Wrong Spell-ing!

I started to watch a DVD I bought on sale. It is called “Practical Magic.” It reminded me of a phase in my younger years when I believed that I was destined to be a high priestess. I read astrology and fortune telling books I could get my hands on, marked a deck of poker cards so I could tell which one is upside down (position having different meaning) and made it my business to read my sisters’ fortune. I am sure they were humoring me but it was always fun to say “You will get a letter today, well maybe if not today tomorrow or next week.” Then the electric bill comes and I could say, “I told you, you would get mail.” My sister Cora was my loyal client. Both she and I believed in the cards’ meaning.”You will receive some money and your boyfriend loves you.” My Dad sent her $10 and her boyfriend probably told her he loved her! I know because she absolutely believed what I told her. “You will hear news today about a certain man.” The news said that President Marcos declared martial law. I kept my deck of cards under my pillow and willed it to be truthful. I kept my fortune telling book hidden as the non-believer might jinx it. I read up on spells.



One of the spells called for a strand of hair and an egg. Bury the hair of the person in the egg and then bury the egg in dirt where the person might be passing through. Someone told me that she tamed her husband that way. I think the egg is a good fertilizer and maybe the guy would stop to admire the flower that hides the egg underneath. In turn, he is nice to his wife for the healthy garden they have. Another is to take a photo of your crush, and say some abracadabra to it and put it under your pillow. I did this many times and the guys never paid me any attention. The ones that gave me attention, oh well, once they found another girl, they dropped me like a hot potato. No amount of spell could undo that! And also Paul McCartney did not know I existed.


Later on, I learned a spell from my Persian neighbor, Azzam. I went to her apartment one day to have tea and it smelled like she was having a kabob, minus the lamb. I asked her what she was doing and she told me she was casting a spell. She was casting a spell so that her ex boyfriend would give her back the Volvo he used to let her drive. I think she had a buzz because I could not understand what she was saying; maybe she was saying the spell in Farsi but I was convinced that I would burn the building down if I do the same thing. First I get 7 pieces of charcoal briquets. Then I light it when they turn into embers, I get a pinch of salt and say my spell “Oh powerful fire of the universe, go get (here you can name a certain individual) him to love me with all his heart and soul; make him marry/shack up/date me (choose one). “


You can also be very specific in your spell as you sprinkle the sea salt over the briquets as follows:“Oh powerful fire of the universe, make (NAME) give me a condo/townhouse/Gucci watch and purse/Acura/jewelry from Zales/gift certificate from Bloomingdales as symbols of his love for me.” Whatever... Okay, it may sound like a bunch of baloney, but it was really fun doing it with this gorgeous Persian drunk friend of mine!


I tried it and I ended up with granules of charcoal on my nice dining table. I was asking the universe to align the stars so that I would meet some prince disguised as a frog. Instead, I met some toads. And oh by the way, Azzam’s ex boyfriend offered me a Jaguar and a condo unit at Skyline if I would marry him. I respectfully declined the invite. I think Azzam confused the gods of spells and inserted my name on the template. I also told him that it was rude to ask to marry the friend of your ex. Kodah Hafez. (Chao!) I actually met someone during the time of my charcoal briquets spell lessons. I was driving to my ballet class and I almost rammed into a Metrobus. I stopped my car and this guy in a Rolls Royce, I am not kidding, stopped to ask me if I was okay. I was. But he followed me all the way to my condo community. The guards let him in; they probably concluded that he had to be a nice guy driving a Rolls for crying out loud. He told me his name was George Pappas. He said he was looking for someone to spoil; said he was an architect who just arrived from Saudi Arabia. I concluded that either Mr. Pappas was a butler, chauffer, or a cousin of Ted Bundy, a serial killer with good looks. I thanked him and told him I am okay; I did not invite him in, we did not exchange information, and after he left, I complained to the guards that they allowed someone without authorization to go through the gates. The epilogue in Mr. Pappas was that, I actually googled him a few minutes ago. Every George Pappas in cyberspace either looked like Reverend Sun Yung Moon; there is one who owns a “Quality Lawn Care”; one is a “Sub-lease optometrist at Sears Optical.”


Back to spells: I once had a very good friend named Molina. She liked this guy Vincent. One day, I told her that she should cast a spell on Vince. “Will it work?” I said, “You never know.” The spell called for her burning a strand of her hair in putting it in his food. “Then what?” she asked. “Then, that’s it. He will fall madly in love with you! You will be part of his body.” “Is this forever?” “Well, the point is whether you are ready to be with him. I am not really sure how long his intestines are. You know, it will travel and the spell is inside him!” She said, “You are crazy!”


