01 August 2002
Blues Clues is just about to start and Weejee is beside himself with anticipation, bouncing up and down and smiling expectantly at the tv. Just as Blue emerges from behind the mailbox, the phone rings. I pick it up on the second ring and say hello. I hear muffled background voices, as if the caller was covering the mouthpiece with her hand so she could listen to me without being heard, then a click. I replace the receiver and sit on the floor beside Weejee.
Less than a minute later, the phone rings again. I pick it up and listen to the silence. Just as I was about to put it down again, I hear a woman’s voice proclaim in Tagalog several variations of profanity, too vulgar to even quote here. I raise my psychological eyebrow and put down the receiver, putting into use the practical art of dedma. Had it been a different person, I would have replied in some way, or even attempted to give the uncouth caller a crash course on etiquette, but this one is a veteran of more than two years now and I have learned that the best way to handle the bitch is through dedma. It is certainly more satisfying than yelling back and giving her the attention she so desperately wants.
I am not fond of her sporadic phone outbursts. Why the hell would I enjoy being the target of one’s threats? And it’s not even just me. There are times when she practices her verbal attacks on whoever answers the telephone, which most of the time is my grandmother who is bombarded with cusswords in the local dialect without even knowing what hit her.
I must admit that at first I was nervous. Wouldn’t you be if you were in my place? What if she really had underground connections and had really meant to have me shot while I was buying a pack of pancit canton at the store across the street? She did have my address. And what if she filed a case against me and had me thrown into prison with the common criminals? Or what if she comes to my house with her so-called army like she always says so we can have a go at it face to face? But over the months I realized that the illusionada’s threats were just as empty as her head. So I just give her the dedma treatment.
Most of the time when she calls (oh yeah, she calls a lot — I have no idea why she never gets tired, as she does not seem to accomplish anything with her calls, except to waste her money on huge phone bills) I just hang up, but then she’d call again so I place the receiver on the table and replace it when she finally realizes she’s talking to nobody and hangs up. Sometimes I get curious and put the receiver to my ear and actually enjoy listen to her yakking up a storm. Not that I am a masochist and love to be cursed at. I derive amusement from the fact that the bitch has the gall to deliver her monologue in English when she can’t even speak the language correctly. While she’s dishing out her profanity all over the place, I am tempted to grab a pen and jot down her grammatical errors and read them out to her when she’s done.
There. I have written a complete journal entry dedicated to the freaking b!tch. I am sure she would have been extremely flattered had she known about it. However, I wrote in English, and I did use correct sentence structures and proper grammar, with zero usage of cheap cuss words, so she probably won’t understand what I’m talking about even if she did read this.
