First Person Twice Removed

 Check out this hilarious link if you haven't already. 
25 Things Writers should Stop Doing (Right Fucking Now)
I saw it on my Facebook newsfeed yesterday and didn't have time to read it. When I did have time, I couldn't find it. Then, by chance, I found it in my email this afternoon!
It's not just funny, but inspiring and true.



               I changed perspective on the essay I started yesterday. I really like second person. I know it's tricky to get right and you risk alienating your readers, so I apologize in advance to the three of you :0)
I just got started, but here it is thus far:

Christmas is coming and your five year old grandson can ride a bicycle sans training wheels. The one that that he has now is babyish.  It’s a bike his grandfather, your ex-husband presented him with on his third birthday.

“Did you see what I got him?” Your ex-husband said, leading you to  a large box.

On the box was a picture of a Disney bike designed after the animated car, Lightening McQueen.

“A bike in a box,” you said. “Cool.” Your eyes traveled first to the bright red block letters that read : EASY TO ASSEMBLE. INSTRUCTIONS INSIDE and then to your current husband. He was laughing and eating birthday cake, innocently unaware of the fact that within a matter of hours he’d be throwing tools and cursing Disney.

                It’s a bike you never would have bought him.

                You think back on the bicycles your parents bought you over the years. Most of them red. Most of them Schwinn. A girl’s three speed when you were twelve. You could tell a girl’s bike from a boy’s bike because a boy’s bike had a horizontal bar spanning from just under the seat to the handlebar. The bar on the girl’s bike sloped downward, away from the crotch. Based on your limited knowledge of boy parts, you thought the bike manufacturers had gotten it backwards, that it would be much more painful for a boy to land on that bar.

                “That’s not why, Brainiac,” your best friend Susan had said. “It’s so we can wear dresses and still ride our bikes.

                “That’s so gay,” you said.

                Back then gay meant dumb or lame. Back then you hated dresses and wore boys corduroy jeans.

Getting a new bike when you were a kid made you the envy of all of the kids in the neighborhood. You had wheels. Transportation. You could fly down the block with the wind screaming in your ears and your hands clasped behind your head.

Free as a bird.

You decide to get your grandson a bike for Christmas…

Here's another second person piece I started and plan to work on. I'm considering doing my next solo show on scenes on an airplane told/reenacted from 1st, 2nd and 3rd person perspective (sorry about the wonky formatting--not sure why, but my formatting never comes out the way I write it on this blog site):

You find your seat on the plane 13B, the aisle and before you stow your bag, you worry that you may have left your phone in the terminal. You plunge your hand into the main section and rummage. You feel nothing. Phones can be sneaky though. They’re not as big as they seem for one. Thinking that perhaps you had a rare moment of unconscious organization you begin to check the front zippered pockets. Nothing. You must have left it right there in the terminal on the seat beside you. You are nearly convinced of this when 13C shows up.

“Sorry,” he says.

 “No problem,” you say. 

Barely looking up you stand, one hand still rummaging and step aside to let him in. You sit back down, recheck every compartment. This is your all-purpose traveling purse. There are a lot of compartments. Shit, you think. I’m going to be one of those people who leave the plane before take-off. You wonder how complicated it will be, to exit now with the beefed-up security and X-ray scanners.  You wonder if you’ll need an escort.  An escort will take time. Maybe even delay take-off. Your fellow passengers will go from suspecting you are a terrorist making a hasty exit, to hating you for making them late. Your hand closes over your phone. “There you are” you say aloud. You look at the man in 13C. He’s reading a magazine and doesn’t look up. You feel bad that you didn’t at least say 'Hello' when he sat down. You don’t like to talk during flights, but you do like to at least great your fellow flier. He has a nice profile, the man. Might be Middle Eastern, or Italian. Which makes you feel slightly worse for not at least saying Hello. You want him to know that even if he is Middle Eastern you aren’t the type of American to think right-off that he’s a terrorist. You text your husband with lots of x’s and o’s, turn off your phone, tuck it deliberately in the front zippered compartment, and lean your head back. It’s cold. The menopausal stewardess has all of the air nozzles going full blast. The right side of your body is warming up though. The heat from 13c's body. You like him. There’s a feeling of comfortable companionship between you. The stewardess starts her seatbelt check and you notice the seat across the aisle, 13a, is empty. It’s a small plane—a puddle jumper—the seat is solo, both an isle and a window. 

