The violin lessons are going much better. I'm still just working on rhythm exercises and improving my bowing technique, but progress has definitely been made. Today my teacher said something along the lines of, "That was actually not too bad," but stopped short of giving me a sticker. And I know she has them.
It gives me immense pleasure to know that I am a full page ahead of a third grader who started around the same time as me in the Suzuki Level One violin book. The two of us are now in fierce competition, although he doesn't know I exist.
I can feel OK about my progress as long as I'm one step ahead of the eight-year-old, but the problem is that he gets away with a lot more than me by virtue of being cute and little. My teacher is always telling stories about the endearing mistakes little Peter Protégé is making, but something tells me that she isn't regaling her other students with tales of "the soccer mom who always forgets her checkbook."
It kind of sucks being the eager non-traditional student, like the middle aged lady in your college French class who always sat up front and asked tedious questions in her bad accent. You know, the one who was always forming a study group and wondering aloud if there was a homework assignment just as the bell rang and everyone else was hightailing it out of there?
That's me as a violin student: I am nothing if not earnest. I pore over YouTube clips of violin masters, practice diligently, work ahead in my book, ask a million questions, and marvel aloud at the awesome beauty of a single perfect note.
I would have hated myself as a twenty-year-old.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Great Interview Experiment: Avitable
The beauty of Neil's Great Interview Experiment is that a blogger like me, who frets about whether feelings will be hurt before hitting "Publish" on every post and feels compelled to mask obscenities under a thin veil of pound signs and asterisks, gets to interview the uncensored Avitable, who "crotch punches nuns and hates babies," and whose tagline is, "Tact is for Pussies."
Oh yeah, and he doesn't wear pants. Ever.
If you aren't already familiar with the ubiquitous Avitable, you should go check him out. He's very entertaining (when he's not drop-kicking puppies.)
Thanks, Avitable!
Oh yeah, and he doesn't wear pants. Ever.
If you aren't already familiar with the ubiquitous Avitable, you should go check him out. He's very entertaining (when he's not drop-kicking puppies.)
- Why is tact for pussies?
Because "Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it's Avitable." was already taken. - What, do you think, is so gratifying about making people laugh?
Typically, if I can get them to laugh enough, they may pee their pants, especially if they are women who have passed bowling balls and/or children out of their vaginas. And then, as a sign of solidarity, I can pee myself too, because all of the cool kids pee their pants. This makes me look awesome and then people refer to me on the same level as Jesus and Bono. - According to Adlerian theory, a person’s earliest memory becomes the theme of his life. What’s yours?
I subscribe to Sandlerian theory instead, which states that shampoo is bettah. - When’s the last time you cried?
I had my tear ducts shot off in the Great War and so they rerouted those synapses to my penis so now when I cry I have an orgasm. To answer your question: 10 minutes ago. - What do you typically eat for breakfast? (besides pussies. Just kidding!)
The souls of small children. Or Cinnamon Toast Crunch. - What would your life soundtrack be?
Avril Lavigne, Taylor Swift, Gwen Stefani, Pink, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, U2, and Sinead O'Connor. - Please describe your most embarrassing moment to date.
http://www.avitable.com/2007/03/09/1988-de-classified/ - How did you meet your wife and what made you fall in love with her?
Well, I used to work for her as a farmboy and we didn't speak much. In fact, all I'd say to her was "As you wish." The rest was history. - You’ve been invited to the White House for an exclusive meeting with the President and it’s going to be televised. Will you wear pants?
That's a ridiculous question. Everyone knows that exclusive meetings with the President are clothing optional.
Thanks, Avitable!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
I Would Like My Pellet Now, Please
I finally got my paws on some H1N1 vaccine, and all I had to do was pimp myself out for science.
I'm participating in an H1N1 vaccine study which aims to prove that a smaller dose of vaccine, when administered along with a type of protein that helps the body build up its immune system, works just as well as a full dose. I don't know if I'm in the treatment or control group, but the P-Dawg assures me that I did get some amount of FDA approved H1N1 vaccine.
And all I had to do was sign a fifteen page release form, obtain a physical, take a pregnancy test, disclose what form of birth control I'm using, promise not to get knocked up in the next year, have three vials of blood drawn and swear to return every month for the next six months to have it drawn again, take my temperature every night for the next week, and agree to keep a "flu journal" in the event I get sick.
