Indecipherable

The CD release show came and went, all in all quite successfully. Except for my guitar battery giving out after the first song and an unexpected eternal span of minutes in which I was left to my own indecipherable sense of humor to charm the crowd until I could get my hands on another guitar, it went well. (Yes, the battery in my guitar gave out. Yes, silly me for not replacing it before the show.)

This whole endeavor has been a lesson in faith for me--trusting my community, trusting my own ability, trusting that things will come together. We took on a massive project by deciding to organize a plant sale as well as an album release. Oh, and not only a plant sale, but a plant sale and art show. We collected, painted, and prepared the pots. We dug and split and planted the plants. We assembled the "planted music" packages (hardly an hour before the show). We wrote and performed and arranged and produced the music. We showed up and sang. 

By "we," I mean specifically these people, but many, many more: Dan Zamzow, Jake Staron, Rachel Price, Bethany DeLine, Maya Dahlberg, Garden Harbor, Mother Earth Gardens, Colin McDonald, Thomas Kivi, Kjersti Rognes, Meg Stinchcomb, Henry Allen, Emily Pflugi, Sean, Ryan, all the boys and girls of East Terrace Road, etc. So, so, so, so many people contributed to this effort. 

I have been struck, repeatedly, by my luck at finding myself a part of such a generous and willing community. Out of nowhere, people have volunteered to donate their time and talents. The "Planted Music" event could never have happened without all that outside energy spilling over. I meant to gush about how grateful I was on Saturday night, while I had the microphone in front of me. 

However, it turns out I am not so graceful in front of a microphone if I'm not singing. 

That span of eternal minutes without my guitar was brutal. You wouldn't believe how scary it is to stand in front of a room FULL of people (disproportionately populated by unfamiliar faces) without a guitar in your hands. 

Standing there without anything to hold onto, without a song to sing, I felt literally naked. It was the first time I have had so much attention directed at me, all at once, all in a hushed, anticipatory waiting game, as everyone stood there, their multiple pairs of eyes resting on my nervous body as I tried to think of something funny to say. I felt required to entertain these people who had scoured the city to find Corner Coffee (not even on the corner!) on the edge of downtown in the middle of Pride weekend in Minneapolis. Unfortunately, I'm really only funny to like three people in my life, and those include my sister and brother who only think I'm funny because they remember the origins of certain quirky mannerisms.

I think I told some half-funny joke about working with kids, but only those three people laughed. Actually, I can't be sure if the people out there in the audience-o-sphere were as uncomfortable as I was, but it seemed to drag on forever. Thomas (who can't decipher my humor but sometimes laughs out of pity), thankfully, let me use his guitar, which is identical to mine, and I told another half-funny joke about how Thomas only got a Taylor 110E because I did. 

And when I finally had a guitar in my hands, I relaxed into singing. I could never be a stand-up comic or a improvisational actor. I love performing, but I seem to do much better with pre-constructed dialogue, or at least a plan. Songs, music--that's easy to perform. You know what to expect. Even if you are improvising while performing music, you're working within a system. You anticipate chord changes, melody line, harmony. 

Those lucky people (my sister is one), who can pull out ten character parodies on demand, baffle and amaze me.

At least I know my limitations. However, I should really study the art of improvisation as a precautionary measure. If I am ever in a situation again where I have a roomful of people staring at me, expecting me to perform, and my guitar gives out, what will I do? Next time I will be prepared.

Maybe it's time to take that juggling class?

Seriously, I was the Prom Queen.

Part of releasing a CD includes self-promotion. This is such a ridiculous and difficult task. I have been laboring over a bio for myself, and here is all I can come up with. I can't seem to take this seriously!

Bio #1:

Sometimes your formative years are a forecast and sometimes they are not. I really was the prom queen.

Bio #2

If you took two parts bitter arugula and one part sugar maple, you wouldn’t quite have my back.

Bio #3

Liz: Can I please include my love for puns in my bio?

Dan: This is why you’re not in charge.

Bio #4

Liz Rognes is a singer/songwriter based in Saint Paul, MN. She grew up in rural Iowa, surrounded by cornfields, prairie, and her father’s eccentric love for miniature animals. Santa brought her a piano at the age of two, and she has been playing ever since. She is classically trained as a soprano and has studied music theory and composition. She has a B.A. in Music, 2005. Her business plan includes implementing a first-date intervention service for incompatible lesbians. She is also about to embark on the lucrative task of attaining an M.F.A in creative writing. Red Flags (Deep Sea Productions, 2009) is her first full-length album.

I made an appointment with someone who would alter my bridesmaid's dress without making me feel like I was completely clueless about such womanly things. She said she had plenty of time to make the alterations, but, she said kindly, "please do bring in your shoes and bra."

This meant that I had to buy shoes and a bra.

I have at least enough to sense to comprehend that I can't wear my Mary Jane styled Earth shoes or strappy, rubber-soled Tevas with a satiny periwinkle gown. Nor can I wear the flimsy cotton thing I wear that masquerades as a sports bra for women who are still waiting for their breasts to appear.

So yesterday (when one student canceled because she was striking the set of a play and another student canceled because she happens to attend one of the schools currently shut down to prevent the spread of the ever-so-mysterious Swine flu--oh, whoops--H1N1 virus), I grabbed the opportunity to devote some time to preparing myself for this venture as a Bridesmaid.

First stop: Payless Shoes. Yes, I decided to go for sensibly priced shoes (which, in the end, means not-so-sensibly cut around the awkward shape of my small, wide foot). I deliberated for what seemed like hours, trying on this pair, then that pair and attempting to walk in skinny heels. I toppled over not once but at least three times, nearly taking out an entire display of Airwalks. The woman behind the counter was filing her nails and eyeing me suspiciously. Did she think I was going to jack a pair of shoes? What, me?!

I finally opted for a pair that seemed to fit me the most comfortably but that also sported an impressive height. I don't think Payless even sells dress-up shoes without dramatic heels.

Then I remembered that I happen to own an actual bra--one with all the busty details: a push up wire, padded cups (because I don't think they even make bras in my size without padding), and maybe even fancy lace. I managed to find the bra, tucked away in a drawer with other things I never wear.

And on I went, to the kind women who agreed to alter my dress, un-sensible shoes and busty bra in tow.

