Land that I love

Last night, I attended an Ohio Northern University Alumni Dinner at the Willard InterContinental Hotel in D.C. There were about 80 alums in attendence and the only people I knew were KB and Marty Cosgrove, which was perfectly fine by me. The food was great, the wine was flowing, and we all enjoyed ourselves.

Afterwards, the three of us headed home via the Metro. As we approached the Metro platform to wait for our train, we heard a loud voice shouting from the opposite side of the platform. It was a black man "preaching" about race and the upcoming election. We couldn't make out a lot of what he was saying, but were able to catch a few key words: white people...enslaved the black man...Obama...hate for the white man. Marty said he wished he had a sermon prepared that he could preach back at the guy. I said, "Well, we could sing something." KB liked the idea as well, so we spontaneously started singing God Bless America.

We were a little shy at first, but by the time we got a few lines into it and found people looking our way with smiles of approval, we really let 'er rip. An older gentleman sitting on a nearby bench took his hat off and placed it on the ground at our feet.

By the time we finished the song, the preacher's train had come and gone, but the people standing around us applauded our performance. As the gentleman picked up his hat, he thanked us and said, "That was just great!"

First Post of 2007

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, so I’ll sum up the latest happening.

Christmas with my family was wonderful. The best gift was Dan's present to Mom: Pac-Man. Yes, a two-player, sit-down machine from the 80's. Why? Well, when Dan and I were kids, we all (Mom, Dan and I) loved Pac-Man. We used to go out with a roll of quarters and play for hours. Mom didn't think Dad would approve, so we'd wait until he went to his weekly bowling league and then the three of us would sneak out to play. One evening, I got ready for bed, but left my jeans on under my long nightgown. I wanted to be ready to go as soon as the door closed behind Dad. As he gave me a goodnight hug before leaving for bowling, he noticed I was still in my jeans. "Mandy, why are you wearing pants under your nightgown?" I panicked, but quickly replied, "Um, because...I'm cold?" Anyway, it was a great gift that gave us hours of entertainment.

Let's see, what else? The Steelers’ season ended with an 8-8 record; no playoffs for them. Boo!

New Year’s Eve with Kirstin, Ann and Chris was pleasantly quiet and mellow. And 2007 has already been an eventful year. I finally saw The Light in the Piazza and loved it. It’s not big and showy, but that made it all the better. The music is complex and beautiful. The staging and sets are simple and natural. The story is uplifting. “Love if you can, and be loved.”

Friday, I had a harrowing evening of shopping. It’s a long story, but I still feel the need to vent about it a bit.

I went to The Bon-Ton store at Frederick Towne Mall to return a few things and take advantage of the post-holiday sales. After finding two sweaters on sale and a cute red corduroy purse, I approached a Service Center to check out. The sales associate at the register was in the midst of ringing up a ton of things for a little old Asian woman. I waited patiently while they argued about the total of the woman’s purchases. (At one point, the woman even asked for a calculator, so she could total the items herself.) Finally, the cashier suggested that I go to another Service Center to checkout, which I did.

As I approached the desk, I realized there were no sales associates in sight. I waited a few minutes, assuming that someone might return to the register, or at least see me waiting there and offer to help. Never happened. So, I walked to another department’s Service Center. Again, I found no one, so I waited. And waited. And walked around to find someone. Then waited some more. I was incredibly frustrated at that point, but I walked to the next department, assuming I would eventually find someone.

Finally, as I was waiting at the fourth Service Center, a man approached the desk and said, “I think someone’s working here, but she must be in the fitting room.” He walked to the fitting room, called for the associate, but with no luck. He returned to the desk and said he would ring up my purchases.

I asked if he was the manager; he was. As frustrated as I was, I made sure to keep a calm voice and try to explain the situation as objectively as possible. I said, “Well, I’ve had a very unpleasant experience here this evening. This is the fourth Service Center I’ve been to, trying to return these items and purchase others. The first register was busy with a problematic customer. I waited there for over 15 minutes before the associate suggested that I try another Service Center. So, I went to the Petites department, waited for several minutes, but no one was around. Next, I went to Intimates. Again, I waited, even walked around, looking for someone to help me. Finally, I came over here and, after waiting several minutes, you helped me. The service here this evening has been horrendous and I’m very disappointed.” What was the manager’s response? “Yeah, we’re spread pretty thin tonight, but I thought I at least had someone working in this department.”

