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Home vs. Away, Foreigners vs. Locals

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Not to get overly philosophical here but human history can be summarized into the universal divisions of us vs. them: country vs. country, religion vs. religion, race vs. race. Or in the case of the Philippines, “foreigners” vs. “locals.”

Now I know that some foreigners don’t like being called “foreigners” and I get it, I suppose. But it makes me wonder how Filipinos feel about just generically being lumped together as the “locals.” If any Filipinos/Filipinas want to weigh in on that question I’d be happy to hear from you. My guess is that you’re too polite to call the “foreigners” who refer to “locals” with the word you’d really like to use and it ain’t foreigner. Janet, OTOH, would have a choice name and it ain’t exactly “Joe Kano.”

I got to thinking about this, something I do far too much at present, particularly since I hope to retire soon and lay around on a beach drinking San Miguels, chasing Janet and certainly not spending much time thinking. But for now I’m allowed to think and here’s what occurred to me. Often the “foreigners” who don’t like being called foreigners, but like calling Filipinos the “locals” have another pair of words that get in the way of their happiness: “here” and “home.”

I was talking to my friend Robert the other day and we were pontificating on the differences between guys who are able to expat (or even travel) successfully and those who can’t. The former are the ones who adjust, instead of expecting the Philippines and Filipinos to adjust to them. And again it occurred to me that the key might just well be how we define “home.”

In a couple of months I will have lived in my “home” city for 40 years. It’s hard for me to believe. I came here less than a year after college on a complete lark. Bought an old Beetle, loaded up all the junk I owned in life (which filled about half of the VW) and off I went. When I arrived here I told my friends and anyone who might listen that I was only here temporarily and would be returning “home” in a year or so. “Home” was Philadelphia, where I grew up, although it could have just as easily been New York City, where I went to school and dreamed of success.

Every time things went badly I would again tell my friends and anyone else (who no longer wanted to listen) “I’m going home.” But of course I didn’t.

After a year or so I stopped saying, “I’m going home.” I still wasn’t 100% committed to my new city and would say, “If things don’t work out here, then I might go home.” That’s how it was for the next couple years. “Home” was still on the other side of the country, though it beckoned less and less.

After a few years I stopped referring to (or threatening to) go home. Where I lived was now “home.” It took a few more years but eventually those other places became “where I grew up” or the “back East.” Pretty soon, I stopped dreaming of even visiting those places; truth is I dreaded it and when I infrequently went there, I couldn’t wait to “come home.”
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Of course, it took still many more years before I stopped calling myself an “East Coaster” or a “Philadelphian” and defined myself as a “local” of my current city, despite the remaining hint of an East Coast accent. Forty years has allowed me to create whatever identity I decide upon.

I suspect this is how it is for many expats in the Philippines and elsewhere. They’ve lived abroad for a few years but still think of “home” as where they came from. Their people aren’t the “locals”; they’re people from the same country they left. Maybe they even spend most of their time hanging out with those people. I know in the first years after I moved West, I spent a lot of time hanging out with other East Coasters, who I thought had a more reasonable view of the world than the fruity West Coasters did.

The difference is that while I eventually made the adjustment and came to call my new home “home” and that old home “the shithole I came from,” some expats don’t seem to make that transition. Perhaps it’s the massive differences between cultures, or that most expats are older and less flexible. In many cases the guy came to the Philippines for his wife or girlfriend and never considered it to be “home” and doesn’t want to.

But there are exceptions. I read blog pieces from a guy who’s a retired Philippines Snow Bird, spending half his year in the US and half in the Philippines. When he is spending his half year in the US he misses his “home” in the Philippines. I never hear him say he’s missing the US; that’s the place he came from and the place where much of his family lives. But his “home” is 8000 miles away.

It took years, decades really for me to make the transition. So can I really get pissed at the expats who called their Filipino neighbors the “locals,” think of home as the country they came from and get annoyed when they are referred to as “foreigners?” Actually, I can still get pissed but that’s a “me” problem, I guess. Seems to me that once you’ve made that transition – that’s “home.” The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can start to enjoy the pleasures of your new home instead of bitching about its shortcomings.

But what about Janet? I know she hasn’t yet made the transition. “Home” for her isn’t the town where we live. Home is in the Philippines, specifically Alcoy. Hell, she doesn’t even think of any island other than Cebu as home. For Janet, Mindanao is as alien and frightening as living in the U.S. We spent a few days in Dumaguete on our trip in April and despite the fact that it is closer to Alcoy than Cebu City, because it is not in Cebu it felt too far and unhomelike to Janet.

I want Janet to be able to accept our current city as “home” without giving up Cebu as “home,” as well. Perhaps I am unreasonable, wanting her to maintain a Walenda-like tightrope balance that most expats don’t maintain. I except that I have high expectations; probably why I went all the way to the Philippines to find my lovely wife in the first place.

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How to Give Your Filipina Wife a Great Christmas?

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Anyone who has ever been to the Philippines, dated or married a Filipina, or ever entered a karaoke bar knows that Christmas in the Philippines is a big, big deal. Fortunately, for those of us who do not live in, but only visit the Philippines, you don’t have to be around on December 25th to get the full flavor of the holiday season. It starts in September (August really) and goes full throttle for four months, plowing right through the 25th and heading for New Year’s Day.

I have only been in the Philippines for the actual holiday season once, leaving for home early on the morning of January 1st, after an all-night Manila fireworks display, with more guns shot off than fireworks. When I got up that morning to get to my flight out of Manila, gunsmoke still filled the air, about what it must have been like the day after Gettysburg.

BTW, as an irrelevant aside, since my flight was so early, I decided to stay at a hotel close to NAIA Airport and since it was New Year’s Eve and my last night in the Philippines, I decided not to be my normally cheap self and to treat myself to a night at a 5-star hotel, the Manila Marriott.

I ate dinner alone at the hotel restaurant, where the holiday buffet was about $50/head. Poor Filipinos my ass! The place was filled, not with rich kanos, but with rich Filipinos. As most of my friends know, I am a bit of a watch nut, but the timepieces that were dripping off most of the men’s wrists in that restaurant would have been totally out of the question for me. The day before, I hit Mall of Asia and visited a watch store filled with $10k+ watches, and foolishly wondered, “who the hell can afford these in a 3rd world country?” Apparently all their customers congregated that night at the Marriott.

But this isn’t the point about this blog piece; it’s about Christmas in the Philippines – and my wife, Janet. The other day she seemed sad and when I asked why she told me she missed Christmas in the Philippines. “We have Christmas here,” I assured her. “And trees and presents too! Hell, we even have a chance at a white Christmas.”

