YOLO

"YOLO is the battle cry of drunk girls at bars just before they surrender their bodies to guys they don't actually like."

Apparently this is what I said in response to my friend as she cried "YOLO!" just before jumping into a cold lake.

The things I say.

This isn't the only time this friend has informed me of either witty, cutting, or stupid remarks I have uttered in the past.

"I SAID that?! Nuh-uh. Wow. I'm amazing."

It's usually fun being reminded of these things I say except when they are stupid. It is simultaneously disconcerting because I like to think I remember everything I say.

This is a perfect example of how memories are emotional. My remarks are remembered because they had an emotional or possibly stunning effect on my friend, just as I remember things she says that strike my emotional chords.

It's scary that we don't remember the same things - that I can have no emotional connection at all to my words but she will remember them for years.

You only live once.

That's why I dance wildly to good music in my car. Great acoustics, volume as loud as I want, and plenty of traffic lights as opportunities to rock out.

I'm reminded of a morning back when my sister and I still attended high school. Mom was waiting in the carpool line with us and observed the two kids driving in front of us whipping their heads around to some hardcore song we couldn't hear.

"Wow, look at them," she remarked, as if this behavior was something unusual.

And my sister replied, "Well, that's what a lot of high schoolers do to wake up and get through tough and depressing mornings," which is valid because high school is hell and music can be heaven.

Sister and I commonly rode with our neighbors who had excellent hipster taste in music and expanded our music horizons beyond the Evangelical realm. We often bobbed our heads in the car on our way to school just like the people in front of us.

But not in the mom van. Mom likes to ride in silence with her thoughts, or lately, alone with an audio book.

The mom story is an example of someone seeing this behavior and not being inspired to grasp life by the horns, be silly and wild, enjoy music to the fullest, and take every possible opportunity to be joyful.

That's part of why I dance in my car - I want people to see me and laugh, and then think, "that looks like fun," and, "why haven't I been doing that all my life," and "why shouldn't I start now?" I want to add joy to the world and show them that it's okay to act nutty because I'm doing it and I'm not causing any car accidents.

Thing is, I don't think it's catching on. Occasionally I look at the faces of other drivers while sitting at lights and such, and I'm pretty sure all of their mothers just died AND they're snacking on lemon wedges and pineapple pieces and experiencing an allergic reaction to both.

It's ridiculous.

I've only ever talked to one other person who claims to dance wildly in his car.  This was a man on an online dating site who was probably just trying to say whatever he thought I wanted him to to get me to like him, so that doesn't count.

You may only live once, but ugh. Please don't use that as an excuse to date online.

Side note: I have two coworkers who have built very strong relationships with significant others they met online.  Good for them.

So anyway, you heartless people - get a life and be cheerful about something! You only freaking live once! Use your driving time to be grateful for stuff, talk to God, listen to good music, and dance (if that's your thing). The fewer lemon faces out there on the roads, the better.

Show Up

Remember how I was talking about those Christmas parties? I went to the fancy one, discovered the Vanilla Melonball beverage, and still made it home safely.

I made friends with the servers walking around with trays of finger food.

I remained in my seat while my "plus one" made friends with every person in the room. I knew I brought the right girl.

I skeptically ate my cold penne Alfredo which had been sautéed in front of me not 60 seconds ago.

My friends told me not to trust the valet parking and so are parked on the street. There was room since everybody else felt trusting that night. Added bonus: I didn't have to ask the valets awkwardly for change for my 20 to tip them, or worse: I didn't have to accidentally forget to tip them and start feeling bad once I remembered halfway home.

There was a McDonald's right across the street in case the food stunk any more than it did. - the finger food really did make the cut though.

And my coworkers spent a good deal of time outside smoking so I spent a good deal of time by myself, and also in the photo booth with my friend. We got a plethora of fun pics, running out at the end of each session and asking the guy Manning the booth, "can we go again??"

The curls I had given my "plus one" had fallen before we got there but she loved them anyway, and one of my coworkers trusted me enough to clip in extensions and give her an updo even after I had done a mediocre dye job on her hair a few months ago.

I got bored at one point and started taking artsy fartsy pictures of the decor: the centerpieces, the wallpaper. The staff probably thought I was either casing the joint or trying to steal their ideas and make my own Ballroom business.

I'm glad my boss paid for me to attend, and I'm glad I paid for my "plus one" to attend. I got my money's worth because she had a blast, and my boss got his money's worth just because I showed up.

Sometimes you just gotta show up.

Pilots

You know how sometimes you forget about one of your favorite albums or artists and then have a resurgence of love for them a few months down the line? That has happened to me in the last couple of days with the band "Twenty One Pilots." Its name comes from a story about a man, his son, and defective parachutes. That's all I remember.

This band captured my attention a couple of years ago at a friend's friend's house. I liked these friends because they listened to alt music and accepted me right away. We had a pancake-making fest and they were appreciative - they let me pray over the meal before they started eating even though they didn't share my faith.

They're the kind of people who play music all the time. It's distracting for me because I'm a lyric-listener. Having a conversation and trying to follow a song's lyrics at the same time is too much even for my genius brain.

I heard these lyrics and searched them very soon after returning home from the pancake gathering:

"Take the pain, ignite it! Tie a noose around your mind, loose enough to breathe fine and tie it to a tree, and tell it you belong to me, this ain't a noose, this is a leash, and I have news for you: you must obey me."

Brilliant.

Looking back, I didn't even realize how very depressed I was when I heard those words. I couldn't believe someone had put a song together that recognized deep pain the same way a very emo/hardcore band might and offered hope at the same time, the way an annoying Christian pop song might.  And they put intelligent rap together with good music.  I fell in love.

I basically proposed marriage to the lead singer in a letter, too. I found the original note recently (back then I scanned it and sent it by email through his agent; who knows if it ever got to him) and it wasn't actually as bad as I remembered, but I was obviously deeply affected by the music he and his band members created.

Listening to it now is bringing back ghosts of the feelings I felt when I used to play it over and over again while making art or driving long distances. I would feel so strongly that I hardly knew what to do with myself.

The dude was singing about the intense mental suffering I was going through, or had gone through and was healing from.  Not heartbreak or situational suffering, but things people with chemical brain imbalances (aka anxiety, depression, whatever) can relate to.  He was acknowledging suicide and self-harm in an understanding light. There was always an undertone of hope, but the real-ness was stunning. Any band can say, "it hurts so much" but somehow 21 pilots was different.

He also slipped in Biblical references and secret "Christianese" (Christianese is a language that Christians use to the unintentional exclusion of others) that made me feel even more connected to him. I won't bother to put in quotes because I just don't feel like it, except one: "we're broken people."

I can probably get a laugh out of any other Christian with a sense of humor about that phrase - overused and overtrue, it means that humans are imperfect, hurting, sick, messed-up - you name it - meaning our relationship with God is broken. Instead of saying these alternate words (perhaps they fear confusing their feeble flock), all of the pastors across the nation, or perhaps the world, have agreed to call humans "broken people."

That's how I know 21 Pilots shares my faith.

Lol.

Anyway, I want to share this because reliving feelings from a year or so ago is showing me how far I've come and how low I've been. It gives me a new appreciation for friends and family for seeing me through that time, as well as a new appreciation for myself for making it through. It reminds me that some people are still right there, where I was, and I hope that they'll visit their friend's friends' house soon where they'll hear 21 Pilots and be given a new sort of hope. 

Grounds For Sculpture

Not long ago I went on a second photo club outing. These photo outings are really getting me in the popular group at the club!

I'm mostly joking, but I just went to the camera club Christmas party and people actually waved at me and wanted to talk to me.  A woman actually offered wine to me!  I felt so in.

'Tis the season of my life to start going to real live Christmas parties - the kind they talk about in Good Housekeeping!  Mom subscribes to that mag and around the holidays there are always articles on how to host one, how to behave at one (talking to rude strangers or how to choose a hostess gift), what to wear to one, how not to eat too much at one, and what kind of wine to drink.

All this is fun to read but totally worthless because Christmas parties are for Stepford wives with whom I have no connections as of yet.

But go figure - this year there are all these parties: camera club, AND there was a post-Thanksgiving party that I think counts, and two work parties - one of which is very fancy. I feel like I'm moving up in the world. Alcohol is involved in all four.

The outing was a place called "Grounds for Sculpture" in NJ and we carpooled. The three of us in one car only ran out of interesting things to talk about during the last hour of the trip back. I thought that was very impressive, considering I'm a youngin' and had to carry conversation with two strange adults my parents' age.

The woman in the car uses unconventional and what some would call rudimentary methods to edit her photos - think PowerPoint and excel, and free kaleidescope apps from online. I thought it was all pretty hokey until I saw her unique and visually sound work. The guy driving the car and I agreed that this lady was a very surprisingly creative soul. I love that she uses the tools she has at her disposal to make what she wants to make - no making excuses about not having the "right" advanced software. Kind of like Macgyver: take stock of what you have and use it to solve the puzzle- in this case, a visual one.

