Applying to Grad School

After encountering every possible deterrent, I have finally submitted the first of three packets of my composition portfolio to various graduate schools. You would think that the part about just obtaining your own work and putting it in the mail would be the easy part. The hard parts are supposed to be things like the Personal Statement. The standardized tests. The entrance exams. Interviews, etc. Not so. Just rounding up my own stuff was the most arduous and aggravating process of all.

In applications for music composition, you have to submit scores and recordings. Okay, no big deal, right? At the onset of all of this, say six months ago, I had two respectable recordings.

Fine, but I wanted the put my best foot forward--I wanted more, live recordings. Which worked out well because I had just been commissioned by Calliope Women's Chorus to arrange a song for them. I also had just finished updating this Woodwind Quartet and thought, hey, it'll be easy to find four woodwind players from various parts of the city and to coordinate their schedules in the middle of an early Minnesota winter with my friend who knows how to record stuff.
On the Woodwind Quartet: I planned to make a quick process of it. I had a friend who is a bassoonist and she said she could hook me up with a quartet. Well, that fell through. That was rather disappointing, but I took a deep breath, looked at the calendar (November 1st) and realized that I still had two months to pull it together. So I started emailing every college in Minnesota, every community band and orchestra I could think of, and every person in my address book, asking for referrals to woodwind players. Very quickly I had myself a trio of flute, clarinet, and bassoon. Missing an oboist, I continued the email chain, posted on Craigslist, and kept watching the calendar. November 8, November 15.....yikes!

I finally heard from an oboe player. Immediately, I sent out a Meeting Wizard request (if you don't know what that is, look it up, it is a life-changing schedule coordination tool) and attempted to get this thing done. Originally, my plan was to have us meet twice, the first time for a read-through rehearsal, and the second time for a recording session. I quickly discovered that I wouldn't be able to coordinate so many people's schedules for two sessions within the time allotted. So we planned to meet just once, on a Saturday at noon, at St. Kate's, who generously offered me the recital hall for excellent sound quality.

Saturday, December 1st came. And so did the first snowstorm of the season, with between 6-10 inches of snow falling in the metro and over a foot in other parts of the state. Driving conditions were not so great. My small ensemble was traveling from various locations, so I was a wreck that morning, making confirmation phone calls and hoping for the best.

I arrived at St. Kate's to find my recording friend, the oboist and the clarinetist ready to go. Nothing like instrumentalists--they are so....prompt! The bassoonist appeared shortly after noon, and we started warming up while waiting for the flute player. We waited. And waited.

Finally, 45 minutes later, after a few frantic phone calls, I gave up on her. We recorded the piece without a flute player. It sounded strange, but we did it.

We ended up finding a different flute player who was able to come in a few weeks later and play her part over the track of the other instruments. It was challenging, but she was awesome and professional and an amazing musician, and my recording friend is brilliant and blended the tracks very nicely. So it finally worked out.

On the Calliope piece: After going through all the stress of the Woodwind Quartet, I thought this would be relatively easy. All I needed was a recording of the choir performing my piece, and I was clear about that from the very beginning. "That is no problem, Liz, I will take care of it," a Calliope representative said. Indeed.

December 7-8 came, and so did another snow storm during our dress rehearsals. This meant that I didn't get a chance to confirm with the a/v people that we would be recording. Alas, after many phone calls to the Calliope representative, I felt assured that she was taking care of things on that end. Saturday night, when I arrived for warm-ups before our performance, I saw a disgruntled looking woman with an I-pod sitting in the front row. I approached her and asked
her if she was recording the concert. "Yes," she said, "But I have to do it from my I-pod because there was a misunderstanding about where the recording equipment was supposed to come from."

Oh dear. Well, okay, whatever, it's still getting recorded. Plus, we had another performance the next day. So Sunday came, and the first thing I did was ask the sound guy if all was well in the recording department.

"Recording? This is the first I have heard of that," he said. He also seemed irritated.

"You mean no one has talked to you about recording this concert?" I asked, slightly appalled.

"No one. And if you need me to do that, all I have is a tape, and I can't do it because you ask me to. You have to have your director talk to me."

Argh. So I passed on the word, and she got it sorted out.

In theory, after both of concerts were complete, there were two different recordings floating around out there. All that was left was me getting my hands on one of them, a.s.a.p.

Briefly, here is a list of problems I had while trying to obtain those recordings during the following week:

*Waiting for the tape to be transferred to CD and then having that completely fall through
*Someone dubbing a blank tape onto the original copy of the tape from Sunday after meaning to do it the other way around to make me a copy. Whoops.
* Trying to find a phone number for the woman who had the other recording--I had to call about four people just to get her phone number.
*Hearing that this woman would be able to email me the file from her I-pod. And then getting the phone call the following day saying the file is too big.
*Driving in ANOTHER snow storm to physically pick up the CD in Edina (which I never, never do--if I can avoid driving in the snow, I do. If I can avoid driving, for that matter, I do. And if I can avoid driving to Edina, well, clearly, that is also to be avoided at all costs. But this was urgent and very, very, important!)
*My car spinning out on 494 across four lanes of traffic on an overpass and crashing into the cement wall while driving on the ice in the fog and snow to pick up the recording. (I am okay and so is the car save for a new dent and a few big scratches and a tail light that sticks out--luckily I was driving about 30 mph because of the dangerous conditions). And, needless to say, I did not get the recording that day. Instead I spent an hour in the parking lot of the Mall of America, which was the closest place I could think of to pull over, crying and shaking and cursing higher education, Calliope Women's Chorus, and the idiot who angrily signaled for me to drive faster for causing this chain of events.
*Finally, after returning from Iowa on December 26th, driving to this woman's house and picking up the goddamn CD. Getting home and putting it in my computer and hearing the WRONG BLASTED PIECE OF MUSIC.

............

I finally have a copy of the piece. After having a break-down and screaming at the top of my lungs--and frightening my cats and possibly the neighbors--and possibly the neighbors' neighbors--I settled down and called the woman back and told her what had happened. She was great. She was very apologetic and professional and said she would get the CD of the right piece to me tomorrow. She put aside whatever it is was that she had going on to make the right copy for me and, yes, we met halfway the next day and I finally, finally, finally had the right piece of music.

So, after all is said and done (which is an expression I hate but feel compelled to use anyway), it turned out that I ran out of time to put the application materials in the mail. I had my girlfriend, who happens to work at the University of Minnesota, hand deliver the packet to the School of Music. And the other schools leave me plenty of time for mailing--the next one is due Jan 15 and then Jan 31. And now that I have all of my scores and recordings, it should be no problem. I hope.

I also realize that a lot of people came through for me during this process. Stacia, thank you for delivering that packet and thank you for listening to me vent about the entire process. My recording friend was awesome and he also had to listen to me vent and cry and stress. The woman who came through with the Calliope recording was great--she totally hung in there and kept working until we had the right copy. All of the performers were excellent and willing to work hard.

I have learned a few very important lessons during this process.
1. Always persevere and keep asking for what you need, even when it seems impossible!
2. Never trust anyone else to take care of the details around recording a live concert.
3. Never, never, never drive on icy roads. Not even when your career is on the line. I'd rather have my career on the line than my life. (P.S. I actually thought I was going to die when I saw the cement median rushing toward my face. This is what I thought: "After all I have been through, this is how I am going to go?!")

Did I want to give up during this process? Yes, of course.
And then Stacia and I ordered take-out from Taste of Thailand the night that she delivered the complete package (pun intended?), and my fortune said this:

Don't stress. You will soon be rewarded for all your hard work.

Kjerstimas 2007

Kills an Appetite

I moved in with my girlfriend not too long ago, and we have a roommate. I love both of these women, and living with them has been fun. Imagine Scrabble tournaments, pajama days, gossiping on the green couch, having a shoulder to cry on at all hours, and movie nights. Great fun. Love them, love them, love them!

But.

I am going through some adjustments, personally. For example, I have found that seemingly small details are representative, for me, of a greater personal struggle. Like the day I couldn't find my frozen vegan pizza because there was White Castle in the way. I pretty much had a break down, sobbing about how unfair it is to go from living in a consciously meat-free, fast-food free space into....a house with roommates. Or opening our cleaning cupboard, in which my one or two bottles of non-toxic cleaner are completely overshadowed by jumbo size toxic cleaners. 409! Mr. Clean! Stinky Mystery Cleaner! Bleach!

There's this thing about sharing space that is so.....difficult. I have lived by myself for quite a while, and moving in with two roommates who are very different from me is proving to be a challenge. It's funny, it never occurred to me that I would have to speak up about things like not using bleach or trying to reduce the amount of packaged products we buy because it just wasn't a concern for me, living alone. I didn't have it, didn't buy it, never thought about it. I am finding myself regularly blindsided by things like fragrant fabric softener and pre-sliced preservative-saturated turkey breast buddying up next to my tofu.

Sometimes the "peacefully coexist" mantra seems so idealistic. I mean, at the very least, shoveling frozen White Castle out of the way in order to get to Amy's Organic Pizza kills an appetite.