“It’s not the same,” she assured me. I tried to reason with her; not the best thing to do with a sad Pinay. “It’s not long enough,” she said and I thought ‘thank goodness!’

I finally replied, “It’s just that we have Halloween first and then Thanksgiving. Once Thanksgiving is over, Christmas becomes big time here.” Of course, Janet already knew this; this will be her second Christmas in the U.S. But the day after Thanksgiving when Christmas season officially begins in the US, means only one month of Christmas, which honestly makes most Pinays feel very short changed.

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Of course once I had kids, Christmas became a must. Ex Number Two had boxes of ornaments she’d collected dating back I think to the Spanish Inquisition. Our first year together we had a large old house with high ceilings. She wanted the biggest tree in town and we got one that measured 14 feet. Cutting it was like a scene out of Christmas Vacation, with me playing the role of Clark Griswold trying to drag a 7” thick tree home, then cut it to fit. Of course the first time I got it wrong, since I’d failed to take the star on top into account. I complained, “I’m a Jew. What do I know about stars on top of Christmas trees?”

Anyway the point is that I did have many Christmases with kids, which mostly involved figuring out which bill could go unpaid so I could shell out the ungodly amounts of money for Christmas gifts, family dinners and the like. For me the best part of the season was the Christmas Eve dinner Ex Number Two liked to prepare. Not because of the dinner itself, which was perfectly nice, but because of the rum I was allowed to drink. No – I’m not a drunk. My Exes grandfather was from Barbados and when he would go back home he would come back with genuine, no shit Barbados rum. Not the swill they export to Americans; the real, full meal yummy deal. He gifted bottles to relatives but mostly spent the year bartering with his stash. The man never paid a doctor or dentist his entire adult life!

I am not much of a drinker but that rum was from heaven. Of course for 364 days a year Ex Number Two did not allow its consumption, hiding her stash. But on Christmas Eve out it came like Santa’s little gift just to me. So that’s why I love Christmas.

But back to the present. Last year I did my best. We went out and bought a tree, a few boxes of ornaments, general decorations, and threw a bunch of presents under said tree, even though half of them were for Hannukah. My kids, now teens – teens with attitudes, came over in the afternoon to collect the goods. Janet and I watched Christmas Vacation. She was a great sport about it all but in the end it wasn’t the same as I imagine Christmas must be for her in the Philippines, what with parents, and lolos and 9 brothers and sisters, cousins, ates, and a niece or two.

I have no grand conclusion here – just a question. How would you all suggest Christmas could be made better for your Filipina wife? By all means post your suggestions. After all, mine makes the other 364 days better for me.

 

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“Any of You Sum B’s Call Me Grandpa – I’ll Kill Ya”

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Last Friday I arrived home and almost immediately Janet asked, “Do you have any plans tomorrow?” I had no Saturday plans other than to lay around, which as a hard working kano I deserve, and Janet had the day off as well, so a little husband-wife time seemed in order. I assumed she had something in mind and asked, “Is there something you want to do?”

“Michelle and Douglas just had their baby and I want to visit.”

“Remind me who Michelle and Douglas are,” I answered. In the last year we have made friends with many Fil-Am couples and that in conjunction with my geriatric memory (I joke that I barely remember my kids’ names) made it necessary for Janet to jog said memory. She began to describe what each looked like and I nodded my head in recognition, though truth be told I didn’t remember. Saying that he is “tall and white” and she is “short and Filipina,” didn’t exactly eliminate many possibilities.

‘Where do they live,” I asked.

“They just moved to a new home. I have the address. I think it’s close.”

“Good. I had a long week and…” I read the address. “This place is at least 45 minutes away.” Actually, according to Google Maps it was over an hour away. She looked devastated. “But you know,” I continued. “If we went just a bit out of our way, we can do a nice drive up the Gorge and go to that restaurant we like for lunch.”

Janet began chatting via Facebook with Michelle. “We can have lunch there,” she announced.

“OK, but there goes my idea,” I said. “But if they’ve invited us for lunch…”

“They didn’t invite us for lunch.”

“But you just said.”

“We should bring them lunch. After all, when I have a baby I want people to visit me too.”

“And what kind of lunch do you want to bring them?” I said, a bit of exhaustion creeping into my voice, imagining preparing lunch and then driving an hour.

“Fried chicken.”

“You mean KFC.” Janet smiled happily.

Janet loves KFC. The only thing she doesn’t like about the place is the fact that there is no white rice on the menu. This makes no sense to her and is clearly a poor management decision and the prime reason KFC is no longer one of the fast food big boys.

“Can we get Popeye’s instead?” she quietly asked. Janet had recently discovered Popeye’s and considers it a step up from KFC, since in the Philippines “crispy” is king and a Popeye’s drumstick is crispy enough to use to break up cement.

I agreed. The weather was supposed to be nice, the drive would be pleasant and there is very little that I enjoy more than seeing Janet happily speak Visayan to a fellow Pinay. Janet’s English is good but speaking it is still a strain and causes a “nose bleed.” When she speaks Visayan she laughs and screams in a way that she can’t do in English. I love watching it. So, we were set for the next day.

That night we were watching a movie. For reasons that I still cannot fathom she chose from Netflix the bio-pic “Patton.” Three hours of explosions and George C. Scott scowling and holding his ivory-handled oten substitute!

Janet was surfing on her phone. As a writer and former wannabee screenwriter I find watching a film and Facebooking at the same time to be offensive but have given up trying to make an issue of it. Janet seems to be able to multi-task, though in the middle of Patton she did stop and ask, “What is this all about?”

My answer of, “A crazy World War 2 general,” seemed to satisfy her.

Suddenly she asked, “what do you think about this name?” She started throwing out combinations of first and middle names and I absently nodded my head in approval as husbands the world over do when they are trying to concentrate on a movie.

I didn’t need to ask why she was seeking my input on names. I knew all too well why.
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After she’d come up with a couple female combinations she liked, Janet asked, “What about boy names.”

“How about George Scott?” I answered. I was bored with the movie anyway and always considered Rommel to be the more interesting General.

We went back and forth on names for about fifteen minutes until she had several options she liked. My suggestion of Jack, my grandfather’s name, as well as Nicholson’s did not make her short list.

The next day we got up, Janet made rice, we grabbed a bucket from Popeye’s drive through and headed for our friends’ home. They live in a small city or big town; from Janet’s perspective it’s the provinces. The drive was nice, the air was clean, and the beautiful view from their yard was provincial.

The baby slept most of the time, as do all newborns. I have forgotten the child’s name; it was hard enough to consistently remember Michelle and Douglas. BTW, once they opened the door I did at least remember who they were!

