Culture

If it weren’t for this dress’ brand tag and the two lines in front that I took to mean “This side up” I wouldn’t have known front from back. I don’t like dresses but I had to get one for a family affair. My fashion consultant, a.k.a. my husband, who is also my makeup and footwear adviser (I hope he’s not gay), picked this one. I suspect it’s because this is the one that can hide my convex curves best.

The dress was only the first hurdle. There were a hundred other things to think about— hair, makeup, shoes, accessories, dead skin cells, constantly forgetting to sit with my legs crossed, etc. For most of these I figured I just needed some Gatsby, extreme facial exfoliation, ancient baubles from Jack Sparrow’s chest and an appointment with a Halloween makeup artist. My only real great problem was the footwear. Would my dress look best with Nike or Addidas?

I kept an old pair of heels (clearly for emergency purposes) in a box along with other things I’d rather forget. Because I was certain rubber shoes would be treated like an atrocity, I had to take out the heels for a test walk. Shortly after, a trail of fine white powder started following me. Oh yeah, that’s right. Like a lot of other things you bury for three years, earth friendly sandals decompose. The fine powder was parts of it joining Mother Earth.

Of course I had to get a new pair. My first order of business was to ask the sales clerk if I could swap my pick for a pair of sneakers if I came to my senses in a day or two.

Problems solved.

Not really. Despite the ingeniously designed dress, the facial diamond peeling and the new sandals, there was a great deal of pain, discomfort and feeling like fish out of water. The dress clung on sweaty skin, the makeup artist made me look like a cheap walking undead movie extra and the heels felt like weapons of mass destruction, massively destroying the muscles in my legs.

I can’t believe any female can be feminine and be entirely comfortable.

I distinctly remember the power of pregnancy, not the “life-changing, awe-inspiring realization of true womanhood” kind of power. I mean the power to cut through lines and attract free unsolicited assistance anytime, anywhere. All I needed to do was exaggerate the difficulty of carrying the biological basketball in front of me and even snatchers gave me a free pass.

Last month, I witnessed an even greater kind of power, the power of senior citizenship. My mother despite having hidden her real age in a top secret, maximum security facility, finally gave a clue to the number of corrupt presidential terms she’s had to live through.

She is at least 6 decades old. The senior citizen card she keeps in a special red flip case proves she passed the application to the exclusive twilight club. Amazingly, her age was an advantage for us when we were in Cebu. We used her like a charm. Everywhere we aimed her at, we got great deals. How did she do it? Aside from discreetly making her eyes glow red in front of service crew, she flashed her ID card like a police badge and exerted her power of discount!

In instances when cashiers declared ignorance over the procedure for processing senior citizen discounts, my mother said the magic words, “I’ll report.” Those that actually cared for their employers suddenly gained the exemplary research abilities of doctorate degree candidates and found out how to work the calculator.

When we left, my mom was still having a blast with her badge but she did have one issue and she asked me to blog about it. Apparently, some who get shown the senior badge kick, scream or put up a fight.

Cebu’s water district is subtle about it but they seem to be succeeding at discouraging some of the more arthritic seniors from jumping through hoops and loops to get price cuts. Ma says, showing the senior ID isn’t enough. To get the discount that’s mandated by law, she’s required to submit a number of documents and a photo of herself holding a recent newspaper issue.

Maybe ma should start using her laser beams.

My husband just got a drinking table for our new apartment. This simply means that either hell has to freeze over or heaven has to go up in flames before he changes his stripes and gives up the artificial source of his spirited self. The old snob in me who used to have tea and cakes with dead classical musicians and writers would have quoted the raven’s “nevermore…” and promptly descended into madness. But I am not my old self.

I have seen the light and logic behind his band of drunk brothers. It is thanks to his brotherhood that we were able to transfer all our things to our apartment for free, get a cable internet connection where no lines exist and get price cuts on expensive appliances. I suspect his brotherhood will soon also assist us in getting discounts for the new baby’s infant formula.

Lo and behold the wonders of bonds formed over alcohol. Maybe I should learn how to drink too.

I delivered both my babies through CS and both times I received the same pieces of advice from the elders. In true Pinoy tradition, I was told not to take a bath and to avoid all manner of work, including reading, for at least two weeks.

Being a product of my time, I took my doctor’s advice instead and took a bath after three days. Youthful pride however was not my only source of motivation. Every Filipino knows that keeping away from water for more than a week in the Philippines is just about the fastest way to make dreadlocks and to attract all sorts of unmentionable little critters. I had to take a bath.

I also threw the rest of their suggestions out of the window and started tinkering with the laptop as soon as the pain killers kicked in. If you don’t strike while the iron is hot, you’ll either never get Excalibur fashioned or you’ll never get your clothes ironed.

So what did I reap for my lack of faith in the old ways? I got away unscathed the first time but after about a week of disobedience after my second delivery, a couple of my stitches came undone. The sight of fresh, oozing fluids sent me into a cold shock and a fit of vomiting, precipitated more by fear than by squeamishness.

Yes, they told me so and once again it seems they knew what they were talking about. Dreadlocks aren’t half as bad as paranoid dreams of spilled guts and an infection.

After years of whining, my long suffering husband finally decided to give in and rent a place for us to nest on. Our recent transfer explains my long absence from the blogosphere.

