Day 350 (Recall) Playing Hooky

My alarm rings at 6:15 PM and it's one of those days where I just really, really wanna stay in bed. 

To be fair, I did come off a long shift after hitting the gym and fell asleep only four hours before. It's really nothing new, but I'm grumpy because it's the first novena of the holidays/Jake's birthday celebration/the Pacquiao-Marquez fight, which I'm apparently socially and culturally obligated to observe like a religious holiday. Bottom line: I really don't want to go to work. 

But I get up anyway and scavenge for the iron because my all my uniforms are wrinkled and then... well, you see what happened was:

Me: Couldn't find my iron for my wrinkled uniform so I called out of work instead lol

Bailey: Hahahahahahaha... are you serious?

Me: Dead ass

Bailey: Wow. I have so much respect for you right now

Okay, to be fair, I didn't look very hard BUT I've only called out once this year and I think I deserve to play hooky at least once in a while. So I get as dolled up as I can remember (because it's been that long since I've attempted to look semi-decent in public) how to and pull out my awesome boots even as the Baby protests,

"They're too dressy! It's just a prayer. You don't need to get dressed-up."

I have to point out that I have a comatose social life before we finally head out. Even though I'm relieved to not have to go to work, I'm worried about tonight. It's the first super-public outing I've been to since the Baby's engagement has gone out. It's also the first time in a looooooooong time that I've been around all the Boys in one place and I'm concerned that I don't have enough patience and/or liquor circulating through my system to get through the night without wanting to strangle at least three of them for whatever dumb/idiotic/strangle-worthy thing they're bound to say/do.

The Baby and I arrive a little after the prayer was set to start (of course, it hasn't started because then that would make us punctual) and we go through the front door. The Titas look surprised and... up-beat for whatever weird reason when we come in so I rush through my "Hello"kiss"Goodevening"s while laughingly admitting that I'm playing hooky. I put my hand on Sweety's belly and tell Jake's eldest sister, "You look ready to pop!!"

I'm soooper excited for Spring-babies!!

Jake's the first one there... which makes sense since he lives there. Kai and Rick show up later with the outdoor fireplace Jake's dad left at Kai's house (I don't remember us ever lighting that thing...). After a while, Elliot and Anita come by (he wants to watch the UFC match and she's pushed back her NCLEX testing date because she got too anxious to take it on her previous date), Cue shows up with Ken (Cue also called out of work and Ken's rocking a cap because his hair got cut too short), and I even end up seeing Mikey's cousin, Jamie and his friend, Celio (Jamie makes fun of Mikey and Celio's girlfriend).

From what I vaguely remember in my alcohol-induced haze, someone texts Andre to keep his latest conquest away. The Baby insists that she doesn't have a problem with it, but someone replies, "It doesn't matter. I can't stand her anyway."

So it's not the usual crowd, but it's not really a usual night. For one, it's pretty frickin cold. The Baby and I bust out the fur jackets in the trunk of my car and post up by one of the tables Jake's parents have set up on their back yard porch by their pool.

Granted, fur-trimmed jackets might be a little overkill for South Florida, but it was below 75 degrees! That's pretty much like the next ice-age for us brown people. The Titos are outside as usual with a large bottle of Jack Daniels in front of them, far away from the inside where the Titas have finally begun their prayer to the semi-creepy statue of the Baby Jesus (and people have the nerve to laugh when I call this a cult). The kids are tossing the pigskin in the background and only stop playing when their mothers order them inside for the praying of the rosary. 

Outside, Jake's brother in law set up the projector that's going to display the fight for us. Unfortunately, it's also tuned in to a certain someone's porn collection so we get to face a list of his "special" files several times in the evening by the Cum Spoiled Brats.

A few times, the guys laugh and start playing a video and the Baby and I have to squeal that "There's a prayer going on and our dad is right there!!!" When we're sure that they're not going to play porn, the guys gather round and start joking over the Baby about her engagement. A few are pretty put-out that they had to hear it second or even fourth-hand.

"I really did want to tell you in person," the Baby insists and I feel bad, because I know she actually likes and loves the Boys and that kind of a moment was taken from her. It's kind of like having someone else tell Daddy before she gets the chance to: it's kind of mean and unnecessary. The guys look marginally as close to "hurt" as they can with displaying some level of emotion but they brush it off with a few "congratulations" and a couple of jibes at her ring. 

"Are you really okay with this?" Jake asks me at some point, "With how rushed they're doing it?"

Thank God for the alcohol that's circulating in my system that keeps me from punching him at this moment. And it's not so much what he's asking as the way he's asking it, with clear skepticism and looking for me to put down  the engagement because he, like the rest of the people present have been so against the Baby and Billy from the start. It's not really all their fault, they're easily influenced and prefer jumping to conclusions and adopting a mob mentality rather than developing an individual opinion.

But, instead of saying all this aloud, I explain as slowly as I can so he understands the first time around, 

"My family doesn't believe in long engagements. We believe that if you're going to get engaged, it's because you're ready to get married that day." I shrug, knowing that not a lot of people believe in short engagements and that a few fucktards actually think the Baby's pregnant (because apparently "being in love" isn't a good enough reason to enter matrimony these days). If anyone cares enough, I'd be happy to take pictures of her used tampons. Any takers? No? Okay then...

By the time the fight finally starts (after a half-dozen technical difficulties that have a few of us worrying that we're not going to end up seeing this fight), I've thrown back two (maybe three?) Jack-and-cokes, a cab and I'm starting on a Newcastle. Marquez rolls in like a baller and Pacquiao comes in...

Smiling like a goofball. 


"He's so cute!" The Baby gushes, like 'cute' is a word you're supposed to give to the current best pound-for-pound fighter.


By the time we hit round 6, I'm not feeling the match anymore. The Boys around me insist that Pacquiao's landing more punches, but I feel like Pacman's taking the harder hits. I keep this mindframe through the rest of the fight, and the only time I'm genuinely impressed is when the judges award Manny as the winner. Yes, I know, I'm the worst Filipino fan ever, but when I wake up in a few hours and look through the responses of the rest of the masses, I know I'm not the only one: the fight wasn't impressive. I wouldn't go so far as to say that Marquez "got robbed" of the championship, but it wasn't a landslide for sure.


Before we head out, we sing Happy Birthday to Jake, 

...with a Hello Kitty cake that is so wonderfully appropriate for a 23-year-old man. I'm buzzed by the time we finally get back to the car and all the liq-mixing is doing all sorts of bad things to my tummy. I finally collapse on my bed without barfing and pray, fervently, that I won't end up oversleeping the next morning. 


Written 11.13.11