What the…? I could hardly believe my ears. He wasn’t the least bit concerned that his store was functioning in such a manner. It didn’t faze him that it took almost half an hour for a customer to check out, not because the store was busy, but because she couldn’t find someone to help her. I was completely dumbfounded and absolutely disgusted. As he took the security tags off the sweaters, I agonized over the situation. I wanted those sweaters. That purse was so darn cute and a great deal. But damn it! I didn’t want to give my money to him! As he asked if I would be charging the items to a Bon-Ton credit card, I said, “You know what? Just forget the purchases. I’m only want to return these things.”

I finished the return and called Kirstin to vent. While talking to her, I crossed paths with the little old Asian woman, who stopped me and said, “Do you know where the shoe department is?” What the…? First of all, I was in the middle of a conversation. Secondly, did I look like I worked there?!

I headed down to Boscov’s, hoping they’d have the purse on sale. As I was browsing the purses, still relaying the details of my evening to Kirstin, I realized something was wrong with my shoe. Low and behold, somewhere along the way I stepped in gum.

2007, here I come!

Hero Dog

A half-breed wolf dog saved his 81-year-old owners from freezing to death in a snowstorm.

After Shana [the dog] tunneled all the way to the house — a process that took until about 11:30 p.m. — she came back, grabbed the sleeve of Eve's jacket, and threw the 86-pound woman over her back and neck, which Eve described as "as wide as our kitchen shelf."

Norman grabbed Eve's legs, and the dog pulled them through the tunnel, under the trees and through an opening in a fence to the house, at which they arrived around 2 a.m.

I'd like to think that Ernie would do the same for me, but he'd probably dig the tunnel, come back for me, drag me a few feet into the tunnel, realize he didn't make it wide enough for my hips, and say, "You just had to eat that ice cream last night before bed, didn't you?"

O Tannenbaum

Dan and I went Christmas tree shopping yesterday. I miss the days of going to a tree farm, roaming acre after acre, finding the perfect tree, and cutting it down on the spot. Instead, we went to Home Depot and sifted through the pre-cut trees. We still had a good time, especially Dan, who had a good laugh when I fell like a Domino, as trees toppled on me one after another. But I found my tree in record time. And it’s perfect.

I decorated the tree last night, but certainly didn’t set any records for time in that department. No matter how hard I try to complete this task in a reasonable amount of time, it’s a six-hour process, minimum. My OCD is at its worst (best?) when it comes to decorating a Christmas tree. Most of the time is spent hanging the lights, which always pushes me dangerously close to the brink of insanity (see the weekly poll). Hanging the ornaments is time-consuming as well, but in a much more enjoyable way. I love looking at each ornament, remembering when and where it came into my possession, and finding the perfect place for it among the branches. Here are just a few of my favorites:

These are some of my most unusual ornaments. The one on the left is a glass pickle. It’s German tradition to hang the pickle ornament last. The first child to find the pickle receives an extra gift. Next is the cardinal. KB gave this to me after years of me making fun of a scraggly bird ornament she’d hang on her tree. Now, I have my own scraggly bird. Finally, there’s the spider and web. A friend of mine from grad school, DeWayne, gave this to me in deference to my fear of spiders.

These are some of the ornaments I painted by hand. After grad school when I couldn’t find a job, I painted a lot to pass the time. You know that commercial where the woman says, “Is not having your high school diploma keeping you from finding a job?” I’d yell at the TV, “No, having my master’s degree is!”

These were a gift from Mom. They're gold-plated leaves, real ones. Love 'em!

Not sure why, but these two are my favorites. They're not very spectacular here, but they look ethereal in the white light of the tree.

Put it all together and voilà!

Thanksgiving Recap

I went to my folks’ house on Wednesday evening and was greeted by my overjoyed pup. I hadn’t seen him in almost three weeks, so it was a happy reunion.

Thursday, we had plans to go to my uncle’s house outside of Philly for Thanksgiving dinner. We were supposed to leave at 1:00, but my brother, Dan, hadn’t arrived yet. When 1:30 rolled around without him showing and no answer to our repeated phone calls, Mom got worried, while Dad got angry. At 2:00, Mom and I decided to drive to his house and see if he was there, while Dad stayed at the house, in case he showed up.

