Out of the Kitchen

Are advertisements shaped by the real world or is it the other way around? I’m not entirely sure. My kids and I seem unable to relate to some of the more recurring TV ads these days. Cases in point:

Ad A: A woman grinning from ear to ear washes clothes by hand, and the items on her clothesline multiply indefinitely until she becomes a tiny spec in a sea of clean clothes. She remains blissfully happy, a maniac addicted to laundry.

Ad B: It’s early morning and a mom is in a mad rush around the kitchen preparing for members of her family who will be off to work and school. She ends up having a massive headache the size of PNoy's foreign relations problems.

Ad C: A mom serves her kids at the dining table while joyfully extolling the virtues of artificial flavoring. Life has never been easier with the advent of semi fake food.

My husband bought this for me for my protection. I'm kitchen and cooking impaired.

Do most modern women do all of that? If I had to wash clothes to infinity and beyond, my fingers would be in bloody shreds and I would probably never smile again, ever. As to kitchen duties, I am cooking impaired. My husband once summed up my attempts to learn to wield knife and spatula by declaring in exasperation, “The whole kitchen is against you.”

In our house, my kids know it’s their father they need to see for clean clothes and good food, but these ads have gotten them confused so that they’ve started to wonder if their father is really their mother; their mother their father; or if their mother is really their mother, then why is she working ten hour shifts and not in the kitchen or the laundry room shredding her fingers?

I suppose my kids aren’t the only ones puzzled. One time, while at my father-in-law’s place, a group of neighbors’ kids, all boys, were playing in my pa’s living room with pink cookware. They were each vying for the role of father of their make believe house. Clearly in their houses, the men man their kitchens as well. 

This is not a feminist commentary. It’s an observation on how some families and situations no longer fit old standards and how children’s perceptions have begun to evolve.

I wonder if you’ve begun to change your internal concepts as well. More importantly, I wonder who does the cooking and the laundry in your homes.




Here's the man of our house doing the cooking.

Manila - The Gates of Hell

Manila the Gates of Hell. From Mr. Lagasca's Facebook page.

I don’t like Dan Brown’s books. I once made the unwise decision of reading one. It left me feeling as if I had lost parts of my brain and my intelligence had been stolen. His writing style is bloated and repetitive and his logic is flawed. I vowed never to read any of his novels again for fear I would lose my ability to construct even simple sentences.

Recently however, despite my resolve to stay away from Brown’s mental junk food, I felt I had to read two pages of his new book, Inferno. If you haven’t heard the news yet, the current uproar among some residents of Manila is “sponsored” by Brown.

In Inferno, he described Manila as having,

“…six-hour traffic jams, suffocating pollution and a horrifying sex trade…”

He then placed his female protagonist in the midst of it all,

“All around her the wails of crying babies and the stench of human excrement hung in the air. I’ve run through the gates of hell.”

Tolentino's letter to Dan Brown

Naturally, it was only a matter of time before the Filipinos’ inability to take anything negative kicked in. Sure enough, no less than MMDA chief Francis Tolentino expressed in a letter to Brown that he was “greatly disappointed”, arguing that Manila was instead “an entry to heaven”.

I find both Brown’s and Tolentino’s metaphors faulty.

A gate is simply an entry way. If conditions are already awful at the gate, everything must be worse inside. In Manila, what can possibly be worse than what he described? Oh, I know. Perhaps being stuck in a car stuck in traffic with five people farting simultaneously is worse? How about the punishment of life imprisonment in Bilibid with mandatory eight-hour daily readings of Brown’s books?

Obviously though, Tolentino’s impression of Manila is more skewed. He needs his eyes, ears and nose checked. He must have lost his senses due to frequent exposure to the streets of Manila. If we were to redefine heaven according to Tolentino, it would be a lot like hell, only better perhaps because our twisted understanding of what is heavenly includes seeing a lot of people going to church and thinking reproductive health is sinful.

I’d like to think Manila is neither heaven nor hell. To me, it’s just the armpits of despair, needing truckloads of deodorant and political will to sanitize.

Regardless of what anyone thinks though, what’s more important is what we realize. Unless we see Manila for what it truly is, there’s no fixing it.

