The Saga of the Yellow Nail Polish

So maybe you know that I like to paint my nails, short though they may be. Usually I like to choose colors that complement my skin tone, generally those in the red family, but recently Stephanie gave me some purple. Which led to blue.  Which led to metallic blue.  Which led to..... yellow.  It led to yellow on a Friday when I was in North Webster and had nothing else to do.  I was walking around the Walgreen's looking for a new color to try, when yellow struck me. Now first, I was looking at the pale yellow. Then I thought, good god, I don't want my nails to looks like a fucking Easter egg.  So then I saw this kinda bright, metallic yellow. I took it home.

Now consider the painting circumstances and don't blame me for continuing:  in my dad's living room in almost total darkness.  Because he said he can't tolerate bright lights.  And let's say that I stayed in there with him because I wanted to spend family time together.  Not because of a general laziness I may have been exhibiting.  So, I painted my nails.  And my toenails.  This cheerful yellow.

Day two:  I wake up and omg, these are hideous.  Hideous as in HOLY HELL MY NAILS ARE HIDEOUS.  The color looked so awful against my skin, I can't believe I ever thought it was a good idea to begin with.  It looked so awful that my DAD said it was awful.  And I can't remember when he last criticized my style. Not even when I had blue streaks in my hair.  But let's not say that I was too lazy to take it off.  Let's say instead that I kept it on because I'll bite my nails if they're not painted. Okay, let's agree to that.  And let's agree that when my best friend Anna came to the pool to swim later that day, she advised me to paint a layer of pink on top of them not so much because they were HIDEOUS and she didn't want to be so direct, but rather because she is an artist and likes to layer colors.  And let's agree that when I went to Lacey's that night to get some pink and she suggested that I try these new zebra press-ons, it was because the press-ons were cool. Not because there was a problem with the yellow + pink.

Day three:   On the way to baseball game, my dad, Debbie, and I stopped at my grandma's.  On the way there, my dad continued to gripe about the yellow.  First he said, "Chris, they remind me of that crayon color that children choose when they draw the sun." I said, "Well actually Dad, I think that's a pretty color."  To which he responded, "That was my nice way of saying it's the color of baby shit." To which I responded, "I've never seen baby shit this color, dad." To which he responded, "You would if they ate that yellow crayon." Okay, okay. So, I get it.  But here's the kicker.  My grandma.  My sweet, dear, little grandma who never, ever says anything bad to me.  She looks at my nails and then she looks at me.  I know what she's thinking, but I don't think she'll say anything.  Because she's so nice. Then she looks at my nails again, so I say, "Dad says they're ugly." And she just looks at me and says, "Honey, they're worse than ugly." !!!  MY GRANDMA!  Next thing you know, Debbie is there and it's become an urgent situation to be resolved.  I feel like I'm in the ER.  Debbie:  "Chris, my daughter lives down the road. She has tons of nail polish. You have to get that off.  I'll go and get some colors. I'll be back in five minutes or less. What colors do you want?" Grandma:  "Go get my nail polish remover and clean that off while she's gone." So poor, dejected, rejected me.  And my yellow nails.

It took me 20 minutes to get that color off. While I was taking it off, I just kept thinking --and for the second time that week, might I add, after another white-girl sunburn-- that I wish I weren't white.  African tones, olive Middle Eastern tones,  rusty Native American tones.  I'm sure that all of those tones would have tanned well and looked great with my new nail polish.

82 Downtown: Westheimer@ S. Shepherd

Soooooo yeah, it's been three years and two months since I last wrote.  Check again the title of this blog.  Yep, shit hit the fan, stuff so shitty that I'm not even going to write about it here.  Or anywhere.  But now I'm a new woman, a Savage again, feeling good and back on track.  So when something totally hilarious happened to me today, something that somehow has me STILL laughing, I thought it might be the right time to open this blog back up.

Let's start first with a piece of general information: my car broke down yesterday.  If you've known me for any length of time, you know that this is a common occurrence and that I'm always having to deal with it.  I don't know how many times I've been at the mechanic's with tears running down my face as he gives me the bad news.  That being said, my new attitude is "Who fucking cares".  This seems to be serving me well, and so when I parked my car yesterday and smoke started rolling out of the engine, I just said to myself, "Who fucking cares." I know the drill.  I know the bus schedule by heart.  I have my bus card.  I have generous friends.  I know I'm gonna get bad news, and I know I'll be fine.  Because I always am.

So this afternoon I called AAA, who are, by the way, programmed into my phone, and had my POS car towed to my mechanic who will remain unnamed due to my odious relationship with him.  I packed a few books, stuff to grade, and my workout clothes, because I was hoping to get this all taken care of before Zumba... you know that I didn't make it, right?  lol.