Plus, I get paid three hundred smackers for my trouble. Which won't help me when I'm dead, but will buy me several dinners out.
I got vaccinated yesterday morning, and last night Istarted worrying that I might die felt slightly achy.
"P-Dawg, I feel kind of crappy. How soon would a person know if she was coming down with Guillain-Barré Syndrome?"
"About two to six weeks, I guess. Are you planning on getting Guillain-Barré?"
I made him promise that if I didn't wake up the next morning, he'd burn my diaries and go through my blog to delete any swear words or references to my mother, and then I went up to bed.
This morning I feel fine. You can thank me next year, when there's enough vaccine to go around as a direct result of my selfless dedication to medical research.
(That, or lay flowers on my grave. No carnations, please.)
I'm participating in an H1N1 vaccine study which aims to prove that a smaller dose of vaccine, when administered along with a type of protein that helps the body build up its immune system, works just as well as a full dose. I don't know if I'm in the treatment or control group, but the P-Dawg assures me that I did get some amount of FDA approved H1N1 vaccine.
And all I had to do was sign a fifteen page release form, obtain a physical, take a pregnancy test, disclose what form of birth control I'm using, promise not to get knocked up in the next year, have three vials of blood drawn and swear to return every month for the next six months to have it drawn again, take my temperature every night for the next week, and agree to keep a "flu journal" in the event I get sick.
Plus, I get paid three hundred smackers for my trouble. Which won't help me when I'm dead, but will buy me several dinners out.
I got vaccinated yesterday morning, and last night I
"P-Dawg, I feel kind of crappy. How soon would a person know if she was coming down with Guillain-Barré Syndrome?"
"About two to six weeks, I guess. Are you planning on getting Guillain-Barré?"
I made him promise that if I didn't wake up the next morning, he'd burn my diaries and go through my blog to delete any swear words or references to my mother, and then I went up to bed.
This morning I feel fine. You can thank me next year, when there's enough vaccine to go around as a direct result of my selfless dedication to medical research.
(That, or lay flowers on my grave. No carnations, please.)
Sunday, November 15, 2009
A Few of My Favorite Things
The Sound of Music premiered on Broadway fifty years ago (November 16th, 1959), but I discovered it again for the first time last week.
The little J-dog was busy playing trucks when I popped in the DVD, but as soon as Julie Andrews came bounding over the horizon and opened her mouth to sing, his little head swiveled around like a periscope.
What is that exquisite sound?
Who is that beautiful lady . . . and why isn't she my mother?
He planted himself directly in front of the TV and gazed on with rapt attention for a good half hour.
Me, I was riveted by the fairytale plotline, the boundless optimism, the yodeling . . . and Captain Von Hawt, whose smokin' good looks had somehow evaded me for these past thirty-six years.
So in honor of the Sound of Music's fiftieth anniversary, here are A Few of My Favorite Things:
The little J-dog was busy playing trucks when I popped in the DVD, but as soon as Julie Andrews came bounding over the horizon and opened her mouth to sing, his little head swiveled around like a periscope.
What is that exquisite sound?
Who is that beautiful lady . . . and why isn't she my mother?
He planted himself directly in front of the TV and gazed on with rapt attention for a good half hour.
Me, I was riveted by the fairytale plotline, the boundless optimism, the yodeling . . . and Captain Von Hawt, whose smokin' good looks had somehow evaded me for these past thirty-six years.
So in honor of the Sound of Music's fiftieth anniversary, here are A Few of My Favorite Things:
- Coffee (touch of cream, no sugar)
- Sushi
- The Daily Show
- Lithuanian folk songs
- My attached garage
- The iTunes Store
- Leonard Cohen lyrics
- Built-in bras
- The Star-Spangled Banner (straight up, no soul)
- Cosmic signs
- Musical harmony
- Reading in bed
- White linens
- Lost
- Chamomile tea
- Aveda Inner Light dual foundation
- The combination of buttered movie popcorn with Skittles
- Hot showers
- Good lip balm
- Lavender lotion from L'Occitaine
- Striped tights
- Black boots
- Cinnabon
- Cabernet Sauvignon
- Guinness beer
- Christmas Eve
- Tylenol PM
- Jello pretzel "salad"
- Order and symmetry
- Airplane Coke
- The sun on my back
- Abba
- Geico caveman commercials
- The smell of pipe tobacco
- Foot rubs
- Comments
- and The Sound of Music, of course.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Not This Week, I Have a Headache
I've tried to sit down and write on several occasions this week, but everything comes out all gloom and doom. Blame it on November, low seratonin levels, potty training, and the contractors who are demolishing our living room, leaving my toilet seat up, and forcing me to resort to emotional eating.