Mom and I sat in relative silence during the 45-minute drive to Dan’s house. I knew we were both running through every possible scenario, both good and bad, that could explain what was going on. As we turned in his driveway and saw his car, we both heaved a sigh of relief. Of course, one of the scenarios I worked out in my head was that he had been working on his RC cars when he accidentally cut his hand off with the ban saw and was bleeding to death on his workshop floor. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. Turns out he had gotten the e-mail from my mom that morning saying, “Be here at 1:00 tomorrow.” When he read “tomorrow,” he thought she meant Friday, not realizing she sent it the night before. As for not answering the phone, he had it on vibrate and didn’t hear it. I told him I was glad he wasn’t dead, because now I could kill him! Anyway, we made it to my uncle’s house two hours behind schedule, but just in time to sit down to a delicious dinner.

Friday, I spent the day relaxing with my folks. I also made Cinnamon Cranberry Challah Bread from scratch. It was quite a process: mixing, kneading, letting the dough rise for a few hours, punching it down, braiding, letting it rise again, then baking. But both loaves turned out perfectly.

Today, Mom and I sat on the front porch while the pups, dressed in their hunting gear so as not to be mistaken as wildlife by hunters, roamed around as Dad raked leaves.

I returned home this afternoon and Dan came by a bit later to spend the night. We were planning to go to the 9:30 Club in D.C. for a concert, but decided against it at the last minute. The band we wanted to see wasn’t scheduled to start until after 11:00 and getting home at 3:00 a.m. didn’t sound very appealing to either of us. So we opted to relax at home instead. I’m a bit disappointed that we missed the concert, but I know it would have been really rough on both of us, particularly Dan, who is usually in bed by 8:00.

Tomorrow, Dan and I will go out for breakfast, then come home to watch the Steelers game. A nice end to the long weekend.

"I'll take Humiliation for $200, Alex."

Margaret Spellings, U.S. Secretary of Education, lost on Celebrity Jeopardy! to Michael McKean, best known as "Lenny" from Laverne & Shirley.

As one commenter put it, "It could have been worse. She could have lost to Squiggy."

Muscle Memory

Fall quarter of my senior year at college, I sat down with Dr. Zed, my advisor, to make sure I would complete all of the required courses by the time graduation rolled around. Looking over my transcript, a puzzled expression came over her face as she asked, “Where are your piano credits?” (As a music major, you’re required to complete six credits of piano lessons, as well as pass a piano proficiency exam.) I told her that I had taken one credit my freshman year and then passed the exam, so I didn’t take any more piano lessons. My previous advisor (who had since retired) told me the lessons were to help students prepare for the exam, but I could take the exam as soon as I wanted and, as long as I passed it, skip the lessons. Dr. Zed explained that the six credits were a requirement for graduation, distinct from the exam and regardless of the student’s existing skills.

So there I was, less than a year away from graduation and in need of five credits of piano. The only option left was to take two and three credits during each of the remaining quarters. No problem, right? Wrong. Another requirement was that students taking lessons for two or three credits were required to perform at the Tuesday afternoon recitals, held in front of all of the music majors, as well as pass a jury. (Juries are the musical equivalent of final exams. Held at the end of the quarter, each student must perform a mini recital in front of the faculty for a grade.)

Let me make one thing clear. I was NOT a pianist. I could fumble through accompaniments well enough to give myself an idea of what they sounded like, and had sufficient knowledge of music theory and basic skills to pass the proficiency exam, but that was it.

Then there was the bigger issue: My horrendous fear of playing piano in public. Singing for an audience was not an issue for me, but playing piano was. I tried playing piano in church once as a kid. It was fine until I got close to the end, lost my place in the music, kept playing horrendously wrong notes, couldn't figure out how to end it, and finally just got up and walked back to my pew without any resolution. The thought of attempting it again made me nauseated, but I didn’t have a choice. It had to be done.

So I started lessons the following quarter, one hour, every week. I chose to study Khachaturian’s Toccata, a folk-inspired piece that’s become a staple of twentieth-century repertoire. I begged my teacher, Rosie, to give me a key to the recital hall and the Bechstein piano in the hall, so I could practice there and learn how it felt to play on that stage and on that piano. (On a side note, Rosie was truly amazing. She was a brilliant pianist, accomplished composer, inspiring teacher, and a kind, funny, wonderfully quirky person.)

