There is a mountain called Susong-Dalaga [virgin's b00bie] in Zamboanga Del Sur -- something I did not know about my country until today.
A thousand years ago, when the tribal leaders were gazing at the cone-shaped peak, pondering on a perfect name, they were clearly high on something "herbal". But their seeming lack of imagination (or is it an abundance of it?) could also have been the honesty of uncomplicated people in a simpler time when branding was not as important as it is today. People called things as they saw it.
If you lived then, you probably walked amidst neighbors named Nonong Nakapabaho or Saling Sukdulan-sa-Siba.
If you threw a party and banged your gong too loudly, your neighbor would go and ask you to turn the music down himself. He wouldn't dream of going through the charade of reporting you to the village tanod [security].
If your chunky friend asked you if she looked fat in her malong, you would say without blinking, "Does that mountain over there look like a friggin' b00bie?"
My Catholic education taught me that Halloween is a pagan celebration with macabre and super natural origins. It should not be commemorated by God-fearing people.
Right.
So, have you decided on your Halloween costumes yet?
My boys have always had a predictable taste in costumes -- nothing gory, but unique enough to get attention (Diego's Peter Pan and Harry Potter get-ups have won him the "Too Cute To Be Spooky" Award for two years). I usually leave the choice to my children, and they've never surprised me yet.
Until this year.
Carlo announced he wanted to dress up as Osama Bin Laden.
As a mother, should I be concerned that my child finds the world's most notorious terrorist worthy of imitation? Should I expect karmic punishment for letting my son trivialize a threat still current to the modern world? How do you explain the deeper implications of a child's choice when all he sees is a funny-looking man with a dirty beard?
Step in, the side of me that is too sleep-deprived to nurse guilt. The plan is: I allow Carlo to dress up as Osama Bin Laden. Then I dress up Diego as Superboy. And I give Superboy the license to beat up Osama. That should keep our karma balanced, right?
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10.21.2004
REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO SCR*WED
What is worse than getting an invite to a school batch reunion, attached to a P5,000 ticket to a dinner-show starring a band you thought was wiped out in a car crash in 1989?
It's getting an invitation to a batch reunion that screams "pissing contest."
As someone who was a communications executive in a previous life, I must say: when the party is branded as one to be held in someone's "palatial estate" (yes, the invitation said so), then you cannot expect a "cozy get-together." When the party's "sumptuous food" will be provided by same someone's chichi restaurant ("one of several", the invite stated), you can't stop people from asking, "Dude, are you running for office or something?"
Of course, I'm happy for a batchmate's well-deserved good fortune. But can you just imagine the pressure a badly-worded invitation puts on all the other competitive alumni of our UP class, who have also accomplished much (or so we think) in the last 15 years? Didn't the organizers comprehend how much bullsh*t the rest will have to cook up now, just so they won't look like total hobos next to our ultra-successful host (as subtly advertised) who, as far as most can remember, spent the first year of the five he spent in college, making out with his high school girlfriend on the top floor of Palma Hall, while everyone was in the library? (To clarify, "make-out" -- as used in this entry -- is a term meaning "kiss in public". It is used in a derogatory fashion only by short, fat b*tches who are green with envy as they had no one to kiss.)
Ain't it bad enough that one gets a body fat ratio analysis the moment one steps in the door to one of these things? Ain't it hard enough to act all oh-so-good-to-see-you-mwah-mwah towards that girl who once irritated you like a bad menstrual cramp -- when 15 years did zilch for your maturity and seeing her again still makes you reach instinctively for a Midol? Ain't it unthinkable enough that your leech of a seatmate, who brazenly copied off every Biology exam you had, is now a **bleep**ing brain surgeon and drives the dream car taped to your office cubicle?
I want to see old friends and laugh over the stupid things we did years ago over drinks we paid Dutch for. I do not want to have to wear a windbreaker in 30-degree weather to protect me from probable strong gusts of hot wind brought about by battling, overinflated egos.
Hmmm ... maybe I'm overacting? ** Flashback 1987: A typical post-accounting exam scenario involves a bunch of people abandoning their self-respect and grovelling shamelessly for an additional 1/2 point -- all for the bragging rights of topping said exam.** Nope, I'm not.
An important question now haunts everyone who have been asked to RSVP: "How badly do I want free shrimp?"
Pondering on this matter makes me want to pay P5,000 to see the Rage Band redo Quiet Riot's "C'mon Feel the Noise."
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10.18.2004
THE CAR WASH CHROMOSOME
What is it about men and cleaning cars?
My father was obsessed with keeping his car clean (and still is). When I was growing up, he wouldn't let the maid clean his car on weekdays. Instead, he would toss his crisp white barong in the back seat, douse the car with soapy water and clean the car on his way to work. How? He would get out of the car during traffic stops and wipe the car clean one portion at a time (we lived in Valenzuela, he worked in Makati -- he had time). It was only years later that I realized how borderline manic that was. (That and the way he personally spray-starched and ironed his briefs before wearing them -- but that's for another blog entry.)
My husband is also an avid car washer. Being the youngest child in a family of ten kids, he got stuck with that chore (among many) and eventually enjoyed doing it. I guess if everyone was going to boss you around, you might as well like it, right? -- oh so very Cinderella. He learned waaay too late that he could have become a millionaire before high school if only he charged his four older brothers, who were always trying to sneak out with the lone family car, for his services.
