Creativity below...not in the title.

Today I’m going to write about one of my nearest and dearest friends.  Somebody who knows me inside and out, for better and for worse, and still seems to think that I’m a decent person.  And seriously, when you consider the things I’ve forced this person to do, that’s saying a lot.  This person is my brother, whose identity I will not reveal except to say that I am one of a proud few who is allowed to call him by his full name which is Daniel.

Daniel was born two years after me in the boonies of Pennsylvania.  (I was born in the boonies of West Virginia, but then my folks decided to get in touch with culture, so they moved to Wells Tannery, PA.  It was not a big step in the right direction.)  Our other brother, Tim, was born a year or so later, but I will write about him another time.  He is also one of my nearest and dearest friends, but I just chatted with Daniel online so he’s on the brain.  Daniel, by default, became my best buddy after his birth.  I am told that I was initially pretty reluctant about his presence, not being a sharer by nature, but after he started to hold his head up I realized the vast potential in having another kid around.

Daniel and I were both pretty quiet when we were little, at least until Tim was born (again, more on that later), but that doesn’t mean we didn’t connive.  Yes indeed, we got in our fair share of trouble, particularly in the grocery store, which is a treasure trove of tactile delights for tykes.  (Behold, a tongue-twister is born.)  We wanted to touch everything, even after being told repeatedly that things were, quite literally, hands-off.  In hindsight, I blame my mom a little bit because she only shopped once a month for groceries, so it was a most-of-the-day event.  I see her logic though when I consider how our behavior nose-dived whenever we walked (…ran…) through those sliding doors.  We would get back from the store(s), eat lunch, and await the inevitable discipline being doled out upstairs.  Being the oldest, I went last and had to sit at the kitchen table forever, awaiting my fate, bravery weakening by the second.

I’m afraid I took my oldest sibling status a little too seriously at times.  Now that Daniel is an overly confident grownup, he will remind me of my many “flaws.”  He says I was bossy and tattled a lot.  I like to think I had a heart for justice, but all I can do is think it because he is way taller and more muscled than me.  Gone are the days when I could take on both my brothers and destroy them in wrestling.  But, back then, I could convince Daniel that playing with Barbies was cooler than Tonka trucks.  We practiced vaulting over the laundry baskets and did figure skating routines in the living room (he being the girl since he was a lot lighter and I could lift him up and spin him around).  There’s a picture of us, no older than 2 and 4, dressed as…pioneers I think??  But we were obviously going for Laura and Mary, not Laura and Pa, if you get my drift.  He did what I did, because he was that sweet and selfless (certainly not because I was that bossy).

Daniel’s always looked out for me, even as the younger one.  We stayed close as teenagers, going to movies together and making time to talk in the midst of our whacked-out hormones.  He wouldn’t speak to VWH for a year after we began dating because he was my watchman, my protector.  And when I treated Daniel like dirt a few weeks before our wedding, because of stress and other issues which are not excuses, he was devastated.  I have absolutely taken advantage of our relationship at times and, while I can laugh at our childhood antics, will forever have a scar from some of the things I did to him later in life. 

Now he’s getting married.  His wife-to-be is beautiful, charming, and everything I could hope for him.  But I worry a little bit that we won’t be as close after he belongs to her (as he rightfully should).  My prayer is that we continue in our closeness, even as we begin our own families and lives in separate states.  And I hope that I can still be his big sister, no matter the changes that befall us.

That being said, I should grab that pioneer picture and make sure it shows up in his reception slideshow…

minimalist

I have nothing to say today.  I’ve thought all day about what I could write and I’ve got nothing.  I’m currently mulling over the choice of eating a tangerine or not.  It’s sitting here, slightly bruised and imperfect, but still very orange.  This citrusy pleasure is easily the brightest thing on my desk, although the neon post-its come pretty close.  But I’m only here for 40 more minutes and then I’ll start dinner, so I don’t really need a snack.

We lost power for an hour today on campus.  See my previous post about the level of panic that sweeps through this place when we are less than fully functional.  It was very quiet without the hum of machines.  The staff cleared out shortly after it went off for an all-staff event but I stayed behind to man the phones.  It was really peaceful.  You don’t realize that heaters and computers and copiers all have an audible presence.  Shut them up and it’s almost like being outside in the middle of nowhere.

Maybe that’s why I don’t want to write today.  I just want to be in a forest, with green trees all around.  No co-workers, no machines, no screens or phones.  Just quiet.  Perhaps VWH and I need to consider a camping trip in the next few months.

Thanks, God, for peace.  Thanks for quiet places in the midst of a culture that only operates at breakneck speed.  Thanks for the gift of sleep.  And thanks for warm blankets and soft pillows with which we can embrace it.  Thanks for a day that is not overly confusing or analytical.  Just a day that is what it is.

You never know what you're going to find out

Real classes offered at a real college:

"Music in the Soul-Winning Church"
"The Christian Wife"
"Evangelistic Song Leading"
"Woman the Completer"
"Instruction in Gospel Hymn Playing"

Ironically, the Christian wife also needs to learn "Principles of Leadership."  That was surprising to me.

Scattered Weekend Musings

The church choir I am currently accompanying for has a life expectance of about 10-15 years max.  I counted the number of those wearing glasses to those not: 24-3.  The average member age is probably around 70.  The rate of vibrato has slowed to “warble speed.”