With every passing year, the cloak of the approaching winter weighs heavier and heavier. I dread the holidays, the C1eveland sludge, and the impending threat of illness more and more. I typically spend December through March wringing my hands and hovering around my kids' foreheads with an infrared thermometer, and this year I'm starting early.
And because I am so worried about my kids, it naturally follows that I am short-tempered and irritable with them. Such as when they all but lick the doorknob at the H1N1 vaccine dispensation center. I yell because I love.
Every morning for the past several weeks, I have been going down a list cobbled together through dumb luck and trial and error, calling various pharmacies and public health offices to pin down vaccine. It's been much like searching for a needle in a haystack, but yesterday I hit paydirt and J-dog and V-meister were inoculated.
Of course, the vaccine takes more than a week to kick in and meanwhile I'm sure they will have picked up swine flu in the waiting room. I myself was not eligible for the vaccine, but don't think for a minute that I didn't contemplate snatching a vial out of Nurse Betty's grubby little hands and stabbing myself in the arm with it.
In other news, the honeymoon is over between me and the decorators. I've been reluctant to complain about them here because what kind of person whines about the luxury of having someone update their house for them? It's just that . . . well . . . if I'm going to pay someone to coordinate my home improvement projects, well then by God I expect that someone to own a cell phone and answer it . . . and to show up on time for appointments . . . and to communicate with the contractors so they don't have to call me every morning as I'm herding the kids out the door wondering which color paint to buy . . . and!. . . to stop steering me toward styles of decor I've repeatedly indicated don't jive with my crumb-ridden lifestyle.
The first time we met to "talk about colors and patterns," I told the decorators "no plaid, no orange." Next thing you know, they're showing me a plaid curtain sample and trying to pass it off as "checkered." And goddamn if that little fucker wasn't peppered with multiple orange squares, plain as the nose on your face. I said, "I like Arhaus, Pottery Barn, and Restoration Hardware! Don't show me anything with feet on it!" and . . .
. . . ended up signing off on this 1920s hallway table:
It should be noted that the table will be refurbished with new knobs and maybe some burnished mirror panels. Now, even though cloven-hoofed furniture doesn't normally speak to my heart, there was something about it that I found almost endearing. Is it trying to scare me? Because it's not scaring me at all. In fact, it looks much like the way I feel.
With every passing year, the cloak of the approaching winter weighs heavier and heavier. I dread the holidays, the C1eveland sludge, and the impending threat of illness more and more. I typically spend December through March wringing my hands and hovering around my kids' foreheads with an infrared thermometer, and this year I'm starting early.
And because I am so worried about my kids, it naturally follows that I am short-tempered and irritable with them. Such as when they all but lick the doorknob at the H1N1 vaccine dispensation center. I yell because I love.
Every morning for the past several weeks, I have been going down a list cobbled together through dumb luck and trial and error, calling various pharmacies and public health offices to pin down vaccine. It's been much like searching for a needle in a haystack, but yesterday I hit paydirt and J-dog and V-meister were inoculated.
Of course, the vaccine takes more than a week to kick in and meanwhile I'm sure they will have picked up swine flu in the waiting room. I myself was not eligible for the vaccine, but don't think for a minute that I didn't contemplate snatching a vial out of Nurse Betty's grubby little hands and stabbing myself in the arm with it.
In other news, the honeymoon is over between me and the decorators. I've been reluctant to complain about them here because what kind of person whines about the luxury of having someone update their house for them? It's just that . . . well . . . if I'm going to pay someone to coordinate my home improvement projects, well then by God I expect that someone to own a cell phone and answer it . . . and to show up on time for appointments . . . and to communicate with the contractors so they don't have to call me every morning as I'm herding the kids out the door wondering which color paint to buy . . . and!. . . to stop steering me toward styles of decor I've repeatedly indicated don't jive with my crumb-ridden lifestyle.
