However

It's been a while once again since I've written a blog, but it's vacation time!  Time for long car rides full of reflections and thoughts to share with people.

This vacation is to Massachusetts to visit my badass cop sister.  (vacation: to vacate one's current situation and flee to another. No word on whether this will be more or less pleasant. Last vacation was less pleasant. This one has the winds of good cheer blowing over it already.)

There will be gift sharing there. If only it was the thought that counted and not the physical gift, for I have none. Yet. There's a mall up there.

The other day I wanted to take the back way to my friend's house that I saw her do once and I was sure I could replicate with the help of my GPS once I had gotten it far enough to assure it I wanted to go that way. I failed in such a way that I couldn't help but smile; I had come back to the exact point where I had started my effort. My GPS has a very strong will.

However (oh my gosh- I just met this girl my age whose every other sentence begins with the word however. I almost want to bring it up to her but don't want to make her feel self-conscious. More on her later.), I was exposed to such countryside as I had never expected would be in my figurative backyard! I crossed some European-looking cars and went through this little town center where a nice white-haired man waved at me out of his car (which I suspect was because it was his turn and I had violated some form of intersection etiquette) - (I call him nice because he didn't shout or use rude gestures) and I almost thought I was in a different world. And it turned out I was just driving in a relatively small circle.

I actually saw scenes that brought about memories of recent dreams I've had. Sometimes this happens to me and elates me because it proves to me that I have dreams and they do stay in my head even if I cannot readily access them. They come about magically when they want to or when God wants them to or something like that! And I relate dreams to creativity and continued thought and problem solving during sleep. Sometimes I think the reason I'm so tired during the day is because I spend so much time processing and thinking and dreaming during the night, which is really exciting because dreams are magical and crazy things.

Last night I dreamed about being a part of NCIS and climbing out of a car submerged in water and up, up, up onto a suspension bridge high in the air into a chaotic scene with many many people riding a train and me riding one the opposite way with the assignment of telling the people to trust what they were being told because I trusted the person who was speaking. There were also dirt tunnels involved.

The same girl who uses the word "however" excessively had a dream that helped her with an art project. I wish I had dreams like that.

About her: I met her through church about two days ago and spent some time with her yesterday. Over the course of about 45 minutes it hit me that she was the girl from elementary school who left because everybody made fun of.

Including me.

Of course, I was the girl who was on-and-off nice to the group of weird girls because it was the nice girl thing to do but I secretly resented them for being different and I was cruel behind their backs to my family and sometimes I joined in with the meanness of my other classmates when I thought she was especially odd or annoying. I don't know if she thought I was an ally or an enemy, but it's not about ME. It's about her. And I was just part of everybody that made her move to another school district after fifth grade.

I apologized to her IF I ever hurt her. Like I didn't. And she said, "all is forgiven." Just like that. But would she really feel forgiving if she saw the way I made fun of her behind her back, to my mom, for example? I was CRUEL.

But we had a good time together and I think there's some healing taking place. Maybe we can both let go of some things.

666

Do you know how badly I wish I could have my phone and my keys and my driver's license and my debit card imbedded in my wrist?

I could leave the house to go anywhere at any frequency without running around my house frantically trying to find each item (in addition to a suitable bag) on each occasion.

It would also solve the problem of me trying to use my car keys to unlock my house and vice versa.

Which is very absentminded of me and very common and very annoying.

I believe technology is heading that way but some conspirists think that  might be kind of like what the Bible is talking about when it says people will not be able to buy or sell without the devil's number tattooed on their wrist or forehead.

As a side note, I'm not sure why someone would want the devil's number tattooed on their forehead. Imagine leaning your head over the grocery store scanner to verify your identity.

I feel like it'll be a lot more obvious and sinister-feeling when the devil's number comes around than when humans get chips imbedded in their wrists with convenient scannable info. I think Christians will be able to tell and it won't be something controversial among followers of Christ.

I think there'll have to be some sort of denial of Christ involved.

Right now this chip thing is kind of like the issue of tattoos or drinking. I wouldn't burn at the stake for my opinion on it. I would only burn at the stake for the fact that Jesus is Lord. 

So, anyway, for ADD people like me, maybe a compromise to not worry my dad about me losing my place in the book of life would be to put little GPS trackers on my important items and have several tracking devices including on my friends' technical devices.

It would be very James Bond.

Mittens

Remember in my last post the nice older gentleman who waved at me out of his car window when I'm pretty sure I was cutting him off at an intersection?

Well, here's a post on unfriendly gestures.

I think I already wrote about the girl who leaned out her window and licked her hand at my friend when she stopped in the middle of a red light and how the internet had nothing to say about it. 

Sometimes I pass by locations that I don't like because they remind me of people or events that make me very unhappy and I like to give them the finger.

It has so happened, though, that I have been wearing mittens while driving past these locations and I believe that God has used that as a sort of reminder that I shouldn't practice angry gestures because it will  eventually increase my personal bitterness tolerance.

Sometimes I like to personally flip off drivers who annoy me, inside my car, for my own emotional fulfillment. I should probably wear mittens more often.

My friend likes to joke that you can flash three fingers out the window and yell, "read between the lines!" Which I think is hilarious. I've never seen it done. But the condition of my heart would still be the same.

My favorite signal is the peace sign. It's a method of apology and thanks. I'd be careful using it to tell someone to chill out, because, as another person has warned me, you never know when a person is carrying a gun or some such weapon.

And an update on the break-tapping: I have heard that putting on your four-way flashers is a good way to get tail gaiters to back off without risking them hitting your rear. But father brought up a good point: if someone hits you from behind, it's always his fault. I caught him angry recently saying that if mom and I weren't in the car, he would've slammed on the breaks and begged his current tailgater to hit him.

I love my dad.

Bubbles

I just watched the movie "Frozen" and loved it.

I was in a terrible mood and it immediately enraptured me. The animation, the way the light shone through the ice, mmm, it tasted so good to my eyes.

By the time the elk or reindeer character got his antlers entangled in the dangling branches of trees which were covered in drops of ice that were shining more beautifully than any Christmas lights ever could, I was smiling inside, because my spirit had chosen to take the movie in, no matter what happened. It was mine, it was my own little piece of irreality, a bubble of a story that I could hold forever in my heart as a beautiful work of art and inspiration, storytelling and magic. Like a dollhouse I could enter whenever I wanted or leave alone if I felt that way.

There's a book called "The Great Good Thing" in which the characters are characters in a storybook and their lives depend on being remembered by their reader. As they deteriorate, well, I actually forget what happens. It means they are going through the same journeys and struggles as they did in their original story right now as I write this.

When the movie ended, I had to sleep uncomfortably and I was angry and my bad mood returned. My bubble of happiness had been put away. Sometimes I like to just be angry and not pull out my happy stories and beautiful memories. But they're there. When I went to sleep they came along.

Rock Face

I just dreamed a lot. There was this guy I had a crush on (who was not a person from real life) who met me while we were going through a real-life pinball machine obstacle course type thing after a rainstorm in order to get back home. 

I had gotten too far from home because in my dream world when it floods everything becomes a swimming pool and i easily glided through the water, down the sidewalks, maybe for a mile before the water disappeared. 

The sidewalks weren't for people. When it was time to go back home and the floodwaters had disappeared, I discovered I had to crawl or sort of Neanderthal it all the way back to home base because the walks were right outside people's doors and underneath low, low roofs that made me think perhaps I had chosen the sidewalk designated for pets. And without the water it took forever to get back. 

....

I have just returned to this draft after who knows how long. 

I don't remember if in my dream I got back "home," but it wasn't really home anyway. 

Also included in the dream was a trip to the theme park and the dilemma of what to pack, and my sister and I trying to start and drive a vehicle to a restaurant across the street (for some reason this was a challenge) and a classmate and I climbing up and down a vine- covered rock face. She was fearless, like she is on real life. I admire her. 

This classmate of mine - we used to be buddies, until the day she told me I irritated her. And when I left her alone, I saw her change into whoever I was holding her back from being. 

It's a little depressing to think of it in a certain light, but just because my presence was a cage to her doesn't mean it is for everybody else. It makes me happy that I didn't hang on to her any longer than I did - because she has made so many friends, changed her appearance, even stopped wearing her backpack to school, I think - since I left her alone. 

It's almost like I'm being her friend by not being her friend. 

