Clareified

Where does the good go

Archive for December, 2011

Taylor Tuesday

Tuesday, December 6th, 2011 by Dawn Summers

Was I out of line? Did I say something way too honest

That made you run and hide like a scared little boy?

I looked into your eyes, thought I knew you for a minute

Now I’m not so sure

So here’s to everything, coming down to nothing

Here’s to silence that cuts me to the core

Where is this going? Thought I knew for a minute

But I don’t anymore

And I stare at the phone and he still hasn’t called

And then you feel so low, you can’t feel nothin’ at all

And you flashback to when he said forever and always

Oh, oh

Oh, and it rains in your bedroom, everything is wrong

It rains when you’re here and it rains when you’re gone

‘Cause I was there when you said forever and always

You didn’t mean it, baby, I don’t think so

Life’s ups and downs

Monday, December 5th, 2011 by Dawn Summers

So, my hairdresser used to be my cousin’s wife, Jenifer. Turns out, my cousin was some kind of drug lord and after his mother was murdered by a rival drug lord, their family went on the run. Obviously, no one was thinking about *MY* needs when these decisions were made because I was very suddenly without a hairdresser… more specifically, without a *free* hairdresser. Since then, there have been many a face burning incident and ill-advised self haircuts. Then, I threw in the towel, put in braids and called it day. Okay, seriously, this whole paragraph should just be hashtagged #blackpeopleproblems

Anyhoo, I took out the braids and was all wandering around for a new hairdresser when my mother decided I should go back to the woman who did my hair when I was in high school. I couldn’t exactly put my finger on a valid reason, but I did not want to do this. However, I was leaving for Vegas and I just didn’t have any other choice. I asked her if she would be open after I came home from work and she said she would keep the shop open just for me because she was happy to have me back. Umm…so far, so good, I guess.

Now, with Jenifer, because of the language barrier and because she was trying to impress my cousin by being nice to his family, I would just show up, she would show me pictures of the kids, I would say “oh, they’re cute,” (or my botched Spanglish version of that sentence), she would do my hair and I would offer to pay, she would shake her head and that would be that. I didn’t even know what she was doing to my hair exactly, I just knew whether I liked it or didn’t (though, if I didn’t I just had to suck it up.) So, when I went to Lynn’s shop on Wednesday evening, I took a picture of me with one of the Jenifer styles I liked and said that’s what I wanted. Lynn was all “how do you want me to do it…A or B… blah blah blah.” I stared, thought it over and held up the picture again.

“Whatever gets it to look like this.”

She asks some more questions, I make it quite clear that I have no answers and then she just starts doing my hair. However, 1. nothing she’s doing is familiar. 2. She is talking NONSTOP.

“Oh, do you remember my daughter, Sharice? The one that’s as smart as you?”

No.

“Mmmhmm. How is she?”

“Oh, great, great. She’s going to an Ivy League college in DC now.”

O_o?

“At first, I thought she was going to go to Duke, it was Duke this and Duke that, cause she got into Duke. She also got into Brown, but she didn’t like that, so she was going to go to Duke, but then she visited Georgetown and that was it! I still have my Duke mom sweatshirt too. But she says “Mommy, don’t you wear that down here!” Oh, then she got a roommate from Trinidad and she thought they would get along, but then the girl really hated American blacks, so they didn’t get along. And my daughter told her, if she hates America so much, she should go to college in Trinidad, that didn’t sit so well with the girl, yeah? Hard to believe that you would get that attitude in Ivy league schools. Smart children shouldn’t be like that blah blah blah blah.”

At this point, mostly I’m furiously texting my mother to get down here because I can’t take it anymore and I really didn’t know how long I would be able to resist bursting out laughing if she called Georgetown an Ivy League school even one more time. (Though, I should have known that my mother was not the answer to that particular problem because my mother is even more of a college snob than I am. TO THIS DAY, she tells people I went to “Harvard,” because it’s the “same as Yale.” O_o Sure enough, the first time the Georgetown/Ivy thing comes up, my mother goes “No, it’s not. There are only five Ivy League schools.” Then, the hairdresser looks at me and asks if that’s right and as she was all up in my hair, with hot objects and whatnot, all I would say is “I think there are eight” and shot my mother a look.)

Anyway, this goes on FOR FIVE AND A HALF HOURS!!! Now, I was flying out in the morning and it was already 1 AM. JENIFER NEVER TOOK THIS LONG AND HERE’S THE KICKER: I was expecting to pay like $30 or something and this woman says “$110” she then adds “usually I charge ‘$160,’ but since I know you…” THE HELL??? Luckily, I had my Vegas cash on me, BUT STILL!!

Okay, so now I get home at like 2 AM. I have some decisions to make…do I just stay up all night and sleep on the plane or do I go to bed immediately? I split the baby. I packed and then went to sleep at 3. I woke up at 5 to go to the gym and then, because two hours of sleep is just enough sleep to keep you keenly aware that you have not slept, I started to worry that I would fall asleep at the gate and miss my flight cause I wouldn’t hear the boarding call.

