The Brow Job

Break-ups are always hard, but a break-up with a hair stylist takes on a dimension unto itself. Some happen suddenly and unexpectedly, like after a cut that left you looking like Sharon Stone’s mullet-clad uglatwin or a dye-job gone Emo. Others peter out slowly and painfully; she thinks he is “you-know” okay….he is nice and all…. but somehow he can’t give her what she needs, he can’t quite satisfy her, and there isn’t that “spark.” A classic case of “she loves her hair but is not in love with her hair.” Well, in my case, I was dumped. No getting around it. On Monday I got the news. OVER THE PHONE. Not even in person. One of “her people” even did it for her. A cheerful woman over the phone informed me that my hair stylist had left on Saturday and would not be returning to the salon. EVER. The words sank in slowly like the over-magnified Pantene Pro-V vitamins that drip into the freakishly large hair follicles in the commercials on TV. E-VER. The girl on the phone quickly quipped that “Martin!” could fill in for me tomorrow at the same time. In shock, I accepted the offer and even confirmed the brow appointment later that day. All was set for this new person to come into my life, but was I ready?

Martin! was nice enough. I saw him fly through the door early in the morning right before me in his cool leather jacket and stylish backpack. His hair had the hip Edward Scissorhands look. Not like the drippy black Johnny Depp mullet, (although that was cool), but it looked like it had actually been done by Edward Scissorhands….a tad on the feathery side with parts that had been shaved close to his head in between tufts of blond hair. He looked cooler than I will ever be.

When he took me back, the first thing I noticed was his glittering skull belt. This was done to celebrate the upcoming holiday, Halloween. I asked Martin! what he was going to be and he said he was going to probably 
“be nothing.” Wow, that is so cool. He then said there just wasn’t enough time to come up with a cool enough costume when Halloween was so close. After all, Halloween was two weeks away.

Arriving at the hair-washing station I found out Martin!’s darker side. He generously had me smell the three types of massage oil and informed me that I had chosen the “energizing” blend of ancient sage and rosemary. He nodded earnestly like I had made a wise decision of universal proportions. It made me feel spiritual.

Little did I know that my quasi-Buddhist moment would be squeezed out of me by the application of this divine oil. Working my head like a coconut that needed to be cracked and drained, Martin! relieved my skull of stress by replacing it with a migraine. Partly feeling that Martin! may be having an out-of-body experience, (perhaps remembering an ex-boyfriend) I continued to make my discomfort known by uttering sounds that ranged from a small squeak to an all-out “ow!” In the mystic-zone however, Martin! did not hear my cries and he continued this hair-washing ritual until it was complete. He then asked me to rise and accept the towel, which he would wrap gently around my bludgeoned head.

After my hair-cut and style was deemed a masterpiece of spiritual depth by Martin!, he gave the lady at the check-out a lip-gloss he thought would look “just fabulous” on me. I then transitioned to the “spa-side” of the salon to get my eye-brows waxed. Although any kind of waxing is generally not a pleasant experience, being on the spa-side of this salon generally is: dim-lighting, the sound of water flowing from who-knows-where, gentle music, and the sounds of audio-birds on CD.

What was NOT a generally relaxing experience was to look up from my “Real Simple” magazine to see a 6’1” 250 lb. Eastern European woman lumbering progressively towards me. As she walked towards me, the ground shaking, I saw she had on a scarf wrapped around her head, broomstick skirt, gypsy-like hoop earrings and orthopedic shoes. Her face looked angry. In fact, ALL of her looked angry as she said to me in her thick accent, “Are you Air-in?” I thought about running out of the room, denying my identity or even pointing to the girl next to me but I managed to confirm this with a squeak and a nod. 
“Okay” she said, “We do browvs now.” Rising to my feet, I knew I was in trouble.