But in the dream, she was being really encouraging to me on that rock face with the vines. 

So Glad I Did

The other day I visited a friend at the library. 

Every time I go to the library I wonder why I don't spend more time there. But it's not like I actually read stuff. I just find books with cool pictures and look at them. 

Like, for example, I just checked out thirteen books with pictures of hairstyles from different decades and time periods to look at and helpe with a project for school. Also cultural body painting. 

It's a stage. I'll get back to reading stories someday.

Just like I'll get back to legit making art someday. 

For now, school. 

And with school, comes the self-bestowed privilege of being allowed to approach strangers and ask them about their hair. 

At the library, I spotted a black woman with luxurious long curly hair. Curly hair is my favorite and I wanted to know her secret. Especially since i am immersed in a Paul Mitchell product environment, I want to know what other hair products work for women blessed (they might say cursed) with curls. So I gathered my courage and approached her. 

"I noticed your hair from across the room and it's just so beautiful - I'm a cosmetology student and I'm trying to learn as much as I can. What do you use in your hair?"

She looks at me and laughs and says "it's a WIG!"

This is fairly normal for black women so for a split second I think nothing of it. 

She continues,

"I have alopecia and I'm always so depressed that I don't have any hair!  I'm so self-conscious all the time - like today coming up the stairs into the library it was windy and so scary, which is just depressing!  And to hear that my wig looks natural and beautiful from a COSMETOLOGY student is just so encouraging."

And she gave me a hug, and we talked some more, and she told me about how she washes it and the products she uses, and I was so happy I talked to her because I had been considering not talking to her simply for my own personal comfort.  

And she told me she has a supportive husband but she thinks he just says nice things because he loves her. Which is really sweet. 

But I was floating when I walked out of the library, and I hope she was, too. 

I think my car may have been floating as well because I returned most of the thirteen books I had checked out from a different branch of the same system. 

Ugly

Did I tell you about how I make a point to decorate my beauty school mannequin heads' faces? I've used ballpoint pen, acrylic paint, and nail polish so far. And one safety pin.

This takes the personalization and anti-theft process to the next level. Anyone else couldn't get far with one of my heads and get away with it.

Did I also mention that I am a face painter with respectable experience as well as an educated artist?

When I paint my own face and also when I have my heads around I forget the faces look different and am surprised when people notice. I'm pretty sure I don't do it for shock value but I could be wrong. I think I do art because I want people to see it and like it and I don't get to show my 2D art on a daily basis.

That pretty much sets the scene for today's little "event."

I happened to be working on one of my mannequins on the salon floor near my classmate and her client. I talked a little with both of them cheerfully and was excited about this new narrow curling iron I was trying.

Then I hear my classmate saying, "she actually does them herself."

I look up and the customer looks at me and says, "oh, I was just telling your friend I think your heads look kind of ugly."

I had 4 heads down there so she had an adequate sampling.

I look at her and say, "that's okay, most people don't understand my art and I'm okay with that." And as an afterthought, "the heads look pretty scary without paint too anyway."

With that, I start packing up to go to lunch.

I glimpse my stack of business cards looking up at me from behind some hair tool in my Mary Poppins bag of hairdressership and am struck with a blessed, blessed idea.

"Ma'am, here's my card. It has my website on it and you can go on it and see if you like any of my other art. I do makeup and photoshoots too so you might be interested in that."

That bitch.

Needs to work on her:

Tact

Word choice

Filter

I breeze on toward the lunch room and shoot my classmate a sly look.

It's true that very few people understand my art. And that makes me wonder if I actually make good stuff. But I like it. And I'm pretty sure people tend to not understand the better artists of their time.

Just saying.

Eyelashes

As of about two months ago, I have a newfound obsession with false eyelashes.

I had thought my short lashes were hopelessly unimprovable (screw the ads; mascara won't lengthen or volumize if there isn't anything there to begin with) and that God gave them to me for a reason, so that my face would be balanced in the way he wanted it to be (valid).

One day at the dollar store I saw false eyelashes, though, and decided to give them a try (not a sin). My face was transformed.

I had eyes.

I really started with the eyelashes when my teacher and I had a talk about my extreme makeup. I actually used face paint to do my makeup for school until she and a few other people in my life at the same time questioned my motives (pure) and suggested I pursue a more professional image. So now I use lashes as a way to maintain a bold look. 

And yes, I did find colorful eyelashes online. I can't just not push boundaries.

Of course, it took about ten minutes to fanegle the first pair on.

Therefore, I thought it would be a good idea to get eyelash extensions, which are advertised to stay on for about a month (this would eliminate morning application difficulties). Suffice it to say that I did not get the longevity benefits promised and caused skin and eye irritation when  bought my own remover and didn't read the instructions.

I went so far as to find extension glue and tell myself I could give myself extensions to fill it in. That flopped. 

My quest to have permanent long lashes is over. I now apply them daily and have reduced my speed and improved my accuracy.

Now I just wonder when I'll stop.

With the gel nails and extensions I've gotten in the past, the additions became the center of my attention, and a part of my identity. I became Danielle-with-gel-nails, for example. When I took them off, I was happy and free and realized that my appearance doesn't rely on something fake added to me.

But they were fun anyway.

I suppose now I'm at a point where I face the world as Danielle-with-lashes.

Strangely enough, I never felt that way with the face paint. It felt like a part of me and with or without it I still felt like myself.

So, whenever I stop with the lashes, be it in a couple of weeks, or when I have kids and can't deal with that kind of crap anymore, I imagine I will feel free and happy, and appreciate that God gave me minimal eyelashes so that the proportions of my face would be just right.

&

One is that some my school, students make posters to advertise upcoming events and clubs to be joined.  The girls who make these do a good job and convey color and enthusiasm in their work. There have been two recent notable incidents involving these posters.

One is that someone used the number 8 instead of an ampersand. I did a double take and saw that yes, indeed, whoever created this poster intended "8" to mean "and." I shudder to think that this young lady uses this ampersand shortcut in the rest of her writing.

I, for one, took pains to learn how to draw the beautiful ampersand and proudly use it every chance I get. I no longer have to use the plus sign when I am in a hurry and need to add a few words together.

I have pride issues.

However, the poster is beautiful. It is monochromatic (pink) and features many different fonts of different neat handwriting to advertise wearing pink on Fridays to support breast cancer awareness (wearers donate $3 to some cause or other).

I witnessed two staff members strolling through the school and discussing ways to make it more attractive to possible future students taking tours of the building.

Minding my own business, I heard one lady pointing out one such and saying, "now, these are ugly." As if that was the end of the matter and perhaps they should be taken down.

Ugly.

I talked to the other teacher later about that and she said she had to bite her tongue.

Good.

Students should be able to express themselves on the walls of the school.

I watched the movie "Gravity" with my friend the other night. It was a good choice because I had heard only negative and neutral criticism about it, so I knew I would not become emotionally invested in the movie and thus become emotionally exhausted. Also because of my indifference I expected I wouldn't experience much emotional reaction to anything that happened.

This is good because I avoid movies as they become a huge emotional investment for me.

My friend, on the other hand, had heard good things about the movie.

She became bored about a half an hour in.

I was pleasantly surprised at how much I liked the movie. And I did react emotionally to a lot of things that happened, and that was okay. At least I wasn't scared going in.

I like that our opinions met in the middle of the relatively extreme positives and negatives we had heard about.

I'm so happy I was able to finally form my own opinion after being negatively biased against it for several months.

A major theme in the movie is choosing life over death, even when death is the easiest way to go and nobody could be blamed for giving up. I liked that.

Mattress Holes

You know thoswith my dges in the road ions caused by heavy vehicles over time? Tire tracks that are a little depressed into the pavement? They're kind of like when there's roadwork going on on a highway and there's a warning sign that says "uneven lanes" or worse "uneven pavement" and then my car kind of protests, skids, or does something a little scary when my tires hit the uneven spot. Well, I always kind of bounce around when I drive through these intersections and think about how something as strong as pavement actually becomes flexible under the weight of heavy hesvy vehicles. 

Ever wonder what's inside? Like, somany things are transported by truck. Barbies are probably delivered to Target by truck. Designer handbags, well, how else do they get delivered? By air force one?

