confronted her about her lie and demanded that I speak to the manager. By this time, the line at the counter had gotten long, but I wasn’t about to let that affect me. I wanted an explanation and I wanted a word with management, and there was nothing in that store that could change my mind. (Well, maybe a few things, but I wasn’t in the mood to consider.) The other customers probably saw the smoke billowing out of my nostrils and the bony protuberances on my head and rightfully decided to move to another counter.
The clerk’s face was completely drained of color after about a minute or two of my bilingual (English and Tagalog) rant, and she looked absolutely broken. At this point I guess she was just about ready to owe up to even the Original Sin just to get me off her back. She kept apologizing over and over and explained she only did it because management required them to deposit decent bills in the final accounting for the day. Finally, I cut her some slack and instantly felt the horns sneak back under my skull. I accepted her atonement with a final admonition that she should never repeat what she had just done, that customers deserve to be respected at all times. She murmured another apology and I left it at that, turned my back, and walked home…wondering how soon before I file yet another horrific story in my already bulging folder of catastrophic customer complaints.
I have an ugly feeling it will be real soon.
Uncategorized | Comments (3)Have Friend, Will Smile
For Lisa
“A good friend is hard to find, hard to lose, and impossible to forget…”
It was a totally nondescript day. The kind that you wanted to be over as soon as possible because nothing was happening. It was dull, unremarkable, humdrum. I remember sitting sidesaddle late that afternoon on the cement fence that divided my street and the row of public housing where a boy I fancied lived. Adolescent attraction is at once funny and pathetic. Too self-conscious to even say hello, I always stayed at a distance, hoping against hope that my squinting would look dreamy from where he was. Of course, it never did, but that didn’t stop me from trying.
As I contemplated on whether to stay longer on my perch, a girl my age, whom I saw walking from one end of the street just before then, stopped under the wire where my one of my feet gingerly rested to steady my position. She looked up at me, broke into a perfect smile before asking “What are you doing?” I remember pondering on whether to answer her or not and, more importantly, how. Should I be flippant and say, “It’s none of your business”? Or should I be genteel and reply, “Just enjoying the afternoon, thank you”? But in my awkwardness borne out of my pre-pubescent stage, I did neither. Instead, I flashed a short-lived smile—a smirk, if you would–and turned my back to her to look over and across the cement fence, silently praying she would just go away as quickly as she came. She didn’t; she lingered. And looking back, I’m sure glad she did, for she has been my best friend ever since. Twenty-five years—that’s more than half my life!–and counting.
Friendships are life’s free pleasures, and it’s pretty much a smorgasboard for all. But not everyone is lucky enough to find a true-blue friend: one who would put up with your after-midnight dramatics and your too-early-in-the-morning crabbiness; tell you your breath is funky when it matters the most; hold your hand tightly to stifle the sting of the needle you’re deathly scared of; suffer through your soliloquy with half-closed eyes but with ears wide open; and cup your face and tell you you’re superduper super after every rejection (real or imagined) you get.
Genuine friendships ferment like sweet wine over time, and you’ll enjoy its effervescence long after the first hello. Sure, there will be moments when you’d feel like scratching each other’s eyes out, but these moments will pass and be quickly forgotten. (Forgiveness is inexhaustible between friends.) On the other hand, wonderful memories will hang around like a cat at the foot of your bed on a cold, Monday morning: warm, fuzzy, and delightfully stubborn! These same memories will sustain you in your bleakest hours, nourish your soul, and sugar your dreams.
If you think you have been blessed with a real friend, then thank your lucky stars! Better yet, reciprocate. A friendship that works both ways is twice as fulfilling and enjoyable. Nurture and support each other. Compromise when necessary, criticize gently, praise loudly, and love unconditionally. A best friend is priceless but if you already have one, you don’t need me to tell you that. Cheers to friendships!
Uncategorized | Comments (2)I dated Richard Gomez.
A text message from Friendship prompted this blog. Originally, I was flexing my knuckles to rant about lousy customer service at Gaisano City Mall, but given my positive vibe this morning (ask me why and I’ll tell!), I think that it will have to be for later. Reminiscing about Goma seems to be the best foil to this rainy day. (Now if only I had fresh, hot pan de sal and butta, it would be just perfect!)