A few days later, she told me that she had invited Vincent and his friend Pepe to have dinner in her place. I was invited so that we could learn how to dance Brazilian. We had the best “bacalao” a la Portuguesa, white wine, plenty of laughter and dancing. Then Molina whispered, “Now is the time.” I said, “Okay, go do it!” She made coffee in the kitchen, came back and passed the coffee in dainty, cream-colored cups. Then, Vincent complained, “Oh, what’s in my cup? There are black things floating in my coffee.” Mollina looked at me with horror. I said, “That must be the toasted saffron! Quick, give it to me.” I collected it and went with Molina to the kitchen. I was ready to burst with laughter but she gave me a horrified look, so I said, “Quick, it is not too late, spit in his coffee and then come out like normal, ok?” She was frozen with fear. “Molina chica, wake up, you need to spit in the coffee. Come on!” I went back to the living room and pretended like nothing was happening.


Molina came out with a fresh cup of coffee in her hands and handed it to Vince. We all relaxed and drank our coffee, ate the flan, continued the party. After an hour or so, Vincent said they needed to leave and we said our good-byes. I excitedly stayed behind so that Molina and I could go over what happened. “So, I said, tell me, tell me, did you spit in his coffee?” She said sadly, “No, I didn’t.” “Why not?” “I was so nervous that every time I tried to spit in the cup, it landed on the saucer and my mouth started to get dry. I gave up and I decided the coño does not deserve it!” We both started laughing. The damn spell was broken; she was no longer interested in Vincent.



Spells, like my youth, are in the past. Life is charmed to the extent that I work hard to put myself in a position to get the outcome I want. I have been told one time by a palm reader that I have a  huge problem. She recommended that to cleanse me of my problem that we had to buy candles that weighed the same as I did. That would have been 110 lbs when I was in my early twenties. She was going to take the candles to the mountain and form a shape like me and she would melt it to melt my problems away. Really. My editor and I decided that it was going to be the funniest article ever if I actually went through with it. However, our newspaper went out of business before I could write my article on Madam Zorayda. Today, I weigh 130 lbs, bigger me, bigger problem. I need a spell. I do not need to burn candles; rather, I need to burn something else. 

My spell should read, “Oh my ever expanding body, I will it to eat no carb...oh fire of the universe, burn calories like when I was twenty...”

Journey of a Thousand Words, Redefined.

I read somewhere years ago that one of the true tests of friendship is to go on travel with your friends. I failed. Had it not been for my husband who prevented me from assault and battery, I would have been stripped of my citizenship or exiled to Guam or somewhere where there are snakes and tigers; where I would have the rest of my life to think about why I strangled our travel companion. Note that I did not say friend.



We met up with our travel companions in Johannesburg, South Africa. She, who I have  socialized with before, and who I would call Madam Buttercup, greeted me with a whispery, “Ooooh, so glad to see you. I am so excited about our safari!” I wondered how many teaspoons of aspertame went into that greeting. I was glad to see them too. But then; two, three, four times she cooed, “Ooooh, I am so excited! This is going to be so nice!” I could not bring myself to return the sweetness.  Maybe I was just tired and I was personally low on Splenda. The next day, we flew off to Windhoek, Namibia.


After landing, we fetched the SUV and started our six-hour drive to our first safari destination. Madam Buttercup then proceeded to talk non-stop. I mean she spoke with no “periods.” Her monologues contained commas, semi-colon, whiny phrases, unconnected ideas.” Everytime someone interjects something, she would say “No, but…” I never heard her say, “You are right.”


I could not decide what concerned me at first. Was it the whining, was it the non-stop incessant talking? Or was it all of the above? The topics many times were banal and eye-rolling. I started to feel oppressed. What did I do? I plugged my Ipod earbuds. The talking continued, sometimes in monotone, addressed to no one in particular, God knows about what, punctuated with “Oooh or Aaaah…”repeating the last sentence she just said. ” For example, “I was in college and I decided to take Chemistry versus Biology.” “Aaaah, I wondered sometimes if it was a mistake.” “Aaah, maybe…it was a mistake.” On my Ipod, I  could hear the Beatles’ “Help! I need somebody, not just anybody, won’t you please…HELP ME!”


