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My motivation comes from my cartoon mentor, Homer Simpson. He is almost comparable to the Dalai Lama in profound statements. This one is my favorite right now-- "Trying is the first step towards failure."
You simply cannot deny this man's genius.
Another day at the hair salon... or so I hoped.
My hair color had been fading and the roots had been showing so I thought that today was a good day to have all of that stuff touched up. All is well until the new assistant from Brooklyn took me to the shampoo area to rinse out my hair dye. There's small talk about how he's newly imported from the east coast and how he currently lives in an apartment in downtown San Diego with a friend.
Then, the series of unfortunate events occur. I felt water. No, not the water on my head, but I felt water dribbling down the back of my shirt. Immediately after, I heard a loud splash. The water basin had clogged up due to an overlooked piece of cotton that the assistant hadn't removed from my scalp before shampooing. I franticly stood up because I was so startled and realize that water and remnants of hair dye were now dribbling down my entire back side.
The assistant, being new on the job, became overly apologetic and began to dry off the floor first. I, on the otherhand, was dripping wet and a little confused with I should do next. Run to the bathroom and ruin the salon with my hair dye dripping everywhere? Or, just stand very still and hope that someone would hand me a towel?
By this point, practically everybody at the salon rushed over to help me and the assistant when it dawned on me-- I realized that the white tank top that I had worn was now ruined because of the hair dye. But I thought, hey--no harm, no foul. I didn't really care that the hair dye had ruined my clothes or that my undergarments were soaking wet. I just felt bad for the new assistant's psyche.
After the floor was mopped and my clothes were put in the dryer (don't worry, I was wearing a robe), the assistant (still shell-shocked) proceeded with my shampoo session. He had already conditioned my hair when he muttered, "Oh, I don't think that I shampooed your hair yet." So he had to backstep to shampoo first, and then condition-- that's right, Haircare 101.
To top it all off, the entire time the assistant never got the water pressure quite right. The pressure was so strong that I kept wiping off the little splashes of water hitting my face and my eyes. I didn't have the heart to say anything to him because he was already so frazzled and fidgety from the the flood that had caused prophets like Noah to build an arc.
What matters to me is that he gave it his all and tried his best (and trust me, he was trying). In time little assistant, you will be the best shampooer ever.
For those of you who know me very well, you know that I can get easily freaked out and very jumpy, especially when I am completely engrossed in a project. If I am working on something and you come into the room, I will scream-- not because you invaded my privacy but because I thought that you were going to kill me. It's survival mode... Darwinism at it's best.
Joe, Florence, and I have been trying to improve our golf skills by practicing at the driving range every week. At first, I was doing really well. I could actually hit the balls and they would fly straight-- be it, not very far, but straight. The more and more I go, the worse and worse I get. The stupid little golf balls now fly through the air at a very sharp angle, likely to hit anyone or anything that comes across it's path. It's unpredictable... in a predictable kind of way.
Today, for example, Joe and I went to a new driving range north of where we live for a change in atmosphere. Each person's personal space on the range was divided with waist-high green metal waffle dividers. Directly behind us was the parking lot. I bet you can see where this is going. The first few balls I hit were decent. The more I hit, however, the more the balls kept hitting the metal waffle dividers and ricocheting into the green. Luckily (?) I wasn't hitting them hard enough to do any damage. I did have images in my head of me actually nailing a ball into the dividers where it would bounce off and hit me in the face (maybe that's why I wasn't hitting them that hard, it was all subconscious). Anyways, maybe about 15 minutes into my game, I hit a ball so hard (and at such a sharp angle), it hit the metal divider, bounced across the driving range fence into the parking lot where it hit... (brace yourself) a pretty black, expensive Lexus. No damage was done (it hit the wheel) but I decided that I shouldn't push my luck anymore. See, my golfing was unpredictable in a predictable kind of way. It was only a matter of time before something serious happened.
I never used facial cleansers or moisturizers. I never washed my face before bedtime or even splashed it with water to make it sure it was hydrated. My thought was always-- hey, if it ain't broke (read: no pimples/acne), don't fix it. But man, times are changing. Because of my part-time job as a server, my hands are always getting dirty from handling plates and glasses. And, because I have short hair, my hands are always touching my face to push back the hair that is always falling into my eyes. So *poof*, I have pimples.
Today I decided to invest in skin care products. The only problem is, in order for my skin to get better, it has to get worse. That's right. For a few weeks, I have to tough it out with SUPER RED, SHINY pimples (even bigger than the ones that I have right now!) growing in every which crevice of my face while my skin goes through a "detox" phase. I am no longer Vim. For the next few weeks, you can call me pizza face.
Don't fret. My family is safe. They were evacuated from their house yesterday but were able to return home this afternoon. Silly east coast meteorologists never seem to get weather forecasts right.
Back in the day when I had a full-time job in DC, I used to attend monthly meetings called, "Toastmasters." For those of you unfamiliar, it's simply a club where people come together and improve their public speaking skills by practicing in front of one another. Your prepared or impromptu speech had to be a certain length of time with as little mistakes as possible-- there was always a "grammarian" to count every single grammatical mistake and filler word. After a year of attending these meetings, you would think that I would be flawless in public speaking. Wrong.
This morning I was forced to leave a message on an elementary school's answering machine. My message went something along the lines of this-- "Ummmmmmmm. My name is Vim and I am a student uhh working towards my teaching credential. Uh. I need to sit in on two classes for uhh an assignment and uhhhh, I was wondering if I could uhhh schedule a time so I could come in. Uhh. Thanks."
With every "um" and "uh", the little grammarian that has been embedded in my head as a result of Toastmasters laughs and adds another tally on his imaginary chalk board. It taunts me and makes me even more nervous to speak in front of people. Did Toastmasters help me become aware of all of my flaws in public speaking or did it just make me more paranoid?
Today, my teacher lectured in such a way that he subtly gave out his resume. I hate it when people do this. It's like they're trying to prove their greatness to us.
All I have to say is-- I never doubted you, dude. Let's skip the pride parade and finish class so I can go home and watch Iron Chef.
