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.
A tad over a year ago, some friends bought me a Magic Bullet blender. This was a very sweet and awesome gift; I just never had a reason to yank it out. I do cook a fair amount, but smoothies and their like aren't really my thing.
However, I now live in a house with a front porch. Said porch is shaded all day, and there's usually a breeze. It has a lounge chair. Therefore, it cries out to be sat upon while reading books and sipping icy drinks in hot summer weather.
On a whim, I threw some grapefruit juice and ice into the Magic Bullet this afternoon.
Thirty seconds later, I had a slushy grapefruit-y drink.
Mmmm.
This has been repeated several times since, and I can tell it will be done thousands of times this summer.
More mmmmm.
The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery.
Isn't that title magnificent?
I very nearly bought this book for the title alone, but I did skim a page or two before slapping it down and saying "I'll take it!" I must say, however, that I'd never have purchased it if it weren't for the title. A customer requested it months ago, and the title stuck firmly in my brain. Today, I desperately needed something to read, and so I purchased The Elegance of the Hedgehog as I left work.
I also must say that I don't understand all of it. The author is very philosophical, and has a tendency to go on about thinkers for a page at a time. That's nowhere near as disturbing or annoying as it might be. Somehow, it fits this book.
If you like to laugh about upper class snobbery and read about Japanese simplicity and would enjoy spending time in the company of a French concierge who is extremely art-and-music conscious but must maintain proletarian facade while making snarky side comments about the insanely rich young university students yakking about how reading Marx has changed their lives, man....go read the book. Oh, and the concierge (to the distress of the building's other residents, natch) becomes friends with a young genius who lives in the building and whose suicidal adolescent genius angst is perfectly tempered by the concierge's dry public maturity and private uncertainties.
Furthermore, the author has described the effect of music better than ever I could. In the following paragraph, the 12-year-old genius is listening to the choir at her school perform, and observes:
"Every time, it's the same thing. I feel like crying, my throat goes all tight and I do the best I can to control myself but sometimes it gets close: I can hardly keep myself from sobbing. So when they sing a canon I look down at the ground because it's just too much emotion at once: it's too beautiful, and everyone singing together, this marvelous sharing. I'm no longer myself, I am just one part of a sublime whole, to which the others also belong, and I always wonder at such moments why this cannot be the rule of everyday life, instead of being an exceptional moment, during a choir.
When the music stops, everyone applauds, their faces all lit up, the choir radiant. It is so beautiful.
In the end, I wonder if the true movement of the world might not be a voice raised in song." (p. 184-185, The Elegance of the Hedgehog)
I think I've found my monthly book to recommend. One brief note: this book is translated from the original French. Therefore, it never had a hardcover debut in America, as it was, I believe, translated to English and sold in America after European success. I bought it in paperback. I considered very briefly spending the money to have it shipped in hardcover from England, and decided that I'd rather not spend the money for the book and the ridiculous shipping only to not know if I'd even like it or want it in my library. This book stays. Furthermore, I can think of at least two people to whom I'd like to give this book for birthdays or Christmas.
UbiCaritas gives this book two thumbs up and five stars.
Dear Sir,
It is a remarkable feature of exquisite incompetence that the person wielding it balances it so thoroughly with the unshakable belief that he is infallible.
I repeatedly--not once, twice, or even three times, but at least five times--told you that my problem today was the fact that following a misstep several days ago I have had knee weakness, slight swelling, and a kneecap that is considerably more mobile than it ought to be. (Hint: I should not be able to move it around with a fingertip while standing.) You would not even look at it while I stood, despite the fact that I remarked on at least two occasions that this phenomena does not occur when I sit, as I was doing when you examined me. Your response to my complaints of weakness--again, not once, twice, or even three times, but five times--was to offer me prescription painkillers. When I pointed out that I wasn't in any pain unless I put weight on the knee while flexing it, and that the anti-inflammatory over-the-counter meds took care of any pain, you told me not to wear a knee brace (which, you know, SUPPORTS THE KNEE) while at work because you "had an elderly diabetic patient who wore one and got a blood clot"--and offered me prescription painkillers again. When I mentioned that I had iced the knee on and off (twenty on, an hour off), you looked worried and proclaimed that I had "probably not done any damage YET" but that I should stop that. When I told you that I had tried to stay off of it and elevate it as much as possible, you said that that wouldn't have any positive effect.
It is common to make small talk with a patient prior to the nitty-gritty of an exam. All well and good. I told you that I'm majoring in music. You told me that eventually I'd have to go back for a "real" degree. You knew this because your niece majored in music, and then went back to get a degree that would get her admitted to medical school. You finished the exam by observing that if I have "bad knees," I should not work in retail. Yet it took three requests to get you to write a note stating that I need to wear supportive shoes for the next couple of weeks. The connection between supportive shoes and a possible improvement in knee issues seemed to bypass you altogether.
