Ubi Caritas

This past week, I have been extremely unproductive.  I've been working on a christening gown, which I finished in five days.  I was quite pleased with the result, too: it isn't perfect, no--it's been a while since I've sewn very much.  I think, however, that the imperfections may be far more noticeable to me (the maker) than the general public. 

In any case, while I was working on that I neglected any and all household tasks.  I tend to do that when I have a project I want to finish.  Today I slew the dragon of unproductivity, as evidenced by what I've spent the day doing:

-Finished sewing a satin christening gown, wrapped said gown, and delivered it to its recipient

-Thoroughly cleaned my room, neglecting not the closet

-Groomed two felines, both of whom remain outraged at my behaviour.  They are now in opposite corners resettling their offended fur.

-Clipped the claws of one of the felines.  The other needs her claws clipped, but she's in a foul mood already and I don't have a spare set of chain mail around.

-Washed my bedding, including the quilt and pillow.  I'm waiting for that to be finished in the dryer so that I can remake my bed.

-Baked a chocolate cake, which is now cooling.  I'll ice it before going to bed.  Now I'll have to find someone (s) to help me eat it!  Tea and chocolate cake, anyone?

-Packed a lunch for tomorrow.

I have the goal of being in bed by eleven.  The two-hour nap this afternoon was probably a bad idea, but it felt sooooo good at the time!  It's been cooler here for the last two days--has barely topped 90.  I've even had the windows open for part of both days, and the fresh air is lovely.

Tomorrow is my "late" opening shift, as I don't have to be there until 8:30 AM.  I'm thinking of it as a way to ease into opening, as I'm opening eight of the coming ten days.  Yes, I have a supply of decent coffee and my favorite cereal!

I'm now yawning again, so I guess I'd best ice the cake, make my bed, and tumble into it.  The bed, that is, not the cake.  G'night!

Someone called me this morning at 7:12--yes, 7:12--to order a custom holster for his Sig Sauer.

Who in Hades orders custom holsters at barely-past-seven-AM?  (According to the area code, he called from San Antonio, so it isn't a though there was a time difference.)

I will say that he was quite polite when I explained that I have not nor do I ever expect to design custom holsters for handguns. 

Apparently he was one digit off when dialing.  Faaaaantastic.  I have a number that is one digit off from a guy who makes holsters?  Seriously?  Only in Texas.

I've tried to write this post at least five times, and it never comes out properly. 

At the end of this past spring semester, I finished my fourth semester at the community college where I've been studying.  I've been incredibly blessed to have had the teachers I've had: how many college voice instructors wouldn't even crack a smile when a person walked into her office and said, "I'm a nursing major, but I've decided to change to voice, and how do I do that?"  And my theory teachers have been naught but fantastic.  There have been others, too: the choir director who taught me how to be a section leader, the accompanists who've stretched me as a musician...the list goes on and on.

Howesomever, this college, being, as it is, a community college, does not offer a bachelor's degree.  I've finished over half the hours I'll need for that degree, but there isn't anything else for me to take at this level.

In March, I auditioned for the music program at a university in Fort Worth.  There is a voice teacher there under whom I'd like to study: I sang for her in a master class once and very much liked her insights and style. 

I walked into a hall with stunning acoustics and sang my head off.  I talked to instructors, and left.  Couldn't decide how well I'd done.  The accompanist said I had done well.  My heart said I'd done well.  My head said that it stank.  ("Stank," of course, being a technical musical term.)

A few weeks later, I heard that I'd gotten in.  All I needed to do was find a way to pay for it.  Did I mention that this college is private and that they charge nearly 18 grand a year?

I spent the next month getting together paperwork to get my financial aid status considered separately from that of my parents.  That was an enlightening but extremely stressful process.  All sorts of tap-dancing skeletons got hauled out of closets.  I won't go into details here.  However, if anyone reading this would like some pointers on getting independent student status when he or she is under 23 years of age, PM me and I'll be happy to share what I've learned.

A few weeks ago, I finally heard back from Texas Wesleyan (the school to which I applied).  The financial aid folks had approved my request...and I'll be heading for Wesleyan in the fall.  Orientation was last Saturday, and I'm meeting with the head of the music department next week to get a class schedule set up.  Come September, I, UbiCaritas, will be a college junior.  I am still having a hard time believing this.  Throughout the audition/financial aid process I kept expecting someone to call and say, "Oh, sorry, we didn't mean you, wrong person."  I think a part of me still expects that call.  It's a much smaller part than it used to be, though.

