A Good Day on the Job...

One thing I love about my job is that I get to have personal relationships with the people who have hired me. I could try to be strictly professional, only talking about music lessons and payment and scheduling, but when your job consists of going into people's homes, of stepping into their daily lives, it's impossible not to engage in a more personal relationship.

I never know what I am going to walk into. Sometimes I walk into a quiet piano room and am offered hot genmai cha and a homemade cookie. Sometimes I walk into a roomful of guests and apologetic parents--oh, we forgot you were coming, would you mind if the extended family watches you teach Little One piano? Sometimes people start their fireplaces just for me. Sometimes no one is home when I arrive. Sometimes people set out a rocking chair for me. Sometimes I walk into the heavy, uncomfortable remnants of a recent argument. Sometimes I get my own pair of slippers at someone's house. Sometimes the lesson is interrupted by the smoke alarm because dinner was left in the oven too long. Sometimes I am greeted with drawings from younger siblings, hot chocolate, high-fives, or the last of the Greek Salad that was for dinner. Sometimes the dog is happier to see me than the student.

Once I saw a parent pulling out of the driveway with her kids in the van (clearly forgetting the piano lesson), and when she saw me driving up to her house, she slammed on the brakes, swerved the car around, pulled back up to the house, put the car in park, ushered her son right back out of the van and turned to me and all she said was, "I am a dork."

I suppose one has to have a certain amount of flexibility in terms of practical skills while doing this sort of job. While my primary purpose in visiting my students' homes is to teach music, at times I find myself doing other things.

Like the time a six-year-old was having a really hard day and couldn't play more than a measure or two without crying. We wound up showing each other magic tricks and laughing until he felt better. Or the time an adult piano student was so melancholy she couldn't concentrate on the music. My job as a music teacher is to listen, but sometimes I have to do a different kind of listening.

I don't know if this is a job I will do forever. It can be exhausting (pun intended) driving everywhere. It can be boring and stressful keeping up with bookkeeping. It can be frustrating getting lesson cancellation phone calls.

But getting to watch a twelve-year-old sightread a Bach Minuet? Getting to hear an aspiring Broadway star confidently sing notes she didn't think she could? Getting to answer the same questions I used to ask? Getting to hear an eight-year old nail interval training? Getting to watch a nine-year-old learn how to write a song? Getting to hang out after the lesson and talk about spirituality and interconnectedness? Getting recipes from the anti-wheat suburban mom?

Some days it's worth the gas mileage. And some days, it feels like it's about more than the music.

Smelly

A 10-year old piano student stopped playing mid-song at his lesson yesterday, crinkled his nose, and said, "Eeew, something stinks."

He looked at me and said, "Is it your feet?"

I mentally walked back through my day. Was there any reason my feet would be smelly? Had I gone for that run with Luna and then forgotten to shower? Did I accidentally eat something that gave me gas? Hmm...no, no, and no.

"I don't think so, " I said, honestly. "But we have had a sick dog at home. Maybe you can smell that."

He nodded, took his hands off the piano, and said empathetically, "Is it....flatulence?"

Certain Trainer

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a history of not always speaking up for myself.

Not necessarily so anymore.

I finally hit that threshold--the one that people all my life have told me I would hit--where I just don't have the time or energy for taking shit, anymore. No, I haven't gone to the other extreme--(as much as you may like to imagine me telling off the old lady with the slow moving shopping cart ahead me, it's not likely to happen)--but I have reached a point where I am growing more and more comfortable with my own life and belief systems and self, and if you do something out of line, I will confront you.

Especially, particularly, certainly if it has to do with my dog.

Case in point: a certain dog-trainer who runs a certain class at a certain animal training facility, who publicly humiliated me got an irate mouthful from me after class, and I think she was honestly surprised that I had it in me.

Here is what happened. I had been in New Zealand for four weeks and clearly missed some of Luna's training. Besides her level training, she goes to a weekly tricks and games class, where she has learned how to hop over things, crawl through tunnels, etcetera.