Every one of you just laughed and rolled your eyes at that… except Ugarles.

So, I’m chugging coffee, grab my Mets duffel bag and head out the door. Halfway to the busstop (yeah, poor people take busses to the airport…) I realize, I left my suitcase at home. Balls. Leaving for the airport: take two.

I just miss a bus, but luckily another one is right behind. Unluckily, it’s a local. It takes an hour to get me to the second bus which actually goes to the airport. This bus is also a local. And then I miss an Airtran. I’m down to 40 minutes till takeoff before I get on the airtran. I suffer as it stops at Federal Circle, 38 minutes.

Then Terminal 1, 35 minutes.

Then terminals 2 & 3, 34 minutes.

Finally, at Terminal four, I dash off the monorail and run.

I put my creditcard in the check-in machine: DENIED.

I run to the counter and the woman says the flight is already closed. Sorry.

NOooooooooo. NO SORRY! NO SORRY!

“Please, it doesn’t leave for half an hour…”

“Do you have any checked bags?”

“NO! None!”

“Ok, I’ll call the gate and see…”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, I can’t guarantee anything, but you can head over there.”

“Where is security?”

“Downstairs and on the other side of the terminal, I honestly don’t think you’ll make it, ma’am.”

I spare a tenth of a second to glare. And then I RUN!

Seriously, I was in a ZONE. I was hurling my carryon on down hallways, hurdling over baby carriages, flying through the air, basically, until I got to the security port. I skipped to the front of the line and showed the guard my boarding pass “Oh, that’s boarding now.”

Yes…I…know…

He ushers me through and I hit the wall of a line of shoeless passengers waiting to go through the metal detectors.

Oy.

I walk up to the lady at the front of the first row of people, explain my plight and ask if I can take her place as first in line.

She agrees. I hear the PA make the announcement for Final boarding call for my flight. I peer over the metal detectors, my gate is the very first one off of the security line. ALRIGHT! I’m going to…

An alarm starts blaring.

I hear the TSA handlers calling for a supervisor. There is some malfunction on the first lane, so all the x-ray scanners have been shutdown.

KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!

The supervisor comes out, he blah blah blahs with the agents, I hear another announcement saying this was the FINAL final boarding call for my flight.

The supervisor shuts down the lane I am at the front of. FUCK!

My lane now has to consolidate into the next lane, I ask the TSA agent if I can get to the front.

“Front of what? All the lanes are stopped.”

O_O

“Well, when it starts again? My flight is final boarding.”

“It’s not up to me ma’am, there’s a long line here. That’s why we tell you get to the airport 90 minutes before your flight.”

&%$^#%^@#^@

As they restart the x-ray machines, I ask the dude at the front of the line if I can go through before him, he agrees.

Finally, I step through the metal detector and the alarms go off… the fucking scores of bobby pins in my hair trigger the alarm!!!

“Female patdown,” the agent calls out. Nothing.

“Female patdown!” she calls again.

WHAT IN THE HOLY NAME OF TIM TEBOW?!

Meanwhile, I can SEE the gate, I can TASTE the gate. I watch as the sign switches from 8: 45 AM Las Vegas to 10:15 AM San Francisco.

That. Cannot. Be. Good.

I just start to cry.

“Aww, what’s the matter, hon?”

“I think my flight just left.”

“You have any belts, or anything sharp?”

“No.”

“It’s just the pins.”

“okay, go. go.”

I trudge barefootedly over to the desk and the lady is all, “hurry up, you have like two minutes.”

Wheeee!!

Text Exchange of December

Monday, December 5th, 2011 by Dawn Summers

Vinnay (3 PM): You’re giving yourself bad luck by ignoring me.
Vinnay (4:30 PM): A courtesy wave would all but guarantee a double up.

(Two hours of the worst cards ever held by a poker player in the history of the game EVER, later…)

Me (6:39 PM): Fine. *wave* Now, give me aces.
Me (6:41 PM): HOLY SHIT, VINNAY! I just got queens!

(I went on to take fourth place in the tournament. This morning when I went to the bank to deposit my winnings. It’s one of those Citibank machines where you just push the cash in the slot — no envelope, no slip, no nothing — I put the money, the machine starts whirring and then it spit this out:

image

ARE YOU KIDDING ME??!! I was telling my co-worker that this is the single most annoying slip of paper I have EVER received! “I’M SORRY?” Yeah, I took your cash, won’t give it back, there’s now NO record of you ever having given me any cash, but you know, “My bad! Have a nice day!”

I would respect Citibank more if the slip just said “Fuck you!”

So, I am now resuming my hostilities with Vinnay until my cash is either returned to me or credited to my account.