Random Memory: McDonald's and Me

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My love affair with McDonald's started when I was in college. I didn't really know McDonald's that well in my high school and grade school days. But in college, the true love of my life was McDonald's. It was the witness to all my exultation and tribulation. When I was happy, I went to McDonald's. When I was sad, I went to McDonald's . When I wanted to relax, I went to McDonald's. When I wanted to cram, I went to McDonald's. There was even a time when a bunch of classmates and I stayed at McDonald's for six hours straight just to study for an Accounting exam.

Usually, we went to McDonald's after our evening classes to have dinner. During those times, Josh, a dear friend and project leader, could be heard saying, "Our professor is stupid. He gave us an A minus for our group paper that I spent 2 hours copy-pasting from the internet." Plagiarism was no big deal to us back then, we just wanted to pass. We also went to McDonald's for the brainstorming session of our group projects and on those occasions Josh could be heard saying, "Let's stop fooling ourselves with this brainstorming crap. We all know that I will still end up writing this paper all by myself. You should all be thankful that I am good at copy-pasting stuff from the internet." Whereupon we dropped all pretense of brainstorming and proceeded with our pointless gab-fest over french fries and Coke float. Yes, Josh, we owe you for making our academic burdens lighter. You are the best group leader ever. Where was I? Oh yes. In college, McDonald's was a way of life.

When I landed my first job, it required me to move into a different zip code for the very first time in my life. I remembered being anxious while I was riding the ferry that would take me to the place I would call home for the next two years. I was excited and scared at the same time, the magnitude of my choice to be away from my comfort zone just dawning upon me. I looked out of the ferry, staring at Ozamiz City as it drew near when, lo and behold! A McDonald's! That's when I knew everything was gonna be okay. And so the vicious cycle continued. When I get stressed out, I went to McDonald's. When I get the job done, I went to McDonald's.

Now, since moving to Cebu, I have come to know other places that I love to go to when I wanted to eat. But none of them gives me as much comfort and a sense of home as McDonald's. Oh Ronald, if only you were a real man, then I will have nothing more to look for.

Random Memory #4: The Toy Story

When I was six years old, we moved out of our rented apartment to a house of our own. There were still five us of then: my parents, me, and my two younger brothers. The youngest, Oning, was still a year old. That was a major adjustment period for everyone in the family, especially us kids. We were used to eating good food, having our friends around, watching TV and doing all other kids stuff. When we moved in to our newly-constructed house, we had a roof and walls but no floor. We had to wear slippers all the time which we were not used to. We had no electricity yet so no TV and refrigerator. We had no running water so we had to obtain drinking water at my grandmother's house a few blocks away and do laundry at the river also a few meters away from the back of our house. Most of what we ate were also vegetables grown on our own yard because we were still recovering from all the construction expenses we had incurred. On top of all that, we were in a new environment and didn't know anyone.

My mother must be some kind of a psychic because she had the social dilemma of us kids all figured out. Granted, kids adjust very quickly to new environment but my then 3-year old brother, who is my mother's favorite child, was even more socially inept that I was. The first day we were all settled in, she displayed all our toys for all the neighborhood kids to play with. I swear, all of the toys filled one very gigantic box. Our front yard was literally like having a garage sale for toys.

Me: Where did all these toys come from?
Mother: They are all yours and your brothers'.
Me: No, they are not. I don't remember having this stuffed turtle, that neon pink kitchen set and the alien-looking doll. I don't remember playing with any of these toys at all.
Mother: That's because you have a crappy memory. That stuffed turtle was from when you were 2 years old which I hid from you because you were so attached to it that you would not let it go even after it smelled like a dead animal and needed washing. The doll was when you were 3 but you didn't play with it because it scared the crap out of you. The kitchen set was also from 3 years ago and after playing with it for 3 days straight, you got fed up with it and left it under the tree outside. You have the attention span of a mentally-retarded person.
Me: My memory is not crappy.
Mother: When you were also 2 years old we got a white puppy and named him Whitey. You loved that dog. He was with us for more than two years then he got hit by a speeding vehicle and died. A year after that incident, you can't remember having the dog anymore. Yes, your memory is crappy.

Apparently, we eventually get tired of our toys and discard them but she just swooped in after our play time, repaired the broken toys and kept all of them in a box stowed somewhere. We thought we lost those toys but she had them all along. And she did this for years.

Of course, with a gazillion toys propped up on our yard, we were the most popular kids in the neighborhood. We did not even have to make an effort to gain new friends. We just sat with our toys outside and kids who lived blocks away would pile in and asked to play with us. Even if we had no electricity or running water, all the kids thought we were filthy rich and gave us special treatment. My mother is a freakin' genius. And a toy packrat.

I still can't remember the dog though. I mean, who the hell forgets a dog named Whitey? But my father says that there really was a dog. Even my brother remembered playing with the dog. Dude, you were two years old. How the hell could you possibly remember that? I swear there's a conspiracy going on here. There are no pictures of the alleged dog. My mother said that it was buried at the back of the apartment we rented but there were no markers or tombstone. She allegedly cried when the said dog died. If it were indeed beloved, then there has got to be some remnant of its existence. The whole family is ganging up on me and my poor memory.