I followed her down the hall to her a small dark room.. Half expecting to see something from the rat-room of 1984, I approached cautiously. “Git on de table and lie down,” she bellowed and although somewhere I am sure my higher brain screamed, “Don’t do it!!! Ruuuuuuuuun!,” my mind went blank and I could not think of anything else. I cautiously obeyed and inched my way onto the table. Suddenly aware of me watching her closely, LarEESa, as I read on her name-tag (yes, I was surprised too that it was not in Cyrrilic), yelled, “YOU side I come by YOU.” Thinking that this was a request for me to turn on my side, I turned, thinking this was quite unconventional for an eyebrow wax. Annoyed she said, “NO! I side YOU come by YOU.” Blinking twice I asked sweetly as I could, “Do you want me on my side?” Flying towards me with her wheeled table of instruments she said “NO! I come side. YOU SIDE. I come YOU side.”

I gravely nodded accepting that I probably would not come out of this alive.

LarEESa began then to ask me about my “skin hivstory.” I thought I would forgo the standup routine about how I had had this skin for as long as I remember, we met on conception and just went with the standard, “No skin problems.” Having what I thought to be a moment of survival-genius I then sat up and said excitedly, “But my skin is very, very sensitive. You…no, I have to be very VERY gentle.” She nodded gravely, like a fortuneteller assessing my fate. “Ive see,” she said slowly, nodding and narrowing her eyes. “I use ze wax with the sensitive in it.” Feeling satisfied with myself and a little relieved that maybe my own initial gut-feeling on this one was wrong I lay back and relaxed.

Relaxed was one thing that didn’t last for long. The application of wax was the first round of pain. Not quite hot enough at first and then too hot for a special feature in “Backdraft” it was smeared across the top half of my face like tar painted on with a brush. At some point, before I started to pray to Mary, Joseph, Jesus, Hare Krishna and yes, even Muhammad got a shout-out, my left eyebrow was somewhere placed on the right side of my forehead. Like silly putty, my skin became more pliable than has ever been known to mankind, and I now know what originally happened to Gumbi. He went to LarEEsa for a massage and waxing and then got his head squeezed by Martin! on a regular routine visit to the salon. The green I believe came naturally, after he saw what had happened to him in the mirror.

I blanked out at the pulling off of the wax. The last I remember, wax and brows were flying everywhere and with my back arched and hands clenched rigidly like a dead bugs legs I must have resembled a levitating Regan in the exorcist. After the clouds of trauma had passed, I blinked my eyes to see LarEEsa going to town with the pluckers, angrily, bitterly. Finally, I said that that was good, that I thought that little bit framed my eyes, my boyfriend liked thick brows, and that I had been advised by a leprechaun that ENOUGH WAS ENOUGH. Anything to get her to stop.

Finally, she ceased and I drew in a deep breath thinking it was all over. She handed me a mirror and got in very close to my face. So close, I could smell the stale coffee and latkes that she had for “breavkfast.” Seriously and deeply she said, “We must tawvk about your browvs.” She paused. Dramatically. “You MUST get your BROWVS to SIT DOWN.” Instantly I knew what she was talking about. Since birth I have had one eyebrow that has consistently stuck up. I have tried hairspray, gel, cutting it, getting it shaped, nothing has worked. It is rebellious and I have come to recognize that quality as the one thing that connects me with Marlon Brando. And so I love it. But LarEEsa does not. “YOU MUST!” she shouted, sensing that I have gone into some dreamy haze thinking about Marlon Brando. “YOU MUST GET IT TO SIT DOWN AND OBEY.”

At this point I get the sensation that we are relieving some dark moment from LarEEsa’s past, perhaps from somewhere deep in the dark steppes of Russia and the urge to run returns. I sat up and she said, “NO! Lie down!” Thinking it best to do what she says at this moment in time, I lie down as she pours a very liberal amount of oil onto her fingers and begins stroking and pulling my rebellious eyebrow. “You must doev this, eh, every night. YOU MUST NOT GET LAZY ON YOURSELF!!” This last phrase was said very close to my face and when I jumped to the side, her hand slipped off my eyebrow leaving a trail of oil throughout my hair. LarEEsa then took this time to give her sales pitch about the various attributes of this oil all of which was given in the loud to louder range, “YOU MUVST GET THIS OIL. THIS OIL IS VONDERFUL. THIS OIL IS MADE WIV MANY MANY WITAMINS AND MIN-ER-ALS. YOU KEN UVSE THIS OIL ALL OVER ZE BODY BEFORE YOU WAX YOURVESELF. THIS YOU CAN USE EVEN ON YOUR HAIR DAMAGE. YOU KNOW, FROM ZE BLOOD DRIVER.”

