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.

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

Hi, I'm Panicking

Is it just me, or is anyone else going nucking futs, reading all these swine flu posts and Facebook updates, unable to score any vaccine, and waiting for the beast to emerge from the jungle?

Hopefully I'll live to regret saying this, but if I can't get me some H1N1 vaccine (and I apparently can't) very soon, I sort of wish I'd just get the damn flu already and be done with it. (Not really. But kind of. But actually not.)

Clearly, it's just a matter of time.

I'm pretty sure one of the princesses who attended V-meister party last weekend has it, because her mom keeps posting cryptic Facebook updates about hacking coughs and high fevers, and when I sent her a probing email, she responded that "everything's fine, we're just really sick!" LOL!

4RL? ZOMGWTF!

Okay.

Isn't there some sort of swine flu code of conduct requiring you to alert people who might have been exposed so they don't go around infecting others? I mean, if me and my kids are walking germ incubators, it would be nice to know.

Am I overreacting, internets?

Well. If anyone needs me, I'll be in my sealed oxygen chamber, freaking right out.

A Fairytale

Once upon a time, in a kingdom called, "Ohio," there lived a little girl named V-meister who wanted nothing so much as a goldfish and for all girls to dress up as princesses on her sixth birthday.

On the birthday morning, she woke up and . . . there was an empty aquarium on her dresser.

Later, her mama took her to Petc0, where she picked out two fish:


"Valentine and Clementine" (Someone is going to have to remind us to change that filter in a couple of weeks.)

The princess's second wish came true the next day, when her grandparents, two uncles, brother, cousin and closest friends gathered for a birthday feast at Chateau Rama.



It was the V-meister's heart's desire that her mother, Queen Rima de la Rama, wear her wedding gown to the ball.

The Queen negotiated down to an old bridesmaid's dress and a tiara:


Princess V-Meister and Queen Rima de la Rama

Queen Rima de la Rama was a "beta mom" who normally snubbed themed birthday parties that would require her to lift a finger and only spoil the children more, but the idea of a princess party was somehow appealing.

Even Grandma M. and Uncle M. came in all their finery:



While there were no bouncy castles, red carpets, or hired court jesters, the princesses did do a craft and played several party games.


It was a foam craft.


(Some princess identities have been protected.)

Queen Rima de la Rama's friend, the Duchess of V, (wearing a black turtleneck and jeans) regaled the assembled princesses with super scary L1thuanian fairy tales featuring nine-headed fire breathing dragons and an assortment of cats, foxes, and roosters:


She was the hit of the party.

Afterwards, it was time for refreshments. Some princesses announced that they do not like pizza, turkey roll-ups, hummus, carrots, grapes, pretzels, or chocolate cake with ice cream.

Queen Rima de la Rama suggested that those princesses drink water. Does she look like the sort of queen who makes grilled cheese sandwiches on demand?

Then there was much present opening, wand waving, shrieking, and prancing throughout the kingdom as the princesses oohhed and ahhhed over gifts and began burning off their sugar highs.





Throughout the proceedings, the little Prince J-Dog (who refused to wear his knightly helmet for any length of time), was quite a trooper.

. . .Until the assembled princesses began chasing him all over the kingdom and calling him names, at which point he flipped out and had to be redirected.

He cannot be held accountable for his actions.



After the princesses partook of a delicious C0stc0 cake and some ice cream, they beat the living crap out of a pinata and stuffed their little pink polyester princess purses full of party spoils.

And they lived happily ever after, forever and ever,

THE END.

Fiddling Around

So far, the best part about taking violin lessons is waltzing around town carrying a violin case and looking vaguely musical. The actual "learning how to play" bit is proving to be quite a challenge.

Did I listen when the first potential teacher I called, chuckling slightly under her breath, suggested I try cello or piano instead? Was I paying attention when she confided that playing violin is actually hard physical work? That proper form must be mastered before any real music making can begin? Did I pay heed when she explained that the hands of children who start playing at a very young age actually grow differently to accommodate the various string positions? That few adults have the time and stamina to take on the commitment that is violin?

I did not. I arched my brow and did the Z-snap. "Bring it, sistah!"

