Hold On

Aristophanes, (in one and my preferred version of the story) in quoting Plato told of how Humans used to be connected; Lovers, soul mates, were one being. And the world was a wondrous, loving and gracious place. But the vengeful Gods saw how happy humans were and envied them; they were jealous and dark hearted. They separated the two souls inhabiting a single form and scattered them about. Ever since, as the story goes, humans have wandered  searching for their soul mate; their split apart.

Hold on
I promise to be loyal, faithful, honest, yours
I promise to love you without condition, wholly, from the inside out
I promise to be worthy of your trust; to uphold you; to be your constant
I promise to provide you a safe haven from the insanity that is the world
I promise to overlook trivialities, focus on the pertinent
I promise to listen, to hear, to act, to defend
I promise to avoid that which would destroy us
I promise to strive to be what you believe me to be
I promise to see in you your potential, appreciate your strengths
I promise to  forgive you,  to ask your forgiveness
I promise to put you first; before my own desires, before the vanities of the world
I promise to be only yours, to protect your heart as though it were my own
I promise to laugh, to cry, to explore, and to grow with you
And should the world threaten to destroy us; to separate us; to scatter us about,
I promise to hold on

Had woman sit in my chair a while back. I got stuck with her because her regular designer wasn't there. Again. She was angry. Don't blame her. Her regular designer has been doing hair for about 5 minutes. Anyway, normally, when I visit for the first time with a new client the conversation starts out something like this;

Me - Hello. Nice to meet you, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. So, you want a cut and color today, is that correct?
Client - Yes.
Me - Great. Let's take a look at what you have already and then discuss what you want so we can decide how best to have you looking fabulous when you leave.
Client - Okey Dokey

Then, I ask a bajillion question and look at growth patterns, condition, density, color, skin tone, eye color, etc.

Next, I offer up suggestions.

Me - Well, here's what I'm seeing...What I think you would love...and how I'd like to do that...and it will take...yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.
Client - Sounds good. Work your magic. OR What I do like...what I don't like...etc.

We come to an agreement. Never, anywhere in that conversation will you hear me say, "Tell me exactly what you want and how to do it because if you don't I won't know what to do or where to start and you'll hate it when you leave". The reason is very simple. I have been doing what I do and teaching other people how to do what I do for 28 years. I have extensive amounts of high quality, national and international education. And, I'm very good at what I do. And while I am still learning, I don't know everything, but what I do know, I know very well.

Back to the client. She sits in my chair. I step around to face her so I can look at her while we discuss what we're going to do. Before I even begin the clarification of what she's actually there for, she says this:

"I like my hair like this. I want it cut 2 inches here on a ninety degree angle. I want it tapered here but not too short. I want it over my ears, tapered at the neck. I want the top blond but not yellow. Do not use bleach on my hair. If you think you can't color it without turning it yellow, I'll wait till #$@#^ is back. I want it texturized - pause - look at stylist to see if she's listening and knows what texturizing is - I want side swept bangs and I don't want to see one single gray hair. But don't do all over color. Just highlight. Just make sure you pick up all the grays. And, by the way, my hair is very coarse and if you cut it too short it will stick straight up and I won't pay you.

I am still standing in front of her, most likely with my dropped jaw telling her much more than my silence is, and she says, "Do you think you can handle that?"

My first response to her diatribe?  "Que?"

For just a moment she thought I didn't speak English. The look on her face was worth the price of admission. And because one inappropriate comment is against my principles, I responded with;

"I've been doing hair 28 years. I'm pretty sure I can handle it."

At some point during the conversation, I told her how much everything was going to cost.

Client -  "Oh, I only wanted to spend $50". (I had looked up her previous service with the other stylist and she paid more for just the color than that.)
Me - "Ok. Well, I'll be glad to discuss what we can do for $50 then."
Client - "But I want the whole thing".
Me - "I can't do all that you've asked for $50. What I CAN do is..."
Client - "Well, I need the whole thing done. But I won't pay that."
Me - "Well, I understand completely. Give me just a moment and I'll go see if there is someone else available to do your hair".
Client - "Why can't you do it?"
Me - "I cannot do 2 hours worth of work for $50".
Client - "You can't or you won't?"
Me - "Yes. That is correct. My prices are not negotiable. This is how long it will take, and this is how much it will cost."