Both parents gamely tried to wake the baby. After all, they reasoned, if friends had driven an hour and brought crispy chicken to boot, the star had to make an appearance. Finally, she did and Janet, Michelle and the baby disappeared into a bedroom, giving Douglas and I a great excuse to watch the Ducks whip UCLA.

I knew what was happening in the bedroom. Janet was getting herself more and more amped up for a future when she would be a proud mother. At 26, if she were still in the Philippines without child she’d be bordering on aged.

It wasn’t just Janet that was feeling the loneliness of being without child. Like potential grandmothers the world over, Janet’s mom was looking forward to a grandchild. She’d already let Janet know that if we have a baby and want to come visit, we could feel free to leave the baby behind for six months or so.

Now in American culture, Janet’s mother’s suggestion would be unheard of. After all the woman had ten children; three are still living at home and going to school. Several of her other children are living within rooster-crowing distance. She has two grandchildren who she is practically raising.

There is of course also the point that in the Philippines mixed children are considered highly attractive; like winning the lottery, our progeny might become the star of the barangay. Janet’s teenage brother had already made it clear to her 2 year old niece that “when Janet and Dave have their white, long-nosed baby” that baby will be replacing the two year old as the star of the family.

There have been other incidents. A couple weeks ago out of nowhere Janet wanted to rearrange our room. I complied and we moved stuff around. There was no real need or advantage to do so, but I innately knew why we were doing it; she was getting ready.

A few days ago, Janet’s BFF suggested that she should be pregnant by January. Now that Michelle and Douglas have had their child, there is only one more pregnant woman in our Fil-Am community, and she is due about then.  That would give Janet nine months of uninterrupted community attention.

The interesting point of all this is what I have described before as the dichotomy in my life. At work I actively talk about the end and my retirement plans which are at least within sight. At home we plan for another beginning. I guess I am too am getting myself ready.

—–

My teenagers are nearly 15 and 19, meaning that I was already in my 40s when I had them. One day, over 18 years ago I carried my then baby boy into the convenience store around the corner. I was a frequent customer but the Korean store owner had never seen my newborn.  “Ah, your grandson,” he declared excitedly.

“No, he’s not my grandson!” I yelled at the man, pissed as hell.

Four years later, I carried my newborn daughter into the same store. The same store owner declared happily, “Ah, your granddaughter.”

“No, she’s not my granddaughter!” I shouted.

At this age, with the possibility of a new baby looming, I suppose the best I can hope for is to be called grandpa!

Life is good and never boring!

PS. And finally, here’s Sam Elliot telling it like it is!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=phrJkFCw6so

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Does Service Suck in the Philippines?

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One of the great complaints among expats and tourists alike in the Philippines is about the quality of service. Almost to a man they say it sucks. Now I don’t live in the Philippines, but have visited a bunch of times and never considered it quite as bad as advertised, though I will admit that might be because the clerk providing me with that “poor” service was a cute Pinay, making up for the service by throwing out “guapo Amerikano” every few minutes.

Now let me start out my rant with a basic concept: that anyone who thinks you can go to a third world country and get 1st world service is an idiot 🙂 Let me expound on this a bit first and use my lovely wife, Janet, as an example; I’ll get to her a bit later. What I really believe is that almost everything is cultural – even what we think of as good or bad service. The other thing I’ve got to question is the quality of service we think we get in the 1st world.

Remember that funny scene in Back to the Future, where Marty McFly travels back to the 50s (by way of a Delorian). He arrives in his small town and is shocked to look over at the local gas station (service stations back then) and watch three attendants descend on a car pulling in for gas. I am old enough to remember a time when attendants filled your tank (that’s done in only a couple of states today), checked your oil and water, put air in your tires, etc. Today if you want air or water for your car, there is a machine that costs $.75 – and you gotta run it. How’s that for service? I guess is must be OK, since most of us accepted the change and rationalized it by claiming that we saved a couple cents a gallon on gas.

I am also old enough (apparently this blog post is actually about my old age) to remember a time when doctors made house calls. As a kid I’d get the flu, my mom would call the doctor and he would come over (usually late at night), examine me and declared with great authority, “he’s got the flu.” I know, I know – you youngsters think I am making this up.

Today, if you’re sick at night, you wait till the next day (assuming the doc has office hours the next day – otherwise he might be able to see you between the front and back nine) or go to the emergency room, where a doctor barely out of puberty will poke you (after you’ve waited 3 hours). In the end you get a bill from the emergency room comparable to your monthly mortgage payment. Is this good service or just what we’ve gotten used to? If a pediatrician makes twice what POTUS makes, shouldn’t we expect him/her to miss a few hours of sleep or reschedule his damn tee time?

By the way, as a point of comparison, many doctors in the Philippines do make house calls, probably because in the Philippines doctors are not rich and they are worried that if they don’t show up that night by the next morning you might actually get better on your own.

There are a few things that have improved service-wise in the 1st world since my childhood. For example, you can go to your local box store and return just about any purchase. Most people consider this to be great service. “I don’t like the color – I’m taking it back.” And sure enough you can with no questions asked.

When I was a kid and you bought something at your local KMart (no Walmart back then) unless when you brought the item home it was broken – you were out of luck. And if it was broken, you didn’t get a refund; they gave you a replacement. And you filled out a form the length of a 1040 to get the replacement.

So it’s better now right? I suppose, but guess what? That customer service desk at Walmart with the friendly clerk who will take anything back with no questions asked – it ain’t free – ultimately we all pay for it!

Another common complaint in the Philippines is about credit cards. Some stores take them, some don’t. Machines don’t work sometimes. If you go to the third world expecting to get your Discover rewards points, you might be disappointed.
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Let’s use my old age as a baseline again, shall we. I know it’s hard to believe but not that many years ago people in the West actually went to stores and made purchases with cash or check. We were primitive back then, weren’t we? Then about 30 years ago some smart tech nerd made an amazing discovery and thus we were given the ATM. The machine was amazing. You could use what looked like a credit card and actually get cash anytime, day or night – so that you could go to that department store and pay cash for your purchases.

Eventually the cash card became a debit card and we all stopped carrying cash altogether. And checks? Come on! Janet and I have a checking account but no checks. What’s the point?

But guys go to the Philippines and discover that not all stores take debit/credit cards and not all store clerks are thrilled when you present yours. I know it’s hard to believe, but most people in a developing nation don’t carry American Express. They carry pesos, albeit too few of them.

A guy posted in a forum recently about an experience standing in line at the local supermarket behind an ancient and nasty kano. They were in the “cash only” line, but the old fart insisted loudly that he be allowed to use his credit card. The shy clerk finally agreed but the card wouldn’t go through and she suggested that maybe the coot’s card was not good. The guy yelled and screamed that he had enough money in his account to buy and sell the whole damn country. The poster was embarrassed for the poor clerk and embarrassed to be associated with such a foreigner.