In celebration of my return, I attended this class with Luna and Stacia. Stacia had been going to the class for a few weeks, and had the training signals down pat. I had not tried taking Luna through an "agility course" ever, and after watching for a few turns, and on Stacia's encouragement, I decided to try. This wasn't a professional agility course--it was set up for dogs and their owners who are learning how to do some of the skills. For beginners, essentially. And so Stacia assured me that I would do fine, that we were all learning, that I might as well give it a try.

I took Luna through once, doing my very best to do exactly what Stacia had done--treat Luna here, call her now, have her sit here--and was in line for a second turn when the Certain Trainer looked at me and scrrrreamed, "STOP, EVERYONE! STOP YOUR DOGS!"

The roomful of dog owners and dogs stopped, dead in their tracks. Everyone had been running the agility course, but now the room was silent. I was standing right in front of Certain Trainer, and she grabbed Luna from me, didn't look at me, but looked across the room to Stacia, who had been sitting in an observer's chair, while I learned the course.

"Sta....Stacey? What's your name again?" she asked in a loud, commanding voice.

"Uh, it's Stacia," Stacia said, looking frazzled. All eyes were on us.

Certain Trainer yelled across the silent room, "Can you come over here and take over your dog?" She motioned to me and said, "She doesn't know how to do this. She has never handled Luna in class before, and Luna's behavior is falling apart."

Certain Trainer patted my shoulder and said condescendingly, "You didn't do anything wrong, honey."

I felt simultaneously stupid, patronized, and pissed off. And at the moment, I had no words. I was embarrassed, and everyone was looking at us, because she has stopped everything in order to yell out loud what a horrible job I had done with Luna.

Stacia obediently stood up and walked across the room and took Luna. I (with my proverbial tail between my legs) sauntered over to the observer's chair and sat down to pout.

And as class started moving again, my pouting transformed into pure, unadulterated anger.

How dare she? In front of the whole class! Stopping everything! Saying Luna's behavior was "falling apart," because of me! And not looking me in the eye, not even looking at me the entire time! And then patting my shoulder and calling me, "honey!" What the fuck! Who did she think she was?

Sitting amidst my own trembling wrath, I watched the rest of class go by in a red-hued blur. Stacia and Luna, whizzing past--and what was this? Luna missing the jumps with Stacia leading her? Aha--proof that her behavior didn't fall apart because of me--she was making the same mistakes with Stacia! She was tired, surely. End of the day, sleepy puppy, regardless of which mama takes the lead.

When class finally finished (it took all of my strength to stay in the room and not storm out and wait in the car), I wordlessly stood up and walked with Stacia and Luna to the door.

Certain Trainer was waiting for us there. "Oh, hon," she said, touching my arm, "You're not mad at me, are you?"

And that was it. Red. Steamy. Hot. Anger. Searing!

If we were dogs, we would have settled this physically. I would have snarled and lunged at her, to let her know I was angry. She would have backed off and bowed, to tell me that she was only playing. I wouldn't have believed her, and I probably would have tackled her and shown off my fierce teeth until she went into a submissive pose and whimpered.

But we are not dogs, and I am not the kind to attack a stranger, however inappropriately she has treated me. And so, with a shaky voice, I said, "I am Luna's owner too, and next time, talk to me about what I am doing wrong, not my partner."

That's all I said, but it was so unexpected, and I said it with so much fervor and venom that I could feel the eyes of the other class members growing large with respect for my bravery. (I don't think anyone has ever stood up to Certain Trainer before--she carries a certain don't-mess-with-me kind of aura that lends itself to getting away with being an ass.) Certain Trainer (who kept touching my arm, my hand, my shoulder), said, "Oh, hon! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to embarrass you. My bad. I'm so sorry, hon. Don't be mad at me!"

Yikes. I thanked her for her apology, and Stacia and I left. I was still shaking and felt...a mixture of relief and ickiness.

We walked in silence to the car. I didn't know whether Stacia was humiliated by me or proud of me, but when we got into the car, she turned to me and said, "Look at my girlfriend, standing up for herself! Way to go!"

