May 28, 2010


So okay, I have a beef with self-indulgent, self-absorbed, egocentric people. People who think it's all about them. That they have the right to spread their dourness like a virus and expect the rest of us to be in a bad mood just because they are miserable.

Unfortunately, my universe seems to be peopled by these types. "Hardened" me-myself-and-I types who think the world owes them a favor. Brats who are increasingly becoming generic in their wanting to be "different." Loudmouths who mistake their tiresome prattle for viable opinions.

But then again, if there is one powerful non-Webster word that I absolutely like, it's "deadma." Supposedly a shortened version of "dead malice" or the literal "patay-malisya," it runs the range of keeping a straight, unreadable face, of displaying not even a hint of reaction and of completely ignoring things and people.

"Deadma" makes the whiners think that their whining is lost on me, the ranters look for others apparently interested in their rantings. It makes the baiters and the fishers cast their hooks elsewhere.

And I am left to blog in peace. Happiness!

May 12, 2010

Election Highs and Lows

At 8 a.m. on election day, I wheeled my dad to the voting precinct. It was not easy maneuvering the wheelchair to the farthest corner of the school, but I was touched by the collective display of kindness. Long queues parted to let us through, and we were hustled right inside precinct 57A. Within minutes, we were done.

The day before, when campaigning was no longer legally allowed, our quiet end of the street was anything but quiet. As it turned out, it was my lot to live near some "leader's" house, and there was an endless stream of people trooping over for the requisite election moolah. This year I think the going rate was P300, which in effect translates to a measly P100 per year of service (or dis-, depending on how you look at it, hehehe).

But then again, it was hard to imagine that most of those patiently waiting out their turn at the PCOS machine were probably the same people who pocketed the crisp bills. And so it was that I left the polling place in high spirits.

Alas, it was a different story when the results came trickling in. I should have known that my hometown is a tinier model of the rest of the country. And that the elections is nothing more than a glorified version of the popularity--uhm, money--contest. Or an episode plucked right out of Dynasty.

In the end, Smartmatic has not made us any smarter. Despite the relative success of the automation, Sorsogon is still Sorsogon. Except that right now, there are a lot of crisp bills changing hands.

Bills with staple holes, to be exact.

May 8, 2010

My Mother, Myself

Yesterday I scrubbed the bathroom tiles. I never thought I’d grow up to be the Queen of Chlorox. Or that I’d insist on manually drying the dinner plates. But I am. And I do. Forty plus years later, I can categorically say that I have morphed into my mother.

The physical signs are secondary. The hips, knees that tend to knock against each other, forever size 32B cups—I knew I was destined to have these in my early teens, when I realized I was no Regal Baby material. And now, when my elder cousins point out that I look like Ma when she was younger, I take it as the compliment that they intend it to be. I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

I knew for sure that I had a bit of my mother in me when I had what my mom probably considers her sweet revenge: my daughter. The obsession with super sanitized tiles began, as did the compulsion to keep files of almost anything. I have even taken to using that tone when the daughter becomes too much of a handful.

Of course, I have yet to settle into Ma’s choice of wardrobe, or obsess over my handwriting. I have yet to volunteer for church duty, or to volunteer for anything, for that matter. But then again, I have all the time in the world to be completely “mommy-fied.”

A happy day to all mothers of whatever shapes and forms.

May 7, 2010

Campaign-Period Woes

My hometown is all decked out in yellow. A few weeks ago, orange was the dominant color. Before that, it was green. The ribbons, of course, are the campaign runners' way of welcoming "our" next president.

I wonder: when has a certain color become the "sole" property of politicians and political wannabes? I know there is such a thing as political color, but for them to claim a color as their own?

Personally, the "political color coding" has limited my choice of wardrobe, especially in this most volatile of seasons. And especially in these parts, where the welcome marker has gone from green to orange. If by chance the other candidate wins, will the faux bamboo be painted pink? Hmmm...

Come to think of it, the color-coding is but one of the reasons why I hate Romulo Makalintal for wanting to delay the elections. More than anything, I want the campaign period to be over and done with. My other peeves:

1. Jingles. Cliches like "pag-asa ng bayan," "makatao, makaDiyos, makabansa" "tapat sa serbisyo" and "madaling lapitan" make me want to reach for the barf bag. Double that if they are sung to the tune of "Ocho-Ocho" or "Nobody But You."

2. Jinggoy. And the other showbiz types who think politics will be all the more "distinguished" because of them.

3.Lawmakers who have showbiz aspirations. Make that egomaniacal lawmakers who think they are believable enough to be poster boys for other candidates.

4. Rabid, drooling, salivating supporters who assume that everyone can be mechanized into becoming rabid, drooling, salivating supporters.

5. Obviously over-Photoshopped posters. Our honorable wannabes, it seems have discovered that Photoshop is a cheaper alternative to expensive sessions with Vicky Belo.

So much for credibility, huh?