Glow by Lady E

B ack when I was very active in blogging, I often showed the products that I've finished or products that I've hit pan on. It's mostly for me. I like looking at the empty bottles and makeup and feel glad, accomplished even, that I was able to use the products that I bought, that I got my money's worth. It's such a nice feeling to work then be able to treat yourself with small luxuries, no?

T his is why I haven't been blogging.

I t was supposed to be a quick stop. I had come to pick up my Cinderella shoes—slip ons that I saw at Greenbelt, but they didn't have my size. While waiting, I wandered into the quiet sanctuary of the boutique floor, the kind where time seems to hush and everything feels like a promise.

Some girls plan with clocks, some with calendars. And stil there are others, beautiful souls — that plan with their heart. If that is you, this collection is for you.

T onight, I’m not showing you the polished, tied-with-a-ribbon final product. I’m showing you the floor. Because that’s where the real magic happens.

Is buying an expensive pen a form of vanity? A few years ago, I might’ve answered yes. I would’ve smiled politely at the glittery packaging, nodded at the cult favorites, and moved on with a trusty old ballpoint or gel pen — the kind you get free from an arcade game or  dig out from the bottom of a pencil pouch. Function over flair. Ink over indulgence.  Anyway, it's just ink right?  But I learned something recently. Learned it the hard way — through heat, swelling, and a wrist that screamed louder than any shopping cart ever could. Here’s the story. The Day My Body Said "Enough" I was doing something mind-numbingly archaic: updating records by hand (it's government required). Hours of listing, scribbling, rewriting. I reached for a basic ballpen — thin, hard, a little ergonomic, a Faber Castell. The kind that glides easily until your grip has to overcompensate. I used it because it's a ballpen and it's black - the two requirements. I a...

It started with this I wasn’t planning on falling in love again that Tuesday afternoon. All I wanted was to check one thing off my to-do list: make a prototype for a custom client order. Something I hadn’t done before—something outside my usual rhythm. It was supposed to be quick. Functional. Done and dusted in an hour. But the moment my hands touched the lace paper, something stirred.