When I arrived, she had me slip into a dressing room to put on the dress, with the vital shoes and bra. I carefully put on the dress, shoes, and busty bra, then told her I was ready for the pins. She came in, took one look at me and said, fervently, "Oh, you're not wearing that bra are you?"

She must have seen the disappointment on my face. Now I didn't have the right bra?! Why was this entire process so difficult? Navigating the dress-up world leaves me feeling completely lost and ridiculously frumpy. I stammered something about it being the only bra I have.

She must have felt sorry for me (either because I was so clearly clueless or because I was so clearly in need of a bra that actually fits me, I can't be sure), because she put her hand on my arm and said, "You look lovely. You just can't wear that bra."

She had me slowly turn in a circle while she inspected the lines and contours of the dress, then she said, "You can't wear any bra at all with this dress. No bra. No bra!"

This created a number of challenges, because without the padded bra, the chest of the dress drooped drastically. "Why don't they make bridesmaid dresses that fit women with the body of a twelve-year-old boy?" I asked.

"I will sew you some cups into the dress," she said matter-of-factly.

She asked me to slowly turn in a circle while she pinned the dress for the hem. And that's when my bitterness about the whole process turned a bit softer. As I stood there, in my un-sensible shoes and partially fitting dress, with this warm and unfamiliar woman at my feet, holding pins in her teeth and gently folding the excess fabric that spilled onto the floor, I realized that (antiquated and patriarchal as weddings may be) this process of women tending to each other in preparation for the union of friends is part of a long tradition. And I felt beautiful, standing there in satin periwinkle, even though the dress fit funny, and my hair was mussed in long, tangly pigtails.

And I have had the honor of being there with my friend Nicole as she goes through multiple wedding dress fittings. She stands in front of a full-length mirror, another warm and unfamiliar woman at her feet, pinning, folding, gently smoothing out the long pieces of soft white, while another bridesmaid and I sit, awed at the sight of Nicole's dark curls cascading over her shoulders. She is stunningly beautiful, and we, a roomful of unlikely grouped women, gathered in a small room surrounded by fabric tape and mirrors, are all mesmerized by the intricacy of the inlaid beading, the detailed stitching and draw of the waist, the long, billowing arcs of silky white textile brushing the floor.

So in the end, I am grateful to be a part of this. I may be clueless about how to apply make-up or how to shop for shoes, or even that one needs to have her shoes before getting her dress hemmed, but I still find some loveliness in the tradition and careful attention that goes into this whole thing. There is this unexpected intimacy, an inherent sweetness, about the care and fuss and gentle handling of fabric and folds.

Shoes and bra kerfuffle aside, maybe this stint at being a bridesmaid (just this one time, for Nicole) isn't so bad.

Dress Stress

"Hello?"

"Hi, I am going to be a bridesmaid in a friend's wedding and the dress needs some alterations. Can I make an appointment with you?"

"You have your bra and shoes, of course."

"Well...I hadn't really gotten that far yet."

"I can't help you unless you have your bra and shoes."

(Fidget, sigh, annoyed.) "Ok. I....I guess that makes sense. I just don't have them yet. Can I come in next week?"

"When's the wedding?"

"May 30."

(Horrified.) "OH NO! NOT ENOUGH TIME!"

"Ugh, well, I can come today but I don't have shoes or a bra."

(Snippity.) "There is nothing I can do for you. That's how it works. You have to have shoes and a bra. I can't do anything."

Angry. "Fine! I'll do it myself."

Click.

Ring, ring.

"Mom? Do you think I can alter my bridesmaid's dress on my own?"

"On your own?!"

"Yes. On my own. I have a sewing machine."

"I wouldn't even try. You might mess it up."

(Embittered, pouting.) "Ugh. I hate this process!"

(Judiciously.) "Honey? You have your shoes already, right?"

all in a day's work

I am only beginning to wrap my head around the fact that in three months, I will be leaving Minnesota. I am moving to Washington state to pursue an MFA in creative writing, which is incredibly exciting and exactly what I want to be doing, but it's also very sad to imagine leaving all of my students, friends, and favorite coffee shops. And the Minnesota Opera. And Summit Avenue in springtime. And the Ecopolitan. And, you know, many many things, kids, and people that I love.

It dawned on me yesterday, as I was teaching and encountering a string of write-able events, that when I leave piano teaching, I may not have anything left to write about. Which clearly defeats the purpose of pursuing an MFA. Of course, this just isn't true--there is always something to write about. But this stint as a traveling piano teacher has given me immense opportunity for storytelling.

For example, one of my young voice students, an excitable eight-year-old who loves High School Musical, said to me at the end of her lesson the other day, "Liz, I actually do have a question for you."

"Sure," I said. "What is it?"

She wrinkled her nose. "The song, 'I Won't Grow Up' makes me think of...popcorn."

I raised my eyebrows, not surprised at all that her "question" came in the form of a curious opinion. "Popcorn? That's interesting. Don't you like popcorn?"

"NO," she said definitively. "My mom has wheat allergies, and popcorn makes her tired. So any song that reminds me of popcorn just isn't fun to sing."

I smiled and told her that was just fine, we have plenty of other songs to sing, and that was that.

-------

I left her house to teach a longstanding piano student, an eleven-year-old who (not that I pick favorites) is one of my favorites. She has, however, taken to exhibiting lax practicing habits, which has put a bit of strain on our relationship. She is currently learning about major scales, which is incredibly exciting material for me. I speak in exaggeration exclamation points when teaching her about tetrachords and the circle of fifths. "And there are two tetrachords in every major scale! It's always the same! Just like puzzle pieces! Look, here is a song practicing your major scales!"

At her lesson the other day, when I went off into frantic scale-happy (ionian) mode, she rolled her eyes. "I don't want to play that song," she said.

"But it's called Jumpin' Jazz Cat! Using your Major Scales!"

"Liz," she said, disinterestedly and sounding quite annoyed, "I know this song has nothing to do with jazz or cats."

This same kid, however, quickly became animated when it was time for me to leave. Her mom and I were discussing my upcoming move to Washington, and out of nowhere, the kid stole my keys. "Now you can't leave!" she said, grinning devilishly.

"Lisa, I need my car keys. I'm not leaving for a few months. But right now I have to go to my next lesson. I'll see you next week."

Dejectedly, she looked at her watch and stared at the numbers and the ticking hands. "I'll be watching the clock, "she said.

