What's in a Bag, You Ask? (The Realm of the Highly Disorganized)

The problem with blogging is having a million interesting things to blog about in one day and not having enough time to blog about everything. Blogging only has to come second to a paying job. Blog has become a super word, serving millions of people who love to write what they think as I do.

I find it a bit too self-involved to be writing about what is in my bag but it’s the nth year that people have been bugging me with the “what’s in your bag?” question, which purportedly began when I was teaching in the university. I lugged around a bag that had my entire life in it. I think I may have once written in my weekly column a long time ago that I had a problem packing an overnight bag because I’d end up bringing too many of everything--too many shoes, too many undergarments, too many, shirts—and yes, for an overnight stint.

The truth is, it is the same for my everyday bag.

My husband and I were taking a supposedly leisurely walk yesterday, my bag on his shoulder, when he turned to me and said, “Are you sure you don’t have rocks in your bag?” We stopped, laughed hard and long, and then I realized it was the third time he asked me the same question. It was then, when it dawned on me (and on our 7^th anniversary) that he might really have wanted to know what’s in my trunk-weighing bag. So I let him in on something that I thought he already knew (oh well, it’s been seven years, right?). I told him I only bring the essentials –the life-and-death stuff, you know. “U-huh,” was the quick answer. “Planner, the make up set you bought me, notebooks, and well, my lunch was in there this morning,” I attempted to sound pleading. “Then why is this soooo heavy?” Karim asked, and still in wonderment.

People I work with also notice my bag: how big it is, how heavy it looks. Probably the only person who understands this discombobulating backbreaking disorder is our publisher who carries three bags, in different sizes and all of them loaded.

“What’s in you bag?!”

I have read articles of writers prying into celebrities’ bags and trying to know their can’t-live-without items. In my case, I don’t have a claim to fame but I manage to puzzle a lot of people. My bag will also be a disappointment to thieves since I don’t have anything in it that will bring them fortune. That mascara which sells for $14 million sold at H. Couture Beauty? No, this lass doesn’t have it. It’s drilling in there but I’ll finally let those who’ve been asking to get in and see the rest of me.

The Big C Planner. It resembles a small, messy board (only with a lot of pages) with schedules for photo shoots and interviews, some birthdays and who to contact for what. (Example: Via, the mighty housekeeper, for kwek-kwek)
Strunk and White. What needy mortal does not have this in his or her bag?
Notebook # 1. Doodles—for times when I want to nap at work but can’t.
Notebook # 2 Drawings—for when I get the urge.
An almost 12” three-fold black Kenneth Cole wallet. For the small things that will get lost in my bag.
Book. I bring around my current read. Again, just in case I’d have the time between coffee and bugging Gerese Axalan or Ms. Glenda Lo (for Lopez).
A pack of tissues. Self-explanatory.
A big phone. I don’t like small phones and texting. I’ve heard this is considered the unbecoming of a Filipino.
A make up kit. The shy, queasy newcomer in my bag.
An orange bag of “personal stuff”. Cole made me promise to never ever show this to the boys in my office-- “because it is shameful mommy!”
Orange. The name by which my orange umbrella is known for to friends and family.
Olive green pencil case. Handsewn by my Korean friend’s mother.
Emergency school supplies kit. Miniature pastes, glue, scissors, rulers, scotch tape, erasers, paper clips, post it, and everything your teacher told you to bring.
Mini medicine kit. For emergencies, whatelse.
Jell pens. Simply because they’re fun company.
Lunch box. If I were to carry the pretty lunch bag that my sister sent me, I might end up calling to the gods for help for my “heavy load”.
Supremacie by L’bel. For the dry moments of my skin.
A bottle of Para Mi Bebe or Nenuco or Denenes or UCB or CK or Gotas de Oro or Johnson’s Baby Cologne. My happy scents since first grade. I appreciate people who don’t smell like a basket of fruits. Every girl on the street; in the bus, jeep, MRT, supermarket, public toilets smells like this and it’s maddening already. It rained fruit scents somewhere and we didn’t know about it.
Keys. Entrance to Cole's kingdom.
A folder. Find all sorts of paper there.
Business cards organizer. Don't we all have this?
My business card holder. Self-explanatory.

