Baby Warbucks

More than ever, life, as we know it is getting increasingly uncomfortable.

Last week, a most peculiar story came my way. A friend of mine was invited for drinks in her new lust interest’s home. With an invitation like this, the vision of a dimmed room, Diptyque candles aglow hinting of the blaze of heat to come, and the soundtrack of In The Mood For Love playing softly as if it were whispering sweet nothings, came to mind. My friend was resolved not to close the deal despite the romantic setting she anticipated. Of course, she was still enjoying the seduction dance, and ending it now would be somewhat anti-climactic and an abbreviation of an otherwise promising romance. So, she decided to leave her legs and fingers crossed.

She drove to his apartment in Fort Bonifacio. It was an impressive address, but she tried not to let that get to her, even if power and success held its own potent seductive stench for this materialistic corporate climber. As she arrived, she already knew that without even putting out, she had entered ground zero for disaster.

First, the dimly-lit den of carnal pleasure turned out to be a halogen-lit mecca of country-style furnishings, chintz and brocade filling the luxurious space that overlooked the rest of the city with southern pride. Was he gay? My friend was looking forward to her first pomegranate martini instead of the lurid highball of Scotch that she was anticipating given the Queer Eye from Arkansas decor. Then her "man" came out. He still seemed straight and gorgeous; he seemed enthralled to see her in her hooker best. They sat on the chintz couch, most probably from Kreiss or Baker; it smelled like perfume, and it dawned on her as he asked for the wine in the fridge from the uniformed nanny that he was living with his folks.

It all made sense. The guy was the poster boy for nepotism. He was VP of his dad’s company when he turned 27, lording it over self-made executives with scholarships from the most prestigious schools in the Philippines and some even from the US under their belt, while he barely graduated from some rich kid college. He drove a sweet ride despite being only 28, and the fact that she for a second believed that he owned the flat made her laugh at her naïveté. My friend has always prided herself on being worldly, just because she spent a summer in NY doing a summer program for NYU. Which was actually also very annoying. Anyway, she had her glass of chilled wine set on a crocheted coaster to guard the antique coffee table from watermarks.

He tried to kiss her just before they were about to leave, when the voice of the mother stauted wailing like a desperate siren in the kitchen admonishing the help. Talk about a val for the gal. She greeted the Queen of the Chintz Palace graciously despite being eyeballed for her trashy but chic outfit. Suddenly, she wanted more wine from the fridge.

Anyway, what happened to my friend next is still an anomaly. She continued seeing Baby
Warbucks, secretly sleeping in his room and tiptoeing out just before dawn to her own apartment with the CBMs (contrabida maids) looking on hoping to earn brownie points with the Queen of Chintz with juicy information that her dear loving Bimmer-driving son was no longer a virgin.

I mean, I remember in high school I would have dinner at my boyfriend’s house, which by the way had the best food in the world. We would go to his room or his sister’s room to watch videos afterwards. It was fun and seemed like the coolest thing to do at the time.

Timing is everything. You show love and attachment to mom as a teen; it’s disarming for a girl to witness in a time of affected rebellion. You show the same Electra veneration, and may I add submissiveness, at say 30, it’s scary. My boyfriend loves his mother to high heavens, but he has also detached himself at a very early age, living away from home at 18, working odd jobs to earn his keep. He takes her to dinners and buys her little things when we travel, but I don’t see him drunk-dialing her and crying and begging for her approval. An affliction lots and lots of Pinoy men have and which they think is endearing. Guys, it’s creeeeepy!

What is this phenomenon sweeping the nation, generation to generation? It’s the epidemic of grown men living it up at the ancestral home. It’s when successful, financially capable men still choose to live in the ancestral home. In the Philippines, it’s mostly the norm. The men sort of move out when they’re married, and the spoiled mother makes the newlywed’s lovenest her second home. Some don’t even move out at all, and they all live in one house, spawn included. I can understand the fiscal crisis may have handicapped our ability for independent living, making the childhood bedroom a sensible option. However, there are those who drive Porsches, have 401ks all over the place and go to the Maldives for Easter, and still live with mom and dad. Well, I mean, really, why shouldn’t they? They never have to worry about laundry, food, cleaning, and, hopefully, curfew is not a problem. Bills? What bills? But there is a big difference between a successful man living on his own and a successful man with parent appendages. Like the difference between fresh-from-the-oven biscuits and day-old bread, there’s something moldy about them.

It’s not only the men. There’s no double-standard when it comes to cutting the umbilical cord. I moved out of the house almost a year ago. Considered a little late by world standards, although I did live away from them after college to study/party abroad (but that doesn’t count). I saw that I could afford to finally move out of my childhood bedroom if I just cut corners i.e. outfit costs. You see, parents are never the enemy. You are your own worst enemy. Before moving out, I spent copious amounts of money on nonsense. Of course, it helps when parents are supportive of your move. Some really dangle the luxury carrot once we start playing thoughts of wanting to stray: feeding you your favorite food, throwing cash and clothes at you just so you won’t leave them. A friend’s dad even went as far as pretending to be sick just so she’ll stay. Mine thought I was going to live a life of sin the moment I moved out. I’m pretty thankful that they just let it be though, and what I discovered when I did was that I loved being alone. I loved holing up in my bedroom with the glory of my 60-inch TV flashing back-to-back episodes of my favorite TV shows. I loved the thought of reading a book and not hearing anybody’s voice but mine.

Living alone in a country where people are never expected to leave the nest until they are disowned or if they’re lucky – married – can raise questions. I never realized what an issue it was for a girl like me to be living alone. I was wanton in the eyes of my self-pitying parents. However, nothing will beat the grown men who bring random chicks home. Parents: boys will be boys. Your home is a motel. Let him go, please! Of course, not everyone is a scum bag, but really how happening is it with all of your success and hard-earned moolah you still have to take off your shoes after a hard night burning the midnight oil, so that you won’t soil your mother’s carpet? If you’re a Baby Warbucks (applies only to Baby Warbucks: financially independent man with no handicaps who still lives with parents) take heed: it’s never to late to reclaim your dignity. Plus one last word on living alone: If the going gets tough, there’s always pizza delivery.