Putting one over Starbucks
Bwahahahar! We managed to put one over on Starbucks! We got one of those hardbound journal/planners it offers to customers who fill out a card with 21 stickers, with each sticker representing a drink — tea, coffee, juice or frappucinno.
After an entire month of waiting around various Starbucks branches in Katipunan, Tomas Morato, Timog, Malate, Araneta Center and Robinson’s Place, my husband and I surrendered the sticker card earlier tonight and got the journal. Nah, we didn’t spend over P2000 just to get it, but we did beg, wheedle, politely ask bona fide customers for their receipts and claimed their stickers to put in our card and voila! we got all 21 stickers and the journal.
All the stares and funny looks we got for scrounging under tables and near the litter bins like a pair of hoboes are all worth it. I think the barristas and the security guards were secretly rooting for us because not once were we accosted as we siddled up to various customers:
"Miss, gagamitin nyo ba yang resibo? Pwede amin na lang?"
"Sir, could we have that receipt after you’ve claimed your drink?"
"Ma’am, akin na lang yang resibo nyo ha?"
"Excuse me miss, may kukunin lang ako sa ilalim ng mesa nyo, ha. Gagapang lang ako sandali dyan…"
My husband even went so far as to line up at the claim counter and peek at the receipts of waiting customers to determine if they ordered ‘reindeer-worthy’ drinks (the special Christmas drinks that merit reindeer-marked stickers and are thus more valuable) or only ’snowflake’ drinks (the usual concoctions the upper peti-borgeois and the spoiled rich can get all year-round like caramel frappucinos or ice tea).
We laughed like hyenas on the way home.
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The first book I made a most strong attachment to is Michael Ende’s "The Neverending Story." I first read it when I was nine and in fifth grade. I remember going to sleep with the book under my pillow, wishing so hard that when I woke up, I would be inside the story and I’d meet The Golden-Eyed Commander of Wishes, Falkor and Atreyu.
I never really told anyone about this childhood strangeness of mine — of being so involved with books that I wanted to escape into them ala Madame Bovary. It wasn’t at all as if I was desperate to run away from home; it was more like, well, for the most part I didn’t have too many friends (underdeveloped social skills; plus the kids my age in the neighborhood played volleyball instead of reading. I got hit once in the face by a Mikasa, and I’ve sworn off volleyball or any other sport involving balls forever. This is something TS Garp and I have in common), and the books my parents gave me were always full of people who lives charming lives and always had the most interesting conversations.
I’m writing this because suddenly it’s Christmas, and it was in Christmas eve 1985 when I went to bed dreaming of Fantastica, wishing I could visit Groggaman The Many Colored Death. I had already made up a list in my head about all the things I wanted to talk about — the nature of wishes; how stories are made and where they go after they’ve been told; whether stories have separate lives from those who made them up; and how was it that I often had the most Dali-worthy dreams like those of giant cherries being lifted onto coral promontories by hordes of flying goldfish wearing top hats.
I snuggled in my bed, under the covers hugging the book and I actually believed that the next time I opened my eyes I would be in Fantastica, and the Child-like Empress would tell me that all my questions would be answered, and my dearest wishes granted.
Instead, when I was woke up, it was already Christmas morning: my parents,sister and I slept right through Noche Buena. I felt my dad’s hand, gently brushing my hair away from my forehead. I heard my mother setting the table and exclaiming how well-behaved the cats were: they didn’t touch the roasted chicken left on top of the refrigerator. My sister — a mature 11-year old, was already in the sala, her be-ribboned, origami-wrapped gifts for all us in a pile next to her on the sofa.
We ate chicken, fruit and salad then gave our presents to each other while the sun rays streamed through the window and neighbors were yelling out "Meri Krismas!" to everyone else. My father tipped a finger-measure of champagne into my milk mug and laughed when I spat the bubbly water out: "iiiiiiick, ang asim naman nito!"
It was like being in Fantastica — surrounded by the people I loved most in the world, and feeling safe and secure in their affection.
Merry Christmas everyone! 
