Thursday, December 27, 2012

A little story about a song and laugh-y friends

It's been said that people come into our life for a reason, but (and maybe this part isn't said quite as often) GOOD LUCK on figuring it all out, suckerrrr!!!

Obviously, I have issues. (And a postmenstrual headache.)

I think that, after a gross oversimplification of my life, I've identified some of these reasons. The reasons range from the deep and complicated ("to make me grateful and hopeful" or "to make me stronger and wiser") to the elementary yet necessary ("to make me lasagna").

Importantly, some people are in my life just so I could laugh. And laugh hard. Laugh-like-you-don't-need-your-lungs-tomorrow kind of hard. Not the polite kind of laugh you reserve for new acquaintances and awkward questions ("Why don't you have a boyfriend?" "Hehehe." or "When are you getting married?" "Hahaha." or maybe "Is Santa real?" "Hohoho.").

*Ten points for unexpected but lame season-relevant joke*

Thanks to all these people, I've laughed a lot in my adult life. With these people, I've laughed until we couldn't breathe, until we had to pee, until some of us had to use an inhaler (you know who you are), until we couldn't drive, until our cheeks cramped, until our laps hurt from all the self-thigh-slapping.

I've blogged about many of the moments that have entertained me over the years, but thankfully, there are still a few more left to document before age-related memory loss takes over.

One particularly laugh-y night with three of my girlfriends from my college years stands out not because I remember it easily, but because we've told the story so many times to anyone who would care to listen. Two of these friends, Bong and Pia, were the same girlfriends with me that night I saw Ronan Keating. (The third friend, Glen, still hasn't forgiven us for leaving her out that night.) (Sorry again, Glen.)

So we were all in Bong's car, listening to our then station of choice, Crossover 105.1 FM (I still like this, by the way). And then our all-time-favorite song came on.

All of us after hearing the first few notes: AAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!

We were all beside ourselves with giddy excitement, and I'm pretty sure at least three of us were getting ready to sing along (ehem, were you getting ready too, Pia?), when suddenly, while she was still in mid-AAAAAAYYYYYY!!!! ...

... Bong changed the station.


Glen (angry): Bakit mo naman pinalitan!?! (Why did you change it!?!)

Bong (still excited): Eh baka may mas maganda! (There might be something better!)


Needless to say, that was one of those times when we couldn't stop laughing and Bong probably had to stop driving. That part I don't quite recall because it happened about 20 years ago and we usually stop the story after the punchline. What I do remember is being happily out of breath and thinking Bong probably had a problem with commitment.

(Note to Bong's husband: She doesn't.)

I realize now that this story is one that will never be as funny to other people as it was to us four, but I guess that's why I had to share it: so at least four people will be snickering to themselves after reading this, and at least four people will listen to that YouTube clip from start to end. And probably even play it again a few more times.

And maybe, if Christmas miracles are real, Pia will very loudly sing along. 

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

And now, a Mama-related toilet tale

Post-tennis: Mama and some weird chick with a Rafa cap
Every Saturday morning, I wake up at the ungodly hour of 5 AM (or thereabouts) so I can play tennis with my parents and their friends. I have been joining this group for a while now, and I'll be the first to admit that one of the reasons I like this particular group is because I am the youngest member. This helps me cling on to every last minuscule drop of my fading youth. Sadly, in this group, age often seems to be directly proportional to tennis skills. My 82-year-old tennis friend who has undergone multiple-bypass surgery has a better forehand and the most frustrating drop shots.

After one morning tennis session, Mama and I went to the ladies room to change into clean shirts. I'm pretty sure we were the only two people in the room, and Mama immediately entered what I shall henceforth label stall #1. A minute later, I entered stall #2.

(Now I'm questioning the utility of numbering the stalls. And using the word 'henceforth'.)

While we were both still inside our respective stalls, I heard another lady (I assume she was female, given that we were in the ladies room – I'm smart that way) enter stall #3 ...

... and she proceeded to ... let's say ... unload mightily.

And by 'unload', I mean poop.

Just to be clear.

The peaceful and sanitary quiet in the room quickly became a heavy, tension-filled, olfactory nightmare, which was extra stressful for me because, while we all had to bear the stench coming from stall #3 (Aha! The purpose of numbering!), I had a feeling that Mama did not know that a third person had joined us.

Just as I suspected, from stall #1 came the resounding:

"May ginawa ka bang masama???"

(Translation: "Did you do something evil?!?")

Mama's accusation, which was obviously playfully directed to me, hung over the three stalls like a horrifying echo that bounced across the cold tiles and enveloped me, the accused, and lady in stall #3, the unfortunate culprit/victim.

Weighing all the possible next steps, I had no choice but to turn to stone. After all, what else was there to do? Should I have replied out of courtesy? "No, clueless mother. A stranger who can undoubtedly hear both of us is causing the air pollution."

I stopped moving and breathing (useful, given the current odor) and waited until I heard the frantic escape of stall #3 occupant from the toilet. I doubt that any handwashing transpired in those crucial moments of flight. Not that I blame her. Getting out of an awkward situation trumps personal hygiene.

And that was when I exited my stall and saw my mother nonchalantly combing her hair as though no embarrassing incident had transpired.

"You do know that it wasn't me, right?"

"How was I supposed to know there was someone else?"

And that was that.

The moral of the story: Never assume ... especially about ass-related issues.