Marriage Proposal

(CJ and his Halloween date, Cindy)

The first marriage proposal I got was when I was in high school. I was 17. "Let's get married," he says. The guy was 13 years older than I was, and he is a good man.

People who had a close brush with death say their lives flashed before them at the most critical moment. That's what it was like. Only, in my case, instead of the past moving fast forward, I had my future go fast forward before my eyes.

I know that "fast forward flash" happened in my brain in less than 10 seconds. (I'll have kids one after the other, not finish school, cook, do the dishes, live here, die here, my breasts sagging to the ground even before I'm 30!)

"NO!" I think I yelled that out, and he was whispering the offer.

I think he was turned off by the indelicate way with which I handled the issue, and how the rejection was delivered. Pero, nyeta, gimme a break. I was just 17 and you want me to cook, clean, have kids and have my breasts coiled around my waist before i turn 30? (Err, erase that last one. I don't think that's what he wanted)

Come to think of it, bar none, had he offered me marriage five years ago, I would have said yes. The guys I dated after him belong to a zoo.

I'm talking below sea level IQ. (No offense to dolphins)

High School

You don't see them for decades. Then they drop bombs on you when you meet. (I dated so and so, and we kept it secret. I had a one-night stand with so and so. So and so are married now. They were going out when we were on third year.)

It forces you to analyze how you've lived your life so far.

Then come lines that sting a bit.
"You were so serious, it seemed like you had a plan even then."
"You had no link with any of us."
"You only dated seniors."
"You got seriously in love with that college guy when we were in fourth year."
"I don't think a sentence passed between us at all."
"Nobody knew how to get in touch with you after high school."

Some dated on the sly. Some spent weekends on the beach. As couples or as a group. A couple eloped the night before the graduation march. Some got married the same year we graduated. I was oblivious to most of the things that were happening then. I only had a faint idea of who was dating who, and I still cannot believe sex, more so one-night stands, was happening.

I took advance military class and aimed to be an officer, and applied for the S1 position. Never mind if it was meant only for males. I got it.

"I resented not having won that position, ending up as your assistant," he says. That hurt a bit. I regret not knowing that early in life, I hurt someone deeply in a competition, although I fought for it fair and square.

Then I jokingly threw him a punch, suddenly recalling that he gave me a hard time and made me cry during a formation. He refused to obey me. "Sandali, salbahe ka noon!" (Wait a minute, you were mean to me then!)

His name is Joveno. I was able to save a high school picture of him, on one of those weekends on the beach. We had a good laugh at how spindly he was.

Joveno left for the UAE the day after we met again, the first time after high school.

Now, some of the boys in our class are in the Middle East. Like the men before them, like the fathers that raised them, they live life away from the family they have formed. Away from the wife, the sons and daughters they struggle to support and raise via long distance calls, text messages, emails and cash pouches. In some tragic cases, an eight-year marriage can be easily translated to just six months of living together.

For the first time, I personally feel the collective pain of families torn apart by poverty, unemployment, and lopsided opportunities. It hit most of the people in my high school class. It hurts to know that the carefree boys and girls are now wracked by the extreme pain and sacrifice required of parents in this country. The same boys and girls who saw class cancellations due to typhoons as an opportunity to hit the beach, never mind the giant waves of Zambales's often furious coastline.

The memories of high school can sometimes sting the eyes. We hold on to those happy days in our minds, and sprinkle their warmth on the sad days that visit us as grownups.

Update

Da Kevin surfaces in Washington DC and berates me for worrying, sparking a mild conflagration of fiery barbs. He's now somewhere in Europe, on his way to Africa.

I'm glad things are back to normal.

Men. Why don't they get it?

Nigerian Plane Down

Lagos. Abuja. Nairobi. Addis Ababa. Da Kevin is always flying around these areas. Is he on that flight? Is he among the 114 passengers? There seems to be a snake wrapping itself around my heart. Squeezing. Coiling. Geesh.

PMS Explained

Your taste buds go out of whack for reasons only heaven knows.

You want a mango. You dip it in vinegar. Then salt. Then slather it with mayonnaise. Then more salt. You grab a banana, dip it in vinegar. You even use a fork. You eat tons of whatever it is you crave for, and your body feels like it’s the grand canyon on two legs, unfillable.

For some reasons, all the results of crash dieting and jogging are erased. You waddle (yes, fatso, you waddle) like a blubbery seal, step on the scale and the needle goes right. Too damn far right. How can you gain five pounds in a night? You feel like if someone hugs you too tight, you’d ooze water. You’re bloated beyond scientific comprehension. And you’re so damn hungry. And you want to dip ice cream in soy sauce.

