Religion Wars

Sometimes,  a mother and daughter relationship is like Christianity vs. Islam. One or the other always wanted to be the top banana in the Crusade.

***

To those people who really knows me KNOWS that they don’t really know me. Can’t blame them. I welcome questions like I welcome a porcupine’s embrace. Add to that, I flit around social circles like a goggle-eyed dragonfly.

My mother had the same problem too. She claims she doesn’t know me. I suppose, it’s partly my fault as to why this is the case. The thing is though, when you grew up trained to have only your shadow as your confidant, you get used to keeping things to yourself. Plus, I used to really hate arguements, so whenever I’m about to encounter one, I automatically would raise the white flag and allow myself to get pushed in whatever direction they wanted me to go.

The time I was fourteen, I discovered that I have a mouth. With that discovery also came the realization that I can use it to greater use. Bravely, I went up to my mother and said, "Ma, I no longer want my bedroom walls to be white. I want it orange." I argued about the virtue of changes and that one’s aesthetic preference should be exercise. My mother agreed. So she started exercising her own preference and change my walls a dull cream color.

Two years later, she grew busy with her businesses and pack off her coin-operated girl into a very nice Jesuit college somewhere in Quezon City. 

It was, at those times, that I did I very good job at screwing my life around.

***

I grew a backbone after several falls. My mother, though, called it "horns" instead of backbone. The day I started going out wearing a blouse without any sleeves was the day she realizes that she has been a very neglectful mother. She realizes that her ex-choirgirl doll of a daughter has developed a mind of her own.

"That blouse makes you look like a hooker," my mother commented as she eyed a ruffled red blouse with plunging neckline. "Red is too racy. Wear pink instead."

"Ma," screwing close the lipstick tube, I answered, "pink makes me look blotchy. And besides, I know I look good in red."

"Hmmmp." She frowned as she crosses her arms.  "But the neckline is too deep. Eyes will feast on you!"

"Then let them look. If you got it, flaunt it." I winked at her, then looked back at the mirror to fix my hair.

She picked up a thin black paperback lying on top of my pillow. The cover doesn’t have any title in it, so she flipped it open to the first page.

"Aiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee!!!! Why are you keeping a satanist’s book???" her nostril flared like Seabiscuit on a bad mood. "What satanist’s book?" raising an eyebrow, I looked at the book she’s waving in front of my face. Ang Paboritong Libro ni Hudas by Bob Ong, it read. I stiffled a laugh.

"Ma, read it. It’s good." And then maybe you’ll stop judging a book by its cover, I thought.

"I don’t want to. It’s looks scary." Throwing the book back into my bed.

"Then you’ll never get to know that it’s actually a Book of Prediction saying that Donita Rose is going to be the next Pope." I said lightly.

My mother just rolled her eyes, left my room and muttered something that sounds suspiciously like, "heretic". The next day, I found a rosary and a missalette under my pillow.

Boy, tough old cookies needed to lighten up sometimes.

***

A week after the Pinoypoets Anniversary, I parked my sociable ass inside the house and reviewed for my rusty domestic capabilities. One of our household help that time, you see, was in limbo-love with her security guard boyfriend and she told me she was thinking of marrying the labopherlyp… which would leave us with the other help whose only specialty in the kitchen is boiled water.

My basic instinct told me that should I ever wanted to eat something edible again, I ought to start channeling the Martha Stewart in me. Holding the fridge door open and trying to contemplate what dish I could concoct with only button mushrooms on hand, I heard a loud "Aha!" in my room.

That sound doesn’t surprise me anymore. My mother, much as I love her, would always snoop for secrets inside her daughter’s room. When I was younger, we used to have a row regarding "respecting each other’s space". But then, I never get to cure her out of this irritating habit. Sometimes, in my most insane mood, I wanted to hide a naked boy inside my closet, place a whole pot of doobie in my desk, and plant a M2 .50 Cal machine gun in the middle of room.

"One… two… three…" Sure enough, at the count of five, my mother appeared before me holding a packet of condom. "What is this?" She asked as her basilisk glare waited for an answer.

"It’s condom, Ma." I was cool as cold cream. It was all I could do to stop myself from rolling my eyes in her view. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful but I thought that she was acting very theatrical at the sight of a contraception. Sure, I already know that she has beliefs as old as the Paleozoic Era, but supposing that I do have an active fornication campaign, she should at least consider that she sure isn’t going to have an unplanned grand kid from me.

"I know it’s condom," her nose was still flaring, "What I wanted to know is why you have it in your purse?"

Now dearest of readers, why do you suppose a single girl who gets drunk and pose nekkid for fun have a pack of condom in her bag?

a) Because she just joined an outreach program for abandoned children and she needed "plastic balloons" for entertainment?

b) Because she was absent in her sex ed class during high school and she’s just curious as to the types of contraceptions?

c) Because she’s a girl scout and would like to be ready in case she "bumped" into a cute guy in the dairy section of the grocery store?

Whatever you choose, please try again until you ran out of options.

"Remember my poetry org’s anniversary at Conspiracy? Well, Frenzy Condom is one of the sponsors. I took home a whole bag of it, in case you didn’t notice the green bag sitting in my desk." I explained. "You want some?" I teased her.

"Pfffft." She huffed and threw up her hands in the air. Her basilisk glare melted, then she walked out of the kitchen.

I guess that means that she won’t be snooping inside my room so soon. Again, I disappointed her at the tameness of my answer. Maybe in time, she’ll come to realize that her crazy daughter isn’t really as crazy as she seems to be.

And when that time comes, boy… I will surely miss the basilisk glare.

Naaaahh.