I wrote a little while back about “Uneducated and Dumb Filipinas – Really?” attacking some negative stereotypes. I am on several forums where stories of Filipina idiocy are routinely posted. In many cases it strikes me that the idiot is the kano who has no idea how to act in a foreign country. Acting the fool or acting like an Ugly American can only get you in trouble in a developing nation like the Philippines. Here’s my current favorite one:
“When I visited the Philippines two years ago, the first thing I did was head to the mall to buy a cell phone. I thought that it would be a simple matter to pay with my credit card. Boy, was I wrong!
You know that strip on the back of your credit card, where you’re supposed to sign it? Well, instead of signing it, I always write ‘Ask for photo ID.’ This makes it less likely that some thief will be able to use my card.
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So I try to pay for my cell phone with my credit card, and the bimbo salesgirl says that my card is no good, because there’s no signature on the back. I tried to explain to her that what I put on the card was even better than a signature, and that if she would just look at my passport, she would see that I really was the owner of the card. She wasn’t buying it, though. I tried explaining to some of her co-workers, and they too insisted that I had to have a signature on it. I thought about asking them to let me speak with their manager, but I thought, “the Hell with it, I’ll just pay cash”. After all, I was a representative of the USA, and I didn’t want to do even more damage to the reputation of Americans among foreigners.”
So the guy in question not only doesn’t sign his credit card, as he’s obligated by the credit card company to do, he puts in a ridiculous amendment and then thinks that the Filipina sales clerk is an idiot for not accepting his card or his explanation.
Anyone else want to share similar stories about themselves or others? I’ve got a story about my own idiocy that will be posted shortly. Stay tuned.
It doesn’t take a Rocket Scientist to figure out what people think when they see Janet and I together in public. Now first of all I have to say, that most people have been very nice and respectful to us. We haven’t had some of the big troubles that many Fil-Am couples living in the U.S. with large age gaps report.
OK, there was the one incident we had at a resort. Eating dinner, a 30ish woman sitting with her husband kept turning around to look at us. Apparently she thought if she looked our way often enough I would get younger or Janet would get older. Janet and I were giggling about it. Finally the woman turned around one more time, Janet gave her a little wave and mouthed “hi.” That ended that with me cracking up!
Then there was the grizzled 80+ guy who looked at us, snarling in disgust, though it’s possible that the look he gave us had more to do with his recollection of who he had to go home to than anything Janet and I were doing. It’s also possible that he no longer could remember what Janet and I were doing – and how often.
But other than that, it’s been good. When we go to the mall, sales clerks are very helpful, no doubt thinking that the old husband is gonna spend big time on the young wife. They go away a bit disappointed.
If you’re interested in an excellent article on the whys and wherefores of the May-December relationship, this won’t be it. My friend, Henry Velez, has published a really good one @ May-December Relationship. Check it out – I’ll wait.
I don’t like the May-December stereotype. While I might accept that the bloom on Janet is comparable to the month of May, I refuse to accept that I am a cold, frigid December. At the worst I am November; ok, maybe late November – Thanksgiving time – turkey and pumpkin pie – that’s me. But anyone claiming I am a December is gonna have problems with me. I’ll likely kick his ass, once I’ve taken my medication.
I don’t like the May-December stereotype. While I might accept that the bloom on Janet is comparable to the month of May, I refuse to accept that I am a cold, frigid December. At the worst I am November; ok, maybe late November – Thanksgiving time – turkey and pumpkin pie – that’s me.
Looking at it honestly, why should I be offended? If someones thinks I am interested in Janet because she is young, beautiful, vibrant and sexy, what should I say? “Thank you, she is.” OK, I’ll throw in a wink just to be really annoying.
It’s what they are thinking about Janet that is more egregious. I suppose if someone said something nasty to her I would be offended and have a few choice words. But Janet is a self-assured woman and knows who she is. She’s told me all along about money and marriage, “Money is important, but I would never marry without love.”
And here’s where this whole age-gap thing perplexes me. My grandfather was married to a woman 25 years younger than him and it seemed to be the most natural thing. They were a strikingly attractive couple since not only was there the considerable age gap, there was also a considerable height gap, as my grandfather was no more than 5’4” and my Aunt Ruth loved high heels and towered over him. I don’t think many people asked Aunt Ruth why she was married to my grandfather; it was obvious. He was a powerful, attractive and successful man. His hair was nicely kept and he had most of it. He wore cologne. He drove a Cadillac for God’s sake! And no one would have asked him why he was married to her; that was equally obvious. They were married over 20 years until his death. Contrary to current opinion, for most of history the age-gap in marriage has been a common thing.