The drive was not without glitches. It had been raining and there were flooded bridges and dips on the roads. This required the men to get out of the SUV and check the water level of the dips to make sure we could drive through it. We got stuck at some point, with water getting in the SUV. It was happening too often and we were approaching sunset. She whined, “Oh, we need to go back. We cannot drive in the dark. The more time we spend going forward, the more time we lose to turn around and take another route.” I said, “We can be late; we are on vacation.” She did not respond. Instead, she talked to herself, to say the same thing, as stated above. Then she added new language. “I read that we should never, ever drive over the reserves in the dark.” “It is not right for us to drive over the reserve in the dark. Ooooh, we should not drive in the dark.” I pretended to be asleep.



We finally reached a place called Solitaire. It is a little dot in the country of Namibia, an hour away from the Kulala Desert near Sossusvlei. We stopped for petrol and a much needed bathroom break. There are no restrooms in the wild. You learn to do it in the bushes on the pretext of “checking out the tires.” The whining started, “Oooh, we need to stop here for the night, we just have to stay here and let the men sleep on the floor.” HB called our camp.  He was told that we could drive slowly on the roads to camp so the men decided to continue the drive. She whined, see above.


We arrived in the desert lodge around 9pm and were met by the staff with nice hot towels and dinner served immediately. Our “tented”cabin was well-appointed, with hot water shower and nice comfortable beds. There were lizards and crickets humming outside our doors. I could hear our companions talking to each other all the way from the next cabin. What could they be discussing? Have they not run out of things to say in the last thirty years? Or had she not run out of Webster in the last six hours?  I imagine talking to my HB, “Oooh, I would really like some pancakes today. Shall we go to IHOP todaaaay??! Ooooh, Ihop!” I know that HB will look at me and say “Honey, cut the shit.”


After a couple of days and seeing spectacular sand dunes, I decided to be nice. Indeed, I ignored and tuned out, plugged my ears with the earbuds of my now discharged Ipod, although I sometimes tap my foot as if I were listening to fusion jazz, say, by David Sanborn. It fhe truth be told, I actually went murderously bonkers. I pretended to be asleep and I pretended to be clueless. I say in the most innocent manner, “Huh? Or “Sorry, I was not listening.”


One day, we were in a ladies room of this rustic restaurant when she said, in a manner of a bored waitress reciting the special of the day for the 100th time, “grilled tilapia and a side of corn bread or greens or house salad “…Osama Bin Laden…” She spoke over the noise of the hand dryer I was using while she was in her stall. I said, rather tartly, “What are you talking about?” “Bin Laden was killed by U.S. forces.” I said, “How did you learn of it? That is good news for Americans.” Then she said “…we cannot show our reaction. We do not know how the locals feel about this…, etc, comma, comma, no period, semi colon, comma, ellipsis, colon, comma, ellipsis, another comma, pause…” I cut her off. “Okay, I get it.” Actually, I was thinking more like, “Okay, I fucking get it.” I attacked my lunch instead.


Relief came in but not any sooner in the form of a 2-hour flight on a Cessna. She was busy talking to her videocam as we lifted off. You see, she could be looking at a lion and say “Here is a lion, and they said this is a male lion and that behind is the female lion!” People must really be stupid if they are watching a video of a lion and not know what it is. Or she would purr “Ooooh an elephant. Now it is walking…” I was imagining her saying, “Oooh, an elephant, a defecating elephant...and next to it is the baby elephant, eating the dung. Ooooh, so cute.” Maybe it was the Maloram I was taking. I cringe whenever I hear that “tinkling bell” of the videocam because I am sure to hear another whispery editorial. “There is a leopard and we are looking at it and it is walking to the left.”


Our chartered “relief” flight took us to Ongava Tented Camp, still in Namibia. We were asked not to come and go as we please without an armed ranger. One night while we dined, three rhinos came to lick salt in the waterhole. HB tried to take photos but the rhinos advanced to what amounted to five yards from his camera. Slowly, HB retreated and sat next to me. He told me his heart raced when the rhino advanced. I learned something amusing about rhinos- when they lick the salt and ate salt rocks, they sound like the “wash cycle” of a washing machine. It was an honest to goodness “gloogh, gloogh, gloogh” all the way through and I was so glad Madam Buttercup was not there to hear it or I will never hear the end of “These are rhinos (what as opposed to monkeys?) and they are licking salt rock. There are three rhinos, left, right, and center. They are white rhinos. Here we are hearing them licking the rock, now they are walking away. Now I am being stabbed by a Maloram-crazed camper."


