Some quality alone time

Yesterday I made a trip to the happiest place on Earth... no, not Disneyland... IKEA! I just love IKEA and consider myself to be an expert on maneuvering in the store. I know where all of the secret passages are and always carefully plan my route before even going through the doors.

Jeff, however, hates going to IKEA. As much as I love it, he hates it. So I've learned that it's much better to leave him at home when I go. Apparently other women have learned that as well...

My purchases yesterday included a giant mirror, 3 ft. x 4ft., weighing about 35 or so pounds. It was a little unwieldy. As I stood in the parking lot pondering how I was going to fit the mirror into the trunk of our Saturn, a very nice woman walked by.

"Say, that's a pretty big item for a pretty small car! Would you like some help?"

"Wow, thanks! That'd be great! My husband bowed out of coming today."

"Oh, well I purposely go when my husband is at work," she replied. "Otherwise, I'd just kill him."

Walking in a winter wonderland

We had a snow day today and everything was cancelled! So we went for a walk around the neighborhood and enjoyed winter's splendor.

We love this house... it's for sale... any takers?

Home again for tea and fresh bread. What a great day!

Well, no, but it kind of looks like it, doesn't it?

Recently Jeff was a guest musician in my Saturday Young Musicians classes. He was there to demonstrate the soprano, alto, and tenor saxophones.

With the 3 year olds, I like to use comparison words to help them build vocabulary. So I'll ask them things like, "Which saxophone is bigger?" and "Which saxophone sounds lower?" I also think it's useful to ask follow up questions so they have a chance to explain why they think that. Sometimes I get unexpected, but clearly rational, answers.

Jeff brought his prized vintage alto (a great jazz horn) to show them. It was made in the mid-60s, so it looks pretty used. There are large patches where the lacquer has rubbed off and the brass is exposed, and some of the lacquer that has remained is turning a little greenish or orangish in places from oxidation. After playing and talking about that horn, he held it up next to the tenor, which was made only about 5 or 6 years ago. It's in pristine condition. Beautifully shiny, no visible scratches, and a uniform color all over.

"Which saxophone is bigger?" I asked.

"That one!" they shouted and pointed at the tenor.

"Which one is older?"

A short pause, and then "That one!" as they pointed at the alto.

"How do you know?"

A longer pause and then one girl finally said, "It has mold on it."

Christmas Tree Day!

Today we went to Runyan's Christmas Tree Farm to find the perfect tree! It was a beautiful, and totally freezing, day.

Jeff is holding the 2 implements needed for Christmas tree selection: the measuring pole and the saw. I picked out about 12 trees that I loved that were all taller than the measuring pole.
Too bad...

I liked this tree a lot, but it was too small.

Jeff was having fun burying his feet in the snow. He does this when he wears snow boots.
See how happy he is?

Could this be the one?

Yes! Love at first sight!

Jeff was in charge of the sawing portion of the trip. It took a little while to get through the trunk, but....

Success at last!

Yay, Jeff!

Say, I can't feel my toes...
Um, maybe you shouldn't bury them in the snow...

Dancing with the tree.

And then they kicked the Sugar Plum Fairy's ass...

Today in my Young Musicians classes we talked about ballet, specifically The Nutcracker, as the season is upon us. First we listened to the dances on a CD and made up our own choreography and then we watched a video of the ballet.

When we got to Waltz of the Flowers, out came 10 ballerinas in fluffy layers of ankle-length pink tulle followed by 2 ballerinas in purple.

"Oooh....," said the girls collectively.

"Pink's my favorite color!" they cried.

"They're so beautiful!"

"I want to be a ballerina, too!"

Just then the ballerinas made a large circle as one more ballerina, dressed all in white, slipped into the the middle. The pastel-colored group fluttered around Dew Drop, their pointe shoes moving rapidly.

"What do you think is going to happen?..." I whispered to the group.

"They're going to fight!" said a little boy.

I laughed at the thought of 13 tulle-clad ballerinas duking it out on stage, and laughed a little harder at that boy's fervent hope that something interesting was finally about to happen.

Is it possible that 1988 was really 20 years ago? No....

So today in a lesson, I was showing my especially astute student a piece in one of my books from my student days. It had the date, minus the year, written on the top.

Me: Oh, look! I was working on this piece on December 3rd, too, when I was in 7th grade. Hmm... let's see, what year would that have been?... I graduated high school in 1995, so -

Student: (giggling)

Me: What's so funny?

Student: You graduated high school the same year I was born! (short pause) Wow, you're old.

Me: *sigh*

It was even called 'Starr'

So the other day I went to Sephora to pick up a couple things -- staples, nothing too exciting. I had vague notions about looking for a new blush. I was walking around the Bare Escentuals display when I noticed a section of lip glosses called "Buxom Lips". I saw a color I liked, so I grabbed one of those handy applicators they have all over the store and tried it on.

