Putting His Dancing Shoes On

There’s a reason the area immediately inside the entrance to the supermarket is unoccupied some days. Ordinarily these are the spots where promotional items and bargains are placed. And if you’ve ever wondered why suddenly the sales people gathered around where they should be scattered every where in the grocery store, it’s not because the store managers are dingbats. Same reason why selling areas cannot be dance floors.

Did you ever experience buying at your local grocery and when you’re just about to pick up your eggs, you will be surprised by what looks like a half time show? After a split second you realized you’re watching a dance presentation. At first, you’ll ask why. But unfortunately the moment passes all too soon before you can make actual sense of it.

In fact the shoplifters had just left taking the whole entertainment center with them.

But really, the sellers and supermarket owners have studied us. They observed how we shop and now they’re using entertainment to boost our “dwell” time: the length of time we spend in a store.

Often people react in different ways. Some of the comments are:

• That’s amazing!.
• It’s a metaphor for the clash of civilizations, the collision of the traditional noisy, disordered palengke and the modern shopping experience as expressed by hips and butts bumping and flying around.
• Ano ba yan, may mga tao talagang walang magawa. (What the hell, some people have too much time on their hands.)
• Kulang sa pansin ang mga yan. Ibigay mo sa kin ang numbers nila at papansinin ko sila. Those guys clearly need attention. Give me their numbers, I’ll give them attention.)
• I wish I can dance that well.

But with a tiny bit of something that almost resembles the closest that I come between shame and pride, I posted his video here. Oh well Hubs could dabble as a dancer for extra cash.


Well danced, Hubs. Well danced.

Those Big Fat Lice

Warning: This post covers extremely delicate and sensitive information. It may trigger you to feel itchy.

Something really, really bad happened here recently. It was hard to know whether to write about it on my blog or not. When I found about it, I was so ashamed. I felt sick, embarrassed and well, itchy. Dealt with it as best I could.

But I'm ready to write about it now.

MY LITTLE GIRL HAD HEAD LICE.

Who, me?

We are not really lice family. But I noticed it first with the little girl furiously scratching her head one day. Continuously digging her head with her little fingers. Although she seemed not mindful of it, but I was almost sure of one filthy, vermin-ridden shocking truth: she got nits. So I checked her hair.

Positive.

And there was a very likely chance that all of us had headlice too. Except for Hubs who had recently dyed his hair. I remembered a rumor I'd once heard that hair dye kills headlice.

So what does a mother do?

Every night, while asleep I turn her to one side and begin to look for the eggs. The back of her neck was embedded with bites, which her long hair hid.

How utterly revolting are the eggs - and so tricky to miss. You can get every single egg but if you miss just one?

It's the one egg, to rule them all. And it hatches and you start all over again.

The next day I bought what is needed. A wire comb. Every night, combing and sifting Yana’s hair has become a routine.

Last night, like a serious hunter I searched for them with my flashlight. The bulb on the ceiling offered too little help. I wonder where to borrow head lamps next time.

Really why does headlice exist? Do they serve any purpose? No wonder Buddhist monks shave their heads ... they're never face with the moral choice of killing headlice.

Tell me you're jealous of my life.

In Love With Zumba

I knew it was gonna be unbearably hot. The news said it was the hottest in Manila in the last 3 months at 34 degree Celsius. So I knew there wasn't a breath of wind out. And I knew that I would be miserable within the next 60 minutes.

But I did something I considered to be very brave.

I went back to Zumba yesterday!

If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you know that I enjoy Zumba a lot.

The last time I attended was last November. How time flies. And how jiggly my arms have become. The arms that keep me from going sleeveless. Aargh.

This is the place I have been working out.

See the guy in yellow short? 

Lovely, isn't it? Bright and sunny.

I have to peek in between heads to see the instructor..

The instructor had us do all kinds of squatty jumpy lungie owie things. Lots of stick your butt out and get low-low-low-low kinda stuff. And then we did J. Lo’s I Want to Dance. Oh how I bopped my hips like a butterfy on cocaine and mambo-ed like a madman on the loose. It. Was. That. Fun!

My strength and endurance have gone through the roof. But I felt lovely & light after the work out. It’s like my spirit lifted up. I was soaking wet. I was red, winded and tired but I was happy. Like crazy-happy.

The hardest part? I was terribly in pain after. Felt like my bones were cracking up in every single move.

In A Corset State of Mind

I could use some of these. The closest I wear to this was the postpartum girdle I used after giving birth. What do you call it? oh yes, binder.

Tightlacing has been around since 16th century in an attempt to support the body, enhance the breasts, and make the waist appear smaller than it was naturally.

