Now pay attention.
I go to cosmetology school.
I work at a salon.
The two are owned by the same people.
This can get confusing. Especially when I tell stories about school, or work.
The same things happen at both places.
Hair cuts
Perm waves
Pedicures
Facials
The chain of command is especially confusing.
One of my instructors at school is a nail technician at work. This means she is my boss at work and kind of a boss-type at school. Not so confusing.
One of the lead receptionists at work is a junior student at school. I am not a lead receptionist at work but am a senior student at school. She tells me how it's done during the day, I tell her how it's done at night.
My boss at work was student with me at the cosmetology school. This made us equals until she became my boss. Now she is my boss at work and training to be an instructor at school. At work, she's in charge. At school, she's not allowed to tell me what to do. This is a little more confusing, no?
Another instructor at school is a frequent client at work. This means I get to serve her bottled water while she waits to get her hair colored during the day and then she critiques the placement of my perm rods at night.
Sometimes I work from 8am to 4pm and then go to school from 5pm to 9pm all in the same day. The roles have to change that quickly. On the most confusing of days I go from being a pee-on at one moment to the big man on campus the next. Fortunately I've gotten used to switching roles appropriately.
The whole thing kind of reminds me of the old folk song, I'm My Own Grandpa. See if you can figure this one out.
22 April 2008
17 April 2008
The Luckiest People
I just wanted to announce it to the world that Bridge Man and I are undoubtedly the luckiest couple in the world. Before your gag reflex kicks in, please take a moment to let me explain. But before I explain, I'm going to take a quick detour.
The lottery.
What are the chances of winning the lottery or the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes? How many people actually win these things? What would you do if you won mega millions? Would you turn to Ed McMahon and say no thanks, I'm not interested - My five-figure salary will suffice for now. Can I get you something to drink Mr. McMahon? Would you say that winners of these lotteries have defied the odds? I think you would. Well then, ladies and gentlemen, Bridge Man and I have defied these minuscule odds - five times! No, we haven't won the lottery. Ed McMahon hasn't shown up at our door with a really big check and some balloons. Not yet anyway. I may already be a winner after all.
Let me explain.
The moment Bridge Man and I got engaged our names and addresses were instantaneously sold to wedding vendors across the globe who immediately took it upon themselves to mail us every pamphlet/brochure/magazine/coupon they could stuff into our mailbox. And those who were really lucky somehow managed to get a hold of my cell phone number. One of my personal favorites from this really lucky lot, is A*merican Presti*ge. They like to call and tell me how I've been randomly selected as the winner of a four-day, five-night vacation to the location of my choice. All I have to do is attend a presentation that night about Tupperware and pay my own airfare. That's all!
The first time I got this call, I listened to the nice ladies mantra before I graciously declined. The second, third, and fourth time they called to tell me that I was picked out of millions as the winner of this fantastic vacation package getaway I was at work and unable to answer the phone. They would call three and four times in a day because the day you are selected to win you must go in to see the Tupperware presentation that night or you are disqualified to receive the amazing prize. So you'd think that I'd be disqualified after the second or third or even the fourth go-round.
Oh, no. In fact, my name was miraculously chosen out of millions for the fifth time as the winner of this dream vacation. Only this time I answered the phone. And as I sat there silently listening to the nice lady tell me about this great prize, I wonder if I should stop her before she gets too deep into her script or if I should be polite and listen even though I already know my answer. I decide to forgo manners if for no reason other than to make her job easier. I interrupted her to very nicely decline. Why should I make her go through the entire five minute monologue when I already know that it's a waste of her time? Anyway, like I said, I was polite and said no thanks. To which she abruptly said, OK, and hung up. (Which makes me so glad I gave it so much thought.)
So I ask you, is there anything luckier than being randomly selected to win a dream getaway FIVE TIMES? I think not. Bridge Man and I must be some of the luckiest people in the world.
The lottery.
What are the chances of winning the lottery or the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes? How many people actually win these things? What would you do if you won mega millions? Would you turn to Ed McMahon and say no thanks, I'm not interested - My five-figure salary will suffice for now. Can I get you something to drink Mr. McMahon? Would you say that winners of these lotteries have defied the odds? I think you would. Well then, ladies and gentlemen, Bridge Man and I have defied these minuscule odds - five times! No, we haven't won the lottery. Ed McMahon hasn't shown up at our door with a really big check and some balloons. Not yet anyway. I may already be a winner after all.
Let me explain.
The moment Bridge Man and I got engaged our names and addresses were instantaneously sold to wedding vendors across the globe who immediately took it upon themselves to mail us every pamphlet/brochure/magazine/coupon they could stuff into our mailbox. And those who were really lucky somehow managed to get a hold of my cell phone number. One of my personal favorites from this really lucky lot, is A*merican Presti*ge. They like to call and tell me how I've been randomly selected as the winner of a four-day, five-night vacation to the location of my choice. All I have to do is attend a presentation that night about Tupperware and pay my own airfare. That's all!
The first time I got this call, I listened to the nice ladies mantra before I graciously declined. The second, third, and fourth time they called to tell me that I was picked out of millions as the winner of this fantastic vacation package getaway I was at work and unable to answer the phone. They would call three and four times in a day because the day you are selected to win you must go in to see the Tupperware presentation that night or you are disqualified to receive the amazing prize. So you'd think that I'd be disqualified after the second or third or even the fourth go-round.
