Bare Huntin'

I broke down and went shopping the other day. Granted it was just to the local Kmart and after my kids were in bed, so it wasn’t so bad. It is in these rare moments without my children that I take extra time and notice the little things at the store.

For instance, as I was searching out a heating pad, I passed the hunting section. I don’t generally pay close attention to the hunting section. In fact, I only knew it was the hunting section by the array of camouflage ensembles on display (wait, this is the South, perhaps it was just the clothing section). What caught my eye was a bear head. It was part of what appeared to be a costume. I again would have taken no notice except for the fact that printed on the box were some words that my brain picked up in this order: “Amuse buddies hilarious jokes.” I walked by once, stopped, and backed up thinking, “I’m not so sure that dressing like a bear and surprising your buddies on a drinking/hunting trip is the best idea, but then I’m not from around here.

Upon closer inspection--yes, I stopped to check out something in the hunting section as my children were not with me so I had time and mental capacity to think thoughts and follow through—I discovered that it fortunately was not a costume, but a fake bear skin rug. The idea is apparently that you place the rug in your home and invite your friends over. Then, while you’re all sitting around, discussing classical literature, reading poetry and nibbling appetizers, the bear suddenly starts cracking jokes and insulting your friends. Hilarious I know. What will they think of next? I’m starting to think the bear costume was a good idea.

Practice Makes Moderato

Three rehearsals down, one to go. The concert is this Sunday. Here's the play by play:

Last week's rehearsal: Grande Scherzo. I showed up, I suddenly had a stand partner and we had been moved to where we could better see the Maestro, but no longer was I sitting behind my favorite lead. I was sitting behind a nice young lady who, though plays very well, was not always playing the same music as I (and not just because I was playing it wrong thank you).

My newfound stand partner hadn't really seen the music before and so was muddling through it as was I, so we were absolutely no help to each other. I was beginning to wonder if I had seen the music before myself. I survived the rehearsal and headed home for more practice. I found myself practicing nearly 3 hours a day for a couple of days and suddenly had an epiphany: I'm not getting paid enough to put in 3 hours a day. I need to let go of the perfectionism (I always wondered where Ethan gets his need for control) and give myself permission to screw up. With four rehearsals, I am not going to get this perfectly. I will screw up in the concert. My aim right now is to minimize my screw ups rather than eliminate them. Practice makes moderato.

Thanks to conversations with my mother I was reminded that I am not doing this for the orchestra or the maestro or the audience. I am doing this for myself. Thanks Mom.

I had a wonderful conversation with a dear friend today who has inspired me by learning as an adult to play the cello and now plays with an orchestra in New York. He verbally slapped me upside the head and told me he would refuse let me quit. Grazie Principe.

And so, tonight at rehearsal, I was much much more relaxed. It helped that my stand partner didn't show up again (I get the feeling she's backing out of this concert) and we had a bunch of students playing third violin (so I am now a "role model") and was once again sitting behind my "friend". (I realized why she is such a help--she counts the beats almost out loud and makes such a grand movement when coming in that I can't help but follow her--she better not screw up).

I think that my mindset change has been key. I relaxed. I suddenly felt like I was somewhat competent. I played very mediocre-ly and actually recognized the pieces we were playing. Tonight's rehearsal felt much more like I had hoped--a musical release from my day to day, a bit of a challenge and a bit of beauty.

Scherzo

You may have noticed I’ve been a bit absent from my blog. This is primarily due to the fact that I joined the local philharmonic orchestra and have spent all my spare evening hours practicing.. It sounds great, but I’m not yet convinced. I joined thinking how nice it would be to get away to rehearsal once a week, to awaken a part of my brain and soul that has been dormant (or focused solely on “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”) for some time. Last week was the first of four rehearsals for the upcoming concert. I’ve come to realize that rather than awakening the musician in my soul, I think I’m doing penance.