Rain boots

Today, a six-year-old completely belittled me.

She arrived in the line for music class. She was the first one in line, and I was standing at the head of the line, trying to keep everyone focused. She looked me up and down and said, with a flip of her hair and a condescending tone, "Liz, your clothes are soooo small."

Blink.

What? Does she think I dress inappropriately? Is my shirt riding up? Are my clothes to small or am I too big? Is she saying I'm fat?

As I stood there, stunned, bustling with insecurity, the six-year-old girl scoffed. She turned to her six-year-old friend and said, looking at my feet, "And, oh my god, are those rain boots?"

Can you say that?

Some families have all-out brash political debates at the holidays. Some families fight. Some families talk about popular news. Some families gossip about other family members.

My family, on the other hand, engages in what we know best: infantile humor.

This year, at the Thanksgiving table, my 11-year old cousin, who is generally quite reserved, started farting about halfway through the meal. At first, we politely ignored it, as good Scandinavian Midwesterners do, and then finally his older sister started saying, "Eew! Is that for real?"

My cousin grinned.
Pfffffft!

He turned bright red and fanned out his eleven-year-old boy ears. And then he reached underneath his leg and pulled out a homemade farting toy. His dad, sitting next to him, was also grinning. Clearly, Dad had taught Son a new trick. Go Team Rognes.

It was a contraption made from part of a wire clothes hanger, two rubber bands, and a washer. That easy! We were all fascinated and begged to take turns trying out the farting toy.

This distraction was too much for my three-year-old cousin. She wanted to be the center of attention, and aiming for an interception, she began to chant, "Pop! Pop! Pop, Mommy, I want pop!"

Giving her the attention she needed, another cousin said, "How old are you going to be this year, Leslie?"

"Bour," she said proudly.

"Bour? Do you mean four?"

"Bour."

Ah. She can't say the letter "F." This became apparent to my family very quickly.

Finding this to be a very appropriate time to instigate further puerile family fun, my father decided to ask a few questions of the three-year-old-"F"-less girl.

"So, Leslie. Can you say 'fun'?" my dad asked.

"Bun!" she exclaimed proudly. We all laughed, because really, childish humor is what we have most in common.

"Can you say 'fitch'?" my dad asked.

"Bitch," she said. Laughter erupted, and so the 3-year-old was encouraged to continue. "Bitch!" she exclaimed. "Yeah, bitch! Yeahhhhhhh, bitch! Yeah bitch! Oh yyyyeahhhhhh bitch!" She was screaming, in her toddler voice, and giggling happily in between each exclamation.

At this point, my college-aged brother had to excuse himself from the table. He gets really uncomfortable in situations like this and makes a swift exit. I was also uncomfortable and a little irked at my dad. I mean, who encourages a three-year-old to say bad words (particularly woman-demeaning words) and then thinks it's like sooooo funny?

My family, that's who. Happy Thanksgiving, Yeah, Bitch. Pfffffft.

Later, after all the antics had subsided, I called Stacia and told her about the Thanksgiving dinner. "Maybe it's because I work with kids," I said. "Maybe that's why I don't really find this funny."

"Well, honey," she said. "Now you have no excuse not to join us for Thanksgiving next year!"

She was referring to the annual Thanksgiving party that our friends throw. Our friends? They are similarly puerile, maybe even more so.

"Stacia," I said, "Thank you for the invitation. But....I'm trying to get away from farts and cussing."

Later on, I found the eleven-year-old fart-meister sitting with the three-year-old potty mouth. "Leslie," he was saying, "Do you know where my shirt is from? Abercrombie and Fitch. Can you say that?"

Oh, no you di-in't!

In Spanish class, we all make a circle and then sit down before I start teaching. Today, our circle was more like an egg, and I said so.

"Well, Liz," said four-year-old Dan, in his usual matter-of-fact tone, "Some of us need more room than others. Like you. You're an adult, so you need more room than the kids."

I nodded, "Yep, I need a little more space than you guys."

And Dan finished with, "Because you have a HUUUUGE BUTT!"

...

Yesterday I met a kid who raises his hand to ask questions.

At home.

For a Tenor

We went to the opera--Rossini's The Italian Girl in Algiers--this weekend. Stacia has been a really good sport about going to the opera with me. We both have many concerns with the portrayal of women in classic and romantic opera, but as a soprano and composer I also can appreciate the scale (pun intended) of writing and producing an opera. Not to mention the two or three acts of vocal gymnastics that the performers endure for you.

About a third of the way through the first act, I was uncomfortably listening to Vivica Genoux (beautifully) sing the role of Isabella, an "Italian girl" who uses her body and sexuality as her greatest asset in order to entice men (there was even a bathtub scene where she was presumably naked and singing about her seduction techniques while three men watched from the window--do you suppose Rossini's gaze is male? Maybe?) And let me clarify that if the character of Isabella seemed sexualized, it was only augmented (pun intended) by the misogynist character of Mustafa. Surprise, surprise, misogyny in 19th century opera? Although I will point out that the female lead does not die. That's progress. In fact, she is sort of the hero of the opera.

Anyway, I digress. I am not here to talk about feminist aesthetics (or the lack of) in Rossini's opera. I am here to tell you about a tenor.

So the sexist and sexualized plot was plodding along, and I kept exchanging knowing glances with Stacia, when suddenly, from nowhere, the clearest, loveliest, most amazing voice began soaring over a very gentle and soft orchestra.

Kenneth Tarver, playing the role of Lindoro, pretty much captured my heart in the first phrase of his first aria, Languir per una Bella. Here is J.D. Florez singing the aria--(but you should have heard Kenneth Tarver).


In complete sincerity, I turned to Stacia, who was similarly captivated. Under a terribly hypnotic spell, I whispered, "Honey, if I ever leave you, it will be for a tenor."

I love her a lot. But I could be dissuaded from lesbianism for a tenor voice. I'm only half serious.

The Beastly Ivy, Part II

I once wrote a blog about the Ivy plant that was taking over my apartment. Well, now that I have moved into a house, the Ivy has more options. I had somewhat forgotten about the antics of that malevolent plant until yesterday morning when my roommate Holly came padding down the stairs, looking exhausted and sleepless.

"Holla," I said, "What's the matter?"

"I had a terrible dream," she said. She came and sat on the couch next to me and shook her head. "I dreamed that that plant of yours--the really long one in the kitchen---attacked me. It just wrapped its arms around me and sucked me in."

I was stunned. Holly doesn't read my blogs--she is the only person I know who can go three weeks without checking her email and not miss anything. So she had no idea that I have already had some serious concern about The Plant.

"Whoa, that's creepy," I told her. "I'm sorry. That Plant has a history of acting funny. Do you want me to move it?"

She said no, of course not, and went on about her day, but I'm starting to think that I might have to take drastic measures. Like splitting The Plant. Or trimming it. Haircut anyone?

Tengo pregunta.

You know your pre-school Spanish language students are riveted by the subject matter when they interject with unrelated personal stories:

Liz: Si lleva los zapatos, levanta el mano.
Raven (age 4): Liz? I have a question.
Liz: Ok, Raven, what's your question?
Raven: I have a sister.
Liz: Ok, thank you for your question. Si lleva los zapatos, levanta el.....

Stingy

I rented a U-Haul yesterday to haul my things over to Stacia's house. How does the joke go?
(What do lesbians do on the second date? ---They rent a U-Haul.)

In any case, while we had the U-Haul, I decided to bring my couch to Goodwill, since I won't need it and no one else seems to want it and it's too big to store in Stacia's basement. I expressed concern to Stacia that Goodwill (about 1.1 miles away) may not be open on Veteran's Day, and she said, "Well why not just take it to Savers (about 3.2 miles away)? You know that will be open."

Surprising even myself, at the mention of driving to Minneapolis, I erupted in a stream of, "SAVERS? As in Savers in Minneapolis? I can't afford that kind of mileage!" I was sincerely perturbed. I mean, how could she suggest such a thing? Outrageous! Astounding!

About five minutes of silence passed, as I sat in my cloud of complete bewilderment and Stacia sat, probably confused or amused or maybe annoyed at my outburst.

And then we both began to laugh because ever since I started tracking my mileage for my job I have become really stingy about driving, and it's so out of character for me to be like that. I mean, Savers is only two miles further than Goodwill. Well, four miles round-trip.

But who's counting.

Fall Camping and Coming to Terms with my Statriotism

Have you ever woken up in the middle of night and had to pee really bad? Like if-I-don't-go-now-I'll-explode kind of hafta pee? But you are in a tent in 40 degree weather on the shore of Lake Superior in 20-miles-per-hour winds, pouring rain, and fiercely strobing lightning? And your tent (along with your bladder) is shifting with the wind, and the sound of the gushing rain, the ten-foot-high waves crashing against the rocks, and the spray of the wind-blown water is roaring in your ears?


I did. Last weekend. I can't show you any pictures of the weather conditions because it was too rainy and windy to have any sort of camera available. But trust me. You have not seen waves like this in the Midwest unless you have been on the shore of Lake Superior during a storm.