Ongava was full of springboks, oryx, wildebeest, rhinos. We ate well, we drank good wine, we went to bed in a very comfortable canvas tent with hot showers, overstuffed chairs, down quilts. Our routine consisted of a “six-o’clock knock-knock,”  morning drives, come back for lunch, take an afternoon siesta, have some tea at 3:30 and go for an evening drive, stop for sundowners at around six or whenever the sun sets. The most amazing part of a safari is that one is never guaranteed to see the animals during a drive. What might be a “fruitless” morning drive may end by sighting a leopard or a hyena on the way back to camp. We had a day drive into Etosha National Park and sighted zebras, warthogs, springboks, rhinos, etc. In Ongava, our camp backs into the wild and antelopes freely roamed a few yards from our balcony.

To break the trip, we went to Cape Town to enjoy a visit to the Table Mountain and the Kirstenbosch National Botanic Garden, and Boulders Beach (penguin colony). During the drive to the mountain top, Ms. Buttercup proceeded to read the literature for each site, which drove my HB to his breaking point. I dutifully plugged my now freshly charged Ipod, and chose to listen to the Corrs. At the gardens, HB surprised me by announcing, "My wife does not like people talking to her when she is looking at flowers. She wants to meditate." Later on he told me, "I just saved you." I said, "You saved her. I was going to kill her."  We decided to separate and meet them for lunch a couple of hours later.  It worked well! Until we sat down to eat lunch.  Before she ate, she proceeded to identify what is on her plate and wondered about the way the dumplings were formed, told stories about some deceased relatives who used to make similar things and revelled in telling whoever cares about the filling that the RIP relative would stuff the dumplings with. I mean it was just plain phyllo dough twisted with meat filling!  To top it all, she started to discuss how to cook the food on her plate with the waiter! The waiter patiently listened and excused himself during a brief comma and a preposition and before another subject agrees with a verb.  When she finally started to eat, her entree was reduced from a work of art to a science specimen. You guessed it, "Ooooh look at how the chef turned this phyllo dough into something intricate; he must have spent so much time perfecting this. My mother would..." I wish I cared as much as she wished.

Our Cessna picked us up from Ongava and continued our journey into Sandi Sand, South Africa, in the area bounded by Kruger National Park. However, we stayed at a private concession and stayed at a camp called Exeter River Lodge.


Our cabin is almost as big as my whole house, well, the first floor of my house and my neighbor's first floor, at least. Ronny-Ronny was our butler. He says everything twice as in “Would you like a café-café or juice-juice?” HB warned me that if I double my words, Ronny-Ronny will say it thrice. And he was correct. “Ron-Ron,” I said. “Will you please bring me a salad-salad instead of dessert-dessert?” He responded, “Pleasure to bring you a salad-salad-salad.”


HB told Ronny-Ronny that Filipinos do the same thing. Filipinos double their words for emphasis like major-major use of double-double words. It came naturally for me. “Ron-ron, can you please make sure the bacon is crispy-crispy?”or “Yes I will have a glass-glass of red-red wine!” Thank you, thank you! Then HB startled me with “Okay, picture-picture!” I laughed so hard-hard it temporarily erased the pain of listening-listening-listening to Madam Buttercup-cup.


One morning, as we headed out, Madam Buttercup stretched out her arms into the air, riding in the roofless LandRover, “Oooooooh, Africa!” No one said anything. Then she started to talk about oil production, solar heating, grizzly bears in Alaska to the guide. Then someone said, “Oh we are on safari, can we just enjoy it?” I added, “Yes, please!” I saw her HB put his hand on her shoulder and she said, “Oh yes, enough of this, let us enjoy the safari.” Alleluia-luia!


That same morning, we saw a crash of elephants browsing. Madam B whipped out her videocam, “These are elephants. See the baby elephant behind? Now they are just being destructive.” After she put down the camera, she said “The elephants are so destructive.” “Look at the destruction caused by elephants.” “Elephants are so pretty yet destructive.” Every time she sees some fallen trees, she would say...(read above).


Regardless, we enjoyed seeing the animals in their habitat; lion cubs cavorting with the carcass of a male impala, two juvenile lions playing like house cats with one pummeling the other; wild dogs feeding her pups; wild dog carrying her pup in her mouth; male lion roaring in our presence; giraffe taller than acacia trees; rhinoceros with its young calf; mongoose, bush babies, alligator, zebras.


The animals would always pleasantly surprise us.  We were tracking some footprints one morning. I was distracted by the sheer beauty of the morning and the lush jungle. I got out of my own deep thoughts, I asked, “What are we looking for?” “Lions.” “Oh they are here, on my right, at 2 o’clock position.” They were a yard or two away from our LandRover. 