No matter how hard I try to get him excited, VWH will never enjoy The Amazing Race.  We go weekly to gather with friends and watch each episode (we classify it as “fellowship”).  VWH always brings a book or staff paper.  And then he sits in the back and tries to block out the noise of the television and all of our overzealous observations.  This week I managed to get him on a couch much closer to the actual action.  He peeked up a few times and uttered the answer to the first clue before the announcer had finished saying it.  Other than that—nothing.  Too bad.  I can respect his love for literature, and I DO appreciate that he comes at all.  But I suppose the drama I relish from TAR isn’t for everyone.

Most of the snow that has been our constant friend since December melted on Friday.  There were patches of delicious green mud here and there.  Our driveway was a lot easier to get in and out of.  It even smelled like spring!  And then I woke up on Saturday and there were 4 inches that had fallen overnight.  There are few times when I miss North Carolina, but that was one of them.

Apparently all of New England decided that they should visit our campus over the weekend.  I’ve got emails and phone messages galore.  Unfortunately for them—there are no classes or students this week.  They all seem to think that we should be open for business, even though the vast majority of schools (and other colleges) around have off too.  I don’t follow their logic, but I am happy to call them back and educate them.  The counselors are too, because then they don’t have to give a zillion tours in place of the student tour guides we use during the semester.

I was able to attend a professional orchestra concert on Saturday night (VWH was playing).  The first piece on the program was a violin concerto performed by an up-and-coming soloist.  The concerto was unfamiliar to me and VWH and, as he didn’t perform until the second half, we enjoyed it together in the balcony.  It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.  First off, the concerto, all twenty-nine excruciating minutes of it, pretty much sounded like game show music.  I’m pretty sure I’ve heard some of those licks on the Price is Right.  And the performer, young as she was, was a big girl who chose one of those hideous dresses you might see on “What Were They Thinking?”  It was this black thing that had long bright yellow tails that looked more like academic regalia than decorations.  And the yellow, which clashed violently with the light wood of the concert hall flooring, was unfortunately splashed across her ample chest as well.  She looked like a giant insect—maybe a yellow jacket.  She did seem very excited to be on that game show (I mean stage).  Yes sirree,, those bumblebee bosoms were a’bouncin’.

The rest of the concert, by the way, improved significantly.

But I don't WANNA! Or maybe I do.

Today’s font is Mangal.  Let’s hope I don’t mangal this entry.

Ba-dump-shuh.

It’s a quiet Friday.  No co-workers or students around.  I’m listening to soundtracks at a slightly higher volume than normal, and glancing outside at the 50+ degree weather as often as I can.  To my right is a stack of “bad mail” that I need to double-check addresses and update in the database.  To my left is a packet of audition material for the United States Coast Guard Band.  I’m trying to take my New Year’s resolution seriously.  Take an audition in 2011.

I’m eyeing the excerpts warily.  This is the last step in a long journey of preparing to take auditions for real, grown-up, professional musician jobs.  I‘ve dragged my feet for a long time.  VWH takes auditions all the time for trumpet.  I’ve accompanied him to many of these auditions and I’m sure that’s part of the reason that I am stalling.  It’s stressful.  Really stressful.  To be honest, I’m not used to auditioning for something more than once or twice and not getting it.  The idea of repeatedly putting myself through the audition process is hard to swallow.  And the idea of not having any kind of financial return on that for a long time is even tougher.  We have musician friends who have been auditioning for years and years and haven’t won anything.  Unfortunately, I play the flute, where there are few openings and hundreds and hundreds of qualified people to fill the spots. 

But if I want to be a grown-up, if I want to advance myself in the world of music, if I want to not work here anymore, I have to dip my toe in the water.  I just know it’s going to be COLD.  This audition is relatively close-by, not a long list, no really impossible excerpts, and the pay is great.  It’s an ideal first audition.  But I still have this looming feeling of doom.  Obviously, I have little confidence in myself when it comes to this.  I know I have lots of areas to grow in and improve—I’m not “there” yet.  Others tell me I have a shot.  I suppose I have to trust them and not what my head is screaming at me.

It’s way easier to stay in the safe bubble of, “Oh wow—you’re amazing!” than to venture into the world of critical ears and scribbling pencils.  Maybe the view is OK when you’re outside the bubble.  Maybe I should stop saying “but” and go for it.

I’m still scared…

An extra something...

PS.  I borrowed “walking incubus of plague” from a comic strip I read somewhere.  On a whim I looked it up in the dictionary and please note that I am using the secondary definition, meaning “nightmare.”  NOT the first.  That is all.  Thank you. 

Is it tore? Or too-er?

Today the college wind ensemble leaves on a week-long tour down south.  They’ll dip all the way into the Gulf of Mexico before starting the long journey back to the frozen tundra.  I am mostly jealous.  I’ve been on eight tours myself with various ensembles and the experiences have been mixed.  Depending on the group, roommate, time of year, and bus conditions, your tour experience could be a highlight of the year, or a low point of your entire life.  It’s a risk I took at least once every year while in college (not that I had any choice) and usually it paid off.  Watching the group leave this morning brought some memories to mind, so I thought I’d share a few of the high and lowlights of tours past…

Highlight #1:  Days off.  Most tours I’ve been on gave the ensemble one day off, usually in a major city.  Days off have led to excellent experiences in places like New York City and Washington DC.  I’ve been to museums, the Metropolitan Opera, seen the Liberty Bell, and ridden more subway systems than I ever would have on my own thanks to tours.  Exploring our nation’s history, even in the middle of February, has been worthwhile.

