Mel and I had always been at odds when it comes to how we look at money. More importantly, how we spend it.
I waste. He wants not.
I would never let the neighborhood beauty parlor quacks touch my hair (I learned the hard way). He would never pay more than P50 for a cut.
I buy the kids fast food whenever they ask me to. He is stern on "Sa bahay na lang. Tumataba na kayo".
I pay kotong cops P500 for a swerving violation. He shells out P50 for breaking a red light and nearly hitting another car.
He does not like buying shirts for himself and prefers to exist off Christmas and birthday gifts. I have not told him I bought a US$200 Jones NY jacket during my last trip to the US.
Maybe its genetic.
When my mom found a pair of shoes or a purse she liked, she would order it in all colors -- sales ladies fluttered around her like flies to sh*t. When his grandfather swept his underaged bride away from her family, he exchanged his cow.
My husband dislikes joining organizations. Specifically, organizations which need him to do anything. A total opposite of my dad who jumps at every opportunity to lead, Mel prefers to show up for org meetings only if he can slink in the back row in peace and if free finger sandwiches are on the agenda.
Knowing all too well how he is, I felt it was my job to try to get him to participate in the PTA for our son's school. I was hoping he was ready to help inspire our children do well academically by being involved -- 'hoping' being the key word here.
I filled out most of the parents' questionnaire we got the other day, and consulted him for the last two questions.
"Dear, what committee do you want to join?" "Yung pwedeng nasa bahay lang."
"What area can you be a resource person for?" "Gambling."
The kids and our new dog were all piled over each other in the living room the other night, watching Disney channel. We had an early dinner and the kids were getting the munchies.
In her tiny toddler voice, Lisa started, "I yike ..." It takes her a few moments to decide. " ... !"
"Uh ... what?" Mommy's head was in the wrong place again.
Lisa tisked at me, irritated. "!"! I yike micyowave !"
Oh, that is definitely going on the weekly grocery list from now on.
On my way to work last Friday, traffic was at a standstill in front of the new Medical City along Ortigas Avenue. I was sitting in my car in silence, in deep thought about what I wanted to accomplish that day, when I heard this faint, but shrill choral screaming that could only come from colegiala's (having been one, I knew all to well). I turned to see half the children in the crowded St. Paul's College school bus pointing to me and my car, shrieking. I checked ...
Was I running on a flat tire? --- No. Was a runaway truck about to hit me? --- No. Did I have a guy in hockey mask and a chainsaw in the back seat? --- No. Did I look THAT bad without make-up? --- Hmmm.
My questions were answered half a minute later. A ginormous, hairy spider with long, thick legs crawled down from the roof of my car and crept across the windshield. First thought: A tarantula on my windshield? Cool. There might be rattlers in the trunk. I was tempted to open the wipers to squoosh it; but freaking out the girly girls was just too much fun.
By the time I got to my parking space, Spidey was perched quietly on my sideview mirror. If I had Tupperware, I would have put him in my purse, taken him to the 31st floor and tested who among the men at the office could scream the loudest.
!"
!"! I yike micyowave 