One afternoon, we were on foot following a group of rhinos. Our ranger, Rio, told  us "Fall in line so that the animals will think we are one unit. Do not say anything. No flashes. No sudden movements." We took photos then went back to the LandRover. We drove another ‘block.” The others were looking at more rhinos to the left. I said, “One o’clock position, that is not a rock. They maybe lions.” They were. Out was the videocam and the saccharin whispery voice “These are teen-age lions.”

 I spotted something moving on the road, ‘A civet.” I spotted a hippo, “There's something in the river and it is not a rock.” “That is a hippo. Well done!” I spotted a cape buffalo and a leopard. A NY banker who was on his honeymoon said, “How is she able to spot  that?” I got distracted and a thorny bush almost caught me as the Land Rover passed by so he pushed me gently to prevent my being attacked by the thorns. I said, “Thanks for saving me.” He responded, “If you are spotting the animals, the least I can do is spot thorn bushes.”

HB decided that I deserve a new pair of binoculars for being an “amazing spotter.” To me, it is just instinctive; movement and shape and the ability to spot movement instantaneously. Maybe that is why it annoyed me to listen to Ms. Buttercup because there is no color or texture to her voice; it is a boring refrain. No contrast. No movement. No color. Do-re-mi. She gets stuck on "mi."

Africa is beautiful and I will go back again and again for an opportunity to see and observe the animals and to interact with its beautiful people. The Africans are very friendly, hard-working, and accommodating. They are quick to smile and say “Pleasure” when we thank them; they share their experiences with the wild animals and they are very proud of their country. I am thankful and reminded how very special and worthy of my respect the animals in the wild are. Seeing the big cats make me love my house cats even more. 

Finally, the Namib sand dunes moved me in a way that I cannot describe. It was a very spiritual experience; akin to when I felt very close to God as I stood transfixed by the might of the Iguazu Falls in Brazil. That spirituality in Africa was at times disturbed by a caramelized “Ooooh, how beautiful, look at how beautiful…Aaaaah, Africa!” In the end, I did not strangle or take her aside to assault nor batter her.  But I will not embark again on another journey where my spirit is vexed by constant editorializing. I have voices in my own head to listen to.

Inkomo to all the people I have come across during our trip - our camp managers, guides, rangers, chefs, spotters, staff, airline pilots, for their smiles and sharing their wonderful countries and recipes!


When we got to our house, my husband got out of the car, raised his hands and said, “AAAHHH, Maryland!”

Pilipino telenovela, Far better or Far worse?

A couple of years ago, I was surfing the Intenert looking for a good Filipino movie and saw an entry called “Gulong Ng Palad” (Wheel of Fortune). It was a made-for-TV series so I decided to buy all the DVDs. They were speaking beautiful Tagalog and it was subtitled in English; the story was compelling, and the actors were good. I got re-acquainted with “deep” Tagalog, which is music to my ears.

One day, my husband (HB) asked me to hit “pause” and asked what was going on. I told him that if he wanted to watch with me, I would turn on the subtitles. He said, “Yes, I want to know what is going on.” Night after night, the two of us would stay up to see what was happening to Luisa and Carding, the protagonists. We talk about them as though we knew them. During one of our family meals, we started to discuss what was happening. Our son asked “Hey are you talking about Mom’s relatives in the Philippines?” “No, we are talking about the characters in this telenovela.” “Geez, you are talking like they are family!”

During one episode, I felt so bad for the underdog and I felt slighted at the words being hurled at her by the antagonist. It was a scene where the character Luisa was working as a maid in the rich woman’s house. Luisa’s little brother came and saw a cake on the table and he touched it. The woman saw it and pushed Luisa’s face onto the cake calling her a patay-gutom (pejorative description of someone who is hungry/destitute) because of the way her baby brother acted. I cried. My husband fell silent. I calmed myself. I turned it back on, secure in the knowledge that the actress probably got to laugh about that scene and she could buy two more chocolate cakes if she wanted to. A month later, we finished the telenovela. I missed the characters like a vacationer leaving a resort where everyone treated the guests most kindly.

In the early part of this year, my niece gave me a set of another telenovela that starred the same young actress in Gulong ng Palad. I was addicted. Night after night, I would wish that my husband would get home a little later so I can watch my DVD on the 52 inch screen; I would take my portable DVD player in the Metro so I can catch a 15-minute of it, to my hairdresser so I can watch while my hair took color. I took my DVD to an out- of- state training, watching it on my laptop plugged into the Acela train outlet enroute and each night in my hotel room.