Lowlight #1:  Days off.  Letting students off the leash during their free time can have disastrous results.  I’ve watched people get in shouting matches, lost members of the group for extended periods of time, and personally had to escort a very sick individual around NYC all day in sub-zero degree temperatures.  Our poor-college-student status means we are stuck outside most of the time and this has the potential to become miserable quickly.  Free museums with heating or AC, depending on the time of year, are a must.

Highlight #2:  Roommates.  I’ve had some first-rate roommates.  I have fond memories of staying up late in various host homes unburdening our souls to one another.  When you have a good seatmate the hours on the bus pass quickly and with much laughter.  Plus, when you experience the inevitable trials and tribulations that occur from forcing 50+ people to co-exist together on a bus, you have a shoulder to lean on.

Lowlight #2:  Roommates.  While I’ve had some great ones, I’ve also had some that surprised me.  I prided myself on scouting out the options and choosing a friend with low potential for drama.  I usually did OK, but there were two tours in particular when I got trapped.  I had a roommate who talked incessantly to whatever was within sight.  (This didn’t seem to be the case before or after the tour itself…perhaps she was nervous.)  She talked to me, to herself, and to her toothbrush.  She talked late at night when I wanted to go to sleep and she talked early in the morning when she awoke at least an hour before I even remotely desired to embrace consciousness.  The other roommate was basically a walking incubus of plague the entire time who hated being on tour anyway.  ‘Nuff said.

Highlight #3:  Host homes.  95% of the families that host you overnight are the friendliest, most wonderful, and oftentimes, richest, people you’ll ever stay with.  I’ve been spoiled with separate suites adjacent to the house, hot tubs, bed and breakfasts, and in one especially marvelous instance, my own house.  The breakfasts in the morning are multi-course, fresh, organic feasts.  The hosts understand that by the time you get to their house at 10:30 pm you’re exhausted and hungry after being on a bus and playing a couple of concerts that day, so they give you the TV remote and permission to eat whatever, wherever before you crash on a lush, feather mattress.  Ahhhhh. 

Lowlight #3:  Host homes.  Gee whillikers have there been some doozies.  The very first host home I ever stayed in offered me and my roommate angel food cake and salsa-that-tasted-like-tomato-soup upon our arrival.  Not exactly a gourmet combination.  A year or so later, we stayed in bunk beds in a small bedroom decorated with Disney princesses.  Not the end of the world, except there was a Jack Russell terrier pawing incessantly at the door.  Apparently this little guy was in heat and thought our presence was a great chance to expend some extra pent-up energy.  But the award to the worst house has to go to an apartment I stayed in my senior year.  Newly married couple, small apartment, and three cats the size of wolverines.  The cats dominated the place and had no problem with clawing around your lap while you were trying to choke down a bowl of cereal.  The living room looked OK (except for the cat hair), but the rest of the flat was another story.  Wife escorted us to the guest room, which was a small daybed covered, and I mean covered in stuffed animals.  We counted well over 100.  The room, which was closer to the size of a closet, couldn’t accommodate us and the stuffed animals and the bed, so we were forced to lie among them.  And the bathroom…well, let’s just say the shower had 2 inches of gray, hairy water in it and the toilet seat was wet.  Needless to say, it was sweet relief to get back to the group the next morning…

Highlight #4:  Weenie points.  I’ll end with a highlight because tours really are a ton of fun.  The college wind ensemble keeps tallies of the dim-witted things people do or say during tour and each morning they’re shared for the benefit of all over the loudspeaker on the bus.  I was fortunate to not have to experience this embarrassment too many times, but I was present for some other people’s stupidity.  Like watching people enter the wrong bathroom and walk out with mortified expressions.  Or having the entire brass section swap tux pants around to cover for the one extra-tall trumpet player who forgot his.  Or seeing our bus driver trick a particularly vulnerable flute player into answering a pay phone in the middle of nowhere.  Or having a friend in an ancient church bathroom mutter to me, “J, it smells like old people in here,” and then watching a 90+ year old woman exit the adjacent stall with daggers in her eyes.

So you see, I am happy for my friends leaving for tour today.  Part of me wishes I was with them.  Part of me is glad I’ll just hear about it later.  But I wish them safe travels and that, for better or for worse, they’ll make their own memories that will last a lifetime.

Repeat after me: Sharing is FUN.

Last night I had the privilege to perform a solo recital on campus.  This is my ninth recital I’ve given and by far the least stressful.  I’m not sure why this was the case as I usually dwell on the performance for a week or so beforehand.  In this instance, I completely forgot about it lots of times, even telling a friend that I was “done with performances for a month” on Sunday.  Oops.  (Ironically, she showed up last night.)