I meant it when I said I just have ‘the essentials’ in my bag. Those tiny bags that women carry around amaze me and makes me wonder what they have in there.Who wants to let me in on their little secret?

The Housekeeper from Heaven’s Side: OC Mom Meets OC Helper

Work-shy on Sundays, our house is quiet until about noon when my husband and our six-year old would stretch, talk and finally leave bed. My circadian rhythm has programmed me to wake up not later than 9 a.m. so I wake up ahead of the boys, grab whatever book there is on my bedside and work hard on falling back to sleep and failing. Sometimes I go out to have a cup of coffee and get a little sunlight from the veranda.

Last Sunday, I found a note on the table. It said:

Sir/Ma’am,

Pasensiya na po di na po ako nakapagpaalam. 8 napo ako umalis. Hindi ko na po kayo hinintay gumising. Pasensiya na po. Ingat ho kayo. Cole I miss you! Take care and God bless! TCIC!

Love,

Via

For anyone who has answered those colorful books called ‘autograph’ in grade school, you’d know that TCIC means Take Care coz I Care. Just to remind you a bit, JAPAN means Just Always Pray at Night. And if you’re not too sick to barf yet, here’s another one: ITALY-I Trust and Love You. The note left me smiling and later when Cole discovered it, he smiled as he read it too.

The note, after an hour when I read it, was followed by a text message from her telling me that she has left and didn’t wait for us to wake up anymore.

Our obsessive-compulsive housekeeper is named Via Villanueva. The note, she explained later on, was to make sure that “we would know that she has already left and for us not to wonder where she was and so I would not get mad at her”. So first there was a note, then a text message, then a verbal explanation. The night before, I told her that she needed not wait for us to wake up so she could leave early but she still waited for “a little bit” to say goodbye the following day.

We were for a time hesitant to get a housekeeper because we hear a lot of scary stories about them. But a housekeeper was the only solution to our problem with the schedule, fatigue, and Cole’s companion when he goes to school everyday (which is a two-minute walk from our house and we made sure of that when we were looking for a house). So we called up the Admiralty Agency based in Makati and spoke to the owner Mr. Singson. We had very basic qualifications for a housekeeper. She just needed her updated papers from the NBI and Residence Certificate. We also wanted somebody honest, clean, free of any disease, has initiative, honest, honest, honest. Although I didn’t require it, I said I would appreciate at least a high school diploma, which fortunately Via has plus a certificate for a vocational course after high school.

After a long interview with Via, we decided to give her a try. On her first day on the job, I was happy and had the gut feel that this person was well, worth it. Being the OC mom that I am (and don’t point a finger at me because I know you’re so like me) I like everything in order: front of bottles facing outward, very clean floors, bathroom well-scrubbed, beds well made. With Via around, the entire house is squeaky clean and I come home to it feeling relaxed…something that I have missed out on for quite a while.

Just recently, I read a post of this young mother who had problems with her yaya whom she described as irresponsible. It makes me really sad because as moms, we already go through a lot of stresses in life and to have a house help whom you want to trust but can’t, it adds up to the daily hell that we experience. I sympathize with you and I hope you find the super yaya that you deserve.

I have not raised my voice on our OC little housekeeper. There is no need for that. Most of the time we’d have to jokingly threat her to stop wiping, scrubbing, cleaning whatever it is that she gets her hands on, and rest. This is one of those cases when the OC-ness of the housekeeper becomes an advantage to the boss.

Meanwhile, Via, whom we jestingly call Ate Vi after who else?, has been doing a really great job not only managing the house but doing things conscientiously, like reminding our son to study, putting aside money that we forget in our jeans or on the table, and reminding me politely about what I need to get from the grocer. These are little things, I know, but to find someone you can trust to do the job correctly even when you’re not around (and in a place where there are more foes than friends) is priceless.