Anyway, the whole point of this entry is to talk about the bus.  So, Mr. Unnamed Mechanic drops a price in my lap that makes me want to throw up, and tells me to come back tomorrow to pick it up.  Meaning, you're gonna have to take the bus home and you're not gonna go to Zumba because you don't have enough quarters to ride the bus to two places and oh yeah, I know I said I had a bus card, but actually, I didn't find it until an hour ago, so I didn't have it then.  Point being that I had to take the bus home.

It's a 10-minute walk from Unnamed Mechanic's to the bus stop.  Walking for 10 minutes in Houston, even if it's just the end of May, sucks.  By the time I got to the bus stop, I was all sweaty.  Seriously, I could see sweat on my shirt where I had pressed my books to my chest while walking.  Anyway.  I got to the bus stop, and I thanked God that (1.) there was a place for me on the bench, and (2.) it didn't smell like piss like it usually does.  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed this woman who was holding up an advertisement for a massage place at the strip mall behind us.  I've always wondered about these people, and I was thinking about asking her about this job, when she suddenly started belting out Celine Dion.  No joke.  I hear this, "Cuz I'm your laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddddyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, and you are my ma-ma-ma-ma-maaannnnnn, whenever you re-re-re-re-re-re-reach for me...." I was like, WTF?  It wasn't a stutter, like, it came from lower, almost like if you were imitating a machine gun or something.  Really gutteral.  I changed my mind about the job questions.  As I continued to wait, my respect for people who ride the bus daily began to grow exponentially.  It was so hot outside.  Like, I almost think that you need to have an extra set of clothes with you if you're going to ride the bus to a place that you care about.  And forget about your hair or makeup, cause you're just gonna be a wreck by the time you get there.

So yeah, I get on the bus finally.  And it's sooooo nice.  AC.  Delicious.  I was surprised to see a seat near the front.  I sat down with my books, put my gym bag on the floor, and started minding my own business when I became aware of this crazy old, white but super-tanned lady nearby who was yakking on and on about who knows what, but everyone around there was laughing and going along with it, quite good-naturedly I might add.  This wasn't an instance of the crazy-person-that-everyone-ignores. Then suddenly she starts to talk about Barak Obama.  She starts weaving her head all around and hollering, "Oh yeah, I love me some Barack.  He is MY PRESIDENT.  Do you love Barack?  Yeah.  I love him.  Yeah, is he your president?" as she taps the shoulder of the Hispanic mother sitting in front of her.  The woman looks around, clearly there is only one answer here.  "Yes.  He is my president."  "Good!  Yeah, because he's done so much good for this country. I'm telling ya.  Everyone loves Barck.  They're gonna elect him again." blah blah blah "He is such a good man.  Yeah, I love our president.  Everyone on this bus loves him.  That old Mitt Romney, no one..... wait..... (she looks pointedly at me) YOU like Mitt Romney, DON'T YA?!!"  Seriously folks, I was like, so shocked.  I've never been accused of such a thing!  And why me?!  So I say, "Are you kidding?  No way!" But I'm like baffled, and everyone is looking at me and laughing about it all, still all in fun. Really, it was just so silly.  But then I was wondering to myself, why in the world did she single me out?  I wasn't dressed conservatively; no, on the contrary.  I had on flip flops, capri jeans, my hot pink Of Montreal indie band t-shirt, and glasses.  Carrying a ESL textbook and a gym bag. Don't these things kind of mark me as NOT being conservative?!  Not on the bus in Houston, I suppose.  Then I noticed that I was the only white person on the bus, which irritates me for a different reason, but there's no point in talking about that now.  And I was like, wow.  So, if I'm white, I like Mitt Romney?  Shit, that sucks.

But it gets better, because she keeps going on. She kind of loses focus for awhile and then suddenly she's back on Mitt again and the Hispanic woman looks at me and says, "She's talking about you again." ??!!  So I give her my attention and she just asks me point blank, "Do you like black men?" And I'm stunned for less than half a second as the following things run through my mind: Is this a question that is still related to Barack Obama?  Does she mean black men in general? Or is she asking if I date black men?  The other half a second I think to myself: Yes, I like Barack, yes, I like black men in general, and sure, I could see myself getting involved with a black man, no problem.  So I said very firmly, "YES." And her eyes popped wide open, so I continued, "And they like me, too!" At that, the whole bus started cracking up, hooting and hollering. Of course you know what she said then, at the top of her lungs, "You know what they say!... Once you go black, you never go back!" And seriously, every single person on that bus started laughing 10 times harder.  The woman next to me nudged me and started laughing, kinda giggling while looking down at her chest like she was embarrassed. Two guys gave each other high-fives.  You had to be there, really.  It was like the bus broke out into a party and joined together in some demonstration of camaraderie that I got to be a part of.  It was so awesome.

The next stop was mine, I'm disappointed to say, and I had to get off and walk back to my Montrose world which I had thought was so Barack but I guess some call Mitt.  Perspective.

I'm going to get the car tomorrow, but maybe I'll take the bus there instead of asking someone to drop me off.