You look at 13c and say “Please don’t take this personally,” He looks up from his magazine and you smile, unbuckle your belt.  “I’m gonna snag that seat. That way you won’t have me falling asleep on your shoulder.”  

 He smiles back. “I’ll try not to,” he says. 

He has a nice smile. White teeth. 

            You move across the aisle and he says “I should have showered this morning.” 

You laugh and wave him away. It’s not a typical gesture, this waving away. Usually done by fake, jokey people. Usually accompanied with the expression “Get outta here!” or “Oh, you!”

You tuck your purse, settle in. Sneak a glance at 13c. He’s back to his magazine. You like his face. Unshaven, not perfect. Hair more salt than pepper. You like his style. Jeans, black sweater with a gray stripe running down the sleeve, socks that match the stripe, neutral suede shoes. Good shoes, like they sell at The Walking Store. He looks like he’s showered. He looks soap and water fresh. You miss him a little bit. It’s colder in this seat for one, and what if the plane goes down, for two. You’ll be alone clutching the arm rest instead of locking eyes with his and reaching out for his hand with a sort of stoic resignation. 

       There’s a bustle a few rows ahead and you look up to see a late arriver headed in your direction. Sure enough it’s the rightful sitter of 13a.

      “Oops. Sorry!” you say, unstow your purse and scoot back across the aisle. He looks at you. 

       “I’m back,” you say. 

        “You sure get around” he says. 

         “Hahaha!” you laugh. A little too loud.  You buckle up and lean back wishing that instead of laughing too loud you had said something clever like ‘Yes, I try not to brag about it,’ or  simply ‘I try’ maybe narrowed your eyes slyly at him with a sexy half-smile playing on your lips. You close your eyes, feel yourself warming up again. The plane taxis forward.

You awaken with a snort and panic immediately wondering how loud you were. You look across the aisle at 13a. She doesn’t look up from her laptop. You turn your head. 13c’s eyes are closed. 

You’re thinking no harm no foul when 13c says “You should have warned me about that.”

You look at him, his eyes are still closed.

What I Learned Over Christmas Break

“You sit down at the same time every day.  You put a piece of paper in the typewriter, or you turn on your computer and bring up the right file, and then you stare at it for an hour or so. Then you begin rocking, just a little at first, and then like a huge autistic child….you squint at an image that  is forming in your mind—a scene, a locale, a character, whatever—and you try to quiet your mind so you can hear

what that landscape or character has to say above the other voices in your mind. The other voices are like banshees and drunken monkeys.”--Ann Lamott

     Struggling with today's piece, but writing nevertheless. Will post tomorrow. In the meantime--how amazing is this quote? I love Ann Lamott. 

    

Musings

Artists are so vulnerable that, despite their tough exterior, they are influenced by trivia they would consciously reject--Edward Ruscha

      Over the holidays I became more aware than ever of my own negative self-talk. Even after wonderful evenings of fun with family or friends I berated myself about what I should have done or grilled myself on whether I acknowledged this or that person enough.

As a result of this type of critical input, no matter what I'm doing, I almost always feel as if I should be doing something else, which plays a big role in my tendency to procrastinate as a writer.

     I'm was born in the sixties. I've done therapy and read self-help books. I know about meditation and breathing.  I've read as much advice as the next guy about the potential efficacy of positive affirmations. I considered really giving them a shot recently, but immediately thought of Stuart Smalley. Remember him? Al Franken's character on SNL? He was hilarious and tapped into the ridiculousness of standing before a mirror and repeating things like:
    I like me!
    I am good enough!
    I am in control of my own life!

      Such good material. If it hadn't been done so well by Al, I'd make it the topic of my next solo piece.
     When I'm in front of a mirror getting ready in the morning, my brain is buzzing with details of the day ahead. I can't imagine stopping, and looking myself in the eye to say:
I am capable!
I am scintillating!
I am running late!
    Nevertheless, I thought that planting something positive to counter the negative--even if it seemed  overused and well, unsophisticated--would be a step in the right direction. 
    I did a Google search of positive affirmation audio downloads thinking I could listen to them in my car. My car being one of the main places where I have arguments with myself about myself.