Now if you'll pardon me, I'm off for a celebratory lunch and bookstore run with my adopted family.  ("Adopted family" is the best description I've come up with for people who aren't officially family but who treat me like a daughter.  They're in town, and it's so nice to see them!)

Yesterday, I got my health department foodhandler's license.  I've been told that I may be trained in the store's cafe--may even be working a shift or so a week there--and so I needed the license.

Let me just say that it disturbs me considerably that anyone might try to take this test and not pass it.

"Do you need to wash your hands after leaving the bathroom and before handling food?" Are you kidding me?

Sadly, no.

Anyway, some cafe stories may appear in the weeks to come.  One of the best I've heard from over there involves a woman who wanted her latte heated to "230 degrees."  (And yes, that's Farenheit.)  When the barista pointed out that the latte would boil at a bit over 200 degrees and that at 230 degrees it would be naught but STEAM, the woman insisted that the barista was incompetent and stormed out.

Earlier today after a particularly trying customer, I was straightening up a display and attempting--with limited success, I might add!--to regain my temper.  Suddenly, a boy of about 10 or 11 walked up to me, THREW his arms around me and said, "I LOVE you!"

Now, this kid was only an inch or two shorter than I am--admittedly not very tall, as I'm not much over five feet, but still.  I'd also never seen him before in my life.  Still, what does one say under such circumstances?

Well, I believe that it's generally considered quite rude not to say, "I love you, too!"  And divas ought not be rude.

His mom came up shortly thereafter, apologizing profusely, and explained that her son has autism.  I laughed and said something about how I thought that might be the case, but as autistic behaviours go, hugging someone who needed a hug and telling her that she was loved was a pretty cool behaviour.

Sometimes these kids get it much better than we wise adults do.

If you head on over to Emily's place, she has a free book offer you can't possibly beat.  I mean, she'll even ship it to you!  How cool is that?

Today was one of them.

I rarely work in the music department at my store.  Frankly, I hate working back there.  At least half the displays aren't where they're supposed to be, a CD that says it's in stock frequently isn't or is somewhere where no one in her right mind would look for it (Miguel Harth-Bedoya--conductor of the Fort Worth Symphony Orchestra--has a CD out, and it is classified in Pop Rock, fercryinoutloud), etc.  Finally, there is the loss prevention side of working back there, which I loathe with a passion.  If I wanted to be a security guard, I'd make considerably better money being a real security guard.

Today was back to back fantastic, however.

First off, I had projects to do.  This doesn't sound like the definition of fantastic, but it helps.  It means that I have something to do when it's slow, which it frequently is.

Second, I had the nicest couple of guys come back there.  I got the impression that they might have had a mild variety of Asperger's: they were both extremely polite, socially somewhat awkward (seemed to be following a sort of formular for "this is how you interact with a salesperson"), and knew precisely what they wanted.  I wanted to clone them.  Were they, by society's standards, a bit unusual?  Yes.  They were also two of the best customers I've ever had.  They walked up to me, inquired politely how my day was going, shook my hand, and then asked for a specific movie.  I had to ask one of the guys to wait a moment while I rang through another customer, and he was more than gracious about it.  I then rang up his purchase, he shook my hand again, thanked me, and wished me a nice evening.

I want to clone them. 

A couple of other customers gave them slightly strange looks, but said nothing.  I wanted to point out that I would take this sort of slightly-odd-by-society's-standards behavior ANY DAY over berating a bookseller over having to wait two minutes.  Society might see the latter as rude-but-normal.  This probably says a good deal about society, and little of it positive.  Whatever.  When I told them to come back again, I meant every word.

Those two guys alone would have been enough to make my evening pleasant, but the universe decided that I was in for a particularly nice evening.

Shortly thereafter, I saw a woman walk in and head straight for the Classical section.  Excellent, thought I.  I approached her, ready to give my standard "it's so nice to see someone over in the classical section" line, when she turned around and said, "I always enjoy shopping here.  You have the best Classical CD collection in town!"

Me, somewhat surprised: "Why yes, we do have a fairly good section.  If you have any questions about it, let me know; Classical is pretty much my section."