Your boobs hurt. If you’re a guy and you’re reading this, imagine a pain in your groin that won’t go away for almost a week. We do feel like kicking you in the groin if you as much as breathe around us on these days, because that’s the equivalent of how we feel. Every pothole on every road is an offense to our breasts, and we’d hate you till kingdom come if you make us ride a tricycle. If only all women are naggers then those men in the public works department would be henpecked into making perfect roads. But we’re not. We bear the pain in silent dignity and go on with our days.
We don’t howl like starving wolves and jump on one foot like you do when your “family jewels” are hit. Unless of course you as much breathe around us, or make your presence known to us.

Your lower back hurts. It’s like your pelvic bones are in the middle of a bitter divorce and not even getting that vacation house in the Bahamas can set it right.

Your tummy hurts. The pain can be from light to medium to harsh, depending on how your body likes it this month. But the pain is constant.

Then finally, when you get your period, for some reasons, aside from the gross, sticky feeling, you get diarrhea. You feel like wanting to take a shower all the time. In fact, you want to pitch a tent in the bathroom.

Then when it’s over, you are back to your normal self. The weighing scale is suddenly kind. You eat like other normal human beings.

Then after three weeks, the ogre is back at the dining table. Munching on guavas. Drinking vinegar and soy sauce.

Let me make one thing clear: it is not fair. We know it. You know it. So for the sake of world peace, don’t make jokes about PMS. And don’t even breathe or dare make your presence felt.

Calling Doc Duke

Flight to Davao was ok, considering I only had 2 hours of sleep.
Flight from Davao to Manila was bad. As the plane descended, I sort of heard a ping around my left eye. I wanted to shoot the pilot to get even. The pain was bad. I wanted to scream for the plane to get back on terra firma, ASAP. Was I having one of those heart attacks that kill brain cells? The pain was making its way around my skull, the back, to be precise.

I walked the ramp with the pain, and unknowingly, with bloodshot eyes. "What drugs are you taking?" an officemate asked. "Naptalina, tangna," I said trying to make light of it. But the pain was still shooting.

Was it the rhinitis?

Desaparecidos (Voluntary)

A woman with gold hoop earrings, gold necklace and lots of rings in her hand sits in front of me.

She: My daughter has not been in touch with me since 1997. She's in Dubai.
Me: Do you think she's in trouble?
She: I don't know, but she never sent us money since she got there.

Another woman, just yesterday: My daughter has been in Washington DC since 1980. No letters, no news.
Me: What do you think is the problem?
She: I don't know. But she sure could help us. We need money for...and to...

I get calls from people like you, sounding like you. And like them, I wanted to disappear, too. I didn't say it out loud.

(Two years ago I read news reports about people "disappearing." Changed names, SSS number, etc. They got tired being the goose. And quit before they were killed like that one in that fairytale. )

Stinging Slap

Bookstore. A spine caught my eye. Title: Freshwater Fishing.
The inside cover says: Enjoy fishing in England, Ireland and Scotland.
%!*&^%$#@!)*!@!!!! Nyeta. Just when all the fishing I can do happens when I close my eyes and bring back memories of that sun-burning, skin-crisping weekend but catch-happy days in that island in Iloilo.

Prefixes and Titles

Why is her name and title prefixed with "Her Excellency?" Did she "excellently" cheat her way to office?

Why do we have that word "honorable" before the names of lawmakers? Is it the longer equivalent of "thief" or "dodo" or "moron" or "twerp?"

Why do architects insist on having "Arch." before their name? Does this stand for the ugly, gradeschool-drawn bridges that they have inflicted all over the country?

Why do we call them "Attorney-at-law?" Do we call bar flunkers or non-lawyers "Attorney-outlaw?"

The Dodo's Logic

Conversation with the best friend while having my eyes checked:

Best friend: Your eyes aren't so bad. 100 isn't so bad.
Me: Yes, but I have to squint to read these days.
BF: Then you have to wear glasses.
Me: No, I think the solution is to get a man.
BF: Eng? Why?
Me: So I won't have to read before I sleep.
BF: Ay, caramba!

Matanong Ko Lang

Ang mahal ng shades...wala namang pang-tanghalian.
Ang mahal ng shoes...wala namang pupuntahan.
Ang mahal ng bag...wala namang laman.
Ang mahal ng gimik...bukas mangungutang.
Ang mahal ng make-up...kumakalam naman ang tiyan.
Ang mahal ng magazine...di naman binabasa.
Ang mahal ng edukasyon...ayaw namang magtrabaho.

Matanong ko lang...bakit ba ang daming ganito?