As I put it on, my lips began to tingle with a very strange and immediate sensation. Being a flute player and thus keenly aware of my lips and their well being, I was more than a little alarmed. I quickly grabbed a tissue, dabbed some eye make-up remover on it (which seemed the better choice than the bottle marked 'alcohol') and wiped off the gloss. They continued to tingle, but it was considerably lessened now that it had been removed.

Yikes! I thought, as a I made my 5th circle around the display checking to see if there was anything I'd missed. As I passed the mirror on the other side of the display, I noticed that I did like the remaining color... very much...

Back to the lip glosses. Maybe I'll try this again... I casually applied the gloss and waited for the tingling to start. As I was waiting, a sales associate came over to see if I needed any help.

"This lip gloss is making my lips tingle. Is that normal?" I asked her.

"Oh, that's the additive in the gloss to make your lips fuller," she replied, nodding as she said this. "It's normal."

I checked out my lips in the mirror. I stuck them out a little to see if they looked any different. It occurred to me that this could actually be helpful to my career. You see, I have somewhat thinnish lips and if my lips were slightly fuller, it could potentially make playing the flute just a tiny bit easier...

"Excuse me," I approached the sales associate, "Do you know how long the effects of this lip gloss last?"

"Oh," she paused, "I'm not sure. Maybe 30 minutes?"

Hmmm... not long enough to make it through a concert. Rats.

For the love of Mozart

So I have this student with one of the oddest, most charming quirks that I've ever witnessed while teaching flute.

She's been working on a piece by Mozart (Andante in C for all you flute folk out there) that she absolutely loves. Throughout the piece there are several cadences, or places where the music naturally comes to an end, as in the final sentence of a great paragraph. At these points, there is 'formula' of sorts that Mozart and his contemporaries used to highlight these moments of completion that goes something like this:

TRILL! - 2 - 3- 4 da da da!

They are the kind of recognizable moments that help define the music of this era. They are lovely, gracious endings that one can count on when playing the music of this time.

My student loves them. I mean, really, really loves them. So much, in fact, that she cannot get through all 4 counts of the trill to the da da da ending because she is smiling too much. So her cadences go something like this:

TRILL! - 2 - 2 1/2 (smile) unfocused air sound - tiny amounts of suppressed giggling - ....

And then she stands up straight, smooths the front of her shirt and says "Okay, sorry," and begins again. She furrows her eyebrows, makes her most serious face, and then... smiling.

I'm not totally sure what's going to happen when she actually plays this piece in public. Her best attempt so far was to hold off the smile until the 3rd beat...

The bah-humbug sister

Here is a transcription of a recent conversation with my sister:

Mel: Jess, I know what I want for Christmas!

Me: Oh! What?

Mel: A curling iron.

Me: (longish pause) . . . no you don't.

Mel: (more insistent) Yes, yes I do!

Me: No, you don't. You have straight hair. The straightest hair of anyone on the planet. You just have to accept this.

Mel: Duh, Jess, that's why I want a curling iron. (slightly offended in tone)

Me: Okay... what size curling iron? (trying to play along)

Mel: The smallest size.

Me: (cutting in immediately) No, no. (the playing along now over) That's just not going to work. How about I get you a gift card to a great salon and they can make you have curly hair for 1 day. It will probably last a couple of hours before it falls out, which will be more curly-hair time than all of the minutes put together that you could get out of a curling iron on your own.

Mel: That's stupid.

Me: You have beautiful hair! Gorgeous straight red hair!

Mel: My hair isn't red. Have you looked at me lately?

Me: It's kind of red...

Mel: No. It's not. (big sigh) Fine. Get me a wig then.

It's kind of like being invincible

A pair of yellow rubber gloves purchased from the local grocery store (yes, the same place I found my amazing swimsuit) has changed my life.

Since childhood I have hated (no really, hated is not too strong of a word here) getting my hands dirty. I don't know why, just something in my genes, I guess. My mom tells me that as a tiny child I would cry until she rinsed them off. Well, I don't cry any more, but I still go out of my way to avoid having dirty hands.

In my pre-glove world, washing the dishes always grossed me out. Especially when I first had to empty the water Jeff left in the sink from the night before. While I can't imagine that anyone likes sticking their hand in the cold, gray, grease-streaked dishwater, I really despised it. And then I would have to wring out the dishcloth; there's just something about a dishcloth that rubs me the wrong way.

I now live in a post-glove world, where little things like dishcloths and dried-on food bits don't slow me down one bit. I have also noticed that I'm considerably faster at doing the dishes in my post-glove world.

I have thought of other uses for my gloves, such as:

• Wiping down the counters
• Cleaning the bathrooms
• Scrubbing the floor around the toilets
  
• Teaching my Young Musicians classes on Saturdays

So bring on the dirt. I'm ready.

It was a little sad, actually

I just got back from Sam's Club.

Right inside the door, after you show the greeter your membership card, there is a huge display of giant flat-screen plasma TVs. They reminded me of those gently glowing bug lights both because of the bluish glow and the effect they had on the men entering Sam's.