OK, I hear you asking – how does this relate to Janet, who is what this blog should be about (if I were smart and wanted a nice ending to the night) – so let me try to pull that together. For five years before we were married, Janet put herself through college by working in a small Pension House on the island of Leyte, far from her home in Cebu. She got up in the morning and helped clean the rooms. In the afternoon she went to school. She returned in the evening and worked at the front desk until 10:00 PM. She checked guests in and out, handled the cash register and often just about ran the place in the absence of the owner and manager. If the relief person was late or could not show for work, she worked that shift also. She worked six and sometimes seven days a week, as is the custom in the Philippines. She provided excellent service and the staff and customers loved her, as did the owner. How much money did she earn? Zero! Yes you read that right; for five years she worked and worked and was paid nothing. Her compensation was that the owner gave her room and board and paid her tuition at the small college she attended. This is common in the Philippines. It used to be common in the West and there is a term that was once used to describe this form of work – indentured servitude!

Of course Janet was bright and pretty. Every day she and I would be chatting online from the front desk computer when she would say, “it’s time for the players.” I knew what she was referring to and they weren’t the kind of “players” we in the West think of. They were a group of older, rich Filipinos, who gathered daily to play Mah Jong at the pension house. Janet’s job was to serve them. My guess is that the “players” tipped her well and that made up the pocket money she used.

Yet despite the tough circumstances, she did not complain, finished her degree and managed to give excellent service to a variety of guests – particularly the “players,” no doubt.

About six months after we married Janet took a service job around the corner from where we live. By American standards it is not high paying. The job attracts young and inexperienced workers and the turnover is fast and furious. Just like at the pension house, they love Janet. She works hards, cares for the customers, helps her fellow employees, covers for them when they are sick. She has been asked many times why an attractive girl with a college degree would work in such a job, and work hard at that. She has no answer that they can understand.

In short, she provides the type of service that Filipinos are famous for the world over – and the word poor doesn’t enter into it!

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“If love is an amazing dream, then marriage is the alarm clock!”

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Today’s our one year anniversary. OK, it was the 22nd, but it sounds more dramatic if I say today. While there are always ups and downs, disagreements and even full blown arguments in any relationship, truth be told – this has been a great year.

If you throw in the one year I lived with my second wife prior to marriage, I was married for a total of 20 years. It’s sad and unfortunate to report but out of that 20 years, maybe one was happy – one combined. Oh, don’t get me wrong; there were nice moments. Children being born and growing up, that trip to Alaska. But when I really looked back and thought about when the primary relationship was good – well things came up woefully short. Perhaps that’s why I was twice divorced; well, it’s a theory.

I can say without hesitation that the last year with Janet was by far better than any year I spent married before. Granted, based on the previous paragraph the bar was set pretty low, but we easily cleared it.

As we always do, we posted a few Facebook pictures and comments. And Facebook kindly posts an anniversary reminder which got us dozens of responses from friends. No doubt a couple were amazed that we made it to one year. I was not.

But it was Janet’s posting that was most interesting and telling about this intersection of two cultures.

As you all know, when you post a set of pics on Facebook you usually create an album and name it. Janet’s name for her anniversary picture album was, “If love is an amazing dream, then marriage is the alarm clock!”

When I read the title, I cracked up. I figured it couldn’t have come from Janet. I gently broached the subject that night, just before we were to go out for our anniversary dinner.

“I read it and thought it was funny,” she said, confirming my assumption that she hadn’t written it.

“Do you know what it means?” I asked.

“Of course! When you are in love, the alarm clock goes off telling you it’s time to get married.”

“Um, not exactly.” I explained to her how the average American would interpret the line.

“I should remove it then,” she said. “But it’s still funny and I still like it.”

“Then you should keep it.”

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“That you’re funny. Keep it.”

wedding
wedding

I had been checking online reviews to find a fancy restaurant we’d never been to for our celebration but when it came down to it Janet wanted to eat food that she enjoyed with a menu that included white rice with every entree, so in the end we went to our favorite Chinese restaurant. Not exactly Filipino faire but the side order of barbecue pork made it close enough. And Janet simply did not want us to drop a bunch of money on a meal, especially one she might not enjoy. But of course since I had saved a bunch on dinner and we finished early enough, Janet gently asked whether we might stop at the mall where an H&M sale was strongly calling her. She picked up a couple of $3-$5 items and found a way to get 10% off the total. That’s about as extravagant as she usually gets.

The morning after our anniversary we slept in. No, not for that reason! OK, truth be told not just for that reason. I had a doctor’s appointment at 10:00. In addition, my son had called the night before, during dinner, saying that his uncle wanted to come over in the morning to pick up some of his things and deliver them to him at college.

Now my former BIL is an interesting character. Very youthful looking for his early 70s, he’s a retired doctor-psychiatrist, and a not so retired playa. He had never met Janet but had asked me about her on an occasion or two.

He arrived just as I was about to drive off to the doctor’s appointment. After a quick greeting, I opened the garage, showed him the pile of stuff my son wanted and told him, ‘Don’t worry, Janet will close the garage when you are done.”

That night after work, Janet giggled and told me that after he had loaded the car, playa BIL, rang the doorbell to tell Janet he was done and as an excuse to meet her and give her a good look. It’s good to know really. He’s 10+ years older than me. Nice to know that at that age I will still be giving Janet a good long look as we celebrate our 11th anniversary!

 

 

 

 

 

Blog, Story

Lip Pointing with Manny Pacquiao vs. Ray Rice

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Here’s how our weekend went:

It was Saturday and I knew it was bound to be a crazy one. My son was going off to college as a Freshman and my emotions were mixed; between sadness about my little boy leaving home; and unbridled ecstasy about my little boy leaving home. The plan was to get up early, have breakfast, pack the car to the brim, and take off for the two hour drive to his new life.

I got up and volunteered to make breakfast so that Janet could get up and eat with us and say her goodbyes (“regards” in the Philippines). I’m a lousy cook but managed to rustle up a bunch of eggs, bacon and toast and didn’t burn any of it, which was a very good sign for the day ahead.

Janet stumbled out to breakfast. My son wasn’t nearly ready, so the two of us sat down to eat. That’s when I noticed her eye…

Let me go back a moment and tell you that Janet is a very sensitive young woman – physically. I mean if she comes within an inch of brushing the dining room table the next day there is a large bruise. She works in a store and comes home almost daily with bruises on her arms and the occasional burn. I implore her to deal with these accidents at the time they happen but I think she just knows herself well enough to blow it off.

