Busy Lizzy

This weekend has been deemed "garden weekend" by my roommates and me. We spent the entire day yesterday doing yardwork and gardening, and I can't think of a better way to have spent a sunny, spring afternoon.

I wish we had taken before and after pictures. You would never recognize the backyard, after our 12 hour day.

We started with clearing the crap from between the trees in on the southeast side of the yard. Stacia bought the house last year, and this is our first summer living here, so we had a lot of just basic picking up to do. It would appear that the people who lived here before buried their trash in the soil. Here are some of the things we found, while digging into the ground:

a few broken beer bottles
plastic to-go containers
food wrappers
large wire pieces
glass, glass, glass
broken clay pots
an old-school plastic change-holder

Here are a few of the things we found just outside our yard, in alley:

a needle (not the kind you thread for sewing)
more broken beer bottles
and, most strangely, a bag of fish


Suffice to say, everyone wore gloves and a crinkled nose for that first few hours of clean-up.

After we had cleaned up the rubbish, we started loading grass clippings, brush, and leaves to bring to the compost.

Holly and I planted four rose bushes and a few snapdragons next to the bed of lilies. We also did some weeding around the southwest fence, where the tulips are in full bloom, and where I had recently planted red dayliles, purple aster, and columbine.

We started clearing the raised garden bed, which we are going to turn into an herb garden, but I had a hard time shoveling with the flat shovel that Stacia raved about for its ease. This ensued an "intellectual disagreement" (Stacia says I can't use the word "fight" in reference to the garden bed debacle) over which shovel was easier to use. (We never agreed--I still think the flat shovel is impossible to break ground with and Stacia intellectually disagrees that the flat head is the best way to clear out the grass without tearing up too much dirt.)

The only other contentious moment between Stacia and I happened when I volunteered to make a run to Menards to pick up a few things for us. After I had loaded up my little Ford Focus with six bags of mulch, four bags of compost, and a 10x10in tamper and started driving home, Stacia called and said, "I need more cement for the laundry pole--can you go back and pick some up?"

Because it was sunny, because I was elated to be helping, I said, "Sure," and turned the Focus around and went back to Menards.

Just as I had turned the car around on busy University Avenue, my phone rang again. It was Holly. "Stacia says sorry for the panic, but she doesn't need another bag after all."

So the Focus switched directions and pointed away from Menards on Prior and University, heading East toward Frogtown.

And then my phone rang again. This time it was Stacia. "Sorry," she said, "I do need that bag."

My jovial mood had dipped--I was tired of making illegal U-turns and burning unnecessary fuel as I whipped my car around and around with a million extra pounds of heavy yard stuff in my hatchback. And I said, angrily, "You are f***ing kidding me!"

Stacia, knowing it was best not to push the conversation, just politely thanked me and mumbled something about seeing me soon.

I found the bag of concrete in the very back of the store. I indignantly attempted to lift it. Yikes--it was 60 pounds. I told myself that I could lift kids almost that size, so I could do this. And here's the thing, they put it on the bottom shelf, so you have to use your knees and lower back to lift it up. Ever since my big hike in New Zealand, I have had some funkiness going on in my left knee, but this was important. I squatted, in an attempt to ease the workload on my lower back, and heaved up the more-than-half my body weight bag of concrete mix.

And I sprang back and smacked my head on the upper shelf.

More embarrassed than hurt, I quickly looked around to make sure no one was watching. I didn't see anyone and quickly transported the bag of concrete to my shopping cart. I checked out, doled out the $3.50 or whatever it cost, and hastily wheeled the cart to my already busting at the seams Ford Focus. At which point I realized the bag I had picked had a hole. I looked back and saw the trail of concrete mix the had followed me across the parking lot. I then realized that I had somehow been covered in cement mix, from head to toe.

Frustrated with how difficult this one stupid task had become, tears started welling up in my eyes. How hard did this have to be?! I took a deep breath, found someone who could help me, and asked a stringy teenager who looked eager to help if he wouldn't mind getting me a replacement bag and loading it into my car. Meanwhile, I called Stacia, feeling kind of needy and sensitive, and told her about busting the bag of concrete. "Should I be worried at all about having cement mix all over my skin?" I asked her.