This car washing preoccupation must be deeply imbedded in the male chromosome. It must sit right beside their obsession with ball games and d*ck length.
My Carlo and Diego have been exhibiting behavior characteristic of their gender recently. For the past two Sundays, they are up at dawn so they could clean my sedan, while my husband cleans the van. It takes half a day to drain the garage of the soapy water they throw about -- but at least my car is clean and the dog gets an unintentional bath.
I wonder if all this means ... oh boy. My mom wrapped everything in plastic ... my sister vacuums and does laundry at 2am ... my paper clips are color segregated ... and my household is ISO 9001 certified. Ergo, my daughter Lisa is bound to have inherited some bizarre girly madness that'll come in handy if ever her future partner wants their marriage annulled.
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10.15.2004
THE WORLD'S BEST SIGNS
Inspite of the calls for his ouster, I like MMDA Chairman Bayani Fernando. No, I looove BF! His "Urbanidad" Campaign is brilliant and is something the country needs. He is reminding people through his reforms of super simple things that spell the difference between order and chaos. He is hitting our heads (figuratively) with blatant reminders to knock some shame into our hardened skulls. And I hear he is hitting the heads of the street vendors (actually) to clear sidewalks for more pink urinals.
My husband, whose bladder is the size of a monggo bean, says we should knock down a couple more century-old trees for hundred more of those "life-saving" structures. He feels building more outdoor men's urinals is the answer to the public preoccupation with the country's fiscal crisis. Hey, if MMDA built one of those things on the sidewalk, outside your house, do you think you'll have time to complain about anything else?!
Where was I? Oh, the signs.
The pink MMDA road signs BF had installed are absolutely hilarious! It's like BF and his top honchos got together one (non-working) night, got drunk to their eyeballs and started phrasing the new road signs, just as their inhibitions were unconscious under the beerhouse table.
These signs I saw along EDSA corner Aurora Boulevard today are so attention-getting (they're HUGE and they're pink!), it would take one thick-faced (or illiterate) pedestrian/motorist to miss the message:
"Walang tawiran. Nakamamatay."
"Bawal ang tao dito. Doon kayo sa bangketa."
"Bawal ang tambay sa tawiran. Mapagkakamalan kayong holdaper."
As responsible citizens, I feel we are all honor-bound to suggest more public signs that can communicate as effectively to the Filipino masses as the ones BF and his boys had so expertly worded:
"Huwag kang baboy. Bawal magtapon ng basura dito." (credit to my baby sister)
"Bawal umihi dito. Sa susunod, magdala ng bote."
"Pipe-laying ahead. Expect heavy-traffic. Ano gusto mo? Walang trapik o walang tubig?"
"Huwag tapakan ang kubeta. Dahil hindi ka naman taong-gubat."
"Accident-prone area. Slow down. Unless Dolphy's your father."
My mother-in-law celebrated her 80th birthday at Something Fishy in Libis a couple of days ago.
While aunts, uncles and cousins took on the videoke machine, and the non-singers huddled in a corner with far too many bottles of cognac, I kept my eye on my two boys who were having a grand time bumping into walls and making themselves hazards to waiters carrying trays laden with drink glasses. As usual.
Half-way through the night, Carlo, Diego and two nephews, James and Emilio, began talking about forming a crime-fighting team -- a league of four-foot high super heroes. They probably figured that with so many drunken uncles around, someone was bound to do something evil.
The lack of super powers did not daunt the boys (Emil is an exception to this, as he can fart anyone unconscious). Agreeing on a name did.
"The Yellow Team," one suggested.
"The War Force," the other countered.
"The Iron Rangers," was another suggestion.
Diego, my little poet, the tiniest boy there, dug deep into his four-year old vocabulary for something profound-sounding, something exceptionally singular, something that would impress the older boys: "The Traffic Force."
This entry is dedicated to my husband's mother, Angelina, who celebrated her 80th birthday recently. No, I am not gunning for a chubbier inheritance for my children (although that is always welcome). I have a deep and genuine admiration for the woman:
1. Lola Lina does not look 80 -- more like 60. It was her genes that made Mel eternally boyish. And it will be her fault that I may in, say thirty years, opt for elective surgery just so I won't look like my husband's aunt.
2. She has an amazingly sturdy uterus. With my three pregnancies, I made such a sorry spectacle of myself with a swatch of colorful medical problems. My mom-in-law had 10 kids -- all through normal delivery -- all without drugs. She was probably wolfing down a siopao, while her birth canal was dilated 9 centimeters.
3. She oozes with emotional strength. Imagine 10 children, five boys, five girls ... one born two years after the last. Imagine twenty years of raising babies ... toddlers running around the house ... the sibling skirmishes ... the puberty ... the college tuition for 10. Imagine not being able to fit all your children in one car! Just thinking about it is giving me an ulcer.
In Lola Lina's 80 years, she has been through ... a hellofalot! She has seen war. She has lived a love story worthy of tele-novela. She raised 10 children and has seen them enrich the lives of others. She has travelled the world. She has lost parents, brothers, a husband, a child, a grandchild and found peace inspite of it all. She has remained steadfast in her faith even when the world believes it to be outmoded. Lola Lina has seen her life's purpose fulfilled. She has lived!