Much Ado in December 2012

The Sin Tax Law will make alcoholic drinks so expensive in the years to come that some are already considering shockingly desperate alternatives.

I can no longer write year enders. My ongoing foray into the harrowing world of earning a living and trying to make ends meet has considerably shrunk my mental storage system into the size of a dehydrated pea. I can now only write about immediate or devastating incidents. Here's my top seven events of December 2012 in the Philippines.

#7 - End of the World

Of course it didn't happen, which makes it devastating for those who fanatically preached repentance and preparation. Don't worry. There's another end of the world slated for February 2013 so the public can panic some more and Hollywood producers can create another scientifically inaccurate doomsday movie.

By the way, didn't we all get the memo? God says only He knows when. Except of course if you're the leader of a secretive nation that may be manufacturing weapons of mass destruction, in which case, you'd know the approximate time.

#6 - Sin Tax Law Implementation

I saw people cry on New Year's eve, not because they were moved by their resolutions to live better lives, but because this year, alcohol and tabacco products will be more expensive. Some will have to learn to drink in more refined ways: tea, coffee or juice with drops of brandy or vodka in tiny porcelain cups. Sadly, that won't be enough. The streets will be filled with seemingly rabid humans experiencing withdrawal symptoms. 

#5 - Reproductive Health Bill Signed into Law

We argued over whether or not it was an act of mass murder to use latex to hamper the passage of sperm cells, and whether or not the government had done its best to populate the country's mountains and forests to curb urban overpopulation. The issue eventually zeroed in on the role of women. Some lobbied to allow us to perform our natural duty as baby factories until menoupause or death, whichever comes first, but then they lost by a slim margin.

Enrile vs. Santiago. A gift of boxing gloves for Christmas would have made the difference.

 #4 - Pacquiao's Defeat by Marquez

A stunned nation watched Pacquiao sleeping on the job for the first time. Needless to say, it was so shocking that it gave birth to fistfights of other sorts: Mommy Dionisia vs. Christians of other denominations and Justine Bieber vs. anti Bieber congressmen. It has yet to be determined who has less tact and refinement, Mommy D or Bieber.

#3 - Ms. Universe runner up Janine Tugonon

In a country where beauty pageants and rocket science are synonyms, Janine's near win became yet again another event to analyze the crap out of. I'm sure there is now a 500-page official report on why we lost again. Really though, in this modern day and age, shouldn't pageants already be banned like the Inquisition?

#2 - Hundreds Injured in Holiday Revelry

This year, more than 700 have been injured by firecrackers. At least two children have died after being hit by stray bullets. Not funny. I feel now more than ever that every city needs a Mayor Duterte of sorts.

#1 - Pablo's Wrath

The typhoon that struck Mindanao this year claimed hundreds of lives. While it certainly is noteworthy to suspend criticism to give way to relief efforts, it's vital to resume critical evaluation at some point. Over and above preparatory steps, shouldn't we now be moving towards preventive and adaptive measures?

The tail end of the year had a sorrowful pallor to it which has blunted my humor pen. Here's hoping there'll be more to laugh about in 2013.

Waiting for the Postman

Ploning has been waiting and waiting and waiting...

What has Ploning been waiting ages for?

a. the love of her life who will never return
b. the end of the world
c. politicians' promises to come true
d. mail from the Philippine post office

If you're familiar with the story of Ploning, you know the answer is letter "a". I feel a lot like her except that I've been waiting for the postman instead. There's nothing special about the dude. I just want to get the training DVD package I've been waiting for for two years.

I'm not the only one with postal service issues. One of my friends who applied for the Ateneo graduate school got his letter of acceptance three months too late, while a relative never got jewelry sent by her fiance.

Letters and packages seem to get lost so often in the post office that if Tinkerbell, who collects lost things, were to visit Philippine shores, she'd probably find an abundance of lost mail and packages.

Tinkerbell in search of lost Philippine packages.

I suppose it was much worse in the past. Wasn't there an urban legend once (used to scare truant children) of otherworldly creatures that frequent mail rooms? These beings looked a lot like post office employees too except that they had claws to slash through envelopes and hooked noses to sniff for freshly minted dollars. Interestingly, they had an abundant supply of scotch tape for repairing slash marks.

