A woman’s purse is her arsenal. It gives her a sense of security, peace of mind. It doubles as a shield from rain, from unflattering mirrors and from people she wants to avoid. So it really annoys me when someone insinuates my purse is too big. Aside from irritating me (Ang kapal mo! Ikaw ba ang pinagdadala ko ng bag ko? [Jerk! Do I ask you to carry my purse for me?]), he insulted my “war”-tested black Coach stewardess bag. He hurt my baby’s feelings.
Besides, I only bring essentials: a wallet (which stores 30 cards, cash and a fountain pen), a mobile phone, a Palm m130, a Palm keyboard, an mp3 player, a digital camera, a paper diary, rouge, a rouge brush, eye make up, eyeliner, lip gloss, a hair brush, keys and a lot of mints. On some days, I toss in a hair dryer, a phone charger, some stationery, a book – but that doesn’t really happen oft . . . okay, it does. But who cares? Ikaw ba ang pinagdadala ko ng bag ko? (Uh, Mel, you don’t have to answer that.)
We women with big purses are a special breed. Sure, we may not be popular when we attempt to maneuver airplane aisles; but we “save lives” by always having a spare safety pin for that popped seam. Also, if you were in a public place when nuclear bombs or fighter planes or alien spaceships were about to zap the city to a crisp, you’d want to stay close to the lady with the biggest purse. It’s likely she has enough mints in her handbag to feed three people through a nuclear winter.
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3.23.2004
FREAKS
I indulged myself by aimlessly surfing the net today, going through some “uncharted” blogs (so if you were trying to call my landline today, sorry). In my wanderings, a pattern emerged. So many of our blogging brethren label themselves “weird” or “strange,” apologizing to their eyeballs for their traits even before readers can get to the first entry or wearing them like a rebel badge.
Why? Isn’t freakiness just the base line these days? Aren’t we all singular in one way or another?
My husband cannot stand muta (eye booger), so he walks around poking people in the eye. Show me a big bowl of M&Ms or colored paper clips and I am overcome with the need to color segregate the darn things. My eldest son can draw a map of New York City from memory – including street names and land marks (no, he’s never been there). For fun, my younger son likes opening car windows and making his cheeks skid on the glass on its way up. And Baby Lisa -- well, she still poops in her pants and drools all over herself, so we know which end of the spectrum she’s on, don’t we?
So if you want to convince people they are in for a freak show by dropping by your web site, tell them how statistically average you are. Now that’s damn scary.
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3.20.2004
THE GREAT THING ABOUT SLAVERY
Okay, I admit it. Months after my liberation from corporate slavery, there are some things I miss about being employed:
1. The all-day air conditioning I don't have to foot the electric bill for.
2. Arguing with Accounting. Even better, the CFO. I tried taking out my pent-up energy on the garbage man; but it didn’t feel the same.
3. The super nice printer paper. Bright white. Substance 26. Free. I didn’t know how much paper I consumed daily until I started paying for the damn things myself. My paper utilization over the last ten years may be the sole reason for flooding in Ormoc.
4. IT support. When my PC broke down, all I had to do then was call a number and bitch at the technician as he repaired my machine in my office. Now, I have to call a number, toss my PC in the car, drive five kilometers then the technician bitches at me as he repairs my machine.
5. The board meetings for which I have to wear my nice suits with silk linings. Most clothes in my closet are too dressy for grocery-shopping or PTA conferences or appointments with my potential siopao supplier, sadly.
‘Question is do I want these back in exchange for my freedom?
While I recognize the benefits of my strict all-girls Catholic school education, I now know the whole “obedience” thing is overrated. I was suspicious of many “rules” back when I was in school but I let them pass as I was a “good girl” (ha!).
For instance, our principal, Sister A., wouldn’t allow us cross our legs because we might get an orgasm (if that were true, a couple of “raptures” could have helped me stay awake for Chemistry). Then Mrs. A, our Health teacher, banned tampon use as these could take our virginity. She also believed that tampon manufacturers were in cahoots with the devil. Honest.
So when my son’s teacher, told her class to wear white socks with black pants and black shoes for the year-end ceremonies, I just had to put my foot down. My son cannot be part of this culture of blind obedience! Just because the teachers think the whole Michael Jackson look still works, doesn’t mean we have to! We will be at the event in black socks. If they don't like it, they can sue me.
My unico (only) brother develops F1 cars for the Asian circuit. He’s based in I-can’t-pronounce-the-place-much-less-spell-it, China.
He tells me his town is right next to the Fireworks Capital of the World. From where he lived, he would treat himself to a display of new firework designs his neighbors were cooking up or of surplus fireworks they had to discard. The show would run from dusk till late at night. ‘Sounds like a pretty cool way to end the day -- especially if you can’t understand anything on television.
The hitch is the Fireworks Capital of World would also undoubtedly be the Kulangot (Booger) Capital of the World too, right?
Sidebar: This is my third consecutive entry mentioning body waste – a personal record.
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3.15.2004
WORD GAME
Funny. There are just some words that make my kids laugh. Maybe it the way they are said. Or perhaps the hilarious mental image that the word brings them. They spontaneously laugh at: “utot” (fart), “kiliti” (tickle), “bantot” (stinky) and “testicle”.
Busted. My 11-year old son said “What an ass” the other day. I had just let him off the hook for calling his brother “useless, ungrateful maggot,” so I had to do the “mommy-thing” and ask from whom he heard such words unbecoming of a young man. He looked at me with innocent eyes and said, “You say it when you drive.”
Remember Dawson's Creek? Remember how Joey and Dawson was into breaking down the other’s every gesture, thought and involuntary muscle movement into unspoken reflections, concealed guilt and covert agenda?
If Dawson farts, it would tell Joey that he was tormented by his insecurities about her new friend who used to be a gay guy with a thing for Pacey and who has slept with Jen after getting drunk one night but is keen on realizing his true sexuality -- which is all just a smoke screen for the fact that Dawson is falling for this new girl who excites his mind by being able to quote obscure 80s movies and his hormones by looking like an Aaron Spelling starlet. Or something close to that.
Now, take the opposite of Dawson and Joey. You then have Mel and me.
Like the female that I am, I do post-mortems on what goes on in our lives with the gusto of an NBA courtside analyst. I like to think I have a ring-side seat to the action that goes on inside my husband’s brain – and can ably commentate and provide stats, if anyone wanted me to. But my husband is a curious creature. For instance, he prefers to let angry moments pass without dramatic porcelain-smashing or screaming. After a cool down, he would start over like it never happened instead of dissecting those ugly moments to death (my preference). I harbored my exasperation until I realized that Mel, in his quiet pondering, has long given up on completely understanding me (duh - he never will). He knows enough, and what he can’t explain, he accepts without the slightest struggle. He defaults on the silly mind games I start, sits in the bleachers with a beer and watches me play alone. (Methinks that's a good thing.)
So if Mel farts, it should tell me he just drank too much coffee again.
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3.11.2004
UP TO MY ARMPITS IN …
Kids. Finals.
BIR. Tax Audit. Ouch.
Carlo. Circumcision. Soon. Double ouch.
New business. Start-up. Market research. Leg work.
Sister. Wedding. California. May. Favors. Film. No sleep.