-----

Lastly, I have one more story, from that same day. I have a five-year-old piano student who doesn't give two shits about playing the piano. He really, truly just doesn't care. At first, I took it personally and expended massive amounts of energy trying to get him to love piano lessons and learning to read music, but after a while I just gave up. I show up once a week to sit with him and encourage him to sit still long enough to find C Position, and that's about as far as we get.

This week, we were attempting to read some below-the-staff notes. Very, very slowly, he recited the note names by taking complete guesses each time. "Uh...G? C? D?"

I sat still and stared out the window. "No. Nope. No. No, not C. Nope."

"F? E? Um...C?"

"No. Nope."

This continued for a while, and finally I grew irritated. "LOOK at the staff," I growled in angry teacher voice. "THAT'S middle C. One below it is B. One above it is D. It's in ALPHABETICAL ORDER." I was gripping my pencil and smacking his book with the tip. The poor kid was clueless and now also feeling terrible.

Furiously, I scrawled out a worksheet for him on a piece of notebook paper. "HERE," I said, "Practice identifying the notes. Write in the note names."

The kid, with his gigantic brown eyes, silently took the paper and the pencil and stared at it blankly. I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair, a vague feeling of guilt tapping at the soft pump of my heart. I mean, poor kid. He really doesn't care about piano lessons, and here I was, giving him a hard time.

I turned to look at him, huddled over the impromptu worksheet, as he began to tentatively write on the page. I sighed, thinking, "Ah, now he knows what he's doing. That's all it took!"

Then I looked a bit closer. This kid who really truly doesn't give two shits about piano, was starting to write on the page...but as I inspected his markings further, I realized that he was drawing nonsense characters! Not A, B, or C. Not D, E, or F. No! He was drawing these bizarre symbols that weren't letters at all! (By the way, I know that this kid CAN read and write--I have seen it many times before.)

Suddenly, I realized how funny this whole argument was and started to laugh. "What the heck are you drawing, Joey?"

He looked at me with his big eyes and started giggling too. "I don't know," he said.

"Alright. Sorry I was impatient with you. Do you need some help?"

He nodded, and together we worked on the worksheet. I don't think he learned anything, or even that he cares any more about piano.

But sometimes the line between teacher and student is a blurry one, isn't it?

Absent: me

Recently, a kid I know said to me, "We have two cats here, Liz, so you should never bring over your dog."

I used to have a dog. With Stacia. That was last summer, in another life, and this kid would have no way of knowing this.

"What do you mean...my dog?" I asked, carefully. Had I mentioned Luna at some point? Perhaps in a mourning blackout? Or did this kid get the juice from the other, older kids at the pre-school, who knew me when I really did have a dog? Maybe there is an underground gossip circle among the five-year-olds. ("Jimmy, did you know that Spanish teacher Liz used to have a dog? Yeah, and then she left her lesbian relationship and lost all her parental rights. Now she can't keep the attention of her part-time undergraduate lover and has placed her cats in the care of a bunch of pot-riddled bachelors. She's really going downhill..")

"Your dog, silly," the kid said, as though I should know exactly what she was talking about. "The one you told us about!"

I tried to remember when on earth I had mentioned Luna. I have been very careful not to mention her over this past year because kids love animals and they love identifying outside-of-school family life, and the prospect of explaining a lesbian break-up to other people's children seems really complicated to me. How could I sufficiently explain that Luna is not my dog anymore, and that I never see her but that she still exists?

As I considered all of this, of course I felt that old pang of sadness rearing her weary head. I miss Luna. I miss Stacia. I miss that life sometimes. I miss the predictability of a puppy, of a partner. To make it all the more pertinent, I had recently discovered an issue of Animal Tracks, the Animal Humane Society's quarterly magazine, in which Stacia and Luna were featured.

Surprise! There is my old life, plastered on the glossy pages of a magazine.
Absent: me.

The article detailed Stacia's process of adopting Luna. How she chose her. How she named her. How she trained her. Indeed, in the real story, I was there for all of it. We chose her. We named her. We trained her. But of course, I was blaringly absent from the article. I mean, of course. Why on earth would Stacia mention me? (Oddly enough, though, her ex-ex-partner in Australia got a mention in the first paragraph!)

In any case, I stood there, trying to decide how to respond to this kid. I still, for the life of me, couldn't figure out how she knew that I used to have a dog.

"I told you about my dog?" I asked, confused.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Your dog. You know, Bingo!"

Then she burst into a rendition of the song Bingo in Spanish. "Un perro grande tengo yo, y ya se llama Bingo...." and I burst out laughing.

I teach that song in Spanish class. In Spanish, the words are a little different than the English version. Instead of the farmer owning the dog, the narrator owns the dog. Therefore, since I teach the song, I am always saying, in Spanish, "I have a big dog named Bingo."

This kid took it literally. She had no idea about Luna at all!

The encouraging part of this story is that I have never directly translated the meaning of that song. She understood the literal translation quite well! Next time I sing, "I have a big dog named Bingo," in any language, I will be prepared to end with a disclaimer about how the "I" in the song is actually a fictional narrator, not Spanish teacher Liz.

And if all those kids believe that I actually embody the narrator of these goofy songs, I must appear to have quite the enchanting life! I wonder what they think when I sing Puff the Magic Dragon. Or the song about dancing vegetables. Or the one about bear who combs his hair!

Evening Prayer (Mojo)

Sacred choral music will always, always make me think of Catherine. Tonight, in the stillness of a sanctuary surrounded by howling wind, I listened to a day's end prayer service with the Minnesota Compline Choir. A friend is a member of the choir, and when I was trying to decide whether to go to the bar tonight or to the compline service (it actually was a toss-up), I figured, what the hell, let's go with introspective instead of sloshy open mic night.

It was lovely. And it made me miss Catherine. She was so incredibly different from me but we both loved choral singing--that's how we met, really. It's been almost two and a half years since she died, but her phone number is still in my phone. Because I am so aware of her tonight, and because there is this whirring wind outside, stirring up the leftover leaves from last fall now that the snow has melted away to exposed earth, here's an excerpt from a bigger piece of writing about her/me/our friendship...