People were once so scared of these creatures that relatives abroad devised greeting cards with secret pockets to cleverly store and prevent the loss of green money. Harry Potter couldn't have devised a better spell for mail protection.

Real or perceived issues with the postal service aren't helping to preserve an institution already threatened by Internet technology. I dare say post office personnel have helped place themselves on the list of endangered species right next to the Philippine Eagle and sea turtles.

Next time someone wants to send me anything I'd be sure to suggest that he send it through special courier.

Metro Manila Floods Again - What You Can Do After

Mordor? Metro Manila in a state of calamity. -Photo from Louieda Oviedo

Last week, NASA’s rover Curiosity finally confirmed that Mars is a barren, desolate land with a surplus of rocks and no green men to recruit to play the Martian Manhunter in the movie adaptation of the Justice League. They had to spend billions of dollars to confirm that because scientists had reason to believe the Martians could really be hiding behind boulders knitting mittens.

In other news on Earth, it has also been confirmed that the Olympics was really just the U.S. vs. China with Usain Bolt as special guest. The final word was, “China you cannot have London too,” as the U.S. topped the medals race.

In the Philippines, people hardly paid attention to these events. We were all glued to Metro Manila and its neighboring provinces. Forget Atlantis. Metro Manila’s cities were so flooded they were almost eligible for underwater exploration.

If the Bourne Legacy production filmed last week instead of months ago, they would have had to change the title to Bourne Underwater and Aaron Cross would not have just been virally enhanced but bacterially enhanced as well with Leptospira.

I can afford to make fun now probably because shortly after the news broke, photos of the happy Filipino, flashing pearly whites and yellows, started filtering through social networks faster than instant noodles cooking. There were kids diving, men drinking, couples getting hitched and people just banding together to help amidst all the water.

So I knew the Filipino would get up yet again and get on with life as if floods were the most common thing in life. The Filipino spirit has even proven to be contagious, with foreign nationals taking to the streets, er… urban rivers to take a dip with the locals.




Pinoy: Do you think it’s safe sir?
Aussie: Ah.. No.

He goes on and takes a splash anyway with a bunch of Pinoy kids.

The Filipino’s ability to grab calamity by the throat and whack the devastation out of it is undoubtedly admirable, but it’s important to ask: How long before the next great flood? How long before we swim, laugh and pack relief goods again? Do you honestly want another chance to look adversity in the eye and spit at it?

What about the cesspool of poverty, corruption and ignorance brewing underneath all the water? Those will rear their ugly heads again too the next time this happens.

We can’t change how our country’s systems work now but why don’t we start by knocking some sense into ourselves so we can pass some sense onto our kids and the people we can influence.

Here are four action steps for you to start with:

• Stop throwing trash like you had massive eye boogers that keep you from seeing trash bins. No fairies will magically appear and pick up after you.
• Educate yourself so you’ll understand that these floods aren’t from God. They’re the result of the stupidity of human beings. 
• Strive to prosper. It is not okay to wait for Noynoy in blue leotards and a red cape to rescue you from under the bridge or the minimum wage.
• Do not vote for the sardines you see below and their cousins in tarpaulins. They will keep people poor following the principles of patronage politics. 

Want politicians in tomato sauce? -Photo from Dr. John Ortiz Teope's page

Teach your kids these action points and pass it on to others. This is how you groom future citizens who will have the heart to fix our waterlogged cities.

Warts and Other Tales Featuring Lance Duggan

Woe to the commercial model who becomes the face of warts removal.

Who the hell is Lance Duggan? I have no idea but after seeing his face on the Mendez Medical Group’s promotional poster, I had this sudden urge to search for his name online to find out if he really had warts.

If you were a commercial model, would you seriously volunteer to be a model for a warts removal service? That’s tantamount to admitting you have them. Your name will forever be associated with the condition and people will think of you when they think of warts.

Lance should change his name. “The name’s Duggan, Warts Duggan.”

I suspect though that Lance didn’t exactly jump up and down with hand raised to volunteer to be the face of the service. I suspect Mendez randomly picked whose face goes to which service. “Oh look here, Lance gets the warts.” I bet the other models breathed a collective sigh of relief.