HB likes to watch but he does not mind missing a few episodes and take pleasure, I think, in disturbing my enjoyment by asking questions continuously. I do not mind explaining but I mind that he speaks, loudly, to the characters, telling them how stupid they are, or asking WHY they are not doing something to fix the situation. Invariably, I would turn to him and say “That is why there is drama.” If the characters do all the logical things the viewers see, then story would be too bland. It also bothers me that the he would hit the pause button of the remote control, like he was entitled to do just that, and say, “Now I am confused. So how come…” “It is because you are two-DVDs late!”

I watch my "tele" in silence. The only time I get loud is when I laugh at a scene but I never offer suggestions, criticisms, advices. I trust that the director and the writer and the editor are all doing their part. Sometimes they fail. Some scenes are so contrived that I wish I could direct it myself. The scenes are so contrived and insulting to my sense of drama.   “This is too painful to watch. I don’t want to watch this crap anymore.”

There are at least 13 elements in a Filipino tele . In my observation they are as follows:

1. Cell phone – they take their calls while driving, eating, sleeping, walking, smoking, fighting. If the cell phone rings, it has to be answered at whatever time.

 2. Separation of siblings at birth or separation from parents at birth- so that one ends up poor and becomes wealthy, and the arrogant rich can be put in jail.

3. DNA Testing - to prove that the siblings are from the same gene pool for better or for worse.

4. Rich man/poor man; rich girl/poor girl – always a good situation for conflict.

5. A bitch – to speak English and allow my husband to say, “She’s a bitch!”

 6. An asshole – to speak Taglish and allow me to say, “What an asshole!”

 7. A likeable fool who bungles his/her English and adds comedic relief – someone to make up another Taglish expression like “Get-sing ko.” (I get it.)

 8. Friends who become “members” of the nuclear family – this is the Filipino answer to the American soaps’ way of introducing new characters by bringing in “kids who were away from college” or “dead people who were not dead, it was just a bad dream”. Filipinos adopt their neighbors instead.

 9. Nannies/Drivers – to provide the status symbol of the rich and more importantly, they set up twists so that they are the ones who would provide addresses of their masters to strangers, would kill for their masters, or the surrogate parents of adopted children into a blended family situation.

 10. Nice house with a swimming pool – to demonstrate wealth. No one swims in it.

11. A house in the slum area by the river – to illustrate a meteoric rise of the protagonist from the slums to Greenhills, a very rich area.

12. Guns, the more, the merrier – to better threaten each other not to tell the truth.

13. YELLING – someone is always yelling and screaming. ALWAYS.

So it was that we came to the end of one telenovela that has taken us through all the incredible, laughable and some outright stupid scenes and dialogues. It was a scene of utter confusion and I was engrossed when the film stopped. Then I heard HB from behind, “Hey, do you want me to tell you who I think will die and who will not?” Oh my God. He cannot be serious. He was. ‘No, I don’t want you to.” Oh really, I have to dispose of his body.

The scene came to life. No one died, but someone got seriously hurt. There is pandemonium. Everyone screams on Filipino films and telenovelas. I think one of the things that they audition the actresses, most especially is how strong their lungs are. They cannot say “This is not acceptable,” calmly. The ladies also cry a river. But that is only after their Hermés purse is safe and away from the salt of their tears. The purses are always on top of a desk, lest the viewers forget that Jinkee Pacquiao does not own all the Hermés in all of the 7,000 islands of the republic. Victoria Valera does.  (A wealthy character in another Pinoy tele.)

Anyway, it is always the good guy that get hurts in the beginning but what violent deaths the villains get in the end. The snooty rich bitch always end up in a mental institution. In the Filipino telenovelas, the patient who had been hurt would always wear a bandage with a big red spot, even after a month of the injury! I concluded that modern day Filipinos must all take blood thinner pills as they do not stop bleeding even after a month in the hospital, if you base it on these telenovelas.

HB asked me to wait for him to see the last episode of one over- the- top telenovela. On that fateful night, we sat down to see our characters, dolled up and ready for a final showdown. A few minutes towards the end of the show, the DVD started reversing. I clicked “play” on my remote but somehow it kept reversing. Someone or something was rewinding the scene in the middle of the most crucial part of the telenovela. I have never been so pissed, I mean pissed! I got up and slammed my remote on the arm of my chair and surprised my own self as I said, to the TV, mind you,  “Are you seriously fucking with me?” In a heartbeat, the DVD continued playing. Hopefully, a lesson was learned that night. When it comes to my villains and my heroines, you do not REWIND on me.