Grounds for Sculpture  was worth the drive and the $15 admission. I don't even feel like listing all of the different kinds of sculpture there or speculating about how it got there (aliens).

Photographing someone else's art is a joy because that someone else already went through pains to compose a satisfying visual experience. In sculpture's case, the artist already did this from all angles. See? I can take a picture of a sculpture from any angle and its creator already helped make my image a success.

On the other hand, with this in mind the eyes of viewers (including my own) are more critical: what makes this image more than a record of someone else's art?

A good challenge and an enjoyable outing.

SEPTA

I'm currently enjoying the distinct pleasure of riding a septa train from Philadelphia back to my home. My sister and I rode out for the sole purpose of eating dinner with some friends. I ate a frosty from Wendy's. 

The guy there commented on how crisp my dollar bills were and showed me I had accidentally given him an extra. I should have let him keep it. 

I had eaten a lot of food from an Italian place at the mall not long ago.

The food was delicious, but cold, which is funny, because the lady in the back seemed to be heating it up for a very long time while she visibly ate a meatball with her hand and kind of stared at me. I got the feeling she might have been poisoning my food back there. 

I told the man up front I wanted orange Fanta. "Well, let's see if it works." (He tries it) "You're in luck! It works!" There were out-of order signs covering coke and dr pepper already.  And the next customer asked for root beer: "Well, let's see if it works." (He tries it) "You're in luck! It works!"

He tried to make small talk with me about if I was going to eat ALL that food and how I looked upset (no, I'm not upset - your service just sucks), and how sometimes days off are more stressful than work days (you know, laundry and such) - but I heard him talking to another customer about how he thinks he should have been a porn star to make more money, soooo...he must find his current job to be too fun or rewarding. 

The lasagna was cheesy and the meatballs were of good texture. The garlic knots were crispy. Just don't go there. 

I just heard one of the train workers say "Nobody gets hurt on THIS train."  I guess he was helpin someone up the stairs or something. It's rainy outside. He must be a cool guy. There are so many cool people I've seen. Or at least interesting. 

Like, a guy loudly talking to his friend about how stupid it is to DIY your wedding, or a very corporate-lookin man with an earpiece and a black backpack wearing a suit and using his black and white umbrella as a cane -like device to strut on the yellow-painted section along the train tracks. There was a man bursting from the glass-plated doors onto the track area with earbuds in and  balancing an open and active  mac laptop on one arm. 

I can't even clean my room without getting my earbuds caught on something. How do you make it safely across a city with a fragile computer balanced precariously in plain sight?

In the 30th street restroom I also saw a towering, slim and gorgeous woman who contrasted sharply with her dingy surroundings. I had gone out tonight thinking I looked pretty smashing. And then I saw her. 

My friends saw her too. We reminded ourselves that we are happy with our own unique gorgeousness and what we really wanted was to just look at her for a while longer. We laughed. Tomorrow, I heard, is "woman crush Wednesday." Tuesday night is close enough.

I have a couple of things to say about the mall back home. 

Skinny jeans (aka second skin, or "the sausage skin fit") are back in style, if they were ever out. And it is very hard in a place (the mall) which is trying very hard to appeal to the masses to find things that the masses don't want.  

Apparently they never want room between their ankles and their jeans. 

Apparently they want their circulation cut off at the femoral artery with "jeggings" and "super skinnies."

Apparently they REALLY want to show off  those glutes. 

Good old trustworthy American Eagle HAS NO WIDE-LEGGED JEANS.  Not even for men. I recall the old days when there were overwhelming options, each with a name, like "loose boot leg" "curvy boot" and "straight curvy" with descriptions on the signs to help make sense of all the terms. No longer. 

My sister and I got it down: walk in store, go for jeans. Point at each pair and say, "skinny, skinny, skinny, maybe not skinny?" And decide whether or not to try on. 

And then? We just asked store associates (or "brand representatives" as we were called in my Banana Republic days) for wide legged jeans. Look for correct size. Try all on. "Yes, no, no, let's get that one." Purchase. 

True sister bonding time. 

We also went to the bank to deposit money which I had forgotten to bring along. 

Yeah, I thought you might think that was funny. I had to walk out and tell the tellers, at a bank, "I forgot my money!"

My sister and I think the trains are germ factories tonight. 

I hate my car. She used to be my poor darling, my pitiful ugly duckling, but now I swear she hates me for something. Maybe she heard me talking about saving for a new one. She rattles and rattles. And rattles. And I swear that one day when I am in the center lane of a crowded five-lane highway with no shoulder, she will give one last rattle and quit on me. And I will cheer because I never have to listen to that gash-dern sound again, and then I will get rear-ended and cause a fifty-car pileup and probably die. Just because my car and I hate each other so. 

I Will

I wrote in my journal last night, "You should write a blog about practicing facials and about trees and about letter-writing personas and about finding your life's purpose today at the library - making and publishing photo books."

Can I do this all in one blog post?

You betcha.

But not a short, sweet one.

I often write notes to myself about possible blog subjects and never follow through. But these are good ones.

Let's start with letter-writing personas. I have within the past several months discovered the beauty of the hand-written letter. I love sending notes and churning out a bunch whenever the mood strikes - just like that one time years ago when I felt inspired to bake many, many loaves of dessert bread to share with any and everybody.

I do believe that when I have extra time to choose my words,, my notes take on a different voice than my real one. For example, while writing to a friend I haven't seen in years, it is easy to pretend I don't feel awkward or sad that I'm not in her life anymore. I can direct the conversation in any way I want because I have the floor.

Often I direct the conversation to (1) I'm doing well and God is blessing my life, and then (2) this is what I love about you, and then (3) how are you? - and other questions to which I will never receive an answer, and (4) peace and blessings on you and whatever is going on in your life (being as specific as possible).

I'm great at letter-writing.

I have also taken to heart the "sandwich" approach to negative messages which I was taught several times in grade school: compliment, complaint, compliment.  Or praise,  constructive criticism, more praise. You get the idea.

I have taken this very literally. Angry messages get us nowhere.

I used the word 'persona' because, just as people develop a personality online or a kind of brand that is not exactly like how they are in real life, I have noticed that pen and paper have the same effect.

Someone (like in the colonial days) once said that the pen is sharper/mightier than the sword.

I wonder if that is only when it is writing sassy things down or if when I'm writing stupid letters I'm still wielding that power.

Twenty-one Pilots' lead singer raps, " some see a pen, I see a harpoon." I wonder how he feels about the sassiness issue.

Segueing from letter-writing into trees, I did once write a letter to a good friend telling her that I saw trees paralleling her ordeal.

I really hope I was praying when I wrote that.

She told her daughters to thank me profusely for it.

Trees make me think of women, their arms stretched to the sky. The represent life's seasons, rebirth, flexibility tenacity, the seed thrown on the good soil, deep roots in God's heart, the stubbornness to grow in spite of harsh conditions and even in spite of falling down sometimes.

Growth and reaching toward heaven, the tree of life, the tree for the healing of the nations. Young king Arthur witnessing the slow, slow dreams of trees as they watch the world move quickly around them. A sort of stability and inner peace.

I'm getting a tattoo of a tree.

I have a mom who made sure there was deep, deep symbolism in each part of the design before she resigned to it, and one adamant naysayer who half-listened to my sound reasoning while performing other activities and without responding (I had been hoping for an actual conversation). I assume dad knows because mom and dad tell each other everything in my imagination. Sometimes I imagine that since the  Bible says when people get married they will become one flesh, mom and dad don't even have to talk to know and think exactly the same things. This imaginatory "one flesh" thing has been proven wrong several times.

I should mention this tattoo thing to dad.

Segue: maybe someday I'll give dad a facial.

Was that a good segue?  I gave mom one while my friend read me step-by-step facial massage instructions from Milady's esthetician textbook.

Ever since I went to that esthetician's convention in Philly, I have been very good at following trough on my intention of practicing facials on my friends and family. Tonight I am going to perform my first repeat facial! Hopefully my friend will notice an improvement from last time.

I have also done a double facial where I tried to perform two facials at once with limited success. The reward of that session was that one of my subjects suggested I warm the towls, not with hot water, but in the microwave (since I don't have a steamer and am not about to purchase one).

But facials are not my life's purpose. Photo books are. I went to the library and perused the new books section while waiting for my dentist appointment the other day and discovered two books: "one woman, one hundred faces," about hair, makeup, and photography transforming one woman in countless ways, and "the oldest living things on earth," in which a photographer/scientist journeys around the world creating a complete guide of all plant life older than 1000 years old.

I want to make books like that.

I can make books like that.

I will make books like that.

I alter books and collage in them already. Books are my preferred medium. They are more time-based art than single pieces hanging on a wall. I will be published someday and make a difference in someone's life with my books.

I think that's all I wanted to blog about.

