Caustic Thoughts

Random funny thoughts with a taste of Pinoy and a hint of acid.

Band of Drunk Brothers

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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.

Rumor Has Bitten the Tiger

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Because I live in the Philippines, I have never met or known of anyone who has a prenuptial agreement. When there are more poor people than ants, a prenup is a word encountered only in the dictionary. Which is why for me, the current development to the Tiger Woods drama is nothing short of strange.

Rumor has it that Tiger had a car accident because his wife, Elin chased him with a golf club and actually managed to smash his windshield. Rumor has it that Elin finally cracked after discovering Tiger’s extramarital transgressions. Rumor has it that Elin is now renegotiating their prenuptial agreement. The initial agreement was for her to receive $20 million after twenty years of marriage. Rumor has it that she’s asking for an outright payment of $5 million and $55 million more to stay with Tiger for two more years.

The numbers alone are staggering but what I find even more perplexing is how anyone can go down on one knee and ask for someone’s hand in marriage with a diamond ring and prenup papers. So much for, “I’ll love you no matter what.” This just supports the theory that romantic love is really a fairytale.

The Fallen

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press freedomThere is a monument for press freedom in Cagayan de Oro with names of fallen journalists on one side. There are empty spaces around the names that are already there. My father-in-law thinks the structure is a horrible idea. Nobody wants to have his name there, even if it means having a name etched on a plate of gold and making strangers remember who you are after the worms have had their fill, and yet the empty spaces are a reminder that more gold plates may be ordered soon.

It’s been more than a week since the recent Maguindanao massacre and the official headcount is 52 dead people, 27 of who are members of the print and broadcast media. Yesterday’s news revealed that some of the female victims were raped before being gunned down. Gruesome descriptions of the dead bodies include shots through the genitals and slashed breasts. For this brutal desecration and felling of the agents of truth, our country has earned the reputation of being the worst country for journalists. We are believed to be worse than Iraq or Afghanistan.

The primary suspect, Mayor Andal Ampatuan, Jr. is already under police custody and has been slapped with 25 counts of murder. If he really did it, I wonder how he could have thought he would get away with it. Whatever possessed him or whoever did it to murder 52 people in broad daylight in the open.

Even if they get to the bottom of this, nothing will erase this horrific smear on our beleaguered country’s collective memory.

*Photo by Dark Knight Detective

Stitches

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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.

The Undergarment Prophecy

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A couple of females I know have gotten married just because they got pregnant. That’s why nearly everybody believed I was pregnant when I decided to marry a guy I knew for only a little over a year.

When our parents found out I wasn’t pregnant, they were aghast. Why would anyone in her right mind want to marry for no reason at all? They told us then that we were making problems where none existed. They said having a family would mean so much financial strife we’d one day be unable to even buy new underwear.

Six years later, my husband and I thankfully still have nice undergarments but the old ones weren’t entirely wrong. The bills just keep rolling in and in a few months we have to worry over expensive pre-school education, family health care, baby’s milk and hired help. Maybe then, we’d have to tie old undergarments in knots to make sure they still fit.

Believe me when I say, that the old ones may not always know how to communicate with younger generations but they sure know what they’re talking about.

In Barney’s Belly

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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.

Like Soft Drink Cans in a Row

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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 Don’t Want to be Darth Vader

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I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. I hate having to write for a living. It feels like having ethyl alcohol for breakfast (yes, I’ve tasted it) or having nosebleeds upside down. But I share the fate of Anakin Skywalker. The sequels of my life must have been written way before the prequels and I am doomed to take the form of the looming shadow behind me. Anywhere I go, I am taken seriously only when I parade an esoteric array of words that never cease to impress those who struggle to use cat and dog in the same sentence.

I find commercial writing the hardest to do. When I was still in school, I had a feeling that my papers got As because my teachers involuntarily rolled over and performed dog tricks every time they read words like “traverse,” “tribulation,” and “incontinence.” Business clients are not so easily tricked into parting with their juicy bones. Because their major interest is to sell, they prefer words that even real dogs can understand. When a composition is stripped of its gilded trappings there’s nothing left but either a really understandable paragraph or a naked fool of a sales pitch.

Somehow it helps to be Filipino. I suspect that my husband would rather dance the Can-can than sweat under the midday sun and my mom would rather join a Japanese game show than squeeze some sign of life out of students who are less enlightened than dead fish. But because we are Filipinos, we do what we have to do and just bite the bullet. So Luke, I really am your father.

By the Power of the Bump

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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.

Mar and Noynoy

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Politicians who kiss babies (or drive them in sidecars), use the elderly as props and demonstrate the leakiness of their childhood residences leave a bad taste in my mouth. Clearly, even poverty itself is being exploited. Because majority of our people can comprehend little else than daily bread, the bid to demonstrate who can relate the most to the underfed has replaced substantive speeches and debates.

Since most of the candidates parade shamelessly in borrowed rags, I thought I would have to skip voting yet again rather than risk vomiting on those shiny new million peso counting machines. Recently though, the sidecar driver caught my attention and might just change my mind.

After spending an inordinate amount of cash that defies my ability to count on infomercials, shedding pounds of perfumed sweat driving two scrawny kids in a sidecar and soiling expensive soles on a wet market, Mar Roxas has declared his intention to withdraw from the presidential race in favor of Noynoy Aquino.

He doesn’t care that he is more qualified. He doesn’t care that Korina Sanchez will lose the chance to be first lady. If purging our country of thieves in high places means stepping down for a more popular, less experienced man, Roxas is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice even if it means having wasted campaign money and a weeping Korina.

It’s obvious. No one would have thought of pushing a reluctant Aquino into the forefront if Cory, his mother, had not died and if an emaciated nation had not been thrown into remembering the moving rhetoric of his martyred father. If not for the turn of events, Roxas would still have had a shot driving those kids all the way to the presidential living room. But I suppose Roxas is right. He does not matter. This country does.

I know what I do not want. I do not want a president who had a 2001 net worth of P67 million that ballooned like a gangrened foot to a 2008 net worth of P144 million. I do not want a presidential son who was worth P5 million in 2002 and is now worth more than P99 million. I do not want public officials with unexplained wealth even if they technically cannot be called thieves yet. No one wants even just the suspicion of thievery hanging in the air, not the hungry, not the silenced, not the oppressed. Getting what we want may mean shoving the reigns of leadership into the hands of a lesser but more honest man. Noynoy will not dare shame the ghosts of his parents or he’ll asphyxiate to death in a sea of yellow ribbons.

The question is whether Noynoy will step up and do justice to Mar’s sacrifice. We’ll find out in a day or two. It will take several years though to find out if we’ve been had by yet another unraveling circus side show.