In college, I would stroll across the Quad, taking my sweet time, watching the ground for the best leaves I could find from the maple trees that surrounded the campus. I was especially drawn to scarlets and oranges that erupted into each other, unabashedly crossing fragile veins on such a tiny palette. When I found a perfect leaf, I would pick it up, straining to juggle the weight of the books on my back and the inevitable choir folder in my arms, and I would tuck the leaf inside the black pocket of the folder, safely burrowed next to Ralph Vaughn Williams or Francis Poulenc.

I was chronically late, divided between a life of consumption and daydreamer dawdling, and I would slowly saunter, weighted down by the mass of my backpack, around to the back of the music building. Liltingly, I would descend into the lower level where the women’s choir would already be rehearsing.

I would try to make my entrance as swift and silent as possible as I trudged, the sound of my bright pink rain boots impossible to stifle, to the second row, where I would find my seat next to Catherine. Predictably, I would set my things on the ground, shuffle through my folder, with its loose papers and coffee-stained sheets, and, as I pulled out the Poulenc, I would also quietly find the vivid maple leaf and hand it to Catherine, wordlessly, as we joined in the vocalises.

I don’t know how or why I picked up the habit of handing off autumn leaves, but it seemed to be a token of friendship. I gave leaves to lots of my choir friends—maybe it was a sort of clumsy apology for my chronic tardiness, or maybe I just wanted to share the tiny pieces of beauty, abundant but so often passed over, that I encountered on my sluggish walks.

Catherine would smile as I handed her another leaf, and she would tuck it into her choir folder, which was crisp and sturdy, her sheet music securely fastened into its bindings.


And one more. This one is in honor of hair. I am going to be a bridesmaid in my friend Nicole's wedding this spring and recently announced over lunch with Nicole and another bridesmaid that I am going to do something crazy and actually shave for this. Of course, I meant body hair. The other friend, not realizing exactly what I meant, said, "Your head?!"

I shaved my head when I got sober. I decided to do away with everything—the alcohol, the depression, the shame, and shedding my hair was a sort of living metaphor: a new beginning, shedding old skin. I loved the way the sun felt on my naked head, just like I loved the way the world looked through crisp, unaltered eyes.

Catherine didn’t have the choice. Losing her jet-black curls wasn’t about a new beginning.

One fall Saturday, when she was recovering from her first round of chemotherapy treatments, Catherine, her brother, and mother, and her aunt pulled up in front of my brick apartment building to pick me up for a day at the Renaissance Festival. I hadn’t seen Catherine in months, and I wasn’t sure what to expect about her energy or spirits, but when I plopped into the car next to her, in the backseat, she grinned and said, “Do you like my haircut?”

Laughing, I touched her bare head. “I love it!” I said.

Inside my brick apartment, in a wicker basket on the floor, there was a hat made of the softest lambs wool I could find that I had been knitting for her bald head. I hadn’t finished it yet, but I imagined her wearing the striped hat, red because it was her favorite color, the soft yarn gently resting on top of her head.

We drove through a rainy morning, the colors of the trees brightening against the backdrop of gray clouds. I sat, snug, in between Catherine and her brother Pat, who looked exactly like her, with his dark, dark curls and big brown eyes.

“I am going to shave my head in solidarity,” I announced, suddenly.

Catherine smiled and said, teasingly, “Again?”

sometimes you just

Ambiguous orientation or not, sometimes you just want to get drunk and throw yourself to the lesbians.

Lessons in Life and Death at the Pre-School

Yesterday in Spanish class, we wrapped up our unit on estaciones (seasons.) I asked the kids what kinds of things happened in each of the cuatro estaciones. I head all sorts of interesting responses, as you can imagine. Kids are quite literal. "In the summer, you can wear a new swimming suit!" Or, "In the fall, you eat turkey!" The most interesting response, however, came from a frantic four-year old, who raised his hand and bopped his body up and down, making that, "mmm!!! mmm!!!" sound that indicates he needs to be called upon to speak, ahorita.

"Si, Joey," I said, smiling at his enthusiasm. "Y que pasa en la primavera?"

"Liz!" he exclaimed urgently. "Liz! When you get old, you DIE!"

I paused, trying to find the thread that connected this fiber of thought to what kinds of things happen in the spring. As I considered how to respond to such a statement, another kid began to chime in.

"Yeah!" she said, also excited. "Cyclical! It's cyclical!"

Suddenly, ten four and five-year olds were chanting, "Cyclical! Cyclical!"

Aha! So they were equating the cycles of the seasons with the life cycle. These kids are astoundingly insightful! It could have been an excellent opportunity for discussing earth spirituality with them, but I elected to stick to my Spanish curriculum and brought them back to telling me what happens in each season.

"Yes, life is cyclical, " I said carefully, affirming their assertions but not getting into confusing territory, "Just like the seasons. Okay, what about el invierno?" I asked. "Can you tell me what kinds of things happen in the winter?"

"I know what happens in the winter," another kid said. He opened his palms and shrugged his shoulders as he explained, "In the wintertime, we get rats in our basement."

Well. Insightful or not, at least some of them retain that characteristic literal interpretation of a kid's world.

In This Economy

Again, things are moving at breakneck speed for me. My roster of students has jumped to an all-time high, which is fantastic, except that I can hardly keep up with them. The people at all the local music stores know me by name. Except for that one time when I tried to save money by buying used books at Music-Go-Round. I bought about ten used Level One Faber Lesson books and the college-aged guy at the checkout said, "Thanks for buying the used ones. We like to save our new inventory for teachers."

I looked over my pile of Level One Lesson books and thought, "What does he think I am doing with all of these?"

I didn't see the need to clarify with him. Instead, as I walked out of the store, teaching materials in hand, I dreamed up scenarios of what one might do with ten identical beginning piano books if not for teaching. Art? Paper airplanes?

Between frantically purchasing books and making copies of music for my nearly thirty students,
attempting to maintain a semi-regular student schedule in a shifty after-school world of hockey games, volleyball lessons, and orthodontist appointments, working at a pre-school, nannying, recording a CD, rocking the under-utilized coffee-shop singer/songwriter circuit, and applying to grad school, I am completely and utterly busy. And somehow still not saving any money.

I have no time for any more students, yet somehow I keep getting requests, and somehow I keep working them into the madness. Why not? "In this economy," someone said to me, "You might as well overwork yourself while you can!"

That's Borat.