Central Park NYC

"So which central park did you go to?"
"Uh, I thought there was only one Central Park."

Apparently there is more than one.  But I went to the one in NYC.

As an experiment, because my job is somewhat mind-numbing (I love it though), I joined a camera club in my area. I discovered it through Google and it seemed pretty legit.  It includes "lectures," optional outings, and competitions.  I put lectures in quotes because it depends on your definition of a lecture.  I rarely take notes because they are either too stat-heavy or too opinion based, but I still find them valuable.

Mom makes fun of me because I often say "It was good/fine/valuable but I was bored out of my MIND." Such is the case of camera club meetings.

This outing to NYC, however, fit into my work schedule and sounded not boring, so I signed up.  It was a bus trip so someone else would have to worry about parking and traffic, and all I had to do was show up for the time allotted with a camera in order to probably get decent pictures.

That's another reason I joined the club.  As an artist no longer in school, it's not easy to tell myself, "You're going to take photographs today." - With someone else organizing my outings, a club fee is a small price to pay.  It sucks that a bunch of midlife-crisis club members with huge lenses will also be there and will be be taking almost exactly the same pictures as me, but once again - a small price.  I joined the club so that I would take my camera out more.

Actually, the midlifers warmed to me throughout the duration of our stay at the park.  It was nice.

The organizer of our trip (you could refer to him as our "man with a plan" - like that guy from the commercial) had a pre-planned route for us, highlighted in blue on a perfectly sized map laminated in, he confided, just the right kind of plastic for our kind of outing.  Most of us followed him exactly since his route was undeniably perfect, even though I tried to be cool a couple of times and stay on the other side of the street.

When it was time to get back on the bus again, someone looked around and commented, "We all made it! It's almost like we're a bunch of adults!" I felt so adult-y.  I thought about how people like to say "high school never ends" - and compared it with his statement, and thought, well, maybe for some people it does.  This group of people included a lot who reached out to me instead of sticking with their old friends (like highschoolers would), and they also all made it to the bus meeting place early - without chaperones.

The trip was great.  I might even blog about it again.  I took lots of pictures of trees, which are everywhere, but when I'm around "everywhere trees" my camera isn't usually out. I also got great pictures of the nighttime NYC skyline, thanks to our ever-prepared, surprise-filled, man-with-a-plan trip organizer.

That's it!

Fairies

When my sister and I were little, I coerced her into mimicking my interest in fairies.  (I refuse to use the other spellings that glorify them further than they should be, like "faerie" or "feyry," you know. Just too much).  I was very convincing, I guess, when I was REALLY interested in something.

Sister, sister, let's make a list of all of the fairies we can find.  One of my fairy books said they would be difficult to actually see, living on the borders between dark and light, ocean and sand, sidewalk and road, and that if we want to find them we will have to use our senses and know they are there without seeing them.

I guessed that there was a fairy inside the vents in our house whenever they started creaking and blowing air.

I also suggested that there was a stomach fairy that was responsible for the strange "stomach beat" I could feel whenever I would lie on my belly.

I learned a few years later that the stomach contracts rhythmically in order to help digest food.  So much for the stomach fairy.

But I wanted so badly for them to exist.

I wanted so badly to find one, to become one, and really, to join their world and leave my own behind.  Based on the books, fairies were more graceful, lucky, beautiful, talented, carefree, powerful, perfect, and energetic than I would ever be.

This makes me think of societies from the past and present where there is a god or goddess for everything.  Or perhaps even a saint for everything.  Or, people with faiths that cause them to look for angels behind every mailbox, so to speak.

Just like my sister and I were trying to find a fairy for everything, people in a childlike way want to find a reason for everything or a way to put each individual thing outside of their own control.

This is a form of escapism that I defended against reality and that people of faith defend against naysayers with different doctrine because it is just so nice to imagine that there is a different world out there, one with some external, all-powerful individual to take care of each little thing (my mailbox, my moldy bread, my stomach).

I think it is harder to believe that there is one all-powerful God who is just as capable of controlling each minute thing just as well as a team of deities might be because the only image we have of an "individual" is man: confused, bad at multitasking, imbalanced talents.  The idea that an individual could surpass this enough to control each electron's placement and rotation speed, and remember each of the stars' names, is not really irresistible.  It's pretty uncomfortable.

We like delegating tasks.

Anyhow, it is in the Bible that there is a God like I talked about above.  I'm pretty sure he understands our desire to delegate tasks, but he doesn't need the help of anyone to accomplish his goals.

And I don't subscribe to any fairy magazines.
But I've flipped through a couple at B&N and the art is really cool.

Conference

The other day I went to an esthetician's conference in Philadelphia.

Side note: either blogger or my computer does not recognize the word esthetician.

I was inspired.

I just performed my first facial on a game friend of mine and am now encouraged to perform more on anyone who will lay down in front of me.  I've got the serums, so let's do this!

I told my friend to keep a watch on her skin and tell me what happens, though, because the products I got were from one of the less credible-looking booths at the convention.  Definitely more credible than SOME (cough cough "we do facial here") but I did avoid the medical-looking stands because I don't own a lucrative business that can afford or benefit from such products - or use great quantities of them.

The convention was set up like a flea market.  And man, did some of those vendors look intimidating from a distance - but it was really only the graphic design of the signage and pamphlets and the presentation of the products.  I only encountered one pair of ladies who were confused as to why I was standing in front of them if I wasn't interested in buying.  The rest had their happy selling faces on and were more than happy to talk to me.  And since I'm so sweet and innocent and doe-eyed and ignorant-looking, I received many free samples.

I used half of a free sample to cleanse my friend's face.  I wasn't being stingy.

Yay free samples!!

There were also little stages set up all over the place, and there were speakers up on a large stage separate from the vending area in the morning.  I got the hang of bouncing around whenever I got bored.  How naive of me - I thought I would actually stick with one person for an entire presentation!

There was one woman on the big stage who presented on skin peels.  At least that's what they said she was going to do.  I left before she got to that because she spent at least 10 minutes reading off her slideshow in a scolding voice about electrons and free radicals without connecting any points for us, or being excited about what she was saying.

Most importantly, what she was doing with the atom structure should have been a short intro as a reference point for her.  Instead, it became a weed-out speech for audience members who really didn't care enough about peels to get through her scolding session (e.g. me).

I wonder if she even got to peels.

I wonder if, once she got there, she ever referenced her atomic intro.

I wonder if she will be invited back next year.

There were at least three other presentations that showed me hands-on techniques I never learned in beauty school (offense somewhat intended, somewhat not to my school).  "Aha!" thought I.  "Given the right materials, and already knowing the basic steps, this new knowledge gives me what I need to gift my friends in a NEW way!"

So I spent kind of a lot even though the products weren't quite snob level and am really looking forward to being a kitchen facialist.

Barber

It is just as important to find what you don't want to do as to discover what you do want to do.

For example, I don't want to work at an upscale barber shop that claims to be hipster where the employees consider themselves to be superior because of their extensive experience and casual attitude toward life.

I also didn't like the floor plan of the place or the fact that there were multiple televisions. TV's do not scream hipster.

I did get a good haircut, which I plan to maintain at a great clips or super cuts or some place like that.

Someone I barely knew at church told me I just HAD to go here because her husband owned it and I'm not really sure why else because I'm pretty sure I told her I wasn't looking for a job. So I went and tried to give the visit a reason by asking for a haircut, telling myself it wouldn't be as awkward as I imagined. No way. "I'm not looking for a job, and I don't really want to be in the hair cutting industry right now, nor do I want to own a shop, but your wife wanted me to meet you.  I assume you will know how to converse with me?"

Turns out he didn't. But he tried.

I left feeling that he did not approve of my "plans" for my life (my plans unless God intervenes, that is) and that he may have been practicing his life-coaching skills on me. He is a "certified" life coach. Uh-huh. He asked me lots of things about where I see myself and stuff and then assured me that things take lots of time and work and that he understands.

Thank you, sir. I can see that you, as a certified life coach, do not see that I KNOW things take lots of time, practice, and effort. You're blind to how skilled I am as a cosmetologist (okay, I told him I felt insecure about my haircutting skills) and how hard I am currently working to become better, and you wrongfully disapprove of the steps I plan to take to improve further.

"Bye Danielle, it was fun!"

I let out a friendly-sounding laugh on my way out the door. At least I thought it sounded friendly.

Vending Machine

Some time ago, I traveled through knarled streets to arrive at the Delaware College of Art and Design. I had heard they pay good money if you are willing to sit still and let people draw you for a few hours.

That is a lie.

I was modeling my face. I was supposed to be giving a slight, Mona Lisa-like smile and based on the drawings and the teacher's comments, I failed miserably and looked very deep in thought, with my brow crunched.