My mom is afraid of cattle chutes on big roads. She just doesn't like them. In mypersonal opinion, the walls containing the cars are exactly where the lines were that drivers are meant to keep inside, and so if a driver is capable of staying in a lane, there is no reason to fear. 

Also, holding tight to armrests or the steering wheel actually doesn't change the size of the vehicle and is not necessary when driving through tight spaces. 

Wind is something that causes me to slow down when I'm driving. I tend to feel like I'm going to take off if I'm trying to go 80 and there are gusts going around me in all directions - like somehow, if I'm going slower, I have a stronger connection to the ground. I wonder if there's something in physics that talks about that or if it's just in my head. 

I've had dreams about flying in airplanes. I specifically remember taxiing around on streets not meant for aircraft. We encountered no problems. 

I still love with my parents. I don't necessarily announce my departure to the world of sleep as much as I did when I was younger, but as soon as my mom figures out I went to bed, she still comes in and says goodnight. It makes me feel loved. I'll miss it when I move out. 

Occasionally the thought pops into my head that mattresses should definitely have face holes in them for greater breathing ability for stomach I sleepers. I hadn't shared this with my friend, but one day she just brought it up. She stated exactly my strong belief that mattresses should be built to better fit human needs! 

I told her that if there was only one reason we were soul mates friends, this was it. We didn't know it for years, but this was it. 

Grasshopper Bride

I know and love a girl who looks at the faces of drivers of the cars on the road around her in hopes that someday she will be able to recognize strangers just from passing them on the road. Isn't that unique? I often just think of cars as cars and sort of forget they have people inside them.

She also deletes photos that aren't good instead of saving them just because she took them (like I tend to do).

I had a dream where there were dilapidated houses along railroad tracks that were suspended in thin air. The train never stopped and it was your responsibility to jump off when it was time. The bridges from the platform to the houses were sagging and decaying and I held on for too long, unsure of where to get off.

I ended up in the land where all the people end up who don't get off the train at the correct time.

There was a guide to meet me and show me around to the various villages in which people settle. They choose and are trapped there until they die. Some were better than others, each with a different estimated lifespan. The communities were separated by well-manicured rolling green hills.

We reached some sort of paradise apartment complex and I moved forward to look closer but the guide called out, "stop! The grasshopper wall!" I look and my eyes are opened. In front of me is a wall of chirping grasshoppers surrounding the complex. Whoever tried to reach the paradise has had to face the giant insects and apparently no one has made it through.

Fear was struck into my heart.

That was the end of this dystopic dream.

There was some part before the train about a dilapidated wood city and me riding through its alleyways and up and down steps (and fire escapes) with my yellow helmet, chasing or being chased, being warned by friends, and opening a secret note.

There will be a costume contest at my school on Halloween. I suppose most people will expect me to paint my face, since I'm the face-painter in the bunch, but I don't want to be expectable. I also have no super-duper ideas. I told mom yesterday  I would wear the wedding dress I got at goodwill for 20 bucks and just go with it and she said,

"Why don't you wear my veil too?"

Mommy! You would let me do that?

As she put it on me, I thought ahead to my own real wedding and how hopefully there will be a little more sentimentality than there was yesterday.

And I thought about how I'll wear white and it won't just be because brides wear white in western culture.

And it might even mean more to me now that I have turned from the ways of the world than if I had followed God without slipping up.

I still don't know what to do with my hair to make it bride-y.

And I also have to pray that I'm not doing a color service on anyone that day since I tend to be a little splattery and I'll be wearing white.

Homely

Tonight two deer crossed my path on my drive home. Is that a sign or something? It's like a reminder of mortality, or of the suicidal nature of deer.

The mysterious form crossing the road's center barrier was a small visual phenomenon - how the parts of the deer's body lit by my car turned from an alien organic shape into a recognizable form as it moved and different parts came to the light.

Have I ever told you I had a rather quirky friend visit my house and he (being rather ashamed of his large house) found my house to be perfect in size, just enough to fulfill needs, located in a nice neighborhood, and above all, homely.

Yes, homely.

I was going to let it go but he kept using it and eventually I had to let him know that the word homely means ugly and suggest that maybe he's actually looking for the word "homey." There was a third friend there and she helped. In spite of the power of numbers, he didn't really believe us.

Tonight, I was to attend a makeup class along with classmates from my beauty school. It was definitely an occasion to dress up.

I considered wearing black, but tossed my wrinkled black skirt to the side with not a little disgust. If I had a choice, I was going out in color.

I arrived at the location of the event, which was not at the beauty school and not during school hours or on a school day, in a hot pink dress with turquoise tights and cardigan, a light pink trench coat, and, as a nod to the gross idiocy of the cosmetology must-wear-black policy which I follow, black shoes and a gray scale scarf.

Everyone else was wearing black.

All thirty of them.

My teacher thinly veils her revulsion to my outfit with a honey-thick smile as I ask her, is this a wear-black event? And she nods.  The girls around her half-smile and nod along, staring and wondering at what a grave sin I had committed. They are also shocked that I have that much color in my closet and that I would wear that color combination out of the house.

I try to make conversation with some other girls while waiting for the start.

Not successful. I joke about my outfit and this is one girl's response, "well, when you're going to a pulse event, the smartest thing to do is-"

-and this is my favorite part-

-another girl walks up who has in no way been a part of our previous conversation and says smugly-

"Wear black [because I'm the fucking queen of England and I always know what to do and I never make mistakes and it is my divinely appointed job to point out the mistakes of others even if it requires me to eavesdrop on and interrupt people's conversations to do so]."

Bitch.

I say to someone, "heh heh, well at least I'm wearing black shoes and a scarf with some black in it!"

Reply: (drily and with some hatred and superiority) "Because OBVIOUSLY that's what you're wearing and not purple tights, a pink dress, and a turquoise sweater."

Thank you VERY much, I know what I am wearing. I got dressed with the lights on.

And my tights are NOT purple.

I see shows and read stories about people who come to parties and events overdressed or underdressed or dressed plain wrong. And I always got frustrated when those people got embarrassed because really, they just didn't get the memo and they should be proud of themselves and rock their style, right? I would never be like them!

But tonight I was out into that very situation and I became the ashamed character who wanted to sink into the wall. I pointed my outfit out to others in order to seek some sort of approval or forgiveness. I wanted to go home.

I listened to Max McClean reading the book of Revelation on the drive to the class. It was more of an emotional experience than I expected. I almost cried at one point, where God spreads his tent over the people who went through the tribulation and wipes away all of their tears.

I also read magazines today.

The salon at my beauty school needs magazines that aren't from last year and that aren't missing pages. I think I'm going to donate some.

I know someone who thinks the mags are just there so people can get haircut inspiration, but I'm pretty sure I've seen clients reading them.

Do you kind of get a double picture when I use the word client? Like, "I'm taking a late lunch; I have a client at 11:30" - it often makes me think of another profession. When I think of it I use the word guest.

But the other word is more thrilling and mysterious, no?

Plastic Comb

Have I said before that I scan the ground and choose pieces of junk off the ground to use for art?

Well, I pick junk up off the ground and put it in a box with a pretty peacock on it and save it until it builds up and then figure out a way to turn it into art.

My peacock box is almost full.

There has in my beauty school's parking lot been sitting a comb for weeks, maybe even months. I think it's the kind that would have fallen out of some guy's car or pocket as he was getting out on his way to the doctors-on-the-go type clinic that's in the same shopping center as my school.

The comb has been calling my name.

I'm selective about my junk, though.

The comb was iffy because it had at some point been used as a personal hygiene item. Other items I bypass are decomposable items, common items like bottle caps and soda cans, and things that have no visual value.

On the other hand, some things are just begging to be rescued.

One day I got two working pens on a single walk through the lot.

I find most of my pens that way.

It gives them more character.

Paper clips may be common, but unlike bottle caps, they are useful and if they're rusty and therefore not useful, that makes them visually interesting.

Anyhow. Yesterday I gave into the cries of this comb from the pavement. It was a rainy day and it was time to take the poor thing in and give it a home.

Now here's the awesome part: I accidentally left it on the roof of my car while I drove home. When I checked the roof, it was still there.

God has a plan for this pitted plastic comb.

Tumbleweeds

Have I mentioned how plastic grocery bags often tumble across the roads in north Philly in the dead of night? My sister and I affectionately called them tumbleweeds and thought it was the funniest thing ever.

