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.

Friday Night Craptastrope

When a bullet enters the back of the head and exits the forehead opposite, all painfully drawn out in frame-by-frame slow motion, and with copious amounts of glutinous red fountaining out in a glittering liquid tiara, you'd expect to see some bits of bone and brain matter now, would you not?


I mean, if this is supposed to be a terribly graphically realistic moment, there should be some amount of a person's dura in pink, white and shiny grey globs adding a touch of contrast to the generous splash of scarlet, yes? And maybe a couple of shards of skull, correct? While the guy who gets the metal lobotomy has this mildly surprised expression (hey, who goosed me?) on his face.


But at the very end, Atch and I exchanged a glance that spoke volumes about how criminally double-crossed we'd been by the trailer and the all hype that preceded this spectacular craptavaganza of a movie, and why oh why did we throw away a hundred thirty pesos of good money to watch a non-story (and it was a non-story) masquerading as a serious blockbuster.


Such preparation I put into this, too. Yahoo movie critics rated it a B-minus. Not bad, I thought. But then again, there's no accounting for taste. I also consulted Nong Winston, one of my favorite movie gurus who deviously planned an office escape to watch the film, surreptitiously sneaking back with no one the wiser. And he gave a deep orgasmically ecstatic sigh, pure pleasure on his face. Just goes to show how bad I am at reading people's (you traitor, a pox on you!) expressions.


I had my hair especially ironed for this movie date, for crying out loud!


I mean, why would a person carve an intricate filigreed design on a bullet, anyway? And what kind of bubble-headed fraternity of assasins a thousand years old would consult the cotton weave fibers woven by a loom that masquerades as The Oracle to determine the next person to "lobotomize"?


And these miraculous cure-all baths that look like the wax of a million candles dribbled onto sewer water? Guaranteed to relieve you of knife wounds and broken bones and bullet holes in a matter of hours? May I pour this wonderful concoction down the conniving throats of the scriptwriters?


I won't fault the action sequences, though. I thought maybe Jumper, crossed with The Matrix, with a whole lot of Shoot 'Em Up thrown in? Yup. Umm-hmmm. Not to forget some smidgens of The Fast and Furious. And Wimbledon! Let's not forget Wimbledon. Where on earth did they conceive the idea that a bullet's trajectory can be curved just by whipping your gun around and firing in an impressive forehand lob ala Paul Bettany, or a mean backhand ala Kiki Dunst.


And I did get to view Angie's heavily tattoed backside. There is that.

Moral of the story: not all projects La Jolie lends her hard-core ephemeral presence to is guaranteed to be a hit. Not even with Morgan Freeman, who once essayed God, calmly walking around and enunciating in his deeply distinctive emotionless drawl to help elevate the movie's status. (and to think I had nothing but the greatest respect for you, sir).


Atch and I headed home afterwards, as flatly deflated as my hair. Some date night. It doesn't help matters any that he will officially cease to exist as husband and father on Sunday when the Pacquiao-Diaz fight at Mandalay Bay airs live. By then he'll have become an extension of the tv and the radio. And he will also have forgotten all traces of banker's dignity as he jumps, yells and throws shadow punches in the air as two half-naked men prance around slugging each other to the death (or at least until as far as the show's producers and official bookies see fit to have the fight fixed which way).

Such a depressing weekend I'm having. Looking forward to Hancock, though. One can always rely on superheroes to save the day.

In Tribute to Philip Pullman's Lantern Slides *

Woog, arguing hotly over the phone about why he isn't allowed to watch tv while eating his lunch. It is 2 PM and he has been home from school for over two hours. This is his mother's second check-up call and lunch does not seem to be on the radar of his consciousness. He is complaining about Yaya not giving in to his request for a piece of toasted bread smeared heavily in butter. For lunch. His mother tries not to lose her temper, instead suggests he wait...just wait...for his father to call. She hangs up the phone gently in the middle of his whining protests, and puts her head between her hands. In front of her, some puzzled clients spare her glances of pity and consternation.

Yaya Rose, returning from retirement, much to everyone's surprise. She has just turned 18. A year before, she quit her post as Woog and Eli's nanny, bowing to the dictates of her father. But poverty and her father's need for liquor found her seeking employment once more, and for a time she was nanny to Woog's cousin next door. For pretty much the same reasons, her father's whims sent her packing for home again. Now, she is pleading to be taken back, and she cannot meet anyone's eyes. How many children like her are forced, by poverty and feudalistic-minded parents, to come down from the hinterlands and seek work in the cities?