Before the class occurred, I sat in a break room with some vending machines. I had no need of the machines because I had brought my own food. But a guy about my age with fingernails well-manicured and painted a shade of dusty purple strolled in and noticed a bag of chips hanging by a thread inside one of them. It looked as if someone had paid for it and it had not fallen out properly. We discussed it briefly and I, with visions of the one character on NCIS who fennegles snacks out of vending machines for free all of the time, promptly approached the machine and kicked the glass, hard, with my knee.

BAD BAD BAD.

I was on the floor in no time. The machine had not moved, nor the bag of chips.

Moral of story, some of the things you see on TV are not true. Or maybe, only government vending machines are worth fennegling. OR, think before you act.

Last night I attended a photography competition hosted by the CCCC - the Chester County Camera Club. I joined because I wanted to be pushed to use my camera more, and I wanted to be critiqued as well - to have a chance to grow outside of school.

I did not enter in this first competition but I did do the assignment and was able to compare my photos to the others. I felt I was middle ground in clarity and lens usage and technicalities, and very good in composition and post-processing.

I should have entered, but now I understand how things go.

The judge provided excellent critique. He had obvious preferences but gave food for thought.

I liked him because he took time to examine and critique as many photos as he could, even though it got tedious.

And it got tedious.

Oh, there are MORE photos?

But I think he helped a lot of people grow whose photos may not have been commented on by another judge.

I don't feel quite at home. I'm some REALLY young blood. But I will persevere. I will make friends, I will submit photographs, and I will attend these things so that I can achieve my goal of becoming a better photographer.

Felines

Last night I hit my breaks HARD for a skunk crossing the road. I believe I did the community a favor since dead skunks do emit an odor and it would have been my fault.  It was a very close encounter and I very well may have been rear-ended had someone been following me at the speed I was going (ahem, a little over the limit).

I also officially do not have a sleep disorder, which means I'm just tired all the time for no good reason and naps, sleepiness, and fatigue will rule the rest of my life.

I kind of lost interest in everything the doctor was saying to me after I figured out there was nothing she could actually do for me.

I have been given space on a whiteboard at work to do with as I please. I asked for it so all of us could write silly or informative stuff, or messages or whatever.

Prior to my request, full sheets of printer paper had been posted to this board. "We don't want to damage the walls by taping everything up." Oh. But isn't it a little silly to get a whiteboard and not use it for its intended function?  There are even markers and an eraser on the ledge!

So, now I post fun and encouraging song lyrics up from obscure bands nobody else knows. 

It hurts when somebody else erases them after too short a time period, though. Once it ruined my day. The perpetrator admitted because I complained to her, thinking she wasn't the one who did it.

Of course, I feel my lyrics are a quirky and positive contribution to the wax center's culture and when they are rapidly removed, I worry that they are secretly despised by all of my coworkers, which makes me question my validity as a person. That's why it ruined my day.

She just needed to make space for more papers. Told me I should make my quotes shorter.

I requested that, should my additions to workplace culture become annoying or offensive, she should tell me. Her response, "Okay.  I don't have any comments yet."

Thanks. Not "Oh, don't worry, we all like them!"

Whatever. I got over it in a day and I'm not giving up. My favorite part about this endeavor is that I'm not putting up stupid "inspirational" quotes from historical figures and other important people or people who think they know enough to be inspiring. I'm putting up abstract and thoughtful words that can be gateways into hipsterism (and maybe understanding me better, too).

Another note.

I used to experience a great deal of anger toward my two cats when they would yell at me at feeding time.

The situation: I feed my cats three times a day, and at least an hour before each feeding, they begin to become very present and vocal. They touch me, they meow loudly and hoarsely, and they stare wide-eyed at me.

You might think they become silent when the spoon and the can come out, but no. The noise gets louder.

This is where the anger would kick in. "You ungrateful felines! Hold your pants on! I'm feeding you right now and you will get your food when you get it!" I thought they were telling me to hurry up.

One day not too long ago, the voice of God Himself came to me and set me straight. He said, "Danielle, your cats are not unhappy with you; rather, they are singing your praises and thanking you for feeding them!"

And after that day, I feel glorified as I dole out their food and the cats shout praises to my name.

Kisumu

The other night I dreamed that I arrived at the residence of a good friend in Kisumu, Kenya and was unable to greet anyone. I sat on the couch armrest and looked around, recognizing all of her family members but either feeling ignored and rejected by them or else feeling too tired to respond to them. I also saw some friends from America laughing, talking and setting the dining room table through the door in the other room, but they did not see me and there were no greetings.

I had just written a message to this very friend the day before asking if she might send me videos that I could transcribe. I dreamed that she messaged back that even though she had wanted to a couple of years ago, she didn't want to now because the government wouldn't like it. I was hugely discouraged and almost embarrassed for even asking.

I woke up and was happy these dreams were not rooted in reality but rather my mind's worst-case scenario producer.

I want to go to Kisumu but I'm afraid of two things: God may not intend for me to go back, and I may have minimized in my mind the misery of the heat and bug bites I experienced the last time I went there. 

On another note, I have discovered that two non-parental adults talk about my food choices behind my back. They don't just roll their eyes in front of me when I beg for cake; they repeat their concerns enough that their children have caught on.

I don't get cake at home.

Also, the fridges at the household of these adults are yucky, confusing, and unappetizing. Conclusion: ask for cake. Eat health(ier) things at home.

These people don't see the almonds, yogurt, salad, and berries I eat at lunch, or the Atkins-adherent meals I eat for dinner when I'm home. Or the Kashi cereal I sometimes eat instead of Nutella and crackers.

I resent this and feel misunderstood.

Okay, but I am eating a cookie right now. So there's room for improvement. It's a two-way street.

Speaking of streets, can I ask for prayer that I will have love and understanding for other drivers on the road? Lately I've had more passengers and they confirm that I am an angrier driver than others. Being angry accomplishes nothing and only hurts me.

Also, I'll tell you a secret: since my sister is halfway across the country and nowhere near enough to critique my driving, I've been speeding up lately.

This is bad.

Pray?

Hot Mess

The other night I dreamed that my legs turned into wooden goat legs that looked like knotted tree trunks. It was the result of some God-sent plague and others had the problem as well.

I also dreamed that I was walking with a group of people and a couple of playful giraffes came up beside me and licked the back of the bald man's head in front of me.

Great dream memories.

Last night instead of trying to sleep I found contentment in watching two hour-long reenactment documentaries about various wild-west law men. My favorite one was about Bass Reeves who was a black man - a runaway slave - who put 3,000 men in prison and when he went out with a warrant, he never brought the wrong man back. Her became a legend and it was said that starting a gunfight with him was akin to committing suicide.

I got the feeling that the drive in Bass was so strong that he couldn't stop getting the bad guys. Perhaps he felt that if he stopped, his region would fall into disarray without him. Or maybe he really was doing it to feed his family as he claimed he was. I wonder if any part of him did glory in having a reputation as unstoppable and inescapable, a great protector and a just man with a pure heart.

Regardless, his family seemed to suffer since he spent much time "on the road" (not at home) searching for criminals and not much time with them.

Can you imagine marrying someone only to find he chooses to cheat on you by giving time and emotions to his job that belong to you as his wife?

I'm thankful I got to sit around with my dad and watch this, with fair certainty he wouldn't be willingly leaving my family and I for the sake of adventure. He and I experienced adventure and history vicariously through the narratives presented on the programs we watched. It was special time together.

I'm not very talented at rapidly flipping channels. When dad has power over the remote control, that's when the opportunity for quality time begins. If I choose to stay and put up with the shenanigans of channel-flipping, what we land on is usually something I would never personally pick but end up liking and learning from. 

I have a bunch of half-finished art projects on the floor. Can you believe it? I can. I'm super-great at not finishing things. They lose their appeal and they hang out taking up space forever, not changing, not reaching completion. I find it to be frustrating.

Maybe I'll just start something new.

My coworker and I agreed that today we are moth hot messes. Hopefully nobody else realizes. She actually looks really cute. Even if that doesn't count for everything.

But we're cosmetologists, so it kind of does.

Hot mess just means that working extra hours does nothing for one's health. One may cry, have mood swings, lower one's working standards, hide outside, or feel loopy, lose track of time and maybe even start to fall asleep.

Sleep.

Trippy

Last night when I woke up the first word that came to my mind was "trippy."

In fact, I think that is the wrong word to describe the activities of my brain. My mind came up with clear narratives and concepts that almost made sense but just missed the mark.

I dreamed about a 40-year old unmarried woman who was a servant in a well-to-do household running through several bright pink doors because she heard a strange sound, soon discovering that the young girls in the household were in the dark bathroom reciting "bloody Mary" in front of the mirror. Her horror was palpable. Her anger at the older woman sitting right in the room outside the bathroom (who obviously heard and wasn't doing anything to stop the activity) was also obvious. As she entered the bathroom. Other people rushed in and all of a sudden the wallpaper rolled away and the vibrant paintings underneath proved that the 40-year-old was, in fact, the true queen or ruler or owner of the household, not the old woman outside. And everyone was shocked and out in their place and happy.