But Saturday morning across from the breakfast table as I glanced at her normally pretty face I saw a good sized mouse under her eye. “What happened to your eye?” I asked shocked. She didn’t have a clue what I was taking about. “You have a black eye,” I exclaimed. “Did you bang your eye?”

She assured me she hadn’t but then said, “I did cry a little bit last night.” She was missing her family and some tears did fall.

“Crying should not cause a black eye,” I said still shocked at how she looked. “Does it hurt?” I asked. She shrugged, still not really comprehending my concern.

Finally she giggled. “Well, I guess I’ll have to tell everyone you hit me.”

“What! That is not what you want to say in the U.S. And the last place you want to joke about being hit is in Portland, Oregon – and certainly not this week.”

“Why not?” She genuinely appeared confused.

“Because it’s a terrible thing to do to a woman – to anyone. And this week there’s Ray Rice.” I was sure she didn’t know about that.

“You know I would never hit you, right? I have never ever hit a woman.”

It took me a few terrified minutes to explain the trouble I would be in if anyone believed such a joke. “The cops would haul me off and throw away the key.”

“I’d just tell them it was a joke,” she calmly said.

“You don’t understand. They would assume you were lying, trying to get me out. People take this sort of thing very very seriously here.” I added, “…And for very good reason,” just to emphasize that I was a liberal, good guy who would never consider hitting a woman.

“I mean Roger Goodell’s gonna lose his job over Ray Rice and he wasn’t even in the elevator.”

“I mean Roger Goodell’s gonna lose his job over Ray Rice and he wasn’t even in the elevator.”

Janet looked at me clueless but agreed that she would not mention that I’d hit her. She then asked me about who this Ray Rice was and excitedly asked if she could see the video.

Her plan in my absence was to go out with her best friend. For a moment I considered emailing the friend to assure her I had nothing to do with the eye, but before I could deal with that my son came upstairs, we packed the car and took off.
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In the afternoon, after I’d gotten back home Janet texted me asking if I’d like to meet them. I walked over in the hot afternoon sun. After we greeted each other, I asked Janet’s Filipina friend if Janet had told her about the eye. “Yes,” she said. “My husband one time rolled over in bed and kicked me hard. So it can happen.”

“I didn’t kick her and didn’t give her the black eye!” I exclaimed frustrated but finally laughing at the absurdity.

Now, this concerns me and not just for my near brush with the law. Janet is a very honest person and Filipinas often filter their conversation to save face, or at least expect you to filter what you say. While out in public she sometimes shushes me or scolds me for pointing.

But in fact she has much less of a filter than I do and there are many things she says that she does not realize you cannot say in the U.S. We may be out in public and she will get my attention and motion toward someone and say “she’s ugly,” or “he has a very long nose.” Cleanliness if very important in the Philippines and one of the worst things you can say about someone is that he/she is not clean, yet Janet has no problem motioning toward someone and indicating the person “is dirty.”

lips

Of course in the Philippines no one points to anyone like we rude Americans do. Janet raises her eyebrows or points with her lips, as is the Philippines custom. I know her well enough to know she’s motioning toward something or someone and probably not in a good way.

“You shouldn’t say she is dirty,” I will admonish.

“But she is.”

“True, but people here take such comments very seriously.”

“Then she should clean herself better.”

Janet works with the public and is well liked by her employer, so I assume she hasn’t offended any customers. But as a new husband I worry that she might cause herself troubles because of cultural misunderstandings.

“Just be careful. Someone may hear you and take offense. And you’re smaller than most American women.”

“I will kick them,” she replies and I am reminded that she’s a lot tougher than she looks.

—–

On Sunday Janet and I did our weekly grocery shopping followed by a trip to her favorite Asian store. They sell lechon on Sundays and I had promised her some. We were checking out the fish section when we saw Janet’s BFF from the day before and her husband, also there for the lechon, fish and live crabs. Next thing I knew they’d invited us to dinner and the women were organizing a feast. Janet spent the afternoon baking bread. Around 5:00 I asked, “So when are we supposed to go over there for dinner?”

“Oh, they are coming here. Our grill is better than theirs.”

“No problem,” I said by now immune to changes in plans. “But I guess I’d better go out and clean the grill.”

“You didn’t clean the grill yet?”

“No, of course not. How was I suppose to know…” I caught myself and laughed.

It’s more fun in the Philippines or in the West with a Filipina.

Blog

Liar, Liar

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Everywhere I turn I see and hear all about lying Filipinos and Filipinas. “They are all liars,” goes the standard expat mantra. It’s taken me a few years of hearing this over and over, but at this point I’m pissed. I know, I know – I’m a bit slow. My kids know it, my wife knows it and now you all know it. I may be slow, but I come from behind and catch up with a vengeance.

Lying in the Philippines takes on all varieties, according to the many expats and tourists. Of course girls online all lie. Their families all lie. Cabbies all lie. Salesman and service providers all lie. And, believe it or not, there are many men who proclaim that their Filipina wives, some of whom have been great wives for decades – all lie. There’s a special term in the Philippines that describes foreign husbands who claim their wives to be less than honest – horny.

My indignation came to a head just this week. Reading my favorite expat forum a question was posed. Seems a well-meaning poster received a massage in the Philippines; no not that kind of massage – get your head out of the gutter. Massage and massage therapy is everywhere in Asia and the price is dirt cheap. It’s easy in the Philippines to get a one hour massage for $5.

Well, in this case it seems that the lady struck up a conversation with the customer and told him her tale of woe about the hardships in her life and with her family. Frankly, this could never happen with me. When I get a massage I start to moan in such a way that – well, she’d know better than to talk to me.

But in this case the customer felt so bad he wondered if he should “help” the poor woman and he posed that question to the assembled wisdom of the forum. Many of the comments were of the “they are all liars and scammers” sort of thing. I came in with what was clearly the most reasonable response; that he had already helped her by paying for a massage and tipping her. In addition, I pointed out that service providers the world over “stretch” the truth; it’s called angling for a tip. Your favorite waiter is not gonna tell you he cleared $60k last year in tips; he’s gonna tell you that his oldest just started college and it’s costing a fortune.

So, the man felt compelled to act but first he investigated the woman’s story. He found that her claims of woe, while not complete lies, were only partial truths. By the end of the thread he was on the side of many of the others; that “they” are mostly liars and scammers. I felt saddened that he’d gone from wanting to help her, to determining that she was a liar, to deciding that many Filipinos are liars.

dr-house-everybody-lies

Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not proclaiming that Filipinos are the most honest people on the planet. My view is simple – to quote House MD, “everybody lies.” Anyone who says he doesn’t – just proved my point.