I am now watching what I was told was a “mega-hit” telenovela in Manila a year or so ago. My niece told me that Manila would be on a stand-still when this show would go on the air. There are 22 DVDs and I am only on number 9th. Already, babies have been sold, people have been killed, DNA’s have been tested, houses were bought and sold, people have been medicated for psychopathic attacks, and the story keeps twisting yet. The title is “Tayong Dalawa” (Two of Us).

I would like to suggest, post-production, to change it to “Planning a Wedding to your Brother’s True Love” (How to Betray Your Brother Before and After DNA Tests).

A friend of mine asked me why I watch these novelas. First, I love listening to Tagalog and I get nostalgic when writers use exquisite Tagalog like “katarungan” and “nagsusumamo” – (justice and plead from the heart, respectively). These words move me deeply. And yet, I hear modern Filipino phrases like “carry ko.” (I can do it), “huwag ka nang mag-senti” (do not be sentimental) or “don’t be nega” (don’t be negative).

Husband said he noticed, from watching that the Filipinos have a redundant language rule, i.e., to make something superlative, the word is said two times. For example, “ganda-ganda” (very pretty), “saya-saya” (so much fun) and yes, we even give nicknames as such. We have Jun-jun, Bong-bong, Au-au, Chichi, Deng-deng, Weng-Weng. See, I am not the only one learning through this new addiction.

From the telenovelas, I am transported in my beloved country of origin without the dust and the heat and the pain and the suffering of the poort and the pretentiousness of the rich. It gratifies me that I understand the Filipino ethos; I embrace what is good in the culture and reject the bad.  When I see faces that are images of my own, I re-affirm the part of my heart that is still Filipino and proud of my American mentality. 

Tonight, I will watch another hour of my Filipino teleserye, and an hour of Spanish telenovela. Between the two, I will have major major fun!

The Tooth Fairy is Bankrupt -

I was eight years old when I had a serious gum issue. My father took me to our dentist, Dr. Zulueta, who prepared the shot of anesthesia and asked me to open my mouth. My recollection is that the syringe and needle looked like an antique hammered metal screwdriver. When my dad saw what was about to happen, he appropriately fainted.

My wisdom teeth were pulled out when I was 22 years old. Twenty years later, I started an odyssey to the slippery slope of pursuing a pretty smile. My husband (HB) told me of a conversation he had with some of his colleagues. They were discussing about the pretty mail order brides from Russia. One of them said, “They are pretty but they have bad teeth.” Apparently, HB said, “You make enough money to fix her teeth.” Unbeknownst to him, he would be my partner in the odyssey that has now become one of our major ongoing never-ending family projects.

In 2001, we made a decision to fix my smile. My dentist apparently was responsible for the smiles flashed around the world by Liz Taylor, a former U.S. Secretary of State, and various politicos and news personalities. Dr. R. was my hero. He is grandfatherly, of Japanese descent and the only dentist I saw who would kiss me on the forehead after the pain he thought he inflicted. He was like my surrogate Dad; a very kind man who did a wonderful job. He has a fine sense of aesthetics combined with his knowledge of dentistry. Whenever I would mention his name to other dentists in the area, they would always say, “Dr. R is the best. You are used to the best.” Dr. R retired leaving me a beautiful smile. I told HB that they were supposed to last for 15 years. He said, “Oh no, Honey. You are going to die with those fucking teeth. If you divorce me, I take custody of your teeth.”

In 2008, those pretty crowns failed and were replaced by another set. I had my dentist clean them. I put them in a jewelry box and presented them to HB. “Here are the teeth. I give you full custody. Now we are even.”

Since Dr. R. retired, my teeth have taken a turn for the worst. I have implants, root canals, and crowns. During one of these implant procedures, I had to wait for 18 months to get permanently “crowned.” My newest dentist came highly recommended by The Washingtonian magazine. I took a list of Washington's Best to my orthodontist and asked which one should I go to. He asked me why I was leaving my current dentist. “Well, he is too busy saying he is the best. He has no time to listen to me.” All conversations start and end in what he did, how he has the best products in his practice, how he made it to the A-List and would I visit the website so I can also say something positive about him. No, and as a matter of fact, hell no, I jumped ship the moment my crowns were in place.

My orthodontist would not speak the name of my current dentist. He said he would not feel right about recommending Dr. C over the one I am now a patient of. So I asked, “Can you at least point to a name?” He looked at me, and said, “Okay, that feels better. I will not say the name but I will point.” He pointed to the name of my present dentist.