While we’re on the topic of a cosmetic issue and its solution, I wonder how far I would go to fix a cosmetic issue.

You know how it is when you meet casual acquaintances. In my experience, after the mandatory peck on the cheek and the “Hi, how are yous” there is nothing left to talk about so the conversation invariably turns to how much larger I’ve become and how my skin tone has drastically changed.

I almost want to say, “Call me the ugly Hulk why dontcha?”

My main physical woes are my eye bags the size of Saturn and my bum the size of Jupiter. The dark rings I can easily hide with tinted glasses but no clothing, save for a mascot’s costume, can disguise my well-endowed behind. It’s gotten so out of hand that my little daughter says she gets suffocated when she’s behind me. I suppose if a hippo needed a bum double, I would qualify.

Manong pulis here can teach me how to exercise properly.

If I had the money, would I pay for a surgical procedure? Maybe, as long as they don’t make me the bum reduction model. Oh wait, there’s also this thing called exercise. I might try that first if I manage to extricate myself from my designated snack bench in front of Lance’s poster. I bet the policemen who'll be exercising at the park with me can teach me a thing or two about keeping fit through physical exertion.

Rockets, Ships and Transgender Miss Universe

Mike will soon be able to declare his desire for world peace on the Miss U stage

Last week’s top three news items:

#1 – NoKor’s rocket launch

Yes it failed but before it did, it sent neighboring Asian countries into red alert status. While South Korea and Japan prepared their defense systems, National Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Council (NDRRMC) director Benito Ramos could do nothing more than demonstrate to media how to detach ballpen caps.

"Imagine this ballpen is a rocket. This here is the part that comes off. Now you better pray you aren’t unlucky enough to be the one in 92 million Filipinos who gets a surprise rocket part."

In fairness to the NDRRMC, rumor has it that they did send a team of specialists over to areas at risk. These specialists are pros in patintero a local game crucial in training residents proper evasive maneuvers. Trainees were asked to look up while darting right and left just like in patintero. If the rocket part is falling your way, simply dart to the left or right.

Taken from Bogart the Explorer's FB page

#2 – Philippines vs. China standoff at Scarborough Shoal

Chinese fishing vessels and the Philippine’s ancient flagship the BRP Gregorio del Pilar were caught in a standoff on the disputed waters of Scarborough Shoal. Vintage is good and classy but not when it’s in reference to a warship that is the only thing standing between us and China’s wrath.

In an effort to diffuse the situation, President Aquino vowed to resolve the issue through diplomatic channels. That’s obvious enough even to a sixth grader. Armed with nothing but the naval equivalent of a slingshot, we really have no choice.

#3 – Transgender contestants in Miss Universe

Because we know there is nothing our government can do in the face of rocket debris and Chinese fishermen, our citizens saw it best to devote most of their intellectual energies to the scholarly debates over the issue of transgender contestants in Miss Universe.

Surprisingly, I have no opinion about the matter, just the observation that when standing beside my transgender hairstylist I, a natural born female, look like an ugly little boy. That is either a testament to how ugly I am or how beautiful he is. Believe me, it’s the latter. My point is that transgender women are so stunningly beautiful, I wonder if a natural born female will ever win the crown again.

What is the essence of a woman? Answer: Maybe the absence of balls.

Magnum Ice Cream - Grab a Status Symbol Now

A strange viral infection swept over the web last week. Its aim was to eradicate reason and individuality and manifested itself in multiple blog and social network photos of people in compromising poses, nibbling on Magnum, the newest carrier of forbidden calories.

Gone were the pictures of cute babies; adorable cat videos; photos of breakfast, lunch, dinner; Foursquare invitations to stalkers and the constant rants against life's unfairness. When there's just a constant stream of gold labelled ice cream wrappers, you suddenly miss the creepy insights into your friends' personal lives, whereabouts, mental issues and digestive habits.

I've been told that in other cities, the infection is much worse. Elated by the idea that perceived elevated social status can now be bought, urban peacocks take pictures in very public places of before, during and after they consume the ice cream bar.