I feel like I was really living life then, when I was studying at college. That's a feeling I might never get back.

But I've found a more whole and happy way of being now, be it less interesting. Perhaps this is "really living." I need to go back to the city.

I think a certain amount of knowingly exposing my trusting, "naïve" side to the "dangerous and dark" world of the city is kind of thrilling to me.

My class is full of beautiful women and I can't decide if it's because I've spent so much time with them or because they actually are beautiful.

One of my classmates just pulled money out of her shirt to give a guy money to buy her a muffin on his run to wawa (the convenience store across the street) and paused - "wait, do you mind boob money?"

He was okay with it.

I'm trying to help this girl get a blogger account but it is being annoying. She speaks the truth and wants people to know her thoughts. Blogger will not be getting her business.

Tumblr may be getting her business.

I asked if over the course of her education she has increasingly come to realize her gorgeousness and value. She has. She has also made the leap to leave the loneliness of online dating behind. Just like me.

I can't wait to see her reap the rewards of this decision.

I gave a haircut yesterday that might be a go-to-another-salon-and-get-it-it-fixed cut. The lovely girl showed me a picture and it turned out nothing like that.

Actually, this is similar to the ombre situation the other day. MY consultation with the client was extra-nice and perfect. The teacher came over and changed the game with his or her own opinion. I became more conservative and jacked the whole thing up.

I think I should blame 50% of the failure on the teacher, excuse me - the learning leader.

Perhaps I will come to a more humble attitude later.

My client is a half hour late. I'm giving her a full head of hilights. I look forward to it.  If she's much later, I'll be taking an updo. Which will also be fun.

I met a lovely lady across from my station who told me she would be gluing in her own extensions later in the day. I was very impressed. How on EARTH could she do that on her OWN?

She said, "stand here and look at me."

"YouTube."

I was convinced. People have been telling me to learn things from YouTube all along, but why, I protested, should I have to go on YouTube when I'm paying good money for a hands-on, in-school education?

Sometimes you just have to give in. As the wise Florence Welch said, "I'm not giving up, I'm just giving in."

Dispensary

It is a sunny day at Pulse Beauty Academy.

I am on towel duty, which I like because I don't have the pressure of making one person's hair perfect, yet I still am doing something productive.

The room with the washing machine, dryer, extra shampoos, perm rods, and other supplies is a little haven amidst the hubbub of the bustling salon.

Student stylists can come in to "get another towel" and complain to me or whoever else is in there about their unreasonable client.

Or their annoying classmate.

Or the unrelenting pressure on the floor to sell, sell, sell.

Or even their life in general.

Many times I find myself entering the "dispensary" to find what I call a "gossip circle" gathered in the back where clients can't see. By chance, a group of students end up in this magic room who all trust each other and share the same opinion, and they talk about it.

Never mind that the door to the dispensary is supposed to remain closed and whoever is on towel duty is to be the only person inside, dutifully dispensing shampoos, towels, and cotton to others, and cleaning and drying dirty utensils.

That rule is only there so teachers can say that they say it if they are ever under some sort of scrutiny. Disobedience is not of top concern.

But it is a sunny day. I blew dry a girl's hair in a seat I chose just so she would be in the sunshine and then put her hair over her shoulders and then said something like, "there, now you have flowy princess hair." She didn't say anything but I think she liked it.

I also attempted my first-french-braid-ever-on-a human-being on her, and it was mediocre, which is better than bad.

I have a haircut in an hour. The sun will still shine when it is complete.

Elephant Blanket

I am under an elephant blanket in front of photos of Marilyn Monroe. I want to paint my room. I haven't wanted to paint my room. What changed?

Something did.

I woke up one day and saw my room for what it was. It equated to my vision of where the prodigal son lived while he worked amongst the pigs before he gave up and came home.

I hang stuff on the walls to disguise the matter but it's kind of like what Jesus said to the Pharisees about cleaning the outside of the bowl without cleaning the inside.

My room needs to be cleaned from the inside out.

My childhood needs to be removed from this room.

My teenage skin cells need to be cleaned from the window sills of this room.

Everything that belongs in a landfill needs to be removed from this room.

You get the idea.

In a couple of years the room will become defiled again but not so much as this. There will never again be drips of paint on the walls, or charcoal staining the corners, or a wooden teddy bear on the wall (no matter how adorable he is), or a useless whiteboard without markers, or a drafting table with a huge footprint  that has become a catchall for everything and is useless.

It will be better.

I sometimes wonder if after many, many years and many coats of paint a room will become noticeably smaller.

Or is there a definite lifespan to a house if nothing breaks or rots? Will it just fall apart one day just because it's old, sort of like healthy people can die because their bodies can't keep up with their age? Or might my house stand forever as long so done continues to take care of it?

I went inside a store called Habitat the other day to see if it fit my expectation based on the window display. It mostly did: merchandize catering to a counterculture, free-spirited, incense-burning, natural fiber-wearing type of person. The store, however, sold many posters of Marilyn Monroe. I was surprised. They must sell well among the hipsters/hippies or else Habitat wouldn't put out so many, I think.

My bff doesn't understand the allure of this woman.  I didn't realize just how alluring she was until I found that even people who burn incense buy full-sized posters of her! 

Let it be said that people who buy things from this store are not necessarily a TYPE and even if they are that doesn't mean that (1) Marilyn is not like them or (2) their type is bad/inferior/to be ridiculed.

That said, well, I don't really know what else to say. The poor woman is too close to being a goddess for my comfort.

It just hit me that the photos I'm looking at on my Marilyn calendars are non-digital photos.

Amazing.

I found a working non-digital and haven't yet struck up the courage to try it.

We'll see how that goes.

Green Garden

There's this song by Laura Mvula called "Green Garden" which I heard for the first time on my way to work on the radio station for people who think they're too cool for songs that more than 500 people have heard. 

It had a really cool sound, and most importantly, it sounded very exclusive. So I got on a little Laura Mvula kick. Today, the song that remains in my playlists is Green Garden. 

Until recently, I never felt a super-strong connection with the lyrics except that they had strong imagery and I liked that. 

But one day, I heard "Take me outside, sit in the green garden/Nobody out there, but it's okay now,/bathe in the sunlight, don't mind if rain falls..." 

And I immediately became the song. 

To sit alone outside is one of the greatest pleasures. And not with a glass of lemonade on a deck chair, but in the thick of the outdoors. 

There's something special about sunlight. Even its heat becomes pleasant when I am still. Baking in the sun. In a relationship with something other. 

And the rain, the joy and the symbolism I feel in rain makes me feel connected to the song as well. Jumping in a puddle is like being reborn or like shedding a skin and becoming shamelessly childish again. 

Do you ever act like someone is watching when you're alone? Like, close your car door a certain way as if someone else is very interested in the smoothness with which you turn your keys? Or do you open doors with your feet and think that if someone was watching you they would think you were so cool?

Well, I do. I dance in public if I hear a good song, or even if I don't, so that's no big deal, but when I'm alone and I dance by myself, I act as though I am trying to impress somebody. As hard as I try when I'm alone on a hill with my eyes closed laying in the sun, I still imagine an audience which is very interested in the way I am moving, even breathing. 

So when Mvula says "nobody out there, but it's okay" - it's the being at peace that speaks to me. She's being real with herself and just experiencing the garden as it is without thoughts of others, real or imaginary. 

Mvula goes on to talk about taking her shoes off and walking on a carpet of green velvet, which is a beautiful visual. 

I read once that having your body directly in contact with the earth (called "earthing") isn't just "good fer tha soul" but actually has health benefits (the article actually backed it up with an explanation). I buy into both ideas and love walking/hanging around with no shoes.  

In the end, I just really want to share the victory that I have found a song that really speaks to me or even of me. I love a lot of music but most of it brings me into the lives of others and with this piece I was able to better appreciate my own life. 

Peach Pit

There's a book my mom told me about a while ago in which a boy carried around a peach pit wherever he went. I forget why. 

This boy was separated from his family somehow but as an adult his sister met him by chance and knew it was him when she saw him playing with a peach pit, worn smooth from years of her brother holding and turning it over and over in his hands. 

- Something like that. 

I think I would lose interest in a peach pit very quickly and lose it or get rid of it, and envy the boy for keeping it his whole life, long enough to wear it down smooth and almost make it a part of himself. 

