Three Pointless Scenes

I got my haircut today, and took a picture so I could look at it on my camera.

I owe you $10

“You can pay me tomorrow,”  said the pretty African lady.

“Really?” I asked, “you don’t mind?”  I checked all my pockets again for the wallet that wasn’t there.

“No,” she said, “just pay me tomorrow.”

Oh well, I thought, it’s my birthday.  “Ok, I’ll be back tomorrow.”  And I walked out with a sandwich, a salad, and a vitamin water.

Four days later I realized I hadn’t paid the pretty African lady, but it was Friday and the morning shift was long over.  Next week, I told myself.  Monday was Indigenous Peoples Day, so I went in today, a full eight days after I promised “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

I found the pretty African lady eating a green salad from a plastic container at the counter, walked up to her and said, “I owe you $10!  I’m so sorry, I’ve been sick all week, and when I finally realized it was already Friday!  I apologize!”

“Oh, it’s not a big deal,” she said, cash in hand.

“I wouldn’t have let you float me, but it was my birthday, so I felt entitled…”

“Oh!” she said, smiling her pretty smile, “I didn’t know it was your birthday!”

“Of course you didn’t,” I say, walking out with my falafel and caesar salad, “Thanks again!”

Requiem for a Bitch

The folks at BitchPhD are all signing off, and I can’t help but feel a little sad.  At it’s height, it was a brilliant center for academic lefty feminist snarkiness.  My own blog was pseudonymous for a long time, before SpanishPod came around and my personal life became a Web 2.0 marketing tool.

I’ve been quietly lamenting the passing of the personal blog era, when people I admired were just journaling and keeping distant friends in the loop; before blogging became all about top-five lists and calls-to-action.  I doubt this little blog will ever be as big and influential as BitchPhD, but for a while it was great to have a big ally with daily readership well into four digits.

Locked out.

Yesterday I cooked up a big batch of longanisa that I had bought fresh at Seafood City.  I had a stack of journals to grade, but it was my day off, and the sun was out… the journals could wait, my shower could wait… I brought the one chair I own out to the porch, and SLAM! the steel security door closed behind me, locked.  And there I was, smelling like sleep and longanisa, wearing blue plaid flannel pants and some crazy bed head.

What about my lock box?  Oh, I forgot to set it up.

I’m so locked out.  I’m locked out az, bro.

I walked over to L’s place; he wasn’t home, but his house guest was helpful and let me make a call on his cell.  I went over to see if N was home, and yay! she was, but boo! she didn’t have my spare key, because boo! I had never given it too her, because boo! I had my lock-box.  Dang it.  What she did have was the key to the storage, where we keep the aluminium ladder yay!  So I climbed up the ladder up to the dining room window and dumped myself onto the floor.

As I got up off the floor and grabbed my keys, I thought, this place stinks of longanisa… and I need to vacuum.  Guh.

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