Magnum is reportedly a status symbol, but what kind of a status symbol is something that's accessible to everyone? Aren't status symbols, by their very nature supposed to be too expensive or too rare for the average Joe to have? I therefore suggest that Magnum should be declared a status symbol for the average social status.

In the interest of giving a fair(ly) biased assessment of Magnum, I had to try it. Surprisingly, it was harder to find than a haystack with a needle. It was out of stock in three stores and running out in another, as if people bought them in crates, afraid that if they ran out of it they'd look ordinary, cheap or poor.

For my first bite, I closed my eyes like the TV ad model demonstrated, but there was no consequent awakening to an adoring crowd celebrating my newly discovered royalty. There was only the realization that the name Magnum is a glaring mismatch for a sweet product. It's a more appropriate name for a mastiff, an action movie or a UFC fighter. Somehow, "Hype" has a softer, more fitting sound.

What was the taste like? Nido full cream milk seemed a tad creamier than the vanilla filling. As for the Belgian chocolate coating, I'm not refined enough to tell the differences among Belgian chocolates, Hersheys, M & Ms and ChocNut, so the distinction was lost on me.

In less than five minutes, all that supposed Belgian superiority was in my digestive system anyway, mixed with the salted dried fish I had for lunch. All I had left was a branded stick. Oh good, I could either have it framed or carry it around to flash in the faces of random strangers.

Grace Ibuna vs. Aleli Arroyo - Fight!

Rich women don't have claws. They have lawyers.

In this week’s top news, Toby Tiangco takes off his shoes in court, while Grace Ibuna and Aleli Arroyo finally answer the trivia, “Who gets to bury Iggy Arroyo?”

I would have loved to write about Toby’s feet but ABS-CBN news already has a full page report on that (what an ahhhmazing display of reporting skills) and I have nothing else to add to it except maybe to note that Toby’s blue and purple striped sock heel goes well with his shock of/shocking/shocked grey hair.

I had little choice but to dissect the private lives of Grace, the third wheel who wasn’t, and Aleli, the wife who narrowly escaped an annulment, instead. It’s not my fault they were everywhere this week, in newspapers, television news programs and even in my neighbor’s dog’s Facebook page.

I'm loving that sock heel Toby.

It’s a sad, sad day when news organizations deem a man’s marital laundry to be newsworthy, but that’s less sad than Toby’s feet, and we are after all talking about a late congressman’s laundry here. In today’s society, elevated social status is all the justification you’ll need to pry into someone else’s affairs.

There’s nothing unique about the story really. The husband leaves, starts seeing someone else and dies. The interesting bit starts when the ladies battle it out for the body.

It’s not funny but it’s mildly amusing. There are no episodes requiring the services of bouncers of epic proportions, no scratching of nine inch nails, no tearing of hair and no words deadlier than shrapnel. Instead we see the delicate raising of trimmed eyebrows and the clinking of fine china over legal papers in London, proof that the law has more bite than promises of fidelity at an altar.

Even when they meet in public, hair follicles and makeup remain intact as Grace and Aleli retire to opposite sections of the church with their respective entourages, one group in white and the other in black. The “fight” is so uncharacteristic, it‘s like watching some weird paranormal activity.

Online, the violent reactions are more surprising considering the fact that none of the comment posters are the principal characters in the issue. Among some online circles, the consensus is to condemn the other woman for conduct unbecoming of a third wheel. We are a Catholic nation after all. Grace should emulate President Erap’s women who respectfully give way to the woman who holds the marriage contract (for people who cannot detect sarcasm an inch away, I'm obviously not being serious here) . 

In male offline circles, the type created by bonds forged by 5% alcohol content, the talk is more subdued but in agreement. Perhaps the wife has razor sharp teeth, hence the husband's exit.

Wait a minute, why does it always have to be the women’s fault? Wasn’t there a dead man somewhere in the story too?

And that’s as far as I go. No one has access to the whole story. It’s time to say, “Mind your own business.”

The Link Between Men and Beef

BAD ADVERTISING seeks to appeal to the inner moron.

What do men and beef have in common? Nothing, except maybe they're both bad for your health when taken in excess, which makes me wonder at the association made in a fairly new ad between the two disparate elements.