Yes, I managed to put off the fight-or-flight feelings until yesterday.  They are never fun.  To quote a previous blog, it usually feels something like, “omg my life sux so bad right now I cant handel it.”  That kicked in around 2pm yesterday as I sat at my desk doing mindless data-entry.  It would have been nice to have some mind-FULL work to do, but alas, I just had lots of time to think.  And as I thought I realized that I was an idiot that didn’t have programs and didn’t have a page-turner or stage-manager.  (It’s not my fault!  I’m used to walking into the music office and picking this stuff up!  What is all this have-to-do-it-yourself-mumbo-jumbo???)  Enter semi-panic as I skulked around the office trying to email appropriate people and get programs copied without looking TOO delinquent.  By 4pm everything was done and I could breathe a bit easier.  I got home, did some yoga to stretch out and relax (it actually helped), and then hit the next tradition of recital prep:

What in the world am I going to do with my hair?  And why does this stress me out more than the recital itself?

Being a curly-headed creature, it was highly unlikely that washing my hair and blow-drying it was going to result in anything other than Bush Woman (and I don’t mean Barbara).  So I was stuck with what I had--half-straight, half-curling hair that already was leaning towards frizz.  Thankfully it was not a humid day and I was able to tame my locks with some TLC, bobby pins, and a lot of hairspray.  (Even more thankfully, it didn’t come falling apart until after the last piece on the program.)

So we headed over to the recital hall, hastily-made programs in hand, and I warmed-up.  Of course, I use the term “warm” loosely.  Forgive my forthcoming rant, but why is it, ladies and gentlemen, that men who give recitals get to wear LAYERS and women get to wear GAUZE?  Seriously, it’s smack-dab in the middle of February in upstate NY.  My VWH, who performed alongside me on one piece, wore concert black with a jacket over his dress shirt.  I, as required by the higher-powers who decided that all females must dress for beach-weather whilst performing, wore a little black dress with no hose.  I managed to acquire an additional flimsy black wrap so I wasn’t complete bare-armed (thus preventing my co-worker from watching “arms flapping in the breeze” as she so aptly coined it), but that equivocated itself to sticking a band-aid on a broken dyke.  I was cold.

I shivered in the back hallway waiting to start, knowing that once I was underway adrenaline would take over and my body would thaw.  7:30 rolled around and I was ready.  However, VWH came around the corner and informed me that I’d have to wait a few more minutes.  My teeth chattered miserably until I heard why.  “They’re setting up extra chairs and you’ve run out of programs.”  …really?  People actually came?  I didn’t even hang up posters!

So I peeked out at the crowd as we entered the hall and couldn’t help but utter “WOW” when I saw how many friends and family were there.  And strangers for that matter.  They seemed genuinely pleased to see me, which is always a relief to a musician.  By definition, we are required to coerce and guilt people into attending our performances so that we can make money to buy food and shelter.  When they’re looking neutral it’s good.  Looking happy is a plus.

A half-hour later I uttered, “YOW!” as I plowed through Ian Clarke’s Zoom Tube, a tour de force of extended techniques that required me to make a complete fool of myself.  I never anticipated beat-boxing as a part of my future when I picked up the flute at age 8.  It’s a lot of fun, but also kind of embarrassing.  I was relieved when the audience clapped and cheered at the end instead of looking at me with blank expressions.  Two pieces later, including duets with VWH and my most beloved flute teacher, we wrapped up to a lengthy standing ovation.  What a thrill!!

As I reread this entry it looks like it was stressful.  It really wasn’t.  It’s just the typical get-ready-routine that most musicians go through to prepare for a big performance.  In reality, I couldn’t wait to play and make music, something that is rare in my life right now.  Sharing music with others is the ultimate high, so to speak.  And to have them come on-board and share the adventure with you—well, that’s the ultimate honor.  Bring on number ten!

A smile to my face

A true email conversation, as recorded by mwah.

Administrative Assistant #1: “Hey AA#2.  Can I get a room number for Professor T___ as he’ll be meeting with a student on Monday?”

Administrative Assistant #2: “108.  J”

AA#1: “Danke schoen. J”

AA#2: “Sorry…I don’t know how to say ‘you’re welcome’ in German.  But I could give you Spanish or Russian. J”

AA#1: “Very impressive.  In German it’s simply ‘bitte.’”

AA#2: “In case you ever need it: Пожалsta   (po-zhal-sta).”

AA#1: “Middle syllable emphasized?  Cool!  I’m going to try this out.  I hope I don’t offend anybody if I do it the wrong way.”

AA#2: “Yep…in the middle.  It’s the same word the Russian use for ‘please,’ so you have please-thank you-please (you’re welcome).  Weird, huh?  Thank you—Spa-see-ba.”

AA#1: “I think I knew spa-see-ba actually…it sounds familiar.  (It also sounds like placebo though too, so who knows…)  How do you know Russian?  Is it in your heritage?”

AA#2: “Not my heritage.  I’m an American mutt with the rest of us.  I was a Russian linguist in the Air Force.  I can also tell you how to say, “I drink beer,” but then you’d get fired.

AA#1: “HAHAHA!!!  You just made my afternoon.  And I learned some interesting facts about your life.  That’s really neat!  Someday I’ll be able to say, ‘I used to schedule visits for prospective students.’  But it won’t be nearly as dramatic.

AA#2: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   And now I’m going into a meeting laughing my face off.  Have a great night! Hahaha.”

Is it sad and pathetic that things like this keep me sane and well?  Have my standards stooped that low?  Perhaps a little bit.  Or perhaps conversations like this are the spices of life that keep us all refreshed.

