“How Do I Get To The Concert Hall?”

We’ve all heard the answer, “Practice, practice, practice”.

Have you heard the one about the eight year old who worked hard to get OUT OF playing the concert hall? Not yet.

For months we’d heard that the third-graders had the opportunity to play at Roy Thompson Hall with the Toronto Symphony. We greeted the news as any proud parents would, we gushed.

“That’s incredible! You’re going to accompany the Toronto Symphony! That’s BIG!” we shouted.

“I don’t care I don’t want to”, the eight year old said flatly.

We just brushed it off as nerves.

The campaign to NOT go began in earnest.

“There will be people there watching, listening. I don’t like that at all”, he railed.

“That’s the fun part the audience is one of the reasons we perform the other reason is that we love to play”, I encouraged.

“But I don’t really like the recorder and I don’t like playing it and I don’t like playing it with an orchestra in a big concert hall and I don’t want to go there”, he retorted.

“Honey I support you and everything you do and this is a great opportunity to feel what it’s like to perform in front of a large crowd and hear the applause and fantasize that you are Judy Garland in the Wizard of Oz singing in front of the whole world and the whole world is cheering because the whole world adores you”, I thought, but realized that was MY childhood fantasy. He just wants to be the cool kid on the skateboard trying to kill himself on wheels in a variety of ways.

“But honey I support you and everything you do and once you are playing you’ll see what a great experience it is”, was what I should have said.

“You’re going”, is what came out.

We got a sneak peak at his school’s music night. First we had to listen to the fifth grade string players. My elbow was firmly planted in the husbands side the whole time so I could hold his laughing out loud hostage. I have great sympathy for anyone learning a stringed instrument, especially the violin, the learning curve is out there for everyone to hear and it is usually cringe-worthy to have to listen. The husband plastered a wide grin on his face but I know if I let my elbow relax we would have been in trouble. The husband has a wee bit of a cruel streak which comes out in the form of loud laughter especially if someone unexpectedly trips and falls within eye shot. After the last note was almost played, the third graders came out and presented three musical selections including the one that will be accompanied by the TSO. It was pleasant enough. Most of the notes worked together. One or two were obviously faking it, but it didn’t ruin the experience. I kept an eye on the husband every time a sour note sounded but he was still feeling the affects of the elbow in the gut and remained well behaved. The eight year old had a great smile on his face. He really did enjoy performing in front of an audience.

Today he was packed up for the school trip. He had his lunch, too-short pants on, too short socks on and a blue button down shirt. The husband gel-d his hair as I buttoned his shirt.

“I feel famous”, he said.

The husband cracked up.

It’s going to be a memorable day for him with many more to come in his life whether he’s performing for an audience or just going to school. But I wish for him to always have music -everyone needs a soundtrack for their life.

Powter Puff Post!

She’s baaaaaaaack!
The other she who shook me awake from my post-nicotine withdrawal, lard-puppet impersonation state 15 years ago and got me moving!
Susan freaking Powter.

She was mostly annoying to the masses, her comely face would grow distorted and she would plead in her strained, fake thee-ah-tah-trained voice, “If you’re not IN oxygen, you’re OUT of oxygen!” I loved her. I emulated her confidence for moments at a time, slowly gaining the real thing as I tried her personality on for size. I loved her ability to encourage and motivate her fitness class attendees who would blush at her zealous compliments. Loved that she felt free to compliment another woman and make her feel great. We didn’t do that with such energy until Susan Powter. She broke a barrier for me and got me into shape -just by her words and example. Trust me when I say I’m not easily influenced by anyone, I’m more cynical and untrusting than anyone I know yet I followed her voice, happy to be led to get me moving and enjoying life again when it wasn’t there inside me. Her fitness video was part of my everyday.

It was the badly edited video version that showed her class participants looking dry and fresh, then sweaty and wet, then dry again in the course of four moves. The moves weren’t matched up, the rhythm was off from what I would say was a bad ‘insert’ edit and it made that part excruciatingly long. It made me laugh picturing the editor looking at the footage, thinking the moves looked similar enough to just dump in hoping no one would notice. But the workout made the step my favourite thing to do in the world. My then five year old daughter wanted her own step so she could work out with me so we asked her dad if on one of her weekends with him, he could make her one. He didn’t ‘get’ why she wanted a step but he came through by cobbling a wide pine board together with short risers on the sides. It was cute to watch her trying to keep up with me, stepping up one inch and back down again, lasting about 45 seconds of the 45 minute workout.

Rosie is promoting her new book and she’s linked to her site www.susanpowteronline.com, so go see her. Instead of being almost bald she has crazy dreds and glasses and again she talks about the truthiness in the food industry and how we can get rid of that fat (fat makes you fat, you eat fat, you get fat). She looks great, her image has been updated, recycled, re-branded and instead of rolling my eyes when I saw her I was actually happy to see her face and hear voice again -like an old familiar army Sergeant. Welcome back, Seargent Powter, sir!