The most amazing dull white guy is hanging out at the same coffee shop as me right now. He is loud, painfully obnoxious, and sporting heavy Minnesota long vowels while unabashedly berating foreign accents.

He seems to be the heating guy, here to fix something. He is sitting at the coffee bar and speaking incredibly loudly to the Middle Eastern barista. Apparently he is trying to bond with the barista by making offensive jokes about other cultures. "Have you heard the French accent?! God, it's awful! Oui, oui, missssssyerrrrrr, how arrgghhh you? I can't even understand them!" He also keeps glancing over at me while leaning on the counter, as if he wants me to hear him. I think he wants to impress me.

(He is succeeding, with flying colors, although it is not to his advantage!)

This is a direct quote:
"I am by no means a master of English dialects, but the French ones, just hilarious." What does that even mean?! French is an English dialect? What?

"So what's your name anyway?" he asked the barista, just a moment ago.

The soft-spoken man who served me my coffee responded, "My name is Ahmed. But you can call me Ed. It's easier."

"Achhhhmed?" the heating guy said.

"No, Ahmed. With an H, not a cough," the barista said. "Can you say Hawaii?"

"Hawaii."

"Yes, like that. Ahmed, with an H like in Hawaii."

"Acchghghghmed."

"Just call me Ed."

I thought the conversation was over after that, but the heating guy decided to continue putting down the French. "I mean, it's not even just their accents," he said, "It's their whole behavior!" Then he spun into an elaborate imitation of some caricature of a make-believe "French" person.

Waving his arms around, he said, "Oh! Do you like mah cghghroissants? Oui oui, I like-a the wine! It is-a verah naaace!"

The barista (bless his heart) said disaffectedly, "I think you are doing a German accent."

"Oh is that German?" the heating guy said, laughing. But he continued right on:
"Oui, oui, then theeees eees-a the Frencha. Uh-huh, misssyerrrrr!"

The barista said, quietly, "That's Borat."

Finally the guy stopped attempting to impersonate foreign accents and took it a little closer to home. He started impersonating foreign instruments.

"I mean, we have the guitar and everything, but, God, you know the Indians? They have this sitar, right? And it sounds like this: dingggg, dinggggg."

He keeps looking at me! Do you think he knows I am blogging about him? I think he is still trying to impress me, with his worldly knowledge of French accents and sitars.

You have to give this guy props for being so bold. It's like he is trying to bond with his local coffee shop barista by acknowledging that neither one of them is French. It's so messed up. He is clearly berating people whose acquired language is English to someone whose acquired language is English. You really have to admire the blatant ignorance of someone like that.

Oh! What do you know! A second barista has arrived for his shift. He is also not caucasian. The heating guy cannot seem to understand how two non-white people in a row are working at the coffee shop, because he just asked this question:

"So, are you guys like cousins or something?"

Locked Out

Have you ever had to dig a ladder out of a few feet of snow while wearing Mary Jane-style canvas shoes? Without a hat or mittens? With an antsy dog in tow?

Have you ever had to lug the ladder (your feet now completely wet) across a yard of
thick, heavy snow and place it under a window much too tall for you to reach?

Have you ever had to punch the daylights out of a screen with your sensitive piano hands so that you could access the only unlocked window through which you could crawl?

Have you ever had to then hop into the window head first, your wet feet and bruised fist tumbling after?

Last weekend, I dog-sat and house-sat for some very dear friends of mine. Characteristically, I also had a thousand other things going on. I didn't really have the time or energy to deal with anything unforeseen.

(Of course, being phenomenally busy is precisely when something unforeseen occurs.)

I rushed to the house to let the dog out the first day. I was frantic--I was not wearing a hat or mittens and had hardly buttoned my coat. I unlocked the door, grabbed the anxious dog, put on his leash, led him outside and let him do his thing as I shivered in the icy wind.

(What I had forgotten in all of my haste was that the door to this house locks on its own, whether or not one remembers to take along her keys, and whether or not she is clothed in proper winter attire.)

After the dog had relieved himself, I led him back to the house, only to find that the door, indeed, was locked. There I was, in subzero temperatures, locked out with a mildly recalcitrant dog, no mittens or hat, and a completely inefficient pair of shoes. Nor could I take my car--my keys were inside the house to which I couldn't gain access.

The last thing the dog/home-owners had said to me before they left was, "We will be unreachable by phone."

In the end, by some lucky fluke of necessity, I was actually able to reach them by phone. It was the family patriarch who talked me through Macgyvering my way into their locked house. "Now, Liz, here's what you're going to do. You're going to dig the ladder out of the snowbank and then you're going to punch out the screen of the elevated window."

Being a good listener and a vigilant follower of directions, I did all of this, step-by-step, and successfully found myself standing in the kitchen of the house, busted screen at my heels, soaking wet pant legs dripping onto the wood floor.

One would think that this would be enough to deter me from leaving my keys inside the self-locking door ever again. Not so.

The very next day, I repeated the entire experience, minus punching out the screen.

The neighbor watched me silently lug the ladder to just outside the kitchen window. "Oh, I am the dogsitter," I assured him with a wave of my hand. "I'm not trying to break in or anything. I mean, I am trying to get inside, but don't worry. I'm not a burglar."

I don't know what burglars look like, but I'm sure they don't usually wear gigantic, brightly colored wool coats and mary janes while teetering on a ladder in full daylight and chatting up the neighbors.

The neighbor was amused. "I'll vouch for you if the cops come," he said. Then he marveled, "But you do look like you know what you're doing."

I shrugged, clumsily tottering atop the ladder in my plaid wool coat. I explained, honestly, "Oh, yes, I did this yesterday too."

Wind From the South

"I'll get the tractor."

That's what my little brother said, indifferently, when my sister slammed on the brakes to avoid barreling into a two-foot high, seven-foot wide snow drift that had magically amassed itself while we were gone.

It had not snowed at all. This massive drift was completely assembled by the turbulent wind, which is still throwing snow around outside, vehemently, with the addition of freezing rain.

I know I am in rural Iowa in the middle of winter when it takes my brother in a tractor to just get to the door.