The first time we met to "talk about colors and patterns," I told the decorators "no plaid, no orange." Next thing you know, they're showing me a plaid curtain sample and trying to pass it off as "checkered." And goddamn if that little fucker wasn't peppered with multiple orange squares, plain as the nose on your face. I said, "I like Arhaus, Pottery Barn, and Restoration Hardware! Don't show me anything with feet on it!" and . . .
. . . ended up signing off on this 1920s hallway table:
It should be noted that the table will be refurbished with new knobs and maybe some burnished mirror panels. Now, even though cloven-hoofed furniture doesn't normally speak to my heart, there was something about it that I found almost endearing. Is it trying to scare me? Because it's not scaring me at all. In fact, it looks much like the way I feel.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Itzhak Perlman I Am Not
Total disaster of a violin lesson this morning, readers.
I must have made hella impression on my teacher last time, because today she forgot I was coming over.
And she only realized I was there for my bi-monthly lesson when she practically backed into my car on her way out the driveway. I could tell she was a little irked to find me standing on her stoop with my pencil bun hairdo and violin case in hand, but what could I do? We had a covenant.
She was like, "Well, we might as well do this thing since you're here now. Come on in." And I was like, "That's good, because I wasn't planning on leaving. (Telepathically.)
So then I followed her in the house, where the attack dogs were barking hysterically in a cage not two feet from the music room and began setting up my violin paraphernalia and whatnot. I guess it goes without saying that this time, we skipped the yoga stretches.
I had just finished painstakingly positioning my violin under my chin when she said,
"Is that how you've been holding it all week?"
And thus began a half hour humblepalooza during which I learned that every single frickity-frackin' thing I'd been practicing since my last lesson, I had been practicing ass backwards. And my teacher-who-had-someplace-else-to be was clearly getting irritated with me and my prehensile bow grip and form.
The really sad part is that I had been trying very hard, even going so far as to study Utube clips for hours (OK, minutes) on end to make sure I was on track. And I was getting kind of cocky, too, feeling like if the C1eve1and Orchestra ever needed someone in a pinch to play a single note for them, I could totally do it.
I'm not discouraged yet, readers, but the thing that's got me worried about my next lesson is the fact that I'm still not sure I understand exactly what it is that I'm supposed to do, or what I was doing wrong (besides holding my violin like a rocket launcher).
And, of course, the dogs.
I must have made hella impression on my teacher last time, because today she forgot I was coming over.
And she only realized I was there for my bi-monthly lesson when she practically backed into my car on her way out the driveway. I could tell she was a little irked to find me standing on her stoop with my pencil bun hairdo and violin case in hand, but what could I do? We had a covenant.
She was like, "Well, we might as well do this thing since you're here now. Come on in." And I was like, "That's good, because I wasn't planning on leaving. (Telepathically.)
So then I followed her in the house, where the attack dogs were barking hysterically in a cage not two feet from the music room and began setting up my violin paraphernalia and whatnot. I guess it goes without saying that this time, we skipped the yoga stretches.
I had just finished painstakingly positioning my violin under my chin when she said,
"Is that how you've been holding it all week?"
And thus began a half hour humblepalooza during which I learned that every single frickity-frackin' thing I'd been practicing since my last lesson, I had been practicing ass backwards. And my teacher-who-had-someplace-else-to be was clearly getting irritated with me and my prehensile bow grip and form.
The really sad part is that I had been trying very hard, even going so far as to study Utube clips for hours (OK, minutes) on end to make sure I was on track. And I was getting kind of cocky, too, feeling like if the C1eve1and Orchestra ever needed someone in a pinch to play a single note for them, I could totally do it.
I'm not discouraged yet, readers, but the thing that's got me worried about my next lesson is the fact that I'm still not sure I understand exactly what it is that I'm supposed to do, or what I was doing wrong (besides holding my violin like a rocket launcher).
And, of course, the dogs.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them*
Yesterday morning, I was practicing my note on the violin when I remembered that I hadn't fed Valentine and Clementine yet.