    The samples were discouraging. Some were recorded by people with names like Divine, or Sage with creepy, haunted-house voices. Many were religious. Others promised things like filthy richness or the ability to seduce anyone, anytime.
   Finally I found a series recorded by a husband and wife team. They have Minnesotan accents, which makes them sound very homey and down-to-earth. Like people who would help you jump-start your car and follow you to be sure you make it out of the parking lot.  They consider themselves-- and want you to consider them-- part of your support team. Their affirmations are recorded with music--some of it very elevatorish and some of it lounge-lizzardy.  They are easy to make fun of. The wife, for example, really likes the idea of ejecting negative thoughts as you would a tape or CD. She even suggests you physically push an imaginary button on  your dashboard or your desk to make it more real. I laughed aloud at that one. Imagined excusing myself during a presentation or meeting to poke at a nearby wall.
   And yet...after listening to a few I found myself smiling. I downloaded the entire track.
   Today I listened on my way to work. Following the couple's instructions and using my hokiest stage voice, I repeated some of the affirmations aloud.
   They were silly and cliched and unsophisticated, but somehow they penetrated through the part of me that thinks I'm too cool for school to the part of me that feels vulnerable and anxious and needs to be supported.
    Because look; Even though I should be doing something else, I am in charge of my life.
I am writing!
:0)
   
  

Resolutions and Writing

Thanks, K, for this great article from The Writers Store  which includes a free "Don't Break The Chain" Calender download.

To view this email as a web page, go here.

When it comes to making New Year's resolutions, we writers aren't exactly the norm. Most people resolve to lose weight, dreaming of the day they can hold up their "fat jeans," as if in a weight-loss commercial. We want to hold up a few freshly printed scripts and know we've created something tangible. Others might hope to finish their first triathlon this year. We hope to finish a screenplay, a one-hour pilot, and a half-hour comedy spec. This year, I'm gonna write more. It's a popular resolution amongst our crowd. It's a great goal, but it's vague. Then again, maybe some of us promised to write every day. That's even better. But just like hitting a plateau at the gym, we sometimes lose the steam that once powered a new and exciting story idea. We take one day off, which turns into two days off; eventually, we find ourselves opening up a document only to realize it hasn't been touched in two weeks - or more. Let's say you do write most of the time, but you take one or two days off each week for any number of reasons. That's still a lot of writing. But consider this: at the end of the year, that's roughly 10 weeks, or 2.5 months' worth of days that you didn't write anything. That's where Jerry Seinfeld's productivity tip "Don't Break the Chain" comes in. Years ago, when software developer Brad Isaac was performing stand-up at open mic nights, he received his best advice ever from the already-famous comedian. Seinfeld explained his method for success: each January, he hangs a large year-at-a-glance calendar on his wall and, for every day he wrote new material, he had the exquisite pleasure that can only come from drawing a big red "X" over that day. Drawing those Xs got to be pretty fun and rewarding, so he kept doing it. Eventually, he began to create a chain of red Xs. The idea was to never break that chain. Not only does this approach program the body and mind to sit down and write daily - it also motivates you to continue that beautiful string of big, red Xs. If you don't write one day, you don't get to draw the X. It doesn't particularly matter what you write. Blogs, articles, scripts, your memoir. It can be anything, as long as you're actively and routinely pushing yourself. But let's say you're a screenwriter, and you take it a step further. You might decide that you only get an X for the days you work on your screenplays. If you made progress on your scripts every single day for an entire year, how many could you finish? Two? Four? More? Now, imagine that you've finally gotten the ear of an agent, producer or director. If you don't break the chain for two or three years, chances are you'll end up with a script to please just about any buyer. Learning from the pros is imperative in this business, but if you don't put their lessons into practice, it won't take you far. And while professional writers offer a wide range of ideas, they will all agree that discipline and determination must come first. That means writing all the time. It means not believing in writer's block. It means turning off the television, silencing your phone, and finding some Shangri La that somehow does not yet have wireless internet. First and foremost, it means making writing a major part of your life. To do that, you have to make writing a habit, just like going to the gym, eating healthy foods, or flossing...but harder. There are countless excuses, most of them completely acceptable, which hold us back from writing. More often than not, it's our never-ending To-do lists that take precedence over our passion. With Don't Break the Chain, writing, too, becomes a daily task that we have to cross off that To-do list. This method is a constant reminder that, if we want to succeed as writers, we must acknowledge our craft and respect the process. Because the reality is, if you do work at your craft obsessively, you will find success. And if you do become a professional writer, you will need to write every day. Not only that, you'll be expected to prove that you can constantly produce worthwhile material, and the only way any of us can achieve that is to push ourselves tenaciously. Who else is going to push you? For many, it's going to come down to self-determination. Your partner or parents or kids can encourage you, too. Let them know about the calendar. After you prove you can keep the chain connected for a couple of weeks, they too will motivate you not to miss a single day. Find all the motivation you need to get started, because by teaching yourself to incorporate writing into your daily routine, you'll transform yourself into a professional. Think of it this way: Your first day at a new job can be stressful. You might feel like you don't know where to park, when to show up, or how to answer your phone. Cut to a few months later. You've gotten into a routine. It's no longer intimidating. It is, simply, what you do. The same idea applies to writing. It's no wonder we tell ourselves we have writer's block some days, especially after leaving a story cold and dead for a whole month or more. Think of those big red Xs covering an entire calendar year as a fire stoking your creativity - and your writing career. Of course, it's up to you whether you want to jump-start your career now rather than a few years down the line. If you want to do it now (a wise choice), Don't Break the Chain will get you moving right away - as in, immediately! TODAY! The Writers Store was launched to provide writers with the tools necessary to help at any stage and in any medium of writing. That's why we're offering a free download of your own yearly calendar to print out. Now, all you need is a pen - the color is up to you - and the goal to draw a big X over every single day. Are you willing to see how much you can create over an entire year? Are you curious to find out what happens when you take a professional's heartfelt advice and put it to good use? Don't waste another moment - start building your chain today! Download your own "Don't Break the Chain" calendar for FREE.  I especially like this: And while professional writers offer a wide range of ideas, they will all agree that discipline and determination must come first. That means writing all the time. It means not believing in writer's block. It means turning off the television, silencing your phone, and finding some Shangri La that somehow does not yet have wireless internet. And this: First and foremost, it means making writing a major part of your life. To do that, you have to make writing a habit, just like going to the gym, eating healthy foods, or flossing...but harder. There are countless excuses, most of them completely acceptable, which hold us back from writing. More often than not, it's our never-ending To-do lists that take precedence over our passion. Here's to a New Year of Brilliant Creativity to All! xoxox