It was powerful and scary and difficult and beautiful all at the same time. Stacia and I nearly broke up trying to put the tent up. (And it's an easy tent to assemble, under normal conditions.) Once we finally had the tent up (and had kissed and made up), we left the campsite entirely to eat a warm meal that didn't require using her camping stove in the storm. By the time we returned, the only thing we really could do was retire to our tent and try to sleep. We had high hopes that the wind and rain would be gone the next morning.

Not so. The next morning was even colder and just as windy. We sat behind our tent in our camping chairs and tried to find a spot to boil water. Stacia fired up the stove and made me water for coffee. I put on about four layers of clothing, including wicking, thermal long underwear, a cotton/poly blend long-sleeved T-shirt, a big wool sweater, and a raincoat (okay, that's five). Even under my small village of textiles and hot press pot coffee in hand, I was shivering in my camping chair. We both endured the chill for a couple of hours, entertaining our morning camping routine which consists of coffee for me, green tea or O'doul's for Stacia, granola and soy milk (or, if it's an O'doul's kind of morning, buffalo wing chips or some other salty variety), and unlimited time for just sitting together outside and catching up on our busy lives, before we take off for long hikes. Usually, we linger and take our time just reveling in each other's company and whatever earthy surroundings we have. This morning, though (and it was certainly an O'doul's morning), we made the time for our connective morning chat but didn't push it beyond what was necessary. I sat, shivering and chattering and smiling, trying to stay optimistic. Stacia, between buffalo wing chip chomps, alternated grumbling about the cold and cooing about the beautiful leaves. "It's gorgeous here," she would say, and just as the words escaped her mouth, a gust of wind would rattle our chairs and I would be blinded by my hair whipping into my face. When it subsided and I could see again, she would be frowning. "This is impossible. We will never get a fire with this wind."

In the end, we decided to pack it up and leave. It was too cold, too windy, too wet, too dreary. Someone uninformed might say we "wussed" out. No, no, no! If you had seen the wind we had to deal with in the first place, you would say, "Wow, what competent campers! How brave to have stayed for the whole night!" (If you are a serious camper, you will surely understand. We were both pre-menstrual. Stacia has a bad back. It was cold!!! I'm not trying to justify it, I'm just explaining that we carefully considered our options, and while we weren't happy about it, leaving was the most prudent choice at the time.)

So, being the brave campers that we are, we set a safe limit and carted our heavy things back up the long, windy, muddy, hilly trail where the car sat waiting for us with its brand new 2007-2008 Minnesota State Parks sticker.

We stopped at Goosebury Falls, to see the sights, where the tourists had come in drones and busloads to admire fall in Minnesota. Here are some images of our good time there:

I really only have a camera on my cell phone, and it seemed frivolous to ask someone to take our picture. So, I took this one of the two of us myself. I know, it's pretty great.

This is standing in between the high falls and the low falls.

This is a special place. Do you see the hint of water and foggy horizon in between the two birch trees? We have better images of it, but I can't show you too much or you will want it to be your special place too.

G to the Oosebury
..........

When we returned to the Twin Cities in our wool sweaters and long johns, from inside my car with the heat blasting on our frozen, wind-blown bodies, we saw a bank sign that (clearly mistaken) said "Current Temp: 86."

I furrowed my brow and, from beneath my icicle-laden fuzzy knit hat and mittens, observed, "Wow, that bank sign must be broken."

To prove my point, I rolled down the window and reached outside.

Clearly, my hands were numb, because I couldn't feel any cold air at all! In fact, it felt....tropical...like humid and hot. It was very strange, and I could only imagine that my nerves had been so damaged by the tundra-like weather at our campsite that my sense of temperature was messed up. I said so to Stacia. Sometimes, Stacia likes to call me "Connie," which is short for "Hypochondriac," it's a term of endearment really, but this time she fully agreed with my self-assessment.

"There is no way is hot out there, Connie," she said. "You just really have frozen your fingertips off and now you can't feel a thing. Look, I'll show you that it is definitely cold out there."

She rolled the driver's side window and stuck out her arm. Amazed, she pulled it back in and looked at me with surprised. "I've frozen off my fingertips too. Either that or it's actually hot out there!"

Believe it or not, it really was in the mid 80's in Saint Paul! Outrageous! We left freaking Antarctica and found Fiji about 200 miles South. It makes me feel all the more awestruck by the sheer craziness of Minnesota weather. I never meant to be such a State-Patriot, but sometimes you just feel like waving a Minnesota flag while eating Lefsa and embracing your heritage of passive-aggression. You know what I mean?

I'm sorry, You are not Elizabeth.

I have had some issues with phones. My cell phone doesn't get great reception in my building, so I frequently have to set up a makeshift office outside in the grass in order to make calls, finalize scheduling, etc. In lieu of the oncoming winter months, I have been frantic trying to find a cheap, reliable phone service that I can use inside my apartment.

Last week, I called Vonage, just to get some information. The person I talked to was a little pushy but promised me the world. He said I could sign up risk free for a trial one-month period. Generally, I am cautious about things like this, but for whatever reason, I thought, what the heck, I am at my wits end about not being able to use a phone in my apartment, a free trial period sounds like a good idea.

NOT A GOOD IDEA.

Here's the thing: I didn't even use the service. Never even installed it or made a single call. I really had no complaints, I just decided, after some thought, that I really didn't need it. My cell phone works sometimes, and an extra monthly bill from Vonage, even at $15/month is just unnecessary. So today, in good faith, I called Vonage to cancel my service, which I had never even used.

What happened was nowhere near good costumer service. It was rude, bullying, frustrating, and outright infuriating.

I talked to (lets call him) "John" for around a half an hour. I told him I wanted to cancel my service please, and he said, "Okay, ma'am, I can help you with that, but first I will need you to verify your name and address."

Sure. No prob. I gave my name and my address.

"I'm sorry, the Elizabeth that signed up for Vonage gave us a different address. I'll give you two more chances, and then I'll have to disconnect you. Please verify the address on the account."

A little shaken, I repeated my address. What? Had I mixed up the numbers? And did I detect a condescending voice? No...it's all in my head...I just mis-spoke my address. Now he's got it.

"I'm sorry," (it is a condescending voice!), "That's not Elizabeth's address. You have one more chance. What is the address?"

Growing a little irritated, I said, "Look, maybe someone typed it in wrong. I am giving you my address."

"In order to protect Elizabeth's account, I cannot help you unless you know the address on the account. The address you are giving me is not Elizabeth Rognes's address. You have one more chance."

What the fuck. Was this a gameshow? One more chance? IT'S MY ADDRESS!!! I know my own address.

Finally, I repeated my address but eliminated the apartment number, in a wild attempt to find the right answer.

"Thank you, that's correct."

Sweet Jesus!

So then he asked how he could help me, and I said that I would like to cancel my service, and he said, "Let me give you some other options."

He began giving me a list about ten minutes long, and I interrupted him to say, "Thank you, but I would just like to cancel my service."

"But don't you want to put your account on hold and transfer your service to a friend or family instead?"

"No thank you," I said, doing my best to keep my patience.

"So you put your own needs in front of others?"

Excuuuuuuuuuse me????? This was a blow. I scoffed, feeling humiliated and offended. Who says that? In what world is it professional to berate the customer? In fact, I felt shamed!

I stammered, "Uh, I would just like to cancel my service."

This game went on and on, he continued trying to offer me other options, and I continued to say no and offer as little information as possible.

He asked how I was going to find a better deal, and what my new phone service is going to cost me.

I said, "That's none of your business."

"Actually ma'am, it IS my business. In the business of providing a service, it IS my business to know where my costumers are going and how much they are going to pay. So tell me who your new phone provider is?"

Just wanting to finish the process I said, "Look, I am on a long-standing cell phone contract. I thought I needed a home phone, but it turns out having a cell phone is all I need and can afford."

"Ma'am, what is your monthly budget?"

"That is certainly not your business."

"Actually, ma'am, it IS my business. As a costumer service provider, it IS my business to help you find a rate that fits into your budget. So what is your monthly budget?"

"I am not required to tell you what my budget is. I would just like to cancel my service."

"Okay and I can help you with that," (ARGH! That condescending voice!!!), "but first I want to make sure you aren't making a rash decision. Let's just think about this. It doesn't make sense for you to cancel your service with Vonage when you can transfer your free month trial period to a friend or family member. Do you really want to lose out on free service? Is that the smartest thing to do?"

Again, I felt bullied and disrespected. I figured he was doing what he was trained to do--pull out all the stops and try to retain costumers. But this was outrageous!

So more and more haggling happened, and finally, thirty minutes later, he agreed to cancel my service. Then he said, "But I will need to you to stay on the line while I put you on hold and cancel your service."

"Okay," I said.

"You're not in a hurry, are you?" he asked.

My irritation was burgeoning, multiplying, beginning to ooze from my pores. "What do you mean? How long will I be on hold?"