She decided that she would pay my "outrageous prices", made a couple more equally condescending remarks about never liking her hair and how no one listens to her. I asked her to be quiet because when she talked she moved her head. I needed her to be still. She finally harumphed and shut up.

What I wanted to say was;

"I appreciate the fact that you may have, in the past, had to tell people how to do what they do. However, I am licensed, experienced and good at what I do. The only reason you are in my chair is because I had a last minute cancellation. The reason that is important to you is this. I don't take orders. You are welcome to tell me what you like and what you don't like. However, unless you are prepared to do this service yourself, you are not in charge here. I am the master of this particular universe. Feel free to tell me what issues you are having but you are not free to order me about, tell me what to do and how to do it, and you certainly are not free to threaten me. If you continue to be condescending and disrespectful, you can get your ass out of my chair and find someone else to be your bitch. The reason you 'never get a good haircut or color" is because you tell people what to do and how to do it rather than allowing them to do their job. And, by the way, if you don't sit still and quit moving your head, I'm going to charge you double."

When I finished, she actually liked her hair. Though it was painful for her, she thanked me and asked for my card. I thanked her, suggested that she enjoy the rest of her weekend and promptly went to the computer and added a note to her file. It read,

"Do not, ever, under any circumstances, for any reason, put this woman on my books again."

They haven't.

Politicians, Zombies and Other Treasures

politicians, zombies and other treasures

My first day off in two weeks. I head for the bookstore. I love the bookstore. The one closest to me happens to be Books-a-Million. I can't decide if I like the name or not. What I do enjoy is wandering about hoping to find a treasure. I left with a bag; although I'm not sure any of my choices could be considered treasures. Unless you count the pen with the light up Skull on it. You hit it on the counter and multi-colored lights flash for a minute. It writes and it's fun banging on every hard surface I encounter.

As I was meandering I found myself making mental notes of some of the titles. Did you know there is actually a book called Freemasons for Dummies? True story. And another one called The 48 Laws of Power. You can also get Zen Meditation Balls (complete with chime balls and a pouch. And, while we're in the philosophy section, no  library would be complete without Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

Here's another beauty: If You Meet the Budha on the Road, Kill Him and for some reason Freedom from the Known made me laugh out loud. There's probably some deep seated meaning behind my mirth and I'm fairly certain there's a book ready to explain it fully. I decided to check. I didn't find anything. I did think a book called Questions to Cheer You Up sounded promising. Nothing like being relentlessly grilled to elevate your mood. Then I discovered it actually said "Quotations" rather than "Questions". Not nearly as entertaining so I moved on.

Perhaps the History section would prove interesting. I found World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War. See what you miss when you go to school in a small, southern town?

And who could boast being well read without Uncle John's Bathroom Reader Plunges into Ohio, just one in from Uncle John's Bathroom Reader series?

For you self-helpers out there, there's The Four Hour Work Week, How Not to Act Old: 285 Ways to Pass for Phat, Sick, Hot, Dope, Awesome, or at Least Not Totally Lame and People are Idiots and I Can Prove It although I have my doubts about how helpful this last one may be.

I originally went in looking for a book about food. In that aisle I found Soaked, Slathered and Seasoned and looked up to make sure I was still in the cooking section.  There was I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti, that one put a giggle in my grin until I found Babycakes: Vegan, Gluten-Free, and (Mostly) Sugar-Free Recipes.  I didn't even get past the title on that one. To that I say "Why bother?" One, however, that did get my attention was In Defense of Food: An Eater's Manifesto My enthusiastic "RIGHT ON!" caught the attention of a nearby employee so I put the book down and looked around to see who was making all the noise.