In the ad, young men, who (not so accidentally) are either half Filipino or were born in western countries, play football on a green field against a backdrop of grazing black cattle. At first you'd wonder, are they advertising the cattle's impending death by football or are they suggesting these chiseled men are bred like cattle? Then you realize, what they're really saying is that Angus beef is superior to the local variety just as these nearly foreign looking men are superior to the pure native stock.

Oh but wait, who got the Golden Boot for his excellent performance in the Long Teng Cup? Wasn't that the short, brown, homegrown Chieffy Caligdong? I'd like to see small brown cattle and Chieffy in that ad!

Pirates Know Their Synonyms

Study your synonyms so you'll know how to say things in a way that won't get you into trouble.

Jan and I were in the mall when he asked me for another word for "transformers". I thought, was that even a legitimate word? I was stumped. He showed me the answer sitting on a toy shelf. Wow, these pirates get brighter by the day. Now they know enough synonyms to ride on a trademarked hit without getting themselves into trouble.

Then again, they won't ever get into trouble here even if they used the actual trademarked word and maybe just changed "T" to "Z". I've never witnessed the law against piracy enforced in this city. I don't know if there is a Philippine law against toy piracy but there is one against media piracy and merchants still sell in broad daylight, beside or across police stations. If DVD pirates have nothing to worry about, then more so their synonym-wielding pals in the toy niche.

Can You Say Cease and Desist?

STALKING

is an act perpetrated by fairly educated individuals who don't know the meaning of "cease and desist".

Aw shucks, lucky fan! I've only gone crazy over cartoon characters. I've sent tons of fan mails to my super favorites but Lion-O, He-Man and Batman haven't once replied to me yet.

Vanity Attack

Some people set a thin line between vanity and good grooming. For example, I’ve been given the advice that before applying for a job, one must pluck one’s eyebrows and apply makeup because these are components of good grooming. That’s news to me. I grew up in an environment where anything beyond washing one’s face was considered vain. Yeah, for the nth time, I had lots of nuns in my BFF list.

I still don’t “groom” myself very well despite the good advice of other friends who don’t hang out in cloisters. The last time I put on makeup was five years ago when co-workers convinced me that the only way for customers to take me seriously was if I painted my face.

I’ve also aggressively refused to pluck my brows. The clerk I was with yesterday convinced me that I made the right decision. Whoever “groomed” her gave her a perpetually surprised look. She probably realized the magnitude of the disastrous grooming session and decided to grow out the plucked parts so now she has something akin to stubble on the wrong part of her face.

I must admit, it was a lot easier not to care about my looks when I was younger. Seventeen years of lack of sleep, lack of exercise, and regular McDonalds fixes have joined forces to ruin my skin quality and create dark continents under my eyes.

The dark circles around my eyes are the hardest to ignore. They’re like the hole in the ozone layer. They grow larger every year. Fellow online workers who share the same look are considering putting up a Panda Look-Alike Society. Why pandas and not raccoons? Because we now also have the girth to match pandas, thanks to our bad eating habits and sedentary work.

A few weeks ago I thought I found the solution to the negative evolution of my facial looks. I bought a product that promised to take care of the 7 signs of skin aging in just 7 days. The product ad said nothing about doing cartwheels or replacing my daily diet with generous helpings of grass so in the guise of scientific testing, I gave in to my sudden attack of vanity and bought it. Seven days later, I looked like I aged 7 days.

Perhaps the product only works for folks who don’t get exposed to the sun, who sleep 15 hours a day and who thrive on wheat sticks. For the rest of us regular folks we only have three choices to look good: pluck eyebrows and put on makeup; live healthy lifestyles and look for golden flowers to sing to like Mother Gothel.

I still refuse to pluck my eyebrows so I’ll try exercise next week.

What is Marriage?

I’m sure Wikipedia has the long, convoluted, partially correct answer, but since four years of college and another four years of trying to decipher Google’s Terms of Service have damaged my brain, I am now incapable of understanding definitions beyond “Duh”.

Sometimes I get the impression that marriage is a legally binding agreement that allows individuals to demand that their partners, who have future plans of hiding from obligation in the Swiss Alps, listen to the now classic song “Financial Support” by Kevin Federline. Those who actually have partners who cooperate fully may alternatively use their documents to gain express access to their rights and benefits and to those of their children, financial or otherwise, from legal institutions.