"I can't tell you that."

Oh, Exasperation! "Can you give me an estimate?"

"I cannot disclose that information. But I will tell you that if you hang up while you are on hold, you account will not be terminated, and you will have to call back at a later time."

Irritated and aware of how many minutes I had already used up on my shared cell phone family plan, I said, "Okay, let's just go ahead and do it as quickly as possible."

He tried again to change my mind but finally clicked over so that I was on hold.

And on hold....

and on hold.....
and on hold....
hold
hold hold
..................
................

I did some emailing, some web surfing, some peeing, some cooking, some light housework, wrote a novel, a symphony, went for a run, picked my nose, cleaned the litter box......
............

still
on
hold

Thirty minutes later (yes, I was exaggerating about all the things I did while waiting on hold--but I certainly thought about them all), I was still on hold, and my Monday afternoon student appeared at my door. Knock, knock!

I did the only thing I could prudently do in that situation, I hung up the goddamn phone and taught some music. I could not have afforded the minutes wasted sitting on hold while sightreading Puccini. And I couldn't interrupt a lesson to take a call from Johnage with Vonage. Honestly! Argh! Exasperation, Annoyance, Irritation, Frustration, Aggravation, Agitation, and, Hail Mary, Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrovocation!!!!!!

I opened the door and smiled politely at my student and then proceeded to vent about what I had just gone through (yes--it is an adult student, I wasn't unloading on a third grader.)

So. After all of that, a total of one hour on the phone, feeling berated, bullied, and shamed, I still have not had my service canceled. This is ridiculous. RI DI CU LO SO.

Remember, I hadn't really had any issues with Vonage at the onset of this debacle. I was neutral. And after this phone call, I am outraged and irritated and completely frustrated with Vonage. I still have not had my service canceled!

And all of this after nearly refusing to speak to me in the first place because the person who had entered my address did not include my apartment number, so when I recited my address including the apartment number, I heard, "I'm sorry. The Elizabeth who ordered Vonage service does not have that address. I'm going to have to disconnect you."

He might as well have said, "I'm sorry, you are not Elizabeth Rognes, and I am not part of Vonage. I am just here to make you feel like shit and ensure that you continue paying a monthly fee. Is that your final answer? I'm sorry, that's incorrect. Good bye."

Luciano Pavarotti

Speaking of great singers and cancer, R.I.P. Pavarotti. Here he is, singing Nessun Dorma from Turandot. Beautiful...

Composing and Catherine Catastrophe

Wow, September is here and that feels strange. It is the first week of public school, and while I am not a student or an official teacher in a school system, the schedule change affects me in a big way. Most of my students are kids, so I am also beginning a school-year schedule, which of course means most lessons are late in the day. And, since I do teach part-time at a pre-school, I get to return to the world of three-to-five-year-olds learning Spanish. This year, I am also teaching Music at that same pre-school. Expect blogs.

We had our first Calliope rehearsal of the season last night, and, wow!, there is always a lot to digest in those rehearsals! Lots of new faces, which is way exciting, lots of new music, lots of new energy. I have had the honor of spending some time this summer working on a couple of arrangements for the chorus, so I am really looking forward to hearing them! Calliope has also agreed to learn a piece I wrote (many moons ago) in college, for the St. Kate's Women's Choir, and when we took it out last night, I realized that it had numerous errors (mispelled enharmonics resulting in unsingable intervals, that sort of thing). Eek! Luckily, a choir full of sweet souls can be very forgiving. We will see how it turns out!

I am also working on a few other pieces at the moment, specifically a Woodwind Quartet and an art song (Our Eyes Would Whisper For Us) for soprano, piano, violin, viola, and flute. Both of these are from the vaults, and one of those got a performance in its day, but looking back, I'm not sure how because it is terribly repetitive. Retrospect is a funny thing.

All of this energy toward composing is....making me a little crazy. Composing, I suppose like any art, is funny. You spend so much time creating, in a really personal, private space, and then, if you're lucky, you send it out into the world for many eyes and ears. And while you are in that private, cozy space, you forget that what you are creating is actually going to be public. I had a professor who said, "All writing is public." It seems strange, spending so much time in your quiet, small, cocoon of an apartment writing music, and then suddenly realizing that it will escape you, it isn't just yours anymore, it belongs to the performers, to the conductor, to the accompanist, the musicians who take it and make it alive. What you have spent your time laboring over is really just a set of guidelines, a roadmap.

And, if you are prone to insecurity and anxiety, handing over your roadmap can be a bit daunting, to say the least.

And, if you have spent three years not writing a drop of music because you were busy recovering from and eating disorder and chemical dependency, and if your identity has been wrapped up in success and failure, and if your biggest advocate has died of cancer along the way, you are certainly going to feel a little unsettled.

My friend Catherine, who passed away last October, sat by me in choirs for years. She was the soprano that sang my art song, the last public performance of my music until now. She watched me work and stress in college over a piece that finally was performed for a large audience. She likened the process of writing music to pregnancy. She said, "Liz, you have worked on this for months and months and no one has seen it, and now it is going to be birthed to an audience of hundreds of people." That rang very true to me too.

I can't help but miss her as I start to reclaim composing and choral singing. It is strange singing in a choir without her next to me. She was that friend I would go to when I felt anxiety about the pressures of the music world. She would wave her hand and say, "You are doing a good job, it's not worth your time to worry so much." She was supportive and patient with my many insecurities. Without her around, I feel a little lost putting my music out there. Who is going to be my biggest advocate? Who is going to listen to me banter my crazy-anxiety talk? Who is going to temper my worries with her good-natured humor? Who is going to ask me to write a piece for her children's choir? Who is going to make fun of my dreadlocks and piercings? Who is going to love me, no matter what, no matter how unstable or insecure I am? Who is going to love me through music theory tests, through endless choir rehearsals, through Germany and deep, deep depression, through drinking, through coming out, through bulimia, through detox, through a long absence, through her own struggles, through her house burning down, through her brother's car accident, through cancer, through hospitals, through chemo, through hospice, through morphine, through bed-stricken months? Who is going to love me like that again?

I miss her a lot. I didn't have enough time with her. I didn't thank her enough for being there for me. I suppose, as the fall approaches, along with the anniversary of her death, I will think of her more often. I have seen some leaves turning already, and it reminds me of the daily drives I made to her house last year, the beautiful leaves, the warm autumn, long Sunday afternoons at her family's house with her family, and Catherine sick inside, unable to see the changing leaves or sunshine, unable to hear the birds, unable to leave her hospice bed. And I also remember autumn in college, when I made a habit of picking up the brightest leaf I could find as I crossed the Quad, and I brought it to choir rehearsal and gave it to Catherine. "It was too beautiful to pass by," I said. She would sort of roll her eyes, clearly thinking I had some strange quirks, but she would take it anyway, and put it in her folder, where it would stay.

And she would smile at me, with her dark, pleasant eyes and jet black curly hair and tell me, "Thank you," before getting ready for rehearsal to begin. She was beautiful, with her carefree laughter and soaring soprano voice, and her compassionate, love-filled heart.

At a getting-to-know-you choir retreat one year, we had the task of alliterating our names, so that we would choose a word that began with the same letter as our first name and introduce ourselves that way. As we sat in a circle outside of our retreat center, amid the falling, colorful autumn leaves, Catherine chose the name "Catherine Catastrophe." We all laughed, because she was nothing like a catastrophe, not even remotely close. We adopted that name for her because it was ironic. Today I miss Catherine Catastrophe, the big, pleased, delighted grin that accompanied her when she announced her alliterated name, and her enormous capacity for unconditional love.

Gastown, Part II

So. There I was, in my dingy hostel room, with the flaking wallpaper and a barrage of interesting odors wafting through the open window. It was hot inside the small, dark room, so I didn't want to close the window, but I had some concern for the decibel level outside and the implication that might have on my ability to sleep. There was a heavy drape, and I left the window open but the drape partially covering it so that I could get some cool air but drown out some of the noise.

I ate the dal soup I had bought earlier, and I journaled for a bit. I was trying to wind down. I had gotten very little sleep in the days leading up to Vancouver, and I could feel my body growing lethargic. I was growing less and less concerned about the man downstairs, and anyway, I figured his shift would end soon. I decided to go in search of a washroom. I took my toothbrush and toothpaste and found a washroom/laundry room on my floor. I also had some wet clothing from in impromptu swimming excursion in rural Washington the day before (stay tuned for a later post on skivvy-dipping in the rain outside of Olympia), so I rinsed them in water and was wringing them out when a young man appeared in the doorway.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I said.

"I'm just checking out the laundry room. I haven't seen it yet," he said. He was small-ish, or maybe young-ish, I couldn't quite decide, and he had short, fat dreadies growing outward and he smelled of sweet, musky marijuana. "I'm Ben," he said, and he extended his hand for me to shake.

Thank God, I thought, someone halfway normal. Eye contact and a handshake. I smiled and shook his hand. "I'm Liz."