Other highlights of the day include a Mad Gab sent to me via email, a picture of pink tulips, and the joy of watching a co-worker unwrap a beautiful bouquet of real roses.  Two more hours to go—what other treasures might crop up between now and 5?  There really are blessings all around if you look for them.  (And it doesn’t hurt that the boss woman is out today…)

And then there were two!

When VWH suggested that I start a blog I was reluctant for a few reasons.  Most of them involved me not wanting to stoop to the level of the average teenage blogger.  (“omg my life sux so bad right now I cant handel it.”)  Yeah…not so much.  I also had a sneaky suspicion that VWH considered blogs in a similar light and felt so sorry for me that he was digging pretty deep to come up with ideas.  I didn’t want him to view me that way.  But as it turns out, I’ve really enjoyed being a lowly blogger.  It’s given me a creative outlet for sure and it turns out that I enjoy writing when it’s not for a grade.  Not sure I’m any good at it, but it’s fun to attempt to paint word-pictures to your thoughts and stories.

You know how in the movies somebody will scoff at something they consider stupid, but then you see them peeking around the corner, watching you do it anyway?  And then they sneak a little closer and you can tell they’re interested, but don’t want you to know.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uo0F1YEYU1U.  (A good example.)  Well, I have started to sense this from a certain individual.  Somebody else who really enjoys writing, although he prefers a pen and paper to keyboard.  Somebody who read my blog religiously from the get-go, although I assumed this was an act of support more than an act of interest. 

That’s write!  I mean right!  VWH has started his VERY OWN BLOG.  I caught a peek at it the other day because it’s a baby blog and only came into existence a few days ago.  It’s full of Latin and Greek and musings on ancient literature.  Definitely not story-telling-time.  Definitely “have-to-read-it-twice-or-maybe-three-times-to-understand-it” type of reading material.  (Unfortunately, I am a story teller, not a philosopher, so it takes me a while.)  But he has inserted pictures, which means that he’s already one-upped me with the technological capabilities of a blog.  It also ensures that I can understand some things that he’s saying.   I just want to take a moment to celebrate the fact that my husband is pretty much the most intelligent person I know.  He makes me smarter just by being around him.

He refers to me as “J.”  I guess I don’t get adjective-initials.  But that’s OK.  I’m happy to get a mention every now and then.   And I want to say, here and now, that I take full credit for when his blog becomes more popular than the one that led to Julie and Julia.

PS.  How CUTE was the little Darth Vader Super Bowl commercial??? 

All play and no work...

I’m pretty good at my job.  This is because my job is not hard.  I answer the phone, put some pieces together, and, voila, you have a visit scheduled.  If being the CEO of a company is like putting together a 1500 piece puzzle of the White Album, I’m assembling one of those 4 piece preschool puzzles.  You know the kind—where you fit the shapes into the matching holes on a flat, wooden slab.  I don’t claim to have the intelligence of a CEO, but I’m not stupid either.  I put together that puzzle pretty quickly.  This leaves me with a lot of extra time, which is why I can keep a blog, write long emails to friends, and study recordings at work.  I’ve asked for more to do, and continue to do so, but they seem to think that they’ve given me enough to handle, and I don’t want them to cut my hours.  This is a balance I’ve worked hard at achieving in the 6 months since I started here.  And let me tell you, it’s exhausting trying to look busy when you’re really not.

Today my supervisor came over to my desk.  This is almost always not a good thing.  It means something bad has happened.  Something catastrophic.  Catastrophic is when you forgot to get rid of the extra spaces and you get a blank page that feeds through the printer after your document.  Catastrophic is when a co-worker called the computer maintenance guys without coming to you FIRST (even though you’re not the go-to person when it comes to technology).  Catastrophic is when a guest has to wait an extra 30 seconds for a counselor to become available to take them to their appointment.  I’m all for efficiency and customer service, but she’s taken heads off over these one-time occurrences.  So I braced myself for crisis-management.

“I see we had another record month for visits.”  Her opening statement was a surprise.  Yes, we did, but she’s never acknowledged that we’ve had record highs for each month since I was hired.  She seemed pleased and continued, “I’ve been looking over the reports and it seems like there’s a real difference between you and…another person.”  (This would be my predecessor.)  “The numbers went up right after we hired you.”

I caught my breath.  Was I about to be complimented?  Really?  I let myself hope for a few seconds.  Not that a compliment would change the way I do my job, but it would demonstrate that my boss is semi-aware of what I do and doesn’t think I’m a total idiot (which is the attitude she usually assumes).  There was a long pause and then she continued happily, “This is because I fought to have a full-time position.  Since you’re working full-time we can get these visits scheduled and now I have PROOF if they try to tell me otherwise.”  And then she walked away, content in her self-satisfied victory.

Poof.

So, apparently I am a machine that schedules visits and, because I’m here for a few more hours a week than my predecessor, we are setting new records of visits.  I couldn’t help but smile as she walked away.  Because, you see, she wasn’t able to explain why I am sitting here, in the middle of the afternoon, work done, writing in my blog.

A pat on the back

Also, I would just like to say that I am very proud of myself for writing 4 entries in one week.  Way to live up to those New Years resolutions!  (Let's not talk about yoga...)

Where is it? There! Where?!? THERE!

