Everyday that summer, I hauled my rear end to the second floor of the Palma Hall for my Level 1 Spanish class. Our Spanish professor, Sra. Montano had taught the Castilian language to generations of students as far back as ex-President Marcos. She was so old, we hypothesized that the strong ammonia scent that flooded the humid room was, not from the next-door men's toilets, but from embalming oils that kept her face from disintegrating.
"Señorita Moreno, tu atención por favor." My rear end had not yet warmed my seat and already, she had her wrinkled eyes on me. My seemingly mild-mannered professor pounded on an open page of the Spanish textbook like a small wild monkey. "¿Dónde vive usted?"
I nervously opened my book to where we left off. "Vivo en Manila, Señora."
"No es Ma-NUL-a." My teacher sneered, "Es Ma-NEEL-a! Otra vez!"
I struggled, "Yo vivo en Manil ..."
"Ma-NEEL-a! Ma-NEEL-a! Ma-NEEL-a! Otra vez!" She screamed like a woman a shade away from a heart attack.
As I bowed my head, my spirit defeated, I noticed letters scribbled on my newly-varnished desk. Beside the words was the sketch of a push-button -- something the janitors must have intentionally left untouched for its entertainment value. It read: "Push button to eject teacher." I pushed my finger on the imaginary key in grim, wishful reverie.
The class stopped as a faint whirring sound -- like distant helicopter -- reverberated in the small room. A strong gust then began to blow, creating a twister of papers and books, making the ground shake.
As the sound escalated to a deafening boom, the class watched Sra. Montano fly up and through the roof so fast, her empty shoes smoldered. The class dashed to the hole in the roof and watched our professor shriek helplessly into space.
I broke the confused silence: "Anyone for a movie?" (Fiction)
Her skin was smooth and golden. She was as tall as she was stunning. And even as she sat behind a glass window that balmy summer afternoon, I noticed her styled visage were characteristic of an elite pedigree mere mortals like me only read about in the society pages.
She was oblivious to the many eyes that caressed her form with their lingering stares. Yet in the subtle way the tiny, tasteful Swarovski crystals that adorned her perfectly-shaped body reflected the afternoon sun, I knew she yearned to be wanted.
In a moment of pure abandon, I approached her. I wanted her more than anything. The idea of undressing and feeling her against my skin filled me with anxious excitement. My heart beat faster until it felt like a vibrating motor under chest, as I stood in the same room as this resplendent elegance.
I walked to the counter and spoke with nervous urgency, "Miss, do you have THAT stiletto in a size eight?" (Non-Fiction)
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4.17.2005
A NOSE FOR TROUBLE
I know I said I wasn't going to write about the boring goings-on in my life anymore. But what good is having a site when one cannot give in to one's occasional urge to ... what's that word? ... that single most-used verb in bloggerdom? ... oh yeah, "rant"?
I was at my store early this afternoon for my daily operations audit. I have not been out of the house for more than one hour when I got an urgent call from my daughter's nanny. She was frantic -- that, in itself, launched my imagination into the many mishaps that could have befallen any or all my three children. But I only needed one to bring me to a state a shade shy from an aneurism -- my husband was on the way to a hospital emergency room with Diego. You see, my son drove a 1.5V cell battery up his left nostril.
My five-year old son disassembled a toy train (with a screw driver he climbed the garage cabinets to get), pulled out two, round batteries, each less than a centimeter in diameter and managed to shove one of them so far up his nasal cavity, he couldn't breathe. Let me say that again (because even I am still in disbelief): MY SON DROVE A BATTERY UP HIS LEFT NOSTRIL!
I drove to the hospital with my hazard lights on, and I managed to get there just as my husband's van was approaching the emergency room entrance. I will spare you the drama that ensued in the ER. Suffice it to say, there were a lot of tears -- less than half came from the five-year old.
Years from now, I'm sure Diego will enjoy retelling this little tale to his golf buddies. And who knows, my liberal sense of humor might have kicked in by then and maybe, I will too.
In the meantime, after re-child-proofing the house like the manic organizer than I am, I will bleed this event of all the "listen-to-me-or-we-might-end-up-in-the-emergency-room-again" argument-enders that I can manage. Also, I am resolved to roundhouse kick in the gut any adult entrusted with the momentary care of my children, the next time their little pre-school hands manage to get screw drivers while the said adult is watching the ball game.
The dog came into our lives at a time we needed a guard dog and it needed a new home away from his masters' azucena-loving neighbors. It was three years old. It was ugly. It had an eternally coarse greyish-white coat that looked dirty even after a good scrubbing. It was an askal -- and in a village where all dogs are coiffed, polished and pedigreed, having him put us in the fringes of the social mainstream. The dog tipped over garbage cans, sniffed butts, ate slippers, chased cars, dug my vegetable garden, chewed license plates -- did everything except bark at dangerous-looking strangers. He outwitted us everytime we attempted to put him on a leash. He outran dog catchers and made us very unpopular with the neighbors.
Because of him, I longed for a cat.
But the dog walked my children to the park, keeping strangers and other dogs away from them. He would snarl at the household staff when they wanted to give him a bath; but kept still, when the kids wanted to do the same. He sat beside my one-year old during afternoon merienda -- less because he wanted treats, more because he enjoyed my toddler's foot caressing his underside.
I sensed an intelligence in his eyes unlike any I've seen my other pets. I derived inspiration from his adventures. And sometime between wanting to give him away to a circus and having long animated "conversations" with him, I conceded that he was, in fact, "okay".
The dog turned 10 this year -- which makes him 53 in man-years. His already unsightly coat began to thin and one of his eyes glassed out. He was always sleepy and let many a good vehicles drive by without so much as a bark. Days ago, we found his lifeless body under our living window. The dog now rests under a palm tree in the village park, where he could still watch over my kids as they frolic there in the afternoon.
Because of him, I look at all things odd with an eye, more observant of serendipitous possibilities.