I've recently been thinking of uncomfortable lumps of thought as peach pits. They have all these jagged edges that jaby heart, my soul, my brain while I think of them and, like the peach pit I cannot let them go. 

But almost like a rock in a stream (though that would take forever and a day), the more my thoughts touch and wash over the peach pit, the more the sharp edges erode. Bit by bit, the little thoughts that come with the big weight smooth out and I am left with a smooth peach pit that has become part of me because I eroded it myself with my own repetitive thoughts. The weight of it is always there, and it takes up space, but it doesn't jab into anything like it used to. 

And I'm not talking about eroding a stone with repetitive happy thoughts. I'm referring to what authors describe as "turning the thought over again and again in her head."  My thoughts need to be thought, but each time, it's for the better, because my thought clump, my heavy sharp rock, my peach pit is going to hurt a lot until my thinking runs its course. 

Tar Bubbles

My mom just taught me that when it gets hot enough, the black stuff workers put on the roads to fill in cracks (or whatever they put it on for) gets really pliable and the air underneath them expands and "tar bubbles" form!  She was bending over popping them and had to point them out to me. I guess this was an exciting part of her childhood and it didn't come up for her to share it with me until I was 20. They're not very spectacular. Not even as good as bubble wrap. When you press on them, they just kind of deflate gently. 

The cool part, though, is that something that makes up our road system, which we trust and love (in spite of traffic, bumps and construction), melts in the heat!  I think of roads as strong and firm. But tar isn't. I suppose its elastic properties fill cracks while preventing new ones or something like that. And that discovery makes me like roads more, in spite of those ugly black tar lines. 

Folks, it is hot out. Hot enough for the paint on the roads to melt and transfer onto the tires of moving vehicles. I forget to look in winter but I'm almost positive someone cleans the paint off the roads that gets tracked around by cars driving over lines at intersections and such. 

I wonder if car manufacturers have a formulated "eau de nouvelle car" that they use to drench the interior right before their finished product leaves the factory. 

It has to be secret because if it wasn't people would be spraying it in their cars 'till kingdom come and not need to buy a new one because the scent is so important to the authentic feel of a fresh ride. But, man, if there were candles, air fresheners, deodorants, that would be a world one step closer to the perfection toward which it likes to strive. 

The shoe store smell is another nice one. 

I recently learned that it takes 100 chinchillas to make one chinchilla coat. 

I think coats should be made out of road kill. They would be just as effective, and, if caught in time, tissue deterioration would not be a problem. 

Today I ate some nice, I offensive pasta salad. Afterward, I realized that the meat in it wasn't chicken. It chewed too easily. 

I had just eaten tuna,

My worst enemy. 

I was cheered by the thought that tuna isn't always watery and smelly. And actually sometimes it's even alive.  

I have a teacher who often begins her answers to questions with, "it's called.." And I find this to be derogatory and dismissive. 

For example, "do we get a list of things we need for state boards?" ... "It's called, make your own List and jot it down as you go."

 I'm not sure if I should confront her in front of the class in order to gain their support or one-on-one. 

The actual solution is to appreciate her uniqueness and realize that I probably have annoying quirks like that too. 

Dang. 

Michigandering

I am on summer vacation to Michigan. 

"Pure Michigan" is the tourist bureau's slogan for it. 

This morning I had I diet vernors soda, which is a Michigan kind of ginger ale - pure Michigan. Like Stoney tangawizi, which is pure Kenya ginger ale. I'm becoming quite the connoisseur. From west to east it becomes stronger and less sweet. 

Recently I passed a vehicle on a four-lane road with its back windows down, which caught my attention. I found that that was the purpose because the backseat passenger (who was an adult man) was entertaining himself by sitting sideways and trying to make eye contact with everyone his car passed. We had a fun moment. It wasn't a wierd moment. 

It was pure Michigan. 

We're on the second leg of the journey today; having slept over in the Detroit area last night. We, are going Up North. 

Up North is where you're allowed to be a hick and joke about them like you know about them if you were born there. 

My dad was born there. I've been to the brown trout festival (I wore a purple fairy dress but I still watched them gutting fish and stood around while grampa talked with his old hearty up north friends). My grandpa owns hunting land. We call it, "the land."  I am very proud of this information. When we pass the "up north" rest stop on the way to our destination and walk in the door to greet the taxidermied bears, I feel a sense of inheritance. 

I'm proud of my heritage up here. I'm proud to not be a tourist. (Let's face it; nobody wants to be a for-real tourist.) 

My rule is that if I am "with," accepted by or am related to someone in an area I am no longer touring the area. The line is fuzzy. Sometimes I jump back and forth. 

I like to think I have some hick blood in me. I've been told my dad's the quirkiest one of my parents, and that I'm the most like him. Maybe it has something to do with my northern aura. 

We just passed a diner called "Ma's Girls. ". Enough said. 

We also passed the Up North store without going in. Dad said we were breaking with tradition. Mom commented that the hand driers in the restrooms were always quite powerful. 

There are more hand driers in Michigan. Less paper towels. I think Michiganders like their trees. 

This is a good time. 

My Ass

I was visiting a friend who had some friends over. These were friends I had never met. A guy and his girlfriend. 

To the girl, I said, "I like your skirt!"

"Thanks. The guys were making fun of me last time for being a slut because I was wearing animal print and only black girls wear animal prints."

I laughed and indicated that I believed there may be some truth to that statement (but really? Animal prints are for all men. For the record.)

From there the conversation was overtaken by boyfriend whose thesis is "never trust a black man."

Several comments were exchanged during this little smoke break while we were outside that made me feel increasingly uncomfortable. I voiced my opinion that this conversation is based on stereotypes and is racist and in many cases is incorrect, citing my experience with Philadelphian strangers. 

Boyfriend comes back as if an hour's worth of words had been held back and I had hammered just the right point to break the dam. 

It becomes evident that my experience pales in comparison to his. That is enough said. I apologize about halfway through the rush of words and thank him for sharing (which was really a hint that I had gotten his point and wanted him to stop talking and get on with my life). He continues sharing. 

Have I spoken yet about people who lack the actual tissue in their brains that regulates conversation? For example, most importantly, detecting the other person's interest level and attention span. Also, allowing the other to talk. And listening. And also having a purpose for talking (as opposed to talking for the sake of talking). 

Sometimes I forget to whom I've said things and to whom I haven't yet. 

I hope to be thought an excellent conversationalist. 

An excellent conversationalist knows how to gracefully back out of an unpleasant and fruitless conversation. 

I am not yet an excellent conversationalist. 

Now comes the funny part: I brought this event in my life into conversation with my parents. 

And my mom says,

"You know,

You lived in Africa for a while."

There are black people in Africa. This is funny. There are no white people in Africa except me. 

I had a large sample of people to study from. I met some people I wouldn't trust, and some people I would trust with my soul in a cardboard box for 500 years. 

Never trust a black man my ass.

Epidermis

When a motorcycle and a car interact, the car generally wins, I think. 

In the same way, when a shoe interacts with a foot in such a way that it rubs off a few layers of the epidermis, it seems as if the shoe has won. 

I will not allow the shoes to win this war. They have won battles, but my feet are resilient and they will fight back. 

These two pairs of Goodwill black flats are just the ticket to dressing for success. 

I will not let my $6.48 go to waste. 

I paid a lot more for a piece of shape wear that looked like a vintage-y high-waisted swimsuit bottom. Modest and unique, but worth it only if I use it enough. 

Just like them shoes. 

I went swimming outside for the first time this summer not long ago. The blue is incomparably happiness-filled and faceted with light. There are bodies of water indoors, but to stretch out in this water under the sun brought back so many memories of summers passed where I would swim alone at Aunt B's pool and let my thoughts wander as the solitude and he coolness of the water and the form of the swimming took over my consciousness. 

Lately, I've been craving French fries with ranch dressing. Is ranch becoming more popular in the world, or had it always been this popular? Or is it just becoming a larger part of my life as I grow older?

Ketchup (please don't make me spell it the right way) just doesn't compare. 

McDonald's had caught on. They charge extra after two packs of ranch. Two packs is enough for no one. (Or at least not enough for me.)

Maybe fries will pass and another food will occupy my mind. 

Whenever it's time. 

Flashing Lights

The other day I brake-tapped someone for the first time. 

That's a thing, right?