VWH and I are currently in the unique position of sharing our living quarters with another individual.  This is the first time in our marriage that we’ve tried it out and, for the most part, it’s been very successful.  Our piggy bank likes it too.  I don’t think we could have done it with anybody else, but our roommate is super laid-back and a really good cook.  There have been many plusses to having her around.  The dishes are magically clean by the time I arrive home from work, dreading doing anything other than putting on my PJs and eating dinner.  For the sake of protecting anonymity (although this seems entirely pointless as I’m pretty sure that the only people who read this blog know all of our names), we shall call her Candice.  Why Candice?  Probably because I’ve been emailing a Candie all afternoon at work and it was the first name that popped into my head.

The three of us have pretty cool relationships.  VWH and I are obviously fairly close.  J  Candice is one of my dearest friends.  We both try to keep it real and avoid the drama we experienced way too often in college with other acquaintances.  We enjoy chatting and watching movies and hanging out.  Candice and VWH have a lot of similarities too.  They are both trumpet players.  This automatically infers a bunch more similarities.  They know how to put on the suave, sophisticated trumpet player personality.  “Why hello.  It’s very nice for you to meet me.”  They understand that you have to be gutsy and give your all if you expect to have any success with your instrument (or life).  But the most important similarities they share, as it pertains to my life, are that they are forgetful and they lose stuff.

DISCLAIMER: Both VWH and Candice have given me permission to discuss their faults through this blog, largely because they find it humorous.  Any slander on my behalf has been pre-approved.

Since we moved into “St. Vivian’s” (as we call our little red house) I do a nightly check before bed to make sure doors are locked, appliances are off and closed, and that the stove hasn’t been left on.  This check has proven to be very valuable when our utility bills come ‘round.  I find cereal boxes in the refrigerator and the measuring cups are always buried in the flour or sugar canisters instead of hung up on the pegs.  Often I will see one or both crawling around a room, searching high and low for a book or musical score.  Sometimes the object turns up and sometimes it doesn’t. 

When VWH and I were dating he lost his truck keys.  Just lost them.  After tearing his apartment apart for an hour, we ended up walking to the restaurant for our date.  He never found them.  My initial concern about his lack of responsibility with personal items has been alleviated since we’ve been married.  (Well, really after he got the multi-page listing of overdue books from his graduate school.  A great wedding present.)  I ask him every night if he’s set his alarm.  98% of the time he has.  But for the 7 times a year that he hasn’t we both sleep better.  His library fines have gone down, his hair stays trimmed, and his outfits, for the most part, match and aren’t too wrinkled.  It’s when we’re not in the same establishment for a while that I start to worry.

Like today for instance.  VWH left early for a substitute teaching job before I got out of bed.  He was on his own for food, clothes, and timeliness.  A few hours after I arrived at work I got a text message from Candice.  “Is VWH’s phone supposed to be next to the dryer?”  (I don’t know, at this moment, if VWH is home yet from his day.  Let’s hope the car didn’t decide to break down.)

Candice isn’t free from this either.  She lost her trumpet slides to one of her horns quite a while ago.  She even seems to forget that she’s lost them most of the time, with periodic scans occurring every other week.  I offered to help her the other night and we looked throughout the living room, where most of the trumpets of the house reside and the most likely spot for missing objects to disappear.  Keep in mind that Candice has searched the living room multiple times before I offered to help her.  I got down on my hands and knees to peek under the couch, preparing myself for the “I already looked there 5 times” comment.  Thinking ahead, I attempted to cover my tracks by saying, “Well, I’m sure you’ve looked here already.”  Her response?  “Well…no actually.  But it’s been on my mind.”

Really, the thoroughness and attention to detail is inspirational.

So I play clean-up after these two.  I do so cheerfully, because they really are a lot of fun.  Occasionally the lost items rub me the wrong way when I mentally determine that it’s crossed the line into irresponsibility, but for the most part I can laugh and help look.  We’ll see what happens, but I may end up employing my mom’s strategy with us when we were little, late for church, and missing a Sunday shoe.  “If I find it in less than 5 minutes, you owe me 5 bucks!”  She would always find it too.

Would you please call me Cordelia?

VWH is truly my other half.  I don’t believe that there’s only one person out there for you and if you miss him or her you’ve lost all hope for complete happiness.  If I did though, I’d be pretty sure I nailed it.  I am happiest when it is just the two of us.  Even if that means the two of us are in bed reading different books (him translating something from Latin to English, me…Dave Barry), there’s a peace and completeness that is unmatched in any other area of my life.  We see eye to eye on just about everything.  We read each others’ minds.  We encourage each other and strive to give 100%.

But, as in all marriages, there are troubles.  And this one particular area has been a challenge for us since our dating days.  It involves life-changing choices affecting the lives of other people, so you can clearly see how vital it is that we resolve our differences.  The topic continually crops up and, each time, we realize anew how dissimilar we are.  I share this with you today as a testimony to our imperfections and also as a plea for you to side with ME.  I genuinely think you’ll find that my perspective is sane and “normal.”

That issue is: what beautiful and respected names will we bestow upon our future children?

I spoke with my sister-in-law the other day.  (She is the recently married one.)  She and her new husband have already decided what they will name their kids, even though they are non-existent beings as of this moment.  They’ve been married for, like, a month.  VWH and I have been married for 3 and a half years, plus 2 and a half years of dating.  And nada.  I kid you not (haha) when I say this topic probably comes up once a week.  We explore it to the utmost each time, exhausting our current list of possibilities before we quit, worn out with the effort of not laughing too hard at the other person’s suggestions.