It was actually difficult to maneuver my cart through the aisle because of all of the men that had been drawn to the display, who were all wearing that sort of dazed and happy look on their faces. Many of them were accompanied by their wives who had taken over cart duty and were simultaneously trying to push their carts forward with one hand and grab their husbands by the elbow with the other.

Other wiser, more experienced women just continued into the store, completely ignoring their husbands altogether assuming they would eventually catch up. As I was just about to clear the display area, a man whipped around in my direction and said,

"Marywehavetohavethisdoyouseehowclearthepictureiswesoneedthisforthegame," all in one breath. He looked a little bewildered, looking at me, as he realized his wife was not there.

"Oh," I said, "I think she went off that way," as I pointed toward the aisles where the giant-sized cleaning supplies were kept.

"Oh. Thanks." Eyes downcast, shoulders hunched, he shuffled off in that direction.

Talk about a disappointment

Every Saturday I teach a class called Young Musicians. There are three sections: kids 3-4 years, 5-7, and 8-10. We just had our 6th class this morning.

Today after the class for kids 5-7, a mom pulled me aside.

"Mrs. Price, I have to tell you this funny story," she started. "I asked my daughter how she was enjoying your class and she said she really likes it!"

"Great!" I said.

"But," the mom went on, "then she said she was kind of disappointed that she hadn't learned any magic tricks yet."

"Oh?..." I said.

"Yes, apparently she thought she was taking Young Magicians classes on Saturdays."

Old habits die hard

I have this problem. I've had it for awhile, actually. Since last year. It's not earth-shattering or anything, but it does cause distress.

My work pants, all of them, are too long. Not just a tiny bit long, I'm talking TLC's What-Not-to-Wear-intervention too long.

"Just go to a tailor, silly girl!" I can hear my mom saying in the back of my head. I should, I really, really should. Because after the stunt I pulled yesterday, no self-respecting professional could live with herself.

Back in junior high, the trend among the pre-teen scene was shortish t-shirts. I am a short girl, always have been, so my t-shirts seemed extra long. Tucking was way out. So what did I do? Tape. Scotch, to be precise. Every morning, I would carefully fold the hem of my shirt up about 4 inches or so and apply tape. Lots of it. Voila! One shortish t-shirt.

(You're cringing a little bit, reading this, aren't you? Because you know where this is going... yeah, I don't blame you.)

So, yesterday I'm practicing in my office between students and I catch a glimpse of my almost put-together self in the mirror. "Damn...," I thought. So I sat down at my desk and carefully folded the hem of my beautiful slacks up about 3 inches and applied tape. Lots of it. Voila! Hemmed slacks.

This lasted through one 30-minute lesson. Thankfully I have a tiny bit more self-respect than I did as a junior high student and realized that I could not get away with this because a) the tape was releasing on the seams and was peaking out from "hem" and b) it kind of made a weird sound as I walked. (Hmm.. I just realized that I used the same logic as a criminal who is sorry only because he has been caught.) Let me be clear: had the tape held and was sound-free, I would have been satisfied, at least for yesterday, with my scotch-taped hem.

I have a problem. This is clear. This weekend I will find a tailor and hopefully put an end, once and for all, to my homemade hems.

A feast for the eyes

Our friend Jim, Jeff, and I just got back from taking a walk around our neighborhood. What a beautiful day! Michigan is such a gorgeous place in the fall. I hope you enjoy these. (you can click on the photos to make them full-sized)

Happiness

What does it take to be happy?

Happiness, my friends, is driving down Corunna Rd., cresting the small hill and seeing a red glow in the distance. Like a beacon in a sea of darkness, I am drawn to the light. As I approach, a feeling of goodwill towards men fills my heart and everything seems right in the world.

"Ma'am, would you care to try a fresh Original Glazed?" says the man behind the counter.

I nod, unable to fully express my pure joy at having happened into this moment, as he hands me an extraordinary creation of man: the Krispy Kreme doughnut.

I wouldn't call it a full-blown phobia...

Tiny children make me nervous. They like to be close, touch you, pet your hair, and sit in your lap. Even when you'd rather they didn't do those things... especially after you've just watched them pick their noses, for example. Or cough. All over themselves, their neighbor, and your leg.

Even though they make me nervous, it seems that they like me. I'm not sure why.

For example, today at work a line of tiny children was walking through our hallways on the way to their music class. I happened to be walking back to my office, which was in the same direction as their room. I thought about waiting until the line had passed, but instead chose to merge into an adjacent strip of hallway floor. So there I was, walking down the hallway side-by-side with the line of tiny children, when all of a sudden, there was a tiny hand holding my hand. Shocked, I looked down at a tiny brown face with beautiful eyes wide open, a huge grin, and a giant orange pumpkin crafted out of construction paper pinned to his shirt.

"Hi!" he said. And then grinned.

"Hi, to you," I replied.

We parted ways when we came to my office. Off they went to music class and off I went in search of my Purell...

Frustration

Right. So I'm 31, closing in on 32.