And an Angel Came Down and Whacked Me with The Guide

Karim and I brisk walk from the MRT station to our offices every morning (a good 50-minute slow walk for me on some days when my butt feels heavy). I “drop off” hubby at the corner of his building since mine is around ten more minutes down Ayala Avenue. I run up to the sixth floor when I get to my building.

“If I do what you do, I’d probably be dead on the third day of work,” so I was told.

“I don’t like elevators, “ I would answer back.

“Claustrophobic?”

“No.” In denial, of course.

After months of doing this, I seem to be more alive and happier, especially after I gave up nicotine a couple of months ago. Soon as I enter the office, Gerese, our ultimately sweet staff writer greets me with a “Hello Mummy!” And the yackety-yack goes on until both of us get hit with the reality of this thing called “deadline”.

I got to work on Thursday morning with my usual craving for coffee. I dropped my bag and just when I was about to turn to get my first doze of caffeine, I saw IT there...IT was gloriously lying on top of my desk. I gasped for air as I slowly walked towards IT. Gerese watched me, giving me that same look she would give me when I go through asphyxiating moments like that. When I got closer, the IT I was looking at was really IT. A brown envelope was on top of it and inside was a note saying “You Will Believe!”

I might have pleaded too hard or perhaps too loudly that an X-Files Guide Book came falling down from heaven the morning after I posted “I Want to Believe”. When I opened the book, something fell off from it. It was a shopping gift certificate enough to buy me more books, a toy for Cole and something nice for Karim. It said, “The only requirement is for your family to have a blast this weekend. You all deserve it!”

On the same day, I found out that movie tickets for X and Wall E were on their way to me.

Who else gets lucky on Thursdays? Somebody just braved the strong Wednesday night rain to buy the book for me.

Angelica Therese Axalan, you truly are an angel. I don’t know how to thank you enough for letting this little miracle happen. The universe is looking at you and it will bless you endlessly because you have such a good soul!

You have just beaten Cole’s Tooth Fairy!

I Want to Believe

I was happy anticipating some really good movies during the first quarter of this year. But Scully and Mulder in a new x-Files offering? I think I may have just gotten my early Christmas gift. Finally, and after a decade, Dana Scully and Fox Mulder are around to keep x-Files fans up on their toes. To say that "x-Files is back" may be too much of a preemtion and I don't want to be heartbroken. "I Want to Believe" is good enough for now although after watching it I know I will be hankering for more. Will they give us more after "I Want to Believe"?

I would not deny those times when I'd sit in front of the TV feeling the onset of a breakdown everytime an x-Files episode would end. I wasn't too young to be addicted to a TV series of this genre, nor was I too sane not to be salivating at the thought of watching x-Files.

David Duchovny confesses to a contradiction between himself and Mulder's character. Mulder believes in the supernatural while Duchovny in real life says he can be spiritual but is naturally skeptical about things that he can't see. It is in this aspect that I get to appreciate Mulder better than I do Duchovny. Sometimes, I think people who get too skeptical about the unexplainable things in this world are drilling. Sometimes, when conversations about aliens and the supernatural come up and there are people within earshot who right away declare an adamant "I don't believe", I just want them to get lost because they are such spoilsports. Sometimes, I want to beg them to just go and read Ricky Lo.

They started showing the x-Files in theaters today, a day when money is a strange word to me. If you're not doing anything at six p.m. later, please bow down and offer a prayer so that the boys and I will have enough money to get ourselves to the movie house this weekend and be brave enough to buy tickets for this movie. It's x-Files for godsake.

If in a split second you'll start wondering why you'll do something like this for me and you completely don't care about me, allow me to remind you that you have been praying for world peace for a long time and your prayer hasn't been heard yet. Try this one and it just might work.

Thank you for being that human being who does not only do things because it will make you famous. Thank you already if you consider praying for me. Three tickets for x-Files, hear our prayer.

If we get to watch it this weekend, then I can truly say, I Want to Believe!

Gratis

Achilles (and I'm not kidding you, that's really my editor's name), sent me this joshing message as soon as I got in this morning: "You're alone". I replied with: I know. Rub it in! And do you know what kids do when they are home alone?