You see, as a twelve-year-old girl, I auditioned for the Utah Youth Symphony. I actually made it into the concert orchestra—last chair third violin. I went to one three-hour rehearsal, went home in tears and promptly quit. I have now regretted that decision for twenty-two years. Twenty-two years ago I not only had more free time, but I was a much better violinist. As the last chair second violin in the Brevard Philharmonic, I am struggling. I am playing three pieces in a concert two short weeks and three even shorter rehearsals from now and I am terrified and feeling very incompetent. In honor of the impending concert, I’d like to introduce a few musical terms.

Scherzo (Joke). Considering my presence at the concert, this term is self-explanatory.

Con Grazia (With Grace). By the Grace of God I don’t have a stand partner to wince while I play.

Concerto Grosso (Fat Concert). Is that a fat joke? I did notice my Oprah Arms flapping with my bow.

Pizzicato or Pizz. (Plucked, as opposed to bowed). Plucking for three pages is the pizz.

Ritard (Slow). Last chair, second violin. Need I say more?

Chatterbox

When I was small, my father would come home at night and ask my mother if I ever stopped talking. Once again, I am doing penance. Ethan enjoys spending the bulk of his day following me from room to room endlessly talking. He is usually explaining to me the many details of his present make-believe situation, in which I am required to take part. I’ve learned to tune him out until the point when he says “Are you ‘tending that mom?” and I respond “Yes, of course I’m pretending that.” This only backfires when my part of the ‘tending involved making a phone call or some other active participation on my part. Then it’s back to the drawing board when I ask for clarification. Honestly sometimes I try and follow the storyline, but it’s usually so complex that my brain shuts down somewhere between “’Tend your pipes are frozen and dey burst” and “’tend you want a pipe-fixer to come live with you and your 35 kids.”

Today, after he had been going on and on for a good fifteen minutes, I explained that I needed to go out to the car to get something but that he and his dog and his other pretend house-guests should make themselves at home while I was gone. I hadn’t been out there 30 seconds when I hear my bedroom window open to the cold January air and the explanation continue in a loud yell “’tend you had a . . . “. I’ll admit, I lost it. The baby was sleeping through the adjacent single-paned window and I was being followed around and yelled at about this pretend world. The driveway, the shower, the toilet, my nap, it doesn’t matter, the narration continues. And I started scolding him. Well, I hurt his feelings. I went inside and asked him what was so important he had to yell it at me out the window. He said he just had to tell me what we were pretending. I felt bad, but honestly, the voices outside my head were beginning to drive me a little batty.

I appreciate the fact that he is so creative. I think it’s great. I just wish that somedays his outer monologue would be an inner one.

iFriend

My husband has wanted a GPS navigation device for some time now. This has been a source of contention between us because well, they’re very expensive (relative to our income) and, for me, mostly useless. You see, as was pointed out in a recent ‘discussion’ of the topic, I have a relatively sound built in navigation system. It’s called a good sense of direction. I think I developed this during my formative years in Utah (900 East 400 South—thank you Brigham Young). My husband, having grown up in Washington with their wannabe grid system and near complete lack of large, imposing land features such as mountains (except of course Mount Rainier, which can only be seen on the rare clear day), did not develop such a system.

So, the other day, Matt scraped together enough discretionary funds to justify the purchase of a device as an early birthday gift. The Garmin being out of the price-range, he opted for the Magellan. Now, as I recall (with a little help from wikipedia) Magellan's voyage around the earth encountered some pretty serious setbacks. Only one of the original five ships actually completed the trip. Also, 252 of the original 270 crew members (including Ferdinand Magellan himself) were killed enroute. Considering all this, I'm not sure the Magellan is suitably named. Then again, having ridden in a vehicle guided by such a system, I've wondered if we weren't indeed taking the longest possible route and if we'd actually arrive at our destination alive--so perhaps it's the perfect name.

He has since named his little Magellan “Maggie”. He and Maggie have spent the last week together in Tampa--I'm not sure how I feel about that. While home alone with my children and computer (I think I'll name him Balthazar) I have had a vision of the future of the GPS navigation system: the iFriend. This will be Apple’s answer to the portable electronic imaginary friend. You program it to just what you expect of a friend and it responds accordingly.

