My husband and I share a dream of building a business “empire” (if not that, at least a business “baranggay”) we could pass on to our children. However, while my ideas lean toward putting up establishments in the bar-resto-jazz-club-bookstore-coffee-shop-nerd-haven variety, my hubby’s business development schemes run in a totally different direction.
Gambling. We have a Lotto franchise in operation already – an endeavor, I must admit, humbled me because the thing actually makes A LOT of money. It’s money from the pockets of less-privileged folks in Quezon City who dream of that one in a billion chance of scoring it big – but hey, it’s A LOT of money, so that should be good, right? Next in the expansion plan is a Horse Racing Betting Fronton. In a few years, who knows? Maybe we’ll move up and around the “sin business” value chain –- prostitution, drugs, gun running. I should start thinking of a scary criminal syndicate name for myself like “Black Butterfly” or “Madam Death” or “Lady Venom” or something.
Dining. Of late, my darling husband has lost all interest in food franchises, considering many of our friends’ short-lived ventures. Now, he wants to set up a **drum roll** kambingan! Translated, that’s a “goat place” . . . goat . . . as in billy goat . . . as in cloven-hoofed, bleating farm mammal. Typically, these roadside beerhouse-type establishments offer dishes featuring various goat “parts,” cooked in all ways imaginable. And for clients who prefer to do the cooking themselves, live goats are available for “take-out” out back. I said this once, I’ll say it again: “Whaaaaaaat?! No **bleep**ing way!” Perhaps my cynicism is borne of ignorance -- I don’t know. John Gokongwei started out in junk and look what he’s worth now. Maybe there is fortune to be made in goat crap. Not likely, but hey, I guess weirder things have happened.
**Sigh** I hope that, just like my husband’s earrings-bike-boots-tattoo phase, this will pass.
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6.27.2003
CALL ME P
One of my husband’s nieces is called Pauline. The poor girl grew up with her mom abbreviating her name to P –- pronounced “Pee” (no other way, is there?). Not exactly a flattering name for a pretty little girl with a well-behaved bladder.
The name, however, is very suitable for one pregnant person I’m very intimate with. Nature gives her a call four times a night. Just as spies automatically search for all possible exits when they go out, she automatically searches for restroom signs. The sound of running water has, very recently, become torturous to her. Her incessant flushing will be cause water shortage in Metro Manila very, very soon.
You can also call her M – as in, matakaw, masungit, malaki ang tiyan . . .
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6.20.2003
DAYS OF WHINE AND WOE-SES
My kids are whiners. But I figured, God has gifted me with enough patience for my children’s idiosyncrasies –- the mantra which has kept Bantay Bata 163 child abuse activists away from my door.
I’m sorry to say though none of that loving charity is left for blood relations beyond their thirties who bleat louder than my toddler.
If you ask for my opinion and say “I REALLY want to know what you think,” then don’t bawl when I give you what you ask for. You should have said, “I want to know what you think –- but it should be patronizing and should approximate my outlook.”
If you think it’s okay to recite your emotional, romantic notions about what my dear mother would’ve done if she were alive, just to make me feel I did you an injustice, well, guess what? If Mama were alive, I think she’d muster all her strength to pick-up her walking stick, only to beat the living crap outta you! And DON’T try to blackmail me into submission by giving me a litany of your medical woes –- my cards can beat what you can slap on the table.
If you think it’s okay to insult my past efforts then ask for more favors, you give too much credit to my capacity for unconditional love –- waaaaaaay too much.
If you think I am “unsupportive” and I am making you “miserable”, well, okay –- that’s an idea.
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6.17.2003
VAIN, VAIN -- GO AWAY?
When I was a little, I was tomboy-ish. I didn’t like baths. I didn’t like brushing my hair. I didn’t appreciate being powdered like a human espasol. Colognes my mother poured over me seemed to evaporate instantly –- as I smelled funky only minutes after stepping into the sun. Threats of never being a beauty queen because of blotchy legs never fazed me –- I preferred the satisfaction of scratching mosquito bites until they bled. I wanted to beat the living hell out of the girls in my kindergarten class who had hair that didn’t move. Girls who didn’t come back to class sweating like pigs after recess made my teeth itch. The fact that I could never be (or perhaps, never really wanted to be) as dainty as these creatures were haunted me until high school.
So it seems funny -– almost poetic -- that while I’ve grown into a hygienic, nice-smelling lady with a reasonable arsenal of cosmetics, the three men I share a house with are still vainer than I am, by leaps and bounds.