On my way to the register I made a cursory run through the politics aisle. Now, there's some entertaining reading. I found What in the World is Going On, Catastrophe, Windy City, (I expected this one to be about Washington, D.C. - it wasn't), The Swamp, Pay to Play, and one I ALMOST bought, Why Women Should Rule the World. Interesting how the titles seem to mimic how I feel about politics and politicians at present.

I bought 5 books.  Tonight I'll be cuddling with Pride and Prejudice and Zombies The Classic Regency Romance - Now with Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem!

 And I said I didn't find any treasures.

The Homecoming

In the late 60’s we lived in Memphis. My father was active duty navy and spent a lot of time on aircraft carriers. He looked quite handsome in his uniform and he was my hero. He was stationed at Memphis for instructor duty. We used to go to the base and I got to get in the flight simulator that they used to teach sailors how to fly.

One of the memories that gets stirred up every year at this time;

The first POW’s were starting to come home. I remember my parents telling me as we were bundling up one evening to go out that we were going to go see something miraculous. I wasn’t quite sure what was going on. I didn’t really know what a POW was. My father was on aircraft carriers in the Mediterranean. He never served in Vietnam even though he was active duty. I remember quite clearly asking him what a POW was. He knelt down to me and explained without hesitation that a POW was someone who had been away at war and the enemy had captured him and kept him. Sometimes they didn’t come home, but that day, one family and one base community was celebrating the return of one of it’s own. We were there to celebrate a hero’s homecoming.

As we neared the flight deck, cars were everywhere. It was cold and it was already dark. We had to park and walk. There were more people than I had ever seen in one place. My dad kept hold of my hand so I wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. People were milling around, talking, laughing, and celebrating. It was like a big party. We got hot chocolate and my mom handed me a small American flag. She had one too. Everyone did.

Then I understood. Someone’s husband and daddy was coming home. Like mine always did. I remembered when my dad would come home from a sea duty tour. Sometimes, we would go to the docks and meet him. We would watch for him in the sea of sailors in their white hats as they debarked the ship and we always were able to pick him out of the crowd.

There are certain things that stand out in this memory for me. I remember everyone was having a good time. Suddenly the crowd got quieter. Not still or reserved necessarily, but reverent, respectful. My dad put me on his shoulders so I could see. I was 9 or 10 but was about the size of a 5 or 6 year old. The plane was coming. It had touched down and was making it’s way toward us. You could feel the anticipation in the air. Officers and other military personnel began gathering around where the plane would stop. It pulled up like a limousine pulling up to valet parking. The military personnel all in their dress blues lined up on either side as they rolled the stairs to the plane. The entire crowd, I believe, was holding it’s collective breath. The stairs were carefully placed, the door swung open. The pilot and co-pilot were at the door. We couldn’t see anyone else but they saluted for what seemed like a long time.

Down on the tarmac, military personnel had lined up to give the POW a hero’s welcome. His wife, stood off to the side. I thought she looked very brave and a little unsteady. She wore a light blue pantsuit, white boots and a scarf to protect her perfectly coiffed hair. I worried that she was cold but I doubt she felt much of anything at that moment. Just then, A man in dress blues, who didn’t quite fill the opening, stepped off the plane and onto the stairs. I stole a quick glance at the hero’s wife. Someone was next to her holding her arm. Her hands went to her face but other than that, she did not move. Not like me when my dad got home. Once we found him in the crowd I would jump and run and giggle and get to him first to get my homecoming hugs and kisses long before Mom could. She always waited patiently on the sidelines like the lady in the blue pantsuit. The man saluted again, and the crowd went wild as though the Beatle’s themselves had just stepped off the plane. He started down the steps. As he hit the tarmac, he saluted each and every officer in that line. It seemed like dozens though it was probably more like 6. He did not flinch. He did not waiver. He did not look away. He took a step and gave the finest salute I had ever seen to each and every one. I heard someone say something about respect. I don’t know if he even noticed the crowd. As he got closer to the end of the line his wife had started inching closer across the tarmac. She took very long, broad, tentative steps and I remember thinking she looked like she was running, only in slow motion. Her pant leg would ride up a bit because her stride was so long and I could see her boots. As she got within about 3 car lengths, by a little kid’s estimation, her arms started reaching toward her husband. He stood strong and proud. Once he had reached the end of the reception line, he turned, ever so slowly and caught a glimpse of his wife inching toward him.