WHY DO I STILL GET PIMPLES??!!

It's so unfair! (just to throw in a little teenage angst since my skin apparently still acts like a teenager).

Reverie

Last night Jeff and I attended a concert that featured Bolero by Maurice Ravel. For those of you unfamiliar with this piece, it can be described as a tone color study of the orchestra. Ravel wrote a very simple melody which he set over and over again using each member of the winds in turn. After focusing on them individually, he mixes them together with the strings in several different combinations before reaching the exciting climax. Another less generous way of describing this piece is 16 minutes of the same thing over and over and over and over. I happen to like it.

Anyway, hearing the piece performed last night reminded me of the last time I heard this piece which was while I was performing it in Lyon, France this past March. We were in a beautiful 18th-century building, by far the most stunning room I have ever performed in. I took this photo after our rehearsal that morning. For the concert, the hall was standing room only.

What made this concert so memorable (in addition to the amazing venue) was the absolute joy of performing with our French colleagues. I have never heard a horn sound the way it did that week in France; the bassoon became an instrument of great beauty and richness. It was truly an immense pleasure to play with them.

I think the reason it was so easy to perform with them was also the worst part: it was a temporary experience. We were together for one week, rehearsing and performing, and then we knew it would be over. It lacked that sense of competitive unease that can lurk in the back of one's mind about who is playing what part and who got what gig last week and so on. It was so much easier to focus on the music, even when most of the direction coming from the podium was in a language I couldn't understand.

I know that when people speak of a 'soul mate', they are generally referring to their spouse or partner, but I believe there is also a space in there for a friend who all at once understands you, who connects with you on a level that is immediate and real. The kind of friend Anne of Green Gables (Anne is such a classic) called her bosom friend. I had that in France and it was magnificent.

And I miss her.

So as we were sitting there at the concert last night listening to Ravel, my mind went back to France, where everything was intoxicating: the food, the wine, the music, and the friends.

Parlais vous anglais?

Jeff and I have recently decided to learn how to understand, speak, read, and write French. Fluently, if possible. In the last 3 years, we've been fortunate to travel to France twice and have had our French colleagues visit us twice. Jeff is going again (lucky!) in November and they are coming to Flint in May. Whew! Each time we have marveled at how well they speak English and have been embarrassed that our French is tres terrible.

So, we purchased (brand new off eBay for $100 less than retail, thank you very much) Rosetta Stone. It's really fun, actually. Their basic philosophy is that the most effective way to learn a language is the way you learned your native language, by complete immersion, i.e. without translation. So, for instance, up will pop 2 pictures: one of a boy and one of a girl. And then this French voice will say "une fille" and will highlight the picture of the girl. (Shoot, now I can't remember if it's un fille or une fille... rats...) Once you've mastered choosing the right person, they show that same girl holding an egg and the whole process starts over again.

Another essential component is learning how to pronounce words like an actual honest-to-goodness French person would pronounce them. So, they'll say "des femmes" and then this little bleep sounds which is your signal to repeat the word into the microphone attached to the headset you're currently wearing. If you pronounce the word satisfactorily, you move on.

Okay, fine. Not too hard. Yeah -- until you hit lesson 2! All of sudden in lesson 2, the French pronunciation police are out in full force and they aren't messing around.

So the other night I was working on my French lesson when the picture of a newspaper flashed on the screen. "un journal" says Ms. French. "un journal," I reply. BUZZ. Wrong. "un journal" repeats Ms. French. "un journal," I try again. BUZZ.

I notice this green play button on the picture that I hadn't seen before. I click on that. It takes me to this alternate world of pronunciation help for dummies. Not only do you hear Ms. French pronouncing the word successfully, you also see what her voice looks like in sound waves. Cool. Ohhhhhhhh, I think, as I see that first her voice scoops down a tiny bit then explodes up before sliding gracefully down at the close of the word. Feeling better prepared, I click on the record icon and speak. Let me tell you, I didn't even need the BUZZ! I could see I was nowhere close. My voice line didn't even connect; it looked like a stick drawing, one line straight down, one line straight up, one line straight down. Crap. I try replicating Ms. French about 5 more times. Finally, I feel prepared to go back to the regular screen to try again.

"Un journal," says Ms. French ever-so-coolly.

"Un journal," I say with utter confidence (well, with just a hint of desperation).

BUZZ.

"Shit!" I say.

BUZZ.

Pipe dreams

This Friday was Jeff's birthday. He turned 31.

I got him a pipe. He really wanted one and he's very happy.


Pipe smoke, it turns out, is a very pleasurable smell and I find that it actually compliments the style of our house quite well, just like a lamp with the perfect shade or a furry blanket that's nice to the touch. With the season turning to fall, there's so much comfort in the idea of a warm fire, a great glass of wine, and a quiet night at home with Jeff, smoking his pipe.