At which point I broke down into tears, because although I had confronted Certain Trainer, I still had been affected by the experience, and had plenty of insecurity brewing about my ability as a dog owner. Stacia consoled me and told me she was proud of me, that I had done nothing wrong and that Certain Trainer is abrasive and it's time that someone called her on it. We had to run some errands, and I waited in the car with Luna while Stacia picked up a few groceries.

She came out with yellow flowers and hug for me.

I love my girlfriend and my dog. I am pretty lucky.

Here are some pictures of Luna--you can see why I would be deeply offended at the slightest hint that my relationship or work with her isn't beneficial. She makes up the most important part of my day, every day.

And my heart isn't big enough to hold all the love I have for her.

Dotted Half-Note

At choir last week, the woman sitting next to me, who is new this season and whom I do not know because I was in New Zealand for the first few weeks of rehearsal, turned to me, held her music and a pencil to me and earnestly said, "Look, here are the markings I made to make sure I know that a dot next to a circle note with a stick equals three beats. Maybe you would like to make these markings in your music, too? I don't know if you read music or not, but it's really helpful to write this stuff out."

Dumbfounded, I stammered, "No, thank you," and uncomfortably shifted in my chair.

Suddenly my job as a piano teacher and the thousands of dollars and many years I spent getting a B.A. in Music seem so...invisible.

Same Name

Have you ever accidentally booked a show at a venue with the same name in the wrong city?

It's...embarrassing.

Rrrrrrrmeow!

I took my cats to the vet a couple of weeks ago to discover that they are a little overweight. Each one is only one pound overweight, but when you consider that they only weigh 9 and 10 pounds....that's a lot.

So we have begun the process of kitty food regulation. Until now, they have always free fed, but now they get regimented amounts of food two times per day.

And they are very sassy about this change.

I have two cats: Mama Schmee and Nubia. Nubia doesn't mind much--she is a pretty easygoing creature. Mama, on the other hand, has a lot to say about the fact that she is no longer in control of how much she eats each day.

I suppose that having the dog has contributed to their mischief lately, too. Whatever the factors, they have been very naughty cats recently.

They are not supposed to get up on the kitchen counter. We have always had a little battle of the wills when it comes to Mama and the counter, but in the past few months, she has become fearless. She will jump up and then turn around and look at me as if to say, "What are you gonna do about it?"

And so we have instigated the water spray technique, to try to dissuade her from doing things she is not supposed to do. When she jumps up on the counter, we spray water (not at her, just next to her), and she goes scurrying away angrily.

But my cats are smart.

They know that the counter keeps them safe from Luna, who can't figure out that they are not fluffy little dogs.




They also know that the kitchen counter gets them very close to the only South-facing window in the house and a perfect view of the bird, squirrel, and grass-filled backyard. Mama craves grass. She needs her grass.

Whenever she escapes out the back door, she takes one look back at us and then lets out a high pitched, "Rrrrrrrmeow!" and scuttles to the edge of the deck and hops off the six foot drop. Every. Single. Time. (I wonder if she has ever considered taking the steps. It would be so much easier on her knees.)

These days she doesn't escape so often because we have learned to squeeze through while blocking the lower half of the opening. Mama has a leash and harness now, so that I can take her outside to eat grass to her heart's content while regulating her whereabouts and the neighborhood birds. But she still tries to escape, and in those occasional moments where she is successful, it's always the same peek back and "Rrrrrrrmeow!" and a hop off the deck. Where she obediently stops and waits for me to take the steps and begrudgingly collect her furry mass and toss her back inside (after I let her eat a little grass, because I'm a softie).

Last fall, there was an evening where Stacia and I were rushing around trying to get ready to go a friend's party. I had recently seen both cats hanging around the living room, but did one more look just to make sure everyone was accounted for. Nubia was there, but where was Mama? I couldn't find her, but I knew I had just seen her, and there was no way she was outside. So I shrugged it off and assumed she was sleeping under a piece of furniture or something, and off we went to our party.