For once, it felt great to be severed from my online haunts. Finally, I am the mistress of my own kingdom although the color of this kingdom gives me the crossed feeling of experiencing Dora’s vibrant Latin roots and being inside Barney’s belly in the middle of an indigestion. The mustard walls seem both uplifting and maddening. No vomit inducing technique however will ever force me to exit Barney’s belly. I’ll stay here for as long as it takes to get my own place with the right colors.

I’m supposed to be flipping with glee and giving Barney an even more severe tummy ache but as with everything else, there’s always a price to pay. Aside from the numerous multi-legged pests that show up with little warning in the middle of the night with the seeming intent of killing me by surprise, I find myself missing part of the reason I left my home of six years.

I had thought that what I wanted was to be away from the noise and perpetual happiness that exemplify THE Filipino, but seeing my toddler in the earliest case of inconsolable depression I had ever seen and my husband nearly in tears broke my heart to little bits. The worst part is that whatever they have seems contagious. When once I was happiest on my own, I find myself missing the endless pork feasts, drink fests, chatter sprees and karaoke marathons not to mention the mountains of plates that have to be washed afterwards. After six years, I am finally becoming Filipino, I think.

I wonder if moving into Barney’s belly has been for the best.

To the utter disbelief of some of my friends, I wrote a post here somewhere lauding the work ethics of some government employees. Some people I know still don’t believe that there are some public servants who aren’t made to make life for the public difficult. There are some good bananas among them. I swear.

Recently though, the other side of government employees which my friends are all too familiar with, clouded my eye like a mass of eye boogers (muta for the uninitiated and rheum for the language police). Yes, the picture here is a picture of government employees watching a.) stars fall down from the sky; b.) a basketball game or c.) their reflections on a puddle of water during office hours. To give them the benefit of the doubt, let’s just say they’re having a legitimate break. Wow, so many people on a break all at once, huh? If I’m not mistaken there are three or four floors to this building and they all have people on a “break.” It’s as if there isn’t enough work to go around but taxpayers still have to pay their salaries anyway.

I once thought they looked like birds on an electric wire, preferably a live electric wire, but they also look like soft drink cans all lined in a row. The kind of cans my brother once used for… um… target practice.

I’d forgotten how powerful a baby bump can be. It seems the bigger my baby grows the more I can strut with reckless abandon and expect everyone to clear the way. They really do. All of a sudden I never have to stand in line and people immediately vacate the doughnut stand when they see me coming. My baby plays his part to a tee. His limbs move every which was as if to say, “Move over.”

This only really happens though when I am in a standing position. Although I am due next month, my belly is small and when I sit, I just look like I have a huge beer belly and people have to look twice to confirm my condition and my gender.

I can feel it my bones though. My boy is going to be a little Napoleon of sorts— all that huffing and puffing in such a small package.

A thought came to me on a warm and unholy night as I was listening to the self-confessed miseries of an intoxicated 57 year old man. Just what do you live for when all your kids are grown up and you are all alone? What do you do when you are old and weary and you have no kids?

I know of others. At least three of them are approaching the twilight years single and unattached, having spent the duration of their lives caring and providing for their biological families. Whether their status is by design or out of necessity, I can never tell.

I am uncertain too if living mainly for others is a fact of Filipino life. I am nowhere close to unraveling the meaning of life and I suspect I would not come close even if I were also to intoxicate the very tips of my toes. But it seems a pity when one cannot live for oneself.

The spiritual are most fortunate because when the self is insufficient, there is at least a higher being.

I have nothing, nothing, nothinggggg eeeef I don’t haaave youuuuuwooo…

I hate them and would rather be caught with my pants down than wearing a pair of them. I did make my kid wear a pair once because there was one free white pair and she had small feet. Mine are already large and hideous and a pair of adult, multi colored, butterfly enhanced Crocs will only highlight their Hobbit-like form and my utter lack of fashion sense. Besides, the price of one pair can already buy thirty six large bottles of beer for my husband or pay for one month’s tuition for my daughter. I’d prefer the beer for my heavily insured husband or the education for my girl than crocodile feet.

But I respect your desire and right to wear them. I may not have to suffer long though at the sight of your feet. According to a report from The Washington Post, the company that manufactures Crocs may be going down the financial drain. It seems people are cutting down on expenses or simply don’t need to buy another pair when they already have one very durable pair.

I may not like them but I find this sad news. It’s always a pity when innovative people who have met with some success suddenly find themselves at the bottom of the wheel of life.

Oh when will they quit? When will they stop forcing these abnormally groomed, armpit hair-less, atypical freaks of nature into the consciousness of Filipinos? The secret truth is that we don’t really mind, do we? We like looking at these handsome boys. Even the men do. But isn’t it an overkill for F4 to be reborn a fourth time?

First we had these guys,

then these,

then more of the same look,

now here they go again?

They do say though that the fourth version, which is made in China is wholly forgettable. Fan girl critics say the Chinese version lacks the innate facial prowess potential of the other dolled up ones. They do look like twigs or boys over whom puberty was forced upon. Since I am pregnant and many Filipinos believe that visual images can affect how babies look like, I’m sticking to ogling the abnormal ones that still have a semblance of normalcy.

Incidentally, since Philippine T.V. is already busy ripping off the stories of successful Asian dramas, isn’t it about time we have our own version of F4? My personal pick for the lead roles are:

Guess who the lead girl does NOT end up with.