He told me that he was from Manhattan and in Vancouver on an internship, staying at the Grand Trunk because it is cheap and not too bad. I told him I was here on vacation, that I had just gotten in tonight. We chatted for a few minutes, he told me he had to get going because he was going to a concert, he had scored free tix from someone at his internship and he hoped to get smashed. I laughed and said, "Have fun."

He nodded and gave me wave as he turned to go. I started to feel more at ease. It was nice meeting someone friendly in a non-paranoid kind of way. As I was gathering my rinsed clothing, Ben appeared in the doorway again.

"Hey," he said, "Do you smoke?"

Dammit! I thought. Being somewhat herb-savvy in a former life, I knew he wasn't asking me for a light for a cigarette. What a lovely, enticing, thoughtful invitation, but...I have been on this sobriety kick for over three years, excluding even the most benign of drugs from my repertoire. You have to understand, I am writing these posts backwards, and I had already been subjected to gratuitous invitations for partaking in a number of drug and alcohol related events. In all my years of sobriety, I had received more offers in the past week than in the previous three years. It was getting a little difficult. Plus, I still have that conversation with myself about pot being not so bad. You know, it's natural and so forth. So...here I was, all alone in Vancouver, with a new friend offering to share, and I won't deny that I felt both flattered and tempted. What could I do? What would you do?

Begrudgingly, I shook my head, "No," I said, somewhat apologetically. "Not anymore, but thanks, man. Have a great time at your concert."

"That's cool," he said. "Alright, see ya later," and for the second time, my new friend took off.

Still feeling flattered and a little disappointed, I headed back to my room. I got myself ready for bed and took out Eva Luna and began to read. I read for an hour, and finally began to feel drowsy. I was aware of noises in the hallway, outside the window, above me, and on all sides of my room, but I tried to imagine that they were very, very soft, and that I was in a quiet, dark, comfortable room.

I hoped to get a good night's sleep because I would be getting up early to meet Stacia at the port. I turned off the light and lay down on the creaky bed to try to sleep.

I did fall asleep. I was exhausted. And then I was rudely awakened about an hour or two later, to the sound of loud voices. I recognized Spanish language filtering through my door, through the cracks in the wall, getting louder and louder until I was certain there were people in my bedroom. I got up and turned the light on to see that I was alone in the small room, but there were certainly people standing directly outside of my door. I put on my shoes and padded out to the toilet, both because I had to pee and also to see what the ruckus was.

It was like a frat party in the hallway. People were milling around the entire length of the hall, drinking beers and shooting liquor and laughing and talking loudly. Somewhat annoyed, I made my way to the toilet. On the way, I slipped on spilled beer. All around me, people were laughing and having a great time. "Cheers," I heard someone say, and I looked up to see someone offering me a Stella Artois. "No thanks," I said, escaping to the bathroom. I, you know, peed, and then headed back to my room, where I quickly closed the door and sat down on the bed to think. How could I drown out the noise?

And then something in my head said, "Forget it, Liz, just go out there and be sociable. Why not join the party? Why not....have a beer?"

Oooh! Insidious, mischievous voice!

No. Not an option. I supposed that I could go and be sociable without drinking, but I was sooooooo exhausted. I began to feel more and more alone, as I realized that I must be the only one in the entire building who was trying to sleep at 1:00am. This is a culture I do not belong to anymore, this late-night, party crowd. It felt very isolating.

I lay back down and put a pillow over my head. I was sleep-deprived, fatigued, alone, and anxious about experiencing a night without sleep. I was also feeling sad about being sober, feeling a little prudish, you might say. It didn't even occur to me that I might not be the only one around who was annoyed with the noise, which by the way, was coming both from the hallway and outside the window, as I was only a short distance from a series of bars.

My frustration growing, I tried to wait it out. This can't go on all night, I thought. Another hour went by, and I listened to Spanish mix with English, then Japanese, then all Spanish again.

Then out of nowhere I heard someone saying, "You are SO LOUD! People are trying to sleep here!" and I thought, "Oh thank goodness, I'm not the only one!"

And the party disappeared outside. Just like that, it was gone. Slowly, I drifted back to sleep...and was awakened again, probably less than an hour later, maybe 3:30am, the same people, back on my floor. Louder, louder, louder, and more rowdy. This was too much. Teeming with exhaustion, I began to cry. Poor me. Poor, lonely, sleepy, me.

As I was indulging in my sorrow, I heard a vaguely familiar voice. "You're fuckin' assholes, eh? You think it's good to be so drunk? You're a bunch of drunk assholes. Eh? You're a fuckin' asshole. I'm gonna call the police on you." I tried to place the voice...it was very distinctly Canadian. "You cause cancer. You are cancer assholes, eh?"

Oh my. It was the paranoid guy! He was upset about the noise. I lay very still and listened to him rant:

"You're a fuckin' asshole, eh? Do you think I want cancer? My mum and dad died of cancer. I was just a kid. I was all abandoned. You are drunk, eh? I'm calling the police. Get out of here, eh? People are trying to sleep."

And I could hear the other voices saying in broken English, "We not drunk, man. Ok, you call the poh-lice. You call them!" And I heard laughter and taunts and a chorus of, "Wee-oooo, wee-oo, weee-ooo!" They were imitating a police siren.

"You are cancer, eh? I have people here trying to sleep. Get out, or I'll call the police. I will! Get out. I don't care where you go, go out on the street, eh? Get drunk out there. I don't want cancer, eh?"

This was ridiculous. The paranoid guy was not making any sense, and the drunk people were pretty much ignoring him. I heard the Canadian guy go back down the stairs, probably defiantly, probably thinking he had intimidated the cancer-causing party-ers. Then...a few minutes of silence.

Then I heard someone say, "Vamos afuera," or, let's go outside. And someone else said, "Hey man, there's a balcony, let's go out there."

And then the loud crowd made its way to the fire escape, where I could still hear them, but with a pillow over my head it was very faint, and I finally, finally, drifted off into a light sleep for a few more hours before awaking to a very quiet morning.

Gastown, Part 1

The famous Gastown Steam Clock on Water Street

Last week I took my big, lavish, credit card-charged week-long summer vacation. More to come on other cities, but for now I want to tell the story of my first night in Vancouver.

I took a train from Olympia, WA, where I had been staying with a friend from college, and I had to switch onto a bus in Seattle for the duration of the trip. It was supposed to be a three/three-and-a-half hour bus ride, but it wound up being much, much longer. Have you ever gone through customs at the Canadian border on a bus? Not fun. Be prepared to buddy up with your neighbors and expect delays. In the first place, my train was running late, so I had to dash onto the bus in Seattle. You know that hurry-up-and-wait feeling? That was it. I rushed to find the correct bus, as it turns out there is a Vancouver, WA as well as a Vancouver, BC, so one has to be a little careful when boarding a bus in Seattle. Once on the bus, I settled in for a comfortable ride, expecting to be off the bus in three hours or so.

Travel Lesson #1: Check your expectations of prompt transport at the door.

Nearly six hours later, after being drilled by Canadian border patrol and sitting in construction on I-5, we arrived in Vancouver. Lucky for me, I didn't have any precise plans for the evening, so arriving late wasn't a big deal. I managed to find my way across town to the hostel where I was planning to stay. Walking along the bustling streets of Gastown, I was aware of a truly international character. Just in my short walk from the bus hub to the hostel, I heard probably four different languages. The storefronts varied from Canadian tourism shops to Mediterranean and Asian cuisine. It felt like a great place to be visiting. I was alone, and it was getting close to dark, so I decided not to dawdle, but to find my hostel right away.

Grand Trunk Hostel, the white door center right.

I nearly missed it. In the middle of a Moroccan restaurant and a lingerie store was a small white door with an austere wooden sign hanging from above that read, "Grand Trunk," and that's all. There was a handwritten note on the door that said, "If no one lets you in, call this number."

Travel Lesson #2: Don't expect glamorous accommodations for $27.

Classy, I thought. I rang the doorbell, and very quickly someone opened the door. It was a short, fat, bald man, sweating profusely and seemingly anxious. He did not make eye contact with me and said, "Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes," I said.

He stepped aside and let me through the door. Inside was a narrow staircase directly in front of the door and a small office just to the left. He led me into the dimly lit, musty office. On the desk were piles of scattered papers with handwritten notes, strewn about pens and pencils, and a half-eaten, browning apple. It was in quite a state of disarray. I did not see a computer or any other sign of technology. He asked me for my name.

"Liz Rognes. R-O-G-N-E-S," I said. I have grown accustomed to spelling out my last name, since no one ever knows what I am saying.

"Rogers?" He said, "Like the phone company?" He looked suspicious.

"Uh, no. Rognes. R-O-G-N-E-S."

He fished around the pile of papers and seemed to find the right one. "Oh, Elizabeth," he said. "I have you right here."

I wondered what kind of organizational skills this place had, if any. My information was hand printed on a piece of lined notebook paper, but I had booked the room online. It seemed strange to me. In any case, the hostel had gotten fair reviews online, and it was cheap, so I wasn't incredibly concerned with the way they operated. If there was a room reserved for me, I would be satisfied.

