Culture

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.

I have a confession to make. I hate watching burly, sweaty men engage in repetitive, seemingly senseless attempts to beat the living daylights out of each other. That’s why I was never a boxing (and basketball) fan. But thanks to the perpetual advertisements, the amusing arguments by congressmen for trips to Las Vegas and the endless barbs thrown at each other by patriots and traitors to the Filipino race, I was finally hypnotized into standing still with the rest of the nation— for two whole rounds.

Well that was a whole lot of… How could Hatton disappoint us so? He broke even the hearts of some Filipinos, not the ones who were cheated out of twelve rounds of beer and oily grub (they went on consuming their cholesterol/hypertension feasts while watching the replays) but the ones who really looked highly at Hatton.

I had high expectations of Hatton. I thought that he would finally be the one who could send Filipinos spiraling into hopelessness and reduce a national hero to a 15-minute footnote in history. I felt so bad that he went down so easily and so quickly. By Hatton’s own admission, he got depressed over his loss to Mayweather. I can only imagine how devastated he is right now.

What’s next for Hatton?

I have another confession to make. The hype has taken over my consciousness so deeply that I stayed up till midnight to watch the Pacquiao-Hatton 24/7 documentary special. From the stark contrast between East and West, I’d say Pacquiao will have even tougher challenges to face than Hatton. At least the Hitman can return to his “quiet” (compared to Pacquiao’s) English life. Pacquiao has the tremendous burden of once more having to take upon his shoulders the weight of the hopes and dreams of a long suffering nation. He’d have to carry his cross all the way to Mayweather or (gasp! God forbid) all the way to congress!

Defeating Mayweather or the crocodiles in congress will mean he’ll have lifted us a few inches higher in our own esteem.

Last week had its fair share of environmental depressants. That’s thanks to the Sulu kidnappings, Manalili’s commuted sentence and Chip Tsao’s overboard apology. One piece of news though caught my attention in particular. Surprisingly, it was more amusing than depressing.

Mindanao Goldstar’s April 4-5 weekend issue published a paid article that presented a certain Dr. Salvacion Legaspi-Kempe’s claim that a Chinese settler once owned the Philippines. According to her documents, the English Supreme Court issued a decree on January 17, 1764 that gave Prince Lacan Acuña ownership of the Philippines. Kempe who is from Iligan is allegedly a descendant of Acuña. Which means…

Okaaaaaay…

Even if there is some truth to the claim, one would still wonder what the whole point of the article is. Does it intend to just make an announcement, to declare an intention to pursue the claim or to invite ridicule?

One would also wonder why anyone with functional faculties would like to present a counter argument against a collective racial inheritance. For whoever owns the beauty and natural wealth of our country also inherits the monumental troubles of a beleaguered people.

With that being said, would you want to be the sole owner of the Philippines if you had the chance? What would you do if you did own the country?

I know what I would do first. I’d require all aspiring politicians to go through a year of community service and immersion in impoverished communities, Abu Sayyaf lairs and calamity areas. That way, they don’t need to take acting classes to look more convincing when they try to relate to the common man in their political ads (By the way, Mar Roxas has already driven a trisikad on T.V.). Either that or they get to sit with John Lapus on national television for a session of Don’t Lie to Me.