I came home first. I think I wasn't feeling well or something, and left early. When I got home, Nubia was waiting for me at the door. Hmmm....where was Mama now?

I patrolled the house, on alert for the other cat, but I couldn't find her anywhere. Finally I decided to check outside, just in case.

I opened up the back door, and there she was, sitting on the deck in the dark, waiting patiently to be let in.

"How in the hell did you get out?" I asked her, stunned.

She did not respond because she cannot talk.

Instead she made that noise that is somewhere in between a kitty growl and a purr and walked inside.

And then I saw the screen. Not only had she clawed holes in the screen, but she had pushed the screen out and bent the corner so that she could squeeze through the opening and hop onto the deck. I'm not sure I could have done that. It was a fantastic feat of strength, and however angry I was, I was also a little chuffed at my cat's amazing resourcefulness and, I'll admit it, slightly impressed.

And now, six months later, the screen is still broken, and I recently got the Talk of Shame from my landlord/girlfriend regarding keeping my cats under control around her windows this year.

Looks like I'll be purchasing and installing a new screen, ladies and gentlemen. Or at the very least attempting some serious behavior modification training with my stubborn, adorable cats.

(And, by the way, this is an old photo, when they could fit into their skinny jeans. Now they are...a little more teddy-bear-like, you might politely say.)

awkward moments

Awkward Moment #1

I stood up to turn a page of music, and my adult piano student said to me in the middle of her lesson, "My GOD, you're tiny!"

Now, this sort of out-of-the blue, out-of-context remark about body size always leaves me feeling...uncomfortable. There is no way she could know that I am in recovery from an eating disorder, but even if I had never struggled with body image and food, I think exclamations about people's weight are just darned awkward.

What are you supposed to say? If you are a woman, and someone exclaims that you are tiny, I think you are supposed to say, "Thank you," as though it were a compliment. Or, better yet, you are supposed to coyly deny it.

"Oh, stop it. No, I'm not!" And you're supposed to squeeze your stomach and say, "Just look at how fat I am!"

That's what you are supposed to say, because you are supposed to assume that (a), it is a compliment and (b), that you are too humble to accept such high praise, such attention and glory for the ultimate ideal for a woman--thinness. But, because I don't really appreciate any comments on size/weight/body appearance, and because I lost interest long ago in playing the body game, and maybe also because we were in the middle of a piano lesson, I had no idea how to respond.

Instead, I kind of stuttered, "Uh...yep," and turned the page and went about the business of explaining some musical term. Which, in retrospect, seems like a really odd reaction.

Awkward Moment #2

Another awkward moment occurred a few days later when I took Luna for a walk around Lake Como. We were about halfway around, when a woman appeared out of nowhere, walking beside us. She raved about how adorable Luna is, how much she misses her dead dog, and how much fun she had traveling recently in Scandinavia.

This is all without introducing herself. It was a cold day, and Luna didn't seem to mind this woman, so I figured what the heck, let's listen to her stories while we finish our walk. She went on and on about her three grown children, her grandchildren, and an upcoming trip to Hawaii.

Finally, she asked me a few questions about Luna. I responded using the genderless "we," as in, "'We' got Luna about three months ago," and "'We' weren't looking for a dog, but when 'we' saw her, 'we' couldn't leave her."

And the woman said, "So does your husband just love Luna too?"

Awkward Moment #3

I openly admit that I have a boy-crush on a certain co-worker. It's very innocent--the kind of crush that you wouldn't ever admit unless something like this happens:

I happened to be on the floor. (It's really not that unusual in my line of work as a preschool teacher.) I was cleaning up some water from this thing we like to call the "water table," where kids stand and roll up their sleeves and play in a table full of (you guessed it) water. It was the end of the week, so we had drained the water. Noticing there was a small spill on the floor, I took the initiative to clean it up. After soaking up the excess water, I stood up and absentmindedly dried off my hands by wiping them on my jeans.

At the precise moment that I brushed my hands off my jeans and out into the air, my unassuming coworker happened to be walking past.

And I accidentally hit him....

Right in the nuts.