Feelings
Murphy’s Law
By Emmanuelle
It is after lunch, just a few hours before the invited guests arrive. The house smells clean and fresh. Why wouldn’t it, after days of endless and vigorous scouring, scrubbing, sweeping, washing, airing, arranging and rearranging? The cake had been ordered days ago and is ready to be picked up. The fruit salad is cooling in the fridge, the tossed vegetables keeping it friendly company. The pasta is taking its warm bath on the stove, the meat sauce is bubbling and mindlessly babbling. The chicken thighs, embutido, morcon patiently wait for their turns to fry.
Nothing is going to go wrong. You cross your fingers, you close your eyes, and you wish it so, fervently and hard. At this point, everything starts to go wrong. It’s Murphy’s Law.
Electricity clicks off. Brownout. The block goes quiet, then BLAM! neighborhood kids go out hooting from their houses, slamming doors, banging things. The air goes warm, warmer, then oven hot. When the opened doors and windows can’t cool the house enough, you fling wide the screen. Flies welcome themselves in. You swat the meats, and you fry the fly.
The cake arrives; it goes promptly to melt at the sides. The guests arrive; they sweat promptly and profusely from all their sides.
You serve soggy salads. Hot spaghetti, sizzling meats. Everybody gets hotter. With sweat blinding their eyes, they mistake the flies for the pepper on the spaghetti. Those who crunched their teeth on pepper (suddenly gone alive with wings) rush to the faucets. The drain gets plugged with puked-out food remnants, big or bits.
The celebrant locks the bedroom door, migraine kuno; then whips off all clothes to soak in perspiration and tears.
Guests leave. You can’t; you host. There is also all these food to keep. You weep. The cake weeps with you.
Knock, knock. Surprise! Three gallons of ice cream arrive.
It’s Murphy’s Law. You think all will be fine, you think nothing will go wrong . . . you have another think coming. It will not be fine, it will all go wrong.
Take this diary. This writer was asked to come out with a publication for the 3-day birthday celebration of Congressman Mark Cojuangco. The paper is to reach the readership of the eight towns and one city of the district.
Talked with solon on Friday lunch, left him at 3pm. Baguio City at 5pm. Milleneum storm whipped by. Weekend, no government office. Sunday evening, back to lowland. Monday, waited at town hall 7 am but fetched by solon’s staff before 11am. Lunchtime, all mayors out. Except thoughtful Bautista Mayor Amado “Pogi” Espino III and Villasis Mayor Nato Abrenica, who left their birthday messages care of staff, Mr. Ernesto Dorado and Mrs. Vivian Morden respectively. Maraming salamat po.
Tuesday, waited at town hall 7am; again, fetched before 11am. Picked up all birthday messages 6pm except for one mayora. Met and ate with engineers’ team at solon’s guest house. 10pm taken home by Engr. J. Manaois, thank you po. Then, crashed to bed.
Left house 7am. Sunday Punch 8am to write and layout. Two main computers busted out; used the only other computer, old and slow. Computers fixed at 4pm. Printing press at 8pm. No ride home. Slept overnight on printer’s sofa. Waited for ride home at 4am, got one at 6am. Arranged pages 8am-12noon at site of birthday bash. Thank you, Ate Emma, Kelvin and Rossell, and K and J staff.
No bath. No breakfast. Lunch at 1pm. Misspelled ad’s fertilizer name in Tagalog. Big mistake according to its big coordinator. When they can’t find their names in the staff box, solon’s one or two female secretaries sulked. More comments, more sulks were coming.
When everything started to go wrong for me that day, this Kingmaker saved the day with his kind smiles and ways. Thank you so much. No wonder . . .
(For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/)
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