And that's how I ended up on a tree-lined street with ivy clad Tudor style houses last Friday, knocking on her door for my first ever lesson, a flimsy invisible fence separating me from the two pissed off attack dogs who were obviously trained to scare the crap out of housewives turned wanna be violinists.

The first thing I learned is that the violin is a high maintenance kind of gal - there' s a lot of rosin polishing, string tightening, and chin rest adjusting before one can even begin to think about making music. And when your instrument is finally ready (*snort*), it's time to get in play position.

But don't think you can hold the bow any which way and drag it across the stings willy-nilly, readers. The violin is a demanding luv-ah, and there's a special place in hell for players who don't practice good bow hold. Of course, once your gnarled thirty-six year old digits are finally in position, you must go directly to the nearest fire station to make sure you've installed yourself correctly. Then and only then can you begin to play. One note - the "A."

But you mustn't flap your arms all over tarnation like some kind of freak show carnival fiddler. Instead, move your forearm back and forth, as though opening a door - your elbow should remain almost stationery. There! Just like that. Now make sure the horsehair hits the string at an angle, like so, otherwise it sounds like you're skinning a cat. Pretty f*cking hard, eh? Try to do all this with a "light touch," even though you're concentrating so hard that your knuckles are turning bone white and it's everything you can do to hold in that fart. Now you're ready to play.

Despite not being especially supportive of my non-traditional student status, I think my teacher is pretty cool. She drinks tea, has a dry sense of humor and a little zen rock garden in her music room. She also makes you do yoga stretches before each lesson, which seems to run counter to the attack dogs, but who am I to question the mysterious violin subculture?

My only assignment for the next week is to practice holding the bow and striking the "A" string using proper form. If I get really good at playing the "A," I'm allowed to try another note, but I must not go nuts with it. My lesson was only a few days ago, and already I'm having trouble re-enacting the bow hold and arm movements my teacher showed me. Despite watching countless instructional clips on Utube and poring over the diagrams in my Level One Suzuki book, I feel like I'm just now getting acquainted with my opposable thumb.

Readers, it looks as though I've met my match. She's fifteen inches tall and weighs about a pound.

America or Burst

We have some relatives visiting from Lithuania and I have been very busy showing them America and stuff.

So far I've showed them the inside of my house, a Japanese steak house, a TJ Maxx, and a pumpkin patch. It's put me into a bit of a tizzy because I remember all too well the impeccable manners I was expected to display when I visited the land of my forebears back in '94. It's hard to kick back and chill with your homies in the fatherland when every time you turn around, your mom is giving you meaningful looks that say, "Don't you dare let them pay for that", "Just eat it" and "Is that what you're wearing?"

On the first night we were in Lithuania, I misread a very important telepathic message my mother was desperately trying to send me at the dinner table using bulging eyeballs, a throbbing temporal vein, and the international throat cutting symbol. The message was: Don't you dare drink that shot of vodka which has been put next to your place setting out of sheer politeness. Unfortunately, I was already busy slinging it back with old uncle Povilas and faster than I could say, "Whose got a light?", my mother had yanked me aside for a heart-to-heart about what IS and what IS NOT appropriate behavior for a twenty-year old maiden on holiday in Lithuania.

The next morning I was heading for the bathroom with towel in hand when my mother intercepted me. "I hope you weren't planning on TAKING A SHOWER in there" she hissed. "If you need to freshen up, you can do it by aiming a trickle of cold water at your armpits and nether regions. And don't even think about using more than one sheet of toilet paper. Do you want to back up the entire country's plumbing and re-activate Chernobyl?"

One of the things I really wanted to do during my visit to Lithuania was purchase some amber jewelry. But every time we were in a store and I let my glance linger on an item for an inappropriate length of time, daggers would start issuing forth from my mother's eyes as she made the international symbol for Don't act like you want anything in here because the relatives will try to buy it for you and they can't afford it. Do you want to bankrupt your uncle Povilas who gave away his youth to the Siberian labor camps?

So I came home from Lithuania sober, constipated, and empty-handed. And here we are sixteen years later, with a handful of the relatives in front of whom I may or may not have acted boorishly having decided to visit America.