"Nah," she said, laughing about my adventure (and probably in relief that I wasn't mad anymore). "But," she added playfully, "just don't get caught in the rain. You might be stiffen up a bit."

I exhaustedly delivered the heavy bag to Stacia and claimed first dibs on the bathtub.

And so, this morning, bathed, and well-slept, I stepped outside onto the south-facing deck. I saw my freshly-planted pots of petunias and pansies, purple, orange, and yellow tulips, the four rose bushes, bright, fragrant lilacs from the huge lilac tree that separates our yard from the trash-ridden alley, a cleaned-up eastern fence, complete with wood chips and native wildflowers planted along the edge, and heaps of space to plant the other perennials we will be receiving this week.

We are going to have a fantastic garden--I can't wait for more to bloom!

And now, I am going to go plant the flat-full of impatiens I bought from the Calliope plant sale yesterday. I will be busy, as there are about 45 plants to put in.

How apt, then, that I will be planting impatiens, also known as "busy lizzies."

Yay, Vegetables

I love e-mail.

And it can be such a pain in the ass.

You know that moment, where you quickly reply to an email that your girlfriend sent to you and a few other people regarding the upcoming garden day, and you accidentally hit "reply all?" But you don't know it until the confirmation pops up and tells you that you have sent something like this to Stacia, Barb, Meg, Nedra, Mary, and Cheri: "Honey, I love you and can't wait to see you at garden day in your new sexy black tank top."

And then, instantly, your inbox begins filling with e-mails from your friends who had been included in your private message. "Liz, I never knew you felt that way about me!" or "Liz, if you want to publicly demonstrate your love for your partner, go hetero and get a wedding." or, addressed to Stacia, "Stacia, can't wait to see your sexy shirt. Why don't you wear it to dinner so we can all see it first," or, "Stacia, will you wear your sexy socks along with your sexy tank?"

They are relentless. One honest mistake can breed a multiplying, teasing chain of cyber banter.

But that is a good outcome from making (what seems to be for me) a common error. I can think of three other times when I have accidentally sent an email to the wrong recipient and was devastated.

The first time, I was a first-year in college. I still had my high school boyfriend, and things were rocky in that relationship. He was a sophomore and had been mentioning this other girl, Veronica, a little too often. Besides that, I was crushing out on my student accompanist, a tall, blonde, intense woman with fat dreadies and a gutteral laugh. I was, at that time, very confused about these crushes on women and denied them by drowning them in alcohol, food, or weed. So, needless to say, this relationship with my high school boyfriend was doomed. Neither one of us was really interested in the other one, but neither one of us was the type to break up with someone. We shared a quiet reservedness, a great patience, and an unwavering aversion to causing someone else pain, regardless of how unrealistic the situation was.

So, when I accidentally sent an email to him that was actually supposed to have his name in the subject line, I expedited the process of break-up and ultimately did us both a favor.

But, in that moment, as I sat in the computer lab in a St. Kate's residence hall and saw the email confirmation tell me I had sent the message about how terrible my relationship with Brandon was to Brandon, my stomach dropped to the floor.

What an awful way to tell someone the truth.

I cried for days, not so much because I was mourning the relationship, but because I selfishly thought he would hate me forever. Because I felt a horrible guilt. Because I knew that I should have been straightforward with him from the beginning.

Now I can laugh about it. But then. Ohhhhh, then it was awful.

The second time this sort of thing happened--well, I can't really talk about it. It was an email that was intercepted and the mistaken recipient never received the incriminating email. And that person is someone who may or may not read this blog. May or may not be my parents. May or may not have had something to do with being wasted and confiding in my little sister, who still lived at home and was able to delete the email that I had accidentally sent to my parents before Mom and Dad ever read it.

And, surely, they will read about it now because they are my biggest fans and read all my blogs. (Hi, Mom!)

I honestly don't remember what was in the email, but I remember a big urgency to have my sister delete it. Maybe it had something to do with the crush on the pianist. Who knows.

