New family member

Her name is Zorah. She's classy, black & driven. She came to our home last night. After a good night's sleep, we got to know each other a bit. She agreed to wear Ohio State regalia, in limited quantities, but not Mardi Gras beads. I agreed to learn to use her electronics, in limited quantities, but not much of her computer. Zorah brings sunshine & fresh air to my life and an unheard-of degree of comfort and elegance. I love my new car.

For the love of armadillos

She snuggled close in a pre-dawn hour. Sighing happily, she murmured "You're so soft. Not like an armadillo." Lovers should have immunity before coffee.

The thrill of victory, the agony of de feet

A quiet living room, a comfortable chair, a sleeping cat and a glass of red wine. I just came home from producing the first school concert of the year, which was also the first ever at this school. No pressure. Let me pour more wine.

55 of the 70 students on stage were complete rookies with less than 3 months experience on their instruments. The other 15, only second and third year players, were grossly outnumbered, but lent a sense of security to the newbies surrounding them.

They came, they did, they conquered. It was good, their parents loved them, my boss was impressed. I was pleased and relieved and happy. Now every muscle and bone I own aches. My ankles are twice their normal sizes. Can I walk again before vacation begins Friday afternoon?? Doctor, will I be able to play the violin?

As student shows go, I held up better than usual. I only had a single meltdown – last period today, with great provocation – and I slept through last night. I mostly stayed calm, mostly stayed sane, mostly stayed organized. Yet here I sit with a giant knot in my chest, waiting for the tension to be released into history. I survived another one. I really don’t enjoy this process at all, but it was good, appreciated and…..over.

I tried all last year to find another line of work, one without bi- or tri-annual dementia. As school band jobs go, this one is great. It’s just that I hate to be in charge of big events. I worry way too much. I lose sleep. I get ill, snappy, tired. Very, very tired.

So I sit here and try to explain to my feet just why I ran all day, and all night in heels. I ask the site of my very recently recovered plantar fascilitis to forgive the overuse, that it won’t happen again for several months, that tomorrow they are only required to transport me to and from comfy chairs. Chairs that won’t be far apart. That children will sort & file music, that children will unload a church bus returning our big instruments, that children will run errands, that children will be proud of themselves. That I don’t have to do these things, that I’ve done too much already.

And that it all paid off. May the next four days fly, and the vacation pass slowly. Not the other way around, please.

Question of the week:

I don't have fingernails. What am I hanging on by?

Rain, introspection & a Sunday mood

Things to do instead of getting depressed on the last free day of vacation.

1. Avoid waking to an internal symphony of “The Party’s Over.”
2. avoid continuing to think of that song through the day’s activities
3. Read a book over breakfast at a favorite café. Notice it’s raining, stay for lunch.
4. Finally wash a load of work clothes. Try not to hum “The Party’s Over” while hanging them
up…
5. List all the fun things you’ve done during your 9-day weekend. Such as:
a. Rode a bike on the tree- and horse-lined trail
b. Dyed hair successfully this time
c. Got a haircut
d. Spa trip for eyebrow dying
e. Started and finished Christmas shopping before Thanksgiving.
f. Watched lots of movies
g. Art store & farmers’ market promenade.
h. Alone time
i. Together time
j. Watched the Buckeyes win over Michigan
k. Threatened a cable repairman during same game
l. Got “all clear” with warnings from podiatrist
m. Spoiled cat
n. made reservations for Christmas break mini-vacation
o. Stayed awake past 9 p.m.
p. Napped whenever the whim struck
q. Finished mediocre book, chose better one.
r. Caught up & pulled ahead on sudoku calendar
6. Counted days till next vacation (19 calendar, 15 working days)
7. Look at dearth of help-wanted ads & realize how lucky you are to have a job at all this year.
8. Pretend you’ve missed the daily routine.
9. Indulge in self-mockery until even you have to laugh.
10. Put this through the spellchecker tool & see it’s written on a 5th grade reading level. Appropriate, you think, as a 5th grader is also bummed about going back to school tomorrow.
11. Put the question out there: what do YOU do when you have to go back to work?