That inaccurate definition is the result of two decades of watching friends and family hit their heads against marriage contracts that have the physical attributes of paper but the internal qualities of concrete. I’m certain that if I said that in one of my six theology classes in college, I would have never been given my diploma.

Quite recently, this simplistic perspective has expanded a bit thanks to Vilma Santos. In one of her movies she complains to her partner that the reason why he is compelled by his parents to provide for their needs first rather than hers is because his parents bank on the fact that they aren’t married. That implies that if they were married, she would have had the right to demand that she and their kids be the first in his list of concerns.

I pretty much put my ear against closed doors or watch quarreling neighbors with a popcorn bucket in one arm. I remember one woman very close to home echo a similar line, “Why do you always go home to your parents when they call for you? Don’t they know we’re married?”

Actually, the couples I know fight in very public places where they prefer to spill their guts and all the gory details of their disastrous unions. What I gather from them pretty much verifies the truth behind Vilma’s lines.

So that means I can now turn to my husband and demand that aside from surrendering his wallet, assets and die cast car collection to me, he is now required to prioritize my demands because we have a marriage contract. Sweet.

The Typical Wife

My husband and his pals have a base idea of what a typical wife is. Arms akimbo, the typical wife barges through the informal “social” gatherings of inebriated men, lets fly strings of verbal barbs and drags her man by the ear each time to get him home. The rest of the ruffians who witness such instances of utter and absolute humiliation, duck in various directions to protect their egos from the sting of the typical wife’s wrath.

I don’t fit the description. That’s why my husband’s friends love me too. The females in the typical category warn me of my folly. They say men need to be flogged in public so they don’t forget who their real bosses are. I don’t throw sharp words, breakable objects or facial contortions at my husband in public or in private because I’m too lazy. With two kids I don’t want to have to be the mother of a fully grown person.

The other night I found my husband tinkering with his phone in the dead of the night. Having settled on an inexplicably difficult mood (which I’d like to blame on hormones, Google, the president, Justin Beiber, the man on the moon or anyone/anything else other than myself) I asked him who the hell he was texting in the dark.

His jaw fell and the silence was long and pronounced. “Are you my wife? So what’s next? Are you gonna attend all my social events? Are you gonna stand with your fists up in front of my buddies?”

“When those things happen, my dear, you’d better worry that your real wife got kidnapped by aliens.”

Really, I just don’t know what came over me.

It’s a Good Day to Be Filipino

I heard from the grapevine that a very close relative of mine has declared his intentions to change his citizenship because he has grown tired of the Philippine situation. I am no longer in speaking terms with this relative because of this but I understand where he’s coming from.

Life here has almost become an exercise in futility and I’m starting to feel the hopelessness of it all. It’s not just last month’s failed hostage crisis resolution that has brought about this depressing perspective. It’s really more because of the rare glimpse I’ve had of the common man on the street.

Up until recently, I had a 15 year old nanny who lived with us. She went missing for a night and a day and I found her in her boyfriend’s house. She chose to forgo both her education and employment for him.

The girl’s mother is all thumbs up at the situation. The boy’s mother and grandmother have resigned themselves to it as well but are actually more disturbed about it. In an attempt to dissuade the girl, they’ve opened up the family’s history books. The boy belongs to a family of four siblings, all adults, none of whom have finished high school even if they could have. They are all unemployed and spend their mornings playing illegal numbers games and their afternoons playing dodge ball with cousins who are also unemployed dropouts. In the evenings the two male siblings get drunk, break bottles on the streets and land punches on whoever it is they currently have relations with. The girl is unfazed. She just wants to be with her man.

My jaw is still stuck on the ground. I cannot believe that there are people who are willing to live lives expecting manna from heaven, sulfur-laced goods from hell or shit from the gutters of the earth to survive. I cannot believe that any sensible being would choose to live such an existence even if a better one is within reach. I cannot believe that there are people so disgraceful that even their mothers completely renounce them.

My husband assures me I’ve been a witness to something real but that I haven’t really seen all there is to it. What I’ve seen is just a micro sample of bigger communities where there is nothing sacred and people rot in pits of apathy.

