Not Your Typical Fairy Tale

Once upon an early evening, a man and his wife went out on the town. They hailed fresh from a barbershop where they firmly held down the Wild Man of Borneo as he screeched and flailed and screamed. When the Wild Man's appearance had half-way began to resemble their younger son, they asked the barber to stop, and they hauled their snivel-faced snot-nosed changeling home.

Exhausted and much put-out, they decided a break was in short order. She wanted a slice of blueberry cheesecake. He wanted a beer. It was a Monday night.

They drove aimlessly, of two minds on where to stop. They bickered briefly about the hair-littered car while she upended her bra to let out more hair. Then they bickered about the bickering.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, an edifice loomed in front of the windshield. It was larger than life and more solid than breath. It resembled a camelot, the likes of where Cinderella might have danced with her prince, or where Beast courted Beauty in all his barbaric splendour. It turned out to be a stately new hotel. It was huge. It was imposing.

It would do.

The grand gilded doors opened to them and they suddenly remembered they were dressed like peasants put to the plough. They were rough and they were sweaty, and they were furry with hair that was not their own. But there was a beer somewhere inside waiting for them, and a rich cheesy wedge glistening with thick blueberry sauce, and fairy tales were a thing of the past, so they glided in and ignored the pointed stares.

They eschewed the elegantly appointed dining room, telling themselves it was too cold and housed too much frippery, but really because he wanted to sprawl lazily spread-legged and because she wanted to enjoy her desert with one foot propped up on her chair, and wasn't the garden a much much better choice? Yes it was. It was a perfect place for grubby gnomes and dressed-down dwarfs and craggy creatures of the forest. Best of all, it was empty.

A haughty footman waiter handed over the menu, and informed them there were beers, but no cheesecake. So they ordered the cheapest item of beef and settled down, ignoring two tall white tophats who peered at them disapprovingly from the kitchen door.

But the beer flowed and the beef was tender, and their loosened tongues praised the solitude of the twilight terrain. They became as Scheherazade and her Sultan, and told each other stories that grew more riveting as the dark deepened and mosquitoes blithely feasted amongst the blades of hair that the Wild Man had left on their legs.

I will build you a castle, said he of his plans for the future, I shall slay every Maleficent that threatens our coffers. And she swooned at his gallant chivalry, mightily helped along by the contents of another bottle. How proud she was of this errant knight in rusty armor, even as he promised to adorn her finger with an engagement ring seven years in the waiting.

Too soon the comforts of their cave and their tiny trolls called to them, and beckoning their steely-eyed server once more, they paid their bill while he looked down his narrow nose at their platters scraped clean of all traces of potato and gravy. At the very least, the man and his wife surmised, the dish washer would be grateful for their efforts.

So they made their way out the opulent lobby, avoiding the floor to ceiling mirror lest it come to life and shriek that no, they were not the fairest in the land. Not by a long shot. No way.

Then they got into their car and rode off into the moonrise and lived happily ever after. Or for as long as that night lasted, anyway. And as you very well know, this is not

The End...

No Contest

Sunday. Day of the Pacquiao-Diaz fight. I wake slowly, reluctantly. My eyelids are glued together with encrusted motes and it takes a while before my lashes untangle themselves.

Woog is already awake. As is his habit on days when school is out, he is up from bed before the sun. Class days, I have to shake him awake for what seems like hours. I can hear him in the next room, noisily slamming his Megablocs structures on the floor. Tsk.


Eli is beginning to wake, as well. He is somewhere below, clinging to my left leg like a gecko, murmuring sleepily.


Atch suddenly drapes himself all over me. Apparently his anticipation of this day has turned his testosterone on full-throttle. It seems he finds the need to unburden some of his excitement lest he explode all over the tv screen even before the fight begins.


As expected, Eli, our reliable romance radar, senses something is amiss in his world. He begins to scold in unintelligible consonants and climbs in between his father and me, right heel snagging Atch's nose upon descent.


To distract him, Atch turns the ringtone function of his cellphone on and gives it to the baby, who predictably grabs it and holds it up to his ear. But only until Atch discretely rolls me down to Eli's bed, which results in Eli hurling the phone at his father. It bounces hard on the floor, narrowly missing his head.


My husband sighs. "I'll change him and bring him down to Yaya..." he begins.


"We'll be late for Mass, Atch," I interrupt, glancing at the clock, "maybe later?"


"But I'll be watching Pacquiao." He protests.


Ah, yes. Pacquiao. I hate you Manny Pacquiao.


"Pacquiao or me, Atch."


"Aifee!" He squawks.


In the car on the way to church, the radio is on full-blast, not playing the Amy Winehouse or Enya the kids have been enjoying of late, but strident sports commentators making absurd predictions on the fight.