Castigation of a Cat Owner, Take 2

Before reading this blog, please read this one.
Alright. Now you are up to speed on the situation with my cats. I finally found a temporary home for them, and they are in a safe place where they are loved and fed and pampered. In the process of trying to find a place for them, though, I encountered some negativity from Craigslist pet stalkers. In any case, they are currently safe and happy, but I am still looking for a permanent home for them. There's your set-up. Here's the story:

Today, I went to the co-op to buy the ingredients for this amazingly delicious coconut vegetable spiced soup that I plan to make for my family this weekend. Going to the co-op is never uneventful for me--never. I am constantly running into people I know and saying stupid things or having strange communication.

(I once had an entire interaction with a cashier in which I thought we were talking about singing and she thought we were talking about my dead cat. And I once flirted with the produce department by blathering about how hot our mutual college-aged lesbian poet friend is when I looked over to see the poet's mother standing there, listening to me basically objectify her daughter.)

Between constantly running into people I know, dropping things, and running into the parents of my undergraduate lovers, I have learned to brace myself for anything while shopping at the co-op.

But I was not ready for the guy I encountered today.

Sometimes I think people fall out of thin air and present themselves as blog posts. Thanks, buddy.

So there I was, cutting myself a slice of orange-patchouli zum soap, far from the pet aisle, nothing remotely pet-related in my basket, not even covered in cat hair, when I heard a male voice ask, "So do you have a dog? Or a cat?"

I looked up to see an unassuming man making eye contact directly with me. He was standing by the bulk soap too, but he was just standing there. He made no indication that he was in line to chop soap. I tried to put the question into context. There was nothing about me that indicated I was a pet-owner at that point in time--I had not even visited the pet aisle. "Uh, no, er, yes," I said, unsure how to answer the question. The faces of Luna, Nubia, and Schmee were all dancing around in my head, and a tinge of grief for all of them was surfacing. "I mean, yes, I have two cats," I said, not quite sure where this conversation was going, nor how to answer such a simple question.

"Would you consider fostering a pet?" he asked.

I tilted my head and my heart filled with empathy. I know what it's like to try to find someone to take a pet. "I'm so sorry," I said, "I really wish I could. But I am actually trying to find a permanent home for my cats, too."

My overflowing heart swelled for this man and his pet that needed a home. I felt like we had something precious in common. Had I known him better, I would have taken his hand and squeezed it and told him not to worry, to just keep asking around--the right loving home will present itself!

But I was wrong. We were not kindred spirits at all.

The man grimaced and said, jarringly, "So you're just going to dump your cats?"

I stood there, stunned, patchouli-orange bar soap in hand, my snowy boots dripping onto the tiled floor, and looking at this man who had appeared from out of the blue to comment on my aptitude for discerning what is best for my pets.

"No," I said, "I am not going to dump my cats. I am searching for a loving home for them."

"Stray animals are being killed by the thousands," he hissed, his eyes narrowing and his voice dropping to an accusatory hushed bass. "Thousands and thousands of pets who are dumped by their owners are being slaughtered."

At this point I abruptly pushed past him and walked away, tears welling up in my eyes. Was this really happening? Who the hell was this guy? Why me? My arms ached for the fuzzy fur of my lovely pets.

I went straight to the check-out line, purchased my things, and left. The guy did not follow me. Only afterward did it occur to me that he had not been holding a shopping basket or towing a cart. He had not appeared to be shopping at all. And only then did I realize that perhaps I should have alerted a staff member of the strange behavior of this man.

I mean, he has a point--there are way too many stray animals out there. People are giving up their pets all the time, or taking on the responsibility of pet ownership when they can't really make the commitment. But, buddy, my situation is complicated. You don't understand.

I drove away from the co-op wondering what on earth prompted this guy to ask me, of all the many, many people doing last minute grocery shopping before darting town, about pets. What a strange coincidence. Right? The more I think about it, the more I begin to concoct some wild story about the connection of the co-op guy to the Craigslist lady. Maybe she discovered my identity and reads my blogs and knows that I shop at the co-op on a regular basis. Maybe he was her recon man. Maybe she knows I use zum soap. Maybe he was sent to Mississippi Market to intercept me and to shame me for giving up my cats.

Probably not. Probably it was a wild coincidence. Regardless, it shook me up a little, but at least I have something to write about.

And, for the record, one more time, my cats are safe and happy and healthy. And I am not a horrible pet-owner. Jeez.

Two Parties

Obligatory apologies for not showing this blog some love lately. That's all I'm going to say. Make your own creative assumptions about why I have been too busy to blog. It may have something to do with my recent popularity. I am so popular, in fact, that I was once invited to two parties on the same night. Last weekend.

I don't mean to brag about it, but it was a pretty big deal. Two parties! Count them: one, two! On the same exact night! My specific presence was requested at two extracurricular events at the same time. It wasn't even like these people wanted me there to babysit or play music or do anything remotely work-related. No! They wanted me!

So, in humble Liz fashion, I spent way too long deciding what to wear to two parties (I oscillated between snow boots and heels--I chose the heels) and showed up fashionably late. It happened to be the evening of a hearty Minnesota blizzard, but this was a minor detail. (Perhaps the snow boots would have been a tiny bit more practical, but who has time for feasibility when she is demanded at two parties in one night?) I have terrible night vision and probably should not operate anything larger than a laptop past sunset, I am deathly afraid of icy roads, I rarely traverse into the bustling city of Minneapolis, and I had recently lost a windshield wiper, but nothing was going to stop me from claiming my two-parties-in-one-night status! I ventured bravely into Saint Paul's neighboring city, driving approximately five miles per hour.

I was pseudo-accompanying my friend-turned-temporary-roommate to the first party: he had invited me but asked me to meet him there and neither one of us wanted it to appear to be a date. When I showed up, I realized that I only knew a handful of people, my pseudo-date included. Given that my non-date and I both wanted to remain visibly unattached so he could flirt with the straight girls (and given the slightly awkward reality of our sleeping arrangements as roommates), I stayed away from him. My options for acquaintance conversation quickly dwindled. Luckily, a co-worker had also been invited, and I spent much of the evening discussing recent events at the pre-school over wine (or, in my case, filtered water in a wine glass.)

Maybe it was because I had been invited to two parties on the same night. Maybe it was because I was wearing three-inch heels. Whatever the reason, I decided to brave it up and attempt to charm the strangers. I opened my conversations like this: "Hi, I'm Liz. I am invited to two parties tonight." At first, I didn't win anyone over, but after an hour or so, I suddenly became amazingly funny. Later, I would realize that there was a rational explanation this: the other people at the party were tipsy. Justification or not, I was making people laugh and I had a second party to attend. What a great night!

