The Scientific Basis for Weirdness

 

I had a best friend in college whom I love dearly to this day – this is the girl I was roommates with for four long years, the one who I lied to her parents for, got caught out of curfew and got into trouble with, climbed out of fire escapes with and more importantly, as a sign of my love, the one I shared my last four pesos worth of fishballs with (when all I had left to my name was the aforementioned four pesos). 

This momentous and may I add, psychologically scarring incident, happened  when we miscalculated the length of how far a weeks allowance of 300 pesos would go (mind you, this was 1989)  and ended up on a Friday night with no money, no dates in sight – or even parents to rescue us from imminent starvation or worse….dorm food.  But I’m getting off tangent.  (Yes, I know it happens to me a lot.  And yes, I know you’ve noticed.  So sue my ass.)

So anyway, this friend (hi sweetie – in case you’re reading this) – by way of reaction to my last blog entry, sends me a message.  My eyes lit up when I saw and inbox alert – you have to understand that since we’re both moms with careers, getting an email from her is pretty darn rare - so with bated breath, I open my email fully looking forward to and expecting that I would preening at her praise – when lo and behold, her one and only email in the last 18 months simply states – “Honey, you’re weird.” 

Not witty, or funny or even, “mildly entertaining”. She just said “weird”.   

And this I say unto her – Honey, you’ve only just figured this out twenty three years into our friendship?!! 

(And besides, this is rich coming from the girl who carefully arranges her slippers at the foot of the bed every night, making sure they’re perfectly aligned. This is the same girl who makes her bed and straightens up her sheets despite the fact that in 10 seconds, she will get into the same bed and mess it up.  The same girl who until the sixth grade, believed that could get pregnant if you held hands with a boy because you exchanged bodily fluids a.k.a. sweat, through your palms…)

Brief moment of silence for self-contemplation and examination of conscience.

Moment over.

Ok, she’s probably right and I guess I should just confess. (But just to check, can anyone reading this email me if they’d had any of the following life experiences? It would be nice to know I’m not the only weird one.)

First of all, I think that it’s very important to note that any so-called “weird-ness” coursing through my brains is a direct result of media.  I blame television, Del Monte and Warner Brothers for all of it.

When I was four I saw Bugs Bunny trick Yosemite Sam into sticking his finger into an electric socket and get fried.  For some reason, this seemed interesting to me - I wanted to know if your hair would really curl up like that - except  that since I was smarter than your average bear, I used a fork.  Luckily, I dropped said fork  when the first jolt of current hit (or else we wouldn't be having this conversation) – but not before I blew out all the fuses in the house.  Unfortunately, this was the ‘70s and circuit breakers hadn’t been invented yet. So to my parents dismay, we had no power for several hours until my dad could hunt down an electrician to replace the burnt out fuses.

My fascination with all things electrical didn’t end there.  Although I had learned my lesson with the fork incident and the resulting spanking, I discovered that electric current ALSO ran inside those small rectangular Eveready batteries.  And better - if you stuck the tip of your tongue at the end of the battery just so…viola! Mini electric shock with no consequential parental violent reactions.


Unfortunately, I foolishly demonstrated my new discovery to a younger cousin, who promptly ran off screaming. Proving me wrong about the protection of parental violent reactions and prompting my mother to confiscate my secret stash of batteries.   At any rate, this  solved the mystery of why Lola’s transistor radio batteries had been mysteriously going missing.

But inquiring young minds are difficult to deter!   For months I begged my mother to buy me a faucet.  Not install one mind you. Rather, BUY me one – so I could stick it in a pineapple and turn the tap to get juice.  You know, like in the Del Monte pineapple juice commercials.  I figured, if I had a faucet, I would be all set in the beverage department – I could walk into any palengke (or neighbor’s yard with a fruit tree) and voila! Juice.  Sadly, my mother believes that depriving your children of basic (at least to my mind) necessities prepares them for the harsh and cruel world.  Ok. Not really.  But nonetheless, the end result is the same. I still didn’t get my faucet.

I think I would have succeeded in convincing her too…if it weren’t for the damn tomatoes. Again, not my fault. Blame television and Del Monte Tomato Sauce commercials. 

They should never had shown that ad where the can slurps up the tomato placed on top of it – I mean really, that’s just asking for trouble. What kid could resist? Certainly not me, to my mother’s dismay and a kilo of wasted tomatoes later.


And of course, I couldn’t stop at just ONE tomato right? First of all, there was a whole bag just sitting there. And secondly, I thought maybe we (i.e. my cousin Jannette, then 5 years old) were doing it wrong which was why the can was NOT slurping up the tomato as shown on television.  Thus, we have to try different techniques resulting in unfortunate casualties (i.e. my mother’s tomatoes) in the name of scientific experimentation.  As an aside, I hasten to add that the tomatoes did not die at the altar of science in vain – Jannette grew up to be a microbiologist.  So again, no knowledge is ever wasted.

Not even my even then (ahem) already impressive skills at oral advocacy could save me.  It was difficult to find an acceptable (to my mom) explanation as to why the tomatoes intended for that night’s pochero dinner ended up crushed, pulpy and all over various walls in the kitchen area.

Since all these events took place before the advent of Bantay Bata, I assure you that I was severely punished for my offenses.  No sissy “time outs” or standing in the corner for me and my mom.   To this day, I have a severe love hate relationships with wooden rulers and abaca tsinelas. 

Worse, from my recollections it seems that while I had several cohorts in these misadventures (i.e. the “Lajom Girls” – all of whom are now upstanding members of society), I was always the only one getting the spanking.

Equal protection my ass.

This has scarred me for life and I believe it constitutes a justifying circumstance and defense vis-à-vis allegations of weirdness. To this day, as a result of childhood trauma, I only buy Dole pineapple juice and Hunts tomato products.  I’m still waiting to see if my boycott has affected Del Monte’s sales to an appreciable degree – but so far nothing yet  - despite the fact that when I pass the ketchup aisle in the supermarket, I push the Del Monte ketchup bottles to the back…. 

Moreover I blame my phobia of wooden rulers for my abysmal grades in 3^rd year geometry and my resulting ineptitude over all things “crafty” on my fear of the dreaded abaca slippers.

  

So anyway, Rutchie (oooops, did I just reveal your secret superhero identity?) by way of reaction to your reaction, yes. I am weird.

But please note that:

1.) I’m just weird, not dangerous ; 

2.) Any resulting weirdness is due to my unfortunate childhood and everyone knows that excuses everything – including capital offenses, provided you get a good lawyer and a glib shrink;

and most importantly..

3.)  you love me anyway right?