This time I sat up again. “The blood driver?” I asked.

“No,“ she said, “The Blood Dryyver.”

“The Blood Dryyver?”

“NO!” she shouted “The Blowv Dryver.”

Ah. I got it. Lost in translation. What I thought was a weapon was really an instrument of very helpful proportions. Somehow even that LarEEsa made scary. After she gave her pitch about the oil, she smiled, which perhaps was the scariest part of it all. She opened the door for me to leave and then gave me a big squishy bone-crushing hug.

“Sank you for letting me do your browvs. You’ve been very nice, huh? Next time I give you a facial and you get your browvs for free.” Ignoring the thought that my real brows were probably on the floor somewhere in LarEEsa’s gulag, I smiled weakly and told her “thanks.” She put her arm around me and walked me towards the door. “You beautiful girl. I like you. Now, go with your browvs! See you in 5 weeks.”

Post-Script: On Thursday I got a call from my hair stylist. We are back together. She told me she had moved to a different salon and was hoping that I could come see her again. She apologized for not calling me sooner, but things were just “so complicated and up in the air.” Although many painful things have happened since she first left, I have decided to give this a try and see if we can work things out. As far as LarEEsa goes, I think I may leave that experience to stronger souls, and if my eyebrows ever do grow back, I may be asking around for someone who could help me move past my trauma.

An Average Day....Up in the Air

2008 has been, amongst other things, a year for airline travel. From January when I skidaddled up to New York to see my nana who was very sick (but yet still asking me to sneak Irish Whiskey into her drip) to this newest flight experience to my homeland of Seattle I have hit New York twice, Missouri, Florida, Pennsylvania and Seattle thrice. Feelings of guilt aside for the "ginormous" eco-footprint that I have left, I have spent a lot of great time with family and friends and have learned a few things about airline travel.

1. Flight attendants are no longer chipper and friendly.  

This last trip out to Seattle, my flight to Atlanta was 40 minutes late, giving me approximately 15 minutes to run from one terminal to the other at a dead sprint before my next flight took off.  On my first flight was a couple with small baby who too, was trying to run through the airport without spilling said child onto the floor.  A feeling of Louisville to Seattle camaraderie came over me I suppose and I told them I would run ahead and let the airline know they were coming and to hold the plane.  So, as I am running past airport lollygaggers who are waiting at their gates and are pointing at me rather uncouthly (okay, so I was sprinting through the terminal with two jackets and a scarf on---I am sure I looked like the abominable snow-traveler) a woman who is selling airline credit cards literally tries to stop me to sell me a credit card.  I tear past her and run to my gate and between heaving breaths say to the flight attendant, "There (heave) is (heave) a (heave) couple (heave) with (heave) a baby (heave) who are running (heave) to get here (heave), can you please hold the plane?"  One attendant is looking at me while eyeing the defribrilation device, while the other attendant, the one I directed the question to said coldly, "Ticket, mam." I again, heaving,  said, "did you hear what I said? There is a couple..." to which she snippily interrupted and said, "Get on the plane mam."  And then, for the first time she actually looked at me and said fiercely again "Get on the plane mam"  Feeling slightly reprimanded I collected my bags which I had dropped on the floor and in brazen passive-aggressive defiance walked as slow as possible down to the plane.  NOW WHAT??  Whatever happened to coffee with a smile? or come fly the FRIENDLY skies?  I have had more run-ins with bitter flight attendants than I would like.  Whatever happened to that common courtesy that is so rare these days?  I was talking to the woman next to me who had requested a wheelchair for her journey and she said she had to wait 45 minutes without a seat to sit in at her previous flight's gate and was met by a very nasty attendant who asked her if she really needed the wheelchair. Gracious. 