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Let’s face it, the real reason modern Americans are put off by the age-gap is our refusal to admit that in this modern, enlightened, 21st century – men are still shallow. We unabashedly love younger, attractive women. Their youth, their energy, their excitement, their beauty; it’s all good. American women want us all to grow up and mature. For what? I’m just like my grandfather, except the Caddy has turned into a Bimmer.
Jack Nicholson said it best, “If men are honest, everything they do and everywhere they go is for a chance to see women.”
Filipina women, like their American counterparts a generation or two ago, want a man who is mature, worldly, knows how to get things done, knows how to deal with emotional ups and downs, and has enough cash to pay for a decent, if not luxurious, life with the aforementioned Bimmer or Caddy. (OK, the Caddy and Bimmer line’s a joke!) What’s wrong with that? I have heard many people say, “Filipina women want to marry older Western men for a better life.” Gee that sounds terrible. What woman in her right mind wants to marry a man to produce a worse life? For that matter what man wants to marry a woman for a worse life, although those of us who are divorced feel like we did.
So what’s the real reason some people object to age-gap relations between an American and a foreign woman? It’s the same reason that not too long ago many objected to inter-racial marriages. It’s the same reason until very recently many people objected to homosexual relationships and marriage. It’s not political, it’s not social, and it’s not religious. It’s completely about sex. Most of us (certainly most Americans) are more than a little bit squeamish about where and who a man puts his thing into. For some bizarre reason we feel absolutely justified in judging “you can’t put that in there.” Really and truly – I am not joking here. Humans are very judgmental about who and where you put your goodies.
I remember being 19 years old; a mature college man. I came home for spring break and somehow my younger sister and I got into a serious discussion with our mother about sex. My mother, who at the time must have been all of 39, was telling us that she and our father still had a very active sex life, thank you very much. I was nearly made apoplectic by the image. Despite what I realize now (that they were still quite young) they were my parents and I didn’t want to know what they were doing to each other. Moreover, like most young people, I didn’t want to know that older people still had sex. How dare they? Their job was to get old and set up the rocking chair, not get old and get busy!
The biggest problem I had when I first went to the Philippines and realized that younger women might be interested in me was my own attitude. I had to convince myself that it was OK. I had had a couple years already to deal with the issue. Like most divorced men today I sought my next partner through technology. I joined Match.com and began a year of intense self-reflection and frustration. By the end of the first year I estimated I’d gone on 70 first/coffee dates. I’d had less than ten second dates and only a handful of 3rd or 4th dates. But I was drinking a lot of coffee. All the women were close to my age. I was getting nowhere and I was surprised. Here I had finally grown up; great job, a bit of money, nice house, good kids, a working car; and very little interest. Truth be told, I wasn’t interested in the women either. Oh, I tried to be but mostly I was bored.
I then made the fortuitous and desperate decision to contact a woman 20 years younger than me. Blond with tattoos (full sleeves I later learned they were called). We began talking and then dating and then – well, you know. I was enthralled to connect with anyone, let alone someone younger. She had energy and enthusiasm for life and for me. But I felt guilty. Something must be wrong with me I assumed. I couldn’t connect with women my own age yet was having a blast with the young hottie. What was wrong with that picture? Unfortunately it became her job to remind me that I was OK and we were OK and that she preferred me. Foolishly, it took a long time for me to accept.
I spent that year finally allowing myself to enjoy being a man with a younger woman. Once I realized that I was following in the footsteps of my grandfather and cousin, then I was ready for the Philippines, where the women have no idea why a May-December (or November) relationship is supposed to be so bad.
So guys – get over it. Don’t worry about what others say. Despite appearances to the contrary, no one really wants to know where and who you’re sticking your thing into anyway.
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Last year after proposing to my now wife, Janet, I accompanied her to meet her parents in Alcoy, Cebu. Her family is sweet, provincial, huge, poor as to be expected, and welcomed me every time I have been there like I have rarely been welcomed in my life.