Dondi, reclining in bed. She is dead tired and her limbs are stiff. She asks for a backrub and her husband willingly complies. He gets behind her, and for a time, all is silent as he kneads at tight muscles. But he has other motives in mind, and he begins to grope and pinch where no groping and pinching are needed. Dondi is frustrated beyond all reason. To add to her sorrow, Eli demands her attention by jumping up on her aching thighs and doing an unsteady bruising cha-cha.

Eli, sitting on his father's lap. The overhead light glares at an ugly purple knot on his forehead. He has been pushing a footstool across the floor again, running to evade his Yaya's grasp. In his haste to escape, he has collided with the hardwood arm of the sectional sofa, and raised a bump the size of Mount Kanlaon. There is a scratch underneath his right eye where he has scrubbed furiously away at his tears. His mother tries to figure out why he ignores his toys, and prefers instead to forcefully upend chairs and shove them around by their upraised legs.

Dondi, late at night. She is slack-jawed in front of the computer and wondering how some people manage to post updates on more than one blog Every. Single. Day. This after clocking in more than 10 hours at their day job, or attending to a houseful of their tantruming snot-faced children. Perhaps they spend the whole day walking around in Compose Mode? She wonders if she will ever have an uninterrupted slice of time without the baby slamming his palms on the keyboard while clamoring to be carried (“Up! Up!”), or the older son needing help with his homework. She knows she can ill-afford to lose out on more sleep, lest her zombiefied self cause the menfolk to complain about being late for next day's school and work. She sits at the computer and stares, clueless. On the wall above her, the clock strikes midnight.


* Philip Pullman, ending each of His Dark Materials trilogy with vignettes of stories lurking behind stories: lantern slides. Dondi looks forward to reading his Lyra's Oxford and is eagerly awaiting the release of The Book of Dust. She speculates on whether Lyra and Will ever see each other again, and fervently hopes Pullman doesn't sue her for borrowing heavily from his literary style.

An Intruder in My Blog

I find myself with a surfeit of time on my hands and the first thing I get busy at is... no, not my children....no, not my husband.....no, not even the growing pile of bills, papers and documents tottering atop the set of plastic drawers begging begging (for the love of God...!) begging to be filed. No, the first thing I get my hands on is my blog.

My poor neglected unsightly collection of words housed in an unseemingly motley arrangement of geometric shapes and mismatched colors which haven't been on speaking terms with the feather duster, it seems, oh for half a century or so. My blog.

There is work to be done, my pitiful mangy little project, you. Your inception was conceived in the clearest light of day, with the boldest of assumptions and the most gallant of intentions. But I have been busy with life, and now you lie here wasted and ignored, a shadow of what your parent intended you to be. Verily, there is work to be done.

And so I rummage around tools and layouts and settings and templates, eager to unleash what little technological knowledge I have of weblog refurbishment. I riffle through words of writings' past and search through long-lost links to some of my favorite writers, only to discover...

...horrors!

Who is this scary stranger who writes the story of my life, and why is she so much better than me? She uses my words and my thoughts, rubs hers sinuous self against my husband, ursurps the affectionate devotion of my sons...

She has invaded my blog!

I am violated and outraged. How dare her!

I steal a peek at the sentences she has strung together and marvel at the workings of her right brain. Would I have thought of doing the same thing the exact same way? Clearly I am the inferior being here. The very thought incites me to a jealous murdering frenzy.

*Kill! Kill!*

But how does one commit murder on oneself?

Slowly, I deflate.

I puzzle over this conundrum, and wonder how a bright and luminous being like herself could have channeled her thoughts so clearly into my typing fingertips. Surely, she is destined for greater things. And yet she has found reason to hover around the mediocre musings of a plain undecorated working mother.

I read on and I am amazed, because I can never, not in several millenia, duplicate what she has done here. But she is gone now, and I am left groping for words, and snatching futilely at ideas flitting frustratingly just out of my reach.

I wonder if she and I will cross paths again, or if traces of her have been completely blown away by whirlwinds of change and displaced by mountainous upheavals.

Again, my unfortunate collection of words and I stare at each other. I have completely forgotten what it is I have tasked myself to do. I feel a strange affinity with her, a sudden surge of maternal pride, but sadly...

It may already be too late.