2. Older people in a dark bathroom equals lots of mysterious wet spots.  I really won't get into this one much.  But let's just say that the lights in my past flight's bathroom were very, very dim (I had trouble finding the flush button) and I was on a flight with many, many senior citizens.  

Well, that is kind of all for now.  I am tired and am going to bed. Maybe I will think of more things I learned at a later time.  

 

Making up for bad karma……

Somewhere along the lines, maybe in a past life three generations ago, I must have murdered a duck, threw pebbles at passing nuns from a second story window or maybe I was the villainous creator of the song "98 bottles of beer on the wall." Either way, I am convinced that I must have done something to truly move serendipity (Not myself, or rather my blog name, but some true force of sporadic random events) to catapult mischievous action in my direction.  I say this because, due to some chance, the random hand of serendipity takes a turn with me.  Never anything serious, which I thank my lucky stars for that, these random events create just a bit more excitement than what I usually like to have in my average day....

And that day was today.....

I awoke this morning to a funny smell that was wafting through my apartment.  No, not the earthy fall breeze of a November morning, or the homey smell of automatic coffee.  This was a smell that was a bit more foul.  It appears that during the night, due to some unexpressed emotional tension on the part of my 8 month old puppy---I did neglect playing time last night in lieu of a 20-page paper---my dear puppy Pandora pooped on a pair of pants that were lying on the floor.  Her anger seethed in mounds of fragrant dung that cut the air like a waterbuffallo taking a swan dive into a placid lake.  Obviously upset, I communicated my anger much like a cave-man, in grunts of dissatisfaction, jerky "clean-up" movements, piercing looks at my dog and interjections of guilt-provoking statements like "WHO POO-POOED IN THE HOUSE????????"  After the mess was cleaned up, I raged into the bathroom to wash my hands.  Reaching for the soap-pump I had forgotten that if I didn't put my hand around the soap-pump it often shot forth soap in a myriad of directions.  This time it was only in one direction and that direction was straight for my eye.  Severely regretting my decision at that moment to buy Dr. Brommers minty-fresh soap, my eye seemed to form a life of its own, crying out for relief.  Shoveling water in my eye I now resembled a slightly soapy, red-faced dripping Amazon woman.  I peered into the mirror wondering if it was just going to be one of those days.....and it was.....

During supervision, I made the decision to turn off my phone so as to absorb every piece of advice on how to be a budding young therapist.  To my dismay, when I left supervision I saw my neighbor called seven times throughout the hour of supervision.  Thinking my apartment was in flames, my neighbor in some sort of peril or my dog dead I dialed her number twice only to get her answering machine.  Finally I got a text from her saying that she couldn't talk now, that she was in a meeting but that everything was okay. What was okay? My mind was spinning with the possibilities of what could have happened to warrant seven phone calls and was the emergency really over? (Really, I hadn't even had coffee that morning).  I finally got the text that she had left her iron on and was hoping I could run over and check it.  As I was about 30 minutes away, I decided to take my chances and hope that a curling iron wouldn't cause The Great Louisville Fire of 2008.  How strange would that be....a cow in Chicago....and a curling iron in Louisville? 

After a day of classes and papers and almost missing deadlines, I decided to finish the evening with a heartwarming night with the teens I lead in group. They can be quite a source of inspiration and inspiration was what I needed on a day like this.  Everything was perfect, the room was full, the chatter reeled about the room in a constant hum and the smell of turkey was fantastic.  After the majority of the kids had gone to load their plates, I went up to the front to receive a plate of southern Thanksgiving goodness.  I was surprised to find that I did not recognize any of the foods besides the turkey.  Always interested in new foods I tried a sampling of collard greens, stewed tomatoes, creamed corn and green beans.  I was ecstatic.  i love new foods and sampling foods from the regions I visit and live in is a favorite activity.  Feeling as though with the consumption of this new concoction I could be officially southern, I began the meal with zeal.  Some of the facilitators watched me cautiously as one might watch a large cooler in the middle of a six-lane freeway---unsure whether this food might be hit or miss.  Under great pressure to please I placed the collards in my mouth to find a taste like none-other I had experienced before.  Although green and resembling a vegetable in a former state, it tasted much like bacon.  My taste buds were confused.  Why would vegetables taste like bacon? I managed to nod a fake smile towards my on-lookers and tried the green beans.  Wouldn't you know? THEY TASTED EXACTLY THE SAME AS THE GREEN BEANS! Confused as to whether or not a slice of ham had materialized on my plate I decided to casually move on to the stewed tomatoes with the excuse that I wanted to try all that was on my plate.  No go there either.  I was expecting something akin to a marinara and with the first spoonful of tomatoes my face puckered uncontrollably.  I was horribly embarrassed and was met with shaking heads, smiles and people telling me about "real southern food" and something about Yankees.  My dream of being southern smashed, I have come to the conclusion that I am not southern, and probably never will be.  If southern is flavored with bacon, I am out of luck. 

