Odd encounter

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“Where do you get your hair done?” the waiter asked as he picked up a lock of my hair and twirled it around his finger.
“Gene Juarez,” I answered, a little confused. Why was this strange man touching my hair?
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I could do a much better job for less money. You should let me do your hair. I’d fix it.”

As the waiter walked off I had to wonder if I had just been insulted. But since I was at the restaurant to celebrate my sister-in-law’s birthday, I decided to ignore the odd little conversation I had just had.

Only the waiter would not let me. He returned for round two about ten minutes later.

“Excuse me,” the waiter said, tapping me on the shoulder. “I just realized that I might have been rather insulting before. I just meant that I hate to see my girls spend all that money on their hair when they don’t need to.”

I nodded, confused by the “my girls” comment. Whatever did he mean?

He moved away and went about his business, so I turned my attention back to the birthday party.

It was a full thirty minutes before round three occurred.

“Take this,” the waiter said as he stuck a business card in front of my face and scared the wits out of me. “You should come to me and let me do your hair for you.”
I took the card.
“I really want to play with your hair.”

We left about ten minutes later.

For whatever reason, people talk to me. I know this and I’m accustomed to it. For some unfathomable reason people tell me things. I once sat down in the audience to wait for my child’s concert to begin, and within just a few minutes the person beside me had told me about her impending divorce and custody battle.

But I found the whole hair thing odd. I’m not really sure what I should think about it.

Jackhammers at breakfast

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Ahhhh! I can’t think!

At 8:00 this morning (a Saturday morning no less) utility crews pulled into my street with four or five huge trucks. At 8:30 they began work with that machine that slams against concrete until it breaks it up. (I usually know the name of this noisy piece of equipment, but as I said, I can’t think right now.)

It is filling my house with irritating sound. Even worse, my house is shaking, like we are experiencing a series of small earthquakes.

I know why they are here, my next-door neighbor wants to have a gas stove so they are putting in a gas line. Of course, she hasn’t moved in yet. So the noise isn’t bothering her one iota.

I hope this is an efficient crew that finishes quickly. Before I go batty.

Wait…I think the name of that horribly noisy machine is coming to me. It is a…it is a… it is a…come on, you can do it, it is a…jackhammer! That’s right. That’s what it is called!

Whew!

Now, if I can just get my brain to ignore the noise long enough to remember how to make breakfast.

Not worth the brain power

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I spend a good bit of time on the Internet. I read things written by people of all walks of life, stages of education, and mental abilities.

When someone understands that writing is all about communication, it shows. Sentences are well structured. Spelling is correct. Actual punctuation is used.

In other words, people can read and understand it.
What a concept!

But many of those who plaster the Internet with their ramblings in the big bad world of the Web are lazy. What pass for paragraph are litters with grammatical errors. Speling is slopie. Sentences any old way no real structure or punctuation Homonyms create chaos weather ewe no watt is mint or knot.

Some sentences go on and on and never seem to stop but just keep running on as if the person writing never has to take a breath and never plans to stop because they just have so much to say. Sometimeseventhespacesbetweenwordsareleftout.

The oddness of writing

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This writing business is odd.

I want to submit my script to a contest, and I want it to be the best possible script I can write. So yesterday I looked over the last comments my instructor made about my script so I could decide what changes I need to make.

It looked, frankly, unmanageable! I felt I was done, but she suggested deleting some scenes, writing a few new ones, and redoing several others. I couldn’t do it! I was too overwhelmed just thinking about it.

But I figured I would put in a few hours, just to get it a tiny bit closer to “perfect”. I’ve learned that the one-step-at-a-time system will get any project done, if I had the patience to keep plugging away.

I got out my computer and began to work. By the time I’d finished for the day I’d put in six very satisfactory hours.

Today I put in another five hours, and I’m amazed to see that I actually got it all done.

Now this in no way means that the script will not get any more rewrites. It is really difficult to put it aside and say that it can’t get any better.

But I won’t be ashamed to submit it to the contest. I actually like it!

And that’s what is so odd about writing. How did I get from overwhelmed to finished in a mere eleven hours?

Odd. Truly odd.

Bad encounter

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Workers arrived today to work on the neighbor’s roof. The bad news is that it is the house we share a driveway with.

The last time they had roof work done all the materials were unloaded in front of our front door. Or to be more precise, our only door. Nothing like being trapped in your own house by inconsiderate neighbors who have no concept of private property.

These workers unloaded everything into our yard, but at least they didn’t block our door. So I went down and told them that the area they were using did not belong to the house they were working on. The workers gladly agreed to move everything off of our bushes and grass.

And then the neighbor stuck his head out and asked what the problem was. He had the smuggest look on his face, as if he had been waiting just around the corner for a chance at a confrontation.

Because a confrontation was what it was.

I told him that the problem was that my yard should not be used as a staging ground.

He laughed. It was a rather sinister laugh. What was wrong with this guy?