The art director is on paternity leave, the sales managers are in places where the bosses can't reach them, my editor is banging (no other meaning intended) his laptop at home, and everyone else is on a slave plane on their way to Cebu for a convention. The lucky one gets to be left behind with lots of coffee, a tall glass of red tea and a few crackers. And that is me. The idea of being left alone didn't mortify me although it was strangely comforting to say: Oh my! I'm gonna be alone the whole Friday! I was only half-listening to myself.

Oh wait. I forgot to turn on the water dispenser. I also have five gallons of water, promising to have undergone a very scientific process, all to myself. I don’t know what it is about me but I do read labels. Sometimes I think I may be obsessed with propaganda and all sorts of advertising gimmicks. But I wish never to be confined in the MRT longer than ten minutes ever again with that iterating ad about “big ship, small ship and friendship.”

It's a week away from production time and the climate is working on the panic button to go off, however not really discombobulating me in any way. Imagine if you go affright in every production then you'd be dead in a year. No more, no less. Cause of death: Asphyxiation by the “core” (a personal joke among the Big C people).

Yet as I am enjoying my solitude, I have no claim to power tripping among hiding roaches because I am free to put my feet up on regular days. I am free to feed my frequent hunger. Free to write blogs. Free to laugh in different pitches. Free to sing. Free to drink more than the maximum number of cups of coffee in a day. Free to send real time messages. Free to breathe. Free to take a power nap (although I never do this). Free to sit and think and just think some more. Free to panic whenever I want to for no reason at all. Free to speak to the ‘big ones’ if I feel like it. Free to answer the phone or refuse to budge when it rings. Free to be grouchy and be happy at the same time (which really is the embodiment of myself).

I can almost write a song about what I do everyday and it’s going to be a very bad song just like that one from that cheesy movie DoReMi. The niftiest of thoughts won’t save me so let’s leave the song writing to the chosen few.

So I sit and allow thoughts to stir me, whip me, raise me, concern me. It’s liberating to know you still breathe for free and free you are to live.

Time for coffee and gratitude. This photo was taken by Rod Banzon. But Sir Rod, you're not the central character of this story. We will get back to your paella later. I'm going to make this really quick because I get high fevers from talking about hair, especially if it's my own.

Kingpins in the hair styling industry, Jude Hipolito and Rose Velasco of Univers Phyto by Kaizen, gave our models a free hair make-over using high-end but plant based hair color and hair treatment. We were collaborating for a story that I’m doing for the Christmas issue.

I get queasy in salons that's why I only visit the salon in every blue moon and get quickly out of there every time. Rose was showing me the organic shampoo when she suddenly looked at my hair and knowing right away what she was thinking, I defensively said, "Oh no, Ms. Rose, I'll pass." Taking no for an answer, I was hauled to the shampoo area where I got to ‘experience’ the pricey (and I mean pricey) shampoo and the orgasmic head massage that came with it. Then the good-looking, soft-spoken stylist, Rod Awid, spoke to me about my hair and from the conversation I realized that I only give two seconds of my time thinking about my hair every other day. Click-clack-click (a poor imitation of the scissors’ sound) and he was done with me after twenty minutes. Like stories with happy endings, mine went that direction as well.

A haircut worth P5,000 is much too much for the average Pinoy’s budget but the experience will be worth every cent of it. The great thing about it was that the gods and goddesses of the universe conspired so I could have it gratis.

For any of you who want a scientific and correct approach to hair care, I recommend Univers Phyto by Kaizen on Heaven on the Fifth, Rustan’s Makati. You will love it.

By the way, if this photo does not look "magazine-ready" and by that I mean I don't look like I just came out from a shampoo commercial even after the P5,000 haircut and looking like an unreal version of me, which happens when your photo undergoes a photoshop process, it is because this photo is as raw as it can be. I've no make-up on, no nothing. It's just me with better hair and I'm telling you not to let the photo of my hair talk to you. The real thing is way better, I tell you.