The man asked for payment and then gave me a set of keys. "Room 17," he said, "Second floor."

"Thanks," I said. I picked up my things and was preparing to go in search of my room when the sweaty bald man abruptly said, "I'm gonne be rich, eh?" His voice was low and urgent as though he had suddenly remembered to tell me a very important secret.

I paused and politely turned to acknowledge the strange comment with, "Oh yeah?"

Travel Lesson #3: Don't engage in sidebar conversations with strangers.

"You know them Bots, don't tell no one, eh?" he said.

Baffled, I stared at him, trying to comprehend what he was telling me. He quickly continued in a low voice, sweat dripping down his face, "I got a friend who told me about the trading. I'm gonna get rich, make $700 a day and buy some land in Pennsylvania. Don't tell anyone. I'm going to buy the whole state of Pennsylvania. Some people hate the Americans, but I'm going to buy part of it."

I was stunned. I had no idea what he was talking about. Before I could say a thing, he continued in a secretive, grave voice:

"Don't tell anyone. My last name, I changed it so many times, used to be Smith, then Duff-Smith, now just Duffy, I know all those Duffy actors, like you know Patrick Duffy? And Hilary Duff, eh? I got a call, someone said I'm gonna be famous. I got Hilary Duff's mum in my head, but I don't want to be famous. They'll get me then, eh? That's why I'm scared of getting rich, eh? When you're rich, you get famous, and they follow you. But Hilary Duff's mum, she's in my head, you know, and she says I'll get rich."

I was becoming more and more alarmed. I noted the sweat dripping off his forehead and the dark circles under his eyes. Drugs? A little touched, perhaps? I was starting to feel uncomfortable. So far, this place had been a little shady, to be expected for the cheap price, but this guy was beginning to unnerve me.

"Uh...I'm gonna go on up, nice talking with you," I said, deciding to just leave the strange talk where it was. I turned toward the door.

My guitar was on my back, and when I turned, he spotted it. "Oh, you're a musician, eh? I went to acting school out here, and my friend had a premonition, he said I was going to make it big you know, be famous. Like I walk out in the street and everyone knows me, eh? I don't know, though, I think it's only because they heard about Russ-X, my computer program. I'm gonna be rich, eh? Don't tell anyone. I already told too many people. I think they know. I saw a truck out there, it said 'Russ,' so I know they're watching out for me. My friend, he told me about the trading, and he said I'm in charge of Lindsay."

Now my discomfort was beginning to turn to fear. I was all alone in a strange city, in a shady hostel, with a freaky guy telling me nonsensical, paranoia-filled stories. I started to become concerned for my safety. I mean, this guy seemed harmless, but what if he wasn't? I continued to back away from the small, dank office, but he kept talking, and he followed me into the hallway.

"You know Lindsay Lo-gan?" He said 'Lo-gan' instead of Lohan, a point I clearly remember, even in my heightened state of alarm. "She just got out of detox, eh? One time I got a text message that said, 'Hey it's Lindsay,' and I knew I was supposed to take care of her. She'll be coming soon. You can meet her if you want. Hilary too, she's pretty nice. Her mum is in my head. But they're famous, and I don't want to be famous. My parents are dead, you know, they died of cancer when I was a kid, and I was all abandoned, eh. I don't want to be famous."

My stomach was churning. If I hadn't been alone, this wouldn't have seemed so scary, but because I was completely alone, I was extra vigilant about my surroundings and the eccentricities of the characters with whom I would be spending the night locked in a hostel. Even in my state of alarm, I reasoned with myself that this guy must be harmless because clearly he has worked here for some time. People stay here, he must be completely safe, just tripping or paranoid.

Travel #4: When in doubt, get out.

I kept interjecting, "Ah, good luck, I'm heading up," and slowly backing my way up the stairs, even as he continued ranting about the famous Duffys and his scheme to buy Pennsylvania. Finally, he seemed to get that I was leaving, and he gave me a big grin and a wave. "See ya later," he said, and I turned and climbed the stairs, my heart racing, my mind spinning.

Once free of the strange man, I breathed a sigh of relief. But as I continued to climb the stairs of the dark, narrow hallway, my anxiety did not dissipate, and in fact a sense of foreboding began to swell as I heard clamors and shouts coming from invisible spaces on the floors above. I was a bit shaky, both from my encounter with the bald man and also from having hardly eaten in my day of delayed transport. Lizzy, I told myself, you will be fine here. Find your room, lock your stuff up, and find something to eat and drink some tea, you will feel better."

I came to the second floor, and found the door marked #17. I turned the key and opened the door to a small room and flipped a light switch. A single bulb flickered above, illuminating a small room with dirt-streaked peeling wallpaper, a bed crammed into the corner, a desk, a knob-turn television and a full-sized roaring green refrigerator. The refrigerator and the tv were plugged into a flimsy extension chord that was draped over the doorway with scotch tape, a system that looked like it would fall at any time. There was an open window, with a view to the back of the neighboring building, the roof of an adjoining building, and a sea of cigarette butts, beer cans, underwear, and garbage.

I took a deep breath and entered the room, set down my suitcase and my guitar, and sat on the bed. I could hear loud shouts coming from outside, but I couldn't see anyone because of the adjoining buildings. I could hear people milling around in the hallways and above and next door, I could hear sirens blaring outside and music from the nearby clubs. I felt lonely, but the presence of other people was at the very least a sign of normalcy. The room was dingy, dowdy, and smelled of must and sweat, but it was a room, and I couldn't complain.

I decided to go in search of dinner. My stomach was begging for attention, and my nerves were frayed from running on pure adrenaline. I locked my things in my indecorous room and, still shaking, made my way back down the stairs. I had to pass the office and the bald man to get back to the street, so I just moved as quickly as possible, so that he couldn't catch me in his trap of secretive craziness.

I made it past and stepped into a bustling street, full of people, full of life, not completely dark yet. I didn't want to be out by myself after dark, so I decided to find somewhere nearby. I wandered the streets for a bit, weighing my options and just generally trying to assuage the zip-zap of my nerves. It felt safer there, in the sun-dwindling streets, with the riff-raff and the bar crowd, than it did in that small hostel office with the bizarre banter of that man.

I couldn't find a market anywhere nearby, but I was in the land of ethnic cuisine, and I decided to treat myself to Indian food. The restaurant was on the same block as the hostel, so I could still get back before nightfall. I ordered vegetarian samosas and dal soup and took it with me. On the walk back, I found a small grocer, where I bought water, yogurt, an apple, and some crackers, and a Vancouver newspaper. My arms full of groceries, I made my way back to the hostel.

When I approached the door, the bald man was standing outside. "Hello," he said,

Dammit, I thought. "Hello."

He opened the door for me and went right into it, "You're the musician. Don't get famous, eh? They'll find out all about you, about all the bad things. I have some songs, from Hilary Duff's mum. You can have them if you want, I don't want to be famous anyway. Here you go:" and right there in the narrow hallway, he began to sing some dreadfully sappy and vaguely familiar song about lost love. "So you can have it," he said, "It's from Hilary Duff's mum. You know Duff? Like on the Simpsons? He knows about the Bots. Like robots, eh? It's all gonna be run by Bots, you know. I mean like, we all know about global warming, but Al Gore should have known about the Bots. Why didn't he talk about the Bots in his movie, eh? He was a preacher first, and must have been a good preacher, like a really good preacher, because you don't get famous unless you're good. But I don't want to be famous, they keep saying I'm going to be, but I don't want it, eh? I am gonna get rich, though, eh?"

I finally started to understand that this guy had some kind of mental health issue. He really believed all that crazy stuff he was saying about Hilary Duff's mum in his head, the Bots, fear of fame, etc. I managed to excuse myself from him much more quickly this time, and headed upstairs to my humble room, arms full of groceries.

...And thus began a very long night. More to come later.

Mrs. Jack Black

• One student, who is exceptionally small for her age, really wanted to sing a song she had written for the class. She begged and begged, and finally I said, "Ok, let's hear it." She settled into performance mode, holding her tiny guitar on her tiny lap. All the other kids patiently set down their guitars and listened. The junior singer/songwriter took a deep breath into her tiny lungs, starting making some tiny strums, and then opened her tiny mouth and screamed, "RECESS! Ohhhhhh, RE-CESSSSSSSS! I love you RE-CESSSSS!"

• Shortly before the gentle folksinger's debut, I had handed out books for the kids to use. One student, stunned, said, "I feel like I'm in college."

• Another kid raised his hand, and, when I called on him, he said, "Can we have a talent show? Because. Look what I can do." And his piercing blue eyes took on this sort of creepy quality as he began to move his scalp back and forth so that his poufy hair flopped into his eyes and then back beyond his forehead. Naturally, I responded with, "No. But. Look what I can do," and proceeded to show off my ability to wiggle one ear at a time, shake my eyes, and alternate raised eyebrows.