And the third time happened yesterday. It wasn't quite as embarrassing as the email I sent to my high school boyfriend, but it was a little embarrassing.

Stacia and I are members of Foxtail Organics, a CSA that will begin delivering organic vegetables in June. I received the confirmation email yesterday from the farmers. It was a mass email, sent to all of this year's clients. I was very excited to receive the email and intended to forward the message to Stacia, with this personal addendum:

"Heck yes! I am soooo excited! I can't flipping wait for our veggies!!! Yayyyyy!!!!!!"

So. Clearly, you can see that I was very excited. And my enthusiasm, when expressed in a private email to my girlfriend, is completely legitimate.

Now consider that same message, accidentally sent back to Foxtail Organics and the 25 clients on the email list.

Now I seem like neurotic, hyper-fantastic happy girl.

When I saw that email confirmation, I felt a little unnerved, but I didn't cry for days like I did when I sent the terminal e-mail to Brandon, nor did I frantically attempt to contact my sleeping sister to intercept a coming-out message. Instead, I shrugged and thought, "Well, hey. At least they know I am excited about the upcoming summer produce season."

And it's true. Maybe it was an over-the-top response, but I can't deny that I enthusiastically love being part of a CSA.

Yay!!!! Vegetables!!!!!

Prom

Dear Josh,
Thank you for inviting me to the upcoming spring formal. I was absolutely flattered to receive your invitation. A woman hits a certain age where invitations from younger men are not only flattering but ego-boosting. So thank you for making me feel young and pretty and attractive.

There are a few reasons that I had to say no. First of all, I graduated from High School in 1999. I have experienced the High School Prom more times than I care to admit. Some might say I even lived every girl's dream regarding the Prom. In my own day, in my precious youth, in a past century, I held the coveted title of Prom Queen. It's true that the teachers picked the nominees at my rural, bucolic school, so it wasn't a true vote of popularity. It is more likely to say that I was crowned the Prom's Most Popular Teacher's Pet. I was smart and anorexic--I mean, who doesn't like the quiet girl who can fit inside her locker? In any case, my point is that I have already lived the ultimate experience in terms of High School Prom, and I have no desire to return to those days, not even for a young man like yourself.

Secondly, I am probably busy that night. You didn't get a chance to tell me when it was, but I'm assuming it's in May, and believe it or not buddy, it's May already. You have to ask a girl waaaaaayyyyy sooner than that. I mean, there are hair appointments to schedule, a dress to buy, and massive shaving to be done. I am booked through July, so even if you had told me when the Prom was taking place, and even if there were no other factors surrounding my decision to say no, I would be highly skeptical of my availability.

Another significant factor affecting my decision to turn you down is the fact that I am in a committed relationship. With a woman. Who is probably twenty years older than you. Not only would she be confused if I had chosen to accompany you to your Prom, but she may have beat up your Mom.

Subsequently, I also had to say no because you are a complete stranger. I don't know your last name, how cool you look in Wheelies (or whatever the kids are wearing these days), or what kind of car you have. These are all important factors in choosing a prom date. For that matter, you know nothing about me. What if you are looking for a girl who self-tans for the prom? That's not me. I don't even paint my fingernails. I don't even wear anti-perspirant. You would have been disappointed. I'm really doing you a favor.

And lastly, the form your solicitation took was a bit amiss. Maybe I'm too old to understand the appeal of a text message invitation to the prom, but I suspect that any girl would prefer an old-fashioned, face to face invitation. Are you scared of me? And why the all lower-case, no punctuation, fragmented sentences? Is it a literary representation of your vulnerability in such a situation? I know it's scary to ask a girl to the Prom. But, buddy, come on. Don't do it over text message.

Josh, I bet you're a great kid. I hope you do find a last minute date to the Prom. I hope she is everything you hoped for. But here is my last tidbit of advice. Please take this seriously, it will enhance your chances of getting a date a hundred fold. The next time you text message a girl to ask her if she'll be your date to the prom, please, please, Joshua, please:

Make sure you have the right phone number.

Sincerely,

651-xxx-xxxx

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.