Phone-y

My new job is interesting. I deal with even more university parents than I used to. Most of them are pretty even and sane, but today I was nearly drowned by a wave of overbearing craziness.

First of all, when I leave a message on an answering machine for someone's child, it's almost always the parent who calls back. Now a lot of these kids are on their senior trips. But I hear a lot of them in the background, trying to talk over their parents. "Ask them this... ask them that..." while the mother (and for some reason it's always the mother) attempts to translate.

The most heartbreaking and annoying occurrence was a woman who started almost every sentence with "frankly." Frankly, this is a pet peeve of mine. "Frankly, finding any information out is like pulling teeth. Frankly, as long as y'all get that money it seems like we don't matter. I'm calling for my son about his room assignment... frankly I don't trust him to take care of it." Well, thank God. Another man's testicles bite the dust. His destiny is to marry a girl who will thoroughly emasculate him and grant him no power in the relationship.

At least it's a warning of things to come. I'm learning more and more that having children makes you insane. Hopefully I can prepare and learn to be okay with giving my children their independence. To be fair, that boy might have been completely irresponsible, and she, as the one paying the bill, wanted to be absolutely sure. But my GOD, her tone. The way she shut her son up in the background... it was just... well, it was a sad day for boys who hope to one day become men.

My Trip to the Salon

The worst part is the beginning. The two ladies in Fantastic Sam's looked bored, but neither one got up to help me. So, after asking about the special of the day, I just said, "So.... 'either one of you free?" A Nicaraguan lady named Aleen chuckled and stood up, took my information, and led me to the chair.

Then comes the best part: The shampoo. I'm not one who enjoys being waited on by strangers, generally. That's the worst part of going out to eat for me. But I love having my hair shampooed. My tip is never based on how good my hair looks, but how good my scalp feels after being massaged. If I'd have had a fin, it would be in Aleen's pocket right now. I had to settle for 3 bucks, which is a good tip for a 13 dollar haircut, I suppose.

Salon chit-chat is hit and miss. The basic questions are "Where are you from?" "How long have you been doing this?" and "Do you think it'll rain/get hotter today?" Some stylists answer the second question in an offended way, as if they're surprised that I'm interested in their profession. And the truth is, I am. I can't cut a straight line (which might be perfect for today's hairstyles). Cutting hair properly is one of those things I will never venture to do, because failure is almost 100% assured.

The wet, split-ended strands at my feet are fun to look at. It's the most unfinal type of finality you'll probably ever see. "Well, it's done," I think, "but it will be back in a month." I guess you could also call that futility, but the smell of coconut and tea tree oil cheers me up too much to use words with a negative connotation.

Blow drying is the part of the experience in which I feel the most guilty. My hair is thick. Horse tail thick. Drying it takes twice the time of other women, but they can't charge extra, because their extra charges are only based on extreme length. That's another reason why I tip, I suppose.

Then comes the time when I might have to act, because even if I don't like a haircut, I can never being myself to say "I don't like it." At a restaurant, a waiter serves you food. He or she did not cook it, so it's not a problem to send it back. I'm not looking the creator in the eye. But the stylist worked hard, or at least did something I could never do on my own. Criticizing their work when it's probably very close to what I asked for seems cruel.

That was my afternoon. Want more futility? No matter how good a haircut looks, I have it up in a ponytail within the first half hour of leaving the salon. And people wonder why I never bother to pay more than 20 bucks.

I think I'll go eat the leftover scallops in my fridge.

Safety

I hope that everyone has someone in his or her life who is inspiring--not a hero they don't know or will never meet, but a person you know.

I watched my brother at a small bar almost a week ago. It's encouraging to watch him. Music isn't always the most lucrative career, and God knows he'll probably have a job besides that. But what if he didn't? Watching his face as he played with his friends makes me believe that, no matter what, he's going to be okay. Maybe that just shows how much I know about the world. But watching my brother play makes me want to write and practice my ukulele.

I got through my first entire song this week.

