My friend LP is also pregnant –- only a month behind me. As this is her first pregnancy, she turned to me for advice (ha, like I’m all-knowing on issues of the expectant!) on something that has been bothering her for weeks:
“So, Mona, do you lose your “desires” when you’re pregnant?”
“Uh, ‘desire’? Not really. I’m ‘desiring’ a blueberry cheesecake slice right about now.”
“Hindi! For . . . alam mo na . . .”
“Utang na loob! You can’t be pregnant and not have the stomach to say 'sex.' Anyway, my answer is . . .”
(Full stop -- my answer is not the point of this entry. Besides, my family reads my blog now and I’m saving them the nausea from knowing my libid0 details. Come to think of it, I’m saving all of you the same fate.)
Apparently, LP was bothered enough to seek the advise of her OB-gynecologist who referred her to this pregnant women’s support group thingie in Alabang where they discuss things like breastfeeding, body image issues, fear of delivery, post-partum depression yada yada yada. (O, how First World, ‘di ba?)
Hmmm. Somehow, I don’t think the fix to her zero desire to bump hips with her husband is hanging around other child-laden women who are likely more clueless than she is -- and who are probably not getting “bumped” much either.
LP, I say the solution is hard-core p0rn. Okay, okay, I'm just saying that because I would pay good money to watch a tight-assed (I love you, friend; but you really are), Catholic school-bred pregnant lady struggle with requesting p0rn titles at the video rental counter. He he.
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4.28.2003
BOYS OF SUMMER
I have been screeching more often at my boys lately. With my 10-year-old on summer vacation, he and his 3-year-old brother have had a lot of time to “bond”.
More than once, I caught them beating on each other (it wasn't a fair fight -- the little one is a fearless biter) all because one wanted to watch Channel 2 and the other wanted Channel 23 on TV -- while the stations were on simultaneous broadcast! Let me clarify -- the stations were showing exactly the same program! Bites, bumps, and bruises have been the siblings' summer staples.
When they're not tearing each other to bits, the two can be found extinguishing their boredom through backyard explorations. The latest experiments include a shampoo taste-test, a can-we-stop-an-electric-fan-from-spinning-using-only-our-fingers trial and a what-would-happen-to-the-washing-machine-if-we-dump-gravel-in-it demo. On one particularly troublesome day, I could have sworn I saw my maid searching my children for 666 birthmarks.
I grew up in the company of well-behaved (most of the time) little girls. My boys' increasing hyperactivity is something I'm finding hard to get used to. My husband, being the tenth of 10 kids (5 girls, 5 boys), on the other hand, never even raises an eyebrow when one of our kids come crashing down the stairs!
So I just got me a new resolution. Instead of upsetting myself into a coronary and/or ruining my “cool mama” rep, I will let my boys be boys. I will not panic as long as 1) body parts remain intact, 2) no one is unconscious and 3) there are no blood stains on the couch (we just had it re-upholstered).
<< I fear my kids will start setting off explosives ala Bunsen and Beaker as soon as they find out where we hide the matches.
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4.23.2003
COIFFURE CAUTION
I really need to get my hair trimmed; but as I’m still badly shaken from my last hair cut, I’m hesitating.
Miles, my hairdresser of three years at Piandre Ortigas (now Piandre Libis), moved to another shop last January. After the shock of being abandoned by my stylist (no “goodbye,” no forwarding address, no free farewell trim!), I went to this place (Le Luise along Marcos Highway) where I usually have my nails done on weekends. The place was near my house and they had a fair share of clients compared to other “beauty parlors” in the area – so I thought I should try getting my hair done there. That will go down in history as my worst decision of 2003 (it’s only April, I know). I came in with my rebonded hair past my shoulders – kinda like Sandra Bullock’s in “Two Weeks Notice,” without the bangs -- and came out looking like Nora Aunor in “Minsa’y Isang Gamu-gamo”. **Bleep**!
While I drove home, trying hard not to declaim Nora’s immortal lines, “My brother is not a pig!”, I was still mildly hopeful the doo wasn’t as bad as I thought. But after that first shower, I knew I was oh so wrong.
I wanted to run back to that salon and murder; but I had this whole “be nice this 2003” resolution still going on at the time (yep, that one’s out the window, together with “be at work on time”). So I had a nice talk with a salon owner and she had their “best” stylist do the “repairs” a day later.
I need to get another trim soon. My recent trauma dictates I will be going for the salon's reputation rather than it's proximity to my domicile. I will also be putting on my best bitchy-pregnant-lady-with-raging-hormones façade, coupled with a generous dose of threats of a gruesome death by hair dryer to next poor soul laying his hands on my hair. Hopefully, that'll ensure my coif will be done right.
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4.15.2003
GOT NOTHING TO WEAR . . . REALLY
When I got dressed for work this morning, I realized I couldn’t button my pants anymore. I didn’t feel like thinking of something else to wear, so I did a McGyver and looped a rubber band into the button hole, like so <-- (this technique can also help you breathe better after a particularly gluttonous meal). And so, the moment has come at last. It is time -- time to shop for . . . ugh, preggy clothes.
I have yet to find a ready-to-wear shop for preggies that makes clothes that don’t feel like moo-moo’s. Expectant mothers are emotional enough as it is – we don’t need clothes that scream “refrigerator.” And how come NOT enough preggy clothes designers around here know that the body temperature of pregnant women is higher than most (some of us can roast marshmallows by holding it)? -- so just the thought of wearing their polyester creations is enough to start a heat stroke. Where, oh where do I shop? Suggestions?
As my quest for decent smart casual/office clothes for preggies continues, I am comforted by the fact that I can always find shoes that can uplift my ego. Yes, ladies, no matter how fat pregnancies or cheesecakes make us, we can always buy sexy, sexy shoes. Oh, yeah!
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4.10.2003
GETTING MIDDLE AGE-Y?
Since my "temporary uselessness," my husband has graciously stepped up to the plate to pinch-hit for me. He managed to go to work, do the grocery shopping, oversee the kitchen, keep the boys amused, supervise the maids, deal with parent-teacher conferences by himself -- and still take grand care of me. In my bed-ridden days, I dealt with my guilt by promising myself to treat him to a nice evening out as soon as I'm feeling up to it.
Last Friday was the night. I made plans for us to have a super nice dinner and to see Rex Navarette at the AFP Theatre -- a break I felt he truly deserved. But when he picked me up at the office at 6 o'clock and saw I was nauseated and weak, he good-naturedly called it a night. In the car, I was apologizing to my eyeballs about the cancelled plans. And instead of negotiating for a better deal the next time (something I would certainly have done, if roles were reversed), he said, "It's okay. Staying at home with you and the boys can be more fun than any show."
I would never have thought that my boyfriend from the early 90s who could down half a case of beer, liked to barhop ‘til 2am and had a thing for driving to nowhere just so we didn’t have to go home would say something like that. It was a very . . . um, "middle-age-y" thing to say. But who cares? It's exactly what I've always wished the man I was going to love for all eternity would feel.
So the next time my husband chews with his mouth open just to spite me, or licks chocolate icing off his plate, or forgets to flush the toilet, I will resist the urge to kick him in the shin and remember how truly lucky I am to have him in my life.
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