Worky McWorkenstein…

She’s baaaaaaack.

No, not full time. Please. It hasn’t been a full six months yet. My sabbatical isn’t technically over. I know this because the pile of bills still gives me dirty looks every time I pass by them then stand around and whisper about how lazy and unmotivated I am. But I was on set today, watching, giggling, absorbing. I get called in every once in a while to learn different stuff and junk about the new position. It’s a bit different than my usual ‘show up on set and work my guts out’ for four days straight. There’s much more detail to the new job, less drama, which makes me verrrry happy. But after a day on the go I’m looking forward to having the rest of the week off. I’m exhausted! All that thinking and concentrating. Man. working is hard.

Kidding. I kid.

I have two weeks until the contract starts and I’m psyching myself up. Taking the train in this morning was a giggle, so bourgeois, suburban and civilized it made me giddy. Of course I was wearing jeans and a back pack so I didn’t blend in with the suits, and dresses with ankle socks and running shoes. Wait ‘til I do this everyday and I’ll be just like the regulars doing sudoku puzzles and ignoring the great view. My neighbor and I hoofed it to the train and she has the system all figured out right down to which side of the train the doors will open and which staircase to go down. She’s my new hero.

This will be a car-free job most of the time so there will be lots of walking and air conditioned train rides. How civilized. My carbon footprint is shrinking and now I can afford smokes. (Kidding! Don’t smoke! anymore)

On the intellectual front…holy smokes did you see HOUSE? Rarely do I get excited watching regular TV -but that episode was exceptional. The husband, fresh and ripe from his hockey game stumbled in half way through the show, then in a ‘sensitive’ moment ground his coffee beans in the last ten minutes during the most important scene of the show. Surprisingly, I decided to let him live. He’ll understand once he watches the episode and at that critical moment he ruined for me I will sit beside him and do all the things that annoy him like rubbing my feet together rhythmically, flossing, humming/droning in a minor key and chewing gum with my mouth open.

He may experience the episode differently than me but I believe it was an Emmy worthy episode. Next spring we’ll watch the TV award show and the husband will probably ruin the moment for Hugh by making coffee -loudly. That’s ok soon I’ll be a working class hero to the commuting public and I’ll be able to afford a good set of ear phones to shut out the preparation noise… and more!

Two more weeks to dream, scheme and await what remains to be seen.

Cawfee Shop…

Don’t drink the stuff unless it’s caffeine-free, fat-free, lactose-free, coffee taste-free and it’s foamy like a latte, or ‘a whole lot of money for a whole lotta’ nothing’.
Other than that coffee and it’s culture is dead to me.

Maybe that’s a little harsh.

All I know is my house stinks of stale coffee most of the time because the husband grinds his beans (‘why I ‘oughta grind his beans!’) down to two scoopfuls of cawfee grounds, then adds a mug and a half of water then lets the machine cook it down until it smells bad. It seems to have a sensor for bad smells because just when it starts to stink a loud electronic beep sounds four annoyingly long times to announce it’s finished over-cooking the liquid. The longer it sits on the barely heated element the stinkier it gets. The husband rarely remembers to shut it off after he pours out his one cup of sludge leaving the other half a cup to fester for the day. Needless to say the smell stays, hangs onto everything, everywhere.

I’m a tea drinker, generally, normal, black tea dust in a round bag tea drinker -scent-free.

Today for the first time I sat with a friend in a neighborhood coffee shop. It’s part of a chain of coffee shops that will survive beyond global warming and the apocalypse because even fried and dyed Canadians will still want their double double (two creams, two sugars). I had just finished telling this friend that I didn’t know anybody who frequented this coffee shop when the first of several people I know came in, said hi, or waved. I was very surprised first because I don’t consider myself a coffee shop type of person but these people acted like seeing me there was a normal part of their day. “Tea time again?” they could have said, it was that natural. I kept trying to qualify how really rare it is for me to be there but people kept dropping in, chatting with me and briefly catching up. The bigger surprise was how I felt about these neighbors in the community who were thoughtful enough to acknowledge me and how in five years I felt like an accepted part of this friendly community. I felt… proud as I waved and smiled and turned back to my friend and the hot tea in front of me. She laughed and raised an eyebrow like she doubted I wasn’t a regular in my regular hangout having my ‘usual’ regular tea (bag in, with milk). It was a real Canadiana moment for me, one I won’t forget for a while for the aforementioned reasons but also because after sitting inside that place for an hour the pungent smell of stale cawfee has permeated my clothing, skin and hair and I smell ljust like my new hangout, the cawfee shop. SO glad they banned smoking indoors.

“I Think Your Car Is Jealous”

commented the eight year old.

I looked out the front door at my old, bird poop-covered car sitting on the road.

“Yeah, right”, I thought.