Well, as it turns out, she's a voice teacher who studied under someone who gave a master class I attended...

(The diva world, it seems, is very small.)

We talked about how excellent that teacher is, how incredible various opera divas are, the importance of proper shelving in this section ("no, I don't understand either why our system has Van Cliburn playing Beethoven's piano sonatas filed under 'composer, C'), Joan Sutherland, well-rounded musicianship, The Inner Voice, opera, 24 Italian Songs and Arias, some obscure musical literature, Marilyn Horne...

I've met another diva!

She introduced me to a harpist; I handed her a Joyce Didonato CD.  "Oh, wow, what a big voice...and it MOVES!  Thank you!"

We must have talked for at least half an hour; no other customers came back during that time, and I could actually give her my attention. 

At the end, we introduced ourselves, and she vowed to return soon because "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Only a diva can quote Casablanca with a complete lack of cheese.

Clearly, I will have to work in the music department more often.

Now if I can just figure out their policy for "what get shelved where it should be and what doesn't"...

I had an entire weekend off.  This is the first time that that happened in several months.  It was utterly blissful, I'll have you know.  Sleeping AND socializing occurred. 

Cleaning...not quite so much.

Fortunately, it's summer, which means that I do have time on Monday morning to mop the kitchen floor, tidy up my room and do a half-dozen loads of laundry before heading to work.

And that kitchen floor was something else, let me tell you.  I'm trying to come up with a polite way to explain the "food and/or beer slopped on floors and counters=bugs" theory to one of my housemates.  So far, I haven't come up with anything that doesn't sound utterly witchy or naggy.  It wasn't bad until this morning; apparently, he decided last night to clean his room, which means reallocating a couple of dozen beer cans and pizza boxes onto the floor near (but not in) the recycle bin and trash can in the kitchen.

I'm not the world's best housekeeper by ANY stretch, but I draw a very firm line before "bugs."

This does not mean, however, that I can't take time to sip coffee and read one of my lovely finds from Saturday.  Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets it is.  I'd forgotten how much I like this book. 

I also might work on a letter...and review some financial aid things...and type a long-overdue blog post about school next year...and...

Three cheers for summer vacation!

I have a confession to make.

I, UbiCaritas, am not a kid person.

Give me your infant, and I will hold it for hours.  Once it starts to talk, I've no idea what to do with it.  What do I say?  How do I say it?  I usually scare small children.  Sometimes that's intentional.  If I'm at work, for example, and a child is destroying a display, I do a remarkable imitation (if I do say so myself) of the now-late Queen Mother viewing a particularly unhelpful minion and asking it to cease it's behavior immediately.  Works wonders, I must say, particularly when I develop a positively Jeevesian accent.  But I digress.

Put me in a bookshop with an irate customer, crashed computers and fried cash registers, and it's all good.  I'll get those cashiers working with calculators, use logic and word-of-mouth to find the books, and make the customer chill out.  Just don't make me deal with small children.  Egads.  Anyone who can handle small children well has my undying respect.  They scare me to death. 

My landlady has a son who is six or thereabouts.  The child in question has struck me thus far as dull, lacking in social grace, easily bored, and generally spoiled.  He also breathes through his mouth.  Ugh.

However.

Today, I was icing a cake.  Shewhoquilts had a birthday today, and I firmly believe that birthdays are to be celebrated with cake and candles and cards and wishes.  Shewhoquilts particularly requested a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, and I obliged.

(Incidentally, there are few things in life so delightful as a cake and a pot of coffee consumed with a heavy helping of laughter and conversation.)

Anyway, I was icing the cake when this unprepossessing child wandered into the kitchen.  Eyeing me and the cake, he announced in firm tones, "I like cake."

"Ah," quoth I, wittily as ever.

"I like cake lots."

"Erm," quoth I, still wittily.  "When is your birthday?"

"October."

"Oh.  I'll bear that in mind."

"I like cake NOW."

"Well," said I, "I am bringing this cake to a friend's place right now, as it's her birthday.  The next time I make a cake, though, I'll make sure to ask you to have some."

"Oh.  Okay."

It struck me as he left the kitchen that icing a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting in front of a small boy withot giving him any is tantamount to torture.

(For that matter, icing a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting in front of me is torture.) 

I was going to leave the rest of the cake at the apartment of Shewhoquilts.  Shewhoquilts doesn't gain weight or have skin that likes to break out at the mention of chocolate or grease.