Overheard 12/18/11

Marshall's Santa Cruz 12/16/11

        "He was like
         'Did you take the whole couch apart and light just the wood?'
         and I'm like
        'Yeah, we stripped everything off and put the foam and the, like, pleather, in a different area. Took out the nails with our super-cool reverse nail gun and like fifty hours later, after calling whoever and making sure it was a "burn" day, we wet the ground around it and conducted a controlled burn, bro.'
         Yeah Riiiight. We fucking doused the whole thing with gasoline and torched it!"

12/17 Nail Salon Edit

 Most of the stuff I put on here will remain in first draft, but sometimes I like to tinker with a piece. This one I wanted to work with for a couple of reasons. One, even though the dialogue was authentic and quoted as verbatim as I remembered it, the character (now named "Gloria") seemed to start spouting some political philosophies suspiciously close to my own. I decided to fictionalize the dialogue a bit to make it more authentic. Funny when that happens!

Also, I wanted to make her a little more dimensional. And flesh out some of the narrator's inaccurate perceptions. 

Now what's happened is something that often happens. I don't know which reads better; The unedited version or the second draft? Is the first voice more real and spontaneous? Is the second draft more alive?

The feedback in my email box (and from Emma Lou in front of the dairy section at Whole Foods this afternoon :0)) is so helpful and means a lot to me! Just knowing that some of you are reading this is major motivation.

xo

Laure

12/16/11

Nail salon, Capitola

“Oh, he’s a cute one!” says the woman next to me. She’s looking at the big screen in the nail salon. “That’s Tebow, alright.”

She’s a type, this woman. Make-up gathers in the crease of her plump neck, gold rings adorn her fingers like cigar bands from the finest Cuban. Her name is probably Gloria or Lorna or Pammy. She considers her nails her finest asset and beams when friends exclaim “Gloria, your nails are always picture perfect.  Were you ever a hand model?”

“Oh, he’s creating such a fuss right now,” Gloria says. “Has everyone up in arms just because he goes down on one knee to give thanks to God right there in the stadium.”