I sat down and explained that I wanted to marry their daughter. This was no surprise to them, as Janet had been keeping them up to date with our plans and our efforts to obtain a Visa, but I wanted to do the formality thing. Their only question was why did we have to marry in the U.S. I tried to explain the K-1 Visa process with Janet translating. Since I barely get the convoluted U.S. procedure myself, I’m not sure they understood but in the end gave their approval. Part of that approval was contingent on our returning the next year for “the party.” The wedding ceremony could be done elsewhere, but “the party” was a family necessity.
As we prepared for our spring return to Alcoy I asked Janet what she wanted for the wedding party. I proposed that we could have a nice event at the small resort, the Bodos Bamboo Bar, better known locally as the BBB. Janet passed the proposition to her mother. “No way” I was told. Mom insisted that they host the party. The main reason was that the party had to be for the entire neighborhood and most of the people from their barangay would feel uncomfortable with the luxury that was the BBB and would not attend.
I asked Janet to make a list of the foods she wanted and approximate costs and discuss it with her mom. Lechon was at the top of the list.
In the Philippines, pork is ubiquitous and lechon is king. Lechon is an entire roasted pig, similar to what I had seen at a Hawaiian luau. The crispiness of the skin is what Filipinos seem to love most. I’ve enjoyed it too but as a Jew, don’t have the feeling about the food that Janet and her fellow Filipinos have, and certainly would rest better if I didn’t have to see the pig snout snorting and eyes glaring at me as I gobbled its crispy skin.
In the Philippines, pork is ubiquitous and lechon is king.
In the Philippines, ceremonies are measured not by how many people will attend but by how many pigs you have. A “three pig” event means you are a big shot politico or a rich Kano. Since I am neither we budgeted for a two pig wedding party.
The first pig would be for the lechon as tradition requires and the second pig would be for what Janet described as “chop chop” which I gathered was anything else that required pork.
“So, they just go to the market before we arrive and get the cooked pigs?” I asked naively.
“Oh no. You can buy lechon but very expensive in the market by the kilo. Better to just buy the whole pig and feed him.”
“Feed him? The actual pig? Where?”
“They will bring them home and feed them for a few weeks. Pigs require lots of grain.”
“Of course, “ I agreed. “Because after all they’re – well – pigs. But really it’s an imposition. Your mom shouldn’t have to have pigs in her home.”
Janet laughed. “They won’t be in the home silly! They will be tied up in an open area.”
“Of course,” I again agreed. “That’d be the way to go. So, when the time comes, does your dad, you know,” I said hesitating and squirming, “slaughter the pig and cook the lechon.”
“Of course not. The guy is hired. It’s part of the deal when you buy the pig. He comes the morning of the party and…” She slowly performed the slitting the throat motion and I made a mental note not to ever piss her off too badly.
Her parents spent a couple weeks searching and couldn’t find two decent pigs. This seemed to me to be weird in the Philippines; like not being able to get beef in Texas, craft beer in Portland, or an Elvis impersonator in Vegas. But it was explained that it was fiesta time and summer in the Philippines and so pigs were at a premium. Nonetheless, two were eventually procured and brought to the family compound. We breathed a sigh of relief.
As a Jew, my notion of what’s involved in raising pigs is – well – limited. I figured it was just a matter of throwing feed and getting out of their way. Not quite. Janet explained that there were regular baths that had to be given, daily brushing, and of course clearing away the inevitable massive quantities of poop produced by the young lechons-to-be. Her mom and dad did most of the work, assisted under duress by a couple of the teenage kids. I knew by the time of the party that the effort of the family would be extensive and while Janet’s presence might be worth it, I doubted that mine would be.
But then disaster struck. About ten days before we were scheduled to leave for the Philippines, Janet started receiving reports that one of the pigs was ill – vomiting.
“I think they may have overfed him,” she speculated.
“Pigs are pretty used to gorging themselves. I think the pig should have been able to handle it.”
Despite my encouraging words Janet and the family were panicked. Her dad stayed home one day instead of attending the annual fiesta, where he was scheduled to have his prized rooster involved in the traditional cock fighting. At least the rooster benefited from the pig’s illness.
I found out later that Janet’s mom had told Janet, “Don’t tell Dave,” assuming that I would blame the family for their care of the pig.
