Arctic Beetle

Right after being notified by my fellow monitor in that immensely grueling laboratory day that her limbs cannot handle ten burette clamps in just one go, I hurriedly followed her to the room which reeks of the smell of a mash of leftover rice and fish bones. Greeting us immediately was a Chinky geezer in his 70s or 80s. Of all those times that I see him wear a decent polo and pants, it just happened to be today that he decided to abandon the thought and don a sando that highly accentuates his saggy chest which one could mistake for as real pair of breasts.

After commanding his assistant to gather what we need, the old man turned his head to my co-monitor and suavely said, “Chinese ka ba? Nang makita kita, lalo ko tuloy gustong maniwala na ang mga pinakamagagandang babae ay may lahing Chinese.”

Nice pick-up line for an old man whose social skills, I thought, were paralyzed for a long time as he is usually seen either sleeping or being unresponsive to students. Go on, I am liking this sexual harrassment case in the making.

“Yep, 75% Chinese po ako,” my companion replied.

I didn’t know that the mechanisms of genetics could easily be taken as a problem involving averages, wherein if your father is a Chinese and your mother is supposedly half, then 75% of you roots back to China. I hope no one begs to disagree when I declare that I am 1% Caucasian, 5% Asian, 5% Dalmatian, and 90% astig Pinoy.

“Mabuti naman,” he said pausing for a while to look at my direction, “hindi katulad ng mga Pilipino. Ayan katulad niyan, puro ngiti lang ang alam.”

Getting your point across doesn’t have to involve me, does it? And when all the requested burette clamps were positioned in the basket, oddly, his attention was on me again.

“Ayan, ikaw ang magbuhat. ‘Wag mong pinagbubuhat ang mga Chinese.”

Monsieur, I was summoned there to help her and not to bear the job of a personal assistant. If only you knew that you were expressing your contempt at someone who also has that Chinese blood you so uphold… I wasn’t upset at the racist undertones; instead, I was upset at your lapse in judgment since from whatever view you would look at the two of us from, I am way prett– I dare not state the obvious.

Just now, for the lack of something interesting or amusing to write about for the past two weeks and for the need to brush up my writing for it to be creative enough for that Creative Writing class, I’ve decided to chronicle my sister’s journey to the Ring of Fire — no not yet, to the Island of Love at least. She should thank me for doing this series of posts as this will serve as her own time capsule of the digital age, something she can look back on in the years to come. (I read that freaking line a lot from freaking blog introductions and it’s freaking jading just like how jading it is to see three freakings in one sentence.) The only thing I am maintaining from the second sentence before this is “She should thank me” and that’s because I am giving her a glittery spotlight in my blog. Blame hormonal imbalance for my cockiness and irritability.

Anyway, my sister and her boyfriend have decided to get married in May next year — the same month they first get to meet each other. Very crazy, I don’t deny it, but the mother of the fellow argues that with his son’s age approaching 44, he has already wasted a lot of time.. so yes, shotgun wedding is the way to go. A brief overview of what the situation will be like in May: my dad is in Saudi Arabia, my eldest sister is in Japan spending the last two months of her one-year contract there and I, on a completely unrelated note, have a longer hair by then. Two family members missing and under 28 days, he has to meet all of our relatives in Quezon and Bulacan, get to know my sister personally, go out on a date with her, fix my sister’s Visa and passport, make the necessary preparations for their wedding and finally, the wedding itself. Let me repeat, 28 days. Maybe he knows how to time-bend.

Of course, my parents and I disagree with this. They have seen what my sister was like to his first boyfriend Emil and just a caveat, it was utterly disastrous. The first time they met, everything ended and from what I observed, it was all due to the long and pointed chin the guy has and the comfort it provides when he doesn’t have anything to reply to my sister’s blabbing. What are the chances it wouldn’t happen again with his Dominican? Not that I have anything against men with black complexion and polygenic inheritance itself, but I know my sister, she likes men who are doing pretty good in the looks department. Let’s see.. I probably got it from her.

Since they are more than sure that in the next seven months nothing, no one and no deity will stop them from “loving each other so much” (she said this herself), she finally made up her mind to lay out the details to my dad — the final gavel. My dad told her to have the guy e-mail him himself but the message got lost in translation from the English to the Deaf English; hence, she gave my dad the guy’s email. C’mon, who ever heard of a father getting on the good side of his daughter’s suitor? After the haggling between my parents and my sister that lasted for a day and a half, it has been settled that May should be mostly spent on them trying to know more of each other and the wedding being jostled to December of next year. Much much better, I say.