My ego purred when I finally made my way to the door and the hostess said, "No! You can't leave!" There was a crowd of five or six people surrounding the door, and they attempted to block my exit. Wow! I was that popular!

One of the other party-goers said to me, "So, Liz, are you heading to your second party?"

"Oh, did I mention that I have a second party to attend?" I asked, twirling my keys on my finger faux-distractedly. "Two parties in one night, in fact?"

"It was the very first thing you said to me," he said.

Suddenly, I became aware of the fact that my two-party-status was getting a little old. "Oh dear," I said, "I have been bragging about that all night, haven't I?"

A woman standing in the circle chimed in, "You mentioned that you would be going to a second party a few times to me tonight."

"I heard about it three or four times," someone else said.

I stood, slumping in my three-inch heels, near the blockaded door and tried to make a joke out of the situation. "I could have at least tried to find something else to brag about. Like maybe my excellent daytime vision."

The semi-circle of tipsy people laughed and tried to dissuade me from leaving. I charmed them with my jokes about other mediocre things I might have bragged about (my keen sense of smell, my waning algebra skill, my antiquated ownership of an actual boombox, etc.) Finally, after a few minutes of jovial banter, they agreed to let me go.

"Hey, Liz," one of them said as I turned to walk out into the blustery night to drive to my next demonstration of popularity. "Have fun at your second party tonight."

"Thanks," I said, blushing slightly.

"And, hey. Make sure to tell the the people at the next party what a hit you were at this one!"

Indeed. My entrance to the next party went something like this, "Hey, everyone, my name is Liz and I was a total hit at the last party I previously attended already tonight and I also have a boombox."

I don't mean to brag, but the drunk people at that party thought I was hilarious.

Are you a vegan?

First off, I am not officially a vegan. I can't claim the title, even if I do eat a mostly vegan diet because at any time, if you open my fridge, you will find eggs, yogurt, and sheep's milk. I'm a lactose-intolerant vegetarian. I often teeter on the edge of crossing that line--my body seems to be telling me to make the leap by rejecting most processed dairy products anyway. But so far, I still hold on to that feta and yogurt. Oh, how I love greek yogurt! And it's good for me!

Anyway, that is just to explain the conundrum which occurs when people notice my mostly vegan diet and ask, "Are you vegan?" Being an avid over-discloser, I promptly explain that I am a vegetarian and also lactose intolerant.

Every Monday night, I attend this new-agey self-help group in a neighborhood far away from my regular Saint Paul co-op. I have adopted a ritual of stopping in at the unfamiliar co-op in that neighborhood and hanging around the deli, often ordering something which happens to be vegan, before going on my merry way to my group. The same guy is always behind the counter.

This week, I ordered a sandwich with hummus and vegan cheez. (I don't even like fake cheese. I only ordered it because I felt like if I was going to pay to have someone make me a sandwich that I could have made myself, I might as well "cheez" it up as much as possible.)

So I wrote down my order and handed it to the Deli Guy, who was by now familiar to me but with whom I had never really exchanged conversation.

A few minutes later, Deli Guy came out from behind the deli counter with my sandwich in hand. He gave it to me and asked, "Hey, are you a vegan?"

Because we had never had any personal interaction, I assumed this was about business. I figured there was a trace of butter in the something-or-other and he was making sure I knew what I was eating. Eager to reassure the Deli Guy that I can, yes, eat a trace of butter, I said, with a wave of my hand, "Vegan? Me? Oh, no, I'm not."

Shifting from one leg to the other to support the basket of things I was about to purchase, I was suddenly awkwardly aware of the vegan nature of every single item I was carrying. What's that? Vegan bakery? Oh, and that? Meat-free, dairy-free Amy's pizza? Rice milk? Vegan kimchi? A sandwich with cheez? And are those vegan Earth shoes?! I felt like I had been caught, red-handed (to use a very non-vegan expression, ugh, yuck, don't think about it too much), with a basketful of tell-tale vegan products and a blunt denial. I mean, it's true; I'm not a vegan. But I felt silly standing there, like a poster-girl for vegan shopping and denouncing the title.

So I quickly explained with a sheepish smile, "I am lactose intolerant," and then I turned and walked away.

At this point, I realized that Deli Guy had not been asking for business purposes. He may have been striking up a conversation with me, which I abruptly had struck right down.

In fact, I began to consider the other factors of the question: he had walked out from behind the counter to personally hand me my sandwich, rather than just handing it to me over the deli case, like usual, and then had asked me a very personal question. I am quite obtuse when it comes to the murky waters of heterosexual flirting, but, could he have been flirting with me?

I considered this for a moment, then shook it off and proceeded to the checkout.

Suddenly, Deli Guy appeared behind me. "Hey, I'm so sorry, but I totally forgot to put the 'Cheez' on your sandwich," he said, making finger-quotation marks when he said "cheez."

"Oh, it's okay," I said. (Remember, I don't really like Cheez anyway.)

"No, seriously, it will take me 30 seconds," he said.

"Um, okay. Thanks," I said, handing him back the sandwich.

I bought my other things and then waited for him to come back. I still felt silly about blurting out my lactose intolerance and running away. I spent a good sixty seconds, at least, re-playing the events of the deli counter over in my head, trying to figure out what meaning to take from the whole interaction.

Deli Guy reappeared, Cheez-laden sandwich in hand. He gave it to me and said, "Liz, have a great day. I'll see you next week."

"Uh, thanks," I stammered. I took the sandwich and quickly walked out the door, thinking immediately that I should have politely asked him for his name, but I didn't. He knew my name, and he remembered that I come in every Monday. I felt like the most awkward, or rude, person ever as I carried my groceries to my car.

This guy knows my name, one part of my weekly schedule, and that I am lactose intolerant and choose to eat vegan foods most of the time. That's a lot to know about me!

Unfortunately, he doesn't yet know I am a lesbian.

Conjugation/Broken Bones

In Spanish class today, I told the kids a story about a casa. One kid repeated the word by changing one very important letter, thereby stating, "caca," which is second person present tense of "to shit." It means, "He or she shits."

I kept my best disaffected teacher face and corrected him, "Oh, you mean casa, Joey."

"No," said Joey, with a big grin on his face. "I mean caca."