I practiced like a fiend, sometimes for three hours straight, until I’d get a burning pain between my shoulder blades. Like I said, I’m not a pianist, so practicing for long periods with bad technique and bad posture can be torture.

Before I knew it, the last Tuesday recital of the quarter was upon me. I remember standing backstage with Rosie, waiting for my turn; I was last on the program. I kept rubbing my sweaty palms on my green dress, until Rosie grabbed my hands and started blowing on them, telling me that rubbing them only makes them sweat more. In between breaths, she’d try to calm my nerves with kindness and encouragement, saying things like, “You’ll be brilliant. You’re an awesome musician. You’re gonna blow their minds!”

Then, it was time. I remember walking out onto the stage to the sound of applause, most of it obligatory. My friends knew how terrified I was, so I there was a “Woohoo” or two, and a few hands clapping noticeably louder than all the others. I bowed, fought off the urge to puke on my shoes, sat on the bench, put my hands on the keys, saw them shaking uncontrollably, thought, “I wish I was dead,” and began playing.

The performance itself is a blur, but somehow I made it to the end without falling apart. It must have gone relatively well, for as I released the final chord and relaxed my hands on my lap, I heard applause. A lot of it. I stood up, took my bow, all but ran off the stage to find Rosie, jumping up and down. She threw her arms around me and said, “That was UNBELIEVEABLE.” I noticed there was still applause coming from the hall, just as Rosie pushed me back out onto the stage for an encore bow. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such a sense of relief before, or since.

So what’s the point of this story? Well, tonight I sat down at my piano to play and sing a bit, as I do almost every evening. For some unknown reason, I thought of this experience and wondered if any of the music was still in my fingers.

I started by trying to play the middle section of the piece, which I remember practicing incessantly, until the 2-against-3 pattern felt completely natural. I fumbled through a few measures, but then drew a blank. I tried jumping ahead a bit, but it just wasn’t coming to me.

I sat there staring at the keys, a bit disappointed, but thought I’d give it one more shot, this time from the beginning.

Would you believe that I was able to play the entire piece...from memory? It’s true. Granted, it wasn’t at performance level, but it’s been ten years (holy crap!) since I performed the piece, and my brain and muscles still remember how to do it.

I was—am—completely blown away and just felt the need to share.

Being A Girl

WARNING: Boys should read the following post with caution, as they may be confused or grossed out by it. Girls should exercise caution as well, but only because they may hurt themselves by laughing too hard.

Friday afternoon, I was having an early dinner with KB, when we somehow found ourselves discussing the first time we got our periods. My story wasn’t too exciting. (I woke up with it one rainy day and got furious at my mother when I found out she had told my dad and my aunt that, "Mandy was finally a woman.") KB’s story, on the other hand, had me laughing so hard that I was crying over my dinner.

KB explained how, after she had woken up with her period and tried to conceal the evidence from her mom, her parents took her to Hills and stood there in the feminine hygiene aisle for what seemed like hours, contemplating every available product. As any young girl would react at the thought of passersby figuring out what they were doing there, KB was completely mortified, snapping, “Don’t talk to me,” at her father, who innocently tried to reassure her.

When she was sixteen, she decided she was old enough to graduate from pads to tampons. Like many young women who venture into this new territory, she figured she’d just follow the instructions. How difficult could it be? Well, for those of you who’ve never read the instructions included in the box of tampons, or for those brave men who’ve continued reading to this point, here’s what you’ve been missing.

Understandably, KB couldn’t figure out what this picture was supposed to represent. Her body didn’t look like the cartoon cross-section of the woman shown in the instructions. So now what?

Then, she remembered back to that day in fifth grade when the boys went into one room and the girls went into another for The Talk. KB described the teacher who led the girls’ talk as “the most mannish woman EVER.” KB vividly remembered this she-man talking about tampons, throwing her foot onto a chair, and standing there, miming how a tampon should be inserted.

So, that’s what KB did. She threw her foot onto the toilet seat and went about trying to imitate what she remembered from the she-man’s demonstration. Sadly, she was not successful.

Okay, enough was enough! At her wit's end and more determined than ever, KB decided it was time to pull out all the stops. Once again, up went the foot, and this time, out came the hand mirror. And, finally, success!

Thanks for sharing, KB!