As he stepped toward her, almost as a cue, her slow motion edging turned into a full gallop and in seconds they were in each other’s arms. I remember feeling such relief that the lady in the blue suit finally got to hug her husband. No respectful salute for her. They held onto each other for a long time, surrounded by military personnel and their families and cheering onlookers waving their little American flags, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings. I forgot about how cold it was. I forgot about my hot chocolate. Tears filled my eyes for reasons I would not understand for many years. I waved my flag and cheered till my throat hurt.

Finally, the hero and his wife were escorted to a waiting car and a long procession proceeded to move down the tarmac. People in the crowd were hugging. Women and men alike were wiping away tears that I would later recognize as tears of joy, gratitude and also sadness for those who would not make it home. As I clutched my little American flag and counted stars out the car window, we inched our way through the crowd and rode silently home.

Beggars and Choosers

I was riding the bus once, several years ago when we lived in the city. As often happened, a conversation started up between several people. One of the other buses earlier that day had been involved in a fender bender with a truck. Even though it was a mild tap, no one saw it coming and several were thrown from their seats. No one was actually hurt and the passengers were picked up by a second bus that completed the route.

One of the passengers said, “Man! I wish I had been on that bus! I’d have been yellin” my head off and grabbin’ my neck! I woulda’ never had to work again!” To which another passenger responded, “Girl you ain’t never worked anyway!” “Hell no, I ain’t never worked! I”d lose all my benefits!” Laughter broke out. I continued reading my Tom Clancy novel while musing to myself about how people are not only glad to cheat, lie, steal, and live dishonestly, but they are proud of the fact that they do it and get away with it.

Rather than asking themselves, How good can I be? What positive, honorable choices can I make today?  What can I do to contribute? What can I do to leave the world just a bit better than I found it? They wonder, “How bad can I be and still be ok? As long as someone else has done something worse, it doesn’t matter what I do today. They justify their bad behavior by blaming their parents, society, anyone who opposes them or expects them to live within limitations.

These kinds of people astonish me. They wreak havoc where ever they go. The leave destruction and refuse in their wake, and then wonder why squalor follows them.  They hate those that have more than them ignoring the fact that what other’s have was probably earned. They demand respect yet they treat every one with contempt and do nothing to deserve it. They expect to be taken care of, cared for, supported, yet they contribute absolutely nothing.

People who think like this do serve a purpose, however.  They remind me to appreciate the aches at the end of a long day. They remind me to live a grateful life; to live so that at the end of the day, I can look myself in the mirror without shame or remorse. They remind me that reaching my potential is not only a worthy goal but a formidable challenge. They remind me how important it is to be an informed voter. And they remind me, that in the end, I wish to leave the world just a bit better than I found it.

All I NEED is a New Camera

I started researching new cameras several months ago, upon the realization that my Fujifilm was no longer sufficient. What that means is, I had played with all the bells and whistles and was ready for some new, cooler ones.  I had narrowed my desires down to two. (NO small task, mind you). A Nikon and a Canon. Not very imaginative, I know but there’s a reason Nikon and Canon sell a lot of cameras. So, I peel through page after page online; stop and look at every single camera in every single store; pick the brain of every brainless sales associate this side of the Mississippi.

Ok, so not ALL of them were brainless. The guy at Nebraska Furniture Mart, actually knew a wee bit about cameras. Often, I would end up telling them a thing or two and I’m an amateur for sure.

When the moment finally presented itself and I couldn’t stand the thought of reading yet one more review, with the Nikon in one hand and the Canon in the other, I tried to figure out how I could manage to get both when I spied an Olympus that looked interesting.

I mused, pondered and compared in my head, ran a very nice, cooperative and uninformed sales lady absolutely ragged; looked up info on my blackberry and finally walked out of the store the proud new owner of an Alpha series Sony.