Mel spends more time in the bathroom that I do. He scrubs, trims and polishes parts of himself that only p0rn stars probably bother with. He never forgets to bring a handkerchief. He doesn’t stink after a sweaty workout.
Carlo religiously applies lotion on his body after bathing. He consumes a lot of baby powder and cologne –- a hell of a lot. He insists on changing his shirt immediately after class. He carries hand-sanitizing gel in his pocket.
Diego mimics his brother’s post-bathing routine. Today, I found out that the petroleum jelly in his room that was never used (as he never got a diaper rash) he now applies to his lips before he plods off to playschool. Did I mention he's three?
If the child in my womb turns out to be a girl (finally), and she turns out to be like me, I swear, we’ll have a grand time joshing the wusses we live with about this. If my baby turns out to be another boy, I suppose I would just embrace the inevitable and simply invest in Johnson & Johnson stocks.
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6.16.2003
AS IN, NOW NA TALAGA!
In my book, the following situations can be labeled “urgent” and in classifying them as such, no time should be wasted contemplating on details.
. . . When you’ve downed 6 bottles of beer and nature calls.
. . . When your best friend cannonballs into the shallow end of the pool and doesn’t come up after two minutes.
. . . When your soul mate is at the altar marrying the bitch from hell and the priest asks if anyone disagrees with the union.
. . . When enemy nuclear missiles are 30 seconds from you and you’ve got the red button.
. . . When a pregnant woman says she’s famished and asks for a friggin' donut.
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6.10.2003
PEAR PRESSURE
My sensitivity to perfume waned a few weeks ago, so yesterday, I decided to open a gift I got last Christmas – Victoria Secret’s Pear Glace. The spray was working too enthusiastically and I ended up putting on more than I intended. I washed off some of it, as the scent was too “sweet” for my taste (and personality). As I was putting on my muted green office pant suit, I was already thinking of whom I could “bequeath” that bottle to.
I caught my reflection as I entered the mirror-lined elevator in our office building. My hair was tied in a bun at the nape of my neck, so my head looked really small compared to the rest of pregnant me. And my green outfit reminded me of the color of mangoes ripened mid-way (maniba).
I thought, “Damn, I smell . . . and look . . . like a **bleep**ing fruit.” Thank God, my name isn't Peachy or Cherry or Apple. If it was, I'd probably hang myself.
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6.07.2003
THE BRA DILEMMA
(This is a quasi-educational piece. Don’t go pervy on me.)
When it comes to putting on the standard snap-at-the-back brassiere, women can be classified into two groups.
The first are the “Back Snappers.” They sling the straps over their shoulders first, and hook on the snaps with their hands at their backs.
The second are the “Front Snappers.” They swing their bras around their waist, hook the snaps in front of them, slide the bras around until the cups are in the right place and finally, sling the straps over their shoulders.
Descending from a long line of short-limbed women, I belong to the second group -- which is a real bummer as I’m pregnant. I get stuck after the “hook the snaps” step. The damn thing won’t go around my waist like it used to. When I manage to get the brassiere all the way around, the blood circulation to my legs have already been cut off. Darn it.
Tomorrow, I‘ll improvise. ‘Will sling my bra around my neck, hook and pull down.
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6.05.2003
MINE FIELD
Mine field. 'Feels like I’ve been walking through one over the last week or so. Because of my "condition", I can’t get upset at the little “landmines” I step into. And when I don’t get to scream my pain/tension off, I feel weak -- like parts of me are falling off.
Walk. Walk. Walk. Maid leaves. Boom. Ooops, ‘lost a nail.
Walk. Walk. Walk. New maid nearly poisons us. Boom. Ooops, ‘lost a toe (and throws new maid out).
Walk. Walk. Walk. Baby sister asks for advise but flares when I tell the truth. Boom. Ooops, ‘lost a finger.
Walk. Walk. Walk. “Mr. Dick Wad” at the office tries to take credit for a project my team has been working on for a month – and almost got away with it. Boom. Ooops, ‘lost a hand.
Walk. Walk. Walk. My 3-year old got this new game from our next door neighbors (the evil Slytherin kids). He walks around shouting, “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” Boom. Ooops, ‘lost an arm.
Walk. Walk. Walk. The Chief Devil Incarnate at work, who has no idea what I do, tries to tell me what I should be doing. Ooops, ‘lost a foot.
When you’re made of putty, it’s easy to slap back parts of yourself. But when you’re made of stone, it takes a hell of a long time to super-glue yourself back together.
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