Where someone's driving too close behind me and I send a message to them by tapping my brakes several times and driving slower than i was before until they get the picture and "get off my ass" as my friend would say?

It was partially successful. He slowed down for about two minutes and then I didn't have the heart to be that annoying brake-tapper in front of a whole line of cars. 

It's so much easier to try and appease the cars behind me and drive as fast as I think they want me to. 

I drive fast a lot and on multi-lane roads get out of the way of people faster than me, but man, if I'm on an unfamiliar curvy road, you'd better believe I'm gonna drive however dang fast I want to. 

(Oh, and when the speed limit decreases, if I remember, I sloooow down just to be legal as well as annoying/a reminder of the limit to cars behind me.)

Speaking of getting out of the way leads me to think about switching lanes, which in turn causes thoughts in my mind about turn signals. The other day, I didn't use my turn signal for the first time and I felt like such a hypocrite for hating on all of the people who I frequently witness failing to use their turn signals. 

I thought this was something we learned in driver's ed. 

I thought the turn signal thing is right next to your ring finger so you can flip it up and down without thinking. 

I thought that people forgot to use their signals once in a while and it was very infrequent. 

I was wrong. 

People, in fact, either did not attend driver's education, have broken turn signals, have very bad muscle disorders of the left hand, or, out of hatred for the lives of other drivers on the road, 

They have made the conscious decision never to use their signals. 

This. 

Is an abomination. 

On another note about flashing lights, we all know about school zones and the flashing lights that warn all vehicles to drive at 15 miles per hour, especially around elementary schools, during times when kids are outside and thus more able to run out into the roads in an effort to end the misery. 

My gov/soc teacher told me that people who happen to live within school zones can't run in their yards faster than 15 miles per hour. This made me curious as to how fast a human can run. 

It's nice that the community cares enough about not hitting kids at 35 miles per hour and hitting them at 15 instead. I can tell because we all obey the rule. We don't even go the typical ten above. I like to think it doesn't all have to do with not getting ticketed; I think the community cares about our future generation and thinks of the elementary school as a sort of little treasure box with fragile and valuable boys and girls inside. 

I'm always so proud of the cars that get into the left-turn lane. That means they're a parent about to drop a kid off. You go, mom, dad! You had a kid and by taking on that responsibility you are heroic!

School's out, and the lights are off for ten heavenly weeks. As I tear through the school zone at 35 miles per hour, I think of how much it sucks that I'll still be in beauty school when the light begins flashing again. 

My mom told me I need to talk with mentors about how to like school better. 

I will. 

Funny

The other day I was thinking about men. 

This is not unusual. 

But assessing my man situation, I decided I needed to be pursued by men instead of pursuing them. 

Fat chance. 

Mom always says I shouldn't have to always be the one to drive to other people's houses; they should want to come to me too. Well, besides the fact that guys aren't allowed in the house, I'm pretty sure I would have no friends if I didn't drive to them. Because they're worth it to me but not the other way around and that's okay. 

Just as long as we get to see each other. 

I have this habit of watching my phone as if it's a flower growing. If I wait long enough and water it (and maybe watching will help) I'll be rewarded with a flower opening in front of my eyes. Or in this case, a text message from someone I want to hear from. 

(This is a negative way to waste time and thought energy.)

So anyhow, I start playing out these scenarios in my head of men pursuing me. Two of them. 

On my lunch break, in the park, I walk by a semi-suitable man and picture him running up behind me and saying, no lie, "I was dared by my friends to ask out the next girl I saw walking barefoot and it was you."  And I almost expected it to happen. It didn't. 

At the end of my day, as I strode to the back of the lot, I spotted a guy about my age or a little bit older who may or may not have been watching me from the hot environment of his car. As I neared my own car, I could swear it was he who moved his car from the previous spot right into the one next to mine. Without a glance in my direction, off he goes to planet fitness and I begin to imagine that every day he sees me walking to my car before he goes inside to work out and he's finally starting to get closer to me. Maybe he'll follow me home. Maybe tomorrow he'll park next to me and say hi. Maybe someday we'll get married. As he sauntered into the distance I watched him incredulously. It must have looked like I was checking him out. I don't even remember what he looked like. 

So I got into my car and probably that day turned the air on full blast and it probably started working right as I turned into my driveway. 

I am thankful to God that my family has Glorious Window Units That Work. So when I go inside my car sweat evaporates and I am happy. 

I like to spray perfume in my car so it smells extra-nice. It doesn't have bad smells in it, but it's kind of a non-elegant car so to make it smell elegant is a nice idea. It doesn't seem to be working anymore. Perhaps the summer heat is attacking the scent molecules? Maybe I should spray it in my vents. 

Speaking of vents, there's an air vent-grate thing right where customers stand while they purchase items at a consignment shop I, well I don't frequent it, so I guess I occasion it. Of course I didn't notice this grate and was wearing heels and the heel went right through and the rubber coating of the heel was stripped off and I haven't gotten around to gluing it back on. 

My natural reaction to everything is to make a very surprised-sounding "oh!" And I found out that the nice older ladies who run the shop never noticed the grate either. 

It was a very funny incident. 

Bubble Lips

I have recently discovered the joy of Instagram. It is a website where I can take photographs and share them with the world, and where the world shares pictures back with me. 

I have found that I actually enjoy looking at the photos other people post instead of only being concerned about my own witty, or interesting, or thoughtful images. This makes me feel that my use of Instagram is a positive way to waste time. 

On this site, I came up with a name: LadyCashew. I should have just made it my real name so as not to confuse people. I'd rather they know who I am. I don't even like cashews even more. But there is a girl who has found and followed me who had a great name: Bubble Lips. I don't know if I have ever met her since her name is so ambiguous and in fact if the photos I see are selfies, she is a 12-year-old, lipstick-wearing woman with a mature sense of humor who likes my face paint. I am flattered. 

Speaking of lipstick - a moment not to be trivialized by a thumbnail-sized photo on a phone screen - one of my best friends got her makeup done professionally done  recently at school during our makeup unit. 

We all have to get our makeup done but this is is a pre-trained makeup artist demonstrating makeup application for the rest of us and this girl is the one who always makes jokes about her appearance and pretends she's accepted the way she looks. 

(The problem here is the word "accepted" because that implies that there is some horrible void or imperfection that actually exists in her appearance.)

When the artist finished, the girl started walking towards the bathroom and we were all so excited for her to see herself. "Stop it, you're gonna make me cry!" But she was already crying. 

Her makeup was fine though. 

The artist is a fellow student of ours. As she came into the bathroom we all left. I was the last to leave. The two of them don't socialize much but the hug between them was better than in the movies. I had to leave, it was so beautiful. 

I don't know if she knew why she was crying. 

But I feel like she has a really hard life and does her best with her son and her mom and her work, and school, and to her, she feels like it's not good enough. But when her classmate put all that love into her face, it said, "you're worth the effort, girlfriend, and this is what you look like on the inside."  

I think she looked beautiful. And she was radiant like someone who's awesome should be. 

The next day she was back to normal, but I don't think anyone cared. We all think she's beautiful with or without. 

I hope she caught a glimpse that day of how radiant she always is though. 

To clean or not to clean

Okay, so I'm thinking right now about the awkward situation where you're in a bathroom not your own and you really feel the need to clean the toilet but there's no brush in sight and no bowl cleaner either. 

Now, I'm not talking about needing to clean the seat before I sit on it - I'm talking about when I walk into the bathroom of a person I really love who just obviously has too much stress in his or her life to clean the bathroom and there's a gross ring in the toilet. Or worse, when I walk in and use a nice clean toilet and leave a little behind in the bowl. (Not on the seat, that's easy to wipe off.)

Sucks, doesn't it?

I'm also not talking about this party I went to where there were wadded-up paper towels in a mound overflowing out of the trash can and it smelled like pot and looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the people before these people moved in. I think those people deserve to live in their squalor. 

Okay - but in the situation where the bowl's just kind of gross and I would get gratification out of cleaning it, I guess the host might figure it out and be hurt that I was disgusted by their toilet enough to clean it. So I'd have to come up with something like, "Mrs. Jones, I left a mess in your toilet so I hope you don't mind I used some of your cleaning supplies to take care of it."  And if that's the truth, then even better. But if the bowl was clean and you made a mess, you can clean it without saying anything. Just make sure to get the brush sudsy so it can stay clean-ish afterwards. 