I learn later that it is a historical joust for the Pacman who is making his debut bout in the lightweight division, a weight class higher-up his usual featherweight. But Eli is looking puzzled. He cannot dance to the radio announcers' quacking voices. Blackmark number two against Manny Pacquiao.


Somewhere in this benighted Pacquiao-loving city (no, blast him...world), my officemate, R. will have left his two toddlers in the care of his harried wife while he hies himself over to somewhere called Otso-Otso where they serve lunch and a live telecast of the fight, all for two hundred pesos. Meanwhile, F. will be squeezing in for free with hundreds of other fans at the Bay Center, never mind his wife and three lovely daughters.


Back home, I look at my husband expectantly, but Atch gulps down his lunch and hurries to the tv. I know I ought to physically fight for his attention (like maybe grab some cojones and squeeze really hard), but all hope is lost when he throws absently over his shoulder: "give Eli a bath and go take your siestas, Aif, okay?"


No contest. No contest at all.

Pacquiao versus Aifee

End Note: Pacquiao won. Round 9 knockout. Atch is ecstatic. The Pacman is now officially the Lightweight Champion of the World.


Bugger.

A Walk to Remember

The gluttonously satisfying meal of tender pig knuckles in a thick spicy stew of red beans and slices of young jackfruit has Atch and I waddling away from the table, our distended tummies in the lead.

The night is young and the stars beckon to us from their berths in the sky, so we grab our caps and make for a walk, belatedly hoping to counter the effects of the cholesterol carnage that was our dinner. Perhaps the evening breeze would dispel our fragrant expulsions of air, as well.

A shriek. Woog is right behind us, homework-free and begging for attention. So we plunk his cap on him and hand in hand in hand, we make our way out to the courtyard. We pass Inday kneeling over her euphorbia, puzzling over why they aren't growing as abundantly as the neighbors' (look to the dogs, Inday, they have daily pee parties in your garden).

Woog excitedly shrills high-pitched wordless exclamations, jumping up and down and nearly pulling our arms from their sockets. Be quiet, Woog, you're so noisy, his Tatay scolds, stop moving so much.

Let him be himself, I say, dreamily sated, he's a child. In a couple of years, he's going to lose all the vocals and become as silent as a tomb. Now, that is going to be scary.

Atch grunts around his cigarette, holding on to his hyperactive son as we make our way out of the compound. At the corner store, the usual group of bare-chested taffys toughies brag loudly over a bottle of local rum, swigged sparingly while making occasional eye-contact with the drama series unfolding on the store's tv. Hi, Woog, they call out. Woog continues bouncing between us, oblivious to his fans.


Look at him, he's beside himself, I point out to Atch, he loves being with us. When he's older he's going to lock his door, and we won't know what's going on. And I'd go, 'break it down Atch, he might be jacking off!'

Atch laughs, ruffling his happy son's hair.

Or, I continue, he might be in his room dripping hot candle wax on himself.

*snort*

Or...slicing himself and dripping candle wax on the cuts. With his door locked.

Atch is disgusted. Aif, you're sick, his sharp glance says.

Well, you never know. We're getting too old to understand teenagers these days, imagine what it'll be like during Woog's time.

Woog is blissfully unaware of my speculations on his future behavior. He is skipping along and yammering about the super powers of his imaginary pet spider. I am glad he is getting this off his chest, he is, after all, deathly afraid of the lowly arachnid.

Woog, do you remember when all three of us used to walk together after dinner, just like this, when Eli was still in my tummy? I ask him fondly.

Mom, look! A squashed frog! A squashed frog! And our budding coroner rushes off to check out the gore.

Totally out of it, Atch shakes his head.

He won't be for long. I wonder what I'd feel cleaning his room and discovering girlie magazines under his bed...

Atch expels some manly approving laughter.

Or guy-guy magazines!

Atch nearly chokes on his mirth.

We round the corner to the main road, hand in hand in hand. Woog trustingly leans forward and back, sometimes swinging from our clasped hands like a monkey on a vine.

I continue to needle Atch. What if he locks his door, we break it down, and we find him with a girl... and they're both 12!

Or, I am on a roll here, he's with a girl... and a boy...

A threesome, Atch chuckles.

... and a goat!

Woog looks up at the both of us, wondering why his parents are shaking and holding on to their aching guts in laughter.

... and they're filming the whole thing, and the next day it's all over youtube! We're done for! I slap my forehead in mock anguish.

Atch is wordless. Between his teeth, the lighted end of his cigarette is in danger of a dousing from flying spittle and gusts of chortling air. Between us, our son skips merrily along, glad of a chance to be alone with the people he loves most in the world.