Sigh.

Yes, I brought half the remains home.  I suspect that it'll be gone by this time tomorrow.

Summer has struck northern Texas.  Days during which the temperatures hit 98-100 with bright sunshine stretch as far as the eye can see.

Summer in north Texas is a time for this diva to renew her annual vow to make lots of money someday--or, barring that, just enough so that she can have an ocean-beach cottage somewhere further north.  East coast would be great.  Connecticut would be lovely, but I'm not excluding the Arctic Circle.  Hard to find a good book shop there, I imagine, but a fair number of the sellers on abebooks ship internationally, right?

In short: it's too hot, it's too sunny, and this diva is rapidly approaching far too cranky--and it's only June.  Ye gods.

It is, therefore, a time to slather on the sunscreen, put on your huge dark shades with the pink frames, and go do a spot of book hunting.  For the week following the book hunting, you may spend as much time as you wish sipping iced beverages, reading of things non-hothothothot, and generally being utterly and completely lazy. 

And the reading for this week, you might ask?

Whilst doing a bit of cleaning for a fellow diva (I don't think that's the correct term, but whatever) in a nearby town I noticed a used book store not three blocks from her house--and a non-corporate bookstore at that.  Clearly, this bore further investigation.

I was gloriously OFF yesterday, and so shewhomustbeobeyed, the boyfriend of shewhomustbeobeyed and I all drove out to Arlington to peruse this bookstore.  They are very tolerant of their bibliophile friend. :D

The store in question, for those of you in the Fort Worth area, is JJ's Bookworld at the corner of Arkansas and Park Row in Arlington.  No, I'd never heard of it either.  But on a day I drove by last week when it was closed, I pressed my diva nose to their window and glanced at their selection.  It boded well.  Veeeery well.  I swore to return with my "books-I-want" list or upon it, and return I did.

It was a very "me" bookstore.  How do I explain this?

If you want a first edition of Robinson Crusoe, you won't find it there, though they do have some collectible books.  You will find a mind-boggling selection of children's books, a fair sci-fi section, an excellent (for their size) fiction section, and enough paperbacks to make any paperback lover eternally happy.  The prices were the best I've seen, quite frankly, in any bookstore in the area.  Let me give an example.

I, being the Harry Potter nut that I am, have wanted to complete my collection of HP hardcovers for some time.  I had books 1, 6, and 7.  Now, I could use my employee discount and get these books new for around $16 apiece. 

I could go to Half Price Books and get  them for $12-$15 apiece, depending on condition. 

Or I could order them online, pay perhaps a dollar or two plus four dollars shipping and get them thataway--which is by far the best deal, but they hadn't been quite high enough on my list of books I'd like to acquire for me to do that.

I got books 2 and 3 in good condition, dustjackets likewise, for $4.50 and $5 each.

Yeah.

The way their pricing works is as follows: they write (in pencil) a price on the inside of the book.  That price is usually about half the retail price of the book.  The price itself is half the pencilled price unless the book is considered collectible.

For $35, I got:

-Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, hardcover, good condition book and dj

-Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, ditto all

-White Fang, by Jack London, hardcover, very good condition book and dj, lovely edition with illustrations

-Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, hardcover,  fair condition book, dj poor condition (torn slightly), Tenniel illustrations

-Little House in the Big Woods, hardcover, overall good-fine condition

Little House on the Prairie, hardcover, overall good-fine condition

-The Miserable Mill, by Lemony Snicket, hardcover in good condition, no issued dustjacket

-Musical Instruments from the Renaissance to the 19th century, hardcover and dustjacket in good-fine condition, filed with colored plates of the most incredibly beautiful instruments EVER.  I had to have it.

Yes, I collect children's books as well as adult.  Can you tell? :P  Anyway, I got quite a haul for the price of a new hardcover, I must say.  I will CERTAINLY be going back.  The atmosphere is definitely casual; the store was staffed by three college-age boys.  Two were barefoot (I didn't ask), and all were clustered around a computer screen on which an action movie was playing.  One did, when he saw my ever-growing heap of books, hurry to offer me a basket.  Well, I know what I want and I'm perfectly capable of understanding alphabetical order, so I didn't really need any assistance (nor want it).  Others might find this offputting.

So, to church I go, followed by a blissful book day.  Ta-ta!