Narrowing my eyes, I realized that Joey and I had an understanding going on here. None of the other kids got the joke. "Joey," I said, suspiciously, "Hablas espanol en casa?" ("Do you speak Spanish at home?"

Grinning, Joey said, "No."

But I was on to him. He knew exactly what he was saying.

Suddenly I faced a dilemma: how would I properly discourage him from using that sort of language in Spanish class without, as a result, teaching the rest of the class the meaning, or at implying to them the taboo nature of the word? The last thing I needed was a roomful of four-year olds learning how to conjugate excrement. (Trust me, they do enough with the subject matter already.)

I let it slide. I just moved right on, and Joey forgot all about his little second-language show-off moment. I suppose this isn't completely resolved. I'll let you know how next week's review session about the story about the casa goes.

And my second tidbit from the day is about another kid, this one five, at the pre-school who broke his arm last week. Poor guy! He told me proudly this morning that he broke it in two places!

"Oh, that's awful!" I said, wincing with empathy. "How long do you have to wear your cast?"

The kid frowned and gave a dejected sigh.

"Three years."

Craigslist Etiquette

I finally posted an ad on Craigslist about my cats. In the ad I say that they have been my best friends and that I am moving and (heartbreakingly) can't take them with me.

I immediately got this response in my email, from "Susan" with a comcast email address:

"they cant be youur best friends then can they if you are so willing to gve themm uphave you ever herd of petfriendly aparments or what"

That's it. That was the complete email. No salutation, no last name, no contact information besides her email address. Of course, upon reading this email this morning, I burst into tears, because I don't want to give up my cats, and if I could sign a one-year lease in a pet-friendly apartment I would do it, and because she has no fucking idea what my story is, and it's none of her business anyway, but somehow this invisible woman who knows nothing about me succeeded in making me feel like the worst pet-owner ever!

I have always had really good experiences with Craigslist. Until today, I have only had professional interactions (save for the occasional "give me your bank account number so I can send you money from overseas" scam attempt). I have found a few places to live via craigslist and found heaps of jobs (piano students, nannying gigs, etc).

What bugs me the most about this response is how completely disrespectful it is. Her response was completely unwarranted.

My first instinct was to delete the email and pretend I never saw it, but once the tears started, I couldn't get her biting, un-punctuated, mis-spelled, rude run-on sentence out of my head.

Then I really wanted to respond to her, but I quickly realized that would be a bad idea. This woman doesn't deserve my time. Also, she doesn't deserve to see my email address (I never publish my email address on Craigslist.)

My friend Meg suggested to think of this lady as the drunk person who saunters across the street in the middle of traffic--you have to slow down for her because she just up and puts herself in front of you when you are enjoying your forward momentum, but it's incredibly irritating. If she would just follow protocol and cross at a crosswalk (or only respond to an ad if she had something relevant to say), then no one would be in danger of getting hurt. But she insists on stopping traffic, on interrupting your day to make you acknowledge her and to make you reconsider your speed and courtesy for pedestrians. And she makes you feel like you are the one who is going too fast, who is unconcerned about the safety of others, and who is too wrapped up in arriving at her destination as swiftly as possible. But really, you are the one who slows down, who lets her cross because she just planted her body in the middle of your track, and when she successfully moves out of the way, you can continue.

Susan with a Comcast email address doesn't know what I have been through these past months. She doesn't know that me coming to the decision to give up my cats is for their best health and safety, not for mine. I went to the opera on Saturday night. This is really dorky, but I was thinking about my cats. In the opera (Abduction from the Seraglio), the "bad guy" turns out to be quite gracious in the end and he lets his kidnapped lover go. He sings, "If you love something, it is best to set it free."

I know, I know, how completely dorky, but when he sang that line, I began to cry because I was thinking about my fricking cats. That's how much I love them. I think about them at the opera.

Anyway, as of writing this post, I think I have found a temporary place for them, with a friend who will love them to pieces, just like I do, for now. That is excellent news! Mama Schmee and Nubia deserve a safe, loving home, far from J-walkers and traffic blockers.

More Fun From the Kiddos

So sorry I haven't been keeping you in the loop. Here's why:

I have been working three jobs (and still not making enough money), subletting other people's apartments/houses and moving every few months, trying to find a home for my adorable cats, applying to grad schools (again), singing my heart out for measly tips on a weekly basis (my HEART OUT, people, while you eat your lunch, and all you can give me is your spare change!?), recovering from up and leaving a long-term relationship, traveling, nannying, getting rid of extra things, sewing Halloween costumes for neighborhood kids, and falling way behind in bookkeeping for my music studio. Whew. It's been nuts.

So here is an update on funny things I have heard recently while teaching at the pre-school or during piano lessons.

Case Number One: Imaginary Friends

Little Sarah has an imaginary friend named Kitty. She is always talking to Kitty, asking for Kitty's opinion, and making art projects for Kitty. One day, I was chit-chatting with the other teachers while Sarah busily snipped away at something artsy for Kitty. Sarah said to us, "I am making this for Kitty. She pooped all over the rocks. She likes to drink milk, you know."

I said, "Oh my!"

And she said, "Yes, it was messy. But she does love her milk." Sarah paused, holding the miniature scissors distractedly as she furrowed her four-year-old eyebrows. "Kitty really likes to drink milk from my breasts."

I blinked. I refused to make eye contact with the other teachers, for fear of an eruption of laughter or horrified, embarrassed snickers.

"But," Sarah continued, "My breasts are too small. I'll get big breasts someday, like my Mommy, and then Kitty can have all the milk she wants."


Case Number Two: Shoes

Little Katie showed up to music class without any shoes on. Now, the kids are supposed to always have shoes or slippers on their feet.

"Katie," I said, "Where are your shoes?"

Katie, not one to beat around the bush, looked at me disaffectedly and said, "I peed on 'em."

things that make me miss her the most

tom yum soup with tofu, spicy
dolphins
calling the vet to get pet records
kids who ask me, "Where's Luna, Liz?"
dimples
folk singers with aussie accents
menards
genmaicha
puns
mad TV
tv on dvd
fall leaves
camping, without her

fall leaves
arias
opera
composing
mojo
home-made jewelry
stargazer lilies
daisies
october
singing, without her

Lake Como
the kids who ask about her
little pitbulls I see in the neighborhood
running, without her