But what if there isn't a brush and some cleaner? Gasp!  You can hope your host will blame it on her brother or some other guest (unless she lives alone and you were the only guest). Or decide you don't care what your host thinks of your intestines. But let's face it, you care. 

You could ask for supplies in either situation using the excuse that you took a big dump and need to clean up. But I would only suggest that if it's true. Because if it's not, you need practice learning to let things go. Unless the toilet may somehow be growing something that is likely to mutate into a public safety hazard. 

This is such a problem. To clean or not to clean, to ask or not to ask, to explain or not to explain. 

But here's one thing you definitely should never do: be an I-only-urinate/defecate-at-home snob. Many valuable life experiences happen in the bathrooms of other people, other places, other countries. 

Family?

I was going through security at the airport on Easter and one of the officers asked how I was doing, using my name, since of course he was reading my ID and boarding pass. I tell him how I'm really happy in spite of the fact that I'm away from most of my family because I got to see my sister and he responds with, "I get to spend Easter with my airport family here."  And I, being a little thick-skulled, go, "aw, really? Does it feel like family here among the employees?"

His response:

"No."

Shakes head. 

Ohhhh. "Sorry," I whisper. 

I hope he gets a better job soon. Or gets to retire. But everyone else working there seemed either grumpy or younger than him so I can see how he wouldn't feel very connected to his coworkers. 

The thing was, he had such a good attitude towards me: "and how are you doing today, Danielle?"  Not just, "next, please!"

I hope he has a wife and he treats her like a queen. I bet he does. 

Grr

So I wrote "Grr" as the title of this blog post quite a while ago because of thus incident where I was discussing my struggle with acne with a bunch of girls from my class. All of them wanted to contribute their two cents. Do you take a multivitamin? You know, it's all about washing your face.

I forget what else they said. But it compelled me to text my mom something like, "these girls are blah blah blah.  Bitches."

(Side note- if all curse words are four letters I'm not quite sure if I should spell it biches but my tablet is saying that's not a word. So I'm guessing not.)

My mom didn't answer.

She didn't answer until I apologized for cursing. She said it had nothing to do with my word choice but I know how she works.

Anyway, it reminds me of my good friend who got stuck in a public restroom at her job with a bunch of strangers who started giving her a ton of advice on how to fix her acne.

Um, helooooo...she's been to doctors and she's tried everything you've said. She's researched drugs and even cut milk out of her diet. It's not like she's this ignorant girl who doesn't wash her face.

Bitches.

It also makes me think of people playing doctor with other health issues. I've struggled with some things and people think they know exactly how to fix me. My favorite is when people think I should just pray more, or maybe they can just pray for me and exercise a demon or something.

Really.  Lies. They know nothing. Just like I know nothing about their lives. God forbid I should ever play doctor for someone else.

Grr.

Hang on: let it be said that these girls I mentioned at the beginning of my post are now some of my best friends at school and I love them dearly. 

Prints

I pinched a chunk of my middle finger out  trying to use my blow drier, connecting a stubborn attachment. I did a little pain dance and sucked on it and wondered what I would do about sanitation if I was in a real salon and then moved on. 

Over the next few days, I've been putting "new skin" on the wound, which is a sort of nail-polish-y yellow protective coating that is leprous-looking when it starts peeling off. The last time it peeled off, I studied the wound. 

I had been kind of excited about getting it because it was deep and I thought I would have this enigmatic fingerprint that had a blank spot in it. I have one finger already that has a wierd blank spot on the middle with dots instead of lines and think it's so cool how easy it would be for the cops to catch me if I committed a sloppy crime. 

Upon studying the wound, however, I could see LINES (!) emerging on the lower layers of my skin. Gosh!

I remember watching NCIS once and learning that if you poke a lot of holes in your fingertips you can burn the prints off by setting them in pineapple juice : "a very painful process," says dr. Ducky. 

I'm not about to do that because I'm not after anonymity - I just have a preoccupation with uniqueness. 

I am so obsessed with the idea of having "special" fingerprints, fingerprints that set me apart from everybody else, that I'm glad the blow dryer ate the pad of my finger. 

The funny thing I just realized is that my fingerprints are actually already different from everyone else's anyway!

Road Effects

Driving this morning provided a new visual experience for me. Thin snow layers drifted across the road the way sand shifts on sand dunes in epic movies where people must make long journeys across the desert.

I dreamed last night that my dad was blow-drying a mannequin with a round brush. Mind you, he was catching hair underneath, but I could tell he had done it before and had just never told me about it. He was in my classroom, working on Shelby the mannequin head, like it was his closet passion, like my new education choice had awakened in him this desire to learn the same things.

Like, instead of going to gun club meetings, he was really going to sit in on night classes at pulse beauty school.

I didn't know whether to be impressed, or jealous, or horrified that the father I thought I knew was a lie.

I also dreamed about the TV show "being human"
And taking a walk through strawberry fields
But you couldn't see the strawberries because they were covered with bouncy, sticky, awesome-to-play-on marshmallow fluff that was browned on top.
And there were fields of mushrooms too.
And there was some sort of dissonance in fairy land where all the blond people were going gray and turning into greedy monsters inside who could lash out at any moment, and some of my traveling companions had been blonde, and as they turned gray, I began to distrust them.
One of them was my younger sister.
I don't have a younger sister in real life.
Apparently the blondes were not having more fun.
At the end of this long journey
Where I kept deviating to roll through the marshmallow fluff
We sat on picnic tables with our feet on the benches
And our parents came in trailers with peanut butter and jelly to ask how it was and take us home
And there was no epic monster fear
Or fairyland
Or vampire stealing blood and catching a skin-pitting disease from a cancerous patient he killed in a "coup de grace" which was really just hunger and fear of being caught stealing from the blood bank in a hospital
Or werewolf catching the skin-destroying disease from his vampire roommate
Or dark, soaked scene in the rain where the two confront some Gandalf-figure and he tells them he won't help them because they brought the trouble on themselves
Or tribal leader dressed in animal skins wading through the strawberry fields to warn of the blonde uprising.

Even if Dad is a closet hairdresser, it's much better sitting next to him on a bench than going through all that.

It's like finally getting through Candy Land and getting to knock your piece onto the carpet!

Sad Eyes

I'm sitting alone in my school on the couch and I am so content.

It takes so much effort to be around people.

For some reason, nobody came to this corner, this comfy couch, except a few nice people who didn't try to talk to me.

Right before I left the classroom, soon to discover this place of rest, a girl told me I had such a spirit of happiness and she would certainly tell me the day that I had a sad face.

This is now in past tense.

The sad face was to come sooner than than I expected.

I found out as my teacher made an announcement (directed at me) to the entire class that the comfy chairs I had been sitting on were off-limits and were basically part of the teacher's lounge.

I was so embarrassed and wanted to cry.

I asked in front of the class if she was talking about the seats I was sitting in and then apologized much.

Somehow I felt that I redeemed myself in that way.

But the thing is, I didn't know so I shouldn't have felt bad. And so my bliss wasn't wrong while it was happening.

I went home and decided it was a good day after all.

After a five
Hour
Nap
Full of dreaming
And resolving in my sleep.

Green Light

Driving around after an ice storm is a beautiful experience.

What I mean is the trees buckling under the weight of this beautiful ice, strong and immovable trees, not breaking but yielding to the wight of solid water.

My favorite part, though, was when the ice began to fall. It was as if God was glittering the earth. The sides of the roads I drove on were covered in shards of bright, sharp, glass-like ice.

Speaking of glitter, have you ever noticed that glitter glue never works?  Ever. It's like, you buy it, and the tube his too hard to squeeze, or it only squeezes in the middle and you can't get any out of the ends. And then you get frustrated and put it away for a year and it seals SOLID shut, because it is glue, after all, and then you end up cutting it open. Why doesn't Roseart just give us a dang jar?

I'm sitting on a train now. This train is constructed in all shades of gray and has fluorescent lighting that gives a yellowish cast.  The funny thing is, I think if I redecorated this train in rich blue velvet and gold-leaf ceilings and French wallpaper and dark wooden hand railings, it would still be the blandest place on earth. Even if there were incandescent lightbulbs. It's just the nature of being on a train - the movement, the feeling of necessary evil-ness of getting from here to there.

