My husband just got a drinking table for our new apartment. This simply means that either hell has to freeze over or heaven has to go up in flames before he changes his stripes and gives up the artificial source of his spirited self. The old snob in me who used to have tea and cakes with dead classical musicians and writers would have quoted the raven’s “nevermore…” and promptly descended into madness. But I am not my old self.
I have seen the light and logic behind his band of drunk brothers. It is thanks to his brotherhood that we were able to transfer all our things to our apartment for free, get a cable internet connection where no lines exist and get price cuts on expensive appliances. I suspect his brotherhood will soon also assist us in getting discounts for the new baby’s infant formula.
Lo and behold the wonders of bonds formed over alcohol. Maybe I should learn how to drink too.
Because I live in the Philippines, I have never met or known of anyone who has a prenuptial agreement. When there are more poor people than ants, a prenup is a word encountered only in the dictionary. Which is why for me, the current development to the Tiger Woods drama is nothing short of strange.
Rumor has it that Tiger had a car accident because his wife, Elin chased him with a golf club and actually managed to smash his windshield. Rumor has it that Elin finally cracked after discovering Tiger’s extramarital transgressions. Rumor has it that Elin is now renegotiating their prenuptial agreement. The initial agreement was for her to receive $20 million after twenty years of marriage. Rumor has it that she’s asking for an outright payment of $5 million and $55 million more to stay with Tiger for two more years.
The numbers alone are staggering but what I find even more perplexing is how anyone can go down on one knee and ask for someone’s hand in marriage with a diamond ring and prenup papers. So much for, “I’ll love you no matter what.” This just supports the theory that romantic love is really a fairytale.
There is a monument for press freedom in Cagayan de Oro with names of fallen journalists on one side. There are empty spaces around the names that are already there. My father-in-law thinks the structure is a horrible idea. Nobody wants to have his name there, even if it means having a name etched on a plate of gold and making strangers remember who you are after the worms have had their fill, and yet the empty spaces are a reminder that more gold plates may be ordered soon.
It’s been more than a week since the recent Maguindanao massacre and the official headcount is 52 dead people, 27 of who are members of the print and broadcast media. Yesterday’s news revealed that some of the female victims were raped before being gunned down. Gruesome descriptions of the dead bodies include shots through the genitals and slashed breasts. For this brutal desecration and felling of the agents of truth, our country has earned the reputation of being the worst country for journalists. We are believed to be worse than Iraq or Afghanistan.
The primary suspect, Mayor Andal Ampatuan, Jr. is already under police custody and has been slapped with 25 counts of murder. If he really did it, I wonder how he could have thought he would get away with it. Whatever possessed him or whoever did it to murder 52 people in broad daylight in the open.
Even if they get to the bottom of this, nothing will erase this horrific smear on our beleaguered country’s collective memory.
*Photo by Dark Knight Detective
I delivered both my babies through CS and both times I received the same pieces of advice from the elders. In true Pinoy tradition, I was told not to take a bath and to avoid all manner of work, including reading, for at least two weeks.
Being a product of my time, I took my doctor’s advice instead and took a bath after three days. Youthful pride however was not my only source of motivation. Every Filipino knows that keeping away from water for more than a week in the Philippines is just about the fastest way to make dreadlocks and to attract all sorts of unmentionable little critters. I had to take a bath.
I also threw the rest of their suggestions out of the window and started tinkering with the laptop as soon as the pain killers kicked in. If you don’t strike while the iron is hot, you’ll either never get Excalibur fashioned or you’ll never get your clothes ironed.
So what did I reap for my lack of faith in the old ways? I got away unscathed the first time but after about a week of disobedience after my second delivery, a couple of my stitches came undone. The sight of fresh, oozing fluids sent me into a cold shock and a fit of vomiting, precipitated more by fear than by squeamishness.
Yes, they told me so and once again it seems they knew what they were talking about. Dreadlocks aren’t half as bad as paranoid dreams of spilled guts and an infection.
A couple of females I know have gotten married just because they got pregnant. That’s why nearly everybody believed I was pregnant when I decided to marry a guy I knew for only a little over a year.
When our parents found out I wasn’t pregnant, they were aghast. Why would anyone in her right mind want to marry for no reason at all? They told us then that we were making problems where none existed. They said having a family would mean so much financial strife we’d one day be unable to even buy new underwear.
Six years later, my husband and I thankfully still have nice undergarments but the old ones weren’t entirely wrong. The bills just keep rolling in and in a few months we have to worry over expensive pre-school education, family health care, baby’s milk and hired help. Maybe then, we’d have to tie old undergarments in knots to make sure they still fit.
Believe me when I say, that the old ones may not always know how to communicate with younger generations but they sure know what they’re talking about.
