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.