Dramatically retelling my story in text form on my phone to my girlfriends (who live here and understand these foods) about my failure to be eclectic in the culinary sense, I started walking towards the door.  As I was distracted by my texting, I did not see that one of the teenagers had spilled about half a pound of an apricot casserole/bread pudding like item on the floor.  Promptly, I stepped in it, slipping about trying to catch my balance (these dishes do, I found out, have quite a bit of butter in them). I regained my balance only to hear one of the teenagers say, "Aw nah, Miss Erin, why did you go and step in that for?" seeming to imply that I guess that I had done such a thing on purpose....perhaps for recreation?  My shoe was covered on all sides with apricots and bread and lard and the only thing to do was to take off my shoe and go to the sink for a proper cleaning.  As I returned back to continue out the door I operated under the assumption that the girls had cleaned up the bread-apricot-casserole-pudding.  They had not. And, I promptly stepped into the casserole again, this time slipping about like I was on the Dancing with the Stars Ice-Capade edition, flailing my arms Matrix-style and nearly landing rear first into the pile of slippery dessert.  Convinced that somebody, somewhere in the universe, perhaps serendipity was laughing, I called up a good friend, told her about the day, and heeded her advice to go straight home, avoid any more potential obstacles and go to bed.  Writing about it however, had to come first, as I believe the world needs to know the tricky little ways of this slap-stick comedy show that serendipity is sending my way.....in the form of my life.   

Kart Kountry: Or Cultural Diversity for the West-Coast PC Liberal

At one point, I might have considered myself somewhat well versed in cultural diversity. I had classmates and friends from the farthest reaches of the globe---Cambodia, Vietnam, Hong Kong, Iraq---we ate baklava and sushi, mocked traditional gender-based clothing and one day counted 57 different languages in my history class. I drank bubble tea for godsake! However, nothing could have quite prepared me for a quick jaunt into the little town of Shepherdsville, 30 miles away from Louisville. No powershake of liberal tolerance, or mind-altering open-mindedness would prepare me for the saturation of good-old-boy howdiness that I was thrust into.

My dear friend Verlinda, (we will alter her name to protect her innocence) and her boyfriend Zhaonathan invited me to go with them and two of their friends to a place called Gattiland, then to Kart Kountry (yes, it is spelled exactly as it is said). Verlinda is also, I should say, a bleeding heart vegetarian liberal who saves spiders and insects by taking them outside in a cup (unless they are ants invading her kitchen) and wishing them well on their journey. She is not exactly Shephardsville material. However, she had not prepared me adequately for the journey ahead. The given details were these:

1. Gattiland: contained a pizza buffet
2. Kart Kountry: was a fun place that had miniature golf and go-carts.
Seemingly normal evening? Right?

Well, upon arrival to “Mr. Gattis” as it is called (I am not sure yet what makes it a “land”---I am guessing the 9 pizza buffet?) we noticed a sign leaning up against the outside of the building that had “Pizza Buffet Special! $7.99! Isaiah 33.2” Ironically, this verse contains “we have waited for thee”---not exactly the type of advertisement you want to have on the outside of your restaurant if you are promoting prompt service. It was at this point that my friend smiled mischievously and said, “I forgot to tell you that this is the Christian Mr. Gattis.” Now, I am sorry, but my only reference to the Gattis is a notorious crime family in New York that shot people. It is hard for me to imagine a holy roller-say it-and slay it in the spirit sort of Gatti family, but I was about to be amazed. (I am really not sure which Gatti family would consider the other the “you just don’t talk about that side” family? Perplexing.)

