shoes and pie

That’s not a command, it’s merely my current state of being. You see, the corporate headquarters of the company for which I work moved in June. Our old building was about a mile from a DSW, which led to more than a few lunchtime shopping adventures with colleagues and other friends who worked in the same office park. Our new building… not so much. We are now located in a spacious, light-filled building that is in the middle of a residential neighborhood.

It just so happens that there’s a DSW a mile and a half from my home. In fact, I drive right past that shopping center on my way home from work each night. I have a $10 rewards certificate. I have a $5-off-$20 coupon. I have a $25 gift card. I even have a pair of shoes that I need to return. I’m not sure why I don’t stop in, other than it’s not as though I need more shoes.

After all, I just bought two new (vintage) hats. :)

I love a pun. Even an old and stale one.

I’m sitting in a chair getting my bangs trimmed at my local Floyd’s Barber Shop on Wednesday, when my stylist mentions that the staff there is trying to get a RAB car show together. “Cool,” says I. “What are the details?” Well, they’re trying for a weekend at the end of August. “Great! I’ll be there.” Then she asks, would I like to model?

Let me think about that.

Hmmm.

Professionally-done RAB hairdo, for FREE.

Tough call, right?

YES!!!

The next step is, apparently, to ask the lead coloring tech if they’re still planning on having hair models. He sure hopes so. Takes a quick glance at my hair. Is it okay if they color it?

Okay, I know there are gals who are all “Ohmigod don’t mess up my highlights!!!” but I am not one of them. I usually color mine myself, and my technique is sloppy. You want to color it with your mad skillz? Go right ahead.

Does it have to stay the same colors?

Oh, wow. I hadn’t for a moment thought that they’d keep it the same. No, no, have a ball with it. Do whatever you feel works. It’s been assorted combinations of black, brown, blond, blonder, and road hazard orange, all in the last 18 months. You do your thing, darling. I’ll just sit there, smiling. And deep-conditioning it for the next six months.

So, I still have no real info while they try to put this shindig together, and the whole thing might fall through. But it’s fun to dream. :)

Every other year, I host a casual cocktail party to coincide with the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. I provide a liquor imported from the host city (Ouzo 12 from Athens, last time around) and ask my guests to bring a snack that represents their heritage. Every time, people reply, “But I’m a mutt.” Listen, kids. We’re all mutts. If you just moved here yesterday from Brazil, chances are that you have a grandparent or great-grandparent from Portugal. Even if your entire family never moved from one small town, the geo-political borders aren’t stagnant.

As an example: My great-grandmother Anna (née Aniela) came to the U.S. from a now-nonexistent territory called Galicia, in what was at that time northern Austria, but was previously under Polish rule. Her entry in the ship’s manifest from Ellis Island reads as follows:

Nationality (Country of which citizen or subject.): Austria
Race or People: Polish
Country: Galicia

Galicia was, at different times, politically allied with Poland, Lithuania, Austria, Hungary, Germany, and Russia (in no particular order). You all knew that “Poland” disappeared entirely for a while, right? Right?

What country are you from? It’s all just words. Borders don’t define you.

(Dedicated to my friend Drewseph on the eve of his European travels)

One of the headlights is out on my car. I know about it, but it’s the kind of thing that I don’t think of during the DAY, when the auto parts stores are open.

After a somewhat terrifying drive home from the airport on Sunday night, down an unlit road that also happens to be under major repair, I most certainly remember once daylight comes around. And so, on my home from work on Monday night, I stop off at a local parts store.

A pair of new bulbs in hand, I walk out to my car in the store’s parking lot and decide to take a look at what I’m going to be dealing with. I’d changed the bulbs a number of times on my previous car, but this one is going to be a first for me. (As an aside, I should note that I am on my way to dinner with friends, and am wearing a taffeta party dress. With pockets!) I pop the hood, look around to figure things out, and then get a rag out of my console so I can get down to business. Suddenly, I’m interrupted by the man who has just finished fiddling with his pickup, parked next to me.

“What are you doing?”
“I have a burned out headlight, I need to change the bulb.”
“Do you want me to get that for you? You’ll get your dress dirty.”
“It’s black. Nobody will see it! (shared chuckle) They look like they just plug in. It shouldn’t be too hard. But if you’d like to help…”
“Have a nice day, then.”
“… oh! Well, thank you.”

I have to admit, that catches me off guard. I very much would appreciate his help, but I was raised to put up at least a little fuss when someone offers their personal time. (If a parts store employee had offered, I would have accepted right away. That’s work time, and they know what they’re getting into.) There’s a running joke that excessively polite Minnesotans will refuse an offer three times before finally accepting. And yet, just as I am giving this guy the go-ahead, he walks off.

Well, alrighty then.

I replaced the bulb without anyone’s aid (the two parts store employees who were busy assisting other customers in the lot when I went out there both went back into the store while my head was under the hood), but it sure would have gone faster if a stronger hand could have unclipped the old bulb from the tiny electrical harness for me. I suppose the next time I’m in such a situation, I’ll jump like a vulture on any offer of help that I may get.

What would you do?

This is supposed to be where I write Monday’s post, but I’ve just returned from a whirlwind weekend in Minneapolis, and I’m tired. Besides, my friend Jason over at Moist Production posted these on Sunday, and there’s nothing I can write that’s better. (He doesn’t mention it in that post, but you can buy a yolk-less limited edition Yolkel from his online store. Or, if small sculptures aren’t your style, he also sells t-shirts and prints and one of his designs is also available as a Gelaskin for your iPhone, iPod, PSP, or laptop.)