"I'd like the model with the built-in battering ram, please"

I just got back from a rainy excursion to my local Yankee Candle because I've recently decided that I can't play one more note in my practice room until it smells like Spiced Pumpkin. (Good news -- Spiced Pumpkin candles are currently buy one, get one 50% off!)

While there, a young dad came in pushing a baby in a pretty high-tech stroller. There he was minding his own business, sniffing the lids of various candles like the rest of us, when she pounced.

Ridiculously Obnoxious Saleslady (R.O.S.): (speaking directly to the baby in the loudest cutesy baby voice I've ever heard) Well, aren't you just the cutest little baby in the wo-orld! (the 2 syllable pronunciation)

Dad: (polite fake laugh of acknowledgment) Thanks. (baby makes the tiniest of sounds)

R.O.S.: (Bending over and shaking her finger at the baby with a super scary smile on her face) No fussing in he-re! (and then, one octave higher) No fussing in he-re! (stops and smiles at the dad)

Dad: (polite laugh number 2) Yeah, I think he's teething. (trying to maneuver the stroller around the woman, but it was tough because it's a really small store and the Spiced Pumpkin display was blocking his only escape route)

R.O.S.: (still smiling that creepy smile and still directing all comments to the baby) Oh, I remember that age, I sure do-oo! (and then...) Aren't you just a great big chunk? Aren't you just the fattest, little chunkiest baby I've ever seen! Fat, fat, fat!

(At this I stole a quick glance at the kid. I don't like to make eye contact with babies because I think they, like dogs, can tell when you're afraid of them... Anyway, he didn't look all that chunky to me, plus her comment seemed a little mean-spirited regardless of his overall trimness.)

Dad: (polite laugh number 3) Yeah... uh, excuse me. (he inched the wheels forward)

(R.O.S. took up her post at the cash register. A group of women was ready to check out and their daughters were hanging back behind them. They were minding their own business sucking on those gigantic ring pops that dentists love so much, when the baby made the 2nd of the tiniest of sounds.)

R.O.S.: (in a scolding tone, talking over the women's heads) Girls! Don't you hear that little baby trying to talk to you?

(I made a second stealth glance in the baby's direction. Hmm, he's not even looking at the girls, I thought. The girls, startled, looked over their shoulders disinterestedly at the baby who had begun to pull his socks off.

His dad began to slowly wheel the stroller backwards in preparation for a reverse y-turn out of the store. R.O.S. left her post and deftly moved to block his escape.)

R.O.S.: (again taking up her baby speak) Don't you want a car freshener today?

Dad: (seeming to suddenly realize that his high-tech stroller could easily run over this woman, inched forward, tentatively at first, then with more determination)

(Good god, he's going to do it, I thought! I admit, I wanted to see it happen. Just as he was picking up some speed a young woman carrying a Victoria's Secret bag poked her head into the store.)

"Honey? Ready?"

I let out a small sigh of disappointment as R.O.S. moved out of the way and the dad and his baby left the store. I was really looking forward to seeing that baby take her out.

Not exactly the Aha! moment I was hoping for...

So, yesterday afternoon I was having a lesson with a talented young lady. I was really getting into what we were working on and I noticed she was looking at me fairly intently. A good sign, I thought. We must be on the same page! I finished my statement with an air of immense satisfaction of having reached her and paused to hear her reaction.

"Do you know you have a really long gray hair on the left side of your face?" she asked.

Happy Birthday

Today is my mom's birthday.

I was talking to one of my adult students today during her lesson. She and her family just found out that her niece is pregnant and she's only 20. She's in college right now, a junior, and is currently studying hotel management on a study-abroad program in Europe. The girl is scared and upset, wants to come home, quit school and find a job, any job, that will allow her to provide for this baby. The father's parents are saying discouraging things. It's a bit of a mess. I kept thinking, Wow. What is she going to do?

And then I remembered, my mom found herself pregnant with me when she was 20. While she was still in college. Without a job and without insurance. I doubt that was part of her and my dad's plan.

My mom's plans changed. We've never really talked about it, but I would assume she was going to college with the plan of beginning her career after graduation. She's a brilliant woman. She would have been excellent at whatever she chose to pursue. Instead, she stayed home with me. And then with my brother, my sister, and is finally seeing my youngest brother through high school.

And she's excellent at it.

So, on her birthday, I say THANK YOU! for making those sacrifices, and for making those hard decisions. I believe I'm finally beginning to understand what that meant.

I love you, Mom.

Hair-don'ts

I'm having a bad hair day. Well, to be honest, a bad hair week. I don't know, maybe it's the humidity, or it's time for a hair cut, or I need to switch shampoos. In any case, it bums me out.

That is, until I remembered some quality hair moments from my junior high and early high school days and realized that a bad hair week cannot compare to these 'dos.


Here I am modeling my own designs at the 4-H county fair in Omaha. 7th grade, I believe. Yes, I did make the shirt. And the shorts. See how my carefully folded-down socks and earrings match perfectly?