“Liar, Liar” is my favorite Jim Carrey movie and if you haven’t seen it you should go right out and rent it or illegally download it – I’ll lie to cover your ass. In it, Carrey plays a lawyer; not a bad sort, just a regular guy who has a way of bending the truth beyond recognition. His young son makes a wish that for just one day his dad won’t be able to tell a lie. Hilarity ensues. Carrey, physically incapable of lying, discovers that you simply cannot live in the adult world without lying. “Do you like my hairdo?” asks the secretary with the worst hairdo in Hollywood. He can no longer lie.

In court when the judge greets him and asks how he is, Carrey truthfully tells the judge about a “bad sexual experience,” he’d just had.

He calls a senior partner a “dickhead” because, well – that’s what the man is.

The products are prepared with sildenafil citrate, which acts like a canadian levitra which will be truly helpful and cost-effective. People should also reveal their medical history to the doctor if any of these side effects remain for a longer time and become bothersome.PRECAUTIONS :Drinking alcohol can temporarily impair the ability to get soft cialis pills hard state of male reproductive organ.Corpora cavernosa tissue and nerves of penile area enable erection, when the veins of the region block in blood, getting the male phallus very hard. One order viagra india medicine at one time should be the medication pattern so if you are having any other medicine for male impotence. Post that, when unica-web.com viagra 5mg the man gets intimate with his partner, he doesn’t have the potential to get engaged into intercourse. The problem with lying is – it’s easier to see it in others than in ourselves. Surely, in the U.S. when you greet someone and you each ask how the other is and then rapid fire, each says “fine, how about you” – it’s just a social convention. It’s not really a lie – unless you’re Jim Carrey confronted by a fat lawyer asking “What’s up?” Answer, “Your cholesterol, fattie.”

Let’s face it – we lie all the time but justify it because we cannot survive in society without lying. We lie to protect ourselves, to protect our loved ones, to protect feelings. We lie to protect our jobs; anyone want to tell their clients what they really think of them?

We lie in every negotiation. The salesman lies, “this is my lowest possible price.” The buyer lies, “this is the most I can possibly pay.” We all justify that those aren’t really lies; they’re negotiating strategies.

In short, lying is not only universal, it’s cultural. Go to the Philippines and ask that friend “how are you?” and instead of the required lie, “I’m fine,” he is actually liable to tell you how he really is. Or he will turn it around and only want to know how you are.

If you’re anal like me, just take one day out of your life and track what you say and how many lies, white lies and half-truths are involved. The number will astound you – if you are truthful with yourself, which most of you won’t be.

The same can be said for the “they’re all scammers” crowd. I mean, after all, you arrived in Cebu and got beat by a cabbie out of an extra 100 pesos ($2.50). The girl you thought you liked asked you for 1000 pesos ($25) for medicine for her mother. Mom doesn’t need the medicine and you feel cheated.

Of course, you don’t feel cheated in the U.S. when that plumber or electrical guy came to your house and charged you $400 for 1 1/2 hours worth of work. He didn’t cheat you; he told you straight up it was gonna cost you an arm and a leg and you’d best fork it over or call someone else who’ll charge even more.

Today I read a financial story that said that over the past 10 years U.S. Corporations had spent over 54% of their corporate profits on what? Investing? Nope. R&D? Nope. They spend over 50% of their profits buying back their own stock. Why do they buy their own stock? So that the stock price goes up. Who benefits? The CEOs, boards of directors, and general fat cats who own tens of millions in stock options. But that’s not scamming because, hey, you have a couple grand in your 401k, so you benefited, right? It’s certainly not a scam as egregious as that damn Filipino cabbie who beat you out of the 100 pesos.

So when it comes to being married to a Filipina, which is supposedly the theme of this blog, what’s the point. Once again I’ll make a movie reference. I re-watched “A beautiful Mind” last week. The Oscar winning story of John Nash, Nobel prize willing economist and schizophrenic. There’s a great scene (hopefully not a lie – I sure would like to trust director, Ron Howard; he was “Opie” after all) in which Nash discovers the theorem for which he won the Nobel.

He’s in a bar, where all great discoveries are made, checking out girls (don’t you love this guy). He and his friends all want “the blonde.” Adam Smith, the founder of modern economics, 200 years before postulated that group dynamics work best when each member of the group does what benefits himself, which in this case would have meant that everyone goes for the blonde. Nash realized that Adam Smith was wrong; that the best outcome occurs when each individual works for himself plus the group as a whole. In this case, ignore the blonde, and hit on all her brunette friends.

How does this relate to a Fil-Am marriage? For thousands of years men and women have lied to each other to get their own way in relationships. If I believe Nash, the best outcome happens if each person does what’s best for him/her as well as what’s best for the couple. So you’re heard it here first – the secret to a successful marriage; from a guy twice divorced and a mentally ill economist.

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Can Comicbook Guy Marry in the Philippines?

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The Philippines expat community is in an uproar and if you are familiar with some of these serious-minded men you know some serious shit must be happening.

Turns out there is a proposed bill in the Philippines legislature that might make it harder for a “foreigner” to marry a Filipina, at least within the Philippines and it’s got some expats quaking in their flip flops.

The bill is sponsored by Cebu Rep. Gwendolyn F. Garcia, who described her measure as a protection against “vagabonds or social and moral derelicts in their own country whose real motive is to abuse Filipino women…to take advantage and exploit our women by making them work for the family and worse, by sending them to prostitution and other degrading and dehumanizing occupations.”

“The exploitation of our Filipino women, through the so-called mail-order or pen-pal, Facebook, website-made, and other internet-made marriages, has not only caused untold miseries and suffering to our Filipino women but it has also brought dishonor and disgrace to the Filipino womanhood,” she said.

Note to self: Don’t disgrace or dishonor Filipino womanhood anymore by asking Janet what she’d like to make for dinner.

Note to self: Don’t disgrace or dishonor Filipino womanhood anymore by asking Janet what she’d like to make for dinner.

If the bill passes they are actually going to require the foreigner husband-to-be to document his income and prove that he is of good moral character.

The uproar among the expats mainly has to do with several areas of distress:

1. Distrust of government. Well, this is a generally good, libertarian type stance, I suppose. The Philippines Government ought to stay out of personal affairs whenever possible (ours certainly does :)), although potential charges of degradation and prostitution is somewhere I expect governments to be very involved – as an equal partner. In this case the guys were more worried that the estimated cost of said documents (1000 pesos = approx. $25) is just one more area where those thieves in Manila are ripping off poor foreigners who can already barely afford their daily ration of San Miguel.

2. That many of the guys in question don’t know what the term “good moral character” means, nor where to buy the document that says they have it.