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Actually, Janet was the one who was into the blame game, still assuming that they overfed the pig.
“I am sure the pig will be fine. Just a touch of the swine flu maybe,” I said, suppressing a giggle, while my Filipina wife stared glacially.
There was no consoling Janet who called home multiple times that day to get an update on the pig’s condition and prognosis.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” I asked soothingly. “There’s still another pig.”
“We need two for the party!” she insisted. In America, brides fill small claims courts swearing that the catererer or the baker or the dressmaker ruined a wedding. I guess it’s the same the world over; in the Philippines the pig broker can ruin the wedding.
The next day I received the tragic news that we’d been dreading; the pig died. Janet’s father actually took the pig to the lechon guy to have an autopsy performed. They take their pigs pretty seriously in The Philippines. They discovered an enlarged heart causing heart failure. “I’d have a heart attack too if I knew I was gonna be cut up in a week,” I offered.
Janet and her mother cried over Skype. I tried to be supportive and reminded myself repeatedly to be somber and not crack up.
“Sweetie, it’s OK,” I assured her.
“The party will be ruined! We will have to get another pig. I told my mother to find a small pig and not to overfeed the one that is alive.”
“How will they buy the replacement pig?” I asked, always the pragmatist.
“My mother said that the family will manage.”
“No way,” I proclaimed. “I’m not having your poor parents go broke buying another pig.”
“Why not – the first one was their fault,” she proclaimed.
“It was not their fault!” I said, exasperated. “Animals die. People die. Someday I will die.”
“I won’t overfeed you,” she assured me.
So 4,000 pesos was sent and another, smaller pig was obtained. The disaster was averted. Ten days later we arrived in Alcoy to prepare for the celebration. Janet went to the family home the day before to help with the preparations and perform the ceremonial singing videoke till 3:00 AM ritual.
She returned the next morning and proclaimed, “The pig is small.”
“You told them to get a small pig,” I reminded her.
“No, the one for the lechon – it’s too small.”
“But you told them not to feed it much.”
“It’s too small.”
Fortunately, the wedding party went off without a hitch; the food and games were a big hit. The next day I posted pics on Facebook as I routinely do.
Janet received a note from one of her best friends back in the US. “Hope you had a great party. I’m sure it was fine – but the lechon looked a little bit small.”
I am a newlywed – for the 3rd time. My wife Janet is on her first. It occurred to me that it might be fun if I documented some of our adventures. I’m American; born and raised in Philly; living in Portland, Oregon for the past forty years. Janet has no conception of what forty years is. She’s from Alcoy, Cebu in the Philippines. Spent the last five years working and going to college in Maasin City, Leyte. She graduated – I didn’t. There’s one stereotype busted!
My friends in Fil-Am marriages talk about the differences in culture, language, religion, and just life view. But talk is cheap and conclusions are tough to come by. But the stories are funny as hell.
It is not a tricky cheapest viagra no prescription job to buy those tablets. Have a great levitra soft tabs time with your partner this weekend. So I might as well keep it simple and stick with you.” – E.G., Las Vegas, NV “I’ve had nothing but good experiences with online order viagra and with your company. There are many kinds of treatments available today tadalafil generic cheapest such as laparoscopy, ultrasound, robotics treatment, biopsy, urodynamics, CT scan etc. So let’s get the elephant in the room out of the way, shall we. I’m 61 and Janet is 26. So add age difference to the culture, language, religion, and life view differences. Also, she’s pretty hot; I’m pretty much not; so add that to the mix.
I’m a writer and sometimes funny. If you’re David Sedaris they call you a humorist; me they call a wiseass. So that’ll be my view in this blog. Sure I’ll be informative from time to time; but mostly entertaining. Join in!
When Janet and I were engaged and spending hours daily chatting online or video camming, she would periodically express exhaustion and blurt out, “my nose is bleeding.” As a protective, soon-to-be husband I advised her get a wet wash cloth, lean her head back, and apply pressure. After all I had two kids and despite general parental incompetence did know what to do when a child had a nose bleed.
She’d look at me like I was nuts. She’d say her nose was fine and not literally bleeding, but her “nose was bleeding.” I didn’t get it but then again I didn’t understand lots of aspects of Filipino culture, such as why my lovely wife-to-be would be caught dead with a mope like me. I tried to keep such thoughts to myself.