As they used to remark in Filipino soap operas, abangan ang susunod na kabanata.

PS: True story.

Three years agone, just when I hast germinated a deathless ardor for online games, my sister likewise exhibited fancy for chatting — the kind which involves web cams, chat rooms and equally lonesome people. And those with a lot of time to dispense either because they don’t have a job or they are not allowed to go out of their homes except when it is a Sunday, or both. My sister belongs to the last, possibly since she’s a deaf-mute but believe me, I decline to take it that way. The million dollar consequence of such set-up: the usual dispute about when someone should use and more importantly, who should use the PC, only to be terminated by my eldest sister’s claim of her throne. With the arrival of the laptop, things were worse the year after particularly due to the lack of a pacifier and my mom’s forthcoming menopause which tends to ramble on why we should sleep by 12 midnight on the dot. For information’s sake, I never complied.

I’d like to believe that the newest usage schedule we have developed for my semestral break caters us both the maximum utility. Zilch afternoon usage for Photoshop, for streaming videos related to Korean boy bands and whatnots, but with unparalleled assurance incurred from the fact that I won’t be taken out of my comfort zone from evening to morn. All these fell into place due to my sister’s newest boyfriend named Dagoberto. I know the name is completely unnecessary and should have been withheld, but really, I find it rare and.. funny. They just met a month ago and by now, it should have been rather obvious that this fateful meeting under the beaming sun (I’m trying to make it sound very fairytale-esque despite the prince charming’s impenetrable-sounding name), was all due to video chat rooms and the software called Camfrog. Is it me or IRL relationships don’t work for both of my older sisters? Anyway, more on that next week.

While on the threshold of dying of boredom brought forth by our family’s strict abidance to Sabbath that calls for a 24-hour no-PC no-outings break from Friday to Saturday, my sister resolved to be in good terms with me, at least for an hour. Frankly, it’s getting tiring to get into arguments with her just because I look stressed out and mad at something, which she immediately takes to be her. As the first step to reconciliation, we had a candid and casual talk. Fine, a heart-to-heart one. She told me she wanted a boyfriend and mind you, this happened before I saw her typing some lines like “I love you.” and “Dream of me.” and before she was forced to admit that she’s in a relationship because I told my mom what occurred before my two eyes. I’m a sumbungera, yes.

As an added insight to what kind of conversation ensued the next minutes, she also stated that Filipino men are dumb and stupid. She doesn’t want to fall for one anymore for they are like what she said… dumb, stupid and last but not the least, they suck at relationships. As much as I’d like to agree and uphold the superiority of the women race, I also beg to differ with that hasty generalization. I am lacking in sign language skills so I wasn’t able to say this to her: Foreigners are no different; they can be worse — much, much worse. In an international online game I used to play, a random chap asked for my nationality. I said “I am a Filipina”, and he immediately retorted, “A domestic helper?”. My ego received a 1000-hit combo and I am stopping now because I might fill this post with profanities. I hope my sister’s Dominican is not among the bad species of foreigners. As for me, I think I will be happy with a local man and a great deal happier with a Korean idol.

I wish you all the best, dearest sister.

She had that cocky and proud gait that would either, in all likelihood, make you turn your head and stare at her for only half a minute (since doing further would classify you under the adjective impolite), or make you steal quick glances at her, just so you could affirm what you just saw. As someone who was behind her, I knew that she spurred a lot of interest from the chaps walking at the same pace as mine. She easily made her way through the dialogue of those with companions and effortlessly, she caused those without companions to eavesdrop on the mentioned dialogues.

Well, I mean, with a piece of clothing whose surface area is a little larger than the mantles of two usual coffee shop tables combined, who wouldn’t? Her bright red bra peered out (while waving hello) from her back which was insufficiently covered by an apparel style made up of two laces she was supposed to tie securely. While you are probably thinking you have heard the worst, you still haven’t– her red underwear also teased everyone from behind. To be honest, her outer garments failed to live up to their name miserably.

The commotion became louder and as she passed by a group of men, doubts on her biological sex grew in number.

“Babae ba o bading?”

“BADING!” she said loudly after turning abruptly.

She (or he, but in this case, I’d like to use female-specific pronouns on account of her long and straight hair) carried on with her swagger triumphantly and averted her head away from the people behind her as if telling you are missing a lot by not hooking up with her. One thing’s for sure, she is a head-turner.

(And you probably thought I was turning lesbian while reading my first paragraph..)