Ten minutes ago in one loud rev-of-an-engine the Subaruski got displaced. Ten minutes ago the Cobra came home, coiling it’s love around the husband and eight year old like a good step mother.

Jealous? No, I don’t think my car is jealous of a freshly-conditioned ‘88 Mustang. My car is much too refined (and expensive) to be upstaged by a mere paint job. But tell that to the husband’s boys who will begin sending ‘welcome home’ cards to a car. The last few weeks have been so tense. One moment we thought the car would be ready and prepared to bring home only to be told it was a false alarm. The husband paced and stopped sleeping through the night FILLED with anticipation. The phone rang incessantly over the last three weeks by boys of all ages inquiring like expectant relatives wondering if the baby had arrived. Disappointed, the husband had to explain that these things take time, patience is important and all good things are worth the wait. He was running out of cliches when the phone call finally came.

“It’s ready”, he giggled.

“Great” I replied flatly, looking for my keys.

“Can you drive me? I’m too excited!”, he could have said but didn’t (except in my imagination).

It’s still sporting the illiterate interpretation of a word on it’s license plate, but other than that I barely recognized the ‘stang. A drop of rain slowly fell from the sky and landed on the hood as the husband dove with his hand out too late to intercept it. Obsessive much? I drove home in my car noting in the rear view mirror that the husband had thrown his body on the hood in a defensive measure against the rain -sure to make him look insane. I went to the school to pick up the eight year old. When I arrived the husband was already there.

“Did you get the car?!?!?!?” the eight year old demanded. One look and his question was answered, he immediately went into goofy boy grin mode and ran for the passengers’ side. Racing against himself, the old/new car got to the one parking spot before me, hence my car is now relegated to the road until the garage is finished -in 2010.

A neighbor walked out his front door, stopped dead in his tracks, broke into a wide grin and cheered. This neighbor is 12 years old and yes, as a man in training we witnessed the official arrival of his fully developed car gene. The husband’s voice cracked in pride.

“Yes, it’s ho-ome!” he yelled.

If there is an e-card announcing the new arrival of an old car the husband will find it. You should check your in-box for this card containing all the new-stuff-done-to-the-old-car details like year, colour, replaced parts, etc. because if you’re a guy the details will be imperative. Ask any of the same guys if they remember the details of their first-born’s birth they will draw a blank. I guarantee it.

Jealous? Of a car?

Bouncing Back…

Husband home from Canada’s west end.
Six hour drive through torrential downpour to see Twenty year old for one point five hours.
Separate the eight year old from the Wii system.
Feed the cat.
Clean up after the dog who ate the cat’s food.

Check check check check and check.

So how about the shark-jumping Oprah tribute to TC (or gay dwarf midget according to Lainey)? It’s so good to be able to be home with the mini-van majority to witness Oprah’s descent into TV oblivion. She could hardly pull off the sincerity act -he must have some interesting information about her to force her to ‘emote’ on such an icky level. Who bought that? There was some serious under current on that set. My gag reflex stayed in a heightened state for both the broadcasts.

She (Oprah) also keeps promoting her ‘landmark’ web dog and pony show with yet another German who has combined philosophy with religion (Werner Airhead, anybody?) and come up with a completely original ‘cult’? Oprah drank that cool aid and her confused followers don’t want to be left out so they’re playing along.
What does this guy’s ‘course’ tell you? Be empty-headed, feel nothing. It’s like ‘The Secret’, every motivational cliche ever written compiled into one book. C’mon, it’s a compilation put together by a TV producer (yes, there is some envy to her foresight on my part). But where is our discernment? Are we so desperate we’ll drink the cool-aid and eat the empty white bread in an attempt to fill our souls? You bet. Oprah knows. Her soul is in need of filling. She’s just a TV journalist with a huge ego who has built an empire on her emptiness. Madonna, (the McD’s) of pop star marketing keeps seeking the next new thing too because her soul is empty and the sheep follow.

Was giving TC air time to pretend Scientology is ok her attempt at ‘fair air-play’? Or is she trying to negate the bad press about her own descent into ‘cult’ pseudo-religious zeal. “Hey, that new earth stuff is not as bad as Thetans and Xenu!” Step back and look at that sentence all ye women of mini vans. Open thine eyes to the empty reality being shoved into you every day. Wise up and turn off Oprah.

But watch the nice, gentle lifestyle shows on the cable channels. I still need to work.

What’s That Thing Called?

You know the thing that has a rubber ball that’s attached to an elastic that’s attached to a paddle so that you can bat the ball with the paddle and the ball ricochets back so it can be hit again and again?
What’s that thing called?

Even though ‘sometimes you’re the bat’ (the husband would say I’m a bat all the time), today I feel like the ball.

Good news? The husband is coming home late tonight from the other side of the country.
Bad news? I just had two deliciously long sleeps taking up the whole bed… and that’s over.