In the process of wearing it, your waistline will be as almost as the same circumference as the head, meaning you’d have room for only half a liver and a few inches of intestines. The result: chronic diarrhea and death from malabsorption and malnutrition.

But the benefits? a small waist, great posture, and cleavage if you want it.

But what does it feel like? you cannot bend, you cannot slouch therefore you’re like a tree.

The reason I chose to talk about this today is because Hubs and I went shopping for pants last Friday. And when I did try some of the pants on, I realized my waistline is hardly as sized as my head. Not unless I have hydrocephalus.

I Play the Older Sibling Sometimes

I’m the middle child. I am supposed to be the loner, non-caring, less dependent member of the family according to this website

I got older sister and a younger brother who works does huge turbines abroad, leaving a wife and children. My sister’s husband also works overseas and so she raises her own kids single-handedly. No mean feat. And I’m with a husband who cannot have a weekend day off, leaves the house before the children wake up and come home after they have fallen asleep. So yes, that makes all three of us single parents.

My sister is an emotional freak. I am seriously not joking when I say that. Granted some of her worries are results of her own inanity, but some others are results of others’ stupidity. And she takes them all seriously. More often I watched her like complete innocent bystander. Like last night. Her daughter is turning 7 soon and was not prepared to do anything big, perhaps only a simple dinner. However bro’s wife ‘s expectations and excessive concern were too obvious. She volunteered to take charge of the event. Always asking the little girl about the party. It’s sweet, right? But my sister did not like it and she texted me that morning.

“What’s with the text?” I asked.

“She thinks it’s totally uncool me not throwing birthday party for Dyann…”

“Says who?”

“Says she”

“So?”I kept the serious expression on my face and stared.

“I don’t want to stress myself with all the preparations!” she told me wryly.

(sidenote: do not ever cancel a party when the kid involved is around. )

“A ‘little' party sounds like fun?” I told considerately, looking at my niece’s face suddenly glowed with delight, “May be it’s not that stressful”.

“No clowns, no give-aways. With only few friends and some parlor games. That’s all. “

This pretty much solved the case. The girl got the party she wants, the mom feel not too harass.

Although I don’t do Dr. Phil a lot, there were also other separate cases where I tried to make sense of things into her. Like the case of family conflicts , by that I mean conflicts between aunts, uncles, and cousins. You see our family gets so bored easily. If nothing is happening, we get wary and suspecting.

“I can’t stand them”, she said one time.

“Since when?” I glared at her

“Since always” she glared back.

She’s pointing out the perennial cases of over-dependencies, laziness, foolishness, egotism and selfishness that being talked about among family members. We’re not perfect, but who is anyway.

"Oh yes, this battle has been going on for years” I answered, “If anything, Ann Curtis is right. You have to learn the art of deadma…”

All of these years I could have been plagued with only sad memories of my childhood. During family reunions in the province, among cousins there are kids who stayed at the kitchen to cook and wash dishes and there are other kids who were sent out to sing and play to entertain guests. I’ve realized that in some warped way that I’ve felt as though those experiences help me reason with my self when I can’t understand the behavior of the adults. I agree life is unfair sometimes.



I told my sister to separate herself from the situation emotionally. She should not feel annoyed, or goaded just because people around her were also frustrated and upset. She said she feels she has to take side.

This is the part where I rolled my eyes.



“You have to accept that some things are not meant to balance with logic and objectivity. You simply cannot”.

“Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions and decisions”.

And I told her she needs off of this planet now and then.

So that's the story. In closing the only thing that I can say is that it seemed like a good idea to wash dirty linens in a blog post from time to time.

The Mystery Remains

Ok. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the idiot in this scenario. I guess that’s possible. Maybe I was supposed to realize I needed someone with super human skills to understand my pre-menstrual moods. I spent all day yesterday arguing with myself, my kids and Hubs, growing increasingly disheartened as the day wore on. My mood swings were so terrible, it's almost hellish. 

But what can I do?

Its the Hormone Hostage. You have to know that there are days in the month when all a man has to do is open his mouth to a woman and takes his very life into his own hands.

And while I neglect to mention on here though is that Hubs is the most patient, most loving person that you will ever meet, there are times he thinks I'm crazy. I was so hot-tempered, I get piqued by little reason so easily. But enduring as he is, and although he snores like a bolting thunder, he puts up with my crazy hormonal moods and this makes him automatically a saint.

And these happen every month.

Well there’s a handy guide, labeled as Dangerous, Safer, Safest and Ultrasafe. When you're bargaining with pre-menstrual women, chocolates are best solutions. And it should be as common as a driver's license in the wallet of every husband or boyfriend when their partner's red flag is up. 

In closing, the difference between a woman on her period and a terrorist is that you can negotiate with a terrorist.