Words were exchanged, right there in front of the workers. My wonderful neighbor took the opportunity to give me a long list of things he didn’t like. He informed me that our fence made the driveway unusable, and that that was why he allowed his bushes to grow two feet into the driveway. He complained about my dog, and accused me of things that frankly he must have pulled directly from his imagination.

All while maintaining that smug look.

And just to make things perfectly clear, this is the same neighbor who I’ve only talked to once in five years. He found me outside four years ago and took the opportunity to try to yell at me for daring to put up a fence in my own yard.

The same neighbor who’s wife will hide in the bushes rather than risk having to say good morning to me or my husband.

What type of people are they? What bitterness festers in their souls to make them so sour, cranky, and thoroughly unpleasant?

Bleh!

On a good note, I think I’ve found inspiration for my next villain.

Sad, excited, distracted

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Ever have one of those days when trying to do anything productive is useless?

Maybe you’re sad, or excited, or distracted.
Today is one of those days. I am sad because my daughter just moved into the dorm and I’m going to miss her. I’m excited because she is starting a new phase of her life. I’m distracted because, well, whenever my kids start something new I always get emotional, and that distracts me.
I am such a wimp, I know that.

MFA – the last week

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I woke up this morning with a real purpose.

Today is the first day of the last week of my Master’s program. My purpose is to finish strong!

In many ways it has been a hard road. The program is an intensive one, two years of study completed in only one year.

They really weren’t kidding about that intensive part. I hit quite a few walls throughout the year, walls that took every ounce of strength I had to climb, one slippery handhold at a time. Sometimes I wondered if I could make it.

When I began the program I was warned that I would need to devote an average of 30 hours a week to complete it. I must say, the estimation of the time commitment was dead on. Although there were a few lighter weeks that required a mere 20 hours, they were balanced with others that needed at least 40. I had one or two weeks that came in around 50.

But all that is now in the past.

In a few minutes, when I’m done here, I’ll log onto the school’s portal and check what I need to do for this final week. Then I’ll roll up my sleeves and get to work.

Because I like when I get that oh-so-lovely sense of accomplishment. And successfully finishing this Master’s program will feel lovely indeed.

And I have a purpose.

I will finish strong.

 

City living

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The thing about living in a city is that no person is ever truly alone. People are there and watching, even if they aren’t trying to watch.

This morning, a little before 7:30, I was making a cup of espresso. My espresso maker is right by a window, and the window overlooks my neighbor’s back yard.

It is a very busy backyard. There has been a constant stream of workers building and digging all summer long. As soon as one project is completed and the workers leave, another team arrives to start the next project.

The current team has only been at work a day or two. I have no clue what their project is, only that it requires a certain amount of hammering and playing of loud music.

I’m pretty sure that although I can see into my neighbor’s backyard, anyone in the backyard probably cannot easily see into my kitchen.

At least that is what I now assume. Ever since this morning when, after looking around in a very suspicious manner, one of the workers unzipped his pants and marked his territory just like a dog.

Yes, you read correctly. He urinated, right there in the backyard.

Just what I wanted to see as I made my coffee.

Yep, city living. It can sometimes surprise you.

 

The new era

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A new era just began for me. Today. This morning.

I stepped outside to walk the dog this morning to be greeted by the sound of children heading off to the first day of school.

That’s when it hit me. My last child is grown.

I’ve always been a hands-on type of mom, so for twenty-two years I’ve taken my children to school on the first day. It started with my oldest daughter and became an instant tradition.

Twenty-two years of rushing through breakfast. Twenty-two years of agonizing over first-day-clothing, which always resulted in multiple clothing changes. Twenty-two years of backpack checks and lunches. And twenty-two years of tears, usually mine.

I’ll miss it, but at least I have the memories. Memories of angst, and memories of excitement.

My youngest begins college at the end of this month, but it’s not the same. She’ll head out to her first day of school from her dorm room. I won’t be a part of it.

The new era has indeed begun.

Now I’ve gone and done it!

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Or at least, my allergies have gone and done it.

Up to now my allergies have just been annoying. They keep me from fully enjoying social gatherings, since I’m allergic to a lot of foods and fragrance triggers asthma in me.

You may think that I miss eating all those yummy goodies, but avoiding the wrong food is the easy part.

People who don’t know me well think I’m anti-social. Especially when they reach out to give me a hug and I practically sprint away. It isn’t that I don’t want to be friendly, it’s only that their perfume jumped ahead of them and gave me a fragrance sock right on my nose. My heart might be saying, “how sweet, a friend,” but my lungs are screaming, “poison…run!”

That’s bad enough. But now, now my stupid allergies have now gone too far. They made me lose a job.

I tried to stick it out. I struggled to concentrate as each waft of fragrance was matched by a wave of dizziness. I lasted up to the point when that elephant pranced into the room, sat on my chest, and wiggled around to find a comfortable seat. I knew then that it was a lost cause.

I’ve heard that acupuncture relieves allergies, for some people. I should give it a try. Nothing else has ever helped.

Yep, I really should think about it.

I really should.

After all, what choice do I really have? I can be an unemployed anti-socialite or a pin cushion.

You would think the decision would be easy, wouldn’t you?