And the deceptive old lady and her husband grew horse butts and walked around with four legs plotting revenge so they could get their ill-gained wealth back. It involved dumpsters and stuffed animals falling off of machinery.

I also dreamed that I was the newest chosen one to defeat these people, along with a group of other secret warriors who took long drives to go to random caves and talk about secret things. And it required being free on certain days to be in the group. I slept in the car and the ride was long and when we got out I was angry and upset to hear that all of our car rides would be this long.

I was also upset because our activity was to kayak up and down a rocky mountain with very little water to speak of. There were lots of other kayakers in the area, which made things stressful. Somehow I was missing my shoes, and, HORRORS, my camera got soaked! And I was all, "it was on! That means the electricity plus the water made everything short and now my camera is useless!  And my socks were soaked.

And I complained, and some girl on our team was like, " if you're not ready to take these challenges, maybe you're not ready to be on this team." And the whole team seemed like a sham to me, so I kind of wasn't too too upset with the idea of quitting, but really, when someone suggests I'm not good enough or ready enough for something, that upsets me.

That's the last thing I remember.

There was something about an emotionally-damaged, skeletal-looking and tall girl with a black pixie cut who was very good at fighting with martial arts in the evening. I tried to be encouraging to her.

I think that part had something to do with the matrix.

When something is trippy I guess that means it is hard to describe and without edges or transitions or clear narrative. So maybe that's not the perfect word to describe last night.

Let's go with almost-lifelike.

Fluffy

I rejoice because my travel-weary friend is back from afar. I hope she kissed the ground when she got out of the airport. I've never had the courage to do so, but I've always wanted to because it seems kind of cinematic. It's not too late. I'll make her do it when I see her next.

She got a gas mask as a souvenir.  She's the best.

Last night I was driving home late after doing my friend's hair. There were few cars on the road, and nobody tailgating me up hills. I was in the dark silence of my neighborhood and reached a familiar four-way intersection at exactly the same time as two other vehicles. Our headlights intersected as we decided who would go first. I wonder if the other drivers found our coincidental midnight meeting to be as eerie as I did.

I pondered this the rest of the way home - I guess I felt like this was an event akin to the alignment of planets. Who in my quiet neighborhood but me would be out driving this late? No one. But tonight, there were two cars prowling the development and they met in the center by chance, with me. We were all deer in our collective headlights.

On the other hand, I'm sure my neighbors must have lives (go figure) even as they keep to themselves. Lives that may require late-night driving.

-

May I discuss losing my phone? I found it in my car a day after I found that it was missing, but I'm mentioning that I misplaced it the other day because the morning I woke up without my phone, I stayed in bed as long as I could, grumpy and purposeless, because I didn't have my phone.

Is that not ridiculous?

I depend on my phone. I can leave it alone for long periods of time but it is a valuable communication tool to let people know I'm thinking of them, to schedule get-togethers, and to hold conversations. It has many other valuable functions but that one is the one I missed and was moping around about.

Sometimes I get lonely and realize it's because forgotten to that I have the power to make plans with buddies. Critique it or not, my phone enables me to do that.

Upon finding my phone, I went through my written list (in my journal) of people to text and re-set my life.

To-do lists give me something to live for. Mom would tell me that's over-dramatic, but sometimes the reason I get out of bed is to write down the list forming in my head. The list gives me little birds to shoot down, and I can always keep rolling over incomplete tasks from old lists into new ones. Looking back at a list from my past gives me a good picture of my recent history and takes me back to the time when I wrote that specific list.

Once I spoke to a woman, at a doctor's office about to-do lists (or it could have been a grocery store cashier...I forget) and we agreed about how great they are. And I continued excitedly, "Don't you love crossing off stuff like " take shower" and "text Johnny?!"" And she sighed wearily and replied, "No, my to-do lists have big things on them, like taxes and insurance and such." "Oh." I hold my smile and give her an empathetic expression.

As long as they get her out of bed too, right?

-

So, I went to the dentist's office a few months back to get my teeth cleaned and my friendly hygienist wanted to know all about the road trip I had taken with my sister.

She had even read our blogs, she said.

It eventually came out that she mostly read my sister's posts because, I quote, "They seemed the most informative."

Really.

You decided to hold that opinion. And then you decided to tell me that.

My blogs were not fluffy. They were detailed and accurate. They were thoughtful. They described people we encountered and things we felt and explained differences between home and the rest of the country.

My hygienist is mentally fluffy.

I am also watching a cat named Fluffy right now. I love Fluffy. Fluffy takes me seriously. Fluffy is portable. Fluffy cuddles well. Fluffy talks to me. Fluffy also desecrated my suitcase, but Fluffy is old.

Watching Fluffy entails watering plants. This frightens me. I just pout water on all of them, but I'm not sure if that constitutes "watering" them. I just killed about ten seedlings I had planted. Let it not be so of this helpless greenery.

Speaking of greenery, I just watched WALL-E for the first time today. I didn't realize how beautiful it would be. I expected something very mediocre, but instead I cried at the unfair plot movements, the heroic acts of love between characters, the open and naïve enthusiasm of earth's colonists, the cruelty of machines, and the message of hope for our world. The movie, unlike some films that leave me certain of mankind's flawed nature and of reality's cruelty, assured me that resilience exists alongside entropy. In the movie, it took 700 years for humans to take the first step back to truly living, but what counts is that they took the step.

All I could see when the humans stepped off their ship onto the dusty planet they had left behind was a heck of a lot of work and nobody to do it. But I looked at the faces of the ship's residents and saw that they all wanted to start.

The closing credits took on a different visual tone than the rest of the movie. They looked like moving paintings, filled with color and depicting scenes of planting and growing, a boy fishing, and a tall tree. The prophetic illustrations suggested that the humans would not give up and that they would find joy from living on Earth again. This without having to make a whole series of movies about re-habitating the earth.
This movie reminded me of the good qualities humans possess, both from watching the characters on screen and from the knowledge that there is a team of workers who created this movie and believe in its message.

That is all.

Pride Moment

I had a big pride moment the other day, where I was feeling wise beyond my years.

I love when people call me that, or tell me I act older than I am. I've always wanted to be a grown-up, to run with the adults.

So anyway, pride. And also a little spiritual, like I was using a little  prophecy.

Side note. I used to tell people, "I think God gave me the gift of prophecy, but some of the glitter fell out of the box on its way to earth." I thought it was genius and people thought it was funny. But I was attending a sermon (wonder of wonders) when these words were thrown like arrows to my heart:

"When God gives gifts, he is giving them to you to serve him and he doesn't kind of sort of give you gifts, he doesn't give you half gifts - he gives you GIFTS. And he wants you to use them for the benefit of the church body."

Wow.

Maybe no glitter didn't fall out of the box, and I should stop joking about it. (But be aware of my opinions and guesses versus what God actually says).

So the other day, I became certain as I listened to an acquaintance proudly detail her relationship with her boyfriend and his family: this relationship is destined to fail this is why:
1)She couldn't stop talking trash about him.
2)She made it evident that the two of them do not make important decisions together.
3)She boasts about how much she has changed him into a better man.

I think that's enough. I just saw it. If I can't respect my husband behind his back, he deserves better. If we don't make decisions as a couple, then becoming one through marriage means nothing. And I believe a relationship is baseless if my husband did not come to love the very person he first met, not the person he molded, or think they molded to his own desires. 

Paint

I am trying to paint the walls of my room.

It turns out my mom is an expert in wall painting. It should be no surprise to me since she and my father have painted nearly every room in our house twice over the last several years of our residence.

She speaks of semi-gloss, kilz, cleaning solution and drop cloths like a pro. What a woman. The only thing I've done so far is go on a rampage of (1) the crawl space, looking for empty boxes, and (2) my room, emptying drawers and filling boxes indiscriminately with all the contents of my room. No organization or concern for sorting - just boxing. And at some point I gave up, because there was just too much stuff. And when I asked if Mom was impressed, I was disappointed by her answer, because she told me I didn't need to have emptied my drawers and she wished I would have covered the quilt in my sister's room before I out boxes on it.

In my last post, I wondered if the world was meant to be seen alone or with others. It seems painting a room is not meant to be done by oneself. Rampages might be more successful with prior advising.

By Myself

I read a book once called "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime" which was about an autistic boy trying to make sense of his surroundings.

Making sense of life was frustrating for him to the point that he wished he could be the only person in the world.

But don't we all wish that? Or don't we wish everyone could be exactly like us, or at least understand us and do what we want?

I want to go on a road trip again, by myself. I don't think I'm autistic. Nobody has told me I am.

Have you ever wondered if you're mentally retarded, impaired, or I'll and you don't know it because you're you? And nobody has ever told you? Or if they have you thought they were joking? Scary stuff. Or maybe not scary, if you're content with your life, unless you're worried about burdening others.