• Sometimes I split the class into groups so that they can learn songs appropriate to their ages and abilities. The group that chose to learn, "Born to Be Wild," decided that they didn't want to use Steppenwolf's lyrics. Instead, they decided to write a parody song entitled, "Born to Be Mild."

Get your fridges runnin'....Lay down on the fuuuuton!.....Lookin' for a channel....Whatever show is on....Born....to be....Mi-i-i-i-i-ild, Born.....to be M-i-i-i-i-i-i-ild......!"

• One kid said, "It's like...we're in the School of Rock, except you're not Jack Black." Then he grinned mischievously. "But I bet you're married to him!" And all the kids made kissy-kissy noises, saying, "Ooooh! Mrs. Jack Black! Ooooh, I bet you loooooove him!"

So...tell me why you want to learn to play the guitar.

It's week six hundred-thousand-million of guitar class, and on the first day of each week (since I start fresh with a new group of beginners each week), I always ask, "So...tell me why you want to learn to play the guitar?" and we go around the room and everyone says something like, "Because it's cool," or, "Because my uncle is in a rock band." It's a chance for me to get a little background information on any exposure these kids have had to playing the guitar, and also a chance for me to practice saying their names in my head while I look at each of their faces.

I was getting all the standard responses today: "Well, I took piano lessons, but I want to really rock out," and, "I'm already in a band, but we don't know how to play any instruments," and that sort of thing.

Then the question came to a 3rd grader little girl with a flippant attitude. "So, Sam," I said, (and, no, of course that's not her real name), "Why do you want to learn to play the guitar?"

She gave me the old hair toss and head tilt. "Well," she said, clearly irritated with the question, "I don't."

I raised my eyebrows and waited for her to continue.

Sighing, she said, "I had other plans for the morning, but they fell through."

Drums

Last week I taught beginning drums and percussion for 3-5th graders. I do not play the drums, and the only percussive instrument I have is my rugged Spanish, save for the occasional tapping on the pick guard of my guitar or inadvertently practicing rudiments on the coffee table while waiting for my bank's automated phone system to grace me with my balance.

Inevitably, my experience as a drum teacher has gifted my pedagogical lexicon with a few new phrases. For example:
"Actually, bongos aren't for sitting on."
"No, no! Don't drum on your neighbor."
"Please hold your drumsticks with your hands."

And, my personal favorite:
"Please take your drumsticks out of your eyeballs."

Not to be confused with:
"Please remove the drumsticks from your nostrils/mouth/ears/etc."

There was a kid who apparently thought it felt nice to listen with his drumsticks lightly resting upon his lower eyelids. Every time he blinked, his sticks would rattle. I had terrible visions of him slipping or sneezing. I can't tell you how many times I actually used the phrase, "Please take your drumsticks out of your eyeballs." It got to the point where I made him hand them over while he wasn't drumming.

Don't even ask me how I liked trying to speak over nine kids with drums. My voice has taken quite the beating. I started using body language to instruct them, rather than screaming for three hours, and I used the games that work really well in pre-school when kids are noisy. In the midst of the cacophony, I would whisper, "If you can hear me, set down your sticks," and the one kid who reads lips anyway would stop playing and nudge his buddy, and slowly, one by one, they would all stop playing and look at me with quizzical eyes. "Why are you whispering?" one would ask. "To save my voice," I'd respond. They didn't get it.

I'm still feeling it in my throat this week, and I'm back to the grind of kids with guitars. After screaming over a room full of nine-year-old drummers, acoustic guitars seem like the most serene instrument there is. Except of course for the part about tuning. But. You know what I mean.

Beverly Sills and Danny Kaye opera parody

Protest

It's a new week, which means a new crowd of rudimentary guitar students.

In this group, there is a kid who can't seem to keep a grasp on his pick, and every thirty seconds or so it slips from his fingers. I see it almost every time because he sits right in front of me, but I have learned not to make a big deal of it, because he is clearly traumatized every single time. As soon as the pick plops onto the floor, he sinks in his chair and looks from left to right to make sure no one saw the little mishap. Then he leans over oh so carefully! so as to not bump the neck of his guitar on his neighbor's head and stretches hopefully with his short fingers to the floor, where his pick is lying on the ground.

Whew! You can see the relief in his eyes when he silently scoops up the pick and carefully eases back into an upright position, althewhile being very, very stealthy and punctilious about his range of motion so the other kids don't notice.

And he ever-so-carefully sets up his G Chord or whatever we're on, and joins in, seamlessly. Not a word! Most kids would make a big stink: "Liz, we have to stop! Liz, my pick is on the floor! We can't go on!"

This kid, however, keeps it covert as possible.

Then, as quickly as he recovered his pick and set up his G Chord, plop!, there it goes again. I'm not exaggerating this time, it's really that regimented. Almost like he's experimenting with rhythm, or maybe a funky new dance move that entails throwing one's pick on the floor and picking it back up again. And the way he does it, so...quietly and lithely, it's like he's rehearsing for the Ballet of Pick Plops.

Early on, I couldn't help but comment about the pick habit. I acknowledged the behavior by laughing and saying, "Mark, it looks like you keep throwing your pick down in protest." I illustrated my point by throwing my own pick down on the ground and saying defiantly, "I do not want to learn this chord!"

The other kids laughed. Remember, it was early on in the class, and sometimes I err on the side of being a little too informal in the hopes of winning over their hearts, but poor little pick protester looked horrified. Whoops, I thought, this kid is really hard on himself. Note to self: lay off the jokes at his expense. And I quickly changed the subject and have not so much as blinked at the sound of his pick plopping ever since.

Unfortunately, the other kids think throwing down your pick in protest is really fun, and now I have three little comedians who, every time I say, "It's time to learn a new chord," mockingly slam their plastic picks on the floor and laugh and laugh. Oh dear. Another lesson learned for this teacher...

Bass Clef

Guitar Class Day Three:

It was Music Theory time, so I had everyone set down their precious guitars and listen up to the exciting, riveting fun-filled world of basic music theory. I was explaining the Bass Clef by writing down the note names of each line and space on the staff. Skinny, ADHD boy (who had not been paying attention at all until this very moment) exlaimed, "I know how to remember the spaces! It's All Cows Eat Grass!"

I nodded and said, "Yes. You could also say, All Cars Eat Gas."

Skinny Boy said, "You mean All Cars Pass Gas."

I frowned. "No, there is no note called P for Pass. It's E for Eat." I pointed at the E space.

Skinny Boy leaned back in his chair and looked around at his hardcore nine-year-old rocker friends. "It is too All Cars Pass Gas." He paused, smirking ever so slightly. "What do you think the muffler is for?"

Guitar Class Misogyny

It's the second day of Guitar Class. This week I am teaching 4th, 5th, and 6th graders, mostly a class of boys, there is one quiet girl who shyly asked if we could sing something from The Sound of Music in the midst of the boys' requests for hard rock, "shredding" (I don't even know what that is) and riffs from Guitar Hero.

These kids (save for the little Julie Andrews) are not impressed with my folk-singer's voice or my repertoire of children's songs. They want Queen, they want Iron Maiden, they want to sing songs I would be embarrassed to teach them.

One kid, a skinny, itty-bitty nine-year-old boy, who looks more like a six-year-old, raised his hand when I asked, "What kinds of songs are you interested in learning?" The itty-bitty rocker said, in his very small child voice, "Can we play 'Big-Bottomed Ladies?'"

I blinked. There was a chorus of, "Yeah," and "That's a good one!" from four other very small boys. Julie Andrews was quiet.

"I don't know that one," I said, feeling perturbed that these children seem to think it's okay to listen to a song called Big Bottom Ladies and then request that their Twenty-Something Female Guitar Teacher teach it to them. I also felt furious that such a song exists. Granted, I don't know what the song really says, but it sounds like objectification to me. Maybe we should talk about this in guitar class.

I feel like there is a huge culture gap between me and these fifth grade boys. I mean, I want to sing Joan Baez and they want to sing about women's butts and smash their guitars.

Yesterday, another kid starting ripping on Beethoven, saying his music sounds like "High School Musical high-note opera crap." For that, too, I blinked and felt perturbed, and then I took about ten minutes of classtime to talk about Beethoven and his struggles as a composer and musician. By the end of my soapbox lecture, the kids were thinking it's pretty cool to write music when you're deaf. I told them that if anyone rips on Beethoven without being able to play a piece by Beethoven, I'm going to make the executive decision that our recital is strictly classical music, so that they can all spend some time appreciating it. I did not address the "high note opera crap," but the next kid who says anything near to that is going to get a solo recital of opera arias. And, anyway, Beethoven only wrote one opera, and the main character is a mezzo who plays a gender-bending role, so I don't know what this kid is talking about.

Nor did I even attempt to redeem High School Musical crap. He may have had a point there.

So, for now, I am educating myself in the ways of hard rock. But there will be NO Smoke on the Water (unfailingly, two out of the six kids in this class walked in bragging about being able to play Smoke on the Water before they even introduced themselves to me, blah blah blah, I'm so sick of that stupid boring song I can't even tell you).