This shot was taken in Nashville while visiting my aunt and uncle and cousins. I LOVED that hat. I cannot even begin to explain how much I loved that hat. The sunglasses, I believe, were a promotional item from a gas station. And finally, it really is a shame that you can't see the full outfit because I finished this classy ensemble with a pair of pig boxer shorts. It was oh-so-carefully planned. See how happy I am?

Ah, yes. Here I am preparing to go to Homecoming my freshman year. Freshly sunburned from a marching band competition earlier that day, I went with the motto "Bigger is better." It was 1991, though, so I was not alone. Loyal readers of this blog might catch the irony in my choice of puffed sleeves.

Here it is: the pièce de résistance of my bad hair-do Hall of Fame. Okay, people -- here's the worst part. This hair-do is not a fluke. I would carefully construct these gravity-defying 'dos each and every single day. On purpose. Because I thought it looked good.

There, now I don't feel so bad.

"Mortify: to humiliate or shame, as by injury to one's pride or self-respect"

I make a living teaching flute lessons, as you may know. Since the mechanics of playing the flute occur mostly inside one's body, I regularly employ analogies and descriptive imagery to help illustrate my points. Over time, my students become accustomed to this and we grow to understand each other.

I recently had a lesson with a talented young man. We were discussing the ending of his notes, something that I consider a lot myself. cue wavy lines and tinkly music...

Me: Sam, (not his real name) I notice that some of your notes are ending rather abruptly.

Sam: I know. (a little disheartened)

Me: I've been thinking a lot about this myself lately, and think that when I end notes like that, it kind of sounds like I'm choking a chicken.

Sam: (blinking) What did you just say?

Me: (launching into my description using full hand motions) Well, you know. Imagine you have this chicken and all of a sudden, you grab it by its neck and choke it. No more air would get through, but it would be pretty abrupt and probably wouldn't make a very nice sound.

Sam: Oh. I see. (kind of laughing) Choking the chicken. Got it.

Our lesson continued. It's not my best analogy (I have both a Twizzler and Olympic gymnastic/ice skating analogy of which I'm especially proud), but I thought it got the job done. And I really do think that sometimes notes sounds like that.

So this weekend while we're driving, I'm telling Jeff about this particular analogy and Sam's reaction and Jeff spits out his drink because he's laughing so hard. Seriously, there was diet Coke on the windshield. And I'm like, What?!

It turns out that 'choking the chicken' is a popular euphemism among teenage boys for, well, yeah, you know. And I was like, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! Because, I have three pretty advanced teenage boy students right now, and I'm pretty sure I've said this to all of them.

Oh my god.

Just like a shiny present

I miss having a first day of school.

I was one of those kids who was pretty excited for the first day of school. New school supplies held so much promise. Looking at the lists provided by my teachers, I would wonder what we were going to do with a compass or protractor... I would wonder why we needed colored pencils. Sometimes the teacher asked for rubber cement instead of glue. What could that mean?

In Omaha, I remember walking down to the bus stop wearing my favorite red-plaid dress with the white peter-pan collar and thin red-leather belt. I can't remember if that was the first day of 3rd or 4th grade (I think 3rd), but I do remember the smell of the air and excitement in my stomach. And, of course, I remember Mark Shannon, the smartest boy in the class who I absolutely l-o-v-e-d until he broke my heart one day in the letter-writing unit when he wrote me a brief letter that read:

Dear Jessica,
How are you? What are you doing? I suppose playing with Ashley. Anyway, I want to let you know I don't like you like you think I do. I just like you like a friend.
Sincerely,
Mark Shannon

I don't know which was worse: the content of the letter or the fact that our teacher, Mrs. Screamin' Neiman, now knew that Mark Shannon did NOT like me.

I remember high school orientation. I wore a purple button-down shirt with shoulder pads, a fantastic tapestry vest with black-satinesque back, and black shorts. I also wore a thin gold necklace. I was so cool. I definitely had planned that outfit out days in advance.

My favorite first day of school, though, is without doubt the first day of college. Well, first day, first month, it's all rolled together in my mind. Living at 629 McIntyre Hall was a wonderful year. My loft bed, mini-refrigerator (not the tiny kind, the taller one), toaster, coffee pot, and popcorn popper were all symbols of this new life that was ruled by me. Wow, what a great feeling. I watched MTV for the first time, (I will always have a soft place in my heart for the Peaches video by The Presidents of the United States of America) stayed up too late, and ate too many chocolate-covered espresso beans. I fell in love, however briefly, with Chip, the RA on all-male floor below mine. He was a junior, an English major (oh, the romanticism in that fact alone was almost enough) and his room smelled like coffee. He also wore oxford-style Dr. Martens which pushed his cool-factor through the roof. Alas, he was in love with an exchange student from Sweden, so it didn't work out. I made friends whom I loved, and still do, and became a much better person than I was.

I miss the promise of what first days of school held: you never knew exactly what was in store, but it was all new and much of the time seemed like an adventure. Now that my school days are over, I will simply have to write my own adventures.