I would get lost as often as I wanted and not care. I would make as many stops as I wanted, or not stop at all, and I would pull over for every photo op or none of them. I would also listen to MY music or none of it. I could pray out loud and stay at grimy hotels or sleep in the car.

I wonder if I've blogged about this before. It sounds familiar. It also sounds kind of selfish.

Is the world meant to be seen with others or by oneself?

-

I'm coming to realize that I use sound effects a lot more than I thought. Onomatopoeia. I thought sound effects were for comedians, class clowns and beat boxers, but it has become apparent that they are for me as well.

I noticed when people started commenting on them that I was using sounds instead of words, like "ploop" and such, to describe tasks and recount events.

I always admired the above-mentioned types of people to whom onomatopoeia came naturally. Now I admire myself.

-

You know those songs about the "afterglow"? How they sound so gut-wrenching and thoughtful and pensive, because they use that word?

But I never really thought about what it meant until the other night when I turned off my light and the lightbulb kept glowing in the blackness. Not just burning on my retina, but actually glowing with leftover energy.

" Oh," thought I, "this is afterglow."

Something ends and it almost feels like it hasn't, and you can make yourself believe it hasn't, for a minute. When people sing about the afterglow of something, they are singing about a pointless extension of hope.

-

My grandma showed me balloon flowers on the 4th of July. Before the violet flowers open, their petals are folded together to form hollow lantern-like "balloons." Grandma has been considering mortality lately. No reason, she says, except that she is almost ninety.

I think she may be the next Enoch, just walking away with the Lord one day without actually dying.

Either way, though, she's starting to worry about having so many possessions for her children and grandchildren to deal with after her passing. It was a disquieting Fourth of July conversation topic, but I kept calm since Grandma is always so matter-of-fact about these things.  

-

One last thing: at Landis Homes, one of the residents had some art on display which I made a point of seeing.

Dad asked me later how I liked it.

"It was crappy," I said without thinking - a heartless remark. I corrected myself: "It was not to my taste." Nobody's art should ever be described as crappy if it is evident the artist has put effort into it. Especially if that artist is dying of cancer.

I learned the "it is not to my taste" phrase one thanksgiving when I told Aunt Linda I only wanted a small piece of the cake she made in case I didn't like it - and my family laughed and someone suggested a more polite way to say that might be "I would like a small piece so I can determine if the cake is to my taste."

How genius.

The Human Condition

Today I waxed my legs and didn't make a mess, which gives me great satisfaction.

I woke up with words and to-do's circling my head like a newsreel.

Days when I wake up like that are good days.

They are days with purpose.

I grabbed my journal and wrote things like, "eat fiber" and "pray about job" and "bring cup downstairs."

My friend has been sending me Bible chunks via text so I can get away with not actually opening the thing to get my daily bread (this is debatable).

When was the last time you saw an elderly woman smoking in her car?  I saw one last week. For some reason I was mildly shocked. Most ladies must be dead before they get to be seen old and smoking at traffic lights.

Did you know that male peacocks actually rattle their tail feathers when they spread them? It's true! It's not just the colors they use to impress; it's the noise of the latticework of their feathers rubbing rapidly against each other for a few seconds at a time.

I heard it with my own ears.

Mom told me my ears got red yesterday when I was upset.

That in itself is rather upsetting, since with my haircut I might not be able to hide my angst behind hair and a blank face.

Not that I'm a very opaque person to begin with.

I was upset because instead of complaining to my face a very sweet and jovial guest at my waxing center went and mentioned me by name  in a negative comment on yelp.

It took till today for me to listen to reason say "she's one of a hundred or so people you've served AND PLEASED so far!"

Don't you love reuniting with friends and finding that you're still friends just like you were before?

I just watched one of the "Airplane" movies and got the feeling that I could be laughing harder if I chose. It has the air of a cult flick and I desperately wanted to be a part of the cult, but the movie and its humor reached me in an unsaturated way as gray as its color scheme. It makes me realize that I really am helplessly a product of my times since I do respond much better to contemporary humor.

That makes me think of a "comedian" named Chonda Pierce. She uses comedy to "reach" people for God. My only problem with this is that she uses comedy as the hook and then switches to drawn out sad and serious songs, ballet numbers, and talks.

I'd rather be reached without the bait and switch method.

There's a book in my friends' bathroom (in which you have to sit on the toilet sideways because the room is so small - cute, right?) that is titled something like "1,000 Feelings Which Have No Name." I think I've mentioned it before.  I'll describe one of my own: the internal conflict between knowing I love working with guests and not wanting them to come in because I like sitting around and doing nothing"

I'm thinking this might have something to do with the human condition.

Nevertheless, I really hate that nagging feeling, and also the human condition.

Vocation

Today I am not performing my vocation. 

I am awaiting five o'clock when I will make a call and find out if I am needed for jury duty tomorrow. 

I made that call yesterday and was told not to report. 

I really hope the voice on the phone tells me to report tomorrow so the rigamarole getting to Philadelphia and getting covers for my shifts wasn't all for nothing!

I want to experience sitting in a room and waiting for a long time only to be (likely) sent home. 

It's a form of serving my country. 

Did you know that the word "vocation" comes from the Latin word "vocatio" which MEANS "calling."

When I tell people I am going to work, I'm telling them I will be working. 

When I tell people I am on my way to my vocation, I am telling them I am on my way to fulfill my calling in life. 

I am a waxer, or waxologist. I remove body hair. This specifically may not be my  calling - but my calling is to do it to the best of my ability as if I am doing it for God. 

I'm at a friend's house and her books are more interesting than my own. I actually picked one up and it explored work and vocation. 

Is greed good?

I have to admit that I am often driven by greed. 

I can use a nicer word to veil the graininess of the term, like "ambition," or "drive" but it all kind of equates to the same thing if I'm not fixating on the right thing. 

Even if I'm focused wholly on improving myself and sharpening my skills and polishing myself, well, then is it about glorifying God anymore?

And really, what's my reason for doing these things? (1) So I can think highly of myself and (2) So I can increase my paycheck. 

Greed for status and the freedom to possess. 

So what is my drive supposed to be? 

God created me to work, and to rest, and to find satisfaction and purpose in it. And if by working I am fulfilling my purpose - how simple! A purpose-driven life! If I can find joy in everything I do, every effort I exert, not even in my workplace, because God intended it to be so, and then found the same kind of joy in resting, because God intended it to be so also, is that not enough to drive me to excel, exceed, perform, and show up every morning ready to do my work?

Fascinating booklet. 

-

I called the number. 

They don't need me for jury duty the second day either. It appears that I will be finding joy in rest from my work. Perhaps my calling is to rest and enjoy the company of once-lost friends, and to take long walks in the heat, and to enjoy playing games with strangers in houses without air conditioning. 

This is rest. To wear the same clothes out of my backpack at a place where no one notices, brush my teeth when I want to, sleep hugging a docile dog that resembles a deer, and drink tea that I don't know how to make. 

I let my friend guide me around the city to places I never knew existed. It was like being in Missouri, where I had to shrug my shoulders and say "Well, people have to live somewhere." I felt left out not having known that there was more to the city than the north and the center part. 

I sat outside the grocery store with my deer-dog as she kept vigil for my friend to come back out bearing groceries. 

I have never met such a docile dog. There is no other word. Docile. 

I am riding home now. 

I am excited to be clean, to work; excited to return to that part of my vocation. 

This unexpected vacation has changed me. It revealed hospitality: "Wanna stay another night?" It revealed my desire to act: "Let's share bread with strangers!"

And it revealed hidden dog parks to me. 

Philadelphia has been a second home to me ever since I lived there in college, but having experienced it more broadly over the past few days, I feel even closer to its heart and want to know more.  

Squirrel Patty

I never really thought hard about what happens to dead squirrels on the streets of my neighborhood. I thought they sort of just dissolve into the pavement, I guess, or the squirrel police come out every so often and collect them.

Yesterday I found out.

Driving home from work, I hit the brakes. Wildlife sighting!

I am a girl who puts her flashers on and backs up if no one is behind her just to look at deer in other people's lawns. There's something more fascinating about wildlife in suburbia than there is about wildlife in the wild.

I stopped just in time to convince the turkey buzzard (or something) my car wasn't a threat, and watched as he hopped over to the squished squirrel that was also in my view, picked up the limp, floppy thing in its beak, and scuttled back to the bushes on the side of the road.

Presumably to help out the human race by removing dead squirrels from the road.

This happens all the time in nature, but had I ever seen it?

No.

I felt blessed to be the chosen one, the one chosen to witness this segment of the circle of life.

Tornado

I dreamed that my best friend was getting married and I didn't know to whom. 

I dreamed that I felt very left out and disconcerted. 

I awoke feeling bad because I haven't seen this friend in a while and for all I know all of these things could have happened while we have been apart. 

I have discovered about another friend that insecurity can be crippling and free-spiritedness is hard to come by. 

Because all people are not like me. 

And not all artists are free spirits. 

It was upsetting.  

I am also being tested. 