After drinking a second cup of coffee, emptying the dishwasher, checking the Halloween weather forecast, and scheming ways to get my hands on some swine flu vaccine, I went upstairs to tend to the fish.
As far as I could tell, Clementine was exhibiting normal goldfish behavior, but Valentine was dead.
Carp! I mean, "crap!"
I scurried away to consult Dr. Google ("What does it mean if my goldfish is floating head down and not moving or breathing?"), posted it all over Facebook and Twitter, and was temporarily bouyed by the myriad of possible ailments that might cause a goldfish to behave in this manner (and believe me, there are quite a few.)
I'd peek in on him with hope throughout the day, but he looked dead every time.
When the P-Dawg came home that evening, I cornered him.
"I have some bad news. Either Valentine is dead, or very, very ill. He's floating motionless at the bottom of the tank, tangled up in some seaweed next to SpongeBob. I first noticed it this morning and have been monitoring the situation hourly."
"To make sure he's still dead?"
"Shut up! He might be constipated."
The P-Dawg went upstairs to investigate and silently pronounced him at around 8:30 PM while the little V-meister hovered obliviously about, marveling at Valentine's ability to sleep upside down. Then he scooped Valentine out of the tank and made his stealthy way to the bathroom down the hall.
"Where are you taking Valentine, Daddy? Is he still sleeping?" the V-meister wanted to know.
The bathroom door closed swiftly and soon a hearty flush was heard.
When P-Dawg emerged, the V-meiser was beside herself with grief. "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH VALENTINE?" she wailed.
The P-Dawg couldn't break it to her. We just weren't prepared for "the talk" yet.
"I'll tell you tomorrow," he said.
But the V-meister persisted, so the P-Dawg had no other choice but to tell her
. . . a honkin' pack of lies.
(Valentine, you see, had been unwell in her tank environment and therefore had to go - via our bathroom plumbing - straight into Lake Erie, where she is now swimming happily about with her toxic friends.)
Another thing that went down the toilet last night: my earlier pledge to be honest with my kids about the harsh realities of life.
*Apologies to Al Franken
After drinking a second cup of coffee, emptying the dishwasher, checking the Halloween weather forecast, and scheming ways to get my hands on some swine flu vaccine, I went upstairs to tend to the fish.
As far as I could tell, Clementine was exhibiting normal goldfish behavior, but Valentine was dead.
Carp! I mean, "crap!"
I scurried away to consult Dr. Google ("What does it mean if my goldfish is floating head down and not moving or breathing?"), posted it all over Facebook and Twitter, and was temporarily bouyed by the myriad of possible ailments that might cause a goldfish to behave in this manner (and believe me, there are quite a few.)
I'd peek in on him with hope throughout the day, but he looked dead every time.
When the P-Dawg came home that evening, I cornered him.
"I have some bad news. Either Valentine is dead, or very, very ill. He's floating motionless at the bottom of the tank, tangled up in some seaweed next to SpongeBob. I first noticed it this morning and have been monitoring the situation hourly."
"To make sure he's still dead?"
"Shut up! He might be constipated."
The P-Dawg went upstairs to investigate and silently pronounced him at around 8:30 PM while the little V-meister hovered obliviously about, marveling at Valentine's ability to sleep upside down. Then he scooped Valentine out of the tank and made his stealthy way to the bathroom down the hall.
"Where are you taking Valentine, Daddy? Is he still sleeping?" the V-meister wanted to know.
The bathroom door closed swiftly and soon a hearty flush was heard.
When P-Dawg emerged, the V-meiser was beside herself with grief. "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH VALENTINE?" she wailed.
The P-Dawg couldn't break it to her. We just weren't prepared for "the talk" yet.
"I'll tell you tomorrow," he said.
But the V-meister persisted, so the P-Dawg had no other choice but to tell her
. . . a honkin' pack of lies.
(Valentine, you see, had been unwell in her tank environment and therefore had to go - via our bathroom plumbing - straight into Lake Erie, where she is now swimming happily about with her toxic friends.)
Another thing that went down the toilet last night: my earlier pledge to be honest with my kids about the harsh realities of life.
*Apologies to Al Franken
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