Rug

I console myself in different ways when I'm sad. The best crying place is the living room of my parents' house. There's this great old rug in there with unusual patterns and beautiful colors. We used to have a different one. I hated to see the first one go, but the newer one serves the same purpose. When my eyes are full of tears, the meaningless shapes start to look like things. It's distracting in a good way. The images of laughing snakes, volcanoes, Buddhas, and vases full of unusual flowers remind me of the last time I cried in this room. "Everything turned out okay that last time, and it will again," the characters seem to say. And so far, it has been okay again every single time.

Things that happened today, 5/5/09

That's the best title I could come up with. It's been an interesting day.

1: I had this odd dream. There are almost always Venetian-inspired cities in my dreams--communities built on or around bodies of water and canals. In this one, there was a river that seperated two cities--one made of leathery tents and one of caves. On the tent side were these people with dark brown skin, shaved heads, and white linen clothing. On the other side were Inuit-looking people in loincloths.
I was swimming in the lake for some reason (I always get into this kind of trouble in my subconscious), and one of the tent people pulled me out of the water. He started lashing me with this cat-of-nine-tails and telling me that my kind wasn't allowed here. Then he threw me back in the water. The Inuit-looking people shot darts at me as I swam away.
Finally, I reached what I guess was my destination: an enormous ship that housed every person I've ever known. We were all traveling down this river together. There was a theatre, a kitchen, enough private bedrooms for everyone, and even a little shuttle boat you could hop onto if you wanted to go to land for some reason. My favorite part was a hologram beach you could sunbathe on. The lamp that must have posed as the true sun felt very warm and pleasant after swimming a long way. When my fellow passengers found out what had happened to me, they decided to teach the attackers a lesson.
That's where the dream gets fuzzy. I don't know if we ever exacted revenge at all. To be honest, it wouldn't have accomplished anything, anyway. They just seemed to be really territorial folk who didn't want any strangers around. I woke up feeling scared. The pain of being whipped had felt very real. I feel guilty. Am I prejudiced against dark-skinned and Inuit people? Why did I dream about that?

2: As I was walking to work, I passed the lake that's on LSU campus. A guy was in the dirty water (close to the Highland sidewalk, where people dump everything) fishing out a chair. He said he had promised someone he would. His clothes and wallet were on the cement. I didn't say anything to him or his friends except, "this will make for an interesting memeory."

3. I received notice that my ukulele shipped. After 6 months of thinking about it, I finally just bought one to play around with. It was a hassle to purchase online, though. My bank had put a hold on my debit card for something that flagged their fraud alert. They didn't even notify me about it, either. So they'll be sending a new card soon. Mom paid for it for me through paypal. I owe her 40$, and now I don't have to wait for them to get the money order and THEN ship it. Estimated shipping time is 3 days. I hope it gets here by Friday.

I own a ukulele now.

It's a red, cherry wood, "pineapple" ukulele. I've been toying with the idea of taking it up for months now, and I finally took the plunge. The prices ranged from nine to 200 dollars. In the end I picked one up on ebay from a wholesale music shop for $40. Jake found it and linked me to it. It was the first one that I found that appealed to me visually, and it looked sturdy enough. I listened to a lot of samples of both cheap and expensive ukuleles. They don't all have the same richness, but they all sound cheerful.

Konnichi wa, can I buy you a 9$, brightly colored cocktail?

Geisha were not prostitutes. This was hammered into me long before that movie came out a couple of years back. My sister owns several books about them and loaned me some. Apparently it's hard to do research on them, because they are very secretive and are all about receiving the right kind of courtesy and humility from outsiders who want information.

What do we have in the U.S? Well, we have brothels, but they don't really have to be skilled at anything but sex and leaving when they're asked. We have exotic dancers, but that doesn't have the same amount of class. Plus, when you're with a Geisha, you're in the presence of a woman who is charming, adept in the arts and conversation, and is flawlessly polished in her appearance and personality.

Women might capture the art of conversation part when they accept a drink from a stranger at a bar. Men often complain that they spend 20$ on a girl and get nothing in return except a lot of talk and a few dances together. Bars seem like lonely places. Maybe they should just be happy for the company. Maybe there should be professional barflies who make men feel special for a few hours. For one neon drink per hour, they can be flattered, indulged, flirtatiously touched. Then they can go home, hopefully with a fatter wallet than if he had hoped for sex, and get on the internet.