If people don't like my art, it's okay. But if they don't like what I did with their hair or their makeup or how I photographed them, that's tough. 

My mission currently is to increase the confidence of others and make them feel valuable; I want them to also feel as if I am listening to them and giving them what they want. 

If I fail repeatedly which has happened recently, what am I to do? Give up?

I'm going to keep trying for now and delay that decision. 

-

Now, about that tornado:

All the people of southeastern Pennsylvania received a warning on their mobile phones (from "the people") (I guess someone has all our numbers in the country even if we never downloaded a weather app) - "tornado warning; please seek shelter." 

We sought shelter. 

What I wanted to share with you is that in an earlier post I listed the three things I would bring with me in the event of a volcanic eruption or other disaster. 

As we sought shelter, these things barely crossed my mind. I was super-concerned about the cats and freaking out until they were both locked in the basement. 

Their little innocent souls were not going to get sucked up in a tornado if I had anything to say about it. 

When the cats were downstairs, I was happy and I stayed downstairs. 

So now I know what's actually important to me. My family and nothing else. 

The most beautiful moment was my family all together in the basement waiting for whatever. 

I love when we're all together.

Dad was pacing around and telling us which corner of the basement was safest to shelter in. He's so knowledgable. 

Buddy and Cricket were more freaked out that all of us were invading their domain than that there was a storm raging outside. 

Their little walnut brains have forgotten last night's incident by now and will beg for food when I get home from work, and that's just how I want it to be. 

Songbirds

There were two slightly homeless-looking people singing loudly and independently of one another at suburban station this morning. 

It brings to mind a book my friend showed to me which sits above her toilet called something like "1000 feelings for which there are no names."  

One of them is "the abhorrence of disabled people" and the one listed immediately after is "the shame of feeling this."

I confess that these feelings ran through the thing which is my self. 

Nobody else seemed annoyed that the man was singing "amazing grace" and probably hadn't officially applied and been accepted to exhibit his talent in the station, but I guess I didn't look it on the outside. 

And there was actually a "normal" woman still sitting on the other end of the bench with the woman singing a shrill, unknown tune that may have been a worshipful improvisation (it seemed like it might have been that). 

Early morning songbirds. 

I managed to spend more money this morning, at the hair store geared toward black women and run by asian people (the norm, there was also one across the hall - just saying, and this is backed up in the documentary "good hair" that Asia has like an "80% hold on the black hair market). 

I missed my train, knew I would be late to work, didn't have tweezers, and had to get some. 

Ooh, it's open!

Ooh, they have tweezers!

That's where it should have ended. But that's when I saw they had headbands. And headbands add to the look of femininity I would like to achieve, so they are definitely a "need," which means I can buy five of them. Certainly. 

I loved my hair until some douchebag asked me upon meeting me if I was a lesbian and a week or so later an uninhibited child asked if I was a girl or a boy. 

Now I have some concerns. 

I don't want to feel like being thought of as a boy is a bad thing, or being thought of as a lesbian is a bad thing, because it shouldn't be a bad thing. 

This situation should cause me to examine my heart and see where I really stand on judging people who are not like me. 

I do want guests to feel comfortable when I'm waxing them. Just saying. 

In any case, I'll just have to wear the (cheaply made) headbands until they fall apart. And in that way get my money's worth. 

Maybe I can write them off my taxes as a work necessity. 

Depth

There's a song I heard on the radio with a lyric wishing an old (possibly estranged) friend many "blessings," and one of them was:

"May all your favorite bands stay together."

I cracked up.

Sarcasm and truth. Some people care a LOT about their music.

There was part of an interview with Dawes, the artist, after the song played on the radio, and he told that it took an entire year for that lyric to turn into an entire song.

This causes me to reflect on my quickly-written poems, my get-it-done art style, and my general approach to life. He let that song age like good cheese.

I don't think it will change the way I act, yet. But I will think about what he said every time I hear the lovely sarcastic tune.

It's worth it to put a year of time into a song if someone is going to listen to it for years to come, don't you think?

Noticed

The competition is on.

Who is selling the most?

Who is pre-booking the most?

Who is doing the most services per ticket?

Not I.

I was used to being last in track, used to being last done taking math tests, used to whatever else I suck at - but I thought maybe I would be good at what I'm good at.

And it would be nice if my boss told me instead of my coworkers.

They don't read this blog.

If they start, it's important that they know I love them to death.

They're older than me with more life and work experience, and perhaps my best really just isn't on their level yet.

-

That said, I was just reminded recently of this one day in eighth grade math class when Mr Lair asked me to come up to the board and show everyone how I solved the bonus homework problem from the night before.

I love writing on whiteboards. They're like forbidden fruit - only teachers can use them. And the way a fresh marker glides across the surface, the way a concept can be conveyed to a large group of people - whiteboards are no joke.

And when I finished and sat down, Mr Lair pointed at my work, all lined up with arrows and explanations, and told the class:

"This, this is as close to a mathematical work of art as I have ever seen."

And he asked me to come up and explain it, and I was embarrassed because I knew everyone was like, "sheesh, Danielle getting recognition again, enough already and we don't care about the problem," but recognition and praise meant a lot to me back in the day and I was thrilled that I had been noticed.

Never again has my math been called artistic.

But my running has been compared to dancing.

Let's face it: recognition and praise still means a lot to me. It probably means a lot to you. I want to be called elegant and graceful, skilled and successful. I want people to notice.

Yesterday I was trying to find my way out of the labyrinth that is West Chester and a guy in a jeep at a stop sign let me go first even though I don't think it was my turn. I know in other posts, I'm all "OMG cute guy we might get married!"

My interpretation of THIS cute guy scenario is that I barely saw him but for a split second in the beautiful sunlight with our windows I was able to imagine an incredibly beautiful Prince Charming opening the door for me because, even with my kind of butch haircut, I was a lady.

And in that split second, with my imagination, I was elegant and graceful, and noticed.

Things are going to be okay.

Good Day

Today is a good day. I woke up on time by mistake!

I made it to work!

My favorite people are there (my other favorites aren't because everyone is my favorite)!

I have time to blog!

I dreamed about being with my sister and petting turtles. We scratched their bellies and held their hands and they purred and smiled.

How could it not be a good day?

I learned that almost all of the products we sell are aloe-based and aren't extended by water!

I learned that our brow powder has SPF!

I miraculously made it to church on Sunday!

I sent my defective tweezers to Montana.

How can I not be happy?

I learned that some people who work at Sephora are very nice and helpful people who go out of their way to help customers.  Not all makeup salespeople are snobs!

I convinced another coworker to let me do his hair.

I learned more about a television show I had judged by its commercials and have a more open mind toward it now.

It's a really good day.

When I get tired later I can maybe think of this and remember what a good day it is. 

The EWC

Hey! Been a long while. I drove route 66 and then got a job.

My job allows me keep my pink hair, and I'm pretty sure they actually LIKE me there.

Even the guests!

And they let me do my makeup after I arrive, and they have flowery febreeze air freshener in each room that we can spray whenever we want, and I spend absolutely zero minutes deciding what to wear each morning, because I wear cute red scrubs with roomy pockets for business cards, my pager, and lots of pens.

I work for the European Wax Center.

Three weeks in, it feels like home and I love walking through the doors.

Perhaps I speak too soon. Look at it a different way, and I'm getting a huge crush on a job I haven't truly experienced yet.

I love the transition in the wax suite from stranger to ally. It only takes a few minutes to make a new friend and build a new trust connection:

Trust that I will remove your hair well, treat you with utmost respect and full attention, and that I will not judge you for anything you say because no matter what, I choose to be your friend as well as your waxer.

Truly, it's great. This connection happens sometimes in hair salons and with other cosmetological interactions, but with waxing, the situation is somehow different.

I think it is because my guest walks in knowing that I have the same goal as her: to remove hair. It is harder (though not impossible) to miscommunicate at a wax center than at a hair salon.

So my guest and I have a definite common goal, we are alone together in a well-kept and secure, medical-feeling waxing chamber, and they entrust me with their badly hair - which is very personal and connected with identity just as head hair is.

If I take this opportunity to make them feel accepted and comfortable, and also act like I know exactly what I'm doing, - voilà: friends.

I trust that writing this will have no jinxing effect on me.

I enjoy knocking on wood, and other surfaces when wood is not available, but God has been convicting me lately that there is no need because he will give or take as he pleases, regardless of superstition.

Enjoying work is a huge blessing and I will continue to share it during the blank hours in my waxing schedule until I have so many loyal guests that I simply cannot.

Which I hope will happen soon!

Mild

Mild friends. 

Like mild tea, mild salsa, lukewarm water. 

I like wasting things so I'm just going to dip this teabag in for a second and then throw it out. 

I really don't feel like drinking of you to the fullest. So let's just keep our teabags to ourselves. In fact, we don't even have to make the water totally warm. We don't have to bother because hot water would mean something. Something like "we actually care about each other."