Upon entry to the Christian Mr. Gatti’s I was greeted with a 4-foot wood and gold cross in the entry that would have rivaled any bare-bones Lutheran deal that donned the walls of the churches I attended. The walls were covered with pictures of inspirational sayings, pictures, bible verses and the occasional Boyd’s bear. Although I avoided skipping the pizza to head straight for the “Suggestion/Inspiration” box to put in my two cents in about their decorating (what is that verse about if your right hand is going to sin….??) I did pause by the painting of a farmhouse being overwhelmed by the gigantic hand of “God” that was beating a railroad stake into the clouds over the farmhouse with what looked like a sledgehammer. Ah, the ANGRY god.

However, I do have to say, Gattis did branch out in their decorating style a bit. To add a sense of randomness there was a red stuffed toucan by the front door, which whistled the flirtatious “Whew-whew” when someone passed. Way to promote sexual harassment amongst the kiddies. There was also a big-screen TV that played Tom and Jerry engaging in bizarre acts of violence, which I am sure, made the ground meat on the pizza taste so much better.

My favorite part of Christian Gatti’s however was the large podium across from the wood and gold cross that held a weighty Bible that had been highlighted. Upon the podium, above the Bible, was a placard that said, “THE General Manager.” So many places I could go with this, however I will only indulge in one sacrilege. My question was, as I looked at the General Manager, is what if I had a complaint? Do I write it in?

The next stop was Kart Kountry. Yes, it was spelled with two K’s. I did find out today that this particular county has the largest concentration of Ku Klux Klan members, but I am sure it is unrelated. We walked into the arcade, which had a glow-in-the-dark floor, a prize station that had a gigantic stuffed Little Mermaid “Flounder” doll whose face looked like it had been horribly disfigured and a “Bling Machine” where one could win a plethora of plastic “Bling.” Shoes and Shirt were required. We opted for the mini-golf tour where two members of our group got a hole in one. A statistical average, Verlinda looked up, of one in a billion!

The final piece of our cultural tour was go-carting. I did not know this, but we were at THE LARGEST go-cart trek in the United States! 1.5 miles of dirty, gritty, raw racetrack. Grrrrrrr. Being the responsible yuppie that I am, I kindly asked where the helmets and goggles were….they kindly laughed at me. Inappropriately wearing a skirt, I wiggled into the cart, put my seatbelt on and attempted to learn the mechanics of the machine. I soon learned that the green pedal meant go and that it was wise to just never let up on that until you finished. If you were rounding a turn, don’t break, just turn harder. Half-way through my first lap however, amidst the outright terror of flipping and falling out of my go-cart, a sense of exhilaration came over me. Yes, the mud was flying in my eyes, and teeth and hair until I felt like some sort of advertisement for Shout!, but I also felt this rush of freedom and wha-hoo!edness that no bubble tea could ever give me. It was the freedom to fly around corners at who-knows-what-speed with no helmet, the freedom to breathe in a mixture of diesel and dirt without worrying about the effects of global warming or soil erosion and the freedom to just get back to the basics---go fast, try to bump into people and push them off the road and then go fast again. That’s it. Pure and simple. Mission accomplished. Thank you Verlinda and Zhaonathan!

The things we watch……

There has been so much press in the media about the effect of violent television on our impressionable youth. I say however, what has been generously overlooked is the detrimental effect of ‘80s sugar-puff children’s cartoons. That is right, that sickly sweet Strawberry Shortcake, those dancing My Little Ponies, rainbow-y Rainbow Brite and the highest criminals of them all…..those co-dependent Carebears. Don’t get me wrong, I loved these cheerful critters as a child. I had t-shirts, coloring books, reading materials, collectible cards, dolls, and little plastic idols all devoted to this tribe of do-gooders. They are perhaps even the reason why I am in Social Work. After all, who was the one to tend the garden made of colorful cakes and friends that were made of confectionary sugar and pie but Strawberry Shortcake? Who spread rainbows and love throughout the world but the carebears through their powerful “carebear stare.” I wonder sometimes whether some of the people that they went to save…I mean, help (sorry, a little slip) actually wanted their assistance? It seemed like it didn’t matter to those fuzzy little bears of warmth whether you wanted their help---as soon as they assessed that you were in dire need of some carebear goodness, they arrived immediately in their cloud cars to gave it to you anyway.