We do an about face when we reach the highway - a man, his wife and their little boy - smiles on our faces, the sweat on our brows dried by the night air. And we head back home feeling better about ourselves for a number of different reasons, but mostly because of our lovely Woog, and the child he has awakened in the both of us.

Second-hand Rose

The bank where Atchbund works celebrated it's third anniversary lately. The following day, inspired by an outflowing from the deep well of thoughtfulness that springs forth from wherever, my husband plucked a rose from one of the congratulatory baskets sent by a well-wisher.


"Here's your flower, Aifee," he announced dramatically when he got home, handing me a deep scarlet rose in the last stages of full bloom.


"Where'd you get this?" I asked, half ecstatic that he'd finally gotten my thinly veiled hints, and half mournful at the memory of the elaborately arranged dozen roses I used to get from him all those aeons ago, it seemed.


Atch being Atch, blurted out the whole bald truth with no regard to his wife's finer sensibilities: "It was the bank's anniversary yesterday."


Ah...so that explained the bluntly cut stem and the two wistful remaining leaves.


I put on a cheerful face anyway and threw myself into his arms, "Thank you, thank you for my second-hand rose! You're so sweet!"


He pouted at my sarcasm, offended.


I unearthed a styrofoam cup from the pantry and plunked the rose into it with water, placing the sad-looking arrangement atop the fridge, where it gazed upon the family eating dinner that night from its place of honor.


Later, when everyone was asleep, my second-hand rose and I contemplated each other in the kitchen's dark. "Hello, second-hand rose, " I said.


"Hello," it said back, "you never seem to appreciate your husband."


"Ouch. You don't pull your punches, do you? And a rose at that."


"Let me tell you a story, " it began. "Once there was a man and wife married for twenty odd years or so. The wife complained, 'in all our years of marriage, you never once gave me flowers.' And her husband shot back, 'well, you've never once made me a cup of coffee in the mornings.' "


I gaped at my second-hand rose. It was silent.


I stood and made my way up to bed, shaking thoughts of The Little Prince out of my head (Tired. I'm just tired, that's all. Holding conversations with a half-dead flower, 'sus).


The next morning, I took the rose (outer petals drooping) out of its styrofoam cup and carefully planted it with the sunflowers I was growing in a pot. If it gets lonely, it'll have a couple of other plants to lecture to. Assuming it lives.


"Hey, Atch," I joked in the car on the way to work, "I guess I'll have to wait for the bank's next anniversary to get more flowers. Second-hand daisy, maybe? Even second-hand baby's breath. Ha-ha!"


He pouted again, but he wasn't so thick he didn't get the joke.


Apparently, I hold that honor.

Aifee's One-Sided Soliloquies

The dreaded cold-developing-into-flu has come upon me. I am listless and despondent, and it shows. Not that Atch cares much. It's work for him, as usual. This stoic poker-faced take on the world makes my teeth itch. And when my teeth itch, I tend to wax eloquent about the current state of affairs getting my gander up - which is lately, the price of birth control.

This morning, as we were rushing to get dressed for work, I riffled through the mess of our dresser to take my usual medication, only to find that I had ran out. Atch was in his usual unruffled mode, pawing gel through the diminishing stubble on his head.

"Atch, the pills are expensive," I complained, holding up my empty pack, "maybe we should think about using condoms?"

He sliced a telling glance at me in the mirror, showing exactly how numb he felt about the subject. Funny how much sentiment he can convey through his silence.

"Condoms are four pesos a pop. It's not like we have time to do it that often."

Another sharp look (thanks to you, that look seemed to say).

I ventured further afield into the realm of fantasy. "Maybe you should get a vasectomy."

A snort.

I appealed to his cheapskate nature. "It's done for free in government hospitals. And if I do get pregnant after that, you can point a finger at me and go 'that is not my child!'"

Atch wrinkled his nose in distaste, showing just how much disdain he held for the sowing of intrigue.

I tried once more, "because if I get a ligation, they'll have to slice me open and I won't be able to wear a bikini again." As if that made perfect logical sense.

Atch sighed, finished dressing and left the room. Somehow, I wasn't at all surprised. This type of one-sided conversations happen often. I get to yak and he gets to listen (and make all-sorts of faces and non-word responses). When I need to vent, he seems to know - and waits until I get whatever it is off my chest. Then I feel better. But not by much.

Later at work, I sent him a text message: "Am feeling sick. Slight temperature. Headache, chills. Tonsils the size of your balls."

He texted back: "Poor Aif. Drink lots of water and take medicine."

There's hope for him yet.

Maybe I'll be able to wrangle an acupressure massage from him later. Now that's something that's best served with absolute blissful silence.