Any suggestions for hard rock songs for a classroom full of macho nine-year olds with tune-slipping acoustic guitars who are being taught by a classically-trained soprano and feminist folk-singer?

It's About the War?

One day a week, at least during the school year, I get to feel like a rock star.

I am a beginning Spanish teacher for three to six-year-olds, at a local pre-school/kindergarten. It's a pretty good gig, I get to hang out with people shorter than me and draw cartoon images of things like food items, clothing, animals, that sort of thing, and then speak rugged Spanish with kids who are just learning the art of the English language. I am winding down the second year of this job, and most of the older kids have been in my classes for two years. A few weeks ago, one of these older kids, who has been coming to Spanish class every week for two years, suddenly appeared to be stunned, in the middle of class. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. She seemed to be thinking, "No way. Get out! You are joking!" as though I had just told her I was from another planet or that Elmo was really a puppet.

"Sarah," I said, surprised to see her mouth hanging open, as driplets of drool began to form on her lower lip, "Que paso?"

"Liz." She stated my name, sounding truly baffled and amazed at the same time. Incredulous, she asked, "Do you speak English?"

It seemed to have just occurred to her that I refer to lunch as comida and that I greet her with Hola instead of Hello. That in my class, we count like this: uno, dos, tres, instead of like this: one, two, three. This must be thoroughly confusing for a five-year-old in an otherwise English speaking setting. But this has been going on for two years. I wasn't sure why it had suddenly dawned on her that I wasn't speaking English. And, the funny thing is that I do speak English with them. Besides teaching Spanish, I have been an assistant teacher in the general pre-school, and I have visited them on many occasions, chatting in Ingles, helping them with their English letters, reading stories to them at storytime in English, answering their questions in English. But it seemed that Sarah was just now figuring out that most of the time Liz speaks in Spanish...whattayaknow!

It can be incredibly surprising to watch the cognitive processes of pre-schoolers. They notice the most inane things, like that I wear the same shoes each week, or that I have shiny jewelry in my eyebrow, but it can take two years to realize that I am speaking another language. I'm not exactly sure how I responded. I think I just assured her that, Yes I speak English, and Si, hablo espanol. And we moved on.

There are a lot of times that we just have to move on. A couple of weeks ago, we were discussing Cinco de Mayo. I asked if anyone knew what Cinco de Mayo was. At first there was a lot of, "No, what's that, Liz?" and, "Can I go to the bathroom?" And then, little Jim, the quiet four-year-old who has recently recovered from his habit of biting the girls he likes, raised his hand. "Jim?" I said, encouragingly, "Que es Cinco de Mayo?"

I was expecting something like, "I think there's a big parade," or "I don't know but can we play a game?" and instead, I heard a tiny four-year-old voice explaining quite competently, "Well, Liz, Cinco de Mayo is the Fifth of May. It is a Mexican holiday that commemorates victory at the Battle of Puebla in 1862 when Mexican forces led by General Ignacio Zaragoza defeated the French."

Slightly stunned myself, I said, "Well, yes, Jim, excellent job, muy bien," and I seriously considered asking him to teach the class. I mean, he's four. And he pretty much eloquently described the abbreviated history of Cinco de Mayo.

The following week, in an attempt to review what we had learned, I asked the group, "Who can tell me what we talked about last week?" Jim, not surprisingly, said, "Cinco de Mayo."

And I said, "Si, muy bien! And who can tell me what Cinco de Mayo is? Someone other than Jim?"

Harold, the kid who speaks with his eyes closed, raised his hand and wiggled his fingers in that way that begs to be called on. He was kind of squeaking, you know, "Ooh, ooh, pick me! Ooh, ooh, me, me! I know!" So I called on Harold, and and he sighed dramatically, as if to illustrate what a frightfully easy question I had given him, closed his eyes, raised his eyebrows and said, with a perfect Spanish accent, "Yo se. I can tell you, Liz. Cinco de Mayo is about the war? La guerra?," he paused, opened an eye to peek around at his admiring peers, just making sure he was getting it right, then closed his eyes again and finished definitely, "It's about the Iraqi War."

This was a moment where we just had to move on. I mean, what can one say to that? As a teacher, I am always looking for ways to affirm the students in their reasoning, and I suppose I could see how he had gotten there...there was a battle....that's war stuff....there's a war happening currently....I suppose he just kind of made all these connections. But, instead, I just said, after clearing my throat to disguise my chortles, "No, Harold, you're on the right track, but this is a Mexican Holday that has nothing to do with Iraq. Maybe Jim can tell us what Cinco de Mayo is about? Jim?" And Jim, in his squeaky voice, pedantically re-recited his speech about the Battle of Puebla.

Now about the rock star status. In the fall and spring, when the weather is amiable, these kids get to eat lunch outside, on a wide set of steps between the building and the sidewalk. Our Spanish classes happen just before and after lunch, and I generally leave at lunchtime to eat my own lunch and sometimes to do last minute afternoon lesson planning. I know, I know, delinquent teacher. What of it? You try teaching Spanish to four-year-olds. You try explaining the "Iraqi War" to post-toddlers who confuse it with a Mexican Holiday. I'd like to see you try.

When these kids sit outside at lunch, I have to squeeze my way through them to make my way to the car. As I pass, I try to say one general, "Adios," or, "Hasta pronto," so as to not drag out the leaving behavoir. These kids love leaving behavoir, and they love telling teachers good-bye. As I make my way through the staircase freckled with small children eating peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches in Dora the Explorer lunch boxes, I hear a resounding chorus of, "Bye Liz! Liz! Bye-bye! See ya later Liz! Liz! Liz! I like your shoes, Liz! Where is your guitar, Liz! Bye-bye! Adios! I love you Liz!" and, without fail, there is always the kid who risks a scolding from the other teachers by jumping up from her seat and literally chasing me to tell me that she just wants to give me a hug, even as we hear the other teachers shouting, "Jennifer! Come back right now!"

You can't give one kid a hug, because as soon as you do, the entire staircase of sticky-fingered, mucus-nosed, short people erupts in a spill of little feet running toward you, even if you have crossed the street, their arms outstretched, mouths full with (insert lunch meat) sandwiches and something messy. You have to jump into your car before they make it, or they will smother you in jelly and mucus and, from time to time, conjunctivitis, head lice, or any number of debilitating viral infections. You have to just trust that the other teachers will restore order, that they will herd the slimy, big-hearted mob back to the staircase to resume their lunches with notes from their Moms. Or Dads. Or, in some cases, Legal Gaurdians of Other Titles.

And then you fire up the engine and drive away, without looking back, but feeling like hot stuff because you are someone who has to get into your car before the mob of adoring fans descends. You are someone who has to just move on.

The Beastly Ivy

My apartment is being taken over by an Algerian Ivy plant, and I'm not going to do a damn thing about it, not anymore. No. It's done. I have spent too many hours trying to re-route the vines that are crawling, leaping savagely, and clinging to anything that comes within reach of its ferocious grasp. That plant can have the living room. It can have the piano, the window sills, the picture frames and sentimental photos of my lost loved ones, including Aria the cat, it can have my desk, my couch, the afghan I crocheted for my grandmother (is that backwards?), it can have the other plants, the desk, the retro green chair, and even the bookcases that fill the closet instead of coats, even the books about gardening, even the books about freaking ivies.

That inveterate, incorrigible plant can have it all, and I will just sit back and watch, stunned and drained as I offer up my residence for greenery sustenance.

There was a time when I loved that plant, when I would have done anything to make sure that it had ample room to grow, free from my belongings, when I would make elaborate wire structures to train the vines, when I would spend hours untangling the arms so that it could be re-potted in healthy, nutrient-rich soil. And I still love it, in a really resentful sort of way. But I am ready to let go, to let it take its own course.

I have had quite the relationship with the Algerian Ivy over the course of my lifetime. It has been something of a family plant, one that has existed in my grandmother's home, my mother's home, and now mine. (No, not the same exact one, silly, but "Ivy" as a species.) My mom's brother, as opposed to my uncle, is an artist whom I have met approximately three times in my life, and he painted a famous portrait of the Ivy that started it all. And ever since then, Ivies, particularly Algerian Ivies, have been immortalized in my family, they have been given a godly status, they are the plants above all plants, the only plant I know of to be featured in a portait among the photos of relatives. So you can understand that I have had a fierce infatuation with the Ivy. A bond. It has been something I have clung to, if you will, as a relic of my ancestry.

Maybe I'm being dramatic. Maybe it isn't really going to invade my space in a recidivous, beastly manner. But one can never tell, and once a plant begins stretching its fingers out in all directions, it is impossible to know the outcome.

You might think I'm trying to be philosophical, speaking of being taken over as a metaphor, but, no, I'm literally just speaking of a plant and its irascible, growling appetite for my things. I'm tired of bending over backwards to make sure that plant doesn't take over my world. Today, folks, I'm surrendering to the Ivy and throwing up my hands in exhasperation. That creepy plant can have it all. I'm done.