It’s definitely a big girl camera. I am learning very quickly when I need to change lenses ( that is so cool), remove the sun shield, turn off the flash. I am often found out back at the edge of our property line shooting thistles, butterflies, bees, and various weeds that precede the tree line. I have learned to sit very still for a very long time and have become the favorite in the staring contest with more than one bird.

Travelling for work affords me many opportunities to photograph weeds in other places and when I get a day off, I take my camera just in case. I have two lenses, my favorite being a 75 – 300 mm f/4.5-5.6 zoom lens. Now, all I need is a fish eye wide angle, a macro and a larger camera bag.

It’s always something…

Here’s a few practice shots. Hopefully, soon I’ll be able to show some more finished looking work.

 

Your Dinner is Looking at Me

One of the things the military does for people being stationed in a place like Spain is assign them sponsors. Sponsors correspond with the newcomers before their arrival, giving them helpful information as to what to expect, and help them make arrangements for their arrival. This is particularly helpful for people who have not traveled much. Once the newcomers arrive, the sponsors are available to help them get settled. Often, they will help them get acclimated, take them out to eat, show them around and teach them a bit about local customs. Moving to a foreign land is not for the weak of heart and sponsors help make the transition friendly. 

Since Americans typically have an intimate relationship with food it is common, customary and appropriate to take the newcomers out to eat and help them find their way around a typical Spanish menu. Every person I knew was subjected to the not particularly funny “onion rings” joke. They would tell the newcomers they were ordering onion rings and laugh with delight when they actually bit into a calamari. I never really understood why anyone fell for this. Calamari is a common enough dish at American restaurants but the fact that someone may NOT know was, I suppose, too tempting. While I don’t particularly love seafood, I do like calamari so the people that tried it on me had to resort to plan B. 

Sometime during the first month or two after I had arrived some friends from the naval base and I were at a local “Tapa bar” trying out some of the local fare. My new friends asked me if I liked tortillas. “of course” I replied. To my surprise they ordered ONE. The look on my face said it all. They began to laugh and explained that Spanish food is European, not Mexican, so the “tortillas” are much bigger, and assured me that one tortilla would be plenty. We also ordered several other dishes including snails. When the food arrived, much to my surprise, I did not receive a basket of tortilla “chips” and salsa, which I expected. The tortilla was instead, of all things, an omelet made with eggs and potatoes and served room temperature. They were right; one was plenty and it was delicious and a dish I still enjoy tremendously to this day. I did not try the snails. They were tiny, shell-less and in a small juice class with some brown, brothy, salty, icky looking water. A dish I have not tried to this day. 

A friend of mine named Belinda, a Mexican-American was surprised by the tortillas too. The first time she went to a café in Spain she requested, in Spanish, a dozen tortillas. The waiter questioned her and she assured him that she did in fact want a dozen tortillas. Imagine her surprise when the waiter and a couple of helpers started for a table a while later with 12 omelets. 

I was also introduced to paella, a saffron flavored rice dish that prior to moving to Spain had never heard of, much less tried. Typically, the paella comes to the table in the pan it is prepared in. Everyone is given small plates but the first time and many times thereafter, the paella did not come with a serving spoon. One of the strangest food related experiences I ever had transpired over a pan of paella. 

I was with a group of new Spanish friends and my Spanish was not great yet. I knew they had ordered the rice but did not understand much of anything else. A paella pan almost as large as the table arrived. With great pride and ceremony, the waiter dramatically places the pan on the table and waves his arm over it as though he’s presenting a treasure to baby Jesus. Amongst ooh’s and ahh’s of appreciation I look down and gaze upon what it is that has everyone all aflutter…and I see it…my friends have ordered a seafood paella complete with mussels, shrimp, small whole fish, and horrors to this non-seafood eating American, tiny, whole, complete with eyes, squid; little tentacles popping out of the rice like it’s trying to escape. It makes me shudder to this day. THEN, to make things even more disturbing, they didn’t dish the paella onto the small dishes we were given. They all ate out the same pan. The dishes were, apparently, for catching the droppings or looks or Americans. I’m not sure which. 

I ate a lot of bread that night.