We should at least charge rent

How many different types of wildlife have to reside in an area before it's declared a 'wildlife refuge'? And are bees technically considered wildlife?

Lately when we've been outside on our patio, we've noticed that there are a few more bees than you might typically expect at an outdoor function. A couple weekends ago when we had a little get-together, one of our guests pointed out that he was noticing that the bees seemed to be disappearing inside the wall, close to the light that doesn't turn on (some of you are familiar with this light).

Then, two mornings ago, Jeff was back from his run and was stretching in the sunroom monitoring his breathing, listening to the birds, when he noticed a certain buzzing that broke his reverie. A buzzing coming directly from his left. A buzzing coming alarmingly from inside the wall. Hmmm.

Today we had a bee expert out to the house. Did you know that bee experts have special stethoscope-microphone devices designed especially for listening to bees through walls? And, if you're an especially good bee expert, you can tell by the decibel meter approximately how many bees you might be dealing with. Let's just say that the bee expert likened listening to our wall to attending this really killer Led Zeppelin concert back in the 70s.

It seems that word is getting out among the animal kingdom. The Price house is open for wildlife. Rodents in the attic, bees in the wall -- what's next? Snakes in the sewers? God, let's hope not.

"Flint's finest hour"

The Crim Festival of Races was today in Flint. The races include a 10-mile wheelers, 10-mile run, 8K run, 8K walk, 5K run, 5K Family Walk, 1-mile run, 1-mile walk, and a Teddy Bear Trot. The races attract participants from all over the world and is arguably one of the best things that happens in Flint. As the announcer said on ABC12 this morning, Crim race day is "Flint's finest hour."

Jeff and I had been living here for about 4 months when we experienced our first Crim last summer. The course is 10 miles long, starts in the heart of downtown Flint, and eventually winds its way through our neighborhood. We live near the 7-mile mark. The morning of the race, we were awakened by the sound of a marching band that sounded like they were right in our backyard. Turns out they were one street over, but still, a pretty rousing way to start the day! We watched as over 1200 people ran, walked, and wheeled their way toward the finish line.

One year later, and Jeff was in the pack sporting number 3121 on his shirt and I was on my bike watching for him.

Hi Jeff! (yelling and waving my arms, notice the two guys in the foreground with their bewildered expressions)

(Jeff isn't actually in this photo, but I thought it was a nice shot.)

Leaving our neighborhood after coming up a very long hill.

Gooooooooo, Jeff!

Crossing the bridge over the Flint River. About 1 mile to go.

Yay, Jeff!!!!!!!!!

Where have all the good clothes gone?

I just got back from some retail therapy... bad news, people. There simply are no good clothes for fall. Pull out the old stand-bys from last year, because trust me, even if they're faded or a little pilled under the arms, they're probably still better than what I saw today.

Here is a list of problems encountered this afternoon.

1. The no. 1 problem plaguing the fall fashion line-up can be summed up in this question I overheard in two different dressing rooms in two different stores: "Does this shirt make me look pregnant?" I mean seriously, does every single shirt have to have an empire waist with a voluminous bottom half? Do the fashion designers of the world have no faith in American women and have thus determined that the best way of dealing with a little unwanted padding around the middle is to simply borrow the tried-and-true pattern from their good friends in maternity wear?
2. Unless your name is Anne and you hail from Green Gables, you might find the puffed sleeve trend a little disturbing. Actually, Anne is currently sporting at least 2 of fall's heavy-hitting trends, the aforementioned puffed sleeves, and the ruffled bodice. Another terrible idea if you have anything over what, a B cup?
   
3. My final gripe with this year's fall fashion is the cropped round-button 3/4-sleeve boxy jacket. Here's how this one goes. The designers of the world united and said, "Let's take some beautiful wool, known for its fluid drape, and wrap it around your shoulders, buttoning at the neck so that the fabric lies over the largest part of your torso and then extends down in a straight line from there. Voila! Perfection!"

So, let's take a stand. If no one buys into any of these trends and the clothes stay on the shelves, perhaps they'll start making some reasonable clothes again and we can all get dressed without having a meltdown every single morning.

Workin' it

This afternoon was my first chance to attend the AquaBox class since that first day. Knowing that pool space is at a premium in this class (don't have to tell me twice!), I got there early. Many of the same ladies were there. This time, the nice lady who almost drowned suggested that she be in front of me from the start. Good idea.

So, there I was kind of hanging out by the wall warming up my arms as the other ladies chatted amongst themselves. One lady was mentioning that she hasn't been here the last few weeks because she was visiting her daughter in Arizona. The others were glad to see her again. There was discussion of weekend plans and grandchildren. And then the conversation turned, as it sometimes does when a group of women get together, to men.

"So, Dory, what are you doing this weekend?"

"Well, I'm actually, I'm going to have to leave class early today to get ready for this afternoon."

"Oh? What are you doing?"

"Well," she continued, lowering her voice and fluttering her eyelashes a little bit, "my friend is picking me up. We're going to dinner at the 21 Club."

