Our village chapel officially became a parish last Sunday -- the technical term for it being "cannonical erection." Weekly announcements as the event neared boasted that Diocese bigshots would be around for the two-hour ceremony. Huge banners were put up along the main road for several days. They heralded: "Bishop So-and-so's Cannonical Erection of So-and-so Parish."
We skipped the event. My husband and I figured the Bishop's Erection won't be very exciting.
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12.09.2003
JUNGLE BELLS
It's that time of the year again. It's when the ferocious, territorial animals in all of us come out. It's the Christmas pageant season.
This year, I'll ask my husband to drink lots of liquids before we head off to one. As soon as we find out seats, I would then ask him to pee a circle around our seats to define "our territory." Hopefully, the other parents will finally get the message: no stealing our plastic chairs, no blocking our view to take pictures, no pushing up against the back of our seats.
We, the females of the pack, are expected to groom our young at these events, preparing our cubs for their moments on stage -- which will be immortalized on family videos and will be an important source of embarrassment in their adulthood. The embarassing future is inevitable for the little girls with moms who think make-up on four-year old's is cute -- them and the kid dressed up as a camel.
The carnage really starts when all the children are on stage for the finale. The dads, their cameras in tow, then start scrambling and pushing like stampeding buffalos, in competition for the elusive "perfect angle." The strong ones get the good shots and the bodies of the weak ones will be discovered under the chairs by the janitor later.
Diego's pageant is on the 17th. Carlo's is on the 19th. My husband has been lifting weights and has charged the video camera. I've grown my nails and sharpened them. Hell, we're ready. Grrrr...
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12.05.2003
ASTIG-MAMA-TISM
We got a nice surprise yesterday. Together with an outrageous bill for a Christmas pageant costume, my youngest son brought home a Gingersnaps catalogue where he and some five or so of his play school classmates appeared in the "Kids Say" page. And as expected, Mommy beamed -- I smiled so much I had a face cramp.
I went to the school this morning to return the magazine. I wasn't sure if it was mine to keep, you see. It would be a tad embarrassing if they asked for it back and I already had it framed in oak and bolted to a wall.
After being told I could go ahead with my plans to laminate, I bumped into another corporate mom (ay, ex- na nga pala ako...). Upon seeing the catalogue I carried, she was immediately inclined to march up to the directress' office with a burning question: "Why was my child not in the magazine?" I had to control myself from blurting the obvious: "Umm ... kasi ho ang pangit ng anak n'yo."
Moms are truly cursed. We are cursed with limited sight when it comes to our kids. We all have a bad case of my-murdering-spawn-on-death-row-is-really-really-a-good-boy kind of astigmatism.
And that, my friends, is why I never bring mini-photo albums around in my purse. Showing your kids' photos to friends is like holding a gun to their heads and asking "Ang cute ng mga anak ko, di ba? DI BA?!" And the poor friends, with crossed fingers, raised eyebrows and dilated pupils, will have no choice but to nod and lie through their teeth.
Not that my friends will ever have to lie. My kids ARE cute, di ba? DI BA?!
I spent the weekend at an ultimate test of my marketing skills. I had a garage sale. I stood straight faced, selling my crap to other human beings and convincing them that my rejects were actually worth something.
For this venture, I lugged my sell-ables to our old deserted house in Valenzuela (venue of many memorable events in my life). Our garage there was huge and the place was far enough for my husband to dash to -- just in case he discovered that I have parted him of some of the icky 10-year old shirts he insisted are still fashionable.
I had prepared flyers to advertise our one-day sale; but it proved unnecessary as we were swamped with customers as soon as the “Sale” sign was posted on the gate.
My “favorite” customers were:
* My mom’s arch-enemy aka Lola Manananggal, after bidding competitively for the piano: “Puwedeng utang?”
* Cute (in a Mr-Pogi-ng-Baranggay-way) muscle-shirted boylet aka Dao Ming Shit, after picking up a VHS copy of “The Woman Clothed With the Sun,” a documentary on the Virgin Mary: “Ano ‘to, d0uble X?”
A tricycle driver walked away with my china. The lady from the corner carinderia was ecstatic about acquiring my rickety buffet tables. A greasy mechanic type hauled all of the exercise equipment (which owing to the heavy coat of dust looked like a mutant espasol). A tone-deaf neighbor picked up our old piano because it would look good in his sala. A taho vendor is now strutting around in my husband’s designer Irish linen pants. A mom with 8 kids has added to her wardrobe my Ferragamo sling-backs which a rat enthusiastically snacked on early this year. I traded my trash for cash and cleaned out my bodega. Everyone’s happy.
Yey capitalism!
New Poem: Si Tsong and the Chick was inspired by how Dao Ming Shit was eyeballing my neice, who was working the cash register at our garage sale.
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