3. That there is a general lack of respect for foreigners living in the Philippines, many of whom, hard to believe, are viewed as sex tourists. See the above “good moral character” definition.

4. General confusion because no one has used the word vagabond in fifty years and most guys think it has something to do with hitchhikers or backpakers. OTOH, most of the guys didn’t object to the use of the work derelict, which they assumed is used to accurately reflect their drinking habits.

 —–

Since I am already married to my darling Janet and didn’t marry in the Philippines, the proposed law isn’t a big issue for me. But if all my brethren are up in arms than I figure that I had better investigate for the good of the order. Now where’s my bottle opener…

In the midst of my extensive investigation, coincidentally Janet asked me if I was aware of the bill. “Yes, I heard about it. Thank goodness we got married before I had to verify my moral character. And who knew that I was only interested in destroying Filipino womanhood.”

I did finally get around to asking her what she thought of the bill, since after all it would, at least in theory, make it harder for a couple like us to marry.

“I think it’s good,” she replied. “Many foreigners don’t take care of their wives, use them only as maids or treat them like sex slaves.” I may be a bit paranoid, but I didn’t like the look she gave me as she described these ne’er do well foreigner husbands.

“I don’t treat you like a maid,” I replied giggling. She gave me “the look.”

I am also aware that just as the expats are constantly sharing stories of the occasional bad Filipina wife, usually involving murder by bolo, Filipinas are often sharing stories about bad foreigner husbands. Janet often shares these internet stories usually asking me, “Did you hear about this foreigner who sold his wife into slavery in Iowa?”

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It took me about a day to complete my attitude adjustment. Apparently I hadn’t drunk enough San Miguels.

So let’s consider the outcome of the proposed law. Of course the following assumes the law passes and furthermore assumes it is thoroughly enforced; and when does that happen? But assuming both conditions, what might happen to Fil-Am marriages in the Philippines?

The guy who promises his girl that he is a rich kano with a $100k job who can take care of her for life, take care of her kids, take care of her family, the neighbors, hell the whole barangay is discovered to be an unemployed phone solicitor with a bank balance of -$127.

The guy who swears to his girl that he has never been married is found to have been married twice and was never exactly divorced – from either wife.

The guy who loves children and can’t wait to have another one with his Filipina fiancé, owes child support dating back to the Clinton administration.

The guy who claims he can retire early in the Philippines due to his business acumen, owes the IRS $250k in back taxes.

The guy who is highly moral and religious and attends mass weekly with his FIlipina, is wanted in five states and by the Feds for grand larceny, racketeering and transporting a white fish across state lines. OK, I stole the white fish bit from Woody Allen – always loved that line. I guess that thievery means I wouldn’t pass the Philippines requirements either.

Not that any of these guys are vagabonds or derelicts. They’re just living the good life in the Philippines.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog, Story

How to Find a Philippines Mentor

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Humor Alert: Sorry but there isn’t much. This is a subject I’m serious about, emotional even. I’ll make up for it next time, I promise.

I see and hear about all kinds of guys who go to the Philippines and hate it. Of course tastes aren’t universal and not everyone loves 90 degree heat and 90% humidity as much as I do, so maybe I can’t blame them. White sand and cheap beer is overrated – if you’re a priest or mental case. But when they complain about the women, say they can’t find a good one, say they’re all dumb, and worse still, claim they are all unattractive – well then I scratch my head and wonder whether we visited the same country – or live on the same planet.

Not to be indelicate, but if you are a single Westerner and take an extended trip to the Philippines, or a short trip; hell, even if you do a 10-hour layover, and can’t find a youngish, sweet, bright, fun, and attractive girl to spend time with – then there is something seriously wrong with you, probably either involving mental illness or the fact that you’ve recently passed away and no one’s bothered to tell you.

…if you are a single Westerner and take an extended trip to the Philippines, or a short trip; hell, even if you do a 10-hour layover, and can’t find a youngish, sweet, bright, fun, and attractive girl to spend time with – then there is something seriously wrong with you…

While it seems very easy to me and many of my friends, since it’s not easy for everyone I searched my mind for solutions and finally realized one of the main differences between success and failure; I found a good mentor and most don’t. Here’s my mentor story and how you can find one too.

First let’s talk about why you need a true mentor in the Philippines:

Going to the Philippines and figuring you’ll run into a fellow Westerner who will give you the lay of the land is not a wise idea. Most expats living in the Philippines are either old and cranky (that is older and crankier than I am); drunks; evading the authorities, their ex-wife or their drug dealer back home; or make their living as professional whore mongers. “But Dave, you say that like it’s a bad thing,” I hear you all saying. Point being if you meet a fellow Westerner and sit down for a San Miguel and friendly chat on life in the Philippines, the guy may have no more in common with you than the average inmate in San Quentin, and may well have once resided in a comparable federal facility.

Let’s say you meet a guy (in person or online) who isn’t too bad; he’s long-nosed and white, speaks with your accent, is articulate and doesn’t appear to be a total drunk or evading the law. Does that make him a good mentor? Not necessarily.

I know a well-educated guy living in Manila, who can tell you in great detail every aspect of every girlie bar in EDSA, which is fine if you are interested in finding a bar girl in Manila (and BTW, if you need a mentor for that, you’re beyond hope) but who defines a long-term relationship as “she spent the night.” The point is, you have to find someone on the same page as you. Which means you have to genuinely know yourself well enough to know what you want. Wife, girlfriend, temporary girlfriend, very very temporary girlfriend, catcher’s mitt? Are you interested in the big cities (Manila, Cebu), smaller cities, or provinces? Are you young, middle-aged, old as me, or living in an intensive care unit? Well, you get the idea. While a guy with different goals than you might provide some valuable information, he’s not gonna be a proper mentor to you.

I found my mentor through a circuitous route. As in all modern research methodologies, several years ago I turned to the Internet to find out the best way to discover the joys of foreign women. It led me to a couple of men’s forums. There I chatted with a guy who led me to yet another forum, specifically on living and meeting women abroad. He told me, “the owner of the forum’s nuts, but there is some good information there.”

I visited said forum and found a ton of information, some even useful, and a cast of characters that would fit right in with a pornographic version of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
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In reading between the lines, there were two guys who appeared to be slightly less deranged than the forum owner and his minions. I contacted both. Turns out that one, Pete, lives a couple hours from me. We connected quickly; as I said above finding someone with similar interests is important. Pete had been married quite a while to his Filipina wife, Cathy, and came off as a very happy guy. He immediately encouraged me to join Cherry Blossoms as a paid member, as he had done years before.