Dr.C is a no nonsense guy but he has a sense of humor that I feel comfortable with. He made me a “flipper” to fill the gap while I waited for my implants to be crowned. They look like removable dentures with more “gums” than teeth. He warned me that pets love them. He was not kidding, my cats played with it and I have not seen it since the day they disappeared. I want to believe it is the cats. I say this because I also believe in a parallel universe and those who live in this universe have taken my reading glasses, driving glasses, my watch, and now my flipper. If I were a toothless soul without dental insurance, I may seriously consider lifting someone’s flipper too.

Someone told me about an “underground” Filipino dentist who can make a flipper for a discounted price. I went to his home and he was very kind. When I asked if he had a clinic downstairs in his basement he said, “Oh no, we do everything here in the living room.” He came out with a tray laden with alcohol, Bounty towels, impression “clay” and without further ado, inserted it in my mouth. After a few minutes, he turned the dimmer up and he handed me a color sample. I used the huge mirror in their living room to decide the color of my new flipper. Then I started asking him where he went to dental school. He started laughing and said, “You really want to know?” He named something like Juan de Campos Dentistry School. I said, “Really? THAT is a dental school?” We both laughed. He said, “Yes, actually. Don’t you feel like you are at a dental clinic in Raon?” Raon is a strip of music shops and book stores in Manila.

Two weeks later, I picked up a flipper that trumped the one I paid $700 for. If I had to live the rest of my life poor and unable to pay for dentures or implants, I would have died and been buried with that awesome thing. A mutual friend named Barbara ours apparently called Dr. Underground’s home while I was there. His wife told our friend that a lady named ME was there. Barbara said, “Are you serious? Are you sure?” When Dr. U’s wife said, “That is her name.” She described me. Barbara thought “Oh my God, her husband must have lost his job and they bankrupt! Why else would she see Dr. U?”

While on vacation in the Philippines in 2008, I started having a toothache. I went to a very upscale dental clinic. I told them to pull out the hurting tooth as I know it would be implanted in the States. They wanted to speak with my stateside dentist and I said, “Look it is night time in the States. He will not speak with you. I want you to take it out. It is meant to be taken out eventually.” They cleaned my teeth, consulted with their top dentist in their practice and told me my blood pressure is up and need to have it restored to normal. “Is there something that’s causing this?” Duh, I was in pain! The next day, I went back and I said, “I do not care if my blood pressure is up or down. The pain is dumb. Take it out. I mean it.”

They had me sit and she said “Let me see.” Before she could finish the sentence she had the tooth out. All that consultation and commotion for one piece of crappy tooth. When I went back to the States, I found out that it was not the tooth that was scheduled to be taken out but it did not matter, it had to be taken out as well. They have been replaced by implants since then.

I am now in the process of three additional implants and two of them happen to be my front teeth. The surgery happened only a week ago. As my oral surgeon pulled each front tooth, I can only describe the sensation that it felt like he was pulling it from the center of my being. He then grafted bone in it and installed the implants during the same time. He is reputed to have the special skill set to do what I can only call the “trinity” procedure. Usually, every procedure takes to set for six months before the next one is done. The process for implants takes a total of 18 months. This time, the wait is only 6 months.

I was wide awake for the procedure. Although I felt no pain, he tells me what he was about to do, how that would feel, etc. I was so tensed. I am so used to my former surgeon that I call my Dr. 90210 because he reminds me of Dr. Ray in Beverly Hills that glamorizes implanting women’s chests and tucking extra belly skin, etc. Dr. 90210 comes in the operating room, talking about his trip, his awesome vacation. He asks me where I would go for my “dream vacation” and before I could answer, I would be asleep in a dreamless state. Dr. 90210 is in his early forties, does not have time to know you or any of his patients. You come in on the day of the procedure; he comes in the room when his God-given hands are ready to rock and roll; he asks you for your dream vacation, you cannot answer because his assistants have already put anesthesia into your veins. I would wake up being stitched up with either cadaver’s bone or titanium posts in my mouth. His office sends you the bill, which would have paid for a business class plane ticket and a week’s stay at a five -star hotel in Fiji including a personal butler, masseuse, and a chef.

In the meantime, I now wear another flipper that looks like two discolored Chiclets glued in my mouth. At night, I take them out and wear my night guard to prevent me from biting the implants. The first time I smiled at my husband without my front teeth, he leapt off the couch in laughter and proclaimed, “Honey, you look like trailer trash!” I so agreed. My son reacted differently; he looked at me and said, “Mom, please.” I find humor in my reality at the moment and I know this is just a means to an end. In the summer of 2011, preferably on my birthday, I will, for the first time since 1998, be able to bite into an apple!