At first I was kind of nervous to re-connect with my cousin Sandra, who I remembered as a shy nine-year old during my sojourn in 1994. My mother's mind - which I had read - was telling me that I was to take her under my wing during her stay. It also hinted at the possibility that we might form an instant bond transcending time and place to become best friends forever so that our children's children would one day frolic together on the shores of the Baltic Sea.

I naturally recoiled from this imaginary expectation, but my mom's ninja mind control prevailed in the end because Sandra turned out to be a pretty cool grown-up. We've been hanging out for the past couple of days and when I told her about the time I got busted for pounding that shot of vodka, she confided that earlier at lunch, she received the stare of damnation from her aunt for ordering a second pint of Guinness. But she said she don't care, 'cause she's punk rock like that.

Familial bonds - they transcend time and place.

Golden Sneakers vs. Silver Fins

I am in the race of my life against an elderly woman at the local YMCA.

We have a family membership there, and I work out every Monday afternoon while the kids are at their art/music/play/doesitreallymatter? class.  I have just enough time to sweat out about thirty minutes on the elliptical before grabbing a shower and returning to pick J-dog and V-meister up. Generally speaking, my Monday afternoon drop-off/workout/pickup regimen is a well oiled machine.

Now it seems there is a senior aquatics class  - the Silver Fins - wrapping up right about the same time as I'm heading for the showers, of which there are only three.  And for the past few Mondays, I have had to wait in line for twenty minutes - sometimes more! - while the Silver Fins slooooooooooooowly rinse off.  It puts quite a wrench into my Monday afternoon schedule.

"This week," I told myself, "the game is gonna change."  So on Monday I cut my workout short by five minutes and, with the Chariots of Fire theme song playing in my head,  made my way towards the shower room like a bat out of hell.

Readers, I arrived in the nick of time, just as the first of the Silver Fins posse was inching around the corner.  Breathless and red-faced, I hopped into the center stall, did a quick victory shuffle, and turned the water on. 

But, soft! What hand through yonder shower curtain breaks?

"THAT YOU IN THERE, KAREN?" (One of the heftier, tattoed Silver Fins has violently ripped the curtain open and poked her permed head inside.)

Me, scrambling to draw curtain shut: "Nope! Not Karen! I'll be done in a minute, though, and thank you for respecting my privacy while I finish up!"

Silver Fin: "Oh, I didn't see you sneak in there, hon!  You know, I always take this stall because it's the roomiest.  The gals call it 'Gertie's* stall', heh heh, because it's mine.  You snuck in on me pretty good, there! Well, I guess I'll just sit here for a spell until you're done.  "

The remaining two showers in the room were empty, but Gertie pulled up a stool, planted herself directly in front of the stall I was in, and started humming.

Now, usually I'm in and out in five minutes, but you know I took a forty-five minute shower that day.

(Actually, I just stood under the stream doing a whole lotta nothin' since in my haste, I had forgotten to bring soap and shampoo.)

When, in my estimation an appropriate amount of time had elapsed, I turned the water off and, taking great pains to adjust my towel just so before exiting, waltzed out with head held high and never looked back.

Next week I'll have to truncate my workout by another five minutes to ensure that I cut Gertie off at the pass.  But it's a wash (a WASH!) in the end, on account of all the extra calories I plan to burn in the race.

*Probably her real name

But Nothing Could Be More Horrifying Than Nellie

I happened upon my old copy of Little House in the Big Woods the other day while looking for something in my ancient keepsake chest. It was one among only three books I'd apparently deemed worthy of saving (the other two were Ramona and Her Mother and a Catholic Guide to Sex) and I thought it would be fun to read aloud from it with the V-meister every night before bed.

A few nights ago, we curled up on the couch together and started.  Things were pretty much as I'd remembered them in the Big Woods, except that by page three, there was talk of wolves eating little girls.  Ten pages in, someone had been attacked by a panther, Pa had shot a deer, butchered a pig and rigged its carcass up in the yard, Ma was making entrail stew, Laura and Mary were tossing the pig's inflated bladder around the yard, and my rainbows and unicorns reading voice had morphed into an apologetic whisper.