Aquino vows he’d rid the system of corruption but if everyday, hundreds of children are taught by example that it’s okay to live unprincipled lives, to strive for nothing, to compromise right for wrong, to take the easy way out, then each and every year, this country will still be in the hands of people who don’t care about the country, the greater good or their own souls. Six years from now, when Aquino steps down, we might just end up where we first started.

It’s still a good day to be Filipino though simply because we are and now is no different than any other moment when some talented countryman manages to wave the flag a little higher than usual. We have to start believing and creating situations where it’s good to be us because no official document from another country or an extensive cosmetic enhancement can erase racial heritage. We share the same story regardless of citizenship or appearance and our story will haunt us to the ends of oblivion.

We don’t need Aquino to make a dent on corruption. What we really need is a hard, bloody smack on the collective consciousness. That’s not Aquino’s job. It’s ours.

The Real Ms. Universe

My husband thinks I’m beautiful. That isn’t too flattering though considering that his supreme standard of beauty is the female alien in James Cameron’s Avatar. Then again, I would probably have a shot at the Ms. Universe crown if Trump acknowledged the audacity of the pageant title and started inviting real otherworldly creatures to compete. If someone like my husband were to be a judge, he’d probably choose the 8 ft. sentient mollusk from Alpha Centauri besides me, the Na’vi representative, as a top contender.

There simply is no chance in my lifetime for Ms. Universe to be redefined and reformatted. I’d have to stay contended hanging around in my evening gown (i.e. nightgown), binging on my third bag of chips while watching nearly absurd vital statistics take on human forms and sashay in heels, the first inanimate object that will soon be convicted of involuntary manslaughter.

There is no bitterness in my system, mind you. My father drilled into my consciousness by the tender age of five that the pageant is like a great big cattle farm where the cattle are paraded, stared at and branded. By the time I grew up to be the shortest in my high school class, he assured me that he will forever be happy that I didn’t grow tall enough to join beauty pageants.

Neither am I particularly scornful of pageants. I like watching grown women tell the whole world how much they espouse world peace. So yeah, I will watch the pageant and enjoy it even if I find that creating “universal” standards for beauty isn’t fair.

Trouble at Twilight

I was all happy and ecstatic when we finally decided to live on our own apart from my in-laws. Even the impending birth of a second baby didn’t stop us. Armed with determination and a tummy that was the only thing larger than my resolve, I moved heaven and earth to get us an apartment. The tummy helped a lot because everyone seemed all too eager to help me get around. It’s been seven months and I wish I can say we made the best decision.

Like most Filipino communities, we live in one where people are always friendly and helpful. There are just some nights though when scenes jump right out of a vampire book and I’d wish I read Twilight. That would have been bearable punishment compared to the cold, clammy sweat I bathe in every time the friendly neighbors start drinking, bickering, breaking bottles and destroying private property.

I used to live in a place where the neighbors sometimes mutated at twilight too but I had nothing to worry about. They all still seemed to recognize me in their hairy, fanged conditions. That’s thanks to the many long years of friendship forged by countless beer bottles that my own pet werewolf (my husband) has had with them.

Without familiar faces, I find myself losing more and more sleep watching over my human children. I’d probably sleep better if I had a silver stake beside me but all I have is a short wooden stick that probably can’t even hurt a cat.

A friend once asked me, “So what do you prefer, living in a place not your own but where you’re good friends with the drunkards or in a place of your own but where the drunkards are strangers?”

Tough question.

The Nanny

I don’t like the idea of getting hired help. This is not because I am too finicky. I just hate the idea of hiring someone who has to stop going to school so she can work. I feel guilty that I seem to have an unfair and unfortunate advantage over someone. Hiring help here seems almost like enslaving someone especially since the wage for nannies isn’t enough to pay for a pair of Levi’s jeans.

I am in a rock and a hard place. It’s either I send her back home so she can go back to school or I stop working so I can take care of my kids myself. If I stop slaving over a keyboard my family will go hungry. So what will it be?

I wish I lived in a country where education is a right and not a privilege and where married moms with kids can work without having to hire out of school youth.

Rumor Has Bitten the Tiger

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.