Which takes me to Rainbow Brite….who made it her responsibility to spread color in the world? Did she ever wake up one day and say, “Damn, Pearl Jam really does have it right. Let me get some black nailpolish on and be done with this color shit.” The main message in all those sacchrine cartoons seems to be that it is our responsibility as well-adjusted, middle-class yuppie youth to make it our goal in life to fix the problems of our world. Not famine or hunger, or even violence, but the lack of the proper moods in people. I wonder whether any of the Carebears ever had a meltdown where they exclaimed, "GOSH DARN IT PEOPLE CAN’T YOU JUST SMILE!!!!" For instance, have you ever seen a My Little Pony with anything less than a spectacular grin on her face? In fact, many an episode has been centered around the whole tribe of ponies gathering together to change the mood of that one lonesome pony that got up on the wrong side of the bed. Quick! Everybody stop! Lickity-Split has a case of the Mondays! We must notify Princess Rainbow pony and her ponyland advisors before this problem gets out of hand! And people wonder why we seem to get accused of being out of touch with the world's problems?

The other thing that strikes me as a bit odd in these colorful cartoons is the lack of the male presence in their society. Has anyone else found it odd that there never seemed to be any male bears? or ponies? One of the original Strawberry Shortcake characters, Plum Puddin' was actually originally male, however, sometime in the 80s changed genders. I bet, if we were to look at the demographics of Ponyland, Care-a-lot (the Carebear metropolis for those of you who haven’t kept up with your Carebear trivia) and Strawberry Shortcake’s hometown we might find that perhaps the ratio of female to male bears/cakes/ponies equals…..don’t be shocked…. the ratio of female to male social workers! Coincidence? I think not.

Overall Message
Go forth little girls and spread some sugar/rainbows/high fructose corn syrup etc.….and if you do get rebellious, the proper place for a tattoo is a discreet heart or colorful mark on your pony/bear ass.

Please hold….I’m being judged.

In this modern world we live in there seem to be two camps of people. Those that embrace the blessings of modern yuppiness and those that do not. Much like the “in crowd” culture of high school, there are those that are in and those that use their powers of judgment to try to make themselves feel better than those people who are “in” the in-crowd. While we all try to kid ourselves that we are all “so over” high school, we still participate in the bizarre rituals of judged and judger. This morning, unfortunately, I was on the receiving end of the judgment. While ordering my chai tea latte in an independent coffee shop I made the most insidious guffaw of ordering a “grande chai tea latte.” Immediately, the two piercing-clad, white dread-locked coffee baristas (who looked like two coffee-trolls they had been drudged from the underground espresso pits) stopped steaming their milk and stared. The cashier, probably out of what she thought was sheer decency looked tentatively at me and with fake naiveté said, “What’s a grande…..? Is it like a medium?” Good lord girl! Don’t pretend you don’t know what a “grande” coffee is? Even if you were dragged out of an espresso cave you would at least have been somewhat indoctrinated in coffee terminology. Last I heard they were putting in at least 5 Starbucks in troll-land. Right as I recovered the awkward silence by saying, “Oh, I’m sorry. A medium. You know, there are so many coffee places and they all have different names for the sizes….it is hard to keep track….blah, blah, b.s, b.s.b.s.bs…just don’t say the ‘S’ word (Starbucks, that is)” my cell phone rang. It was my dear friend from work who responding to my test message “Want Chai?” And, so I committed cardinal sin #2 of independent coffee shop visiting: answering the cell phone while ordering coffee. Although I assured the cashier that I was merely getting the order of a friend to see if she wanted coffee, again the drone of the coffee trolls milk steaming grinded to a halt. All three exchanged “the look” of coffee-martyrdom. (I am counting the cashier…they didn’t spontaneously multiply.) This is the look of “I slave over hot roasted beans for the cause of coffee even though it is a lost cause because Starbucks is taking over the world and we have to deal with people like you who are one of ‘those people’.” After submitting to the angry stares of the halted baristas, I yelled at my friend to hurry up and make a decision. After getting off the phone I was met with the glowing red eyes of the coffee cashier—who tried her best to be polite to my urchin-of-a-human-being-self. (I must also mention that I was the only one in the coffee shop.) After ordering another Chai I shamefully scurried to the side-bar to await my Chai. Now, why, must I ask was I being judged for a slight slip of the tongue and gathering more business for their company? If I were at Starbucks and was receiving an order for another cup of coffee would they have even blinked an eye? One misnomer and I am labeled a card-carrying member of the yuppie-elite. Why? Why the judgment? Why must we live in a world of coffee cheerleaders and coffee bra burners? Why the madness? Why the trolls? I just want a cup of coffee. And, dare I be so McDemanding, but maybe with a smile?

