Hello, Hello, Hello Dearest Mother of Self

Dearest Mum went with brother on his boat and they docked at Bacolod and issued a dinner invitation to all the relatives. The invitation was to 21 Restaurant on Lacson Street which, as all dear blog readers from Bacolod know, is rather “high end.”

Then they sailed to Guimaras.

Then to Isla Naburot.

Dearest Mum went, Remember that place you told me about, in Isla Naburot?

Self wouldn’t know. She’s never been to Isla Naburot. She’s never been to Guimaras, either. What happened was, she told Dearest Mum about Isla Naburot because she learned about it from a book.

Dearest Mum suggests that self tell mother-in-law to sell her property in Boracay, it will make her really rich.

And then?

And then you can live in Boracay! Dearest Mum replies.

Why would self want to live in Boracay? Besides, she can’t tell mother-in-law what to do. That’s her own business, what her family wants to do with their land.

(Does self have some kind of speech impediment? Because she seems to be having real difficulty getting her family to understand her. It seems she’s been over this ground, countless times in the past six months):

Boracay is Make-Out Central. People go there to get laid. In D’Mall, you will see many old foreign men snogging with skinny young Filipinas. The last time self was in Boracay, son was nearly mobbed by a band of secretaries on holiday. Seriously, these women were nuts! They walked right through self as if she were invisible and made for her nephew (at that time, just 16) and son, standing immediately behind her! It was almost like being stampeded by a horde of elephants! After that, the only way self could relax was to down The Blue Boracay! Self’s face got really red, redder than it’s ever been, and nephew and son claimed self was drunk. Which self wasn’t. She was just — exploding. What was IN that thing? Top shelf tequila and what else? Now self thinks: More Blue Boracay! More! That is the only sure-fire way to ensure that self remains calm while conversing with Dearest Mum!

Dearest Mum says she is sending self some T-shirts.

T-shirts? I’m fat now, self says (especially after that corned beef hash in “Country Kitchen” yesterday. That one meal is the reason why there is now an extra inch of fat adorning self’s waist).

Well, then, would you like some pastillas? I’m sending your Uncle the extra-special kind, the tostada kind.

(What the hell are tostada pastillas?) But, in lieu of stating what is really on her mind, self sweetly answers: Oh, yes, Dearest Mum! I looove pastillas! Hubby is just crrrraazy about pastillas! Make sure you send three boxes! Remember, I WANT THREE.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

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