“Wow, you look great today!”

“Those jeans make your butt look big.”

“You really should hit the Taco Bell drive through. You’ve had a rough week.”

“You are a good mother and your children are so well-behaved.”

“No, you don’t have bad breath.”

“You are a slob, clean out your car.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll watch the kids, you go shop.”

What would your iFriend say to you? What would it say to others about you?

Holy Tantrum

This morning my son was playing "church". This involved setting up all my kitchen chairs in the living room, standing on the hearth to sing and pray and bless trays of bread and water to be passed amongst the parishioners. It was all very cute until things got ugly. The services had to be halted while I cleaned up the can of peaches Elliot dumped on my bedroom floor, and again while I called poison control after I found him licking a stamp pad.

After it was determined that no hospital trip was required, things again got underway. This was short-lived however. Elliot began double-dipping into the pretend sacramental bread which infuriated the priest/deacon. I had to pause prior to partaking of the water to prevent a brawl. This resulted in the priest/deacon smacking me upside the head and being sent to his room with a spanking.

Considering it was church, there was an awful lot of physical abuse going on.

Eat More Venysin

We were driving back to Fairyland from visiting family in Atlanta and we needed a little break. We exited the highway and were pleased to see a Chick-fil-A with a playground. I’ve blogged before about strange experiences at Chick-fil-A and this day did not disappoint (though, by far still a much better fast food choice than most out there).

There were a couple of large charter buses in the parking lot, but, undaunted, we found a spot and muscled our way in the restaurant. Fortunately the charter-people were just finishing up. Unfortunately, the remaining members, a teenage boy and a middle-aged man, were sitting at a table next to ours. The man was talking on his cell phone.

“Well, Troy is sick.”

Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

“He’s running a fever and –Troy, can I get you a bag in case it happens again?”

I’m filling in the blanks here as I had mostly tuned out any conversation not directly involving keeping my children seated and eating.

“Yes, we’re at the Chick-fil-A at exit 144”

Actually, it was 149, but what do a few miles matter when your kid is puking in a Chick-fil-A in middle of nowhere Georgia?

At this point the manager enters the scene.

“Troy, I’m the manager here, why don’t you come with me and I’ll get you some sprite and crackers and find you a place to wait for your parents.”

Perfect, as a parent, I’m comforted to know that the puking kid is no longer sitting next to my child as we’re about to get back underway on our road trip. As a parent, I’m also a bit concerned about the idea of a chaperone leaving a sick child in the middle of nowhere in the care of a fast food restaurant manger. Shouldn’t an adult from charter bus land stay with him?

Well, my kids finish up, play for a bit, then, we head back out to the car. Matt motions toward the bed of the pick-up truck now parked next to us. Ladies and Gentlemen, there was a deer lying gracefully dead in the open bed of the truck.

But, as Matt pointed out, they had at least covered its head with a camouflage jacket. Well, that makes it all okay then. (Where’d the head go? I dunno, all I see are a bunch of leaves.)

As a parent, I was much less disturbed by the deer carcass then by the pair of rifles lying beside the beast in the open bed of the truck, next to the children’s play area at the local Chick-fil-A. Matt likes to point out that the guns were in cases. Yes, they were in rifle shaped cases. Welcome to the South.

We left Chick-fil-A and stopped briefly by the neighboring outlet mall. I bought a pair of camouflage pants. I can’t say I’ve ever owned anything camouflage before, but my reasons at this moment were plentiful:

1) I live in the woods—you never know when you might want to blend in.

2) I live in the South—I just my take up hunting—or not. It seems to be the standard of dress around here, regardless of whether you’re intending to shoot something in the immediate future—besides, you never know when you might get a hankering to shoot something.

3) They cost twelve dollars.

4) My husband said they make my butt disappear. (Camouflage, my a--!!)

Maybe soon I’ll bag my first deer . . .