"Ohhhhh!"

"Is this the same boy that you play chess with, Dory?" asked the third woman.

I stood there, respectfully looking at the walls around the pool, checking the clock, basically anything I could do so they wouldn't think I was listening -- but of course I was! Anyway, I was struck by the word 'boy'.

Blushing a little, Dory responded. "Yes." She quickly continued. "But, I don't think it's going to go anywhere for heaven's sake! He is 20 years younger than me."

I almost gasped out loud!

I'll admit, the first time I went to class, the ladies struck me as the kind who enjoyed coming to this class for a little workout and company and then went home and did grandmother-esque type things... like, bake cookies or visit their grandchildren or knit. But, apparently I had it all wrong. These ladies are working out for a reason. They are working out in order to work it! You go, girl!

I cocked my head a little more toward them because their conversation had gotten conspiratorially low.

"Dory," the woman floated a little closer, "you never know." And then she winked.

Job requirements: Punch, kick, talk and make it look easy

Tonight at kickboxing, my fabulous instructor said something to all of us at the end of class:

"Stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff, Oh, and if you're ever interested in teaching, I would be happy to train you..."

What?! Seriously??

Okay, need to go back a little bit. Somewhere along the line, I developed this list of jobs that I thought would be really fun and that I'd like to do at some point in my life.

On my list:
1. Farmer
2. Bartender
3. D.J.
4. Mailman
5. AEROBICS INSTRUCTOR

I have already held the following jobs: farmer and bartender. Bartending was much more fun and a helluva lot more profitable than farming. Holy cow, do you know how hard it is to be a farmer? Good grief those people work hard.

Anyway, not to brag or anything, but my kickboxing instructor has called me 'hard core' on more than one occasion. I think I may be punching my way toward crossing one more job off my list.

Oh, to runaway and join a rock band

An open letter to Jack Johnson (my new favorite singer of all-time)

Dear Jack:

I have recently discovered your work through Pandora Radio. I bought your CD In Between Dreams yesterday at my local Target. I played it for the first time this morning as I got ready for work. I even made my husband listen, too. Well, to be fair, probably even the neighbors heard it, as I had it cranked up to maximum volume. I love to dance (although I'm not what you'd consider a good dancer) and I danced as I applied my eye shadow.

I love your music. And, as it turns out, I'm a musician, too. Flute. Now, I've listened to your CD about 3 times through today and I will admit, I was trying hard to imagine some flute sounds mixed in with this fabulous music because then, well, you would need a flute player and I would so do it. Bad news. I don't think you need flute. Which sucks. Because I would totally be in your band. I noticed you used accordion on a couple tracks. That was cool.

I would still like to be in your band, so I've come up with the following ideas..... 1) Nada.

Lame. I would like to be in a rock band. I could do it.

Well, if you ever need a flute player or a pretty bad dancer (I do kickbox quite well, though, and that's kind of like dancing...well, I can totally punch in perfect time at any tempo), please don't hesitate to call.

Sincerely,
Jess

Knotted, er, I mean, knitted

It's 11:47 p.m. and I should be in bed. It's officially past my bedtime, but I am committed to a project that I started almost 3 hours ago. To turn this mess into...

This.

How did I get here, you may ask? Well, it all started much earlier today. We'd just had coffee and I was sitting in our office (my new favorite place to sit) looking at our newly installed bookshelves that were just waiting to be filled with all of our music books and flute and saxophone CDs. A long project, but with a very satisfying result.


Then I turned my attention to the closet in one of the guest rooms that was one of the last refuges of boxes from our move last year. The boxes contained mostly old quilts and blankets from our childhoods. They were nice boxes to open.



At the bottom of one box, I found my knitting bag, which I hadn't thought about in about 3 years and before that, 12 years. Jeff had joined me in the sorting process by then and found this little test piece I had made.

He was so impressed -- seriously! And I was like, this is nothing! Back in my youth, I actually knew how to knit and made my very own sweater and everything, which got a blue ribbon at the 4-H fair, thank you very much. (There's no way I could do that now, by the way...) Anyway, there he was, standing there all impressed and the topic of scarves came up. So I asked him if he would actually wear a scarf if I made it and he said definitely yes. And he would tell everyone that I made it for him, too.

So this evening I sat down with my mother's trusty "Learn How to Knit" book that has both left- and right-handed instructions (lefty here) that has all the patterns I recognize. It came back pretty quickly, so I was inspired to get to work on the scarf this very night. (I must admit that I was perhaps influenced by my recent completion of The Friday Night Knitting Club, a book I enjoyed very much.)

I pulled out the lovely green wool yarn that I bought 3 years when I last thought I might knit something nice for Jeff. It was wrapped in this beautiful figure-8 twist. I found the end, but then something terrible happened and I ended up with the mess you saw at the top. So here I sit. Pile of knotted wool yarn in front of me, wishing I could go back in time and be much more careful as I pulled on the loose end. *sigh*

It is nice to have a project.