As for our toys, they are now buried in their respective resting places. Some in the yard, some on the roof, some changed ownership without our knowing it and others reduced to dog poop courtesy of another dog of ours that I happen to remember who bit everything that looked juicy including my father's arm, whereupon our neighbors decided that the dog was rabid and proceeded to make a recipe out of it. Unlike the dog Whitey, whose true story the conspirators will probably take to their graves, I still remember the toys very well. And even if they eventually died, its okay because they have served their purpose. Even for a short time, I knew what it was like to be a rich kid.

Random Memory # 3: Prom Nights Straight Out of Stephen King's Brain

If a memory-erasing device had been invented, I would employ such contraption to wipe out my recollection of the prom night in my junior and senior years. As this was not the case, let me recount to you the horror.

It all started with the pairing. In our school, the teachers get to decide who you should go with. If you're a junior girl, you will be paired with a senior guy and vice versa. I had no cause to complain in the partner department as I had been paired with okay guys. By okay, I mean that it could have been worse. I don't mean any offense by that. I'm pretty sure that those unfortunate guys would have gladly gone with somebody else rather than me. But like I said, they were okay. The problem lies with everything else. The clothes, the shoes, the hair, the make up, and the event itself. I had the feeling that in some distant past, these events were meant to serve as punishment. Then I read Vanity Fair and all I can say was: Boy, I am sooo glad I wasn't born in England during that era. The social functions would have been the death of me.

I really hated the prom. What's funny was that I went to two of them. What? Attendance was compulsory. I hated my clothes, my shoes and my stylist had successfully made me look not myself but some has-been movie star from the 60's. If we were just made to sit around until the whole ordeal was over, it would have been more bearable. But, nooo. We had to parade ourselves around the ballroom and I had to see everyone raise an eyebrow to outer space upon seeing me. No, I wasn't being paranoid. And to make my humiliation complete, we had to do dance numbers whereupon my ill-fitting brassiere was threatening to stop doing it's job of covering my pathetic breasts and go on strike. The only thing I was thankful for was I still had the clairvoyance to avoid any photo ops, therefore, no OMG-is-that-me pictures of myself which my friends can use to blackmail me with. If you happened to be in those prom nights with me and have an incriminating picture in your possession, please contact me so that we can agree on some terms.

The book reminicent of my prom. Carrie by Stephen King (also had a movie version)

Random Memory # 2: A Test Subject for Freud

I am like my father in so many ways. My mother said that had I been a boy, I would have been his exact carbon-copy. Unfortunately for my mother, that was to her disadvantage. I'll explain later. One of the many things that my father and I share in common is our extremely low tolerance for pain. Let me share a random memory.

I was about 4 and my father came home from a basketball game with a huge scrape on his knee (what else can you get by having 10 guys fight over one stupid ball?). Upon seeing this, my mother went into wife-mode, chastising my father for not being careful while preparing the disinfectant and some cotton balls. I, on the other hand, fascinated by how a grown person can get wounded like a scrawny kid in the playground, was examining my father's wound. Apparently, kids have high tolerance for stuff that would otherwise induce a cringe from an adult. When my mother was done with her preparations and was about to disinfect my father's knees, she relegated me to a corner from where my vantage point was limited to a view of my mother's back. The moment the alcohol-soaked cotton made contact with my father's wound, he gave out a loud howl. It brought about a panic in me and prompted me to do what I thought was called for on such occasions.

I bit my mother.

I bit her so hard that this time it was her who had to give out a loud shriek. She abandoned the idea of cleaning the wound for fear that I would bite her again until I drew blood.

Far be it for me to rationalize my actions from two decades ago, I can only say that some instinct kicked in when I thought that my father was being killed and I had to do what I had to do. Freud would probably be amused and say that I have a classic case of an Electra Complex. Maybe so. Based on my own observations, I noticed that most first-born girls have this kind of attachment to their fathers. And I really am a carbon-copy of my dad. Not only do we have similar physical features but we also share an inclination to impulsive shopping and, more importantly, a loathing for housework. Like I said, unfortunately for my mother.

Random Memory # 1

Two decades ago, I walked by myself to school. My mother would give me P1 for snacks and I would use this to buy a huge steaming bowl of benignit during recess time. Take note, the operative term is huge. I swear I could drown in that bowl. But I loved it. It was the highlight of my day. During lunchtime, I would walk back home and, after an hour, walk back to school for my afternoon classes. All this walking I do under the glaring heat of the sun as even when I was still young, I refused to carry an umbrella.

Nowadays, you will never be able to find anything you can buy for P1. Last time I checked, a benignit in a puny plastic cup now costs P5. And I mean puny because it is just a little more than a shot glass.

I still refuse to carry an umbrella but, except on the beach with tons of sunscreen, I no longer brave the sun's heat after 10am. Are you kidding? I do not want to die of heatstroke. That would be a very lousy way to go. I'd rather jump out of a tall building, preferably with a huge crowd and media coverage, for maximum effect.