Oh, no. In fact, my name was miraculously chosen out of millions for the fifth time as the winner of this dream vacation. Only this time I answered the phone. And as I sat there silently listening to the nice lady tell me about this great prize, I wonder if I should stop her before she gets too deep into her script or if I should be polite and listen even though I already know my answer. I decide to forgo manners if for no reason other than to make her job easier. I interrupted her to very nicely decline. Why should I make her go through the entire five minute monologue when I already know that it's a waste of her time? Anyway, like I said, I was polite and said no thanks. To which she abruptly said, OK, and hung up. (Which makes me so glad I gave it so much thought.)
So I ask you, is there anything luckier than being randomly selected to win a dream getaway FIVE TIMES? I think not. Bridge Man and I must be some of the luckiest people in the world.
04 April 2008
Ten Fingers. Ten Toes.
It was inevitable. Everyone in my family has them. I was genetically destined to inherit the short, stubby fingers and the wide, fat feet of those who came before me. It was a running joke in the family. ‘Flintstone feet’ we called them. And as a five year-old child, I can remember wishing that my hands would someday develop into long, graceful fingers with perfectly shaped nails. But it was my feet that bothered me the most. They were so wide that they could only fit comfortably in shoes made for little boys, one size too big. You see, what my tootsies make up for in width, they lack in length. This nixed any capability I had to wear the jelly sandals I so coveted as a child.
Throughout my adolescence, I never failed to point out my distaste for the feet that I have been doomed to lug around. I would wrap them up tightly with strips of material in order to make them skinnier, or at the very least, prevent them from getting wider. When my mom noticed this for the first time she questioned me about the odd footwear I had donned. When I told her of my intentions I remember seeing a flicker of sadness flash in her eyes before she informed me I should be glad to have all my fingers and toes and then she went about her business. I couldn’t understand why I had made her sad. Why would anyone want to walk around with feet like mine?
In the summer of 2007, I flew out to visit some relatives from my mom’s side of the family in California. I spent five wonderful days there and on the last night we had a small get-together to spend my last night there as a group, as a family. We all sat around in the backyard, barefoot, soaking up the warm, California evening talking, laughing, crying, and simply spending some long overdue time with each other. While the conversations flowed, I sat silently for a moment to look at the special people around me. I looked for similarities in our features. The one thing we all had in common was our feet. This was the first moment in my life that I had ever felt a sense of pride for my fat, wide appendages.
The following November, my mom was hospitalized when the cancer that had seized the last two years of her life, took a turn for the worst. On one particularly late night, I sat next to her hospital bed holding her hand. It was just the two of us. Her temperature was high so she was covered her in a light-weight blanket. Her feet were uncovered, exposing a fresh pedicure and a simple anklet. My mind wandered from her respirations per minute to her physical features. We had the same chin, the same nose, the same hands, the same feet. And while she appeared thin and frail, her feet still had that short, wide shape that notoriously runs in our family.
It didn’t occur to me at that moment but now that I look back and continue to seek out anything to provoke memories of her and her life – movie ticket stubs, journals, jewelry – I’ve realized that one of the best things my mom left behind are the her traits. I’ve come to love the fact that she and I have the same nose, chin, and hands. I love the fact that we have the same Flintstone feet. She gave them to me. And I am reminded every day that a little piece of her lives on with me.
Throughout my adolescence, I never failed to point out my distaste for the feet that I have been doomed to lug around. I would wrap them up tightly with strips of material in order to make them skinnier, or at the very least, prevent them from getting wider. When my mom noticed this for the first time she questioned me about the odd footwear I had donned. When I told her of my intentions I remember seeing a flicker of sadness flash in her eyes before she informed me I should be glad to have all my fingers and toes and then she went about her business. I couldn’t understand why I had made her sad. Why would anyone want to walk around with feet like mine?
In the summer of 2007, I flew out to visit some relatives from my mom’s side of the family in California. I spent five wonderful days there and on the last night we had a small get-together to spend my last night there as a group, as a family. We all sat around in the backyard, barefoot, soaking up the warm, California evening talking, laughing, crying, and simply spending some long overdue time with each other. While the conversations flowed, I sat silently for a moment to look at the special people around me. I looked for similarities in our features. The one thing we all had in common was our feet. This was the first moment in my life that I had ever felt a sense of pride for my fat, wide appendages.
The following November, my mom was hospitalized when the cancer that had seized the last two years of her life, took a turn for the worst. On one particularly late night, I sat next to her hospital bed holding her hand. It was just the two of us. Her temperature was high so she was covered her in a light-weight blanket. Her feet were uncovered, exposing a fresh pedicure and a simple anklet. My mind wandered from her respirations per minute to her physical features. We had the same chin, the same nose, the same hands, the same feet. And while she appeared thin and frail, her feet still had that short, wide shape that notoriously runs in our family.
It didn’t occur to me at that moment but now that I look back and continue to seek out anything to provoke memories of her and her life – movie ticket stubs, journals, jewelry – I’ve realized that one of the best things my mom left behind are the her traits. I’ve come to love the fact that she and I have the same nose, chin, and hands. I love the fact that we have the same Flintstone feet. She gave them to me. And I am reminded every day that a little piece of her lives on with me.
02 April 2008
One hundred and thirty-one days
Last night Bridge Man and I finally booked our honeymoon. In exactly one hundred and thirty-one days, I will be basking in the sweet, sweet sights and sounds of Maui.
We'll be taking a bike tour on a volcano, tasting some native wine, and learning to surf. One hundred and thirty-one days and counting!
We'll be taking a bike tour on a volcano, tasting some native wine, and learning to surf. One hundred and thirty-one days and counting!
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