Bringing home the green

There’s a reason I don’t go to pet stores. I have no resistance to puppies, kittens, even tiny goldfish and lizards. I know this about myself, and I love my ancient cat too much to inflict a younger sibling on him at this stage of his life. I have no such filters that prevent me from going into plant stores.

I did that yesterday. And the day before. Multiple, excessive plant purchases, complete with pots, potting soil, marble chips and a tin watering can. I cannot resist the waving, whimpering and begging coming from the sea of leaves. Pick me! Pick me! There’s a reason these places are called nurseries: the wall-to-wall cute works on your resistance. Ok, MY resistance. There they are, watered, groomed, accessorized, filled with the promise of beauty, aroma and yes, companionship.

And it’s true: the spider plants have already provided irresistible amusement to the cat. I didn’t know his 14-year-old self was agile enough to jump into the bay window through those annoying vertical blinds to feast and regurgitate with abandon all over the new carpet. Like after the new puppy, the stain remover was the next to arrive.

I can’t believe I actually brought something called a snake plant into my house. Or the spiders. But, unlike their namesakes, there’s no ick factor. It’s all green joy. They match my walls really well. They soften the fireplace mantle. They give me extra oxygen and suck up bad stuff in the air. Come to think of it, my beloved former dogs never did that much for me. I’m eyeing the cat, who reminds me that, despite his greenery fetish, his snuggly purrs are an excellent substitute for Valium. He can stay.

As can the new houseplants. The cat’s favorite snack, the spider plants, have been moved decoratively out of reach. He’s uninterested in the palm-like thing now in the bay window. The snake plant has spread out well in its new, rectangular container. The ivy drapes nicely among the books and the peace lilies preside hopefully in the bedroom & office. The lucky bamboo communes nicely with the aromatic basil in the kitchen and all is right with the world.

Now, if I can stay out of those places…..

My new glasses

This just may be the pair of glasses that changes my life. They may ruin it, they may save it, but my life will never be the same.

What was I thinking last Saturday? What kind of mood was I in when I selected these frames? My partner tells me I was depressed last weekend, that I came home from work Friday down and grumpy, and I never really recovered for several days. Yet I go to my eye appointment and pick the most in-your-face,- pun intended- assertive, kick-ass pair of glasses made. And they’re purple.

I only knew this last week, that I had spent way too much for a new pair of glasses. I was unrepentant, yet borderline appalled when I signed the charge card receipt. I met friends for lunch afterward, eyes dilated, wearing sunglasses large enough to cause people to look for my dog. My mood was low, but I was smugly thrilled I had spent a fortune on those glasses.

Yet here they are, on my face. In your face, on my face. Like many times, on the morning after, when you wonder WHAT you had been thinking, I’m wondering what, exactly what, I found attractive about these frames. Oh, I do find them oddly attractive, or at least attractively odd. But on me, the very essence of Midwest blah?

These are not the glasses of someone from Ohio. These are not the glasses of someone who had ever been lost. These are not the glasses of someone who had ever had doubts about her purpose in the world. These are not the glasses of someone who had ever had setbacks, loneliness, boredom, anxieties, insecurities or gas. These glasses say “kiss my ass,” or “bring me the coffee, bitch.” What are they doing on my face?

I have to change everything about myself in order to wear these glasses. I have to change my hair. My hair has to have an actual style now. I may actually have to use makeup. Nothing about my head can be random or the glasses will mock me. And my clothes…will I have to buy Prada? These glasses are purposeful. Meryl Streep would wear these glasses. They demand wool capes, expensive shoes and possibly a New York skyline. How can I wear them in Florida with shorts and flipflops? Will I ever mow my lawn again?

Where does one go to gather sycophants? If I’m going to pull this off, I need a large entourage, ready to do my bidding. Why did I buy these glasses?

I guess I need these glasses to lead the way. I need them to be assertive, to trust in my intelligence, to be emotionally resilient, to be, if not gorgeous, then at least put together. I need them to push me into making better decisions. I need them to push me into following through on the decisions I have already made. I need them to drive me home at night to be with my partner and my cat, who both love me unconditionally, and stay aware that the last eight hours may have been exhausting, but the next several will be spent exactly where and how and with whom I was meant to be. Tall order for an assemblage of purple plastic and glass.

These glasses, in all their purple majesty, will help me see. I will do my best to be the person they require me to be.