I am also wearing lace floral tights, a peach dress, floral boots, an aqua long-sleeved shirt and a light blue scarf.

Dress code at school is all.  Black, and Today is Saturday. 

I saw a quote by Will Farrell that goes something like this: " before you marry someone, you should make them use a computer with really slow internet to find out who they REALLY are. "

I'm glad no potential mates were with me in Kenya. Kenya has pretty sketchy internet.

When I ran track as a sprinter during high school as the slowest member of the team (every team needs one of those), starts were very important. Hear the gunshot and GO!  I felt that I was not a pro at this. I always waited for other people to start just to make sure I wasn't false-starting.

Ladies and gentlemen, these days things are different. I am redeeming myself while in my car.

If I'm in front of everybody at a green light, I GO.

At first, I waited, hesitant because if other cars weren't driving beside me then I must be doing something wrong. But then I did a little self-talk: if the light is green, you can GO! 

So now, while drivers to either side of me are just realizing the light us green, I'm catching the next green light down the line and earning a few points for my former runner self.

Debra

Today everyone in my class is shampooing a woman named Debra.

She's a brunette with no eyelashes who never quite seems to look you in the eye. And her eyebrows are so drawn on.

She's our very first mannequin head and see are all so excited to learn how to do everything to her hair!  Each of us has exactly the same one, no doubt made from exactly the same mold, but if I stare at a few of them for long enough, I can pretend they all look just a little bit different from one another. Maybe we give them each a soul.

You have no idea how relieved I felt to succeed at shampooing and conditioning Debra's hair. I had been afraid that after our first practical exercise I would become the one student who couldn't do anything and had to get extra help for everything because she just couldn't understand, because that's what happens to me sometimes and I always thought I was bad at handling hair.

I think I'm gonna take her home this weekend and paint her up so there's no mistaking she's mine.

Thinking starry night or something.

After this initial relief I feel like u felt when I walked into the third floor in Paley library at Temple university where all of the art books were. I discovered that I was living a child's dream, just with advanced picture books - stacks and stacks of them, as far ad my eye could see. Pictures in colors I could only imagine, just waiting for me to crack open their covers.

This time it's like I get the Barbie head, except it's the real deal. Every girl wants to play with Barbie's hair, and cut it, and braid it - but I get the real hair AND the education to go with it so Barbie's haircut doesn't turn into a hack job.

Instead of fear there us now apprehension.

Last night my mom and I were talking about hair and my dad came down to talk about how this morning while it was still dark he saw a raccoon running down the street.

Talk about a change of subject.

But he tries to be supportive. He's supportive of what I'm doing, just not interested in the details. Kind of like how I tend to leave the room when my parents start to talk about finances or my sister starts to talk about her job or her new apartment.

I pride myself on being interested on what other people have to say, but then maybe I misplace that pride. Just like this one guy I met who was very interested in telling me about his social strengths and weaknesses who told me, "I used to think I was very good at dealing with people, but I'm finding out that I'm actually not good at all!"

And I thought it was good that he realized that because if he uses the words "dealing with" when it comes to interacting with people, that means he definitely doesn't do it well.

Debra will teach us all how to interact well with plastic people well! And maybe even real people, if we call her by name and talk to her and treat her gently. I have high hopes for the future of this group of future cosmetology professionals.

Beauty school

Whenever I use the phrase 'beauty school,' I think of the movie grease and the girl Frankie who failed tinting and talks to her friend with horrible pink hair.  And then an angel comes to her and sings: "beauty school dropout, go back to high school!"

So I make a point to use the phrase 'cosmetology school' to avoid those associations in my own head.

I made this comment to the class that was questionable: "I'm so relieved to meet you all; I was really worried you would all be like these really tough girls who were all pierced and tattooed and like mean and you all seem like really normal and I really hope we can be a group of good friends."

Um, so, this presents the idea that I don't like tattoos and piercings and I only like people who are like me and I also was just talking g to fill space. And it like pressures people who are badass to not be themselves.

I hope they forget unit if they didn't like it.

I hope Paul Mitchell doesn't test on animals.

That would suck.

Showers

Our bodies sing. 

Somebody told me that who knew about electrons and all the space within us. I thought it was beautiful. 

You know how our heads feel the water tempe differently than the rest of our bodies in the shower?

I change the temperature several times throughout the duration of my shower. I wonder if other people do it. 

When I was in another country, shower temperature didn't matter so much. But my hosts didn't let me skip a day.  If I didn't feel dirty, or felt like skipping a day, I had to answer twenty questions as to why I didn't want to take a shower, and unusually from srevetal people. People in developing countries are cleaner than we imagine them to be. Man - they use shoe polish over there. Do I use shoe polish?  Does my dad own show polish even?  Only people in the military and old people own kiwi black. 

But our singing bodies, these are why I believe so strongly in picking up vibes from people. Our energy is real and it travels outside of us to either people's bodies. we can feel each other's energy and it can change our lives. 

When I was in Kenya I used the word vibes and wondered a little if people understood. But I think they did. 

At the sky

I was driving home from my friend's and saw the moon, big and orange-ish, with a dark cloud layered in front of it. It looked as if, after receiving a lesson on how to draw the eyeball first and THEN draw the eyelids over it, a student had taken an inky brush and made a cloud to look like an eyelid over the moon. 

First world problem- all of my new favorite artist's many songs (her immense talent I have determined by hearing two) are UNFINDABLE online and on any music site ever. 

Also, first world victory: I found a parking spot in my part of the mall parking garage where the oppression of the garage-static is lifted, just like when Sylvia Plath talks about her bell jar being lifted by electroshock therapy just enough for a little fresh air in to give her a little bit of will to go on or a little bit of something to wake up. 

There's no time to look at the sky when it's freaking cold outside. Screw it. Find your cat and curl up. 

But there's this one verse in Isaiah in the Bible:  "do you not know? Have you not heard? .... He sits enthroned above the circle of the earth, and its people are like grasshoppers. He stretches out the heavens like a canopy, and stretches them out like a tent to live in."

And I think about how big the sky can be and how God uses the sky as a hammock. A pretty rad hammock. So the sky is a cool place. 

That's another thing! God doesn't get cold! Not that I know of. Jesus got cold, but God is the great and indescribable I Am; he is above temperature. He can BE fire and be comfortable. 

YAY GOD!

Prophet

I dreamed that I was trying so hard to catch a stink bug in this transparent compartmentalized box with a hole in it. 

When I awoke, there was a stink bug chilling on the straw in my drinking cup. 

I also dreamed that my mom got a new mascara that was really thick and black and wonderful and I was using it. 

In the morning, I was in a hurry and borrowed my mom's more accessible makeup. I grabbed a mascara tube I had not seen before. It was luxurious. (I just went out and bought a tube for myself.)

I am such a prophet. 

If only I could have dreams about bigger things. 

Then again, I kind of enjoy just being a minor prophet with very little pressure. 

On to another dream:

I was swimming back and forth in this setting where if I swam too far in one direction, I would start to run into people studying at desks. Sometimes I might slow down and read book titles (which I don't remember) or try to talk to the students (who didn't answer). I had a few swimming buddies, and if we swam too far in the other direction, we would come to a place with dingy ceiling tiles and bright fluorescent lights above the water. But perhaps I wasn't being clear about the library/student area: it is underwater, or at the level at which we swam. Above the library section was a still pool/garden in the home of a rich woman who was hosting us for some unknown reason. We arrived by carriage and marveled at her plants, lily pads, and gentle waterfalls in our swimsuits. 

Once I had a dream where I was bound and trapped in a pool along with one other person and when I was released I was admitted to a cruel and twisted finishing school for girls, the kind I've read about in novels, only I was a latecomer and that have me more of a denial that it was really happening, more of a drive to overthrow the school government. I think eventually we ended up in the headmistress' quarters, which included a huge faux leapord skin rug (this may be from another dream), and there were several of us with no idea of what we were doing, except maybe looking for something in the dark, but we got caught and the lights went on and it was all very calm and we offered to read a story to the headmistress in bed. 

Disclaimer:  I may have embellished that last dream for lack of true recall. 

Maybe all of my dreams really are prophetic, really truly. It's likely I'll talk to people in a library soon, and maybe annoy them, and I'm riding the train tomorrow, so dingy lights are taken care of. My friend takes me swimming sometimes, check. 

I should take myself more seriously. 

(heheh)