He patiently answered all my questions, which looking back were mostly lame and novice, with genuine enthusiasm for the journey I was beginning. A month later he told me that he and Cathy would be coming though my city and asked if I wanted to meet for lunch. I jumped at the opportunity.

At lunch, the main thing I noticed (other than the fact that Cathy was very attractive) was that even after nearly ten years together they seemed as close as newlyweds; holding hands, cuddling next to each other. I remember having an intense feeling of envy but that feeling reinforced the fact that I was going in the right direction and wanted exactly what Pete had. Well, not exactly; Cathy was taken and Pete’s a lot bigger than me.

Pete stuck with me all the way. I made a mistake or two, which I have documented in other blog postings. But each time he’d guide me in the right direction, confident that I could do it. He was a friend, guide and cheerleader all rolled up into one.

Funny thing is that almost no one else on the forum took him up on his offer to guide them. Perhaps this is men’s nature; the “I can do it myself” male ego. Lucky I was a bit more open.

Two years later, after trials, tribulations and with great excitement, Janet arrived. Not long after, Pete and Cathy came through town and the four of us met over dinner. Janet and Cathy bonded immediately.

Due to the K-1 Visa requirements and our own excitement, our wedding was put together quickly and was to be held in the garden of our neighbor. Since Janet’s family could, of course, not attend I asked her who she might like to walk her down the aisle and without hesitation she responded, “Pete.”

Pete walking Janet

Pete – if you’re reading this – well my words of gratitude seem inadequate. Janet and I owe you so much and I hope our friendship to be a lifelong one.

So guys, if you’re searching for the right girl, find the right guide. They are out there and willing to help. Even Pete and I might lend a hand.

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Viagra Babies and My Impending Dotage and Demise

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When I started this blog I promised it would be irreverent and funny and occasionally informative. Well, today it’s time for some information, though first you’ll have to slog through the other crap.

Last night I was eating dinner with my 18-year old son. We’re talking about some serious stuff mostly regarding his upcoming entry into college and the excitement of leaving home for his next adventure in life. Finally out of the blue he asks, “How much does a funeral cost?” Was he worried about my impending demise, I wondered? Not exactly. He was worried about how much he would have to pay. “After all, mom (my ex) is not gonna pay for it,” he told me.

I thanked him for his concern and assured him I had a good year or two left and then told him honestly that Janet knew my wishes and I did not want a funeral; just to be cremated. “So, how much does an urn cost?” he asked. I considered showing him the final scene from The Big Lebowski, where the Dude and Walter get a coffee can from Ralph’s to carry Donnie’s final remains (and the consequences of that action) but decided that I at least deserved more than a Ralph’s coffee can.

“Urns come in all prices,” I finally said and then assured him that my “estate” could probably manage the cost of an urn.

————

About a week ago I was talking to Janet. She was half joking and said, “You must take good care of me now while you are young because I will be taking care of you in the future.” Once again I assured her that was going to be far into the future, but as a dutiful husband I also assured her I would take care of her now. I also thanked her for the “young” lie.

But this whole age thing is really weird because of the incongruity in my life and marriage. After all, I am 61 which by many standards ain’t exactly young. Frankly, I’m not sure I can even get away with calling myself middle-aged any more. I am constantly referred to as “the old guy” at work. OK, truth be told I used to be referred to as “the old guy.” Now, I suspect I am referred to as the “old guy with the hot and inappropriately young wife.”

And yes, said wife is 26 and in many ways I get to watch her begin adult life, learning about her environment, and the workaday world, in total contrast to my plans to end my foray into the workaday world.

And of course Janet talks often about children. Most of my peers have grandchildren to bounce around and then get rid of at the end of the day. We’re trying to determine how and when to have our own, and whether my hernia will hold up.

And this is really where it gets strange because I believe I have to try to think and act young all the while acknowledging that other reality. You have to balance both realities, while, as the cliche goes, living for today.

This reminds me of a story from my friend Jim. I hope he’ll forgive me for stealing it.
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I was meeting with Jim weekly over beers telling him of my escapades in the Philippines, and of my then girlfriend, Janet. I was encouraging him to check it out. It took some convincing, as well as several chat sessions with a cute Pinay, who was to eventually become his wife, but finally Jim visited the Philippines. He returned to the U.S. and soon after went to a bar to meet a few friends. Arriving a bit late he found his buddies involved in a not so lively discussion – on burial plots. Apparently they hadn’t seen The Big Lebowski. Sizing the morbid situation up he told them, “Here’s what I’m up to,” and pulled out a picture of his hot girlfriend. The burial plot conversation ended.

I don’t know what my point is here exactly. I suppose at my age you can discuss burial plots, funerals and urns or marry a cute Filipina. I know what I chose to do.

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BTW, to add to the old age theme here, yesterday I was on the phone with Social Security. I have the week off from work and one of the exciting things on my list of things to do was to call Social Security and ask them a few questions and confirm a couple bits of information that I thought I knew. You can’t get much older sounding than to fill your day with a lighthearted call to the Social Security office.

One of those bits of information I confirmed is what some cynical financial planners now call the Viagra Child Plan. It’s a lesser known clause contained in the Social Security bucket. So get ready for the informative stuff!

One of those bits of information I confirmed is what some cynical financial planners now call the Viagra Child Plan. It’s a lesser known clause contained in the Social Security bucket.

Here’s how it works:

If a man or woman begins to collect Social Security retirement benefits, whether at age 62 or beyond, and that said old geezer has a minor child, that child gets the equivalent of 1/2 the codger’s Social Security payment. The child in question can be a natural child, adopted or step-child; doesn’t matter. I am fairly confident that the framers of the Social Security system did not have in mind old farts like me marrying 26-year old Filipinas and then having babies, but what the hell. So the point is, when I begin Social Security retirement benefits, at whatever age, if Janet and I have a young child, that child will receive payments from our friends in the Federal government until he/she is 18 or 19. Isn’t democracy wonderful!

Our plan regarding the money is simple and responsible; we’re going to take those checks and place the money on black at Caeser’s in Vegas! No, no, no. Actually we will put it in a fund for education. That way, whether I am alive or not our child at age 18 will be able to afford college or a cup of coffee, whichever is then cheaper. Or possibly it might pay for my urn.

BTW, once you reach age 61 you will find that you are inundated by invitations to go to free dinners where they discuss your impending Social Security windfall and financial planning. Janet and I went to one. There were about twenty couples in the room and let’s just say, we were unique. The fortyish financial planner went over a large number of Social Security strategies and their ramifications before mentioning the Viagra Strategy. After explaining it, wiseass that I am, I raised my hand and asked if I still got the benefit even if I didn’t use Viagra.

Humorous, irreverent, occasionally informative look at a no longer newly wedded Fil-Am couple