But seriously, you will see why we struggle when I share some real live suggestions.  As you may already know, VWH has a fascination with the ancients.  (See previous blog entries for hints and tidbits.)  He is fluent in two ancient languages and finds the names of the mighty heroes of yore entirely suitable for a toddler in the 21^st century.  Some of his most recent suggestions included Iona, Crysse (I don’t even know how to pronounce that), Phylla (I thought that was some kind of dough), and…I am NOT making this up (to quote aforementioned Barry), Alphaeus.

I can see it now.  The nurse hands us our newborn son and smiles as she asks for the baby’s birth certificate information.  VWH proudly declares, “His name…will be Alphaeus.”  (Echo, echo, echooohhh.)  The nurse blanches, and then quickly regains composure as she looks at me and asks quietly, “Really?  Are you sure?  How do you even spell that?”

If it’s not an ancient name like Alphaeus or Hercules, it’s what VWH considers “royal and dignified” and what I consider “homespun and backwards.”  Names like Henry, Harold, Reuben, and Alfred.  I don’t want our kids to hate us!  In an effort to stir up some support, I ran a few of these ideas past my mom, who eyed VWH warily and very diplomatically responded, “We’ll love it no matter what you call it.” 

So what if I like the name Aiden?  I realize it’s a little modern and currently pretty popular, but it sounds strong to me and it works on a 2 year old and a 40 year old.  Harold does not work for a 2 year old.  It just doesn’t.  You cannot convince me otherwise.  Feel free to try, but it won’t work.  There is no way I will be able to get away with naming a son Aiden, but at least I can feel justified in my selection.

We have a very common last name.  The most common, in fact.  This poses a challenge in that a lot of cool names all of the sudden don’t work.  I really love the name Andrew, but I’m not sure we can pull it off, particularly since I’m already related to at least one Andrew S____.  (Gee, I wonder if you can crack that code!)

I just want to sum this all up by saying, NO we are not expecting a baby.  And, yes, we have found a girl’s name that works.  But I’m not telling because then everybody critiques and criticizes behind your back.  We both think it’s beautiful and fits.  I’m just hoping we can make it all the way to the birth of our first daughter without one of us changing our minds.  And if we happen to have twins, we may be forced to pull a name out of a hat…literally.

Buuuuuhhh-bump, ba-buumm!

When I was little I didn’t have many great girlfriends.  I had brothers and a few friends here and there, but it wasn’t until college that I really made friends that will last a lifetime.  Because of this, I wasn’t one to fantasize endlessly about my wedding day.  By the time my actual wedding rolled around, I had a lot to learn.  (And only 5 months in which to learn it!)  Thankfully, the day went beautifully, I am happily married to my VWH, and I don’t think it consumed me as much as other brides-to-be.  (My mom says differently, but I refuse to think of myself as a perfectionist and detail-oriented individual…that would mean I’m turning into her.  Just kidding Mom!!!) 

My best friend had a wedding movie named after her.  You may have seen it.  It was called 27 Dresses and starred Katherine Heigl, an actress delegated to cheesy roles about overly-dramatic women.  Anywho, 27 Dresses is about a young lady who is always a bridesmaid, never a bride.  27 times over.  BFF (who is not cheesy or overly-dramatic by the way) has a closet full of bridesmaid dresses, which has proven to be of great benefit to me whenever I needed a party frock or recital outfit.  BFF has actually turned down being in weddings; something I never thought was possible, because she was already in too many others around the same time.  (It goes without saying that I was completely and totally honored that she agreed, not only to be in my wedding, but to serve as my maid of honor.  I must have a little clout.)  I, on the other hand, have been in a grand total of two weddings.  (Not counting getting the chicken pox as a 5 year old and missing my only chance to be a flower girl.  I’m still bitter about that.)  I don’t even go to that many weddings.  I think they’re lovely and grand and would love to participate in more, and I have such great friends, but few of them seem to be moving in that direction.

When I married my VWH I realized that I was entering a much bigger family than my own.  And with both VWH and me being the oldest siblings, there was the risk of a few family weddings occurring within the span of a few years.  We got our first taste of family weddings a few months ago when the first of his 5 siblings tied the knot with his lovely bride.  VWH served as best man and I was bestowed the title of “wedding coordinator.”  (I had visions of Franc in Father of the Bride, planning the wedding of the century.  The bride shattered these dreams when she informed me that “Basically you get to yell at people and tell them what to do.”  Now that I think about it, it wasn’t all that bad…)  The day was just beautiful and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.  (VWH giving an especially eloquent, tear-jerking toast.)

Now we enter 2011, and boy oh boy, are we in for a year full of satin and tux rentals!  Two more brothers on VWH’s side are getting married this summer.  The first of my brothers is getting married in December.  I’ll be in all three bridal parties and VWH in two.  I also recently found out that one of my dear friends from college may be getting married in August.  I don’t know if I’ll be a part of the party or music, but I most certainly wish to attend and support the bride in any way I can.  So that makes 4 weddings in a year.  I used to wish for my single friends (which is pretty much all of my friends) to find the men of their dreams and live happily ever after.  Now I’m thinking, “OK…well, you want to make SURE he’s the right one…let’s not rush this…don’t you want a BIGGER diamond???