All this Blood and Guts on the Prairie took me quite by surprise - I didn't rememer any of it from back in the day.  And so I took to muffling and sometimes flat out dropping words like "dead", "killed," and "carcass," but the ever vigilant V-meister was reading along and consistently calling my bluff.  So like any good mother concerned with preserving the rose tinted facade of modern life in the 'burbs, I skipped to the chapter about Christmas. I told myself it was because I wasn't in the mood to explain entrail stew just then, when the ulterior motive was essentially to shield the V-meister from unpleasantness of any kind and faciliate her current belief that chicken nuggets come pre-fabbed and batter dipped straight from the heavens.

Oh, sure, we've talked about death: I accidentally rented the story of Babar and his mother when V-meister was two.  And when my grandmother passed away, I explained my beliefs about the afterlife in the most benign and pleasant way I could, making it sound like the awesome passage I'd like to convince myself it is.  But one day V-meister will have to learn that not everyone dies peacefully in their sleep, that awful things can happen to good people, that there is pain and suffering, that the meat we eat for dinner was butchered.

Ours is a whitewashed, Photoshopped, and airbrushed world.  And it's not that I really believe in protecting my babies from all of its harsh realities, but rather that I don't know how far to peel back the glossy veneer, how much of the gritty core to expose, or when.

I remembered how upset I was with a friend some time ago when she relayed to me a story about being at a museum with her young daughter at the same time as a pair of conjoined twins.  To my horror, she explained that she wasn't able to herd Mary out of the exhibit in time to prevent her from glimpsing the twins, but proudly recounted how she'd explained, post facto, that they were "kind of like Zack and Weezie on Dragon Tails" and therefore nothing to be afraid of.  How dare she keep her daughter away from those little girls as though they were some kind of monstrosity?  How could she compare them to a cartoon character, rather than providing an honest explanation? 

But judging from the cold sweat that Little House in the Big Woods provoked in me, I see that I'm no better.  I'll admit I initially insisted that Babar's mother was "just sleeping" (I later had to renege because, even at age two and a half, V-meister wasn't buying it.)  I couldn't bring myself to tell her what was inside her great-grandmother's casket.  I make it a point to flip the news channel when war footage is being shown,  and I regularly omit the word "chicken" in front of "nugget" just so my kids would eat.

The funny thing is, I actually learned a lot about life from watching Little House on the Prairie reruns.  And  - wonder of wonders - witnessing countless unmedicated labors, amputations, fires, and gruesome illnesses through Michael Landon's deft lens didn't actually make me any worse for the wear.  If anything, I was pleasantly surprised to learn as an adult that my chances of contracting smallpox or dying in a covered wagon accident ware actually quite slim.

As luck would have it, the V-meister wasn't too impressed with Little House in the Big Woods, anyway (too many words, not enough pictures), so for the moment, I've been spared the ole' "How to Avoid Being Eaten Alive by a Panther" speech.  I think I'll put Little House in the Big Woods back in the chest with the Catholic Guide to Sex until she's . . . about thirty.  But I will make a conscious effort to answer her questions about the harsher realities of existence honestly and in an appropriate context for her age, whatever that may be.

I guess it's time to start calling a spade a spade. (Or a chicken a chicken.)

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to get my rabbit stew on.

When Science And Life Collide

I came home from choir rehearsal last night to find the P-Dawg beside himself with glee.

"WE ARE NOT CHIMPANZEES!!!!" he announced as I knuckle-walked through the door.

I immediately put down my banana, stood upright, and joined him in the family room, where P-Dawg breathlessly informed me of the discovery of Ardipithecus Ramdus or "Ardi", the fossil that has usurped Lucy's claim to fame as mother of humankind. It's the sort of news that has many scientists drooling over their pocket protectors, and the P-Dawg even more so because one of the members of the research team that discovered Ardi just happens to be a former professor of his.

I immediately went online and read all about this long lost biped cousin. It turns out she stood about five feet tall, weighed 110 pounds, and was in desperate need of a properly fitting bra.

In other words, she's me, only furrier.