Identity Crisis a la Carte

Today I found out that I am not actually white. Or, I guess the preferable term “Caucasian.” Although I have never really liked this word or how it sounds—too much like the Mexican slang word “Caca” meaning “poop” or the jungle call of a Amazonian parrot--I have learned to identify myself with it. (Caucasian, not poop…or parrot) I have filled it out on school documents, employment forms, the FAFSA, my taxes. Every standardized test and internet survey, I have defined myself with the bland, saltine cracker-like racial category of “caucasan.” Today, however, my identity was shaken by a single diversity workshop. Amidst the various activities, where we subdivided ourselves into small & smaller boxes (Female, single… single-white-female), and introduced ourselves to each other by those divisions, we also had to pair up with a stranger and give them the first words that came to our minds when we thought of a certain race or ethnicity. (Dangerous, no?) The trick was, we could not use the race or ethnicity of ourselves or of our partner. My partner was a bubbly looking girl who already made her mark in class by saying that she was glad to be sharing her thoughts about diversity amongst social workers because social workers never passed judgement. HA. That’s sweet. As I gave my ethnic background, (the mutt-mix of Irish-Italian-Norwegian-Danish or as I like to call it, how the hell did that happen?) and she gave hers, (part Euro part Palestinian) she said that she would like to choose the group “Caucasians” to talk about. You can imagine my shock. I know that she identified herself as part Palestinian but for real, if you put the two of us on a moonlit beach, we would shine out whiter than bleach-soaked albino muskrats with portoferia. When I clarified, to make sure that she knew we were supposed to pick a group different than us, she nodded her head and said, “Yes, I know.” I then stated what I thought was the obvious…. “but I am Caucasian…” She looked confused and then said what almost made me hit the floor, “But you said you were part Italian?” Now, this is where I am confused.> #1 Did we skip 5 decades, or didn’t Italians finally get classified as “Caucasians.” I know we have some crazy-non-european stuff like pasta, opera & wine…..but…oh wait.> #2 I am also Irish, Danish & Norweigan. Wouldn’t 75% seem like it would constitute the majority…..or did one drop of Italian blood keep me out of the Caucasian club?> Also, now that I have “outed” myself as what she believes is a Caucasian-wannabe, she is looking at me as if I have denied my true non-caucasian ethnicity and tried to join “in-crowd.” Like I have walked up with a wad of toilet paper stuck to my shoe to a cafeteria table full of cheerleaders, lettterman’s jackets, Abercrombie perfume and i-phones and said, “Can I please eat with you guys?”> Now what is disturbing to me, is not that some random person may think that I am not Caucasian—but that this division of caucazoid vs. non-cacazoid is truly important enough to her (and probably others) to engage in an argument. And what about others who may be 90% Caucasian but maybe 10% Asian? What if they identified as Caucasian? Would the Caucasian police tell them they couldn’t? Who created this "Caucasian" definition anyway?