She’d say her nose was fine and not literally bleeding, but her “nose was bleeding.” I didn’t get it but then again I didn’t understand lots of aspects of Filipino culture, such as why my lovely wife-to-be would be caught dead with a mope like me. I tried to keep such thoughts to myself.
“I am sorry, darling. I don’t understand.”
“I am exhausted from speaking English,” she responded.
“I see. And that gives you a nose bleed. Sometimes nose bleeds are stress related,” I assured her, again drawing from my vast parental expertise.
Again she looked at me like the idiot kano she knew me to be. “My nose is fine. Mynose is bleeding is what we say in Visayan.”
“You mean it’s an expression?” She nodded. “Where does the expression come from?”
“I don’t know – it’s just what we say.”
“Does it have anything to do with nose size?” I had already noticed that Filipinas are obsessed with nose size and shape. They consider their noses, which tend toward the short and flat to be unattractive, whereas they believe that Western “long” noses are superior and coveted. I have never had anyone compliment me on what I view as my too Jewish of a nose but even before I met Janet I’d received numerous compliments from Filipinas regarding my long nose. It was months before I understood what they were talking about, assuming at first the interest in my long nose to be tied into the Western stereotype of the size of the nose equating to the size of another part of the anatomy. I would just thank them for the compliment and agree that it was “pretty damn long indeed.”
It took many conversations but finally I pieced together the idea that the girls generally hated their noses and loved our noses and it had nothing to do with the Jewishness of my nose, nor the size of that other anatomy part. I was a bit disappointed yet excited that one of the things I had always disliked about myself seemed so attractive to Filipinas. For that matter their short noses were very cute as far as I was concerned. It’s a win-win for everyone.
The same can be said of skin color. Mine’s white (very white) and pasty. To quote the old Woody Allen line, “I don’t tan – I stroke.” This made me as a teen decidedly conscious of roaming the beach where I reflected light like a bright white beacon.
Conversely, I discovered that Filipinas generally hated darker skin, especially if it’s on them. This leads to a booming industry in the Philippines designed to sell every Filipina umbrellas, sun screen and skin whitening products. Many Pinays carry umbrellas on the most beautiful and sunny days and they all use some whitening product apparently designed to turn them into pasty white Jews. The products don’t work and I have had many discussions bordering on arguments, trying to convince Janet that I love her dark skin and to please don’t think it ought to be lighter. My arguments make no sense to her since “everyone knows that white skin is better!”
It ensures blood viagra purchase uk flow to the male organ. A person bearing one levitra india of these illnesses feels left behind thus seeks for treatment anxiously. Surely, frequent https://www.unica-web.com/index-german.html order cheap levitra congestion and repeated swelling are not good things. We know well that commander cialis is a prescription medicine taken by mouth for the treatment of a sort of coronary disease generally known as angina pectoris. cialis for treatment of Raynaud ‘s phenomenon: Raynuad’s phenomenon is a vasospastic malfunction wherein discoloration of body parts, mostly finger and toes, is noticed. And in the Philippines she is right. Actresses and models all look nearly Caucasian, billboards are Photoshopped to remove any melanin from the color of the billboardee. Many of the girls I spoke to online were unabashed in expressing their excitement at the prospect of having a long-nosed, white, blue eyed baby – and apparently having it with me.
“I can provide the ultra white skin and long nose, but forget the blue eyes,” I told Janet. “Just because Paul Newman had them doesn’t mean the rest of us do.”
I’d see Janet staring incredulously through the screen. “Who?”
The point of all this is that just as we Americans are delighted yet mystified by Filipino culture, they are equally mystified by ours. Janet’s English is excellent but American conversational English is a different matter. She’s much too nice or at least too embarrassed to admit she doesn’t understand something.
“It’s dollars for donuts,” I told her recently.
“Are you going around the corner to get donuts?” she asked.
“No baby – not what I meant.”
“How many dollars for the donuts?”
“No, no. It’s just an expression.”
“Oh, I see. What does it mean?”
I hesitated and finally said, “I have no idea.”
“Well, the next time you go around the corner, I want one of the ones with cream inside.”
“Will do.”
Humorous, irreverent, occasionally informative look at a no longer newly wedded Fil-Am couple