Seriously though, I am SO thrilled to be a part of these beloved individuals’ special days.  Talking with my brother last night and hearing the excitement in his voice almost brought tears to my eyes.  I’m going to be a positive mess when his gorgeous Emily walks down the aisle and his heart’s desire is finally and completely his.  The best part of these weddings is that I have full confidence that they are matches that have blossomed under the guidance of our heavenly Father and will seek to glorify Him.  I’m not sure I could participate any other way.  It makes the dress, shoes, gifts, party-planning and so many other things entirely worth it. 

And the elephant makes THIS sound!

I recently was invited to participate in a Musical Petting Zoo.  Do you know what a musical petting zoo is?  Neither did I.  Upon further inspection it was explained that, no, the students don’t touch a violin bow or feed peanuts to a tuba.  It’s really a chance for young children to try different instruments in a fun atmosphere to whet their appetite for future lessons and musical endeavors.  It sounded like fun and an easy way to earn a little extra cash.  Little did I realize how “whet” the day was going to be.

As a flutist, I showed up expecting to work with mostly girls around 8 years old.  The front office gave me two flutes, one with a curved headjoint that makes it easier for short arms to hold comfortably.  My former flute teacher, who works for the organization hosting the zoo, provided me with my own clunker flute to play so that I didn’t have to risk injury to my personal baby.  I was also given a bag full of antiseptic wipes, sprays, and cloths.  Yum.  It didn’t take a genius to realize that these kids were going to be blowing my way.

My first surprise once the actual zoo was underway was that 8 years old was pretty much the maximum age of any child that walked into my office.  It was more like 4, with several 2 and 3 year olds wanting to try the “fwute.”  And by “try” I really mean, walk in, hear the sound of the flute, stare at me with these big, unblinking brown eyes, and then run away when I asked them any question.  “What’s your name?”  “Would you like to hold the flute?”  “How old are you?”  After a few tykes ran out I had a courageous three year old, dressed in an abundance of pink tulle and no older than 3, gaze up with me with huge brown eyes and answered my first question: “Bella.”  Bella wanted to try the flute.  She was so delicate and doll-like, with long eyelashes that stared at me silently…it was precious.  I spoke to her softly and helped place her hands on the instrument and then gently placed the lipplate under her bottom lip.  I imagined there would be no sound, or just a gentle “piff” as she lightly blew.  She was so petite, her lungs couldn’t have been bigger than my iPod nano.  She looked at me once more with those worshipful eyes, took a breath, and…

…And this is when I realized it wasn’t all fun and games at the petting zoo.  Sweet, innocent, perfect little Bella’s gentle grip tightened immeasurably around the body of the flute.  Before I could do anything she stuck the entire lipplate in her doll mouth and produced a hideous “shhhreeeeeeeehhhhhhhkkkkkkkk!”  In the process of sending fast air through the flute (instead of blowing across), she somehow managed to soak me in the process.  This is most puzzling as her mouth was wrapped entirely around the top of the flute, with seemingly no leaks, but I still felt the spray of a small waterfall as she continued to make these barbaric sounds as fast as she could draw breath.  By the time I wrenched the instrument away and wiped my eyes, Bella looked at me dolefully, as if to say, “I was in the midst of discovering my life’s purpose and you’ve just put a halt to my creative genius.”  Her parents cheered enthusiastically, celebrating the “joyful noise” their little angel had just made.  Bella handed me her paper full of pictures of various instruments and demanded “Sticker!” to put under the flute.  I gave her the sticker and she tripped out of the room in her little ballerina outfit, venturing on to bigger and better things, like the trombone.  I wiped down the flute (and myself) with antiseptic and braced myself for the next visitor. 

Repeat the previous paragraph ad nauseum and you have my afternoon.  There were Bellas and Ellas and Sabrinas and Serenas and Vivians and Megans and Annabelles.  The line was at least 4 deep all day.  Surprisingly, there were also a few Sawyers, Roberts, and even a Sherman thrown in there too.  I had kids with face paint, and kids with balloon hats, and kids on leashes.  Perhaps the highlight of the whole afternoon was working with Tommy, who was a, a-hem, husky young man around the age of 7.  By this point I had the kids sitting on a chair in an attempt to contain their “enthusiasm.”  Tommy was one of those guys whom you could tell was really interested in trying the instrument, but was determined not to let it show.  He slumped in his chair and shot me this look that clearly said, “Yeah, I’m here, but you can’t make me do anything I don’t want to.”  And at this point the News 10 NBC cameraman walked into my office to capture some precious moments for the evening news.  I encouraged Tommy to sit up tall, like a man, and talked him through the steps needed to produce sound.  He blew, we adjusted, he blew again, I dried myself off, he blew, the cameraman moved in for a closer shot (I’m sure they could see the droplets on my face and sweater).  The fleeting image of my brilliant pedagogy being broadcasted for the entire city to see quickly dissipated as the humor of the situation washed over me.  No, I wasn’t going to be seen as one of the city’s finest young music teachers.  More like one of the city’s most unfortunate souls.  Suck-ahhh!

In retrospect, I actually really enjoyed the Petting Zoo.  This is a wonderful illustration of how much I dislike my current job.  To be sprayed, sneezed, and licked on all day isn’t exactly most people’s idea of a grand time, but I laughed more than I have in a long time.  (I’ll let you know if I still feel that way when I get hit with a case of toddler-induced pestilence and plague later this week…)