Mild makes me think of a pious, demure wife drinking her milk and sugar in the kitchen while her husband drinks strong black coffee and smokes cigars after dinner with his buddies, expounding on politics and whatever else he pleases.  

Mild, like how you're taught to be at finishing school. 

Or like weather that's, well, not that bad. 

Mild makes me think of Jesus'disgust for people on the fence about him. He doesn't like it when people pretend to follow him but do so without any enthusiasm. That's called mildness. 

Mildness is not to be desired. 

Why, then, would anyone ever SUGGEST being mild friends with someone else? Wouldn't it be better to just slap each other in the face and move on with life than maintain a "mild" friendship?

To say yes to such a proposal would be a method of throwing pearls before swine. The pearl is you, the swine is the person who doesn't think you're worth being a hot tea friend, and the Bible provides a reason to not throw your pearls before the swine: because they'll trample them and then come after you and kill and devour you. Or something like that. There are wolves involved in the passage too. 

If you're desperate enough to agree to a mild salsa friendship, beware that your swine is going to fling his teabag in your face once he's drunk enough, and he's a swine, which means he'll never know a pearl was just before him (you).  

So in case I'm not the only one hearing this phrase, ladies, say no to intentionally lukewarm relationships. 

Lilies

Generally, if something is taking too too long to complete I believe there MUST be an easier way for me to do it. For example, pounding salt. One can buy salt in rock form and hammer it oneself. But after observing my friend try this in many different ways with painfully slow success, I asked her to give up and do something else while I was over. Maybe something with boiling and evaporation. Google is here for a reason.

This same friend is very knowledgeable about natural essential oils and for some reason I was a nonbeliever and distanced myself from her enthusiasm as much as I could. One day by chance she offered me orange oil for fatigue and I accepted. I felt a wall break in our friendship. It was incredible how afraid of and against something as innocuous and even positive as essential oils! I told her later and she told me she didn't feel anything groundbreaking happen.

I told her before I left that her aura was very bright that day.

There's a song that says "if the heavens ever did speak, she's the last true mouthpiece." Which obviously shows that the singer has had Very Bad experiences at church. But it's also beautiful because he's singing about his love and it shows the depth of his trust in her. When he says mouthpiece I totally think of clarinets and other band instruments. And prophets. The lady of the song also giggles at funerals "to everybody's disapproval" which I think is so cute because it shows she does have a unique perspective on life - one could even say eternal. I couldn't laugh at a funeral unless I was sure I would see that person again and they were just visiting God for a time. Or if I was whacked out on something illegal, maybe.

I wouldn't know.

Someone told my friend that he had a vision of me: pretty much I was a dead water lily and God would or had the power to bring me back to life. Another person told me directly that while praying for me he saw this indescribably beautiful diamond-encrusted heart that was part of a fruitful tree and that I could have it if only I wanted it enough.

At the time, those visions were frustrating to me because I wasn't at the healed stage yet. But now - now I want to go back to these people and ask them what they think of their visions - and seriously, if they even remember them.

People need to be careful of what they say when they have "a word" or "a vision" because it's easier to say one than to hear one.

Did anyone else have invisible pets when they were little?  They were perfect. I could get rid of them when I got tired of them, conjure exactly what I wanted when I wanted a pet, and make it do whatever I wanted it to do. I could also give myself rainbow unicorns or pretend I owned horses from my favorite books. I always tried to top my best friend and make sure my horses were better and higher-ranking than hers. My second-grade self still had the mentality of keeping the best for myself. And I'm pretty sure she did too: she got two identical horse training cards and gave me the one that was ripped at the top without asking me which I wanted. And I sure noticed! 

Well, I'm sure we're all guilty of this at some point, but I've recently said a few things without looking over my shoulder first. One time I was sort of glad on top of my embarrassment because I was talking about how this group of girls never reached out to anyone on the outside and one of those girls was sitting within earshot. But she was one of the nice ones, I guess. Whatever. It really pays to say good things behind people's backs, you know?

Have you ever wondered what would happen if you stood up and confessed a "big" sin or asked the pastor a question right in the middle of his sermon? Pastors are pros at ignoring the loudest of babies but if an adult tried to break the unspoken wall of silence between the congregation and the speaker, what would happen?

These thoughts from someone who gets really antsy in church.

They should at least have question and answer time afterward.

Clients

I just wanted to take a moment to share about the great clients that I have had at beauty school recently.

My school uses Paul Mitchell products. Paul Mitchell has a men's color line which I have never used - until the day this one man came in. He had great white hair and an air of sophistication about him (aka he was bald on top). In addition to being completely open to suggestion, he asked a bunch of questions to me and my instructors and gushed about how much he was learning. He ended up with a great cut and I was entirely pleased with the results from the "flash finish" color product. He enthusiastically shook my hand.

I recently watched a movie titled Saint Vincent. One of the main characters was a blonde stripper with an eastern European accent. When this lovely client came in I couldn't help but make the connection. Unfortunately she was one of the clients who doesn't say much (which makes me nervous) and after her keratin treatment told me her hair didn't feel any different.

Darn.

But I put pretty waves in her hair and she made a point not to put her scarf on on the way out so she wouldn't mess them up.  Sometimes it's impossible to know what people are thinking.

That same day a girl came in and ASKED for me to give her an updo for a dance she was going to. It touched my heart because the first time I took too long and made her late to photos for her function. We hugged on the way out.

There was a similar lady who had come in months ago for a simple haircut and, for some reason, REQUESTED me. I struggled so much the first time but she made me feel like I had been a professional even way back in October. And I was able to serve her with better quality and speed than last time.

I have also been blessed by a woman who is slightly advanced in years who was inspired by Katy Perry and myself to ask me for blue streaks in her hair. And she was the first client who asked me to tease her hair. I love teasing. And she told me, "it looks a lot better teased." That felt nice.

There was one woman who came in shortly after an unexpected death in her family. She was planning the funeral as I was doing her hair. When I was done, she looked in the mirror and told me "I haven't lookeded this good in years."

- a big change from, "I'm sorry, I look so haggard right now."

I sprayed her a lot and told her not to worry about her hair because it would last till the funeral.

It was such a blessing to be a part of that.

But my FAVORITE experience, which I am writing down so I never forget it, is when a client told me as I was teasing her hair (this is a different one), "you're really good. You are definitely in the right profession."

So much to learn, but so much encouragement to remember.

Box Trolls

I was watching a movie called "the box trolls" and was struck by the villian's being allergic to the thing he wanted the very most. It was just perfect for a (dark) family film where actually killing the villian to get justice is not appropriate.

Have you noticed in less grown-up films where themes of pathos and revenge and guilt and what-is-justice are avoided, the bad guy is more likely to fall prey to a cliff, alligator, ocean, or swirling cloud, rather than a knife to the heart from the protagonist?

The good guys tell the bad guy it might not be so good for him to eat the cheese and his identity doesn't come from it, blah blah etc, (the writers rid them of all culpability) and he does, and he explodes, and everybody is happy because everyone wanted him to die secretly but nobody wanted blood on their hands.

The underdogs in the movie are the box trolls themselves, a species of little blue hairless lumps with arms and legs that wear boxes for clothes and dig in the trash for materials to fuel their underground tinkering workshop.

They don't speak English but grunt cutely and express human emotions - and are depicted as purely good.

I feel that they may have been designed to compete with minions. They're cute, little, a different color, and there are a lot of them. They act as a group, and they have an underground lair. On the other hand, this movie is based on a book and maybe the designers just couldn't help it.

In any case, I like the box trolls better than minions because they have integrity and intelligence. Enough said.

Struggle Bus

Before school one day I noticed that my car was covered in little ice puddles. It was beautiful. More beautiful was the fact that my car was clean!  Dad had taken my car to the wash and discovered that manmade cleaning methods just won't remove the gunk from the pooping trees under which I often unwittingly park at school.

After school that day the ice had melted and my car was covered again in tree poop.

Winter truly is a blessing, for its ice and snow have been the cure for the strange gooey berries that have befallen my civic.

I was speaking with a classmate who had also come upon some strange struggles that day and she used the greatest phrase: "struggle bus." Now, I couldn't remember what it was when I got home and had to text her ("it's something like trouble train"). But after that day I hear the phrase more often.

The wheels on the struggle bus go round and round.

HERE's a struggle: growing up.  About a month out from graduation, it has become a new rule that if students do not arrive at or before starting time, they must wait an hour and 45 minutes (until the end of break) before they can clock in and begin accumulating hours.

For someone who almost always comes in five to fifteen minutes late, I had to choose between two reactions to this policy change, and really, I had no right to be angry and indignant. I'm 21 for goodness' sake. I live 15 minutes away. There's no reason for me to ever be late.

Instead, this is how I responded: 

Challenge accepted.

And for those days when I'm running late, I park right outside with my blinkers on, run in and scan my hand into the time clock, and then go park my car. GENIUS.