JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

Micky was looking for All Blacks rugby jerseys for her men so I tagged along to the Adidas store on Queen St. The jerseys were available in different sizes, but she wasn’t sure if her son was XL or XXL.

“I’m an XL,” said the clerk, “Would you like to see it on me?”

A. Is that a trick question?
B. You mean right here?
C. But we haven’t been properly introduced.
D. Aba, suma-Scott Caan.
E. Noel: Ohhhhh is that how you put it on? Can you do it again, please?

I said, “Yes.”

Immediately I texted my friend, who replied, “Yan ang sales! (That’s salesmanship!) Send me a picture.”

I asked the guy if I could take his picture and he agreed (although he wouldn’t stand still so the shots are blurry).

My friend said, “The jersey is not tight enough.”

I said, “That’s how you know he’s not one of us (girls).”

James Reyes made these earrings out of colored wire.

I found these stamp earrings in Auckland, at a shop called Elephant on Parnell Street. We literally had to run there because the stores close at 4 or 5 pm. On a Saturday. Unlike the service staff in our malls, Kiwis have lives.

In Auckland you can get accurate information from total strangers. I was wearing my white and black eyeglasses (on the right) and somebody said, “Cool frames.” I said, “Do you know of any vintage stores where I can get eyeglass frames?” He said he didn’t know of any, but I could try the market on Eliot Street. I got there at closing time, and found a booth selling big retro frames. Voila, a pair in black and white (on the left) to match the white and black. My optometrist will be pleased.

We’ve walked past it jillions of times, but never noticed the name of the shop until we were having lunch across the hallway at Pho Hoa in Greenbelt 1. OMF Lit. That’s not my exclamation, that’s the actual name of the store.

We just had to ask: What does OMF mean? Overseas Missionary Fellowship, said the nice clerk.

This is too easy.

Mat: What a stupid, pointless story. Good thing I am very handsome.

On Sunday I was walking around the mall with my friend Maria Consolata, Maricon for short, when we saw a nice big bag in the window of Onitsuka Tiger. “Look,” I said, “That bag is you. Very timely since your present bag is falling apart.”

Maricon agreed. We went into the store to check out the price tag. It cost more than twice what Maricon had paid for his bag; granted he bought that on sale several years ago.

“But aren’t you getting a big fat cheque?” I reminded Maricon.

“You are evil,” he declared. We walked some more. This time we saw a bag in the window of Tumi.

“It’s bulletproof, right?” Maricon said. “Made of kevlar.”

“Kevlar?” I cried. Tell me something is made of kevlar and I’ll want it. “You must get it then.”

“But will my Macbook fit in it?” Maricon said.

“Of course it will.”

The whole time we were examining the bag and discussing its uses the salesman stood watching us like a lump. We were clearly interested in the merchandise, he could hear us asking questions, but he made no move to assist us. It was as if his job description were not “salesperson” but “statue”. They couldn’t get a more attractive statue?

“It doesn’t have a compartment for a laptop,” Maricon pointed out.

“So? You can put your computer in a sleeve.” I picked up a laptop sleeve from the display and put it inside the bag. It fit.

“That’s not for computers,” the salesperson said, noticing us at last. “That’s only for documents.” Bad enough that he was dissuading the customer from buying the product, but he made no attempt to show us a bag specifically designed for a computer. Perhaps we were not the sort of people he imagined using Tumi products. It’s a good thing he works around kevlar.

“But I like it,” Maricon said. “You evil girl, now I’ll have to get money from the ATM.” I had to be home by 4 so I walked him to the ATM and said goodbye.

Ten minutes later, this text message. Overcome by virtue. Did not buy the bag. Yet.

Wow! I replied. Impressive self-control, aided by zombie salesperson.

Kerek!

If he had been Daniel Matsunaga that bag would’ve been sold.

Three bags at least, plus that huge bag in leather. And I could’ve gone back to Onitsuka Tiger but didn’t. Such virtue. I wonder what stupidity I’ll commit next.

Option paralysis. You have too many options so you pick none.

Good deterrent to impulse buying.

The following day:

Bill payment day. Money withdrawn for bag used to pay electric and phone bills. I feel doubly virtuous. But where’s the fun?