Back when I was young…er and studying at UP Diliman, Richard Gomez was the “it” guy of Philippine tv and cinema. With a top-rating show on ebe-es-se-be-en (Palibhasa Lalake, with Ilongga comedienne Cynthia Patag), a string of blockbuster movies, and several commercial endorsements, he was raking in the popularity points, the women, and the cash. Who knew that the tall, dark, and lanky former McDo crew could transform himself into a tall, dark and ooh-la-la homme fatale and make ladies (and gays) swoon hopelessly at the mere mention of his name?
Well, I didn’t. Swoon at him, I mean. Actually, I’m never one to swoon over any actor though I vaguely remember in the late 80s running after the van Randy Santiago rode in after a mini-concert at Robinson’s Ermita and nearly getting trampled on by a horde of girls behind me. But you can’t count that against me! I was childish and needed new prescription glasses!
So going back to Goma…One semester, rumor broke out that he was going to study at UP. The campus became abuzz with concealed excitement: When was he coming? What would he study? I admit I felt skittish imagining this “Adonis” walking around AS Hall, but I wasn’t fixated on him–of course not! (See 3rd paragraph). Well, he did arrive without hype, which was a relief because, in the weeks leading to his enrollment, there were media reports that said certain groups of people within the UP community were not happy about this. In other words, despite his celebrity status (or because of it), he wasn’t entirely welcome. (True or not, he went on to finish an Associate in Arts degree and now gets picked as a “select” alumnus to appear at important UP functions.)
I was waiting for my friends at the AS steps leading to the FC around noon when it happened. I was alone minding my own business, twiddling with my tape rec (I was due for an oral presentation in a class after lunch), almost oblivious to everything around me, except maybe to a garish group of Theater Art students who were sitting further down the stairs. Suddenly, a hush fell over the crowd, and then I heard someone whisper, “Si Richard Gomez!” Sure enough, there he was. Like the male version of a scantily-clad Halle Berry “bursting from the surf”* in Die Another Day (only that there was no sea and he was dressed decently), he commanded attention. He was jaw-dropping gorgeous! But I played it cool and pretended not to notice. (I must have looked odd amid the other obviously smittened Iskolars ng Bayan. At any rate, because I was trying too hard to pretend, my right eye started to twitch, or so it seemed.)
From what I could hear, Richard had a 1.30 class, but he was early and the theater students convinced him to hang out at the steps with them. So he sat where they were…or so I thought. Because, as though from thin air, his right hand suddenly appeared directly in front of my face, extended as in a handshake, followed by his voice–dreamlike–that popped the question, “And you are…?” I swear I was halfway to my grave when I looked up and scanned the whole length of him staring down at me and smiling his perfect smile! Up till now I’m clueless as to where I got the breath I needed to squeak out my name!
Before I knew it, he was sitting right beside me, and I was the envy of the universe! (Ok, so maybe only of the lunch crowd, but what the heck?) My heart was beating rapidly and I felt my fever rising. As in a romantic flick, everything moving around us became a blur, ghosts of the forgotten present. I was no longer aware of my friends who were whizzing past–repeatedly, I must add–or of my hunger even though I was starving before Mr Gomez came along. He told me he had just come from a shooting at Smokey Mountain and inquired how he smelled. So I did what any self-respecting, well-mannered young woman would do: took a whiff of the smell of his perfumed bronze skin…neck area. He smelled D-I-V-I-N-E, ladies! (He even told me the name of his cologne, which I have forgotten over the years, but I suspect that even if he had used plain tap water, my smell buds would still have tingled.)
By the end of our conversation, Richard had invited me to MC Hammer’s concert that summer. (I’m inclined to change MC Hammer to, say, Jim Brickman, for better cinematic score, but, sadly, Hammertime it was.) I think I murmured a yes to the invitation before he kissed me goodbye (oh, all right, he just SAID it) but was quite convinced that he would promptly forget having met me as soon as he turned his back to attend class.
Well, in fact, he didn’t. At least a couple of times that second semester, when we met along the corridors, he smiled and said hi. A genuine I-know-I’ve-met-you-and-you-smelled-me kind of smile.
So there you go, Friendship. I dated Richard Gomez…in the dream sequence of this true story IF it had been made into a movie produced by Destiny and directed by Love. 
Lights! Camera! Action!
(* from Wikipedia)
P.S. Would someone please pass this to Richard Gomez? I’d like to find out if he remembers.