Tebow. I’d never even heard of the guy and then today, he’s all over the place. First on NPR, then KGO and now, this woman.

                He’s apparently a super-human football player who writes bible verses in the black smudge under his eyes.  Like the one about God so loving the world that he gave his only son.

                “I don’t know what people are so upset about,” Gloria says.

                This is a conversation I don’t want to have.

            I’m tired for one. I have a cold which has left my nose red enough to be a stand in for Rudolph. Plus, I have tried variations of this conversation with my own relatives, hopeful that we can agree to disagree, respect each other’s differences. We have all agreed to avoid such conversations in the future.

            Gloria, on the other hand, has a high success rate with this kind of conversation. She’ll throw out  tantalizing tidbits like this and nine times out of ten the person next to her will agree wholeheartedly. Then the two of them will put their heads together like old chums at a high school reunion, tackling topics like prayer in schools, and tsking over how you can’t even say ‘Merry Christmas’ anymore. 
               “Don’t even get me started on Obama,” one of them will say.

                Before Gloria plopped herself down, I was looking at all of the customers with their pants hitched up past their swollen ankles.  I was looking at the row of Vietnamese women  attending to their feet.

                One young client was talking loudly on her cell phone when she yelped suddenly, causing all of the bowed heads to shoot up. An almost inaudible undercurrent of Vietnamese started up. “So sorry,” said the pedicurist, dabbing at the foot. “No bleeding,” she said.

The woman laughed into her phone.     

“Dude,” she said. “I just got stabbed with cuticle clippers!”

Further down the line, next to me, another customer issued instructions.

                “Not too short,” she said. “Just a little off the top.”

                I looked at her toenails which were long and curling at the ends.

                They must hate us, I thought.

                “This feels great,” I tell the manicurist who’s massaging my hands before applying polish.  She smiles. The outline of her lips is a dark, swollen ridge, evidence of a bad reaction to cosmetic tattooing. Her name tag says 'Tina' but more likely her name’s Anh or Trinh.

                “Sure, Tebow’s a Christian,” Gloria says. “They say he’s exploiting that. I say if you’re going to exploit something, why not that? Am I right? Plus, he’s celibate. Better than hopping from bed to bed, I say.”

                She’s talking to me. The manicurists don’t join in on conversations like this. There’s a definite line drawn in nail salons of this type.  Not a ‘we’ versus ‘them’ line, but a ‘we’ and ‘them’ line.  Customers and technicians. American and Vietnamese. English speaking and Vietnamese speaking. And something disturbingly close to Superior and Servile.

                An ex-massage therapist, I know the risk of repetitive stress injuries and I tip ‘Tina’ well over what the nail salon owners charge.  I admire the artistry of the miniature flowers she paints on my toenails.

                Still, I doubt that her American dream involved scraping dead skin off of cracked heels.

                “I’m not like other Christians though,” Gloria gestures at the big screen. The sports report has been replaced by politics and a list of the Republican candidates. “There’s not a-one of them I’d vote for,” she says.  “That would surprise some people. They think all Christians are like those right-wing crazies.”

                “I think there’s a spectrum,” I say. I don’t think all Christians are right wing crazies, just the most vocal ones, like Gloria. I am surprised.

                “Exactly!” She’s happy I’ve finally responded. “That Newt was on ‘The View’ and he said some awful things about the poor. Said they were all and pimps and prostitutes.”

                I look at Tina who’s been peeking up at me throughout this conversation. I know the salon owners bus a lot of these manicurists over from San Jose. I’d bet they pay them less than minimum wage. It seems like a racket.

            “Even if I agreed with Newt’s politics, I wouldn’t vote for him. Purely for aesthetic reasons,” I say, moving my head closer to Gloria’s.

                She laughs and  lowers her voice. “I say Obama’s done as well as he could have considering the mess he inherited.”

                “I agree,” I say, surprised again. I wouldn't have taken her for an Obama supporter.

 “I was not happy with George W. either,” she continues.

Even though I’m feeling hopeful about Gloria, physically I’m feeling worse. I'm supposed to go to a party later, but just thinking about putting on a little black something makes me feverish. Not to mention powdering a nose that will reveal itself at first blow.

Tina peeks up at me again and says something, but her voice is too soft.

“What?”

“You look beautiful,” she says.

I smile and meet her gaze before she looks away.

“Thank you.  Is Tina your real name?”