By the time I left the office, there was a small part of my brain that actually hoped I had something seriously wrong with my knee so that I could have the indescribable pleasure of suing you for malpractice and funneling the money I received to build a medical clinic for those who work but cannot afford insane insurance premiums and deductibles.
There was another part of my brain making a note that if I ever collapse and need CPR, I must remain conscious to prevent you from attempting resuscitative efforts.
With luck, a patient will get your license revoked before you kill or maim someone because, sir, if you are so utterly unfamiliar with basic physiology as to claim that ice, rest and elevation are actually bad or ineffective ideas when dealing with a muscle injury, then you've no business being licensed as a nurse's aid, much less a physician.
Go leap off the roof, whydon'tcha? But when you land, fear not: I won't ice or elevate your injured limbs! In fact, I won't even look at you. I'll just tell the medics to give you some painkillers and leave it at that.
Shewhoquilts came over last night. I ended up making the curry and a tomato-avocado salad in balsamic vinegar on the side. Dessert was coffee and biscotti. Simple, yet oh-so-good. I was going to make a cake, but then I sprained my knee while vacuuming. Normal people trip on the vacuum cleaner or fall downthe stairs when off-balanced by the vacuum cleaner...not I. I tripped over the floor and the wall (I don't know how. Maybe I wasn't expecting them to be there?) and heard a distinct "pop". I do not like that sound. Neither did my knee. One elastic knee brace plus one bag of ice plus cashier duty for a few days, here I come.
As a side note, shewhoquilts insists that I "do not have too many books." Such a wise woman. I will not take this opportunity to order more (I have five waiting to be read, and if I end up seeing a doctor for this knee I would regret spending the money) but I will bear that in mind for future book purchases. :P
In the meantime, what have I purchased?
I mentioned a month or two ago that I would like to read some Heinlein but that I drew a firm line at spending upwards of $30 on a single hardcover title. (Heinlein is relatively early scifi, and a lot of that genre was never--or hardly ever--published in hardcover.) I also generally dislike "collection"-style books. However, I broke down and ordered this when a fantastic deal came up on one of my booksites. Including shipping, it was less than $8, and I will now be able to read Have Spacesuit, Will Travel; Starship Troopers; and Podkayne of Mars. Excellent. Depending on how this goes, I may pick up his other omnibuses.
Ann Patchett wrote Bel Canto, which is simultaneously one of the most beautiful and almost certainly the saddest book I've ever read. Because of my respect for Bel Canto, I purchased this a few days ago while it was on a clearance of sorts. If it's anything like Bel Canto, I may have to pick up some more of her books. I read Bel Canto last year sometime; it wore me out, but in a good way. It was just so intense that I couldn't pick up another of her books until now.
I picked this up, too, also at a clearance. A number of people may be familiar with the story of the Indianapolis because it was mentioned by Quint in the film Jaws. This book delves into the experience of the men in the water, the reasons why they weren't even missed for days, etc. Should be an interesting read.
I also purchased a book of Emily Dickinson's poetry for about $4. I bought it for two reasons: one, I don't own any of her poetry and she's considered a classic author, and two, the book is a really lovely book: the paper is high-quality and slightly glossy, the book is heavy and well bound. There's just one problem: I've since tried to read some of her poems, and I can't stand them. They strike me as simperingly gooey; the experience was not unlike being trapped in a small room with a little old lady force-feeding me caramel syrup and reading poems about her cat, Fluffy, who died twenty years ago and to whose memory she remains faithful. I guess I'll have to try them again later this week to see if that was a mood I was in rather than the poetry, and if I still don't like them I'll shelve them for a few years and then see what I think.
My carry-around-with-me book this week is Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, which I am rereading for approximately the fifty-seventh time. I love this book. I can always see the salon of the Nautilus as clearly as if I'd been there.
Finally, I'm reading a Rex Stout Nero Wolfe collection, and I think I'm in love with Archie Goodwin. I
We still have a week yet to go before the moon is full. This concerns me. Just how weird is this week going to get?
We had several obscene phone calls at The Bookstore this evening. I got the last one. I will not describe the scenario. Suffice to say it had a sufficient touch of reality that while I was extremely uncomfortable, I could not hang up because he might have been a customer. He finally said enough that I was justified in ending the call--after five minutes. Ugh. Ew. Etc.
I hope, as themaureencorps once so eloquently put it, that he takes a header into a bucket of lime.
The male members of the staff were annoyed that after several such calls the women would not answer the phone for the remainder of the evening. We indicated that we'd be happy to answer the phone if we could use whistles into the phone when and if the call became obscene. The manager did not go for that idea. I don't understand why not; I thought it was excellent!
