Soapy Spell on a Name

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Often I answer "CJ, that's it," to the oft-repeated question, "What is your son's real name?"

Months before Cj was born, I got hooked on an American soap called the Bold and the Beautiful. I was not even a bored housewife. I was a gradschool student for heaven's sake. But I was completely carried by the whole diversion. I realized I was on the verge of addiction when at work I strode across the Academic Affairs Office to drop hints of my wish not to be given classes at the time B&B was aired.

If I was unable to watch an episode, I made sure the maid watched it so she could narrate what I missed when I came home. It was very uncharacteristic of me. I couldn't believe it, but the lifestyle I was in seemed conducive to soap-watching. The fact that our next-door neighbor was a local film actress who pampered Mozart, our firstborn (read: poodle), and a little further down the ville another neighbor was an action star, kinda an equivalent of Robin Padilla in the Philippines, didn't help. There were 6 TV sets for 3 people (me, ex-hubster and the maid) in that four-story townhouse we lived in. The whole situation was crazy.

On Saturdays, ex-hubster would play golf. I began disliking the job of accompanying him to the course. If I went with him I lingered in the country club lounge staring hopefully at the TV before proceeding to the green, and I hated Tiger Woods's face (ang pagmumukha ni Tiger Woods! lol). Finally, ex-hubster announced that if I didn't control my insanity over B&B he would join me in watching it. I was exhilarated silly. Little did I know what was cooking in his mind.

Nonchalantly he asked, "what's the name of that feisty woman's son?"

"Which one? Ah...Sally Spectra's son?" was my animated response, "oh, that's C.J. Garrison."

"Very well," he glanced at my swollen belly and declared, "I am naming our baby, 'C.J.'"

"Excuse me?! What kind of name is that?!" I bolted back to normalcy.

"Handsome, isn't he? and he's not as insane as everybody else in that God-forsaken soap. Besides, you named Mozart and I didn't complain, did I?"

"No way!" I protested.

"Yes way!" he affirmed who was the boss and promptly dozed back on his side of the bed.

Thus no matter how many A's I nailed in gradschool or how I deliberately dented the butt of ex-hubster's car in my bid to change his mind, my CJ

was officially named after this CJ

Mick Cain. Courtesy of Google Images.

not that I have objections to his looks :-)

The soapy spell over my little head broke. I swore on the grave of our pet fish that I would never watch soap again.

~ More at The Mommy Journey ~