“No, my real name is Grace. This smock is someone else.”

“Well then, thank you, Grace.”

A girl with everything but her face tucked into a red hoodie sticks her head in the door.

“Do you guys do shellacking?” she calls out.

“Shellacking?” Gloria, who has appointed herself the salon spokeswoman, is incredulous. “Do you mean gel? They do gel.”

She looks back at me and shakes her head. “No one knows anything these days.”

12/16/11 Nail salon, Capitola

12/16/11

Nail salon, Capitola

“Oh, he’s a cute one!” says the woman next to me. Heavy and overly made-up, she’s looking at the big screen in the nail salon. “That’s Tebow, alright.”

Tebow. I’d never even heard of the guy and then today, he’s all over the place. First on NPR, then KGO (which I can’t stand anymore) and now, this woman.

                He’s apparently a super-human football player who writes bible verses in the black smudge under his eyes.  Like the one about God so loving the world that he gave his only son.

                “I don’t know what people are so upset about,” the woman says.

                This is a conversation I don’t want to have.

                Before she came in I was looking at all of the customers with their pants hitched up past their swollen ankles.  I was looking at the row of Vietnamese women  attending to their feet.

                One client was talking loudly on her cell phone when she yelped suddenly, causing all of the bowed heads to shoot up. An almost inaudible undercurrent of Vietnamese started up. “So sorry,” said the pedicurist, dabbing at the foot. “No bleeding,” she said.

The woman laughed into her phone.     

“Dude,” she said. “I just got stabbed with cuticle clippers!”

Further down the line, next to me, another customer issued instructions.

                “Not too short,” she said. “Just a little off the top.”

                I looked at her toenails which were long and curling at the ends.

                They must hate us, I thought.

                “This feels great,” I tell the manicurist who’s massaging my hands before applying polish.  She smiles. The outline of her lips is a dark, swollen ridge, evidence of a bad reaction to cosmetic tattooing. Her name tag says 'Tina' but more likely her name’s Anh or Trinh.

                “Sure, Tebow’s a Christian,” the woman says. “They say he’s exploiting that. I say if you’re gonna exploit something, why not that? Am I right? Plus, he’s celibate. Better than hopping from bed to bed, I say.”

                She’s talking to me. The manicurists don’t join in on conversations like this. There’s  a definite line drawn in nail salons of this type.  Not a ‘we’ versus ‘them’ line, but a ‘we’ and ‘them’ line.  Customers and technicians. American and Vietnamese. English speaking and Vietnamese speaking. And something disturbingly close to Superior and Servile.

                An ex-massage therapist, I know the risk of repetitive stress injuries and I tip ‘Tina’ well over what the nail salon owners charge.  I admire the artistry of the miniature flowers she paints on my toenails.

                Still, I doubt that her American dream involved scraping dead skin off of cracked heels.

                “I’m not like other Christians, though,” the woman gestures at the big screen. The sports report has been replaced by politics and a list of the Republican candidates. “There’s not a-one of them I’d vote for,” she says.  “That would surprise some people. They think all Christians are like those right-wing crazies.”

                “I think there’s a spectrum,” I say.

                “Exactly!” She’s happy I’ve finally responded. “Like Newt was on ‘The View’ and he said some awful things about the poor. As if they’re all whores and pimps.”

                I look at Tina who’s been peeking up at me throughout this conversation. I know the salon owners bus a lot of these manicurists over from San Jose. I’d bet they pay them less than minimum wage. It seems like a racket.

                The woman lowers her voice. “I say Obama’s done as well as he could have considering the mess he inherited.”

                “I agree,” I say, surprised.  I wouldn't have taken her for an Obama supporter.

  “Just look at what that Bush did to this country,” she continues.

I’m tired. Too tired to engage further. I have a cold, my nose feels raw and I’m beginning to think I won’t go to the party I’m having my nails done for.

Tina peeks up at me again and says something, but her voice is too soft.

“What?”

“You look beautiful,” she says.

I smile and meet her gaze before she looks away.

“Thank you.  Is Tina your real name?”

“No, my real name is Grace. This smock is someone else.”

“Well then, thank you, Grace.”

“Do you guys do shellacking?” Someone calls from the door.

“Shellacking?” The woman next to me is incredulous. “Do you mean gel? They do gel.”

She looks back at me and shakes her head. “No one knows anything these days.”