You horrible goody-goody.

I know, I will go to goody two shoes hell.

Where he descended not five minutes later.

The joys of PLDT. Cashier shortchanges me and says, “50 centavos lang naman.” So she gives me 25 centavos and uses calculator to subtract 44 centavos to find that the change is actually 56 centavos. A summa in math! After paying I need to talk to “Customer Care/Service” which are of course both oxymorons, and I have to fall in line again.

See how quickly you are punished for being good, I replied.

So soon. Too soon.

Two minutes later:

Wait! The customer service number queue skips from 98 to 104. I’m 108. God is in his heaven.

The cosmos is merely taunting you. You will be served by a total dimwit.

Rats! The system remembered what it skipped. And there is no visual distraction of any kind.
Insult to injury: The system conks out. Now we are reduced to random numbers being called out. I can see tomorrow’s tabloid headline. . .

Bakla nag-amok dahil di binili ang bag! (Gay man runs amok after not buying bag!)

Dahil walang guapo! (Gay man runs amok because there are no cute guys!)

FYI you can pay your bills at Banco de Oro branches.

But where else can I get this Kafkaesque sense of inutility and inhumanity?

Easy: while trying to hail a taxi.

I wash the dust off my feet and curse this office. And head for Greenbelt. Danger.

To ward off further bad luck, Maricon went to Onitsuka Tiger and bought a bag.

Does your optometrist commemorate the Mexican Revolution in her shop window?

Does she have photographs of Zapatistas on her walls

along with souvenirs from her recent trip to Mexico? (Why aren’t we all spending our vacations in Mexico when we have such close cultural ties? In colonial times Spain had very little to do with these islands, the Philippines was governed out of Mexico. There was the Manila-Acapulco Galleon Trade. Today’s Mexicans refer to it as the China trade, they know as little about us as we know about them. The only Filipino known to Mexicans is Manny Pacquiao, because he beat their fighters. Oddly enough the first Filipino world boxing champion was named Pancho Villa, like the Mexican revolutionary.)

And archival photos and vintage cameras?

Does your optometrist have a sale on colored contact lenses (P1,800 a pair), give you 30 percent off on eyeglass frames, and make your eyeglass lenses for as low as P350? Does she offer huge discounts just because she feels like it? Does she make Joey “Pepe” Smith’s glasses?

Does your optometrist have that Sixties love and peace hippie vibe?

Mine does. Nella Sarabia’s optical shop is at the UP Shopping Center, University of the Philippines, Diliman, Quezon City, telephone number 4355685 (Call first). Nella’s great-grandfather was the first Filipino optometrist, and her people have been eye doctors for generations. She also has a collection of old spectacles, which we pore over, restore, and turn into my vintage glasses.

Voila! My next pair.

My current favorite in this frizzling summer: Vintage Supervillain.

I forgot to thank Babeth Lolarga for this drawing of a kapre. I ran into her at Art in the Park; she showed me small pieces by her art group and told me to pick one. This one’s creepy, I like it.

The other day I was at a store in Shangri-La Mall looking at eyeglass frames when I noticed a slight commotion on the premises. A woman in her 40s was lodging a complaint with the store cashier. “We’re here to buy clothes, but your saleslady acts like she can’t be bothered. Why is she so snotty, doesn’t she want to sell anything? Isn’t this a store? I ask her to get the shirt in my size, and she gets all huffy, like it’s a terrible imposition to ask for the right size. She’s rude and cranky!” (I’m translating and paraphrasing.)

“But I wasn’t—” the saleslady in question tried to explain.

“We were going to get a bunch of shirts but now I don’t want anything from your store! You should teach your salespeople that they’re here to assist the customer! How dare she treat the customers like this.” Then the woman and her two companions exited the store.

“But I wasn’t being rude,” the saleslady told the cashier. “I was just talking to (another salesperson) and the woman got mad.”

And there’s the problem, I thought. You’re supposed to be serving the customer, but you’re too busy chatting with your friend. You can’t interrupt your conversation for five minutes to assist the shopper? Some customers prefer to be left alone, and some require your full attention. That lady, for instance.

But I was glad not to be involved in this discussion for a change, so I kept quiet.