The Never Ending Story

In life God doesn't give you the people you want, instead He gives you the people you need. To teach you, to hurt you, to love you, and make you exactly the way you should be.

Alas! Just when I thought I have ranted some awful feelings out to zilch and calmed myself enough to carry me through blissful the-sky-is-blue-let’s-whistle-happy-tunes-and-roll-on-the-beauteous-dandelion-fields state of tranquility and peace, my wits continue to be tested. A big part of me wants to crumple the issues and toss them straight into the rubbish bin, but they keep sprouting like the pesky mold in their unkempt laundry room (oops, I shouldn’t say that, I “owe” them a couple of years of shelter that I will forever be grateful for – though I, by the way, lost the intention to help clean as the months wore on since I always found myself cleaning someone else’s mess anyway. I remember back then when I was pregnant and raging hormones pushed me to walk around the house with a black garbage bag, cleaning and picking up junk strewn around for them to never see the light of day again – which went missing yet unnoticed anyway). I digress.

And so I can’t help but find myself writing again, and facing these little issues dead on. I tried silence, decency and civility. I tried LOVE. Lots of it. Only to be misconstrued as tainted with ulterior selfish motives that never even crossed my mind to begin with. Ergo, to no avail. Ergo, futile, baby, futile. I still heard truckloads of shizz dumped behind our backs by the world’s emerging arch-nemesis of all time, yes, the one disguised as the underdog, appealing to pity from everyone (and I still can’t believe how a big part of the populace can still be deceived -- biting into the pity apple nonetheless). So now, despite my fallen attempts to step on the breaks of this speeding train of ugly thoughts and just be unconditionally mum like a real lady should, the momentum still sends my wits careening wildly off the axis, and yes skidding sideways and still unyielding, unstoppably mad…and crazy, and perhaps, grudgingly.  I still have a lot of growing up to do.  But don’t we all? I still have a lot of healing to do.  And don’t we all!

After all, this blog is like a receptacle where I can pour out all the undesirables of my life into.  Like emptying a tank full of offensive material, I am able to displace the ugliness shoved down every orifice of my being and make space to allow the peace that I so deserve to come in.

Woooosahhhhhh!

Here it is.

I just heard from the grapevine that once upon a time, I was accused of recycling a gift to my now late mother-in-law whose memory then had long been lost.  I guess it happened in one of those birthdays or Christmases where she ended up receiving the exact same gift from the hubs and I. How funny that it sent the silent drama queen (yes the same seemingly “meek” underdog-wannabe character I was talking about, appealing to everyone else’s pity which is really pathetic since their lives could really be better if they only wanted to strive to be better, work harder, or simply work, period) into bouts of ill-feelings about me yet too scared and spineless to confront the situation.  Had she done that, I would have showed the receipt of my purchase of this toiletry set present we gave.  Like, hello! In fact, I felt really awkward giving my MIL something from Ross or was it Marshalls in the city because I felt it was too cheap but it was all we could afford that time, and it was the most appropriate and practical present I could find. But lo and behold, apparently, it was the exact same item she received from someone else on one of her past birthdays – which as I have confirmed last night, was among the bunch of gifts we (the hubs and I) brought back to the care home from the cluttered corner of the family house, in those big boxes and black bags (I think, I can’t even remember) a few months before the “confusion” happened (I still don’t want to consider it an accusation). In fact, I remember seeing the duplicate when we were going through her stuff, minus a few pieces I guess. Must have been used.  Good.

It was a tragic yet extremely funny insult to the ego. My breath got so hot I thought I turned into a dragon spewing nostril flames born of rage and frustration, because it's not from that subject alone.  The gash runs deep. First of, I don’t recycle gifts.  But I am practical. If in the future by some catastrophic economic constraints *knock on wood!* I would need to resort to it, I will recycle a few (just to be honest), but I will not be that stupid (oooops, sensitive word!) and disrespectful to give it to the same person no matter how profound the degree of dementia he’s in. I will send it across the miles for sure, however. LOL.

Second of all, I never scrimped on my late mother-in-law. In fact, whenever times were good, I always had a new set of clothes for her even if she only needed clothes in the care home. She always had something nicer than sweats and jammies to wear each time we took her out to eat. In fact, after she had passed and the care home sent back her belongings to us, I found (and still keep to this day) the boxes of accessories the hubs and I bought for her for the special occasions in her last years here on earth.  One was a beautiful set of white and blue oval pearls which I yearn to wear since I love pearls but still couldn’t find the guts to do. We bought it for her, it’s hers. It’s not mine. We’re thinking of giving them to her two sisters here, since I’ve given the other one already to her third sister in PI. Maybe.  Oh well, I’m not here to rub my brownie points on people’s faces.  You know what I’m sayin'.

If there’s anything I want to rub, or stick and stamp for that matter, it’s the infamous receipt of the duplicate gift.  Oh no, I want to be nice.  I’ll stick it on my forehead instead whilst doing the monkey dance as a show of protest, so the evil-doers will never win over the do-gooders. Fine, it was an honest mistake. I hear ya. But still unnerving, nonetheless.  Especially when thrown into the same boiling pot of ugly things that have been happening, a repulsive stew to feast on, no less.

So, let’s look at the bigger picture.  Miles away and far beyond this microscopic issue at hand. It is rather sad that the quote-unquote “underdog” who is showing her true colors by back-stabbing, shizz-talking and ego-tripping amidst her still incredibly pitiful tales still wins over the sympathy of the oblivious audience.

That is what itches and stings like hell.  I still cannot fathom how people can stomach and be capable of such deceitful schemes. Vengeful from years of destitution borne of sloth vis-a-vis complacency and underachievement? Greedy and salivating profusely for the ready comforts forbears have left behind? Or just downright calloused perhaps?

And the real victims in this never-ending saga (i.e. the hardworking and big-hearted hubs plus his brothas) still appear to be the gut-wrenching scoundrels of all time. What a bummer. It's boring a gaping hole in my heart. Perhaps because unfortunately, they look the part? Hilarious.  And people tend to look past the truth, allowing themselves to be swayed by sob stories that never were.

Truly hilarious, don’t you think?

And why am I not surprised?







Stop telling lies about me and I will stop telling the truth about you.
~Michael Douglas (Wall Street Money Never Sleeps)



12/07/10 -- PS. Here are updates on this colorful journey.