For the Love of Booze

There is only one thing I hate more than fiestas and booze— special occasions and booze. I am not an alcohol drinker but that is not the reason why I have a special aversion for the act of intoxication. I should know better than to discriminate against yellow or brown bloods. I have excellent friends, including my husband, who are fine people who frequently undergo alcohol transfusions.

My husband in particular isn’t someone to complain over. He spends his own money, tiptoes back home in the quiet of the night, prepares his own calming potions, cleans himself up and then sleeps without having to bother me over anything or wake me up for an irrational conversation. If he takes particularly long interpreting the muddled internal map for home, I get a special cholesterol treat from McDonald’s when he does get his map straightened out. It’s an entirely different story though with others who, by virtue of fate and not of choice, I share close ties with.

The first few bottles usually present no problems. If anything else, they seem more jovial and attractive, with their red-tinged cheeks and toothy grins. The third case of six grandes however facilitates the dreaded transformation and because you are related by blood or association, you have no choice but to suffer their perceived heaven or hell, depending on their levels of self-esteem. Those who have life issues from infinity and beyond bombard you with the same sob story you’ve been hearing twelve times a year for ten years. If they are in a particularly good mood, they will engage you in an argument that defies the rules of basic logic. Arguing back, as in my case, would prove that you are truly an even greater fool.

The non-drinker’s saving grace is the omnipresent gem of Philippine entertainment— the videoke. The secret to getting away from a flammable companion is to secretly key in the code to My Way and you will have succeeded in creating a riot over the microphone at which point you can secretly retreat to a darker corner of the room.

But the sigh of relief is short-lived. As soon as the cock starts to crow, they will realize that it is time to retire to their crypts where they must play dead for most of the day or else suffer the pangs of wifely discontent. They drive home at the height of their induced insanity with you in the back seat. You will soon find out that homing pigeons know their way better than the guy on the wheel. It is only by some miracle that you live to see another day.

At noon or in the afternoon, they wake up as if nothing happened. You are left with the strange feeling that the joke was on you.